Unseen by Mari Jungstedt Page B

his finger on it, but it was there. He was also positive that Nordström hadn’t told them everything.
    Knutas devoted the morning to dealing with a pile of paperwork. For several hours he pushed aside all thoughts of Helena Hillerström’s murder. His office was quite large, although looking the worse for wear. The paint around the windows had begun to peel in several places, and the wallpaper had yellowed over the years. The wall behind him was hidden by rows of orange, green, and yellow ring binders. Near the window facing the parking lot, four visitor’s chairs were grouped around a table, intended for small meetings. Several brochures about the community police substations lay on the table. Over the years he hadn’t devoted much attention to sprucing up his office, and it showed.
    A photograph on his desk bore witness to the fact that he had a life outside of police headquarters. Lina and the children, laughing in the sand at Tofta beach. A single flowering plant stood on the windowsill, a hardy white geranium that he talked to and watered practically every day. Karin Jacobsson had given it to him as a birthday present several years ago. He was in the habit of saying good morning to the plant and asking it how it was doing, but he kept that habit private.
    He went out to lunch by himself. It was liberating to get outdoors. The height of summer was almost upon them. The approach of the summer season could also be seen in town. More and more restaurants were opening, tourists were streaming in, and there was more life and commotion in the evenings in Visby. Many school groups and conference participants came to Gotland at this time of year.
    After lunch he shut himself up in his office with a cup of coffee. He didn’t feel like talking to any of his colleagues, and on this Friday everything was calm at police headquarters. He leafed through the documents from the Hillerström investigation and studied the photographs.
    He was interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Karin stuck her head in. She gave him a big smile, displaying the gap between her front teeth.
    “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