Frida Lindh and a group of women friends were sitting at a round table in the middle of the vinyl bar. They had positioned themselves so that they had a full view of the room, and they were also quite visible themselves.
There was a great deal of noise and commotion. From the loudspeakers, “Riders on the Storm” by the Doors was blaring at top volume. People were drinking beer from big tankards and doing shots. At one table several young guys were playing backgammon.
Frida was feeling pleasantly tipsy. She was wearing a tight-fitting top and a short black skirt made of a clinging fabric. She felt attractive and sexy and full of energy.
It was great to be out with her newfound girlfriends. She had moved to Gotland with her family only a year ago, and at the time she didn’t know anyone in Visby, but through her children’s daycare center and her job in a beauty salon, she had met lots of women who had become good friends, and she had grown quite fond of them. They had already made it a tradition to try to go out and have fun several times a month. This was the third time, and everyone at the table was in a great mood. Frida enjoyed the interested looks from various men in the bar, lapping up their attention. She laughed loudly at a joke, and out of the corner of her eye she noticed a newcomer. A tall medium-blond man had sat down at the bar. Dark eyebrows, thick hair, broad shoulders, wearing a polo shirt. He reminded her of someone who did a lot of sailing.
The man was alone. He glanced around the room, and their eyes met. A real cutie, she thought. He took a gulp of his beer and then fixed his eyes on her again, holding them there a little longer and smiling. Frida blushed and felt heat wash over her. She was having a hard time concentrating on what the others at the table were saying.
Her friends liked to talk about all sorts of subjects, from books and movies to recipes. Right now they were all engrossed in a conversation about how little their husbands helped out at home. Each of them had the same opinion about her husband’s lack of imagination and insight when it came to realizing that the kids couldn’t go to daycare wearing grubby shirts, or that the dirty clothes were actually overflowing in the laundry basket. Frida listened with half an ear, sipped her wine, and now and then looked over at the man at the bar. When the conversation around the table started focusing on how poorly the daycare center was operating and how big the classes were, she completely lost interest. She decided to go to the ladies’ room so that she could walk past the newcomer at close range.
On her way back he tapped her on the shoulder and asked if he might buy her a drink. She happily said yes and sat down next to him at the bar.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Frida. And you?”
“Henrik.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?” he said with a smile. “I live in Stockholm.”
“Are you here on vacation?”
“No. I own several restaurants with my father, and we’re thinking about opening a place in Visby. We’re scouting out the territory a bit.”
He had almost unnaturally green eyes that gleamed at her in the dim light.
“That’s great. Have you been to Gotland before?”
“This is my first time. Pappa comes here often. He’s thinking of opening an inn with good Swedish food and live music in the evenings. For people who want to eat well and enjoy a little entertainment without having to go to a club. And not just a summertime inn, but one that’s open all year round. What do you think of that idea?”
“Oh, I think that sounds wonderful. It’s not really as dead around here in the wintertime as many people think.”
By now her girlfriends had discovered what was going on. They eyed the pair sitting at the bar. Their expressions were by turns inquisitive, gleeful, and envious.
Frida straightened her skirt and sipped the wine that had been placed on the bar in front of her. She stole a glance at the man next to her. He had a cleft in his chin and looked even better close up.
“And what do you do?” he asked.
“I’m a hairdresser.”
Involuntarily he ran his hand through his hair. “Here in town?”
“Yes, at a salon over at Ostercentrum. It’s called the Hairline. Drop by if you ever need a haircut.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I notice you don’t have a Gotland accent.”
“No, I moved here about a year ago. How long are you staying?”
She had quickly changed the subject to avoid having to explain why she had moved here or to mention her husband and children and all that. Frida was aware of her power to attract men. She liked to flirt, and she wanted to keep this tasty morsel interested. At least for a little while. Just because it was fun.
“I don’t know. It depends on how things go,” he said. “Maybe a week. If we find a place I’ll probably be here most of the summer.”
“I see. How nice. I hope you find something.”
She sipped her wine again. What an exciting man.
He looked around the room, and when he turned his head, she was positive: He was wearing a hairpiece. I wonder why, she thought. Maybe he has really thin hair. He didn’t look particularly old. About her own age. There are plenty of people who lose their hair early on. Good Lord, guys should be able to look good, too. Her thoughts were interrupted when he asked a question.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” She could feel the color rising in her face.
“How sweet you are,” he said, squeezing her knee.
“Do you think so?” she said foolishly and removed his hand.
After about an hour her girlfriends called to her, and she decided to go back to their table. Henrik was leaving, anyway. He had asked for her phone number. That’s when she decided to break the spell. She told him that she was married and that it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to call.
Around one o’clock the bar closed, and the group of women broke up. They said goodbye outside with hugs and reassurances that they’d get together again soon. Frida was the only one who lived in the section of town called Sodervarn, about three-quarters of a mile south of the ring wall. She got on her bike and pedaled off alone in that direction.
When she went through Soderport, a cold wind greeted her. It was always windier outside the wall. How nice that it’s still so light out, at least, she thought. She kept on pedaling, but her foot slipped on the pedal and she scraped her leg so that it started to bleed. It stung.
Shit. She realized she was drunker than she thought. But she kept on going, wanting to get home as fast as possible now.
She turned left at the parking lot and rode past the Gutavallen sports center. She crossed the street and headed up the long, steep slope near the water tower. Halfway up the hill she had to stop and get off her bike. She was too worn out.
On the left side of the road was the cemetery. The headstones were lined up as if for some sort of dreary parade inside the low stone wall. Even though she was practically numb from all the alcohol, she felt a sense of uneasiness creep over her. Why had she insisted on taking her bike? Stefan had tried to persuade her to take a cab home, especially because of Helena Hillerstrom’s murder less than two weeks ago. She had dismissed the idea by saying it was too expensive. They needed to save their money. Their finances were shaky after buying the house. Besides, the killer had been caught. It turned out to be the boyfriend.
Now she was regretting her decision. Damn, how stupid she was. A cab ride home wouldn’t have cost more than a hundred kronor. It would have been worth it.
She was all alone on the road. Not another person in sight. The only sound was her own footsteps in her high-heeled shoes. They were hurting her feet terribly.