of town on Västerleden. Was she going out to Västra Frölunda? Apparently not, because she drove past Frölunda Square and the exit Irene usually took when she was going home to her row-house neighborhood.
Askim, Hovås, Skintebo. Now Irene knew where they were heading. She increased the distance between her and the red BMW. Sylvia passed the exit sign for Kullavik, continued a few kilometers, and turned off toward Särö.
Ivan Viktors. He was the one she planned to spend the night with. The superintendent hadn’t been far wrong when he suspected that Sylvia and Viktors had spent Sunday evening together. But Sylvia had been with her mother and sister the entire evening. And Viktors had visited his brother in the hospital. Where was the gap in the chronology? The answer was as simple as it was logical. They had concentrated on the wrong evening. It wasn’t Sunday evening, but Monday evening that Sylvia and Ivan Viktors had spent together.
She was so full of this revelation that everything nearly went to hell as she almost ran straight into the back of the BMW, which had stopped to turn off toward Särö Västerskog. Quickly, she turned the wheel and whipped by on the left side. It was her good fortune that there were no oncoming cars. Everything happened so fast that Sylvia probably didn’t have time to notice who had thundered past her. Irene swung into a passing turnout a little farther ahead. In her rearview mirror she could see Sylvia driving at a leisurely pace toward King Gustav V’s favorite tennis courts. Irene performed another illegal maneuver but wasn’t in much of a hurry to head toward the small cluster of turn-of-the-twentieth-century houses.
During the eighties large villas had been built on the meadows in front of the nature preserve, but along the narrow old country road there were several grand old patrician villas. The red BMW stood outside a big redbrick house with pinnacles and towers and a somewhat overgrown garden. Irene drove on about a hundred meters farther before she parked her car and got out. With her chin tucked down, her collar turned up against the wind, and Katarina’s black baseball cap on her head, Irene would not be easy to recognize, in case Sylvia happened to look out the window. There was a greater risk that she would recognize Irene’s jacket. But she probably didn’t burden her memory with such soiled attire.
Usually, the lovely preserve was full of people strolling around. In the summer swimming was popular at the sandy beach. But on a damp Saturday afternoon in late November there were no crowds. Irene was completely alone. She kept close to the bushy vegetation along the shoulder of the road and tried to blend into nature. When she reached the hedge that surrounded the garden of the redbrick house, she had to duck down quickly and pretend to tie her shoelace.
Sylvia was loading Viktors down with suitcases and bags from the trunk of the BMW. Was she thinking of moving in? From the amount of baggage it looked like it. She had almost as much as Irene used to pack for the whole family’s three-week vacation at her husband’s parents’ summerhouse up in Värmland. It was too windy for her to hear what they were saying to each other. But judging by Sylvia’s body language, she was very excited. She gesticulated as she talked, tossing out the baggage with great energy and making swift, abrupt movements. To top it off she went up to Viktors, wrapped her arms around his waist, and leaned her head against his broad opera singer’s chest. He glanced around quickly and for a moment Irene thought he was looking straight through her peephole in the lilac hedge. Evidently, he didn’t see her. With an impatient movement he broke free of Sylvia’s embrace. Carrying all the gear, he started walking toward the solid oak front door. It closed heavily behind them.
BACK AT headquarters, Irene found out that not much had happened. Torsson seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth. Shorty claimed that he had no idea where his cousin was. Andersson was very pleased with Irene’s investigative efforts. He was especially happy that he had been right about Sylvia and Ivan Viktors. He clapped his hand to his chest and beamed like the sun.
“Male intuition, understand? Male intuition!”
Irene tactfully refrained from pointing out whose intuition had led to the disclosure.
Andersson went on, “Fredrik called just before you arrived. From lunchtime until midnight