The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

thoughts as images raced before his eyes. Sam dead. Stina missing.
    At the very back of his mind a warning began to sound, ringing monotonously, reverberating louder and louder.

KNUTAS GOT BACK to police headquarters just in time for the meeting of the investigative team. It’s been a while since we’ve all had occasion to gather, he thought as he took his customary place at the head of the table and looked at his colleagues.
    Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg sat on one side of the table. Crime technician Erik Sohlman and Chief Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg were seated on the other side, along with the police spokesperson, Lars Norrby.
    Knutas began by telling them about the events that had occurred on Stora Karlsö over the past twenty-four hours, which had subsequently led to the discovery of the dead man and the injured windsurfer.
    ‘So it’s almost certain that what we’re dealing with is the murder of Sam Dahlberg. And by the way, his body was identified this evening by his wife Andrea. In this case, we have an unusual circumstance since there was an eyewitness to the murder: the windsurfer saw someone push Dahlberg off the cliff. I met with him at the hospital a short time ago, and he seems completely reliable.’
    Knutas summarized what he’d learned from his interview with Jakob Ekström.
    ‘Good Lord,’ exclaimed Smittenberg. ‘You mean he actually saw it? The very second it happened? That’s amazing.’
    ‘Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to tell whether it was a woman or a man who pushed Dahlberg. Nor can he say anything about the person’s appearance, but that’s understandable. He was so far away, and it happenedso fast. At any rate, he described watching the body bounce down the mountainside. Bloody awful.’ Knutas shook his head. ‘The preliminary post-mortem report will take a few days. The body will be transported to the pathology lab tomorrow, although we already know the cause of death. And what happened. The question is: Who could be so damned cold-blooded?’
    ‘Have you done any other interviews yet?’ asked Smittenberg.
    ‘So far we’ve only had time to speak briefly with a few people who work on the island and the group of friends that Sam Dahlberg was travelling with,’ said Jacobsson. ‘All of them will come in for official interviews tomorrow. Dahlberg was on the island with these friends, neighbours of his in Terra Nova – several couples who spend a lot of time together and usually take a trip every summer. They left on Friday and spent the first two days on Fårö before continuing on to Stora Karlsö.’
    ‘What have they said so far?’
    ‘Not much. They all gave more or less the same story about what happened. When they left Fårö everything was hunky-dory. Sam was his usual self, although maybe a bit more cheerful than normal. They arrived at Stora Karlsö on the nine-thirty ferry yesterday morning. During the day they took the sightseeing tour around the island, then went swimming and relaxed. All without incident. They were together the whole time. In the evening they helped catch baby birds until close to midnight. Then they sat on the dock at Hienviken near their cabins and drank wine until late – between two and three a.m.’
    ‘OK. Then what?’ asked Smittenberg. ‘Who was the last to see Dahlberg?’
    Jacobsson looked down at her notes.
    ‘His wife said that she’s a very sound sleeper. When she woke up, Sam was gone. She assumed that he was somewhere outside, close by. A couple of their friends were out swimming, but he wasn’t with them. Since his painting gear was missing, she thought that he must have gone off to paint. She joined the others in the group for a late breakfast.’
    ‘Paint?’ asked Norrby in confusion.
    ‘Sam Dahlberg was quite a respected artist. Don’t you know that?’ saidJacobsson a bit snidely. She couldn’t stand Norrby, and the feeling was mutual. Their relationship had been strained ever since she was promoted a few years back – overtaking him to become Knutas’s deputy. ‘He’d had several exhibitions of his work, including one here in Visby,’ she went on. ‘He painted landscapes. Watercolours. That’s why it took a while before his wife started to worry. But when the storm moved in and he still hadn’t returned a few hours later, she and a friend went out to look for him.’ Jacobsson again glanced at her notes. ‘Beata Dunmar, married to an American named John Dunmar. She was the one who went