The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

again about what had happened in her childhood. That must have been tremendously traumatic. First her sister’s suicide, and then finding out the reason behind it: their father’s sexual assaults. A terrible betrayal back then. A terrible betrayal now.
    Suddenly Knutas sat up in bed.
    Andrea Dahlberg had switched off her phone and left the children where they would be safe. She had lost everything. A thought refused to leave him. Was that possible? If so, how and where? There was really only one place that seemed likely.
    Now Knutas knew exactly what he had to do. Impatiently he got out of bed and checked the timetable on the Internet.

THE FRONT ENTRY was cramped and dark. Wittberg crept in first, his gun drawn. Jacobsson followed close behind. It was possible that Boberg was in the flat and had just refused to open the door. They continued along a narrow hall with doors on both sides. The floor creaked faintly under their feet, and a clock ticked on the wall. The kitchen was empty, as was the bedroom. Jacobsson opened the door to the bathroom and a clothes cupboard. No one there.
    They quickly concluded that the flat was empty. In the living room they found a white leather sofa, a glass table with lion’s feet, and a large porcelain Dalmatian set in one corner.
    ‘Good God, how ugly,’ exclaimed Jacobsson.
    The kitchen was long and narrow with a modern white plastic table next to the window. A fruit bowl holding fresh bananas indicated that the tenant had recently been at home. The flat was clean and tidy.
    ‘He seems to be an orderly person, at any rate,’ said Wittberg as he continued over to another room at the end of the hall.
    The door was locked.
    ‘I don’t suppose we’re likely to find the key,’ murmured Jacobsson. ‘And he could come home at any moment.’
    Wittberg kicked open the door.
    And whistled.
    ‘I’ll be damned.’
    The room was painted bright red, and the entire ceiling was covered with mirrors. Strings of tiny red lights were hung around the windows.The walls were papered with hundreds of pictures, all apparently of one woman, showing her in various settings. Wearing a quilted jacket on a skating rink, in a white summer dress with a flower wreath on her head at a Midsummer celebration, wearing shorts and a top as she clipped the hedge. Naked with only a hat on her head, wearing a black negligee in the bedroom, in various provocative positions as she apparently posed for the photographer. A bizarre cavalcade with Andrea Dahlberg in the leading role. The photos had been professionally done. The photographer seemed to know his stuff.
    ‘Good Lord,’ gasped Jacobsson. ‘Looks like we’re dealing with a stalker.’
    ‘And potentially a triple murderer. Judging by all of this, it looks like Andrea might be his next victim.’ Jacobsson suddenly went ice cold. ‘And she’s been missing for three days, or more. Shit, shit, shit.’
    She looked around. A thought had begun to take shape in the back of her mind. It had something to do with the porcelain dog in the living room. A Dalmatian. Jacobsson’s gaze fell again on the photographs, taken by a professional. Slowly she realized what it might mean. She pictured Janne Widén’s smile and greyish-green eyes. His business card on which it said ‘Photographer’. He was the one who had told her about the sex parties. Red roses in her office. The man she’d had dinner with last night. They’d been practically flirting with each other. She’d felt something that resembled a budding attraction as they said good night outside the door to her building. What an idiot she was. A sense of betrayal burned in her stomach. For the first time in ages she had felt appreciated as a woman. She’d thought he was really interested in her. And he was single. Her cheeks burned with indignation. Was Janne Widén really Sten Boberg?
    She sank down on the sofa in the living room and pulled off her jacket. Thoughts were tumbling through her head. Could the situation be that bad? She felt totally confused.
    ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Wittberg, who had seen Jacobsson’s face go from pale to bright red.
    ‘It’s nothing. I just thought of something. Have you seen any indication that he owns a dog?’
    ‘No.’
    Jacobsson forced herself to push the feeling of humiliation aside so she could focus on the job they were there to do. They searched the flat, looking for further leads. Boberg had collected extensive documentation about Andrea: newspaper