Unseen (16 page)

“Do you suspect that it’s the same perpetrator as before?”

“Both yes and no. There are certain things that indicate it might be someone else—for example, the fact that the killer used a different kind of weapon. Other circumstances point to one perpetrator, so at the present time we don’t know. Of course we can’t rule out that possibility.”

“Have you found any connection between the victims, other than that they’re both women about the same age?”

“I can’t go into that right now, for the sake of the investigation, but I can tell you this much: Both women had ties to Stockholm and to Gotland.”

“Could the killer have come over from Stockholm?”

“Certainly.”

“Why aren’t you looking for him there?”

“We are.”

“Where?”

“I can’t answer that. I’m sure you’ll understand why.”

“Are there any similarities in the MO of the killers?” asked Johan.

“I can’t comment on that.”

There was a great deal of frustration among the reporters, but Knutas was unyielding. The investigative team had decided not to reveal anything about the way in which Frida Lindh was killed. That left the field wide open for speculation.

“Are we dealing with a serial killer here?” asked the woman from Radio Gotland.

“It’s much too early to say. We have no idea,” said Knutas.

“But you wouldn’t rule it out?”

“Of course not.”

“What’s going to happen to the boyfriend of the first victim?” the reporter from the local radio station continued.

“He’s going to be released from custody. He’s no longer a suspect.”

A murmur spread through the room.

“Why not?” the radio reporter asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that.”

“How can you be so sure he’s innocent?”

“We can’t divulge anything about our reasons for letting him go. The only thing I can tell you is that the boyfriend is no longer suspected of having anything to do with the murder in Fröjel,” repeated Knutas, whose face was starting to flush with annoyance.

“That must mean that you think the same person committed both murders,” Johan ventured. “The murder of the woman in the cemetery couldn’t have been committed by Per Bergdal, since he was being held under arrest in Visby.”

“As I’ve said several times, we can’t go into any further details about the circumstances,” said Knutas, forcing himself to remain calm.

Johan dropped the matter of the perpetrator.

“What about the murder weapon? Was it found?” he asked instead.

“No.”

“What are the police doing now?” asked the reporter from Eko.

“We’ll be getting additional reinforcements from the National Criminal Police. We’re conducting extensive searches and trying to come up with any points of connection between the two victims.”

“Did the victims know each other?” asked another TV reporter.

“No, not according to the information we have now. We’re in the process of checking their backgrounds.”

Almost an hour later, after all the journalists had finished their individual interviews, Knutas hurried out of the conference room. The governor took his arm.

“Have you got a minute?”

“Of course,” he said wearily.

He turned to lead the way to his office and closed the door behind them.

“This is a very serious situation,” said Eriksson, who was a vigorous woman of fifty-five or so. Normally she was outgoing and cheerful, but right now there were signs of great anxiety on her face. With a sigh she sank down onto the visitors’ sofa in Knutas’s office, then took off her glasses and wiped her brow with a handkerchief.

“This is a very serious situation,” she repeated. “Here we are in the middle of June. Everyone is hard at work preparing for the tourist season at all the hotels, campgrounds, youth hostels, rental cabins. The reservations are pouring in. For the time being, at any rate. The question is what will happen now. This seems to be a case of a serial killer, and that’s not something that will attract tourists. I’m concerned that these two murders will scare people away.”

“I know,” agreed Knutas, “but there’s not much we can do. None of us wants a killer on the loose.”

“What are you planning to do now? What resources are you using? I’m sure you realize how important it is that we catch this killer as soon as possible.”

“My dear governor,” said Knutas, unable to hide his irritation. “We’re doing everything we can, especially in view of our limited resources. My entire department, which means the twelve officers that are left in the criminal department after all the cutbacks and reorganizations, are working full-time on the case. I’ve also called in four investigators from the NCP, and they’ll stay on as long as necessary. I’ve put in a request to borrow a few men from the local police, even though they’re already stretched thin. We’re about to be deluged by six hundred thousand tourists, and we have to handle it with eighty-three officers for the whole island. Including the island of Fårö. You can figure out for yourself what our capacity is like. There just aren’t any other resources to draw on.” He gave Eriksson a stern look.

“Oh, I know. I understand. I’m just worried about the consequences. And the employment situation. So many people make their living from tourism.”

“You’re going to have to give us a little time,” said Knutas. “It’s scarcely been forty-eight hours since the second homicide was committed. Maybe we’ll be able to catch the perpetrator within a few days. Then the whole thing will be over. Let’s not rush to think the worst.”

“I hope to God you’re right,” said the governor with a sigh.

“Shit.”

Knutas had just taken a bite of a dry sandwich from a vending machine and got a piece stuck in his throat, which led to a lengthy coughing fit. His colleagues, who had all gathered to watch the Sunday evening news in the lunchroom, shushed him.

Knutas felt a throbbing in his temples. The story about the latest homicide had contained far too much information.

“How can they know so much? That part about the knife wound? And the panties?” exclaimed Knutas when he was done coughing.

His face was bright red, both from coughing and from anger.

“How did that happen? How the hell are we supposed to do investigative work under these conditions! Who’s been leaking information to the press?”

Everyone exchanged surprised glances. Scattered murmurs of denial were heard. People were shaking their heads. Some decided it was best not to get involved.

Knutas strode back to his office, slamming the door so hard that the windowpane in the upper part of the door rattled. He rummaged around to find Johan Berg’s business card. The journalist answered after two rings.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” thundered Knutas without identifying himself.

“What do you mean?” asked Johan, who knew exactly what this was all about.

“How can you broadcast the sort of information that was just on the news? Don’t you realize that it interferes with our work? We’re in the middle of hunting for a killer! And what kind of proof do you have? Where did you get that information?”

“I can understand why you’re upset.” Johan was speaking in his most soothing tone of voice. “But you have to try to see things from our point of view.”

“Just what kind of fucking point of view would that be? We’re conducting a homicide investigation here!”

“First of all, we would never report any information unless we were a hundred percent sure that it was true. I happen to know that things were exactly the way we described them in the story. Second, we consider it’s relevant to report that all indications point to a serial killer at work. The panties in the mouth is the most convincing proof of that, and the information is of such general interest that it had to be made public.”

“Who do you think you are, to make that sort of decision? General interest!”

Knutas spat out the words. Johan could just imagine the saliva spattering the receiver.

“Okay, all right,” said Knutas. “But the fact that all this information is also being broadcast straight to the murderer—you’re not taking that into consideration at all!”

“People have the right to know that a serial killer is on the loose. We’re just doing our job. I’m truly sorry if it interferes with your work, but I also have to think about my own work.”

“And what tells you that all of those details are true? How do you know for sure?”

“Naturally I can’t tell you that, but I have a very reliable source.”

“A reliable source, you say. That can only mean someone inside headquarters. One of my closest associates. You have to tell me who it is. Otherwise we’re not going to be able to continue working as a team.”

Knutas sounded somewhat calmer, but Johan felt his patience running out. “As a police officer, you should know the law well enough to know that you can’t ask me that question,” he said acidly. “You have no right to investigate our sources. But since I respect your work, I can tell you this much. It’s not any of your closest associates or anyone on the investigative team itself. At least not the person who’s been giving me the information. That’s all I can say. And keep in mind that just because we journalists find out about something, that doesn’t mean that we have to make it public immediately. It depends whether it’s justified or not. I knew about the panties right after the murder of Helena Hillerström, but it wasn’t until now that there was any reason to make it public.”

Knutas sighed. “I expect you’ll warn me, at least, the next time you’re thinking of publicizing sensitive and confidential information. I’d like to avoid having a heart attack.”

“Sure, I can do that. I hope you can understand my side of the issue.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to. But don’t ask me to understand how you journalists think,” said Knutas, and he hung up.

It was past eight in the evening, and it wasn’t until now that Knutas realized how tired he was. He leaned back in his chair. Who the hell had leaked the information? He trusted his colleagues, but right now he didn’t know what to think. Yet he believed what Johan Berg had said, that it wasn’t anyone who was part of the investigation.

Even though he had been annoyed by that reporter several times during the investigation, he had a feeling that Johan Berg was serious about his work. Not like certain other journalists who didn’t pay any attention to what was said but just continued on, endlessly asking questions about matters that he had told them he couldn’t discuss. He got so mad at Johan not because of his manner but because he was so well informed. Reluctantly, Knutas had to acknowledge that he actually could understand the way Johan thought. But how was he finding out so much? Naturally Knutas was quite familiar with how easily information could spread. Something had to be done about it. Was it happening via the police radio? They had to look into how much was being said and what was being said. The Gotland police had little experience when it came to dealing with the press on such a large scale.

Someone knocked on the door.

Jacobsson peeked in. “Malin Backman is here, one of Frida Lindh’s friends.”

“I’m coming,” said Knutas, and got up.

Malin Backman was the only one of the victim’s friends he had not yet met. She was one of the two women who lived on Tjelvarvägen. Wittberg and Norrby had talked to her last night, but that was before they knew that Frida Lindh had been murdered. Now the situation was completely changed, and Knutas wanted to meet with Frida’s women friends in person. Malin Backman was also Frida Lindh’s colleague at work. The conversations that he had in the morning with her other friends had not produced anything new.

Karin Jacobsson was present during the interview. They went into the conference room.

“Please have a seat,” said Knutas.

Malin Backman sat down on the chair across from him. “I’m sorry to be late. My husband has been out of town and didn’t come home until this evening. I didn’t have anyone to leave the children with.”

Knutas made a dismissive gesture. “It’s perfectly all right. We appreciate that you took the time to come here. How did you happen to know Frida Lindh?”

“We worked at the same beauty salon.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Since she started working there. That must be about six months ago, I think. Yes, that’s right, she started right after Christmas. In early January.”

“How well did you know her?”

“Quite well. We saw each other every day at work, and we also used to go out together once in a while.”

“Did you notice anything different about her lately?”

“No, she was just the same as always. Very lively and cheerful.”

“She didn’t talk about anything special that had happened? Any customer who was unpleasant?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you know whether anyone had been acting strangely toward her or threatening her?”

“No, our customers are usually very nice. We know most of them.”

“But occasionally you have customers come in that you’ve never seen before, don’t you?” asked Jacobsson.