Dark Angel (Anders Knutas 6)

saw the sandy beach spreading out before her. This was where she usually spent the summers. Now the water was icy cold after the long winter. It looked dark and inhospitable, with the waves restlessly rolling in and then retreating. She turned round and headed up towards the summer houses at the edge of the woods. There were about ten cottages scattered over quite a large tract and set at a discreet distance from one another. The bed and breakfast, which stood a bit further away, was closed for the season, and the other buildings were all empty as well.
    Suddenly she jumped, startled by a rustling sound in the grass right behind her. For a moment ice-cold fear raced through her veins, until she realized that it was just a rabbit darting past. She watched it run off until it disappeared into a burrow in the ground. Her nerves were wound tight. The air was hazy and damp, and dusk had begun to close in around her. A flock of swans, flying in formation, streaked past in the dark sky. Echoing shrieks issued from their long necks. She found the sound sinister. Like death cries.
    She didn’t notice the man standing up on the plateau right above her, watching every move she made.
    The man lowered his binoculars and started walking towards her summer house.

THE MEMBERS OF the investigative team were giving top priority to finding Veronika Hammar, but that didn’t mean that they had dropped all other avenues that might still be of interest. Knutas didn’t want to focus on her as the only possible suspect. Even though it seemed unlikely, there might be an explanation for why she was at the crime scene but hadn’t alerted the authorities. After nearly thirty years on the police force, he had learned that people were capable of behaving in the strangest, most irrational ways. Anything was possible.
    For that reason, the police were working on other potential leads. One of them was Viktor Algård’s former competitor Sten Bergström. Because he suffered from painful lumbago, he was unable to come to the police station, so Knutas and Jacobsson had decided to visit him at his home on Tuesday afternoon.
    For the second day in a row they drove south towards Sudret and Holmhällar. Granted, several years had passed since Algård’s biggest competitor had gone bankrupt, but old grudges might have resurfaced.
    Bergström lived alone on a farm out in the country, close to the Holmhällar
rauk
area. After they passed Hamra, the houses became sparser as the landscape grew more rugged. The distance between farms increased. Most of the homes were used only during the summer holidays, so the area seemed even more desolate in the off-season. They’d been instructed to turn right at the exit for Holmhällar and head for Austre. The rain had stopped , but heavy clouds filled the sky, and it looked as if the downpour might start up again at any moment.
    ‘Nothing but shuttered summer houses,’ Jacobsson sighed wearily as they passed one empty cottage after another. They didn’t see a living soul.
    ‘I’m starting to wonder if we’re going the right way,’ muttered Knutas.
    Jacobsson peered at the map.
    ‘This is the only turn-off. We have to take another right when we come to a row of letter boxes, right across from the road leading down to the shore. There’s supposed to be a sign.’
    She had barely uttered these words before they reached their destination. Sten Bergström had sounded surprised when Jacobsson phoned him on the previous day, but he was cooperative and willing to meet with them. He lived in a two-storey, whitewashed wooden house that had definitely seen better days. There were also several ramshackle outbuildings on the property, along with a garage that had no door and seemed to hold nothing but junk, including a rusty old car. On the bonnet sat a black cat, watching them.
    They rang the bell, but it didn’t seem to be in working order. Knutas pounded his fist on the door. Nothing happened. They stood there, waiting. Knutas knocked again, while Jacobsson walked around the side of the house. Clearly no one was at home. Suddenly they heard a dog barking from the road. They turned to see a tall, lanky man walking towards them, his shoulders stooped and his back bowed. He seemed to be in pain. He wore a windbreaker, a cap and rubber boots. Trotting along beside him was a stately Afghan with beautiful golden hair. The man raised his hand in greeting.
    ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d get here so soon. Have you