Dark Angel (Anders Knutas 6)

he’d go for a young hottie.’
    ‘Not every man shares your preferences,’ Jacobsson teased him.
    Thomas Wittberg’s numerous love affairs were legend among his colleagues . They often involved twenty-year-olds who were infatuated with Wittberg because of his status as a police detective and his windsurfer good looks. Jacobsson regarded his style as hopelessly out of date and usually made some remark about him being stuck in the eighties. But that sort of criticism rolled right off Wittberg’s back. He continued to show off his biceps in tight T-shirts, regularly went to the tanning salon close to his home, and stubbornly refused to cut his long blond hair.
    ‘She’s actually fifty-six,’ said Knutas. ‘Viktor was fifty-three. So there was only a three-year age difference. We got hold of her last night and during the interview she confirmed that she’d had a relationship with Algård. She told us that she was at the party at the conference centre, but she couldn’t find Viktor when she was about to leave, so she went home alone. At one point during the evening, they had intended to withdraw to the room downstairs where the victim’s body was eventually found. Viktor went on ahead, while Veronika made a detour to the ladies’ room. She ended up being delayed because she ran into some friends. When she finally went downstairs, Viktor wasn’t there. She assumed that he’d grown tired of waiting for her.’
    ‘What time was that?’
    ‘Just after midnight, sometime between twelve and twelve thirty.’
    ‘So she went down to the closed-off lounge area, with the bar and the sofas?’ asked Wittberg.
    Knutas nodded.
    ‘Did she see anything?’
    ‘No. Apparently she didn’t actually enter the room because the lights were off. On the other hand, she did notice that a bar stool had toppled over on to the floor.’
    Prosecutor Smittenberg looked puzzled as he pensively tugged at his earlobe.
    ‘That means the murder must have been committed while Veronika was in the loo.’
    ‘Provided that she didn’t do the killing herself,’ Jacobsson countered sagely.
    ‘It does seem strange that she made no attempt to contact us. It’s frankly incomprehensible,’ said Wittberg. ‘What was her explanation?’
    ‘She said that she was overcome with panic.’
    ‘That’s not really credible. What was she afraid of? But I assume that’s not enough to arrest her, is it, Birger?’ Wittberg turned to the prosecutor.
    ‘No, it’s not. She was shocked and upset. They were conducting a secret love affair, and she didn’t want to get involved. We also need to consider that she’s actually quite a well-known artist. Maybe not famous, but certainly well known,’ he added dryly. ‘That made the situation more sensitive, of course. The circumstances aren’t sufficiently compelling to warrant an arrest.’
    ‘Does she live on Hästgatan or is that just where she has her studio?’ asked Wittberg.
    ‘She lives on Tranhusgatan, over near the Botanical Gardens,’ said Knutas.
    ‘So who is she, actually? And what sort of life does she lead? The only thing I know about her is that she paints lousy pictures,’ said Wittberg.
    Knutas looked down at his notes.
    ‘She was divorced years ago and now lives alone. She has four grown children. Her eldest son, Mats, lives in Stockholm. He didn’t spend much time with her while he was growing up. He was born when Veronika was very young, so he was raised by a foster family. Then she had Andreas, who’s a sheep farmer out in Hablingbo. A daughter, Mikaela, has moved out to the island of Vätö in the Stockholm archipelago. She and her husband own a riding school. The youngest son, Simon, lives on Bogegatan here in Visby.’
    He was interrupted by Sohlman coming into the room. The crime tech looked tense.
    ‘Sorry to be late, but we found a match on the fingerprints. Veronika Hammar’s prints are on the handle to the terrace door near where the body was found. Meaning the door that the perp presumably used to escape.’
    Utter silence descended over the room.

THE HUNT FOR Veronika Hammar began as soon as the meeting was over. The police quickly discovered that she wasn’t in her flat on Tranhusgatan or in her studio on Hästgatan. She had no other known residence, so they went looking for her at the homes of her children. The only one they managed to contact was the sheep farmer named Andreas in Hablingbo. He claimed to have no idea where his mother might be, but he