Unseen (9 page)

Karin Jacobsson did not have a boyfriend, as far as Knutas knew. Even though they worked so closely together, she rarely talked about her personal life.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon by the time Johan and Peter finished editing and sent off the interview with Emma Winarve. It took ten minutes for Grenfors to call. He praised them for the story, which was going to be shown on all the news programs that evening. Even so, Grenfors, who was never completely satisfied, wanted them to talk to the neighbors in the area as well. The murder had occurred right in their own backyard, after all, he said.

“But we’ve already been out there and talked to the old lady in Fröjel,” Johan objected. His voice crackled with displeasure.

Peter was sitting in an armchair, watching him.

“Channel Four had the neighbors on their noon broadcast,” the editor pointed out.

“And so we have to include them, too?” said Johan, annoyed.

“You have to admit that it’s good to talk to anyone who happens to live in the neighborhood of a murder scene.”

“Sure, but I don’t know if we can make it in time for the evening news.”

“Try,” Grenfors urged him. “If nothing else, we can use it for later programs.”

“Sure thing.”

They left immediately, driving down toward Klintehamn once again, and then in the direction of Fröjel. It was still only two days since the murder. Johan thought it felt like a lot more time had passed.
It’s actually incredible how much a person can get done
, he thought.

They stopped at the first farm after the turnoff to Gustavs, a red house and a barn with a chicken coop. The hens were scratching the dirt inside a pen, cackling merrily. A dog came running up to them, wagging its tail. Obviously not much of a watchdog.

They rang the bell. A woman opened the door at once. She had curly blonde hair and an alert expression on her face.

“Yes?” She gave them an inquisitive look.

A long-haired cat rubbed affectionately against their legs. They could hear children’s voices inside the house.

Johan introduced Peter and himself. “We’re out talking to people who live around here. Because of the murder, you know. Did you know the woman who was killed?”

“No, I can’t say that I did. Of course we knew who the family was, but we didn’t spend any time with them.”

“What do you think about what happened?”

“It’s terrible that something like that could happen here. I certainly hope they catch the person who did it as quickly as possible. It’s so upsetting. I can’t stop thinking about it. And the children, well, I’m keeping a close eye on them. We have five.”

The woman called to her children, then closed the front door and sat down on the single bench on the porch. She pulled out a can of snuff, pinched off a piece, and stuck it under her lip. She held out the can to Johan and Peter, but both of them declined the offer.

“There’s one thing I happened to think about last night. The police were here earlier, asking about things. They talked mostly to my husband. Last night when I couldn’t sleep, it popped into my head.”

“What was that?” asked Johan.

“I have a hard time sleeping, so I lie awake a lot at night. Last Monday night I heard a car turn down our street outside. There are never any cars going past here at night, so I thought it was odd. I got up to see where it went, but when I looked out, I couldn’t see anything. As if it had been swallowed up by the earth. And it’s strange because the road continues down toward the sea. I just had to go out and have a look. When I opened the front door, I heard it again. Then it went past our house. The street curves just outside here, so I never managed to see what kind of car it was.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

“I noticed the sound. The engine sounded . . . what should I say . . . it sounded older somehow. It didn’t sound like a new car.”

“Could it have been one of your neighbors?”

“No, I asked all the neighbors today, just because I thought it was strange that someone was out driving past here in the middle of the night. But no one had been out, and besides, I know what all my neighbors’ cars sound like.”

“How many of you live around here?”

“Well, there’s us and the veterinarian who lives on the next farm. Then there’s the Jonsson family, who are farmers and own the fields you see all around here. They have a big farm on the left side of the road a little farther down, past the veterinarian. And then there’s a family with children, the Larssons, closest to the water on the right-hand side.”

“Do you know what time it was when you heard the car?”

“I think it must have been around three.”

“Have you told the police about this?”

“Yes, I called them this morning. I went over there to be interviewed earlier today.”

“I see,” said Johan. “Could we ask you a few questions on camera?”

After a little coaxing, the woman agreed. The rest of the people who lived in the area firmly declined.

Yet Johan reluctantly had to admit that Grenfors had been right. It was a good idea to go out and interview the neighbors.

Once again they sat in the newsroom and spliced together a two-minute story that was sent over to Stockholm five minutes before the main news broadcast, to their editor’s great satisfaction.

Kristian Nordström arrived at the police station at precisely five o’clock in the afternoon, as agreed.
He looks good
, Knutas observed as they shook hands. He had decided to hold the interview in his office, with Detective Inspector Lars Norrby present.

“Would you like some coffee?” asked Norrby.

“Yes, please. With milk. I came straight from the airport, and the coffee on the plane tasted like cat piss.”

He brushed his hair back from his forehead and leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg of his elegant trousers over the other. He smiled a bit tensely at the superintendent, who got out a tape recorder and placed it on the desk in front of them.

“Do we really need that?”

“Unfortunately, it’s necessary,” said Knutas. “I hope it doesn’t bother you too much.”

“Well, it’s just a little distracting.”

“Try to pretend it’s not there. As I said on the phone, this is a purely routine interview. We’ve talked to everyone who was at the party except you. That’s why you’re here.”

“I see.”

Norrby returned with the coffee, and then they could begin the interview.

“What were you doing on June fourth, meaning on the second day of Whitsun?”

“As you already know, I was having dinner with my old friend Helena Hillerström and her boyfriend, Per Bergdal. Helena and I have known each other for many years. We went to school together.”

“Did you come alone?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us about the evening.”

“At first it was very pleasant. We had dinner and drank a lot of good wine. It had been a year since the whole gang had seen each other. After dinner we started dancing. No one had to go to work the next day, so I think everybody was really planning to party.”

“How did the fight start between you and Per Bergdal?”

Kristian laughed nervously and stroked his short, neatly trimmed beard, which actually wasn’t much more than a stubble. “Yes, well, that was really stupid. I don’t know what got into him. He acted like some kind of damned Neanderthal. It started with me dancing with Helena, the way I usually do. Suddenly Per came rushing over like some sort of tornado and yanked her away from me. I hardly had time to react. Then I saw them going out through the balcony doors. Out onto the veranda in back, I mean. I didn’t pay much attention. I started dancing with Beata instead. After a while Helena came racing back inside. She was sobbing and ran into the bathroom. And she didn’t come out. I didn’t see her again that evening.”

You never saw her again at all
, thought Knutas, but he didn’t say anything except “Then what happened?”

“I went out to talk to Per, but no sooner did I walk through the door than I got punched right in the face. Fucking idiot,” he muttered half to himself, shaking his head.

“Didn’t you strike back?”

“I’m sure I would have if the others hadn’t come out and separated us. After that the party was over, of course. He certainly succeeded in wrecking the whole thing.”

“Where did you go afterward?”

“I shared a cab with Beata and John. They live in Visby, and I live in Brissund.”

“So they got out of the cab and you continued on home by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

His reaction to the question surprised them. Kristian Nordström turned bright red in the face.

“What the hell business is that of yours?”

“Everything is our business,” replied Knutas calmly. “At least for as long as this murder investigation is going on. Answer the question.”

“I don’t have an answer.”

“Are you gay?”

The color of Nordström’s face got even redder, if that was possible. “No.”

“Come on,” coaxed Knutas. “You’re a good-looking guy. I’m sure you’re aware of that yourself. You seem to have a good job, you’re single, and you’re in your prime. Have you ever had any long-term relationships?”

“What the hell is this? What’s the point of all these questions? Are you psychologists?”

“No, we’re police officers. And we want to know the answer.”

“I’ve never been married or engaged, and I’ve never lived with anyone, either. My job requires me to travel two hundred and fifty days a year. So maybe it’s not inconceivable that this has something to do with the matter,” said Nordström sarcastically. “If you want to know whether I’m sexually active, the answer is yes. You can have sex in lots of different ways, and I don’t need anything else in my life right now.”

He started to get up from his chair. “Is that enough, or is there something else you want to know? How about which positions I like best?”

Both Norrby and Knutas were surprised at his vehement reaction.

“Take it easy. And sit down,” Knutas urged him.

Nordström sat down again and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
This guy’s the sensitive type
, thought Knutas. He would have to proceed more cautiously.

“How was your relationship with Helena Hillerström?”

“Good. We were good friends. We’ve known each other since middle school.”

“Was there ever anything between you besides just friendship?”

“No. There never was.”

“Did you have other feelings for her, feelings that went beyond mere friendship?”

“Obviously I thought she was pretty. Everyone did. Well, you’ve seen her yourself.”

“Nothing ever happened between the two of you?”

“No.”

“Why not, do you think?”

“No clue. It just never happened.”

“According to Per Bergdal, you and Helena had something going, as he put it. For a while a long time ago.”

“Bullshit.”

“Where do you think he got that idea?”

“No clue. He’s so damn jealous. He imagines all sorts of things.”

They didn’t get much more out of Kristian Nordström during that first interview. He was allowed to go home, with the promise to inform them if he had plans to leave the island.

Afterward the two officers had a cup of coffee together to sum up their impressions.

“We need to keep an eye on this guy,” said Knutas.

“Yes, he seems like he’s walking on pins and needles. An incredibly hotheaded person,” agreed Norrby, looking thoughtful. “We should ask more of the people in their circle of friends to corroborate what he said.”

Knutas concurred. “I’m going to have someone check up on him right away.”

FRIDAY, JUNE 8

In a classroom at the small Kyrck School in Roma, Emma Winarve was getting ready for the final day of school. Outside the window, Roma’s wooden church tower loomed against the gray sky. The apple trees were in bloom, and next to the schoolyard Mr. Matton’s sheep were hungrily grazing on the early summer grass.

The classroom, which was decorated with birch leaves and lilacs, would soon be filled with sixteen expectant eight-year-olds who had a long summer vacation ahead of them.

She had been gone several days and wanted to be alone for a moment before her pupils came rushing in.

Three unreal days had passed since Helena was murdered. She couldn’t comprehend that it had really happened. She had cried and talked, and talked and cried, and talked some more. With Olle, with the friends that she and Helena had in common, with everyone who had been at the party, with Helena’s parents and neighbors, and with her colleagues here at school. Per Bergdal was in custody in Visby and was not permitted to speak to anyone.