The Dead Of Summer

by Mari Jungstedt

‘There’s more. Prepare yourself.’

  Cautiously Sohlman lifted off the rest of the covering. Jacobsson groaned when she saw what was underneath. The man’s stomach was riddled with bullet holes.

  ‘Shot to hell. I’ve counted seven shots to the abdomen. It’s completely insane.’

  Jacobsson turned away and threw up.

  JOHAN BERG WAS standing in a cow pasture interviewing a farmer who was complaining about the cutbacks in EU subsidies when the call came through. He had forgotten to switch off his mobile during the interview; it was just the type of stupid mistake that TV reporters were not supposed to make. But the damage was done. His camera person, Pia Lilja, rolled her eyes and threw out her hands, then left the camera on its tripod as she went over to pat a cow while Johan took the call. It was Max Grenfors, the head of Regional News.

  ‘Have you heard?’

  ‘No, what is it? I’m in the middle of an interview.’

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ said Grenfors impatiently, ‘but a man was found shot to death over on Fårö. Right next to the campsite. Sudersand. You know it, right?’

  ‘Of course. What happened?’

  While he talked Johan fixed his eyes on the farmer, who was looking unhappy about the interruption. No doubt he wanted nothing more than to continue his complaints about the bureaucrats down in Brussels.

  ‘He was found this morning, in the sea near Sudersand beach.’

  ‘How do you know he didn’t drown?’

  ‘I’m just reading what it says on the TT wire service. According to their report, the body was in the water, but he’d been shot several times.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘So stop what you’re doing and get over there as fast as you can. Ring me when you’re in the car. I’ll give you the latest news update while you’re on the road.’

  Johan quickly said goodbye to the disappointed farmer, explaining that they would have to finish the interview some other time.

  Luckily they were in Lärbro in the north of Gotland, not far from Fårösund. Pia Lilja’s face shone with excitement as she stomped on the accelerator, making the car tyres squeal as they took the curves at high speed. Her black hair was sticking out in all directions, as usual. Her eyes, with their heavy coating of mascara, were firmly fixed on the road ahead.

  ‘Fabulous,’ she exclaimed. ‘Finally something is happening.’

  ‘Fabulous?’ Johan looked at her in surprise. ‘The fact that a human being has been shot to death?’

  ‘Come on, you know what I mean. Of course not. But it’s much more exciting to report on a homicide than to film a story about unhappy farmers.’

  Pia loved it when things got cracking and stuff was happening. Gotland was really too small a place for someone as news-hungry as Pia Lilja. She was twenty-five and wanted to get out into the world, to accompany one of the TV foreign correspondents and witness wars and famines.

  But so far she was considered too young and inexperienced. For the time being she had to settle for documenting more ordinary domestic events, such as disputes about putting in a new road in Burgsvik, or the complaints of students about the poor quality of the food served in the school cafeteria in Hemse, or the drama of the local championship match in throwing the varpa, a flat round stone, to get closest to the pin.

  But no matter what the news report, she somehow managed to take all sorts of exciting pictures. Pia always did her best. In addition, she had a huge network of contacts that was truly astonishing. She was the youngest of seven siblings, and her extended family was spread all over Gotland. Thanks to them, and her highly developed social skills, she seemed to know absolutely everyone.

  In the car on their way over to the Fårösund ferry dock, Johan listened to Grenfors with one ear and to the local radio station with the other, all the while taking notes at lightning speed. The news had come over the TT wire ten minutes earlier. The press was always cautious if there was the slightest suspicion of suicide, but a witness had managed to catch a glimpse of the body and had seen first-hand the bullet hole in the head, as well as the wounds in the abdomen. Anybody could work out that the dead man couldn’t possibly have caused such wounds all on his own. The witness had been interviewed by a journalist from Radio Gotland who just happened to be on Fårö with all of his equipment. The police had confirmed that they were dealing with a suspected homicide.

  The ferry crossing to Fårö took only a few minutes. The sky had cleared and the sun glittered on the surface of the sea. The road north towards Sudersand took them through the rocky landscape of Fårö. Along the way Johan and Pia encountered bicyclists, camping caravans and cars filled with families on holiday.

  When they reached the intersection of four roads near Sudersand and turned right towards the campsite, a picture of Emma’s face flashed through Johan’s mind. If they had turned left at the intersection instead, they would have eventually ended up at Norsta Auren, the beach near her parents’ house.

  Emma Winarve was the great love of Johan’s life. Or at least she had been. They had spent so many wonderful days in that house by the sea when her parents were away, there on the beach between Skärsände and the Fårö lighthouse, on the extreme tip of Fårö. It was the most beautiful of places. But now their relationship was non-existent.

  He was roused from his thoughts as they reached Sudersand campsite. The police had blocked off the entire area. Officers were everywhere, but there was no one available to speak to journalists. Neither Karin Jacobsson nor the police spokesman, Lars Norrby, answered their mobile, and Knutas was on holiday in Denmark with his family.

  ‘Typical.’ Johan stared with dismay at the campsite as they stood outside the police tape. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Pia as she finished shooting one last panorama of the area. ‘Come with me.’

  They jumped back in the car. Pia drove back to the intersection that would take them to Sudersand East and headed for the nearby colony of summer cottages. She turned on to a small side road, no bigger than a cow path, and the car began jolting along through the woods, thick with underbrush, and across a meadow filled with flowers and tall grass.

  Several times Johan thought they were going to get stuck, but Pia managed to make the car forge its way onward. When she finally stopped next to a big shrub that was blocking their way, he could hear the sea. It was three thirty in the afternoon, and they still had about an hour left to file their report. Johan patted Pia on the shoulder.

  ‘You’re damned good at this.’

  It took them all of two minutes to walk down to the shore. In one direction they could see the promontory that marked the end of Sudersand bay, and in the other direction was the campsite. Close to the shoreline a small tent had been set up, and a group of people was gathered around it. Suddenly a whirring sound was heard overhead. It was the police helicopter from Stockholm, probably with the medical examiner on board.

  Pia immediately began filming. Even though Johan was well aware that he was inside the area that had been cordoned off, he walked over to see if he could talk to the pilot when the helicopter landed. It was worth a try. A man got out and hurried over to the tent. That had to be the ME.

  ‘We’re from Swedish TV,’ he shouted to the pilot. ‘Is that the ME who just arrived?’

  ‘That’s right. We came straight here from the helipad at Karolinska hospital.’

  ‘When are you heading back?’

  ‘They said we’d be taking off in half an hour. I can’t keep the chopper here any longer than that. It’s needed at Berga.’

  ‘OK.’

  Johan waved his thanks to the pilot. He’d found out what he wanted to know. Now he just needed to try talking to the police. He noticed Erik Sohlman, who had stepped away to get himself a cup of coffee.

  ‘Hi, Erik. What’s going on here?’

  Sohlman nodded to Berg. Johan had been a crime reporter on the island for quite a while now, and on several occasions he’d actually helped the police, once when
his daughter’s life was at stake and once when his own life was in jeopardy. So Sohlman felt compelled to repay the favour. He hesitated before answering, taking a moment to decide what he wanted to say. Then he came over to Johan.

  ‘I can tell you this much: a man was found dead, and we suspect foul play. The ME is doing his first examination right now. Later the body will be moved to the morgue in Visby, and from there it will be transported by ferry to the forensic medicine lab in Solna.’

  ‘I understand, but…’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything else. And you’re inside the police tape, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  Johan and Pia headed back to their car. Both were more than satisfied. Now they even had time to shoot some reactions from people at the campsite.

  Their story was in the can.

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON the investigative team gathered for a meeting at police headquarters. Besides Karin Jacobsson, Thomas Wittberg and Erik Sohlman, the group included Lars Norrby and chief prosecutor Birger Smittenberg.

  Jacobsson started by welcoming everyone.

  ‘So it looks like we have yet another brutal murder on our hands. You might call it an execution, pure and simple. The victim has already been identified down at the beach by his wife. His name is Peter Bovide, born in 1966, married and the father of two, from Slite. He’s been on holiday with his family at Sudersand campsite since Friday – in other words, he’d spent three days there. Early this morning, around five thirty according to his wife, he went out for a run. Apparently this was not out of the ordinary for him. The victim appears to have had a stable family life. He and Vendela Bovide have been married for six years. They have two children, a boy, five, and a girl, three. We interviewed the wife very briefly when she was asked to identify the body. She’s suffering from severe shock, so she was taken to the hospital, where they’ve decided to keep her overnight for observation. I’m hoping to be able to talk to her tomorrow.’

  Jacobsson paused for a moment to glance down at her papers before she went on.

  ‘The body was found around nine thirty by two boys from Stockholm. They’re both thirteen years old, and their parents rent a cabin nearby. They were playing soccer on the beach and ended up quite a distance away. Then they decided to go for a swim and discovered the body in the water a short way from shore. They shouted for help and several people came to their aid. The man who rang the police is the father of one of the boys. The call to the emergency number 112 came in at nine forty-two. The first officers to respond arrived forty-five minutes later.’

  ‘How long had he been dead?’ asked Prosecutor Smittenberg.

  ‘At least a couple of hours, but five or six, max,’ replied Sohlman.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Jacobsson. ‘So there’s no sense in setting up road blocks or stopping the ferry traffic. Of course, all day we’ve been checking everyone who leaves the island by ferry, and we’ll keep doing so into the evening. Does anyone here happen to know the victim?’

  All those seated around the table shook their heads.

  ‘So what do we know about Peter Bovide?’

  Jacobsson answered her own question.

  ‘He actually has a police record, but just for a minor crime. A charge of assault and battery from back in the eighties, when he was twenty. A fight at Burmeister here in town. The bouncers refused to let him into the disco, so he punched one of them. Because he didn’t have a prior record, he got off with a fine. Nothing since then. He’s done construction work, and now he runs his own building company along with a partner. Slite Construction, with six full-time employees. The partner’s name is Johnny Ekwall, and we’re going to interview him tonight. In short, that’s all we can say about the victim right now. When it comes to the crime itself, I’m afraid we don’t have much to go on. We’ve been knocking on doors in the area, but there are no eyewitnesses. On the other hand, somebody did hear the shots. A couple that lives nearby heard first one shot and then several more bangs that they thought might have been gunfire. The sound woke them up, and according to them, it was around six this morning. They thought it was either rifle practice or someone who was out shooting rabbits illegally. Apparently that’s common in the area. We’re continuing to interview visitors and employees at the campsite and at the nearby restaurants. Some people left the campsite during the course of the day, and we’re trying to track them down. Since we need to do a large number of interviews, I’ve contacted the National Criminal Police. Martin Kihlgård and some of his colleagues will be here early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lars Norrby. ‘Sounds like we’ll need their help.’

  Jacobsson gave him a quick look. It was impossible to tell whether his remark was intended to be sarcastic or not. Her appointment as Knutas’s deputy had taken place only six months earlier. When her older colleague realized that Karin was going to be given the promotion, he had loudly voiced his objections, devoting a large part of his work days to bad-mouthing both Knutas and Jacobsson. Norrby was also suspected of having leaked information to the press. Finally he had been removed from the investigative team. Today he was present solely because of his role as spokesman; this was their first meeting, and he needed to be kept informed, at least to some extent, regarding the progress of the investigation.

  Jacobsson wanted to believe that all grudges had been forgotten, but she wasn’t sure whether that was true. Norrby’s expression revealed nothing of what he was actually feeling. She had to admit to herself that because Knutas was away, anybody who still wished to oppose her authority now had free rein.

  She was looking forward to Martin Kihlgård’s arrival to help with the investigation. Jacobsson had always liked the inspector from the NCP in Stockholm, ever since the first time they’d met in connection with a manhunt for a serial killer several years earlier.

  She turned to Sohlman.

  ‘Erik, would you like to take it from here?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He sat down in front of the computer, signalling for Jacobsson to turn off the lights. On the white screen at the front of the room a map of the campsite and Sudersand bay appeared. Peter Bovide’s presumed jogging route had been marked with a red line.

  ‘Here you can see the area. The campsite itself covers the whole top half of the map. The Bovide family caravan was parked at the very edge. On the other side of the fence is the path that leads to the beach restaurants and the summer cottage colony. Peter Bovide didn’t take that path; instead he ran straight down to the shore and then turned left and followed the shoreline north. He turned around out by the promontory, and on his way back he encountered the perpetrator, only a kilometre from the actual campsite.’

  ‘How do we know this?’ asked Smittenberg.

  He was the chief prosecutor for Gotland’s district court, and he’d worked with the investigative team on so many cases that it felt as if he were a regular member. He still spoke with a distinct Stockholm accent in spite of the fact that he’d lived on the island and been married to a Gotlander for more than twenty years.

  ‘We’ve identified Bovide’s footprints. We found them both on the path from the caravan heading down towards the sea, and along the beach. It was easy to follow his route.’

  ‘Did you find footprints from the perpetrator as well?’ asked Jacobsson.

  ‘There are a bunch of different prints in the area where the victim was found. The most interesting are from a type of trainer, size 7. We’re working on that. Otherwise we haven’t found much evidence in the area so far.’

  ‘No bullets or empty casings?’

  ‘No, but it looks like he has a number of slugs still in his body. He was shot no fewer than eight times. The ME has been here and examined the body at the scene, so what I’m telling you about now is the first impression we both had. In other words, nothing has been confirmed yet, so take it all with a grain of salt. We’re hoping that the post mortem will be done in the morning, and then we should have a preliminary report by tom
orrow evening.’

  ‘Good,’ said Jacobsson. ‘At this stage, how would you interpret the wounds?’

  ‘In terms of the shot to the forehead, we can see that the bullet penetrated the skull and entered the brain, where it stopped. Judging by the appearance of the entry wound, we think that the shot was fired at very close range. Either the perp pressed the gun to the victim’s forehead, or the muzzle was only a few inches from Bovide’s head.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ asked Wittberg with interest.

  ‘We know that it was fired at close range because of the type of entry wound in the victim’s head. It’s quite large and star-shaped. You can see how jagged it is if you look at the photo. That’s because the bullet carries a cloud of hot gas that follows it into the body when the shot is fired at close range. The gas collects under the skin like a bubble which bursts when the bullet penetrates farther inside – rather like a zit, actually – and that results in this type of star-shaped wound. Carbon particles also collect around the entry hole, and there are some traces left on his forehead.’

  ‘Even though he was floating in the water for several hours?’ asked Wittberg.

  ‘Yes, it’s rather like a tattoo.’

  ‘Good lord,’ groaned Jacobsson.

  She couldn’t understand how Sohlman could sound so unmoved when he talked about a victim’s wounds.

  ‘The shot to the forehead should have been sufficient to kill him, since it was fired so close to his body,’ Sohlman continued. ‘So it’s a mystery what the hell went on after that.’

  The next picture showed the bullet holes in the abdomen.

  ‘If the shot to the forehead was fired first, the murderer must have gone crazy afterwards. He seems to have emptied an entire magazine into the body. Seven shots fired at the man’s gut, also at close range.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ muttered Jacobsson. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘The first thing that comes to mind is rage,’ said Wittberg. ‘It must have been somebody who was really furious with the victim.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jacobsson agreed. ‘It seems very charged with emotion. Maybe they knew each other.’