The Double Silence (25 page)

She leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands. She shut her eyes, allowing images from the investigation to come and go in her mind. Sam Dahlberg’s mangled body out on Stora Karlsö, pecked apart by seabirds. The well-kept neighbourhood of Terra Nova with the friends who stuck together, come hell or high water. What were they hiding? Valter Olsson, who’d gone out fishing and then floated ashore in Latvia. The Bergman festival with all the social functions and film showings. Stina Ek who disappeared on her bicycle and whose body was found on land next door to Ingmar Bergman’s property. They had finally discovered her bike in the woods outside the fence. What happened to her on her way over there? Who did she meet?

Then there was the group of friends whose pleasant trip was supposed to mark the beginning of the summer holidays but instead ended in tragedy. She thought about the people in that social circle. During all of the interviews in which Jacobsson had participated, she’d had an uneasy
feeling that they were hiding something. She seemed to detect a vague feeling of guilt.

New interviews had been conducted with every single one of them over the course of the day, but none had produced anything new. Håkan Ek was subjected to a cursory questioning at the hospital, where he’d been taken after he learned of his wife’s murder. He could barely muster a word. The poor man was totally devastated.

But there was something about that collection of friends that wasn’t quite right.

She summoned up images of the individuals who had gone on the trip together. Most were in their early forties. Håkan Ek was the only one who was significantly older. Sam Dahlberg’s wife Andrea seemed terribly reserved, but that might be her way of coping. Outwardly, she was almost perfect: beautiful long hair; make-up skilfully applied and so natural-looking that it was hardly noticeable; a physically fit body with high, firm breasts that could indicate plastic surgery. She gave the appearance of being a loving wife and devoted mother, but that might not be true at all. Maybe she was putting on an act.

So what about Håkan Ek? Jacobsson might as well start with those closest to the victims, since it was often in the immediate family that the killer was to be found.

At the very first interview she had felt a real empathy for him. He was considerably older than his wife – fifty-three compared to Stina’s thirty-seven. So there was a difference of sixteen years between them. How had that affected their marriage? Jacobsson leafed through Håkan Ek’s file.

The photograph showed a man in his prime, looking fit, energetic and suntanned as he smiled at the camera. Laughter lines around his eyes and white teeth. And it looked as if he dyed his hair, so he was apparently a bit vain. In the photo he radiated a self-confidence that she hadn’t noticed when she met him in person. This picture could have been lifted directly out of an advert for the Dressmann clothing chain, she thought. Håkan had been married twice before, and he had children with two different women, in addition to the two that he and Stina had together. The oldest, a daughter named Klara, was twenty-five years old and lived in
the Östermalm district in Stockholm. The thought of her own daughter flitted through Karin’s mind, causing a pang in her heart. The two young women were the same age. Håkan’s first wife, Ingrid, had remarried and lived in the wealthy Stockholm suburb of Djursholm. He had divorced her in 1985, when their daughter was only two years old. Three years later he had already married his second wife, and they’d had a son named Robin in 1989. Another divorce in 1990, before Håkan married Stina that same year. Jacobsson raised her eyebrows. He was certainly a fast worker. The son must have been only a few months old when his parents parted ways. How awful, thought Jacobsson as she studied the face of the suntanned, smiling man in the photograph.

MY CHILDHOOD HOME
was located way out in the Uppland countryside in an area of historic importance, filled with rune stones and burial sites from both the Iron Age and the Viking era. The house stood high on a hill. It was painted brown, a splendid structure with several entrances and a view of the fields and meadows, with Lake Mälaren off in the distance. Outside the imposing main entrance with the circular drive and flagpole was a lush abundance of rhododendron bushes. At the back a stone stairway led down to the garden, which was filled with shrubs, apple trees, and arbours. We children used to cycle over to the church bell tower to play a game that pitted the Swedes against the Danes. We would fight with tree branches, pretending they were swords. Our bikes were horses in the tournaments we held, and pine cones were our ammunition. Out where we lived there were no official playgrounds with swings and roundabouts like in the small town about 30 kilometres away where we went to school. The woods, the mountains and the open fields were our playgrounds. And we didn’t complain. Each morning my sister and I would board the school bus near the bend in the main road and go off to school. By the time we came back home, our mother would often have a snack ready for us – usually milk and some of her homemade cinnamon rolls, which we ate in the kitchen. Then we’d go out to find the local kids. There weren’t many people living out there. Four families lived in the nearby houses, and three of them had children. The narrow gravel road that passed through our little village was used mostly by visitors heading for the nearby country church or the agricultural school. It might seem
strange to find a school in such a remote area, way out in the country, but it had been established by a wealthy woman in Stockholm who donated the money to start a boarding school for poor children. For the past thirty years it had functioned as a secondary school where the students studied agriculture and animal husbandry. Pappa, who was a farmer and ran the neighbouring farm, often held classes for the students. They would follow him around, helping to milk the cows, taking care of the pigs and sheep. Part of the barn had been turned into a stable, using money from the school, with space for eight horses. Sometimes my sister and I were allowed to ride them. That was our favourite thing to do.

Mamma worked the night shift as a nurse at the hospital in Enköping and was often away from home during the week. She would work three or four days in a row and then have several days off. I thought that was a fine schedule. Periodically we’d have Pappa all to ourselves, and then when Mamma was at home, she’d take over and Pappa would spend most of his time in the barn or out in the fields.

Every Sunday we went to church. It was a small white building with a single rectangular tower rising up over the landscape: golden fields of oat slowly undulating in the wind, flowering meadows, pastures where the horses and cows grazed in the summertime, and far below we could see the glittering water of Lake Mälaren. At exactly eleven o’clock the bells would ring for the church service. The clear sound reverberated over the few houses in that little community, the stable and the barn, the school and the student dormitories. Occasionally a car would arrive, bringing people from the outlying areas to the church service. There might be ten or fifteen people in attendance in addition to my own family.

I don’t know whether my parents’ zeal with regard to churchgoing had to do with a strong belief in God or whether it was more a show of courtesy to their best friends, the pastor and his wife. They had three children who were much younger than us, so we didn’t play with them very often, but my sister and I did sometimes babysit for them so we could earn some extra pocket money. The pastor’s wife was both kind and generous, and she always paid us more than the usual fee. She and my mother belonged to the same sewing circle, and they spent a lot of time together. They used
to go for long walks, and they were always running over to each other’s house to have coffee.

We went to church every single Sunday, and to be honest I have to confess that no matter how much I complained to my sister, I actually enjoyed those Sunday mornings in God’s house. It was a small church, simply furnished. The wooden pews were old and worn with thick timbers along the sides. The church had a brass chandelier, a painted window, a picture of Jesus, a beautifully ornate pulpit, and a humble altar. I liked watching how the sun’s rays came through the high windows in the deep niches, casting light on the bare, white-plastered walls. I can still recall the faces of the parishioners sitting in the pews and the intoning voice of the pastor. Everything was always exactly the same. The same prayers, hymns, and turns of phrase. I knew them inside and out. When I was little, I still had a childlike faith; I believed in God and everything that was said in church. The pastor’s words were sacred. Although it did seem a bit strange to see him there in church, this man who came so often to our house, with his loud laughter and effusive manner. But I also felt a certain pride that he was actually one of our friends, that he could sit in our kitchen and tell funny stories to Mamma while she peeled potatoes and doubled over with laughter at his jokes.

No one could make her laugh the way he did.

Pappa and the pastor spent just as much time together as the two women did. Pappa was a reserved man who didn’t make friends easily. And he rarely said much; the words had to be practically dragged out of him. He had a hard time even talking to his own children. For some reason, he seemed to feel inhibited.

A memory that is still fresh in my mind is of one morning when I awoke unusually early. I was about twelve at the time. I went to the toilet, but then I heard a sound from the kitchen downstairs and wondered what it could be. The floorboards, gleaming in the morning sunlight, creaked under my bare feet. The house was very quiet. Everyone else was still asleep in bed. Cautiously I tiptoed down the wide stairs. Someone was in the kitchen, but at first I didn’t know who it was. I remember standing in the doorway. At first I didn’t see anything; then I recognized my father’s
striped bathrobe. He was sitting with his back to me, utterly still, and looking out of the window at the garden, the lilacs, the blossoming apple trees, the bright green leaves of the birches. And off in the distance, the gleaming water.

Pappa suddenly seemed like a stranger as he sat there. Motionless. Unaware that he was not alone. Usually he was in constant motion. Taking big strides in his wellington boots, he would cross the yard on his way to tend to the livestock. He would drive the tractor around and around out in the fields, spend time working on a piece of machinery behind the barn, or go out to mow the grass. He was always dashing about, always busy with something. He never sat still, the way he was doing on that morning. Maybe that was why he seemed like a stranger to me.

I sank down on to the staircase and sat there without announcing my presence. I don’t know why I did that. The air seemed oppressive in the room. The mood seemed inexplicably unpleasant and unfamiliar. As if the walls were closing in with anguish.

I heard Pappa sigh. He leaned his head on one hand, ran the other through his hair. I wondered what he was thinking about at that moment. I wondered if he was worried about something. If there was anything I could do to help him. Beloved Pappa. My stomach churned with anxiety. Maybe he needed comforting. I was just about to get up when he turned around. Our eyes met. I will never forget the expression on his face. I opened my mouth to say something, but he beat me to it. The strange silence was shattered, and his face broke into a smile. His voice sounded the way it always did.

Everything was as it should be. I breathed a sigh of relief.

KARIN WAS SITTING
alone in her office, paging through the preliminary post-mortem report. It had been difficult to ascertain the precise time of death, but the ME thought Stina Ek had been dead for about two weeks. The cause of death was a violent blow to the head, delivered by a blunt instrument, most likely a rock. Karin felt sick when she read that part. The victim had suffered extensive skull injuries, but it had been impossible to determine much else because the body had already started to decay as a result of the heat and the exposed location near the water. However, the ME did find bruises and scratches on her forearms, neck and chest. The victim also had shreds of skin under her fingernails, all of which indicated that she had put up a fight. DNA samples had been taken, and Jacobsson had asked the techs at the Swedish Crime Lab to put a rush on their report, but it would still take at least a few days to get back the results.

Jacobsson took out the ME’s findings on Sam Dahlberg and Valter Olsson. She spent the next hour comparing all the facts that the police had collected so far regarding the three homicides. Was it possible to determine that the same person had committed all three murders? By all indications, Stina had been killed before Sam, so they could rule her out as a possible suspect. Both she and Valter had died as the result of a blow to the head, but Valter’s body exhibited no signs of a struggle. What did these three people have in common that would make somebody want to kill them?

Of course there were many things connecting Sam and Stina. They
were neighbours, members of the same social circle, and good friends. But what about Valter?

The only common link that she could think of was Ingmar Bergman. Sam was almost fanatically interested in the acclaimed director, while Stina had become a member of the group called the Friends of Bergman. Olsson had lived next door to Bergman for many years, ever since the director’s house had been built in the 1960s. The old man seemed to have had a good relationship with Bergman. Was it because of that relationship that he had died?

THROUGHOUT MY CHILDHOOD
I secretly harboured a strong admiration for my sister, even though I would never openly admit to it. Emilia hated receiving compliments. She felt burdened by such remarks, and she usually thought that people were exaggerating when they praised her for something that she’d done or accomplished. She also loathed hearing any comments about her appearance. If anyone said that she was attractive or beautiful, she would merely snigger.