"It's not our fault if people want to talk. We haven't forced anyone. Besides, we found out some new information, thanks to talking to those girls. The part about the horse's head being missing."
She rolled down the window to toss out her wad of snuff. Then she deliberately turned up the music. The discussion was clearly over. Pia was intelligent and bold, but maybe she needed to be a bit more humble, since she was new at the game. Johan sensed that—for good or bad—his colleague was going to be a cameraperson to reckon with in the future.
Emma Winarve was sitting in the hammock in the yard of her house in Roma, leaning against the pillows propped behind her back. She was trying to find as comfortable a position as possible. In her extremely pregnant condition, that wasn't so easy. She was hot and sweaty all the time, even though she stayed in the shade. The high pressure of the past week had taken its toll. Right now she felt huge and shapeless, even though she weighed much less than she had with her other children. So far she hadn't put on more than twenty-five pounds, which seemed to fit in with everything else. This time the pregnancy was different. Previously the children had been eagerly awaited, and there was never any doubt that she would carry them to term. The baby that was now growing in her womb could just as easily have ended up as a bloody lump, scraped out while there was still time. Now, of course, she was glad that hadn't happened. There were still two weeks left before the birth, if everything went as planned.
She and the baby had just enjoyed a fruit salad, consisting of melon, kiwi, pineapple, and star fruit. Tropical fruit never tasted better than when she was pregnant.
She watched Sara and Filip, who were busy playing croquet on the lawn. They had just finished first and second grade and had already been forced to endure their parents' divorce.
Sometimes the feelings of guilt were oppressive. At the same time, Emma didn't think she could have done anything differently. She usually consoled herself with the fact that at least they weren't alone. Almost half the children in their classes had parents who were divorced.
When she'd met Johan Berg during the previous summer, Emma had fallen passionately in love. Emma—who had never thought she could be unfaithful. At first she blamed it on the shock and the despair she had felt when her best friend, Helena, was murdered. She was the first victim of a serial killer, and Johan was one of the reporters who had interviewed Emma, in her role as friend of the victim.
That was when she began to have serious doubts about her marriage. The feelings that she developed for Johan were something she had never experienced before. Several times she tried to break things off and went back to her husband, Olle, who forgave her in spite of everything.
During one of the occasional relapses to which she later succumbed, when she met Johan in secret, she got pregnant. Her first thought was to get rid of the fetus. When she told Olle, he was even prepared to forget about her repeated infidelities, but the condition he laid down for saving their marriage was that she have an abortion. She made an appointment for the procedure and told Johan once and for all that it was over.
She and her family celebrated a quiet Christmas together. The children were overjoyed that everything was back to normal, and Emma received a much-longed-for puppy from Olle as a Christmas present.
Then Johan suddenly showed up at their home in Roma and turned everything upside down. When Emma saw the two men in her life together, the whole situation appeared in a new light that was blindingly clear. All of a sudden she understood why it had been so difficult to end her relationship with Johan. He was obviously the one that she loved. Her marriage to Olle was over, and it was too late to do anything about it.
Two days later she phoned Johan and told him that she was keeping the baby.
Now here she sat, newly divorced with two children living with her every other week, and a third child on the way. The fact that she had decided to have the baby didn't mean that she and Johan would automatically become a family, as he had apparently imagined. There was nothing Johan wanted more than to move into the house immediately and become a stepfather for Sara and Filip, but Emma needed time. She felt far from ready to throw herself into a new family configuration. How she was going to manage to take care of the baby all alone was something that she would deal with later.
She ran her hand over the lemon yellow cotton of her dress. Her breasts felt big and heavy, already set for their coming task. Her legs were partially numb. Her circulation had gone from bad to worse; this was at least something that she remembered from her previous pregnancies. It felt as if her blood were motionless inside her body. She was pale, her fingers and toes were cold, and the fact that she had become so sluggish and ungainly didn't make things any better. Emma was used to working out at least three times a week. She was an inveterate smoker, but she had stopped as soon as she learned that she was pregnant, just as she had done the other two times. She didn't have the slightest craving, but she sensed that she would start smoking again as soon as she stopped breast-feeding.
Her smoking went hand in hand with the level of problems in her life. To put it simply: The more problems she had, the more she smoked. She had to have some sort of solace when life was so hard. How she was supposed to handle the divorce was impossible to predict; that was something she had been ruthlessly forced to acknowledge.
She'd been prepared for things to be difficult with Olle, but she'd never anticipated that everything would become so nasty, bitter, and miserable. All the exhausting fights and his victim's mind-set had almost put her over the edge during the past spring. It was a miracle that she had managed to get through it without smoking.
At least they'd managed to find a good solution to the question of where to live. Olle had gotten himself a big apartment in downtown Roma, within walking distance of their house. They'd agreed to take turns having the children every other week, at least in the beginning. Later they would see how things went. The children would decide. At least Olle was reasonable enough to see to it that the children weren't affected more than necessary.
Emma raised her eyes from the crossword puzzle that she was staring at, the letters melting together into an incomprehensible blur. Sara and Filip were completely absorbed in their croquet game. They hadn't had a single fight. That was an unexpected benefit of all that had happened: The children seemed calmer now, as if they had taken on more responsibility. There was no longer the same amount of space for them to mess around in when everything else was falling apart. Her guilty conscience again tapped her on the shoulder. The divorce was her fault. That's what the whole family thought, including her parents, although no one would come right out and say so.
She had explained things to the children as best she could, without trying to make excuses. But was that good enough? Would they ever understand?
She looked at their smooth young faces. Sara, with the darker hair and intense brown eyes, was lively but meticulous. She was talking loudly to her little brother while he tried to concentrate on hitting the ball through the hoop. Filip had blonder hair and a fairer complexion; he was a prankster and the family rascal.
She wondered if she would be able to love her unborn child as unconditionally as she loved them.
Knutas's office was on the second floor of police headquarters. It was spacious and bright, with sand-colored walls and light furniture made of birch. The one exception was his old, worn desk chair made of oak with a soft leather seat. He hadn't been able to part with it when the building was remodeled the previous year and all the other old things had been replaced. Too many puzzle pieces had fallen into place while he sat in that chair for all those years. He felt that he wouldn't be able to think as well in a new chair, even though it might be better for his back.
He rocked gently back and forth as he pondered the case of the decapitated pony. Crimes against animals were extremely rare on Gotland. Of course, there were incidents of neglect—people who forgot to feed animals or clean out their cages or boxes—but this was something different. Possibly a m
adman who enjoyed hurting animals. Knutas had dealt with cases like that before, although not of this caliber. Maybe the horse was killed in a fit of rage. If so, who was the actual target of the anger?
At the same time, the whole thing seemed the result of cold-blooded calculation. The crime had been committed at an hour when everyone was in bed asleep but it was still light enough outdoors. According to the farmer, the perp must have fed the other animals, to ensure that he'd be able to commit the deed without commotion. It gave him the opportunity to kill and butcher the horse in peace and quiet. The question was: Why had the killer taken the head away? It was hardly for the purpose of fishing for eel, the way Knutas had seen someone use a horse's head in a movie long ago.
He took out his pipe, filling it with great care. Then he sucked on the stem without lighting it. That was what he usually did whenever he needed to think. He seldom lit his pipe, and besides, smoking wasn't permitted indoors. By turning his chair slightly he could see the overcrowded parking lot at the Forum supermarket. The tourist season had started in earnest after the Midsummer holiday. The island had fifty-eight thousand permanent residents, but during the summer months the population increased by another eight hundred thousand. In mid-August it all ended as suddenly as it had begun.
He had asked Wittberg and Jacobsson to take a closer look at the horse owner's background that afternoon. The techs, with Sohlman in charge, were out at the crime scene, and officers had started interviewing neighbors and anyone else who might have seen something.
Lina called. He could tell from her voice that she was stressed. She was going to be late. They were extremely busy at the maternity ward. Knutas told her that he was busy, too.
Knutas's Danish wife, Lina, was a midwife at Visby Hospital, and the Gotland women were giving birth like never before. A new baby boom seemed to have swept the island. Lina had worked late every single day for several weeks now, and it never seemed to let up. He and the twins had to manage as best they could. Not that it was a problem. For the most part the children did a great job all on their own. So far Petra and Nils had spent their summer vacation swimming and playing soccer. They had no objections to receiving money to buy pizza and hamburgers instead of eating their father's poorly cooked meals. The last straw came when he once again offered them what he proudly presented as "Pappa's special macaroni and cheese." It was a tasteless, mushy dish and, on top of everything else, it was burned around the edges.
For Knutas's part, the spring had been relatively uneventful. He hadn't felt well for a while after a high-profile murder case in the winter, when a girl had disappeared and was later found dead. The case had gotten under his skin, and he had become involved in a highly personal manner. In hindsight it was impossible to say how that might have affected his judgment, but he was afraid that it had failed him. If so, he had contributed to the girl's death. The guilt he felt was hard to bear.
For a while he thought he was sinking into a depression of the very worst kind. Insomnia was the clearest sign—and the fact that he often felt dejected and listless wasn't like him. Suddenly he had also acquired a temper that made Lina's loud outbursts seem like mouse squeaks in comparison. He lost his temper at the slightest things, and when his family members reacted to his unprovoked anger, he felt offended and wronged. Like a damn martyr. It ended with Lina dragging him to see a psychologist. For the first time in his life Knutas had accepted professional help for his personal problems. His expectations were low, but he'd been surprised. The therapist was there to help him, and she gave him her undivided attention, listening without offering advice or criticism. She took in what he said, then asked a few questions here and there, which led him onto new avenues of thought. Through the therapy he had gained new insights about himself and his relationship to those around him, and the feelings of guilt gradually decreased. It was actually only recently that he'd started feeling better.
His thoughts were interrupted when the phone rang again. The switchboard wanted to know if he was willing to meet with the team from Swedish TV. With a sigh Knutas agreed. He had an ambivalent relationship with Johan Berg. The reporter's persistence could infuriate Knutas, although he had to admit that Berg was good at his job. Berg often managed to dig up information on his own, plus he had a confounded talent for getting people, including the superintendent, to reveal more than they'd originally intended to say.
Johan seemed stressed when he appeared in the hallway. He probably was in a rush to do his broadcast. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, and his cotton shirt was rumpled and stained. It occurred to Knutas that the reporter had probably already been out to Petesviken and had just come back from there. If only he hadn't found anyone who had agreed to an interview. Knutas didn't want to say anything; he had no right to interfere with the work of journalists. Their job was to find out as much as possible, while his was to make sure that information didn't leak out. He prepared himself for some difficult questions, noticing how his jaw tightened before the interview even began.
Johan had brought with him that new camerawoman, who looked like a punk with her black hair sticking out in all directions. She also had a ring in her nose.
Pia refused to make do with standing in the hallway. She directed them out to a balcony that had been built when police headquarters was remodeled. She wanted Knutas to talk about that horrible crime against the idyllic backdrop of the summer greenery, the ring wall, and the sea. Typical TV people—the only thing they thought about was their camera shots.
Johan started off with the usual questions about what had happened. Then came something unexpected—or maybe not totally unexpected.
"Have you found the head?"
Knutas clenched his teeth and didn't answer. The fact that the head was missing was something the police had decided to keep secret. Those who knew about it had been given strict instructions not to divulge anything about the matter.
"I wonder if you've found the head," Johan repeated stubbornly.
"I have nothing to say on that topic," said Knutas, annoyed.
"I've been told by a reliable source that it's missing," said Johan. "So you might as well confirm it, don't you think?"
Knutas's face turned bright red with anger. He realized that the police no longer had anything to gain by denying the fact.
"No, we haven't found the head," he admitted, giving a sigh of resignation.
"Do you have any theory about what happened to it?"
"No."
"Does that mean that the perpetrator took it with him?"
"Probably."
"Why would he do that?"
"Impossible to say at the moment."
"What do you think the person or persons who did this will use the head for?"
"It's all speculation, and speculation is something that we police don't waste much time on. Right now it's a matter of trying to catch the guilty party."
"What's your personal reaction to the crime?"
"I think it's terrible that someone would do such a thing to an animal. It goes without saying that the police are taking the matter very seriously, and we're going to devote all possible resources to finding out who's to blame. We're appealing to the public to call the police with information if they saw or heard anything that might be connected with the crime."
Knutas ended the interview.
He was hot and annoyed. Even though he knew it was fruitless, he tried to get Johan to leave out the information about the missing head. Not surprisingly, the journalist refused to budge. He thought the information was of such general interest that it had to be made public.
By the time Pia and Johan got back to the office, they had to hurry to put together the story in time to make the evening news. They sat down to work in the only editing room. Johan called Grenfors, who thought it was okay that they had interviewed the girls. They were old enough, and he was of the same opinion as Pia—it was just a horse, after all. On the other hand, Grenfors wasn't known for being the most cautious of news editor
s.
"I just hope that no one else finds out the part about the missing head," murmured Pia as she focused on pushing buttons. They had half an hour left before it was time for the first spot from Regional News, and they had promised the editor to deliver at least a minute and a half. At five fifty they were ready, and they sent the digital story by computer to the home office in Stockholm.
After the broadcast, Grenfors called. "Well done," he said appreciatively. "Great that you got the girls. They were damn good, and I don't think they've been interviewed by anyone else."
"No, as far as I know, we were the only ones they talked to."
"How did you get them to talk, by the way?"
"The credit goes to Pia," said Johan. "She was the one who persuaded them."
"Is that right?" Grenfors sounded surprised. "Give her my best and tell her that she did a damn fine job. What are you doing tomorrow to follow up?"
In his mind Johan pictured the editor as he sat there, tilting his chair back at his desk in the Regional News offices in the TV building in Stockholm's Gärdet district. He was a tall, trim man of fifty, with dyed hair and a blatant sense of vanity.
Johan thought that things had been getting worse lately. Grenfors had grown more and more nervous. His anxiety about not getting usable stories delivered on time manifested itself in different ways: constant phone calls to ask how the work was proceeding and long discussions about how the report should be done. The editor often made his own calls to individuals who had been booked for an interview, just to double-check that it was actually going to take place.
Of course, Grenfors had always had a tendency to meddle too much, but not to this extent. Johan wondered whether it had to do with the increased stress and shrinking profits at the editorial office. Cutbacks were frequent at the news divisions. Resources were constantly being reduced, while fewer and fewer people were being asked to do more stories, at the price of stressed-out colleagues and reduced quality.
The Inner Circle (aka Unknown) Page 5
