Mari Jungstedt - Unseen

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by Peter.

“Hey, could you move over?” he shouted, hidden behind the camera, concentrating on his shot and with his eye at the viewfinder. He had attached the big TV camera to a tripod, and Johan was standing in the way of the shot he was considering, panning across the beach.

It was eleven o’clock. The editor of the noon news was prepared to make do with the morning’s material, so they didn’t need to worry about that.

“I think we should drop by and see the sister of the old man who found the body,” said Johan as they got into the car. “Her name is Svea Johansson, and she lives nearby. We can try to get an interview with her.”

“Sure,” replied Peter, who was usually quite cooperative.

Svea Johansson opened the door after they knocked four times. The fragrance of newly baked cinnamon rolls greeted them.

“Yes? And who might you be?” she asked bluntly with a lilting Gotland accent, peering up at them.

They had never seen such a tiny old lady before. Her hair was white and pulled back into a bun. Her face had a rosy hue and delicate little wrinkles, and there was flour on the tip of her nose. She was wearing a striped cotton apron. She can’t be more than four foot seven, thought Johan, fascinated. He introduced himself and Peter.

“Ah, well, come in then,” said Svea, letting them into the cramped, dark hallway. “I’m in the middle of baking rolls, so you’ll have to come sit in the kitchen.”

They sat down on the kitchen bench, and in an instant two coffee cups were set on the table before them.

“You’ll have a little coffee, won’t you?” murmured the old woman without waiting for them to reply. “You’re in luck, because the first batch of rolls will be done soon.”

“That would be great,” they said in unison.

Johan looked out at the yard and realized that this was going to take some time.

“We were wondering if you could tell us about your brother finding the dead woman,” said Johan.

“Of course I can,” she replied as she took a pan of cinnamon rolls out of the oven. “It made him very upset, the poor thing. He’s still in the hospital. They wanted to keep him another day. I talked to him this morning, and he was sounding quite cheerful.”

“How did he happen to find her?”

“Well, we were supposed to go out for a walk. That’s what we usually do every day, but yesterday I didn’t want to go along. No, I didn’t. Because I had a sore throat and a terrible cough. Today I’m feeling much better,” she explained, pinching the skin of her wrinkled neck.

“Well, anyway, he came over around eleven, as usual. We had a little lunch together, the way we always do. Then he went out alone. I stayed here and did some needlework. It didn’t take long before he was back, pounding on the door even though it was open. He was very upset and babbling something about a dead woman and a dead dog and that he had to call the police.”

Johan gave a start. “A dead dog? Can you tell us more about that?”

“Yes, apparently there was a dog that was killed. The head had been cut off, and it was quite horrible,” she lamented, shaking her head.

Johan and Peter exchanged glances. This was something new.

“Did the dog belong to the woman?” asked Johan.

“Yes, apparently she went everywhere with that dog. That’s what the police said when they were here.”

Half an hour later Johan and Peter left the farm. By then they had Svea Johansson’s account on videotape.

Emma Winarve was hot and sweaty. She had a disgusting taste in her mouth and a knot of fear in her stomach. The nightmare still had a grip on her. She and Helena were walking on the beach together, as they had done so many times before. Helena walked on a short distance ahead. Emma called to her to wait but received no reply. Then she picked up her pace and called Helena again. Her friend still did not turn around. Emma tried to run but made no headway. Her feet lifted off the ground in slow motion, and even though she tried as hard as she could, she didn’t get any closer. She never caught up with Helena, and she woke up with a shout.

Angrily she kicked off Olle’s blanket, which had slipped onto her side of the bed on top of her own, making her much too hot. She felt like crying, but she shook off the feeling and instead got out of bed. Sunlight was filtering through the thin cotton curtains, and it lit up the big, airy bedroom.

She had stayed home from work even though there were only two days left until the end of the school year and she had a lot to do. She didn’t want to leave her pupils in the lurch, but she just couldn’t bear to see them at the moment. From home she would try to take care of all the last-minute preparations before school closed for the summer. The principal understood. The shock. The grief. Emma and Helena. Helena and Emma. They had been the best of friends.

Mechanically she went through her usual morning routine. The shower water sprayed against her warm body, but it didn’t feel refreshing. Her skin was a thick shell, far away from all that was inside her. The contact between her exterior and interior had been broken.

Olle had taken the children to school before he went to work. He offered to stay home, but Emma had firmly declined this suggestion; she wanted to be alone. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and went out to the kitchen in her bare feet. She frequently went barefoot in the house, even in winter. After a cup of strong coffee and a couple of pieces of toast, she began feeling a little better, but the sense of unreality swirled inside her. How could this have happened? Her best friend murdered on the beach, where they had played in the sand with buckets and shovels; where they had held horse races when they were horse-crazy twelve-year-olds; where they had walked as teenagers, discussing their problems; and where they had ridden motorbikes and gotten drunk for the first time. She had even lost her virginity on that beach.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. It was Detective Superintendent Knutas.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but it would be good if we could have a little talk as soon as possible. I also wanted to tell you that Per Bergdal was arrested this morning. Would it be all right if I come out to see you after lunch?”

Emma felt chilled. Per, arrested? That couldn’t be possible. The police must know everything about the fight, she thought.

“Why was he arrested?”

“There are several reasons, which I can tell you about when we meet.”

Shocked and confused as she was, she didn’t want any police officer in the middle of her private hell. It would be better to meet on neutral ground.

“Could we meet at the police station? Around two o’clock?”

“That would be fine. As I said, I’m sorry I have to disturb you, but it’s important,” Knutas repeated.

“That’s okay,” she said in a toneless voice.

Knutas took a gulp of coffee from the china mug decorated with the emblem of the local AIK soccer team, a present from his brother. It infuriated his colleague Erik Sohlman, who had been a fan of the archrival Djurgarden team since birth.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Quarter to twelve. His stomach growled. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep, and he always had to compensate for that by eating. Soon it would finally be time for lunch.

The investigative team had gathered to go over what had been uncovered so far. The prosecuting attorney was also present.

The room was hot and stuffy. Wittberg opened the window facing the police station parking lot. Rays of sunlight played tag among the light green foliage of the trees. The Swedish flag flapped and fluttered in the wind. A truck filled with bellowing high school graduates wearing white student caps drove past over on Birkagatan. It was the end of the school year and a national holiday, and here they sat indoors, talking about what was probably the worst murder ever to occur on Gotland.