Free Unspoken by Mari Jungstedt Page B

decorative fence. On this November evening the deserted area seemed almost ghostly. Jacobsson shivered and zipped up her jacket.
    Suddenly they saw a light in one of the cabins at the very edge of the woods. It occurred to Knutas that they should have called for backup. Or dogs. Johnsson might not be alone. Knutas put his hand in the inside pocket of his coat, feeling for his service revolver.
    Jacobsson was the only one who didn’t have a weapon, since the investigation into her potential misconduct during the summer’s serial killer case was ongoing, so she had to wait a short distance away. They sent the boy and his father home. The officers stopped before reaching the house and turned off their flashlights so they could discuss how to proceed.
    An old Volvo Amazon was parked outside the fence. Knutas crouched down and crept forward, with the other two officers close behind. He paused under a window while the others took up position on either side of the front door.
    Not a sound could be heard from inside. Cautiously Knutas stood up enough to peer through the window. In a matter of seconds his brain registered a complete picture of the room: the fireplace with a rocking chair in front of it, the table with four chairs, and an antique lamp hanging from the ceiling. All very cozy. On the table stood several bottles of beer. He signaled to his colleagues. No one there.
    At that instant all three of them gave a start as someone moved inside the cabin. Knutas ducked down. The sound of someone clattering and rummaging around penetrated the walls. They waited. Knutas’s legs were aching and his fingers were stiff from the cold. Again silence settled over the cabin. Knutas peeked inside and saw the back of a large man now seated in the rocking chair. The ponytail indicated that it was Bengt Johnsson. He had put more wood on the fire, and the flames were dangerously high. He had also moved the table over next to him. On the table stood a whiskey bottle, which looked as if it had been newly opened. Next to the bottle was a glass and an ashtray. The man was smoking as he stared into the fire. Then he leaned forward to take a gulp from the bottle. It was Johnsson, no doubt about it.
    Visible to the right of the room was a hallway and part of the kitchen. Knutas had the feeling that Johnsson was alone, but he couldn’t be absolutely sure. One of the police officers shifted his feet uneasily. It was freezing cold, and none of them was dressed for standing outdoors for any length of time.
    Suddenly Johnsson stood up and looked right at the window. Knutas ducked so quickly that he fell over. Whether Johnsson had seen him or not, it was impossible to tell, but it was now or never.
    Knutas took up position in front of the door with his weapon drawn and, after a nod of agreement from the other two officers, he kicked in the door with all his might.
    They were greeted by Bengt Johnsson’s look of bewilderment. He was obviously drunk, and he was once again sitting in the rocking chair with the glass in his hand.
    “What the hell?” was all he managed to say when the three officers stormed in with their guns drawn.
    The fire in the fireplace crackled pleasantly, and the kerosene lamps gave off a gentle glow. And there the man sat, peaceful as could be.
    The situation was so absurd that Knutas felt an urge to laugh. He lowered his gun and said, “How are things going, Bengt?”
    “Fine, thanks,” slurred the man sitting next to the fire. “Nice of you to drop by.”
    Several Months Earlier
    He made her unsure of herself. Fanny didn’t know how she was supposed to act. He was probably twice her age. She really ought to think of him as a nice old man and nothing more. But there was something about the way he treated her that changed everything. In the beginning, he would grab a lock of her hair and cautiously tug at it, which was both playful and annoying at the same time. She would blush, finding the whole thing embarrassing because