The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

for the living room, and then the TV went on. Apparently he stood there for a moment, using the remote to surf the channels as one sound was replaced by another: thudding pop music, the babble of a newsreader, loud moaning from what sounded like a porn film. To Jacobsson’s relief, he quickly changed the channel to a sports report, and then music again. It sounded like movie music from some American drama. Footsteps went past again, going back to the kitchen. The clicking sound as a burner was turned off. Every little sound was audible through the thin cupboard door. Boberg seemed to be alone.
    At that moment Jacobsson froze. As she stood there with her nose against Wittberg’s back, she remembered that she’d taken off her jacket when they were searching the flat. It was lying on the sofa in the living room. Damn, she thought. Her mobile was in her jacket pocket.
    She murmured a silent prayer that he wouldn’t notice it. Her mouth was dry, and her heart was pounding so hard that she was afraid he’d hear it. The man went back to the living room. They immediately smelled smoke. Their first thought was that he’d lit a cigarette, but it didn’t take long before they realized it wasn’t the usual tobacco sold in the shops. Sten Boberg was sitting there smoking hash. So now he’s going to get high? thought Jacobsson with growing frustration. She poked Wittberg. It was too crowded for him to turn around. She ventured a whisper.
    ‘What the hell should we do?’
    Before her colleague could answer, the volume on the TV soared. Voices thundered through the flat, revealing that the music they’d heard before was definitely from some American film. Jacobsson froze. Why had he turned up the volume so loud?
    For several minutes they stood there in confusion, unable to guess what was happening beyond the cupboard door. Wittberg tried to take out his mobile but rammed his elbow into a hanger. Jacobsson grabbed the hanger just as silence fell over the flat again. Suddenly they heard the door to the cupboard being locked from the outside. Then came the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor.
    Boberg was in the process of blockading the door.
    He’d found their hiding place, so there was no longer any need to remain silent.
    ‘Police!’ shouted Wittberg. ‘Open up!’
    ‘I’m sure he knows who we are,’ hissed Jacobsson, who was still wedged in behind her colleague. ‘My police badge is in my jacket, which I left on the sofa.’
    No answer. Just more scraping and thudding.
    Wittberg threw himself against the door, which abruptly gave way, and both officers tumbled out of the closet, only to see a man’s back disappearingthrough the door. They ran down the stairs after him and out on to the street.
    Just as they came outside, they saw the man they were chasing vanish around the corner.
    ‘Let’s split up,’ said Jacobsson. ‘You go after him, and I’ll cut him off on the other side.’
    They headed off in different directions. Jacobsson dashed around the dilapidated building and came out on a narrow side street.
    She slowed down and then cautiously proceeded forward. Looking in all directions, she didn’t dare shout to Wittberg, for fear of warning Boberg.
    She crept along the side of the building. Suddenly she heard a crunching sound behind her. Abruptly she spun around. For a second she saw his face. It was not Janne Widén. She felt a momentary relief before she was shoved to the ground. She heard Wittberg yelling.
    ‘Halt!’
    Then silence. Jacobsson cautiously raised her head. Wittberg was standing in the deserted street, pointing his gun at the man whom she assumed was Sten Boberg. For a moment it seemed as if everything stopped. No one spoke; no one moved. Then the man slowly raised his hands in the air.
    It was over.

KARIN JACOBSSON BEGAN the interrogation as soon as they arrived at police headquarters with Sten Boberg. Wittberg insisted on being present in the role of witness.
    Boberg’s face was white, and he seemed very nervous as he was led into the interview room in the basement. Jacobsson switched on the tape recorder and then studied the man sitting in front of her. He had classic features and wavy, ash-blond hair. His eyes were an unusual deep blue. Dark eyebrows and long, thick lashes. A real dreamboat, actually. But his eyes kept shifting, and he was constantly licking his lips. Jacobsson estimated his age to be about forty. He was tall and muscular, dressed in jeans and a