Mari Jungstedt - Unseen

On the path to the lighthouse she allowed herself to take a little breather. The small cluster of houses near the lighthouse looked deserted. She continued running toward the parking lot and discovered a car parked at the edge of the woods.

When she got closer, she saw that it was a red Saab.

All her running had been in vain.

She managed to think that he must have gotten in the car and driven to the lighthouse, and then the blow struck her on the back of the head.

Two police officers were standing outside the house when Johan finally reached it. Emma was nowhere in sight. He parked his car outside the wall and went into the yard.

“My name is Johan Berg. I’m a journalist,” he said, and showed them his press card. “I’m a friend of Emma Winarve. Where is she?”

“We don’t know. The house is empty, and we’re waiting for reinforcements. You’ll have to leave the area immediately, sir.”

“Where’s Emma?”

“I told you, we don’t know,” said one of the officers sternly.

Johan turned on his heel and ran around the wall of the house, heading down toward the shore.

He ignored the police, who were shouting after him. As soon as he reached the beach, he saw tracks in the sand. Very visible footprints.

He ran in Emma’s tracks, rounded the point, and saw the lighthouse. The footprints continued. With relief he observed that the tracks were still from only one person. She must have gone to the lighthouse to seek help. But where was the killer?

He looked up at the raised grassy berm that ran along the beach before the woods took hold. He might have been following her from up there. He would have a good view from there, too.

Exhausted and out of breath, Johan reached the lighthouse and headed up the path toward the parking lot.

“Emma,” he shouted.

No answer. No cars in the parking lot, and he couldn’t see any people, either. Where had she gone?

He tried to make out any tracks in the grass, but there was nothing distinct. Instead, he continued along the deserted asphalt road. Silent and desolate, with woods on both sides. He looked at the nearby houses. No sign of life. The sound of an engine suddenly came closer, and he turned around.

A police car stopped with screeching brakes, and out climbed Knutas and Jacobsson.

“Have you seen or heard anything?” Knutas demanded.

“No, but I saw some tracks in the sand, and I think they’re Emma’s. They led this way.”

Knutas’s cell phone rang. The conversation was brief.

“Jens Hagman is probably the murderer,” he reported after hanging up. “Jan Hagman’s son. They found him in the school records. He’s the same age as the victims. He was in another sixth-grade class. His father, Jan Hagman, owns a red 1987 Saab. And it’s missing.”

Jacobsson stared at him in surprise. “It was the son?” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t we figure that out earlier!”

“Not now,” snapped Knutas. “We’ll have time for self-reproaches later on. Right now we’ve got to catch him.”

The main road that led to the ferry dock was blocked off at several places. The police set up a temporary base at the Sudersand campgrounds. A search party of officers with dogs started combing the wooded area between Skarsande and the lighthouse. Olle Winarve arrived.

After talking to Grenfors back in Stockholm, Johan called Peter. Of course they had to report on what was happening. At the same time, his concern for Emma was practically tearing him apart. It was when he found the letter that he decided to kill Helena. He was sitting in his mother’s bedroom. His parents had had separate rooms for years. He didn’t see anything strange about that. He had never seen them hug or give each other any other sign of affection. His mother was hanging out there in the barn. It would be a while before his father came home. He had several hours to go through things in her room before he would have to call the police and report that he had found his mother dead. He pulled open the drawers in her dresser and systematically went through them. Old pieces of paper with almost illegible notes, receipts, photographs of that stupid cat that his mother had loved. She loved the cat more than us, he thought bitterly. A few ugly pieces of jewelry, a thimble, ballpoint pens with ink that had dried up. How long ago was it that she went through these drawers herself? he thought with annoyance. Then he found something that caught his interest. At the very bottom of one of the drawers lay a crumpled envelope, yellow with age. He read what it said on the front: To Gunvor. It was his father’s handwriting. He frowned and opened the envelope. It was only a one-page letter. There as no date. * Gunvor I’ve been up all night, thinking, and now I’m prepared to tell you what’s been going on with me lately. I know that you’ve been wondering what has happened, even though, as usual, you haven’t said a word. The truth is that I’ve met someone else. I think this is the first time in my life that I’ve understood what real love is. It’s not something that I planned. It just happened, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. We’ve been seeing each other for six months. I thought that it might just be something fleeting that wouldn’t last, but it’s turned out to be just the opposite. I love her with all my heart, and I’ve decided that I want to share my life with her. She’s also pregnant. I want to take care of her and our child. We both know that you’ve never loved me. So many times I’ve been surprised and frightened by your coldness. Both toward me and toward the children. It’s over now. I’ve found someone that I love. She’s one of my students. Her name is Helena Hillerstrom. By the time you find this letter, I’ll be living in an apartment in town. I’ll call you later. Jan He crumpled up the letter as the tears streamed from his eyes. Helena Hillerstrom, of all people. It was easy for him to make up his mind.

Emma woke up because she was freezing. It was dark, and the air was dripping with moisture. She was lying on something hard and cold. It took a few minutes for her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. A narrow strip of light was seeping in through an opening higher up on one wall. She was inside what seemed to be an underground room. The floor and walls were cement, and the room was bare except for two benches attached on either side. She was lying on one of them. She estimated that the room was about eight feet square. The sloping ceiling was low and made the space seem even more cramped. It was no more than seven feet to the highest point. There was no door. Instead, there was an iron hatch in the ceiling. A rusty iron ladder was fastened to the wall and led up the hatch. She realized that she must be imprisoned inside one of the old defense bunkers. There were a number of them on Gotland and Faro. She and her friends used to play in them when they were kids.

Her throat was dry, and she had a sour taste of vomit in her mouth. She also had a throbbing ache at the back of her head. She wanted to touch it to see if it was bleeding, but that turned out to be impossible. Her hands and feet were tied tight with rope. Her eyes swept over the damp gray walls. The hatch in the ceiling was the only way out, and it was closed. Probably locked on the outside. What was she doing here? Where was Hagman? And why hadn’t he killed her at once? The fact that she was still alive made her think that maybe there was still hope. The rope was chafing her skin. She had no idea what time it was or how long she had been lying here. Her body felt stiff and tender. With some effort she managed to sit up. She raised herself up, trying to look out the small opening, but she couldn’t do it. She tried to twist her hands around, but the rope made that almost impossible. She could move her feet only a few inches.