Dark Angel (Anders Knutas 6)

was very new, or the couple must have met somewhere else. Which meant that the investigative team would have to contact all the hotels and bed-and-breakfast establishments that were open during the wintertime. Knutas wrote himself a reminder to do this.
    He went back to studying the note, turning it first one way and then the other. Why hadn’t the woman come forward? He felt restless with frustration. The techs had lifted fingerprints from the flat, but found only three different sets. One belonged to Algård, the second to the building custodian who had recently repaired the window. The third set of fingerprints most likely belonged to the unknown woman.
    How had they managed to keep their relationship so secret? On Gotland Knutas could hardly step outside his front door without running into someone he knew.
    Maybe she lived on the mainland. Viktor Algård was a very fit fifty-three-year-old who was extremely fastidious about his appearance. Men in that time of their life – and Knutas was actually the same age – often sought out younger women. Maybe because they were afraid of growing old, or simply because they were feeling randy. A man like Viktor would certainly have had no problem attracting women. He had money and status, and plenty of women would have enjoyed basking in the spotlight that focused on him.
    Knutas puffed on his pipe. They had met somewhere. The question was: Where? And how did they keep in touch?
    Then, seemingly out of nowhere, an idea popped into his head. Could it be that simple?
    Suddenly he was in a big hurry.

ALGÅRD’S PIED-À-TERRE WAS located on Hästgatan in the centre of down-town Visby, in a whitewashed two-storey building that housed four flats. The building was surrounded by a high wooden fence that prevented passersby from looking in. To Knutas’s surprise the gate in the fence was unlocked, so he was able to simply step inside. The courtyard was exceptionally beautiful with resplendent flowerbeds, lilac bushes and a bubbling fountain in the middle. On the other side of the courtyard was an artist’s studio. Knutas walked across to the studio but found it closed and shuttered. On the door hung a hand-painted sign showing a flock of sheep grazing in a pasture. Also on the sign was a name painted in ornate letters. It said ‘Veronika Hammar’.
    Knutas read the name several times as his heart began pounding faster. He took a few steps back to look at the studio’s façade. Veronika Hammar was a well-known artist on Gotland. Her speciality was painting sheep in every possible and improbable guise and setting. Her paintings were not highly regarded by the local citizens, but they were certainly popular among tourists.
    He had seen her in photographs from the dedication of the conference centre. Veronika Hammar had been one of the guests. And her studio shared the courtyard with Viktor Algård’s pied-à-terre. Could that be the explanation for the absence of emails and phone calls? Because they were unnecessary, given the close proximity of Viktor and Veronika? Wouldn’t the neighbours have noticed? Maybe not if they were sufficiently discreet. Knutas pictured Veronika Hammar’s face. An attractive woman, about fifty, he would guess.
    Knutas turned on his heel and quickly made his way back to the police station.

VERONIKA HAMMAR LOOKED NERVOUS as she sat on the very edge of the chair in the small interview room. As if she might take off at any moment. Calm down, thought Knutas. Just stay calm. This is going to take a while.
    It was almost midnight, but the fatigue he had felt earlier was completely gone. Jacobsson took the lead in the interview.
    Knutas studied Algård’s lover sitting on the other side of the table. She looked younger than her fifty-six years, but he suspected that she’d had some work done to hide her age. The smooth, taut skin on her face hinted at Botox treatments. Her breasts seemed unnaturally full and positioned too high for a woman her age.
    She was a striking woman, her blond hair pinned up under a colourful scarf wrapped around her head. She was petite and slender, clad in dark trousers and a dove-grey polo-neck sweater. Her lips were painted bright red, and the mascara and eyeliner had been applied with a heavy hand.
    As Jacobsson made the usual introductory statements for the tape recording of the interview, she leaned back in her chair and gave Veronika Hammar a friendly look. She wanted the older woman to relax. Her voice was gentle when