Unseen (34 page)

Sobbing, she stumbled out to the hall and headed for the front door. She grabbed the door handle, but the door was locked, and she couldn’t get it open before he was on her. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her backward into the kitchen.

“You fucking slut,” he snarled. “You bitch, you fucking bitch. Now I’m going to make you beg. You disgusting whore.”

He shoved her into a sitting position, keeping one hand in a tight grip on her throat.

“Now it’s your turn, you little slut. Now it’s your turn, goddamn it.”

His face, only a few inches away from hers, was dark with rage. His breath smelled of mint, which reminded her of something. Her paternal grandfather. He smelled the same way. Throat lozenges. Big, white, and transparent, the kind that you could suck on forever. They came in a brown paper bag. Grandfather was always offering them to everyone.

Just as he raised the axe in the air and took aim, he loosened his grip on her throat slightly. Somehow she summoned up great strength. With a bellow she used both hands to tear his hand away from her throat and at the same time slammed him down to the floor. She landed on top of him and bit his cheek so hard that she could taste blood in her mouth. This time she managed to get the door open and flee outside.

She ran toward the stone wall and threw herself over it. Now she was down on the beach. She cursed the light and kept going. The sand was hard packed, which made it easy to run. And she was used to running. She had gone out jogging here hundreds of times before. When she had gone some distance, she couldn’t help looking back to see how close he was. To her surprise she discovered that he wasn’t there at all. She stopped and looked around in bewilderment. Not a soul as far as the eye could see.

He must have been more hurt than I thought
, she told herself. Relieved, she kept on running toward the lighthouse. There were usually people around there. If only she could reach it, she would be safe. It wasn’t yet in sight. First she had to round the point of the shore, and that was still a good distance away. She was now running at a more even pace. It was almost ghostly on the beach. Completely deserted. All she heard was the panting of her own breath and the gentle thudding of her own feet.

On the last stretch of shoreline the sand was replaced by stones. She almost fell but kept her balance. When she reached the other end of the beach, she was completely exhausted. Sweat was running down her back. No one seemed to be there, but soon she’d be up on the road, and then safety wouldn’t be far away.

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 Skärsände 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 Hillerström. 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 Hillerström, 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 Fårö. 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.

Emma listened for any noise, but no sounds seemed to penetrate from outside. The room was almost completely silent. Leaves rustled on the floor. A brown-spotted frog had slipped inside the bunker. Then she noticed another one. Several moths were up on the ceiling, asleep. The air was musty and raw.

She lay down again and closed her eyes, hoping the aching would stop. She needed to be able to think clearly.

Suddenly there was a rattling noise. The hatch in the ceiling was lifted away. A pair of legs became visible, and a man climbed down into the bunker. It was Jens Hagman.

He gave her a cold stare as he held a bottle of water to her lips. With his help she greedily took several big swallows without daring to look up at him. Afterward, she sat there without uttering a word. She didn’t know what to do, but she was determined to be on guard, to see how he would react.

He sat down on the bench across from her. He had closed the hatch, and the room was once again almost totally dark. She could hear him breathing in the dim light. Finally she broke the silence.

“What are you planning to do?”

“Shut up. You have no right to talk.”

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

“I need to pee,” she whispered.

“What the hell do I care?”

“Please. I’m going to pee my pants.”

Reluctantly he got up and loosened the rope. She had to squat down and pee as he looked on. When she was done, he tied her up again. He glared at her and then climbed back up the ladder and was gone.

The hours passed. She lay on her side on the bench, slipping in and out of sleep. Dreams mixed with thoughts. She couldn’t distinguish one thing from another. Occasionally a thick blanket of apathy settled over her. She was in his hands. There was nothing she could do. She might as well just lie down and die. Finish out her days in this bunker on Fårö. Then images of her children would flash past, like bits of crystal. Sara and Filip. The last time she had seen them was out at the home of Olle’s brother in Burgsvik. She pictured the children waving to her at the gate as she drove away. Would that be the last time they ever saw each other?

Her joints ached, and her hands were prickling. They were about to go numb. She held them up toward the narrow strip of light. The tight rope had turned her wrists red. She decided to try thinking constructively and sat up again. What options did she have? Could she try to overpower him when he opened the hatch next time? Hardly. He was much bigger than she was, and there was nothing she could use as a weapon. She wondered where this bunker was located. Presumably far from the nearest house, although at this time of the summer there were always people around—people taking walks and hiking through the woods and the fields, taking advantage of Sweden’s legal right of access to private land. She looked up at the narrow slit in the wall. Should she try screaming? Hagman might be right outside. She guessed that he must be staying in his car. What did she have to lose if he heard her? She was probably still alive because he needed her to make his escape from here. That meant the police were out there, searching for her. As long as they stayed on Fårö, he couldn’t kill her.