Unseen
Unspoken
Unknown
The Killer’s Art
The Dead of Summer
Dark Angel
The Double Silence
The Dangerous Game
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Doubleday
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Mari Jungstedt 2011
English translation copyright © Tiina Nunnally 2016
Cover photography © Hayden Verry/Arcangel Images
Design by Stephen Mulcahey/TW
Mari Jungstedt has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448154098
ISBN 9780857521514
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For Sebbe, with love
AT FIRST GLANCE nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. The solitary house stood on the hill inside the stone wall. The car was parked as usual on the gravel-covered space down by the rubbish bins. Scattered across the rocky ground were lingonberry shrubs and moss. The crowns of several crooked pine trees swayed restlessly in the wind. And facing the sea was the terrace, which looked cold under the overcast sky since all the patio furniture and the barbecue had been cleared away. The shutters on the ground-floor windows were closed, making it impossible to see inside. Obviously the family had arrived home late the previous night and had gone straight to bed without unpacking.
As soon as his father parked the car, the boy jumped out and raced for the front door, leaning into the gusty wind. It was the autumn half term, and they were headed for the swimming pool. He had been so happy when his best friends phoned to tell him their family would be home earlier than planned.
Yet as he got closer to the house, he hesitated and slowed his step. Something wasn’t right. The door was wide open, and an upstairs window was banging back and forth. Dark patches were visible on the curving stone stairs in front of the house.
‘Hello?’ shouted his father as he caught up with the boy. He looked worried. ‘Anybody home?’
No answer. Only the rushing of the wind in the pine trees and the roar of the waves pounding the shore far below. A light was on in the kitchen.
‘Shouldn’t we ring the doorbell?’ asked the boy.
‘Wait a minute.’
The man placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and looked around. Then he signalled for him to stay where he was while he climbed the stairs. One glance inside the front hall was enough to tell him that something terrible had happened. There were more dark patches inside. A lamp had fallen to the floor, its coloured glass shattered, the shards glittering in the grey daylight coming in through the row of windows along one wall.
‘What the hell—’ He turned abruptly. ‘Something must have happened here. Go and wait in the car while I check. And lock the doors from the inside.’
‘But Pappa—’
‘Go back to the car.’
His tone of voice made the boy obey. Anxiously, he began backing away but kept his eyes fixed on his father.
The tall man paused for a moment in the dimly lit front hall, listening for any sound, but he heard nothing. Then he moved forward until he came to the living room. That was when he saw her. First her bare feet, slightly suntanned, her toenails painted pink; then her legs covered by a thin nightgown with a lace hem. She was lying on the stone floor, at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling. Blood had run out of her mouth, and underneath the nightgown her chest was dark red. Almost black. Her blonde hair was dishevelled.
His expression darkened as he studied her face. Her complexion was nearly transparent. He took her cold hand in his, noticing that she had removed her wedding ring. No hint of a pulse. He touched her throat. Nothing.
He straightened up and looked around. Paintings were missing from the walls, and the bronze sculpture that always stood in the niche between the kitchen and hall was gone. The shelves were empty. He took note of everything in the room: a toppled chair, the pool of blood on the floor, the glass doors of the china cabinet standing wide open. On the stairs to the first floor he discovered the next body. Lifeless, a wound to the skull, congealed blood all around.
Outside the window the autumn leaves blazed with colour. The wind was whistling around the corners of the house. He saw his son’s face inside the car. The boys, he thought. The boys. Moving higher up the stairs, he came to an abrupt halt. An arm, a bloodied pair of pyjamas. A smooth cheek, so young, so unspoiled.
Moving like a sleepwalker, he continued upstairs. His mind empty and blank, not a thought in his head.
He would never be the same.
THE AIR WAS stifling, and the temperature was close to twenty-five degrees Celsius, even though it was only a little past nine in the morning. All of August had been unusually hot, nearing thirty degrees in the daytime and twenty at night. People were calling the nights tropical, even though Sweden was located almost as far away from the tropics as you could get.
Klintehamn was considered one of Gotland’s most densely populated areas, with approximately 1,500 inhabitants. An idyllic, nicely maintained town on the sea along the island’s west coast with an important harbour, from which woodchips, lumber and sugar beets were shipped to the mainland. And in the summertime it was from here that boats left for the island of Stora Karlsö, with its famed bird sanctuary.
The population was large enough to warrant a library, a secondary school, a social-services centre, a sports pitch and an old folks’ home. But there were not enough people to justify an off-licence or a swimming pool. At the centre of town were a number of shops, and from there the municipality spread out in straight, narrow streets lined by attractive houses set amid gardens bright with flowers. On this late summer morning a quiet and sleepy atmosphere had settled over the houses. The only sounds that disturbed the cheeping of the birds in the bushes and trees were the faint clinks of coffee cups as they were set down on an outdoor table, the clattering of a lawnmower and tunes playing softly on a radio. The sounds penetrated the dense foliage of the neatly trimmed hedges.
The tourist season was almost over. The long queues at the Konsum supermarket had thinned, and the mobile fish stall in the centre of town had closed up and moved elsewhere. Only a few summertime Gotlanders remained – those who had longer holidays, or who had started them later – along with a number of seasonal workers whose contracts lasted to the end of August.
Klintehamn’s modest business district on Donnersgatan was practically deserted. The ICA supermarket had just opened its doors, and a slight rattling noise could be heard as a young assistant set out the advertising signs offering newly discounted grocery prices. Through the window of the Handels Bank a couple of bank clerks were visible, preparing for the day’s work. Maud’s Beauty Salon was closed while the owner was on holiday, and the only restaurant on the street wouldn’t open for a couple of hours. Sitting at a table outside the pastry shop was a solitary man with a cup of coffee in front of him. He seemed deeply absorbed in the local morning paper he was reading.
An elderly woman wearing a white sun hat strolled along the pavement with a poodle on a lead. A father wearing a mobile-phone earpiece pushed a pram as he strode briskly down the street. Wobbling along on a bicycle beside him was a little girl who looked to be about six years old. She was trying in vain to catch her father’s attention. There was no one else in sight.
A security van came around the corner. With a slight squeal of tyres, it stopped in front of the Savings Bank next to the ICA. A uniformed guard climbed out of the back while his colleague stayed where he was, in the driver’s seat. The guard, who had a crew-cut, was probably no more than thirty. He paused to scan the area before proceeding towards the bank entrance, carrying a rectangular-shaped bag holding banknotes that would fill the ATMs and the clerks’ drawers, since it would soon be pay day.
At that moment the back doors flew open on a silver Ford sedan parked outside the beauty salon across the street. Two men wearing dark clothing and armed with automatic weapons rushed towards the guard.
He was just about to ring the bell, since the bank was not yet open for business, but instead he turned around. He found himself looking at a person wearing a ski mask. The bank robber signalled for the guard to drop the bag. The man seated outside the pastry shop a short distance away looked up from his newspaper. He sat there, gaping, holding a copy of the Gotlands Allehanda in his hands. One of the robbers had gone over to force the guard’s colleague out of the vehicle. The woman walking her dog had abruptly stopped on the opposite pavement. Looking bewildered, she watched the drama unfold. Her first thought was that she must be witnessing the filming of a movie. But there were no cameras in sight. The community’s two banks were located right across the street from each other – Handels Bank on one side, and the Savings Bank on the other. The staff were all at their posts and had just noticed what was happening outside the window. Someone had pushed the emergency button to summon the police. The bank clerks followed protocol and made no attempt to intervene.
The masked men pointed their guns at the guards, paying no heed to the elderly woman. The supermarket assistant had gone back inside the ICA, and the man with the pram had disappeared from view.
Without saying a word, the bank robbers signalled for both guards to unlock the back doors of their van, and there was nothing they could do but obey. The robbers instantly seized three bags of banknotes from inside. Then one of the robbers ran across the street, and another person got out of the Ford to help load the loot into the boot. When they had finished, the robbers, still without uttering a single word, forced both guards to lie face down on the ground. Holding their guns in front of them like shields, they jumped back in their car and took off. The whole thing was over in a matter of minutes.
Two seconds after the Ford disappeared around the corner and headed along Norra Kustvägen, there was a screech of brakes, followed by a shout and a thud. By the time the two guards were back on their feet and looking around to see what had happened, the robbers’ car was gone. On the ground outside the Donner Library lay a motionless little girl. Her body was twisted at an odd angle. Close by was a badly mangled bicycle, and a pram with a crying baby inside had been abandoned at the kerb. Next to the little girl knelt a man whose shoulders were shaking.
Black skid marks on the asphalt were the only traces left of the robbers.
DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT KNUTAS sank on to his old desk chair for the first time that morning and noticed the way his stomach bulged out over the waistband of his trousers. He’d put on weight over the summer, at least five or six pounds. That was obvious. All those barbecues with good wine had taken their toll. They’d had guests every single evening at their summer house in Lickershamn and, when he weighed himself, the scales mercilessly displayed the result. His Danish-born wife, Lina, was an unusually sociable person, and she loved having company, but Knutas had wondered why she was eager to invite so many people to share their dinner table. Almost as if she wanted to avoid being alone with him. But so far he hadn’t wanted to broach the subject. He couldn’t stand the thought of an argument. Of course, the children had also brought along their friends for the few days they’d spent at the summer house. But they were almost grown-up now and had other things they wanted to do during the summer holidays. Maybe Lina was finding it boring now that it was often just the two of them together in the evening. She had begun talking a lot about Denmark and how homesick she felt. She’d even started introducing some Danish traditions. All of a sudden they had to eat open sandwiches at the Midsummer celebration and sing a few Danish ballads along with the Swedish drinking songs. She had also suggested that they might go to Denmark for Christmas, even though they’d always celebrated the holidays at his parents’ farm in Kappelshamn. He couldn’t understand what had come over her.
He sighed heavily and pushed these thoughts aside. Then he began going through the papers stacked up on his cluttered desk. All these documents – transcripts of interviews, statements from witnesses, reports on one thing after another. He had no idea how many times he’d already taken out all the files to review the case, even though deep in his heart he knew it wouldn’t lead them any further. The investigation had stalled and nothing new had come to light in more than a year.
Vera Petrov, a forty-five-year-old Russian-German woman, had settled on Gotland and had long ago become a Swedish citizen. She was married to the sea captain Stefan Norrström from the little town of Kyllaj. She was wanted for two murders committed on the island four years ago. Her husband was suspected of being an accessory to the crimes. The police had been hot on their trail, but at the last moment the couple had managed to escape on the Gotland ferry and then flee abroad. On the boat and in the midst of an intensive police hunt, Vera had given birth. The police had received several tip-offs that the couple were in the Dominican Republic, but every time they’d got close, the two had vanished again. The investigation was the biggest failure of Knutas’s career.
He heard a knock on the door, and then Karin Jacobsson’s slender figure appeared in the doorway. She was his closest colleague and a morning person, just as he was. All the sunny days of summer had given her an attractive tan, and she was looking unusually alert for such an early hour. It wasn’t even seven o’clock. She was holding two cups of steaming coffee, with a flat little package balanced on top of one of them.
‘Mind if I interrupt?’
‘Come on in. Have a seat over there. I’d welcome a break from all this drudgery.’
He cleared a space on his desk and took his pipe out of the top drawer. Jacobsson set down the coffee cups and placed the package in front of Knutas. She gave him a smile, revealing the gap between her front teeth.
‘Congratulations!’ she said.
Knutas stared at his colleague in bewilderment. She wore jeans and a hoodie with the picture of an electric guitar on the front, making her look ten years younger than her actual age of forty-six. He noticed that she’d changed her hairstyle. Lately, she’d been wearing her hair long, well past her shoulders, and he’d thought it created a softer frame for her face. Now she’d cut it short again.
‘Nice haircut,’ he said politely.
‘Thanks.’ She raised her thin hand to her forehead and tugged at a few strands of hair. ‘I decided to try a fringe. I’m not used to it yet.’
‘What’s the occasion?’ asked Knutas, picking up the package.
‘It was Janne’s idea. He kept telling me that I’d look good with a fringe.’
‘Oh,’ said Knutas. ‘But I wasn’t referring to your hairstyle.’
He didn’t have the slightest interest in what Karin’s boyfriend thought about her appearance. He held up the package and shook it a bit.
‘Careful,’ she warned him. ‘It might be fragile. Don’t you remember that today is your name day?’
‘What? Not that again,’ he said with a laugh.
His family didn’t celebrate name days the way many people in Sweden did. And the fact that Knutas’s parents, for some inexplicable reason, had chosen Bartolomeus as his middle name was something he preferred to forget. It was so typical of Karin to remember his name day. Every single year.
‘But you really shouldn’t have,’ he said coyly as he eagerly tore off the wrapping paper.
Inside he found a black-and-yellow ribbon tied in a bow around two tickets.
‘What’s this?’
‘Tickets to the AIK–Djurgården match at Råsunda in three weeks’ time,’ she told him. ‘Tickets for two. And you’re required to take me along.’
‘But how are we going to manage that? The match is in Stockholm.’
‘Have you forgotten about the weekend course we’ve signed up for? At the police academy? September 11 and 12. We’ll go to the match on Sunday evening instead of coming back home. So we’ll just have to stay an extra night.’
She gave him a mischievous look and grinned.
Jacobsson was a devoted football fan. She’d played the game her whole life, and for several years she’d been coaching the women of the Visby P18 team. It was well known that Knutas was a big AIK fan.
‘What a gift! Thank you. It’s really too much.’
Knutas’s voice was gruff with emotion. He got up to give Karin a hug. It had been a long time since anyone had shown him such thoughtfulness.
‘Hey, it’s no big deal,’ she admonished him. ‘It was pure selfishness, believe me.’
Her eyes fell on the piles of documents on his desk.
‘What are you working on?’
‘The Petrov case. Trying to find a new lead.’
‘Huh.’
The Petrov case was not something that Jacobsson wanted to think about. During the manhunt, she had found the couple in the ship’s cabin where they were hiding. But she had let them go after first helping Vera to give birth. The explanation she’d offered to Knutas when he later discovered her secret was that she’d felt a certain sympathy for Petrov, since the woman had acted out of revenge. The two men she’d killed had raped and murdered her sister. The birth had also affected Jacobsson on a deeper level. At the age of fifteen she had become pregnant as the result of a rape, and she had been forced to give up the child for adoption immediately after birth. This was something she had regretted all her life.
Knutas, who was still the only one who knew about Jacobsson’s secret, had agonized over the situation for a long time, going back and forth over how to handle the dilemma in which he found himself. Finally, he had decided not to report his colleague’s actions. Of course, that had only added to his dismay over the fact that the case remained unsolved. As long as Vera Petrov was a free woman, he was forced to carry the burden of guilt on his shoulders.
Jacobsson finished her coffee and stood up.
‘OK. Let me know if you need any help.’
She left the room, closing the door behind her.
Her perfume lingered in the air.
THE MORNING LIGHT seeped in through the thin cotton curtains. The blue striped pattern was intended to give the room a nautical atmosphere. Yet they lived quite a distance from the sea, at least by Gotland standards. Emma had a childlike love of New England interior design, which brought to mind big houses along the seashore of the American East Coast. She had spent several weeks on the island of Martha’s Vineyard with her parents one summer when she was a teenager, and the visit had made a strong impression on her. It had been such a fun summer holiday. So maybe that was the reason for her taste in decor.
She looked around the quiet room. White-painted pine floorboards. In the corner a brown leather armchair that was comfortably worn. A floor lamp with a wooden base, brass details and frosted-glass shade. Pillows and blankets in grey, red and blue with stars, inspired by the American flag. Not that she was especially pro-USA. She just happened to like the style. She and Johan had made their choices carefully. All the old furnishings had been replaced in order to erase any trace of her ex-husband’s presence in the house. Mostly for Johan’s sake, so he would feel that this was now their home. In her heart, Emma wondered if they’d succeeded. Her gaze fell on the curtains again. The fabric made her think of her parents’ house on Fårö. Sometimes she had such a longing to be there.
The only sound was Johan’s steady breathing. He was tangled up in the duvet, lying next to her in bed.
She got up, drew the curtains and opened the balcony doors on to the garden. Sunlight flooded the room. Johan reacted with a grunt and then pulled the covers higher. She cast a glance at the clock on the nightstand. It was only six o’clock. She often woke early, before the alarm went off. It had become a habit during all the years she’d spent teaching. She crawled back into bed, turned on to her side and looked at her husband. Only his dark, curly hair and a little of his forehead were visible. He was well and truly burrowed under the covers, as usual.
She reached out her hand and carefully crept under the duvet to nestle against his bare shoulder, gently running her fingertips along his skin and down his back. Tickling him, which she knew he liked. No reaction. She pulled her hand back and let it rest on the sheet. Then tried again. She stroked his arm, continued down over his hip and the outside of his thigh. She heard a sigh, a very obvious sigh.
‘Are you awake?’ she whispered.
No answer.
‘Johan?’
Silence.
She lost courage and took her hand away.
It just wasn’t the right time.
THE WINDING ROAD allowed for only one vehicle at a time, but he wasn’t concerned. The risk of meeting an oncoming car in this remote spot was almost zero. Hardly anyone ever came here. The house stood all alone among the fields and meadows. As he got closer, he decreased his speed. From what he understood, the ramshackle house had been unoccupied for years. That was not uncommon on Gotland. Dwellings were left to fall into disrepair because the owners, who lived elsewhere, clung to the illusion that their children might one day want to live there. Or wanted to keep the property in the family just in case someone might be interested in taking on a renovation project in the distant future. These abandoned and tumbledown houses almost always lacked sewer lines and running water.
He drove past and then parked in a wooded area a short distance away. The spot had been carefully chosen; he had been here before to scout out the area. The car could not be seen from the road. The heat was oppressive, but for safety’s sake he didn’t take off the bright yellow jacket with the words ‘Gotland Municipality’ across the back. Just in case he should unexpectedly run into someone out here in the sticks. Wearing official attire and with the visor of his baseball cap pulled down over his forehead, he might easily be mistaken for a labourer working on the road a few kilometres away. A straight gravel path led up to the abandoned farmyard. Huge oak trees shielded the area from view. For decades, thick shrubbery had been allowed to grow wild among the tall, dense grasses. He knew he’d be able to walk the path without being seen from the house. The façade had originally been white, but the plaster was now worn off in many places. The handle of the simple wooden door was nearly rusted solid, making it difficult to use. Anyone who wanted to go inside would have to lift up the door and then give the handle a quick yank.
The house was falling apart. The chimney had crumbled, and most of the windowpanes were missing. An old toilet and a refrigerator stood in the yard. On one side of the property was a rotting grey barn with a caved-in roof. The structure was tilting so badly it looked as if it might collapse at any moment. An outdoor privy stood at the very back of the property. Still visible was a heart, now peeling, that someone had once painted on the door.
It was easy to believe that no one had set foot on the site for years. Yet three shiny motorcycles were parked out back. A light shone in the kitchen window, and the faint hum of agitated voices could be heard inside.
He paused for a moment, standing next to the wall of the house. It made him giddy to be so close. He had a good idea what they were talking about.
Quickly, he strode over to the old barn. He could hide out there.
He needed to bide his time.
JOHAN BERG NOTICED an oppressive feeling in the air when he got out of his vehicle in the car park next to the TV and radio building in Visby. He glanced up at the darkening sky. The air felt damp and muggy. He stifled a yawn as he stepped through the glass doors. He was feeling worn out, and his head ached. Elin had a bad cough that had woken him up several times during the night, while Anton was suffering from bad dreams. No wonder Johan was always tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night. This morning it turned out that Elin had a fever, and at first he’d considered staying at home to care for the children, but then Emma spoke to her parents, who had offered to take both children over to their home on Fårö until Elin recovered. What a relief that was. They knew how hard it was for Emma to be away from her students at the start of the school term, and he was the only reporter on the island. Of course, his colleague, the camerawoman Pia Lilja, was fully capable of conducting interviews on her own, but having to film, edit and do all the reporting work might be too much even for her.
When he entered their cramped editorial office, he found Pia talking on the phone with her long legs propped up on the desk. Her hair stuck out even more wildly than usual. The turquoise gemstone in her nose was as bright as her neon-coloured nail polish. Johan took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair before heading for the coffee machine to make his first espresso of the day. Pia motioned to him that she’d like one too as she continued talking loudly on the phone. It sounded like she might be speaking to a police officer.
Johan sank down on the chair across from Pia as she ended her conversation. She took a quick sip of her coffee and then explained what was going on.
‘Armed robbery of a security van outside the Savings Bank in Klintehamn this morning. And right now a car is on fire in the woods in Sanda. We’ve got to go.’
As they approached Klintehamn, they could see big black clouds of smoke in the sky. It was clear that this was no small fire.
‘The smoke seems to be coming from Hejdehållet,’ said Pia. ‘The question is, what would be the best route. I think we should drive past Klinte and head towards Stenkumla. There are small roads through the woods from there.’
When they reached the scene of the fire, they were stopped by the police. The area had been cordoned off, and fire engines and police vehicles were lined up along the bigger paved road that passed through the forest. They got out of the car, and Pia grabbed her camera, swiftly raising it to her shoulder. Johan managed to catch the attention of one of the policemen guarding the scene.
‘Johan Berg, Regional News. What’s going on here?’
‘As you can see, it’s a fire, and it’s spreading quickly.’
‘How did it start?’
‘A car caught fire.’
‘How’d that happen?’
‘We don’t know yet.’
‘Do you think there’s any connection with the robbery in Klinte?’
‘I wouldn’t care to speculate about that.’
‘When did the fire start?’
‘The call came in around nine thirty.’
‘And the security van was robbed just after nine o’clock?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So it seems possible that the robbers may have set their getaway vehicle on fire?’
‘Again, I don’t want to speculate.’
‘Did the robbers leave any other clues?’
‘Clues?’ The policeman gestured towards the scene behind him. ‘Take a look for yourself.’
Only a short distance away, the fire was raging. It had spread swiftly through the dry grass, bushes and undergrowth, igniting trees and sending flames several metres into the air. Pia caught it all on film, and they were able to get a short interview with the head of the fire crew before driving back towards Klintehamn.
On the main street it was immediately apparent that something terrible had happened. People were huddled together, talking, and police tape had been put up outside the Savings Bank building. No officer was willing to divulge any information so, for lack of anything better, Johan did his piece to camera on the street in front of the library where the robbers had run down the little girl. She was in a critical condition. When Pia changed her position as she filmed, she noticed an elderly woman sitting on a park bench nearby, holding a poodle on her lap. The woman was openly sobbing. It looked like she wanted nothing more than for someone to pay attention to her plight. Johan had also noticed her.
‘I’ll go over and talk to her,’ said Pia. ‘Wait here.’
With a certain scepticism Johan watched his colleague cross the street and head straight for the woman. Why was she bothering? They had a lot to do and, as usual, time was short. He’d just received a text message saying that the editor in charge of the noon news was hoping for a short report, or at least some photos.
Pia sat down on the bench, petted the delighted poodle and then handed the woman a little packet of tissues. Before long the old woman was leaning her head on Pia’s shoulder. They made an odd couple. The camerawoman, with her wild black hair, tight jeans, heavy black eyeliner and pierced nose, was the polar opposite of the plump elderly woman in a floral-patterned dress and sun hat. Johan chose to stay where he was and let Pia handle the situation.
After a few minutes she got up and came back over to him.
‘Hey, that woman was here when it happened. She’s an eyewitness.’
‘Really? But is she in any shape to be interviewed?’
‘She’s OK. And she has a lot to say. The police haven’t interviewed her yet. Somehow they overlooked her, even though she was standing only a few metres from the robbers.’
‘How can that be? Didn’t she say anything to the police?’
‘No. Apparently, she went home because her dog needed to be fed. She was in shock. I said that we could put her in touch with the police. After she talks to us, of course.’
A smile flitted across her face. There was something mocking about the look in her eyes. Pia loved this sort of thing. An exclusive story that was all their own.
‘But should we really—’
‘Relax,’ said Pia impatiently as she put together her camera equipment. ‘If the woman wants to talk, we should let her talk. She saw the whole bloody thing, for god’s sake.’
Johan and Pia often had differing opinions when it came to who they should interview. She was young and hungry and wanted above all to deliver reports that were as exciting as possible to their boss back in Stockholm. Johan, on the other hand, thought more about the stressful situation in which the victim, family members and witnesses found themselves.
Even though these individuals were willing to be interviewed, they didn’t always have a clear view of what the consequences might be. Especially if they were suffering from shock, which was frequently the case.
Johan followed Pia over to the old woman, who now seemed to have calmed down. He introduced himself and squatted down in front of her.
‘Would you like to tell us what you saw?’
‘Yes, I would. It was just about nine o’clock when I took Romeo for a walk over there on Donnersgatan.’ She turned around and pointed towards the main street. ‘We were on our way to the Pressbyrå news-stand because I had a craving for an ice-cream cone. I know that may sound strange, since it was so early in the day, but at my age it’s all right to give in to little indulgences. And they have the world’s best ice cream over there.’
She raised her head and stared into space as she went on.
‘But suddenly I noticed two men standing in the middle of the street holding some sort of gun. They had on black clothing and those ski masks that robbers wear, so I couldn’t see their faces at all. My first thought was that they must be making a film. But I couldn’t see any cameras, and then I realized that it was real. A robbery, I mean. Right outside the bank. But it wasn’t a bank robbery. They were robbing those boys who deliver money to the bank. From the security van. I think that’s what it’s called.’
‘What did the robbers do?’
‘They waved their guns about and forced the guards to open the back of the van and take out several bags. Then a third masked robber got out of the car and helped them stow the bags inside. And … there was something different about the third robber.’
‘What do you mean?’
She looked at Johan.
‘It had to be a woman.’
Johan gave a start. This was something new. On the radio and in the TV news reports, the account was consistently the same: a security van had been robbed in Klintehamn by three masked men.
‘Why do you think so?’
‘The way she moved. But that wasn’t the only thing. She opened the boot of the car, and then the other robbers brought over the bags of money. When she leaned forward to put the bags inside, I caught a glimpse of her underwear. Women’s underwear. I’m quite sure about that. Pulled up high to her waist, which is the fashion these days. And they were red.’
‘Are you sure it wasn’t men’s underwear?’
‘No, no, goodness gracious. It was just a thin strip of fabric. I don’t know why anyone would want to wear that kind of underwear. It must be terribly uncomfortable. Now what is it called? Thong. Is that the word? Yes, a thong. That’s not something a man would wear. Am I right?’
THE RAIN WAS pounding on the tin roof. It was Gotland’s first downpour in weeks. Every now and then flashes of white light crisscrossed the roiling dark grey of the sky. Terese Larsson lit another cigarette and blew the smoke at the bare bulb hanging above the table. She tilted her chair, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Relief spread through her body. The news reader on the local radio station had just reported that the little girl was now in a stable condition and her life was no longer in danger. What bloody good luck.
The robbery had gone off smoothly, with only one complication. As they were driving away from the bank, that child had appeared out of nowhere. She had no chance of getting out of their way. Terese recalled with horror those few seconds before the car hit her. The look of surprise on the girl’s face, her eyes open wide, the cap that flew off her head, her thin arms flailing about and the thud as she collided with the car’s bumper. The sound had made Terese shudder. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the father let go of the pram and come rushing over to his child. She automatically stomped on the accelerator and drove away, following their carefully devised plan. She entered the main highway to Visby but drove only a few hundred metres before exiting and heading for Sanda. It made no difference if people in the houses along the way noticed them because they were quickly going to get rid of the car, which Jocke had stolen a few days before. The last side road gradually turned into a bumpy tractor path with woods on one side and fields on the other. The branches of tall shrubs struck the windscreen as she drove too fast along the uneven ground.
They parked in a glade where the forest had been cleared to make way for a row of electricity pylons that cut right through the dense vegetation. Quickly, they removed their jackets, trousers and masks and threw everything inside the car. Then they took out the money bags and guns. After that Degen poured petrol over the car and a long stretch of the bone-dry ground and then tossed a lit match on to it. The effect was explosive. Carrying the money and guns, they’d raced off to the motorcycles that were parked a hundred metres away, close to the main road.
Later they heard on the radio that the flames had spread rapidly, causing an extensive forest fire. Since Gotland had had so little rain all summer, the fields were as dry as tinder. All traces of them should be gone by now.
Only a minute after the fire broke out, they were on the road, and from there it wasn’t far to the abandoned house. This ramshackle old dwelling was perfect for their purposes. They would lie low here for a few days until things had calmed down and then leave the island, nice and easy.
The house was in a remote location, with no close neighbours and shielded from view. A perfect hiding place. They’d come out here well before the robbery to check it out and leave enough food and drink to tide them over for at least a week, if necessary. Degen had even managed to get the old refrigerator working. Strangely enough, the electricity was still connected, even though the house must have stood empty for a long time. Two of the rooms were habitable: the kitchen and the bedroom next to it, with only a curtain between them. A few old pieces of furniture remained. A rickety table, several straight-backed chairs and a narrow bed. Just right for their needs. Jocke had brought over a couple of mattresses, some sleeping bags and pillows. Since the property was in such a desolate location, no one had noticed the preparations they’d made. And now they’d stolen four money bags which were, hopefully, stuffed with cash. They’d been lucky. On the news it was reported that the getaway car had been completely torched. And the little girl would live.
Terese reached for a plastic cup and took a swig from it. The alcohol warmed her stomach. She looked at her two male colleagues, who were seated at the table. Degen met her eye and grinned.
‘It’s too fucking good to be true,’ chuckled Jocke. He held up his own dirty plastic cup in a toast. ‘Skål!’ he said.
The other two raised their cups and then downed the contents. They’d put the money bags in a root cellar away from the house in case they contained some sort of transmitter. There was no reception underground.
Actually, the mobile signal was miserable out on this remote property, so the bags probably couldn’t have been tracked in any case, but they couldn’t be too cautious. And trying to open the bags on their own was unthinkable. They didn’t have the necessary expertise. It was almost impossible to open a money bag from a security van without activating the dye cartridges and ruining the banknotes inside. But Degen had a contact in Stockholm who claimed to know how to do it. He owed Degen a favour and had promised to help.
They’d heard that this type of money bag could contain several hundred thousand kronor. If that turned out to be true, then their problems would be instantly solved.
All three of them were acutely in need of money. Jocke’s situation was the worst, since he owed his drug dealer big-time, as usual. In spite of multiple attempts over the years, he’d never been able to kick his habit. And dealers didn’t take kindly to late payments or excuses. They were not about to wait.
Terese needed money for more trivial things such as food, clothing, visits to the hair salon and furniture for her new flat. Against all odds, she’d managed to get a lease on a place in Fruängen. It was her first permanent home in years, and she had no desire to be kicked out on to the street again. She was thirty-two years old, and she’d had enough. She longed for peace and quiet. Deep down, she was hoping that this robbery signalled an end to her flighty, unsettled, criminal life. She was looking for an orderly existence. Might even find herself a job, now that she had a place to live and everything. And she had finally been assigned a social worker whom she liked and actually trusted. She was tired of the drug-infested neighbourhoods, the drunken fights, the petty thefts and the stints in jail.
She’d been through plenty. She lit another cigarette and thought about what was in the money bags. Maybe they held a new life for her.
LATE ON TUESDAY afternoon Knutas summoned his colleagues to the conference room of the criminal division for the first meeting of the investigative team. Everyone took a seat at the long table. In the middle of the table were the usual Thermos containers of coffee and a plastic tray with oatmeal biscuits on it. Out of habit, Knutas poured himself a cup of coffee before taking his regular place at the head of the table. He resisted the temptation to help himself to a biscuit.
He cast a weary glance at the row of windows along the wall. The rain was sluicing down, making it impossible to see anything of the Forum supermarket’s big car park or the street outside. All the most important team members were in attendance, except for Chief Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg, who liked to be present at the meetings but this time was busy in court.
‘What a sodding mess,’ sighed scene of crime officer Erik Sohlman, running his hand through his thick red hair. ‘First a forest fire burns up the evidence, and then a damned monsoon washes away any small traces that might have been left. And the rain starts up only a couple of hours after the robbery, in spite of the fact that it’s been weeks since we’ve had even a drop of rain. You’d almost think the robbers were in cahoots with the higher powers.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Knutas agreed. ‘Speaking of the robbers, what do we know about them? Karin?’
‘I’ve collated the statements that we’ve taken from all the witnesses who’ve come here to police headquarters during the course of the day. We have information both from people who actually saw the robbery take place and from residents who heard or saw the escape vehicle. We’ve also talked to the employees of the two banks. There were three staff members in Handels Bank at the time, but only one clerk had arrived at the Savings Bank. The robbery took place a few minutes past nine and, according to witnesses, we’re talking about three perpetrators.’
‘So neither of the banks was open for business?’ asked Knutas.
‘No. Handels Bank opens at nine thirty, and the Savings Bank doesn’t open until eleven.’
‘What sort of description do we have of the robbers?’
‘They wore dark clothing and black trainers, with knitted ski masks covering their faces,’ Jacobsson went on. ‘They were of average height, perhaps a bit shorter, and thin. One of them was bulkier than the other two, but witnesses told us that he was muscular, not fat. He also had unusually dark, almond-shaped eyes. One person said he might be of Hispanic ancestry, maybe a Spaniard or from South America.
‘The witnesses all agree on the probable age of the robbers, estimating them to be between twenty-five and thirty. They were heavily armed with some sort of automatic weapons, and they behaved in a professional and organized manner. They acted quickly, without the slightest hint of hesitation. It’s also important to note that none of them said a single word during the robbery. They used hand signals to indicate what they wanted.’
‘Did all three of them participate in the robbery?’
‘Two of them did. The third robber waited in the car and didn’t get out until they were going to load the money bags inside the vehicle. That was also the person who drove.’
‘And the one who hit the little girl,’ interjected Detective Inspector Thomas Wittberg, the youngest of the officers at the meeting. His blue eyes looked even brighter against his perennial suntan, which was darker than ever after the long, hot summer.
‘How’s she doing, by the way?’ asked Knutas, turning to the police spokesman, Lars Norrby, who was keeping in contact with the hospital. His long legs were crossed under the table, and he was rhythmically tapping his pen on his notepad. His long, narrow face was expressionless.
‘Apparently, she’s in a stable condition. She was seriously injured, of course, and she’s going to have surgery this evening, but her injuries are no longer considered life-threatening.’
Jacobsson sighed with relief.
‘It would have been horrible if she hadn’t made it. But getting back to my report, that’s as much as we know so far. The escape vehicle was seen as it took the turn towards Sanda, and it was also spotted later, heading for Hejde. A witness reported seeing a black car driving fast in the same direction only minutes later, but we have no idea whether it has any connection to the robbery. No other details, and no conclusive evidence as yet.’
‘And they got the rain free of charge,’ muttered Sohlman between clenched teeth, staring listlessly at the water pouring down outside the windows facing Östercentrum shopping centre.
‘Do we know how much they got away with?’ asked Wittberg.
‘Four money bags containing two hundred thousand kronor each,’ replied Knutas. ‘The problem is, there’s a big risk the banknotes will be destroyed the minute anyone tries to break open the bags.’
‘Could it be an inside job?’
‘Everyone who works for the transport company has been interviewed today and, at the present time, there’s nothing to indicate that any of them were involved,’ said Knutas. ‘But you never know.’
‘And the perps didn’t leave even a scrap of evidence at the crime scene,’ Sohlman lamented. ‘Anything that might have been left was swiftly washed away by the damned rain.’
Wittberg was starting to get fed up with his colleague’s constant complaints about the weather.
‘Where could the robbers have come from?’ he asked, casting an annoyed glance at Sohlman. ‘It seems unlikely they would be from Gotland.’
‘Hard to say,’ replied Knutas. ‘Since none of them uttered a word, we don’t have any dialect or accent to go on.’
‘I wonder why they kept silent like that,’ Wittberg went on, his expression pensive.
‘Maybe they don’t speak Swedish,’ suggested Jacobsson.