The Double Silence (31 page)

‘Nice neighbourhood,’ muttered Wittberg. They paused at the door. The glass in the top part was broken.

Jacobsson looked up at the façade of the building, then she stepped inside. What a contrast it was to the sunlight outside. Dim lighting, the
walls a speckled brown, and a faint smell of rubbish. Wittberg took the lead and headed up the narrow stairs. Not a sound was audible. One storey, two. Each floor had four plain doors leading to the flats.

When they reached the third floor, they found what they were looking for. A handwritten piece of paper had been stuck in the nameplate: ‘Sten Boberg’. And above the letter slot there was another sign. ‘No junk mail, please’. Jacobsson and Wittberg took up position on either side of the door and then they rang the bell. The sound reverberated inside the flat. They waited thirty seconds. No reaction. Jacobsson rang the bell again. They waited. Still nothing. They exchanged glances. A few more attempts with no results. Wittberg pushed open the letter slot as far as it would go and shouted: ‘Police! Open up!’

Suddenly they heard the clattering of a lock from the floor above, and a weak, trembling voice said: ‘What’s going on?’

Jacobsson ran up the stairs in three bounds. The door in the corner was slightly ajar. A bleary-eyed old woman was visible in the gap. A thick security chain prevented the door from opening further. Jacobsson guessed that the woman was in her eighties. She was short, with white hair, wearing soiled trousers and a nubbly old cardigan. She seemed almost blind.

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ said Jacobsson. ‘We’re from the police, and we’re looking for Sten Boberg, who lives on the floor below. It’s nothing to worry about. We just want to talk to him.’

‘What? What’s going on?’ the old woman repeated. She smelled strongly of urine. Jacobsson noticed a bunch of rubbish bags in the hall inside the flat.

‘We’re from the police,’ she said, raising her voice and showing her police ID. ‘We’re here to talk to your downstairs neighbour, Sten Boberg. Do you know if he still lives here?’

The old woman turned pale and looked terrified.

‘No, I don’t want any. I don’t want any, I tell you. Do you hear me?’

And she shut the door. More security chains clattered.

Silence descended over the building once again. Jacobsson sighed. The old woman seemed utterly confused. She hesitated for a moment, but then
rang the bell. She glanced at the nameplate, which was made of white plastic, with officially printed letters. It had been attached to the door by the municipal housing association. Nothing happened. Then Jacobsson heard the sound of a TV. Someone was talking in a loud voice that was quickly drowned out by accordion music.

Wittberg appeared in the stairwell.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

‘Just an old woman. But I’m going to try again.’

Jacobsson rang the bell. After a moment she heard the rattling of chains, and the door opened slightly. The old woman peered out as if she’d never seen Jacobsson before.

‘Yes?’

‘Hi,’ said Jacobsson, giving the woman her friendliest smile. ‘My name is Karin, and I’m from the police.’

She didn’t get any further before the old woman lost her temper.

‘Are you from the home-help services? I told you I didn’t want any help. Can’t you understand that? I can clean my own home. I’ve done that my whole life, and I’m not going to change.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Jacobsson, her voice a bit sterner. ‘But I’m not from the home-help services. I’m a police officer.’ Again she showed the woman her ID. ‘POLICE. We’re looking for your neighbour.’ She pointed downstairs, to clarify whom she meant. ‘Your neighbour whose name is Sten Boberg. Do you know where he is?’

For a moment the old woman looked confused. Her gaze shifted and her lower lip quivered. Jacobsson was afraid that she was going to burst into tears.

‘It’s all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. We just want to have a little talk with the man.’

She pointed again and then held up her ID.

‘I have his keys. If he’s not at home, you can go in and wait for him.’

Jacobsson gave the woman a doubtful look.

‘You have his keys? Well, how fortunate. Could we borrow them?’

‘Just a minute.’

Jacobsson watched in surprise as the old woman disappeared into
the dimly lit flat. She heard drawers opening and closing as the woman muttered to herself the whole time. It almost sounded as if she were scolding someone. After several minutes she was back behind the security chain, holding out a gnarled, trembling hand to give Jacobsson a key ring.

‘I have the keys from when Asta lived there. Before she died. I used to water her flowers when she went out of town to visit her son on the mainland. Gunnar. He was a nice boy. He always brought flowers for his old mother. Such a nice boy. But now Asta is dead, and everyone else is too. I’m the only one left, except for that man, who comes and goes. I don’t trust him, so I didn’t tell him that I had the keys. Here you are, young lady. Take them.’

‘Thank you so much.’ Jacobsson grabbed the key ring. ‘I’ll bring them back when we’re done.’

‘That’s not necessary. I have no use for them any more. Asta is dead, and soon I’ll be gone too.’

‘Unbelievable,’ Jacobsson whispered to Wittberg, who was sitting on the stairs, having resigned himself to wait. ‘One minute the old woman was totally confused, and the next she was sharp as a tack.’ She waved the keys before her colleague’s eyes. ‘And she had his keys. It’s too good to be true.’

‘You’re out of your mind. We can’t just barge in. We have nothing on him. He’s not under suspicion for any sort of crime.’

‘Right now I couldn’t care less. But OK, I’ll phone Smittenberg.’ Without waiting for a response, she tapped in the phone number for the prosecutor. No answer.

‘What a shame,’ she told Wittberg with a grin. He didn’t reply.

And before her colleague could object, Jacobsson unlocked the door.

KNUTAS WOKE UP
early. The ache in his wrist was almost gone. He was alone in the bed because Lina was out of town again. Lately she’d done nothing but take off from work, using up any holiday time and days off in lieu that she was owed. The kids weren’t at home either. He was almost starting to think that he was getting used to the solitude.

He thought about his wife and how she had changed. Maybe it has something to do with the menopause, thought Knutas, but then he was ashamed of such an idea. Why did people always blame hormones as soon as a woman wanted changes and started to make demands or to seek more time for herself? He wasn’t going to fall into that trap. Maybe he should just leave her in peace.

Andrea Dahlberg’s face appeared in his mind. His first impression of her was that she was extremely controlled. Even though her husband had been murdered in the most cruel way, she had been composed during the first interview he’d had with her at police headquarters. She hadn’t shed a single tear.

Andrea seemed determined to maintain a façade. Every time he’d seen her she had been amenable; she had been well groomed and properly dressed. She wore her long hair loose, but it was beautifully styled. She kept her home in perfect order, and the shop that she owned on Adelsgatan had been meticulously arranged and designed down to the smallest detail. Andrea seemed to be someone who left nothing to chance.

Now she had sent her children to stay with their grandparents, but she herself had decided not to join them for the sailing expedition. She’d
changed her mind at the last second. Knutas wondered why. Apparently someone had contacted her. Was it a friend of hers? How could she leave her children like that when they’d just lost their father? And strangely enough, she’d made herself unavailable, even though her husband and best friend had just been murdered, and the police might need to contact her.

Within a short time she’d lost the two people who meant the most in her life, other than her children. How had that affected her? He thought again about what had happened in her childhood. That must have been tremendously traumatic. First her sister’s suicide, and then finding out the reason behind it: their father’s sexual assaults. A terrible betrayal back then. A terrible betrayal now.

Suddenly Knutas sat up in bed.

Andrea Dahlberg had switched off her phone and left the children where they would be safe. She had lost everything. A thought refused to leave him. Was that possible? If so, how and where? There was really only one place that seemed likely.

Now Knutas knew exactly what he had to do. Impatiently he got out of bed and checked the timetable on the Internet.

THE FRONT ENTRY
was cramped and dark. Wittberg crept in first, his gun drawn. Jacobsson followed close behind. It was possible that Boberg was in the flat and had just refused to open the door. They continued along a narrow hall with doors on both sides. The floor creaked faintly under their feet, and a clock ticked on the wall. The kitchen was empty, as was the bedroom. Jacobsson opened the door to the bathroom and a clothes cupboard. No one there.

They quickly concluded that the flat was empty. In the living room they found a white leather sofa, a glass table with lion’s feet, and a large porcelain Dalmatian set in one corner.

‘Good God, how ugly,’ exclaimed Jacobsson.

The kitchen was long and narrow with a modern white plastic table next to the window. A fruit bowl holding fresh bananas indicated that the tenant had recently been at home. The flat was clean and tidy.

‘He seems to be an orderly person, at any rate,’ said Wittberg as he continued over to another room at the end of the hall.

The door was locked.

‘I don’t suppose we’re likely to find the key,’ murmured Jacobsson. ‘And he could come home at any moment.’

Wittberg kicked open the door.

And whistled.

‘I’ll be damned.’

The room was painted bright red, and the entire ceiling was covered with mirrors. Strings of tiny red lights were hung around the windows.
The walls were papered with hundreds of pictures, all apparently of one woman, showing her in various settings. Wearing a quilted jacket on a skating rink, in a white summer dress with a flower wreath on her head at a Midsummer celebration, wearing shorts and a top as she clipped the hedge. Naked with only a hat on her head, wearing a black negligee in the bedroom, in various provocative positions as she apparently posed for the photographer. A bizarre cavalcade with Andrea Dahlberg in the leading role. The photos had been professionally done. The photographer seemed to know his stuff.

‘Good Lord,’ gasped Jacobsson. ‘Looks like we’re dealing with a stalker.’

‘And potentially a triple murderer. Judging by all of this, it looks like Andrea might be his next victim.’ Jacobsson suddenly went ice cold. ‘And she’s been missing for three days, or more. Shit, shit, shit.’

She looked around. A thought had begun to take shape in the back of her mind. It had something to do with the porcelain dog in the living room. A Dalmatian. Jacobsson’s gaze fell again on the photographs, taken by a professional. Slowly she realized what it might mean. She pictured Janne Widén’s smile and greyish-green eyes. His business card on which it said ‘Photographer’. He was the one who had told her about the sex parties. Red roses in her office. The man she’d had dinner with last night. They’d been practically flirting with each other. She’d felt something that resembled a budding attraction as they said good night outside the door to her building. What an idiot she was. A sense of betrayal burned in her stomach. For the first time in ages she had felt appreciated as a woman. She’d thought he was really interested in her. And he was single. Her cheeks burned with indignation. Was Janne Widén really Sten Boberg?

She sank down on the sofa in the living room and pulled off her jacket. Thoughts were tumbling through her head. Could the situation be that bad? She felt totally confused.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Wittberg, who had seen Jacobsson’s face go from pale to bright red.

‘It’s nothing. I just thought of something. Have you seen any indication that he owns a dog?’

‘No.’

Jacobsson forced herself to push the feeling of humiliation aside so she could focus on the job they were there to do. They searched the flat, looking for further leads. Boberg had collected extensive documentation about Andrea: newspaper clippings, photos, notes about the business she ran, but nothing that revealed where she might be right now. Jacobsson was just about to notify her colleagues when they heard a key turn in the lock.

‘Shit,’ hissed Wittberg.

He shoved Jacobsson into the clothes cupboard and stepped in after her just as the front door opened.

KNUTAS GOT INTO
his old Mercedes and drove south towards Klintehamn. The traffic was light this early in the morning, even though the tourist season was at its peak. Gotland is actually more beautiful after the summer holidays are over, thought Knutas. Especially from mid-August to the end of September. The weather was often lovely, and the sea surrounding the island was quite warm. That was when the beaches were deserted and most inviting, and it was possible to walk through the streets of Visby without constantly bumping into other people.

Waiting on the dock were about ten people besides himself. He didn’t know a single one of them; they were probably all from the mainland. Usually Knutas cursed the fact that he couldn’t remain anonymous. He’d been the police chief for so long that he knew everybody who lived on Gotland. Sometimes he put on a baseball cap and sunglasses just to avoid being recognized, as if he were a pop star.

When the ferry docked in Norderhamn, Knutas was the first to disembark.

He walked quickly along the stony path, grateful that he’d been wise enough to wear comfortable shoes. He soon reached the bay where the group from Terra Nova had stayed.

Everything seemed more real now that he was actually here. He could picture them swimming and relaxing together. He imagined the tension that must have existed at the thought of what they’d done at those parties only a year earlier.