Emma couldn’t think of anything else about Helena, either. Yet they had known each other since school.
A sense of longing came over him.
Emma. The image of her when they last met. The light in her hair as she sat there in the chair by the window, her face pale. Her very being enchanted him. Her power terrified and enticed him. He wanted to call her but realized that it was much too late.
He laid his head down on the pile of papers and fell asleep.
The young people left the party at its height. The Strand Restaurant in Nisseviken had been rented out for the evening, and the dance floor was packed with festively dressed teenagers. The music was turned up to the absolute maximum. In the bar, glasses were being filled, one after the other. The mood was one of wild exhilaration. It was the last night of the Midsummer holiday, and it was high time for a party, even though it was a Sunday evening.
Carolina giggled at Petter, who was holding her hand in his, leading her down toward the beach. “You dope, what are you doing?”
He headed past the beach huts that were rented out to tourists as cabins during the summer season.
“Come on, come here,” he said, kissing her on the throat.
Both of them were drunk. Happy, too. In just a few days they would have to part. Carolina was going to the States to study, while Petter’s eleven-month military service way up north in Boden was awaiting him. It was a matter of enjoying the time they had left.
They romped around on the beach, with Petter shoving Carolina ahead of him at the same time he kissed the back of her neck. His hand fumbled inside her clothes as their entwined bodies moved forward, away from the beach and any people.
It was close to three in the morning, almost daylight. Since several other couples would certainly be coming down to the beach, they wanted to find an out-of-the-way spot. When they came farther out on the point, they discovered a solitary fishing shack a short distance away.
“That’s where we’ll go,” said Petter.
“You’re crazy. It’s too late to go out there now,” protested Carolina. “Someone might be out there.”
“Let’s check!”
He took Carolina by the hand, and they ran across the stones at the edge of the shore.
They could see that the shack was deserted. It didn’t look as if it had been used in a long time.
“Perfect. Let’s go in,” said Petter.
A rusty lock was the only thing blocking their way.
“Do you have a hairpin?”
“Should we really do this?”
“Why not? We can stay here as long as we want without anyone bothering us.”
“What if someone comes?”
“Uh-uh. You can see that it’s all locked up. I don’t think anybody’s been here in years,” said Petter as he worked to open the lock with the hairpin. Carolina stood on her toes and tried to peek in through the single window at the back. A dark blue curtain hung in front of it, blocking the view. This is great for us, she thought, elated. Petter’s enthusiasm was contagious. This was really exciting.
Making love in an old, abandoned fishing shack.
“Okay, I got it.”
With a creak, the door opened. They peeked inside. The shack consisted of only one room. There was a wooden bench, a rickety table, and a chair. The walls were a filthy yellow and cold. An old calendar from the ICA supermarket hung askew on a hook. It smelled damp and stuffy.
Delighted, Petter spread out his hoodie on the floor.
They had been asleep for several hours when Carolina woke up because she needed to pee. At first she had no idea where she was. Then she remembered. Oh, that’s right. The party. The shack. She untangled herself from Petter’s arms and with some effort managed to get to her feet. She felt sick.
She tottered out of the shack and squatted down to pee. Afterward she washed herself in the clear, cold water of the sea.
She should wake Petter up. How were they going to get home? They were way out in the sticks. Shivering, she walked back to the shack. Petter lay stretched out on the floor with an old blanket over him.
The table was covered with a red oilcloth with coffee stains on it. A thermos stood on the floor. Even though the shack seemed to have been abandoned, Carolina had a feeling that someone had been here recently.
She was freezing after her hasty bath. The blanket covering Petter looked awfully thin. At the same time, she felt like lying down for a while longer. She would try to sleep a little, and maybe the nausea would pass. She looked around for something else to use as a cover and noticed that the bench had a lid that could be opened. She lifted it up. Inside was a bundle of clothes, or rather several bundles.
She took out one of the pieces of clothing and held it up. It was a shirt, and it had big patches of what looked like dried blood on it. Cautiously she began rummaging among the clothes. A dress, a top, a pair of bloody jeans, a torn bra, a dog leash. Her head started to spin. She shook Petter awake.
“Look, look inside the bench!” she urged him.
Petter got up, groggy with sleep, and looked at the clothes. “What the hell?”
He let the lid fall shut with a bang, took out his cell phone, and called the police.
MONDAY, JUNE 25
Gamla Stan in Stockholm looked a good deal like Visby. Knutas was always struck by that thought whenever he visited the capital. He enjoyed the atmosphere. Many of the beautiful buildings with masonry anchors on the facades and sculptures above the entrances were from the 1600s, when Sweden was a major European power and Stockholm was expanding rapidly. The buildings stood close together, a reminder of how densely populated the city once had been.
The narrow cobblestone streets branched out from the city’s historic midpoint, Stortorget, like the arms of an octopus. Nowadays Gamla Stan was filled with restaurants, cafes, and small shops that sold antiques, handicrafts, and of course tons of knickknacks.
Gamla Stan and Visby had many things in common. The German influence was strong in both cities during the Middle Ages. German merchants had dominated both Stockholm and Visby and set their mark on the buildings and street names. In the past, Gamla Stan had also been encircled by a defensive wall. It was torn down in the seventeenth century to make room for the numerous stately houses that were built along the shore. Beyond the facades facing the street in the stone city, you could find little green oases and flowering gardens, just like in Visby.
Knutas and Jacobsson were plodding toward Osterlanggatan, which appealed to Knutas more than the commercial street of Vasterlanggatan. On the eastern street there were more galleries, handicraft shops, and restaurants.
That was also the location of the shop where Gunilla Olsson’s pottery was sold. In the shop window facing the street, various ceramic objects were on display. A bell rang as they opened the door.
There were no customers in the shop. The owner was a stylish woman in her sixties.
Knutas introduced himself and his colleague, explaining why they were there.
The woman’s face took on a worried expression. “It’s so horrible, all those murders. Completely incomprehensible.”
“Yes,” Knutas agreed. “As I understand it, you sold Gunilla’s pottery in your shop. How long have you been doing that?”
“Only a few months. Things were going well for her. I saw her work at a show on Gotland this past winter, and I fell for it at once. She was talented. My customers thought so, too. I would sell out of her work almost as soon as the pieces were delivered. These bowls are especially popular,” she said, pointing to a tall, wide bowl with lots of small hollows in it. The bowl was enthroned on its own shelf.