Dark Angel (Anders Knutas 6)

promised to phone if he heard from her. According to the employer of her eldest son, Mats was on holiday on Mallorca. The daughter who lived on the island near Stockholm was travelling with the Red Cross in South America, and it was impossible to reach her. Her husband also told the police that Mikaela had broken off all contact with her mother ten years ago. When Jacobsson asked why, he said that she would have to ask his wife about that. The youngest son turned out not to be at home either, but no one knew where he was.
    In the meantime, the investigative team worked on finding out who else belonged to Veronika Hammar’s immediate circle of family and friends – a task which was quickly accomplished. She had two sisters, but both of her parents were deceased. And she seemed to have only a small number of friends.
    At lunchtime the ME’s preliminary post-mortem report arrived by fax. It confirmed that Viktor Algård had died as a result of cyanide poisoning. He had apparently caused the gash on his forehead himself. According to the ME, the wound occurred when Algård fell against one of the cocktail tables near the bar. The tabletop was made of marble, and Viktor’s blood was found on the surface, as well as on the floor underneath. In her report the ME wrote that cyanide poisoning typically provoked convulsions, and that the victim, by all indications, had staggered around for several minutes before he ran into that table and then died. The time of death had to be between midnight and six in the morning.
    Knutas leaned back in his worn old chair, gently rocking back and forth. The report largely confirmed what they already knew. The murderer had most likely exited through the terrace door, which faced the narrow side street. It was all so simple. And their suspicions about Veronika Hammar had been reinforced when her prints were found on the door handle.
    In the conference centre just one floor above, Knutas himself had merrily partied away with all the other guests while the murder was being committed. That was a fact he was having a hard time digesting. There were no witnesses. No one had seen anyone leaving the building at the time in question, which would have been between twelve fifteen and twelve thirty. There were no residences in the area surrounding the conference centre.
    Knutas felt overcome with restlessness. It seemed very likely that Veronika was the murderer. Maybe Algård had grown tired of their affair and wanted to go back to his wife. Jealousy was quite a common motive for murder.
    They needed to find out more. Above all, they had to locate Veronika Hammar.

THE SHORELINE NEAR Holmhällar at the southernmost point on Gotland was covered with limestone. The kilometre-long
rauk
area had a very distinctive look to it. The stone formations were massive and strangely shaped, with the tallest nearly 5 metres high. Here the
rauks
were not isolated stone pillars; instead they stood in clusters. They clung to each other as if seeking shelter from the wind, the fossil-seekers and the ever-encroaching hordes of tourists. A short distance out to sea the little island of Heligholmen was visible – a nature reserve that was now off-limits to visitors. Out there the seabirds bred by the thousands.
    Close to the water, at the very edge of the shore, stood the fishing village, a group of boathouses made of stone with slate roofs. They were several hundred years old, remnants of the era when the island’s farmers were forced to supplement their livelihood by fishing. Back then they would arrive from their inland farms to fish for several days, staying in the cramped boathouses, which had only small slots for windows facing the sea. The quarters stank of tar and kelp.
    She walked along the rocky shore, taking care not to stumble on roots or loose stones. The sea was grey, and a strong wind was blowing. Above the
rauk
area stretched an expansive plateau with a meadow of billowing grasses filled with the bright yellow flowers of pheasant’s eye, which looked like little suns, and dark violet pasque flowers. A few juniper bushes and gnarled trees stunted by the harsh storms continued to defy the wind, stubbornly holding on to the stony ground. The landscape was barren and desolate at this time of year, with not a soul in sight. The gusts brought tears to her eyes. She turned her face away from the sea and looked up towards the plateau and the woods beyond.
    When she reached the other side of the
rauk
area, she