Now it was time to call in that promise.
FRIDAY, JUNE 15
With long, powerful movements, Knutas covered one yard after another, swimming the breaststroke. He raised his head above the surface for a brief moment to draw in more air and then lowered it back down. In the water he was weightless and timeless. It gave him a different perspective, which made his thoughts clearer.
It was seven in the morning, and he was alone in the seventy-five-foot swimming pool at the Solberg Baths. Almost a week had passed since Per Bergdal was charged. Even though the murder of Helena Hillerstrom was considered solved, it wouldn’t leave him alone. Bergdal was supposed to appear in the Gotland district court on August 15 to be indicted for the murder of his girlfriend. He was still maintaining his innocence, and Knutas was inclined to believe him. Uncertainty was plaguing him like a toothache. He had spoken to SCL in Linkoping on the previous day. It turned out that the blood on the axe did come from Helena. So they could establish that the axe was the murder weapon, and it was true that Bergdal’s fingerprints had been found on it. Yet Knutas still couldn’t shake the feeling that the boyfriend was innocent.
He switched from the breaststroke to the backstroke.
According to Bergdal, the axe belonged to the Hillerstrom family, and it must have been stolen from the unlocked shed on the property. It had been in their possession for several years, and Per Bergdal had used it to chop wood any number of times. It was no wonder that his prints were found on it.
Knutas expressed his doubts to prosecuting attorney Smittenberg during one of their conversations. The prosecutor was a reasonable man who upheld the principle of maintaining objectivity. He encouraged Knutas to continue working on trying to uncover the facts. Of course, he had to admit that the technical evidence was convincing, but if new circumstances should come to light supporting Bergdal’s story, then he wouldn’t stand in the way. Unfortunately, Knutas hadn’t had any luck. The fact that Per Bergdal also wore a size 11? shoe, which corresponded to the print found at the crime scene, didn’t help matters. On the other hand, the police hadn’t been able to find a shoe belonging to Bergdal that matched the print. The fact that Helena Hillerstrom had not been raped or subjected to any other sort of sexual assault perplexed Knutas. The question was: What did the panties in her mouth signify if the murder had no sexual motivation? Something doesn’t fit, thought Knutas, and he summoned all his energy to swim the last few laps of the pool.
After he had swum his mile, he was happy. He spent some time in the sauna, then took a cold shower, and he felt like a new man. In the locker room he stood in front of the full-length mirror in that ruthless lighting and critically examined his body. His gut had definitely gotten bigger lately, and his arm muscles were no longer worth showing off. Maybe he should start lifting weights. There was a small gym at police headquarters. He ran his hand through his hair. It was streaked with gray, but at least it was still thick and shiny.
Back at headquarters he ate a breakfast of fresh cheese rolls and coffee in his office.
Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg had returned from Stockholm and submitted a detailed report on the interviews they had conducted. They had found nothing remarkable about Helena Hillerstrom’s life.
She took judo classes several times a week at a Friskis amp; Svettis gym, and she was known as something of a workout addict among her friends. In addition, she had developed a great interest in dogs over the past several years. She often went to dog training classes with her smooth-coated retriever named Spencer, who almost never left her side when she wasn’t at work. They had all attested to the fact that the animal was a superb watchdog.
The meeting with Helena’s parents hadn’t yielded much. Both parents were still so shocked that they had a hard time talking. The mother had been taken to the emergency room of the psychiatric ward at Danderyd Hospital, where she had been kept under observation for a couple of days. When Wittberg and Jacobsson met the parents, Helena’s mother had just returned home. She gave only brief answers to their questions. The father couldn’t think of anything unusual in Helena’s life. No jealous old boyfriends, no threats, or anything else that might be of interest to the homicide investigators.
Helena’s siblings, friends, and work colleagues had all presented the same picture of her. A stable, career-oriented woman. Smart and socially talented. She had plenty of friends but didn’t easily allow anyone to get too close. The person who seemed to be closest to her was Emma Winarve, in spite of the fact that they lived far away from each other.
Per Bergdal’s parents were, of course, in despair over the fact that their son was accused of murder. Most of the people who knew him and who had been interviewed by the police were certain that he was innocent. The only one who seemed convinced that Bergdal was the killer was Kristian Nordstrom. Ah yes, Nordstrom, thought Knutas. There was something sneaky about him. Knutas couldn’t really put his finger on it, but it was there. He was also positive that Nordstrom hadn’t told them everything.
Knutas devoted the morning to dealing with a pile of paperwork. For several hours he pushed aside all thoughts of Helena Hillerstrom’s murder. His office was quite large, although looking the worse for wear. The paint around the windows had begun to peel in several places, and the wallpaper had yellowed over the years. The wall behind him was hidden by rows of orange, green, and yellow ring binders. Near the window facing the parking lot, four visitor’s chairs were grouped around a table, intended for small meetings. Several brochures about the community police substations lay on the table. Over the years he hadn’t devoted much attention to sprucing up his office, and it showed.
A photograph on his desk bore witness to the fact that he had a life outside of police headquarters. Lina and the children, laughing in the sand at Tofta beach. A single flowering plant stood on the windowsill, a hardy white geranium that he talked to and watered practically every day. Karin Jacobsson had given it to him as a birthday present several years ago. He was in the habit of saying good morning to the plant and asking it how it was doing, but he kept that habit private.
He went out to lunch by himself. It was liberating to get outdoors. The height of summer was almost upon them. The approach of the summer season could also be seen in town. More and more restaurants were opening, tourists were streaming in, and there was more life and commotion in the evenings in Visby. Many school groups and conference participants came to Gotland at this time of year.
After lunch he shut himself up in his office with a cup of coffee. He didn’t feel like talking to any of his colleagues, and on this Friday everything was calm at police headquarters. He leafed through the documents from the Hillerstrom investigation and studied the photographs.
He was interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Karin stuck her head in. She gave him a big smile, displaying the gap between her front teeth.
“Are you still here? It’s Friday, for God’s sake, and it’s past five. I have to stop at the state liquor store. Do you need anything?”
“I’ll go with you,” he said, and got up from his chair.
A good dinner with a bottle of red wine would undoubtedly put him in a better mood.
The inn was packed. The Monk’s Cellar was still popular. The rustic inn with its medieval archways had been in business for more than thirty years now, and it was practically an institution in Visby. In the winter, only the smaller bar and part of the restaurant were open. Then it could get crowded on weekend evenings. During the high season “the Monk” was transformed into a pleasure palace with several restaurant sections, bars, and dance floors, as well as a stage for live performances. On this Friday evening, several of the smaller bars were already open: the salsa bar, the vinyl bar, and the little intimate beer bar. All of them were full to the bursting point.