Unseen (12 page)

“Are you still here? It’s Friday, for God’s sake, and it’s past five. I have to stop at the state liquor store. Do you need anything?”

“I’ll go with you,” he said, and got up from his chair.

A good dinner with a bottle of red wine would undoubtedly put him in a better mood.

The inn was packed. The Monk’s Cellar was still popular. The rustic inn with its medieval archways had been in business for more than thirty years now, and it was practically an institution in Visby. In the winter, only the smaller bar and part of the restaurant were open. Then it could get crowded on weekend evenings. During the high season “the Monk” was transformed into a pleasure palace with several restaurant sections, bars, and dance floors, as well as a stage for live performances. On this Friday evening, several of the smaller bars were already open: the salsa bar, the vinyl bar, and the little intimate beer bar. All of them were full to the bursting point.

Frida Lindh and a group of women friends were sitting at a round table in the middle of the vinyl bar. They had positioned themselves so that they had a full view of the room, and they were also quite visible themselves.

There was a great deal of noise and commotion. From the loudspeakers, “Riders on the Storm” by the Doors was blaring at top volume. People were drinking beer from big tankards and doing shots. At one table several young guys were playing backgammon.

Frida was feeling pleasantly tipsy. She was wearing a tight-fitting top and a short black skirt made of a clinging fabric. She felt attractive and sexy and full of energy.

It was great to be out with her newfound girlfriends. She had moved to Gotland with her family only a year ago, and at the time she didn’t know anyone in Visby, but through her children’s daycare center and her job in a beauty salon, she had met lots of women who had become good friends, and she had grown quite fond of them. They had already made it a tradition to try to go out and have fun several times a month. This was the third time, and everyone at the table was in a great mood. Frida enjoyed the interested looks from various men in the bar, lapping up their attention. She laughed loudly at a joke, and out of the corner of her eye she noticed a newcomer. A tall medium-blond man had sat down at the bar. Dark eyebrows, thick hair, broad shoulders, wearing a polo shirt. He reminded her of someone who did a lot of sailing.

The man was alone. He glanced around the room, and their eyes met.
A real cutie
, she thought. He took a gulp of his beer and then fixed his eyes on her again, holding them there a little longer and smiling. Frida blushed and felt heat wash over her. She was having a hard time concentrating on what the others at the table were saying.

Her friends liked to talk about all sorts of subjects, from books and movies to recipes. Right now they were all engrossed in a conversation about how little their husbands helped out at home. Each of them had the same opinion about her husband’s lack of imagination and insight when it came to realizing that the kids couldn’t go to daycare wearing grubby shirts, or that the dirty clothes were actually overflowing in the laundry basket. Frida listened with half an ear, sipped her wine, and now and then looked over at the man at the bar. When the conversation around the table started focusing on how poorly the daycare center was operating and how big the classes were, she completely lost interest. She decided to go to the ladies’ room so that she could walk past the newcomer at close range.

On her way back he tapped her on the shoulder and asked if he might buy her a drink. She happily said yes and sat down next to him at the bar.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Frida. And you?”

“Henrik.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Is it that obvious?” he said with a smile. “I live in Stockholm.”

“Are you here on vacation?”

“No. I own several restaurants with my father, and we’re thinking about opening a place in Visby. We’re scouting out the territory a bit.”

He had almost unnaturally green eyes that gleamed at her in the dim light.

“That’s great. Have you been to Gotland before?”

“This is my first time. Pappa comes here often. He’s thinking of opening an inn with good Swedish food and live music in the evenings. For people who want to eat well and enjoy a little entertainment without having to go to a club. And not just a summertime inn, but one that’s open all year round. What do you think of that idea?”

“Oh, I think that sounds wonderful. It’s not really as dead around here in the wintertime as many people think.”

By now her girlfriends had discovered what was going on. They eyed the pair sitting at the bar. Their expressions were by turns inquisitive, gleeful, and envious.

Frida straightened her skirt and sipped the wine that had been placed on the bar in front of her. She stole a glance at the man next to her. He had a cleft in his chin and looked even better close up.

“And what do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a hairdresser.”

Involuntarily he ran his hand through his hair. “Here in town?”

“Yes, at a salon over at Östercentrum. It’s called the Hairline. Drop by if you ever need a haircut.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I notice you don’t have a Gotland accent.”

“No, I moved here about a year ago. How long are you staying?”

She had quickly changed the subject to avoid having to explain why she had moved here or to mention her husband and children and all that. Frida was aware of her power to attract men. She liked to flirt, and she wanted to keep this tasty morsel interested. At least for a little while. Just because it was fun.

“I don’t know. It depends on how things go,” he said. “Maybe a week. If we find a place I’ll probably be here most of the summer.”

“I see. How nice. I hope you find something.”

She sipped her wine again. What an exciting man.

He looked around the room, and when he turned his head, she was positive: He was wearing a hairpiece.
I wonder why
, she thought.
Maybe he has really thin hair
. He didn’t look particularly old. About her own age.
There are plenty of people who lose their hair early on. Good Lord, guys should be able to look good, too
. Her thoughts were interrupted when he asked a question.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She could feel the color rising in her face.

“How sweet you are,” he said, squeezing her knee.

“Do you think so?” she said foolishly and removed his hand.

After about an hour her girlfriends called to her, and she decided to go back to their table. Henrik was leaving, anyway. He had asked for her phone number. That’s when she decided to break the spell. She told him that she was married and that it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to call.

Around one o’clock the bar closed, and the group of women broke up. They said goodbye outside with hugs and reassurances that they’d get together again soon. Frida was the only one who lived in the section of town called Södervärn, about three-quarters of a mile south of the ring wall. She got on her bike and pedaled off alone in that direction.

When she went through Söderport, a cold wind greeted her. It was always windier outside the wall.
How nice that it’s still so light out, at least
, she thought. She kept on pedaling, but her foot slipped on the pedal and she scraped her leg so that it started to bleed. It stung.

Shit. She realized she was drunker than she thought. But she kept on going, wanting to get home as fast as possible now.

She turned left at the parking lot and rode past the Gutavallen sports center. She crossed the street and headed up the long, steep slope near the water tower. Halfway up the hill she had to stop and get off her bike. She was too worn out.

On the left side of the road was the cemetery. The headstones were lined up as if for some sort of dreary parade inside the low stone wall. Even though she was practically numb from all the alcohol, she felt a sense of uneasiness creep over her. Why had she insisted on taking her bike? Stefan had tried to persuade her to take a cab home, especially because of Helena Hillerström’s murder less than two weeks ago. She had dismissed the idea by saying it was too expensive. They needed to save their money. Their finances were shaky after buying the house. Besides, the killer had been caught. It turned out to be the boyfriend.

Now she was regretting her decision. Damn, how stupid she was. A cab ride home wouldn’t have cost more than a hundred kronor. It would have been worth it.

She was all alone on the road. Not another person in sight. The only sound was her own footsteps in her high-heeled shoes. They were hurting her feet terribly.

The cemetery continued for another hundred yards. She had to walk past it.

When Frida had gone half the distance, she heard foot-steps behind her. Heavy and firm. She listened. She had a strong urge to turn around but didn’t dare. She picked up her pace.

The footsteps were louder now. She had the distinct feeling that she was being followed. Or was she just imagining things? She tried stopping for a moment. The footsteps stopped. All of a sudden her brain was crystal clear. The road was still climbing uphill, so there was no sense in getting on her bike. On one side of the road was the cemetery. The other side was lined with houses with big shady yards. All the windows were dark.

She walked as fast as she could, no longer feeling the cold. Damn her short skirt and these shoes that hurt her feet.

She considered flinging the bicycle to the ground and trying to head across someone’s yard. Instead she started to run. That made the person behind her start running, too. Terrified, she ran as fast as she could. The road leveled out and started sloping downward.

She was just about to jump onto her bike when two strong hands grabbed her by the neck from behind and pressed their fingers into her throat. She couldn’t breathe and let go of the bicycle. It fell over with a crash.

SATURDAY, JUNE 16

Stefan Lindh reported his wife missing on Saturday morning. He was awakened at eight o’clock when their youngest child came into the bedroom. Frida’s side of the bed was empty. His first thought was that she must be in the bathroom, but it didn’t take him long to discover that his wife wasn’t in the house at all. He called her girlfriends, but she wasn’t with any of them. Then he tried the hospital and the police, with no results. The officer on duty told him to wait a few more hours.

When Frida hadn’t come back by lunchtime, he put the kids in the car and drove down to the Monk’s Cellar. He drove the same route that he thought Frida would have taken on her bike. By two o’clock in the afternoon, he couldn’t wait any longer; he called the police, sick with worry. Knutas was informed, and, considering that a woman had been murdered less than two weeks ago, he decided to call a meeting of the investigative team. While he waited for the others, he phoned the worried husband, who was desperate and begged the police for help. His wife had never disappeared like this before.

“Take it easy,” murmured Knutas. “We’re going to have a short meeting here at headquarters in a moment, and right after that either I or one of my colleagues will come over to see you. Shall we say in an hour?”

He hung up the phone. The others came in, one by one, and sat down around his little table: Karin Jacobsson, Thomas Wittberg, and Lars Norrby.

“So what we have is a missing woman,” Knutas began. “Her name is Frida Lindh, thirty-four years old, married and the mother of three. The family lives in Södervärn, on Apelgatan, to be more precise. She disappeared last night after spending the evening in town with three women friends. They went to the Monk to have dinner and then sat in one of the bars at the inn and drank beer until closing time. According to what her friends told the husband, they said goodbye to each other outside the place. By that time it was a little past 1:00
A.M.
Frida is the only one of them who lives south of downtown, so she left the group and headed off alone to bicycle home. No one has seen her since. This is the information we have from her husband. Because Frida Lindh appears to be a conscientious mother to her young children, it doesn’t seem right to me that she’s missing. Her husband says that she has never disappeared like this before.”

“Couldn’t she have just gone home with someone?” asked Norrby with a smirk. “Someone who’s more exciting than her husband?”

“Of course that’s a possibility, but then she should have come back home by now, don’t you think? It’s almost four thirty, and the woman has three small children, for God’s sake.”

“You would think so, although in this job you never stop being surprised,” said Norrby.

“You don’t think that you’re overreacting about this?” asked Wittberg, turning to Knutas. “Isn’t it a little melodramatic to start sounding all the alarms just because a woman who went out drinking doesn’t come straight home?”

Thomas ran one hand through his thick, dark, curly hair and then rubbed it along the stubble that covered his chin and cheeks. In front of him he had placed a bottle of Coca-Cola that was half empty.