"Well, it's true. According to the veterinarian who examined the horse, the blood had been collected and removed. When can we get a preliminary autopsy report?"
"The body is being taken to the lab now. I'll try to finish the whole autopsy by tomorrow, so I can fax over a preliminary report to you tomorrow evening."
"That's great," said Knutas gratefully. "One more thing—could you tell if there was any sign of a sexual assault?"
"She has no external injuries to indicate that. Whether she'd had intercourse is something that we will hopefully know by tomorrow."
Knutas thanked him and put down the phone. He leaned back in his chair. A perpetrator who killed horses and women and drained the blood from their bodies. A ritual murderer.
It pained him to think about Martina Flochten. She'd had her whole life ahead of her. She was a student interested in archaeology. She had come to Gotland to help out on an excavation of the island's cultural treasures—and here she had met with such a cruel fate.
Patrick Flochten had fallen to pieces when the police told him the news of his daughter's death. Knutas was going to visit him later in the day, and he shuddered at the thought of seeing him. Dealing with family members of a victim was one of the most difficult parts of his job; he'd never gotten used to it. It was worst of all when young people were involved.
Possible connections between the decapitated horse and the murder of Martina were now being investigated. The question was: What kind of person would drain the blood out of his victim?
The police had to start by looking at the circle of people surrounding Martina, which included the students taking the course and their teachers. Knutas had gone over the list of students. Most of them were young, and there was almost an equal number of Swedes and foreigners.
He looked at the names and addresses and birth dates. Nearly all were between the ages of twenty and twenty-five, with a few exceptions. One woman from Göteborg was only nineteen, the British woman was forty-one, and one of the Americans was fifty-three. Knutas slowly spun his chair around.
Who was present during Martina's stay here? The students in the course, the teachers, the staff at the Warfsholm hotel and youth hostel. Surely she couldn't have met very many other people. That was where they had to start. Take them one by one as fast as possible, and at the same time find out who she'd met during the weeks she'd spent in Visby studying theory. Knutas sighed. He realized that his upcoming vacation was going to have to be postponed. Lina had probably already realized as much. He knew that it would be difficult for her to change her vacation, so she and the children would probably take the planned trip to Denmark. He could join them if the case was solved quickly. Even though at the moment it seemed very complicated, he could always hope for a miracle.
He might as well contact the National Criminal Police at once; they were going to need help. He thought about Martin Kihlgård. Although the inspector from the NCP had his bad points, they knew each other so well by now that he would probably be the easiest person to deal with. Knutas picked up the phone and punched in the number. It surprised him how relieved he felt when he heard his colleague's voice on the line.
Anyone who passed by the building wouldn't suspect a thing. It looked like any other dreary warehouse made of gray sheet metal with several parking slots near the unremarkable entrance. No one would believe that inside those walls were unimaginable treasures that had lain buried and forgotten for thousands of years, treasures that had been used by people in a different era, a different life. Utterly unlike anything that was familiar to people nowadays.
He used to come over here late at night when he was sure that all the employees had gone home. Then he had the whole place to himself. The same feeling of reverence struck him every time he opened the door and entered the first room.
He could roam up and down the aisles for hours. Pull out an archive storage rack here and there, take out something at random: an animal bone, a bead, a spearhead, or a nail. It didn't matter. For him no relic was more valuable than any other. Sometimes he would sit on the floor, holding an artifact in his hand. Everything around him would melt away, and the treasure in his hand became the focus. It spoke to him, whispered to him. He thought he could hear voices, echoes from the past. It was the same magical experience each time. Occasionally he had tried to transport himself into the same state as he did at home, but it never worked. This place had something different about it, maybe because it contained so much history from so long ago.
He was convinced that spirits lived in these objects. In here he also sensed a contact with the gods—they listened to him, and he heard their voices. They told him what he was supposed to do, gave him solace, and stood by him when he needed them. Nor did they hesitate to give him praise when he'd done something that was to their liking. He received guidance from them; he didn't know how he could have managed without their help. They told him what they wanted for themselves and what things they thought he could keep. He gladly did their bidding and was offered rewards when the time was ripe. His relationship with them went both ways, based on give and take, just like any human relationship.
Some of the artifacts he kept at home; others he sold off. That was a necessity. He had a responsibility, and he didn't hesitate to accept it. All the hidden things that were dug out of the earth belonged to him and his kinsmen; that was a feeling that had become stronger and stronger over the years. It was better for him to take care of the relics than for them to end up in a display case in some museum in Stockholm. If they were going to disappear from the island, he might as well be the one who decided where they would go. With his fingertips he caressed the shelves in the aisles. They were neatly marked with stickers and numbers, yet it was seldom that anyone checked to see that the drawers actually contained what was listed on the labels. That was why he was able to keep going, undetected. He had started out slowly many years ago and then just kept on. This was his world, and no one could take it away from him. He would never let go of his hold on it.
For the first time in his life he felt that he truly had something important to do. It was a task that he undertook with the greatest seriousness.
The investigative team had decided that all the students in the course, along with their teachers, should be interviewed before the night was over, so they had divided up the individuals for questioning. Jacobs-son and Knutas took one of the students with whom Martina had had the most contact: Mark Feathers, an American. They also had one of the teachers in the group assigned to them: Aron Bjarke.
The long workday was drawing to a close, and Knutas was genuinely tired. He was in charge of questioning Bjarke; Jacobsson was present as a witness. When they sat down in the interview room, Knutas couldn't hold back a yawn. He immediately apologized.
Bjarke had taught landscape reconstruction and phosphate analysis during the introductory two weeks of theory. He was a tall, middle-aged man with dark blond hair and a nondescript face. His hairline was receding a bit; otherwise he looked younger than his forty-three years. His chin was adorned with a well-trimmed beard, and his eyes were green with thick, curling lashes.
"What do you know about Martina Flochten?" Knutas began.
"Not much, I have to admit. She was a sweet, lively girl who showed a great deal of interest in the Viking Age in particular. I had the impression that she was more knowledgeable than most of the others. In general, she seemed extremely engaged in the subject."
If the teacher hadn't spoken with such a marked Gotland accent, Knutas would have sworn that he was from the mainland. There was something about his clothes and his style of wearing them, something slightly elegant and big city–like about his neatly pressed slacks and jacket. His voice and manner of speaking, strangely enough, didn't match his appearance. At the same time, there was something disarming about him. He gave Knutas a friendly look as he waited for the next question.
"Did you socialize with her outside of class?"
"No, at least not alone. But the whole gr
oup got together several times. We had dinner at the home of one of the other teachers, we went out for a beer, and we played a game of kubb in Almedalen. But we were all together, as a group."
"Were you at Warfsholm on Saturday night?"
"No, I've hardly seen the students since they moved out to Fröjel and started excavating."
"Where were you on Saturday night?"
The soft-spoken teacher looked surprised at the question. "Am I a suspect?"
"Not at all. This is purely a routine question that we're asking everyone," Knutas explained. "What were you doing on Saturday night?"
"Nothing special. I was home watching TV."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"Do you live alone?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any children?"
"No, not yet, anyway."
"Were you home all night?"
"Yes. I think I stayed up quite late. Then I went to bed around midnight. That's what I usually do."
"Did you notice whether Martina was ever together with anyone in the group or with one of the teachers?"
Aron Bjarke suddenly looked embarrassed. "Well, things like that are so hard to judge. Because you never know. It's possible that you imagine one thing and then maybe it's not true at all. I'd prefer not to say anything about it," he explained, putting on a pompous expression.
"What do you mean?" asked Jacobsson from the corner.
"I think that Martina liked to flirt and show off for the men in the group. It was quite obvious. They all fell for it."
"Was there anyone who seemed especially interested in her?"
"Hm...I don't know," he said hesitantly. "Maybe there was one person that I thought showed her a little too much attention, but I could be mistaken, of course."
"Who was it?"
Bjarke squirmed. "This is embarrassing because it's one of the teachers. I'm thinking actually of the excavation leader, Staffan Mellgren."
"Is that right?"
"At the same time, you need to know that he often has romantic escapades with cute young female students. It sounds awful to say this, but he has a hard time keeping his hands off them. This isn't the first time that he's shown an interest, so to speak, in a female student."
The man sitting across from Knutas leaned forward and lowered his voice.
"Staffan Mellgren is a lecher, a sex addict. Everyone knows that. He hasn't been faithful to his wife for even a week since the day they got married. And since he prefers"—here Bjarke held up both hands in the air and made the sign for quote marks—"lamb flesh, he usually goes for young female students who look up to the teacher and are easy conquests for him."
Bjarke certainly didn't mince words. The teacher's candor surprised both detectives. Knutas perked up.
"Do you mean to say in all seriousness that Mellgren has previously had relationships with students?"
"Of course. It happens all the time. It would be strange if Staffan gave a course and didn't get mixed up with at least one of the female participants."
"How long as this been going on?"
"For ten years at least."
"Does Mellgren's wife know about his affairs?"
"It would be hard for me to imagine that she'd accept something like that."
"You seem to know Mellgren well."
"We've worked together for over fifteen years."
"How has he managed to keep his love affairs a secret from his wife all these years?"
"He and Susanna lead separate lives. She stays home with the kids and takes care of the house and the farm. His job takes up a lot of his time. I don't think they actually see much of each other."
"What was it about Mellgren's behavior toward Martina that attracted your attention?"
"I can't say with certainty that there was actually anything going on between them. The whole group didn't get together very often. I taught my classes, and he wasn't part of that. But when the course started, when everyone was in Visby, we did have a number of group activities. Since I've seen Staffan in action, so to speak, numerous times before, I can tell at once when he goes into pursuit mode."
"In what way?"
"Well, it's really the same old story. He laughs and jokes a lot with the person he's interested in at the moment. He gives her long looks without saying anything. His old tricks are so obvious that it's ridiculous."
"You seem quite certain about this."
"Let me put it this way: A young woman has been murdered, which is an enormously serious matter, of course. Obviously I don't want to single anybody out or make any claims that might make the person suspect in your eyes. To do that, I realize that I'd have to be absolutely positive about my claims. This much I can tell you, though: He at least tried to get together with Martina Flochten. Whether his advances were returned, I can't say. I don't know anything about that. After the two weeks devoted to theory, the group moved out to Fröjel, and I haven't seen Martina since then."
Jacobsson and Knutas took time out for a cup of coffee before the next interview. Both of them felt the need for a break after their meeting with Aron Bjarke.
In the corridor other students and teachers from the college were going in and out of the various interview rooms. There were many that had to be dealt with.
"Considering what that teacher told us, it's going to be damn interesting to hear what the other interviews have produced," said Jacobs-son as they waited for their plastic cups to fill with coffee from the machine. "Do you think he's credible?"
"Hard to know. He was undeniably candid. That always makes me suspicious."
"Why's that? I thought you valued openness," said Jacobsson with a smile.
The interview with the American student Mark Feathers was conducted by Jacobsson. Once again Knutas's command of English wasn't sufficient.
At first glance Feathers looked like the archetypical American guy: close-cropped hair, baggy knee-length shorts, and a big, wrinkled T-shirt that was not tucked in. On his feet he wore tennis socks with a blue border and the obligatory sneakers. He was tall and muscular with an angry expression. He looked more like a baseball player than someone who patiently devoted himself to archaeological excavations.
He seemed upset.
"I just can't believe that she's gone. The whole thing is sick. What did that bastard do to her?" Feathers spoke in a loud, forceful voice, and he glared at Jacobsson aggressively.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you how Martina died."
"Was she raped? Was it a sex crime?"
"No, we don't think so, but it's too early to say for sure."
"If only I could get my hands on that monster." He clenched his fist in a threatening gesture.
"We understand that you're shocked, but you really need to calm down," Jacobsson admonished him. "The important thing right now is that we find out as much as we can about Martina and what she was doing during the days before she disappeared. Can you help us with this?"
"Sure. Of course," he said, sounding a bit more subdued.
"How would you describe Martina?"
"Smart, nice, cute, and damned good at anything having to do with the Viking Age. She knew more than anybody. She was very energetic. She worked harder than any of us. Above all she was loyal, as a friend, that is."
"Was there anything flirtatious or provocative about her behavior?"
Feathers hesitated for a moment before replying.
"I wouldn't really say that. She was lively and open—but flirtatious...no."
"Did you notice any change in her behavior lately?"
"No. She was the same as always."
"So there wasn't anything special that happened before she disappeared?"
He shook his head.
"Do you know whether she has a boyfriend here?"
"I'm not sure, but I think so."
"What makes you think that?"
Feathers gave both officers a solemn look. "Jonas and I share the room next to Martina and Eva's. Every day after excavating, we take
a bus back to Warfsholm. After working in the heat and dirt for eight or nine hours, everyone is really eager to take a shower and change clothes. But Martina would often disappear as soon as we got home."
"Where did she go?"
"I have no clue."
"Did you see which direction she went?"
"Yes. The bus would pull up right in front of the youth hostel and stop. Then everyone rushed out to get to the shower first. In the beginning I didn't give a thought to the fact that Martina didn't go inside with the rest of us. It took a few days before I noticed. She headed over to the hotel instead."
"Did you ever ask her where she was going?"
"Once. She told me that she was going to buy some ice cream. There's a kiosk next to the restaurant."
"Did she usually go off alone?"
"I never saw anyone go with her."
"And you think that she was meeting someone?"
"Yes, because she always came home at the same time, a couple of hours later."
"Did you mention this to any of the others?"
"To my roommate, Jonas, of course. He had a better handle on what Martina did than anyone else."
"What do you mean by that?"
"He was in love with her, although that's not something that he wanted to talk about."
"Did anyone else know about this?"
"Sure. It was really obvious."
"Were his feelings reciprocated?"
Feathers shook his head. "No, not a chance."
Jacobsson decided to change tack. "Is this your first time in Sweden?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Why shouldn't I ask?"
"Er, I don't know ...It just seems so unrelated to what's happened."
"How about answering the question?"
"Well, no, I've actually been here before."
"When was that?"
"I was here on Gotland last year, and also the year before."
"How did that happen?"
"The first time, I was with a friend whose girlfriend was from here. They met when she was an exchange student in the States. I hung out with him, and we had such a good time that I wanted to come back. So when it was time for him to come back, I came along."
The Inner Circle (aka Unknown) Page 13
