“That seems to be the only alternative,” agreed Sohlman. “We have to do something extreme. He could kill again at any time. There was only a week between the last two murders. Maybe now it will be only a few days before he strikes again. We’re running out of time.”
“That’s fucking crazy,” thundered Kihlgard. “What do you think will happen when people see that sketch? They’ll associate it with practically everyone they know. We’ll be completely flooded with tips. It’ll be sheer hysteria, I can promise you that. Then we’ll be the ones responsible. And how are we going to find time to deal with it all? We already have our hands full trying to nail down this lunatic.”
“What would we base the sketch on?” Jacobsson asked. “We have two witnesses who have seen a person who might be the perpetrator: the woman who sold Gunilla Olsson’s pottery and the neighbor who noticed a man near her house. Then we have Frida Lindh’s women friends, of course, who saw the man at the bar, but we still don’t know if he could be the perp. That’s just a suspicion. How much do their accounts coincide? And what happens if they’re wrong? There are two big risks with using a sketch. First, the witnesses may have remembered things wrong, so we’ll be putting out a picture that doesn’t gibe with reality. Second, it’s possible that they didn’t see the killer at all. They may have seen someone else instead. I think the risks are too great to use a sketch. It seems stupid to resort to something so drastic right now.”
“Drastic?” Knutas repeated, his voice filled with sarcasm. “Is it so strange that we need to resort to drastic measures in this case? We have three homicides on our hands. An entire island paralyzed with fear. Women who don’t even dare stick their noses outside at the height of the summer heat, while practically the whole country is breathing down our necks. The prime minister is going to be calling us up next! We need to solve this thing. I want the killer caught within a week, whatever the cost. We’re going to bring in a police artist right now and get him to put together a sketch. I want it publicized as soon as possible. I also want to bring in Hagman and Nordstrom immediately for more questioning. And I personally want to talk to everyone who was at the party at the Hillerstrom home. Every single one of them. The same goes for Frida Lindh’s friends. How’s it going with outlining the victims’ lives? Have we gotten anywhere?”
Bjorn Hansson from the National Criminal Police was the one who answered. “We’re working hard on that. Helena Hillerstrom moved to Stockholm when she was twenty, and it looks as if she never met Frida Lindh. Helena and Gunilla Olsson went to different high schools and middle schools and don’t seem to have had any interests in common. We haven’t been able to link Gunilla and Frida together, either. As everyone knows, Frida Lindh lived in Stockholm. Her real name was Anni-Frid, and her birth name was Persson. These things take time, and it’s not easy now that it’s summer. Every other person seems to be on vacation.”
“I know, I know,” said Knutas impatiently. “Keep digging into things and ratchet up the pace as much as possible. There’s no time to lose.”
After the meeting Knutas retreated to his office. He was furious at everyone and everything. He sat down at his desk. His shirt was sticking to him. Big patches of sweat had spread under his arms. He hated feeling so grubby. The heat they had all been longing for was already making him miserable. It made it hard to think, almost impossible to concentrate. More than anything, he would have liked to go home and take a long, cool shower and drink a couple of quarts of ice water. He stood up and pulled down the blinds. Police headquarters had no air-conditioning. It was considered too expensive to install, since it was needed on only a few days of the year. He was looking forward to the remodeling that was scheduled for the fall. He hoped they would have the good sense to install air-conditioning then. A person needed to be able to think, for God’s sake, in order to solve a difficult homicide case.
Finding the clothing was at least a step forward. He would go out to see the shack later on. Right now it was best to let the techs do their work undisturbed. He began leafing through the folders containing transcripts of the interviews. Three folders: one for Helena Hillerstrom, one for Frida Lindh, and one for Gunilla Olsson. He had an uneasy feeling that various things in the investigation had simply passed him by. His visit to Stockholm had proved as much: the interview with Helena Hillerstrom’s parents, the abortion that no one had mentioned before. What about the other interviews? He decided to go through all of the transcripts one more time, starting with the parents.
Gunilla Olsson didn’t have any, and they still hadn’t been able to reach her brother. He opened Frida Lindh’s folder. Gosta and Majvor Persson. Gullvivegrand 38 in Jakobsberg. He had planned to see them in Stockholm, but the discovery of the clothing prevented him from doing so. He started reading. The interview seemed to be in order, but Knutas still wanted to talk to the parents himself.
The phone was picked up after four rings. A faint female voice could be heard on the other end. “The Persson residence.”
He introduced himself.
“You’ll have to speak to my husband,” said the woman. Her voice was even fainter, bordering on inaudible. “He’s out in the yard. Just a minute.”
A moment later the husband picked up the phone. “Yes, hello?”
“This is Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas from Visby. I’m in charge of the investigation into the murder of your daughter. I know that you’ve been interviewed by the police, but I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
“Yes?”
“When did you last see your daughter?”
A brief pause.
The father replied in a toneless voice. “It was a long time ago. We didn’t see each other very often, unfortunately. Our contact with her could have been better. We last saw each other when they were moving. The children wanted to see us.”
Another pause that lasted a little longer.
Then the father spoke again. “But I spoke to her on the phone last week, when Linneas turned five. A man should be allowed to talk to his grandchildren on their birthdays at least.”
“How did Frida seem at the time?”
“She sounded happy, for a change. She said that she was starting to like living on Gotland. It was hard for her at first. She didn’t really want to move there at all. She did it for Stefan’s sake. Typical that she should end up meeting a Gotlander. She hated Gotland. Never wanted to talk about the time when we lived there.”
Knutas was speechless. He had a hard time taking in what the man on the other end had just said.
“Hello?” said the father after a few seconds.
“What did you say? You used to live on Gotland?” Knutas gasped.
“Yes, we moved over there to try it out, but we stayed only a few months.”
“What were you doing here?”
“I worked for the military and was transferred to the P18 regiment. That was a long time ago. In the seventies. We rented out our house here in Jakobsberg, but we didn’t like it there. Frida was especially unhappy. She kept skipping school and seemed completely changed at home. Impossible to deal with.”
“Why didn’t you mention this during the first police interview?” asked Knutas indignantly. He was having a difficult time checking his impatience.
“I don’t know. It was for such a short time, and so long ago.”
“What year did you live in Visby?”
“Let me see… Well, it must have been ’78. It was unfortunate for Frida. She had to change schools in the middle of the semester in sixth grade. We moved at Easter time.”