“It’s even more beautiful than in the pictures we see. You live in a regular fairy tale city over here. I hope you appreciate it.”
“Normally we don’t think much about it,” said Jacobsson with a smile. “But a trip to the mainland is always a good reminder. Then I realize how beautiful it is when I come back home.”
“Same here,” Knutas agreed. “I’d have a hard time living anywhere else.”
They ate the grilled lamb and root-vegetable casserole with gusto. Kihlgard had no time to talk while he was eating, except once when he asked for more bread. Knutas was reminded that his colleague apparently had an insatiable appetite. The man was always eating, at all times of the day and night.
The restaurant was furnished in an old-fashioned style, with lighted candles and linen tablecloths on all the tables. The cozy atmosphere was particularly welcome now that it was overcast and cold outdoors. Leif surprised them with the restaurant’s specialty, a homemade chocolate cake, with their coffee. Then he sat down to join them for a moment.
“How nice to have new lunch customers. Are you staying for a while?”
“We’ll have to wait and see,” said Kihlgard. “This is an amazingly delicious cake.”
“Please come again, anytime. We’re always happy to see all of our customers.”
“I suppose it must be difficult in the wintertime.”
“Yes, it’s tough running a restaurant here that’s open all year round. But we’ve managed to do all right, at least so far. Well, don’t let me disturb you anymore.”
Leif stood up and left.
“We’ve gone over the details of Dahlstrom’s life, but what’s the situation with alcoholics here on the island, in general?” asked Kihlgard. “For instance, how many are there?”
“I would estimate there are about thirty or so truly hard-core alcoholics, meaning individuals who drink all the time and have no job,” replied Jacobsson.
“So they’re homeless?”
“We actually don’t have any homeless here, like you do in the city. Most of them have their own apartment or else they live in municipal housing for addicts scattered here and there.”
“What about violent crime among this sort of people?”
“Occasionally they kill each other when they’re drunk. We have a couple of murders a year, on average, that are drug or alcohol related. But usually that happens among the drug addicts. The alcoholics are generally harmless.”
It was about time to go back to the office. Knutas waved to Leif to get the bill. The wonderful chocolate cake was on the house.
After seeing Emma again, Johan had a longing for fresh air. He took a walk to distract his thoughts.
Almedalen Park was quiet and deserted. The wet asphalt of the public footpath through the grass glittered in the glow of the streetlights, and he could hear the low quacking of the ducks in the pond, even though they were barely visible in the dark. He turned onto the shoreline pathway that ran from Visby all the way out to Snackgards Beach, two miles north. Here the wind picked up, and he turned up the collar of his jacket against the chill. Not a soul was in sight. The waves rolled in to shore, and seagulls shrieked. A large passenger ferry with its navigation lights shining through the darkness was approaching Visby Harbor.
He thought about Emma and couldn’t comprehend how he had managed without her for so long. All his feelings had now been reawakened, and he realized that it would be rough to go on waiting. Even though their relationship had now entered a new phase. The anxious waiting was over, and he knew how she felt about him. And knowing this made him feel both calm and strong.
What he needed to do now was to come up with some good story ideas so that he could come back to the island as soon as possible. It was harder for Emma to find an excuse to go to Stockholm.
He passed the Maiden Tower, one of the ring wall’s many defensive structures. There was an old legend about this particular tower. In the fourteenth century, King Valdemar Atterdag of Denmark was attempting to capture Visby and strip the city of its riches. A young woman helped him to gain access through one of the gates in the ring wall. The woman had fallen in love with the king, and he had promised to marry her and take her back to Denmark if she opened the gate for him and his men. She did as he asked, and the Danes then plundered Visby. But the king broke his promise and left the young woman to her fate after she had done what he asked. When her role was discovered, the townspeople punished her by walling her alive in the Maiden Tower. According to legend, her cries for help can still be heard. As Johan walked past in the dark, he could easily imagine her inside. The wind was howling, and perhaps it was her desperate cries that he heard in the wind. Even though he was freezing, he was enjoying the weather.
As he passed the Botanical Gardens, the rocks of Strandgardet appeared, and in the distance shone the lights from the hospital.
Suddenly he heard a shout. A very real shout.
He stepped forward into the darkness and discovered an elderly woman lying on an embankment with a yapping terrier at her side.
“What happened?”
“I fell down and can’t get up,” complained the woman, her voice quavering. “My foot hurts terribly.”
“Wait, let me help you,” Johan reassured her, taking a firm grip on her arm. “Careful now, stand up slowly.”
“Thank you so much. That was awful,” moaned the woman as she got to her feet.
“Are you hurt? Can you put any weight on your foot?”
“Yes, it’ll be fine. You’re not the kind of man who mugs old women, are you?”
Johan couldn’t help smiling. He wondered how he must look, in his black jacket, unshaven, and with his hair disheveled.
“You don’t have to worry. My name is Johan Berg,” he said.
“Thank goodness. I’ve had enough drama for one day. My name is Astrid Persson. Do you think you could walk me home? I live over on Backgatan, up there across from the hospital.”
She pointed with a gloved finger.
“Of course,” said Johan, taking her by the arm. In his other hand he held the little terrier’s leash, and together they set off toward Backgatan.
Astrid Persson absolutely insisted on inviting him in for a cup of cocoa. Her husband, Bertil, had started to get worried, and he thanked Johan warmly for his help.
“You’re not from Gotland, are you?”
“No, I’m here on an assignment. I’m a journalist for Swedish TV in Stockholm.”
“Is that right? Are you here to report on the murder?”
“You mean the murder of Henry Dahlstrom?”
“Yes, exactly. Do you know anything about who did it?”
“No, we hardly know anything at all about the case. The police aren’t saying much. At least so far.”
“Ah, so that’s how it is.”
Bertil slurped his cocoa.
“He was a nice guy, that Dahlstrom.”
“Did you know him?”
“Sure, of course I did. He helped me with some carpentry. He built our carport, and he did a really good job.”
“He also did some work on the dormer window,” his wife added. “He worked as a carpenter in his younger days, you know. Before he became a photographer.”
“Is that right? And he managed to do carpentry work, in spite of his alcohol problem?”
“Oh yes, he did fine. It was as if he pulled himself together while he was working. I did notice that he smelled of liquor one time, but it didn’t affect his work. He did the job he was supposed to do, showed up when he promised he would, and so on. Yes, he did an excellent job. And he was pleasant, too, not much of a talker but nice.”
Astrid nodded in agreement. Her husband had carefully taped up her foot, which she was now resting on a stool.
“How long ago was this?” asked Johan.
“Well, let’s see. We had the carport built several years ago. When was it?”
He looked at his wife.
“Four, maybe five years ago? And the dormer window was done last year.”
“Did he help other people with this sort of work?”