The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

clippings, photos, notes about the business she ran, but nothing that revealed where she might be right now. Jacobsson was just about to notify her colleagues when they heard a key turn in the lock.
    ‘Shit,’ hissed Wittberg.
    He shoved Jacobsson into the clothes cupboard and stepped in after her just as the front door opened.

KNUTAS GOT INTO his old Mercedes and drove south towards Klintehamn. The traffic was light this early in the morning, even though the tourist season was at its peak. Gotland is actually more beautiful after the summer holidays are over, thought Knutas. Especially from mid-August to the end of September. The weather was often lovely, and the sea surrounding the island was quite warm. That was when the beaches were deserted and most inviting, and it was possible to walk through the streets of Visby without constantly bumping into other people.
    Waiting on the dock were about ten people besides himself. He didn’t know a single one of them; they were probably all from the mainland. Usually Knutas cursed the fact that he couldn’t remain anonymous. He’d been the police chief for so long that he knew everybody who lived on Gotland. Sometimes he put on a baseball cap and sunglasses just to avoid being recognized, as if he were a pop star.
    When the ferry docked in Norderhamn, Knutas was the first to disembark.
    He walked quickly along the stony path, grateful that he’d been wise enough to wear comfortable shoes. He soon reached the bay where the group from Terra Nova had stayed.
    Everything seemed more real now that he was actually here. He could picture them swimming and relaxing together. He imagined the tension that must have existed at the thought of what they’d done at those parties only a year earlier.
    He continued past the cabins near the bay and headed up the steep stairs to the lighthouse. He met no one and assumed that most of the people were taking the obligatory tour of the island. He’d been given special dispensation so he didn’t have to participate.
    It was nice and calm at the top. Knutas paused for a moment to look at the original lighthouse, which was 18 metres tall and built of stones from the island where it stood. The house looked like a small castle that he’d once seen on a trip to France. The lighthouse on Stora Karlsö was not constructed in the usual form of a free-standing round tower. Here the tower was built into the house that had served as a residence for the lighthouse-keeper and his family. If it weren’t for the big lamps in the windows at the very top, it would have been hard to tell that this was actually a lighthouse.
    He made his way over to the first bird mountain and stood at the fence, gazing at the cliffs and the narrow ledges. All the birds had now left.
    He turned around and went on to the next bird mountain, which was some distance away. This was where Sam Dahlberg had been murdered. The sun was warm on his back, so he took off his jacket. It was almost eleven o’clock, and it was starting to get hot. Suddenly it occurred to him that it was almost exactly the same time of day when somebody pushed Dahlberg off the cliff. What a coincidence. He rounded the curve and the bird mountain was right in front of him. Eagerly he picked up the pace, keeping his eyes on the ridge. So that was where it happened. That was where Dahlberg had met his killer.
    Suddenly Knutas gave a start. Someone had appeared up there on the cliff edge, pausing to look out at the sea.
    He recognized her at once.

WITH A MUTED bang the front door closed again. Someone locked the deadbolt and lifted the security chain into place. Sten Boberg was obviously meticulous about keeping out unwelcome visitors. If he only knew, thought Jacobsson. A brief cough, shoes being removed. A jacket hung up on a hook. Footsteps only centimetres away from where both police officers were hiding, standing close together in the small cupboard. Jacobsson was holding on to the back of Wittberg’s jacket so as not to lose her balance. A hanger was jabbing her in the back. Someone went into the toilet without closing the door, judging by the sound. Then the person flushed and came out again. Jacobsson poked her colleague, took out her gun, and motioned for him to step out. Wittberg raised his hand to stop her.
    ‘Let’s wait a moment,’ he whispered. ‘He might have Andrea.’
    Water was running from the tap in the kitchen. Saucepans clattered. Was he making tea? Creaking footsteps heading