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same commitment, but lately he’d been forced to see that this wasn’t the case. He hoped that the other man’s reluctance was based on things that wouldn’t play a major role in the long run. He hoped that he would be able to convince him that there was only one way and that the wheel had already started to turn. They were under way, and now there was no going back.

TUESDAY, JULY 6
    THE FOLLOWING DAY was the first cloudy day in two weeks. Knutas arrived at work early. It was no more than seven fifteen when he entered police headquarters and said hello to the duty officer. They chatted for a moment, as they always did before Knutas continued up two floors to the criminal investigation division. He got himself a cup of coffee and leafed through the local morning papers.
    It wasn’t long before Jacobsson, who was also an early-morning person, stuck her head in the door.
    “Good morning,” she greeted him. “Would you like some coffee?”
    “No, thanks. I’ve already got some.”
    She looked tired.
    “How are things?” Knutas gave her a searching look.
    “Okay, but I hardly slept last night.”
    “Is that because you were worrying about Martina Flochten?”
    “That was one reason,” she said curtly and then took a sip of her coffee.
    She had a very particular way of letting him know that he shouldn’t ask any more questions.
    “Have you come up with any ideas?” he asked instead.
    “Not exactly, but I’ve been thinking about that car.”
    “And?”
    “She apparently got in the car of her own free will. She had arranged to meet the unknown man, so he’s clearly someone she got to know here on Gotland. But why be so secretive? Of course, she does have a boyfriend, but he’s back home in Rotterdam. If she wanted to have a little fun over here, he at least wasn’t going to notice.”
    “What are you getting at?”
    “There must be something strange about the man she met. If they’re having, or had, a love affair, why keep it under wraps? Well, there are two reasons why they might want to hide it. Either he’s married or else there’s something about him—maybe he’s a teacher or has some connection with the course—that makes it a sensitive issue for them to be together.”
    “Or both,” suggested Knutas.
    “Exactly. Staffan Mellgren seems the most likely candidate, of course, but it could also be someone else. I’ve checked on the color of his car, and it’s not blue. It’s a silvery gray. Either he used someone else’s car, or he’s not the one that Martina met. The students spent two weeks studying theory in Visby before they started on the actual excavation work here. During that time they had several different teachers. Plus they evidently went out and partied almost every night. Martina has had all sorts of opportunities to meet someone.
    “Another thing I think is strange is that she didn’t contact the family of Jacob Dahlén at the Wisby hotel. The manager of the Warfsholm, Kerstin Bodin, said that Dahlén is a family friend. Martina’s family comes here once a year, and they always stay at his hotel. Of course, he’s probably mostly a friend of her father, but it’s still odd that she didn’t at least stop by to say hello, don’t you think? She’s been on Gotland for more than four weeks, two of them in Visby. Why didn’t she contact him? The hotel is right downtown, for God’s sake, just a stone’s throw from the college.”
    “Have you talked to Jacob Dahlén?”
    “Only on the phone. He’s out of town.”
    “Maybe she did intend to contact him but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. You know how it is when you’re someplace where you know someone only superficially. And the course continues until the middle of August. Maybe she thinks she has plenty of time to look him up.”
    “Sure,” Jacobsson conceded. “You might be right.”
    “By the way, where did she stay during those two weeks when she was studying theory in Visby?”
    “The same place as all the others. Student dorms on Mejerigatan.”
    “Let’s drive over and have a talk with the lodgers, also the landlord. Someone might have noticed something. I’ll make the arrangements,” said Knutas and reached for the phone.

 
    Patrick Flochten was a stately man with dark brown hair that stuck out in all directions. Judging by the color of his complexion, the weather had been nice in the Netherlands. He wore glasses with black frames that looked expensive, and he had on a light linen suit. His