The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

pressure was on its way from Russia, and it would probably park itself over Gotland and stay for weeks. He was hoping that would happen. Not so much for his own sake, since he didn’t enjoy really hot weather, but Lina and the kids did. Not to mention all the tourists, of course.
    He put on the carpenter’s belt that Lina had given him for his birthday a few years back. He’d taken the hint, realizing that if he had the tools handy, he could just as well do the work himself instead of hiring someone. Several years ago he’d helped a good friend put on a tile roof, so he should be able to manage. He put the tiles on his shoulder and climbed up the ladder just as the theme song of
Melodikrysset
started playing. The nextsecond he heard the familiar voice of Anders Eldeman giving the correct answers from the previous week’s show.
    When Knutas had climbed high enough up, he lifted off the tiles and set them on the roof. Then he nervously took a step away from the ladder. He’d always been a bit scared of heights. On trembling legs he carried the tiles up to the place on the ridge where the old tiles had blown away. He carefully knelt down, placing the tiles next to him. Only then could he enjoy the view. He looked out over the sea, glittering with sunlight, and the rocky shore; way off in the distance, near the harbour, he could see the
rauk
called Jungfrun, which was a landmark for Lickershamn. Suddenly he heard a clattering sound next to him. In a flash he saw that the tiles had started sliding down the roof. He reached out to grab them, but at that moment he lost his balance.
    He didn’t even have time to think before he found himself tumbling down off the roof.

VALTER OLSSON’S HOME was located in the middle of the woods. A blue gate near the narrow road was the only indication that someone lived in the vicinity. They parked outside the gate, struck by the silence that enveloped them. The only sound was the constant, soothing roar of the sea. Karin took a deep breath. How fresh the air was.
    A one-storey wooden house painted brown stood in a clearing right above the water. A storage shed and an outdoor privy also stood nearby. Nothing fancy. A small piece of ground surrounded the cabin; a broom leaned against the front wall. No porch. Another small blue gate faced the sea.
    Jacobsson lifted the hasp and stepped inside the gate; then she stopped among the trees to look down at the rocky shore. There she saw an old rotting boathouse that looked as if it might collapse at any minute. An upside-down rowing boat lay near the water’s edge; it was in disrepair and bleached from the sun. It clearly hadn’t been used for a long time. According to Märta Gardell, her brother kept his fishing boat inside the boathouse. Right now it was empty.
    A few terns glided over the surface of the water. Jacobsson turned to peer with curiosity in the direction where she assumed Ingmar Bergman had lived. Cliffs; barbed wire ending out in the sea. The house must be beyond the next bend.
    The cabin seemed deserted. A rusty old bicycle was parked outside. A few dirty and dented plastic containers lay on the grass. There was no real garden to speak of. The ground was barren, covered with stones, the onlyvegetation a few juniper shrubs clustered together inside the stone wall that surrounded the property.
    The door opened with a creak. Quietly Kihlgård pushed it further open so they could go inside. They were instantly struck by the view of the water. Straight ahead, at the other end of the cabin, was a row of windows. The small, cramped kitchen faced the other direction. There they saw a table and two chairs with floral-patterned cushions. Jacobsson guessed that it was Valter’s sister who had made them. The curtains had the same pattern. She felt a lump settle in her stomach. Life was so strange. Would it really finish in this lonely way? Was this all that was left at the end? Thoughts of Lydia flitted through her mind. She was interrupted when Kihlgård shouted from the bedroom.
    ‘Look at this.’
    Kihlgård was standing next to the bed, holding a photograph in his hand. Jacobsson stood on tiptoe to peer at an old black-and-white photo, probably taken sometime in the 1960s. Bergman, wearing a beret and polo-neck sweater, was standing on a rock near the sea with his arm around a lean-looking man clad in a vest and peaked cap. Both were suntanned and smiling at the camera.
    ‘This must be him,’ said Kihlgård. ‘Valter