Unspoken

Olle cheerfully.
    “Come into the kitchen and wait.” She turned to the children. “Would you like some juice?”
    “Yes!”
    Fifteen minutes later Emma was ready, and they set off. Olle drove south, heading away from Visby. In Vibble he turned onto a road leading through the woods.
    “Where are we going?” she asked.
    “You’ll see soon enough.”
    They parked outside a solitary house and rang the bell. Dogs could be heard barking inside. The children were jumping up and down with excitement.
    “That’s Lovis,” shouted Filip. “She’s so cute!”
    A young woman of about twenty-five opened the door, holding a baby in her arms, and with a golden retriever circling her legs. The dog was overjoyed to see the visitors.
    Emma had to wait in the hall while the others hurried out to the kitchen. She could hear them whispering. Then they came out to join her, first Olle with an adorable golden puppy in his arms, followed closely by the children.
    “Merry Christmas!” said Olle, handing her the puppy, who wagged her tail and stretched out her snout to lick Emma’s hands. “You’ve always wanted to have a dog. She’s yours, if you want her.”
    Emma felt herself beaming as she took the puppy in her arms. The dog was small, soft, and plump, and she eagerly licked Emma’s face. The children were looking up at her happily. A ribbon was tied around the puppy’s neck with a card attached: “To Emma with all my love—your Olle.”
    She sank down onto the bench in the hall, with the puppy climbing all over her.
    “See how much she likes you?” Sara chattered.
    “She just wants to keep licking and licking,” said Filip with delight as he tried to pet the puppy.
    “Do you want to keep her?” asked Olle. “You don’t have to. We can leave her here.”
    Emma looked up at him without saying a word. Everything that had happened flashed through her mind. His coldness had scared her, but it probably was because he felt hurt. And with good reason. Of course she understood. She saw hope in the faces of her children. For their sake she would have to try.
    “Yes,” she said. “I want to keep her.”
    The call came into police headquarters as Jacobsson and Kihlgård were sitting in the pizzeria on the corner. The Stockholm police reported that Tom Kingsley had booked his return flight for the following day. He was due to land at Arlanda Airport at 2:45 p.m. They assumed that he planned to continue on to Visby the same day. The next flight for Visby was scheduled to depart at 5:10 p.m. The police at Arlanda would apprehend him at the airport and then escort him to Visby. Wittberg called to convey the information, and Jacobsson sent a text message to Knutas to update him.
    “That’s great,” said Jacobsson, breathing a sigh of relief. “Maybe we can finally put an end to this whole story so we can have some time off during Christmas.”
    “I certainly hope so. If he really is the killer.”
    “And why wouldn’t he be?”
    “You just never know. Surely he should realize that he’s going to come under suspicion sooner or later. There’s nothing keeping him here. If Kingsley really is the perpetrator, we have to ask ourselves why he doesn’t stay in the States. Why would he come back here and risk getting caught?”
    “Maybe he’s convinced that he’s not a suspect.”
    “Sure. But it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the guy turns out to be innocent and we have to start from scratch.”
    Kihlgård stuffed the last bite of the aromatic calzone into his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
    Jacobsson gave him a dubious look. “Optimist,” she muttered.
    “I think it’s strange that Knutas seems so certain that Kingsley is the perp. Just because the investigation has come to a dead end, that doesn’t mean he has to grasp at straws.”
    “Then how do you explain the morning-after pill?” Jacobsson objected.
    Kihlgård leaned back and lowered his voice. “It could be that Fanny trusted Kingsley enough that she asked his advice about those blasted pills, and then she left the instructions at his place. That’s not inconceivable, is it?”
    Jacobsson looked at him skeptically. “Is that what you really believe?”
    “Why not? We shouldn’t lock ourselves into Kingsley. That’s crazy.” Kihlgård ran his hand through his thick mane, which was sprinkled with gray.
    “So what should we do?” asked Jacobsson.
    “How about having some dessert?”
    Anders steered the little fishing