Dark Angel (Anders Knutas 6)

the woman’s head back and leaned over her. She pinched her nose with one hand and opened her mouth with the other. When she pressed her lips over the woman’s she instantly recoiled at the terrible smell. She couldn’t identify what it was.
    Then Emma steeled herself and began blowing into the woman’s mouth.

THE CALL CAME in at 3.27 p.m., and within ten minutes the first police officers were on the scene. By then the medics had already declared the older woman to be dead. The younger woman who had administered CPR had collapsed and was rushed off to the hospital in an ambulance. A large number of officers descended upon the café, including a unit with dogs. The perpetrator had only just left the scene of the crime, so he might still be in the vicinity. Jacobsson and Knutas had gone to Stockholm, and neither of them answered their mobiles, presumably because they were on the plane returning to Visby.
    Wittberg and Sohlman arrived a few minutes later. Wittberg brought the police car to a screeching halt in front of the café, and then they both jumped out and ran into the garden. A pale and upset waitress who looked to be no more than twenty was sitting on a chair with a blanket around her shoulders, smoking a cigarette.
    ‘It’s just awful. She comes here so often. She’s one of our regular customers,’ she said, her voice shaking.
    ‘The woman who died – what’s her name?’ asked Wittberg, while Sohlman hurried past him to have a look at the victim.
    ‘Veronika Hammar. She comes here a lot. At least several times a week, sometimes every day, although not lately.’
    Wittberg swore. Veronika Hammar.
    He sank down on to a chair next to the young girl, pulling a notebook and pen out of his pocket.
    ‘Tell me what happened.’
    ‘She came in and ordered a double espresso and a piece of carrot cake. Then she sat down at her usual table.’
    The girl pointed to the spot at the end of the garden which was now cordoned off with police tape.
    ‘That table set for four. Over there near the arbour. She liked sitting there by herself. After a while a man came in and ordered coffee and a bottle of Ramlösa mineral water. When I came out later to clear away some of the dishes I noticed that he was sitting at her table. A few minutes later she asked me for the key to the toilet.’
    ‘Did you recognize the man?’ asked Wittberg.
    ‘No, I’ve never seen him before.’
    ‘What did he look like?’
    ‘Tall, stocky but not fat. Muscular. And older. Around forty.’
    ‘Did he have a moustache or a beard? Was he wearing glasses?’
    ‘Actually all of the above. And he had really thick hair, kind of tousled-looking.’
    ‘What colour?’
    ‘Blond.’
    ‘What was he wearing?’
    ‘I don’t really remember. Something blue, I think. A jacket and jeans. Nothing special.’
    ‘Did he say anything? I mean, did you hear him talking?’
    ‘No, he didn’t say anything except to place his order.’
    ‘Then what happened?’
    ‘Well, I don’t really know. She went to the ladies’ and brought back the key. Then she went back to her table. It wasn’t busy so I went out to the kitchen to help the cook who makes the
smörgåsbord
, and then I got a phone call. Just a few minutes later I heard someone screaming. When I came out, the man was gone, and Veronika was lying on the ground.’
    She closed her eyes and shook her head, as if trying to shake off the memory.
    ‘Oh, it was horrible. A woman who was here by herself shouted at me to call the police. So that’s what I did. I didn’t dare look, but I know that Veronika died almost instantly, even though the other woman was trying to revive her with that mouth-to-mouth method. She kept blowing and blowing, and then she fell over too. The next second the ambulance arrived.’
    ‘And you don’t know who that woman was? The one trying to help?’
    ‘No, I’ve never seen her before.’
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Linn.’
    ‘Can you stick around for a while? Is that OK?’
    ‘Sure. That’s fine.’
    Wittberg went over to Sohlman, who had squatted down next to the dead woman. The crime tech looked up at his colleague.
    ‘The same shit as before. Without a doubt. You can smell it.’
    ‘Bloody hell.’
    Someone tapped Wittberg on the shoulder. It was the young waitress.
    ‘The woman who was hurt and was taken to the hospital? This is her bag.’
    She handed Wittberg a handbag, which he opened eagerly. When he took out the wallet with the woman’s ID,