Dark Angel (Anders Knutas 6)

would have imagined
… And
he never would have hurt a fly
…’
    ‘It must be terrible to have a mother like her,’ said Jacobsson emphatically. ‘Someone who acts like a big baby who always needs help with everything – and then is never satisfied! From what Simon told us, it sounds as if it’d be easier to fill up the Grand Canyon with water using only a teaspoon – and at least the canyon has a bottom!’
    ‘I agree. It seems like Veronika Hammar has some kind of mental problem. That sort of behaviour doesn’t sound healthy.’
    ‘In a way, all of her children really have sufficient motive,’ said Jacobsson pensively. ‘The only way they can have their own lives is by breaking off all contact with her. Or by killing her.’
    ‘There might be something to what you’re saying. If Simon isn’t capable of it, maybe his sister Mikaela or his brother Andreas is. Or why not Mats, who was sent to live with a foster family?’
    ‘But he hasn’t had any contact with her all these years. I’d put my money on the sheep farmer,’ said Jacobsson.
    ‘Andreas Hammar? He could certainly pull it off. And isn’t there cyanide in the prussic acid that’s used as rat poison? He must have plenty of that stuff on the farm. What do you think?’
    ‘Possibly. And we’re going to talk to Mikaela tomorrow. But there’s one other potential perp. And that’s Veronika Hammar herself.’
    ‘Why would she want to murder the man she was in love with? Or burn down her own cabin?’ asked Knutas.
    ‘She could be more mentally disturbed than we suspect. Maybe Viktor Algård discovered the less attractive sides of her personality and wanted to leave her. As irrational and unbalanced as she seems to be, she could have taken revenge by murdering him. Then, to divert suspicion from herself, she burned down the cabin. She could have staged the whole scene with the drink to lead us off the track.’ Then Jacobsson gave Knutas a doubtful look. ‘But that theory seems like a long shot. Maybe we’re way off the mark by deciding that it has to be someone in the immediate family. What if the killer is somebody else entirely?’
    Knutas was starting to feel a bit drunk. He was worn out after all the events of the past week, and it was nice to be sitting in the midst of the Stockholm hustle and bustle, drinking wine with Karin.
    ‘That’s possible,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think we’re going to get any further tonight. I need to put aside everything from work and just relax. Would you like some more wine?’
    ‘Sure.’
    On his way to the bar, Knutas phoned Lina. He was feeling guilty about going off to Stockholm the minute they got back from their holiday in the country, and on top of that deciding to spend the night in the capital. He also felt guilty because it was so pleasant to be sitting here in the restaurant with Karin, far away from everyone and everything. Annoyed, he ordered another bottle of wine. What was wrong with him? He had no reason on earth to feel guilty. During all the years of their marriage, and they would soon celebrate their twentieth anniversary, he had never been unfaithful to Lina. His relationship with Karin was strictly professional. Only on one occasion had something like a sexual attraction occurred, and that was last summer when he had ended up at Karin’s flat after a night of drinking. All they did was sit on her sofa and listen to the Weeping Willows band while they drank champagne, but suddenly there was something in the air, something new between them that had scared Knutas. It made him so uncomfortable that he had jumped to his feet, saying that he had to go home. At the door she had kissed him on the lips. Fleetingly, but it was enough to make his head spin.
    When he’d elbowed his way back to the table, Karin gave him a smile. He noticed that she had touched up her lipstick.
    ‘By the way, I forgot to tell you. I talked to Kihlgård today. He got back the results of all the tests they did. And it was nothing. He’s fine.’
    ‘That’s good to hear. I was really concerned about him.’
    ‘The problem is that he’s overweight and doesn’t get enough exercise. So now he needs to start working out – at the gym. Can you see Kihlgård in gym shorts?’
    Knutas smiled. The image was amusing, to say the least. He pictured the stout, boisterous inspector from the National Police scampering around a room with a bunch of buff twenty-year-olds.
    Jacobsson lit a cigarette.
    ‘So what