The Dead Of Summer

by Mari Jungstedt

  Johan was ashamed of stooping to this sort of veiled threat, but he felt no sympathy for the stern-looking woman sitting behind the counter.

  He watched as she debated with herself for a few seconds.

  ‘No,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Not interested. And I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. And take that camera with you.’

  The same instant she made her decision, a man came inside. He was tall and lanky, with tousled hair. He was carrying a stack of cigarette cartons. He introduced himself as Mats Nilsson, owner of the campsite.

  ‘Hi,’ said Johan, ignoring the scowling elderly woman. ‘We’re from Regional News. Have you got a minute?’

  ‘All right, sure.’

  ‘Could we go outside to talk?’

  ‘OK. I need a smoke anyway.’

  Outside, they explained what they’d like to film, and after they had talked to the campsite owner for a few minutes, his face lit up.

  ‘Now I know who you are,’ he exclaimed, jabbing Johan in the stomach. ‘I recognize you from TV.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  Mats Nilsson let out a bellow of laughter, displaying his nicotine-stained teeth. Johan stared at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘You and Emma are an item, right? Emma Winarve?’

  ‘Well…’ Johan said, hesitating.

  ‘You even have a kid together. I read all about it in the newspaper. I dated Emma in the ninth grade; she was in the other class. She was damned cute back then, a lot prettier than she is now. Even though she had rather small… well, you know what I mean.’

  He pointed at his chest.

  Johan wondered if he’d heard this guy correctly. He felt Pia looking at him, and sensed how close she was to delivering a crushing remark to the unpleasant campsite owner. Even Johan had to make the utmost effort not to punch the guy in the face. He made a lightning-quick decision about which tactic would be best in this situation, and he chose to focus on their report, which meant assuming an ingratiating attitude. Even at his own expense.

  ‘Right. How cool. So I guess we have something in common.’

  He managed a strained smile. Nilsson didn’t seem to notice his sarcastic tone of voice, and Johan quickly changed the subject.

  ‘How are things going here after that young man was shot yesterday?’

  The campsite owner’s face clouded over.

  ‘I wouldn’t call him young. Peter was over forty. Bloody awful, the whole thing.’

  Johan was all ears. The police hadn’t yet revealed the victim’s identity. It was important to tread lightly.

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Yes I did, quite well in fact. He and his wife have come here several years in a row, and after a while I get to know all the regular campers. It’s a bleeding shame he had to go and get himself shot. Makes me wonder what was behind it.’

  ‘Is it OK if I film you while we’re talking?’ asked Pia.

  ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  ‘What’s Peter’s last name?’

  ‘Bovide.’

  ‘How long had he and his family been here before this happened?’

  ‘Just over the weekend. They arrived Friday night and were supposed to stay two weeks. They do that every year. And they like to have the same camping spot each time. Before they left, he would always reserve it for the following year.’

  ‘Where is it located?’

  He nodded towards the campsite.

  ‘It’s number fifty-three, the very last space, you know, and the one closest to the beach. There’s a sign, but right now the area is blocked off so you won’t be able to see it. It’s the space they had the first summer they were here, and since then they’ve never wanted to park their caravan anywhere else. Even though there’s no electrical hook-up over there; they have to run everything on liquefied natural gas, but that works fine.’

  ‘So he was married and had kids?’

  ‘Of course. His wife’s name is Vendela, and they have two children, a little girl and a boy.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Not very old. Maybe three and five, something like that. But how the hell would I know? I haven’t got any kids myself.’

  ‘Where are they from?’

  ‘Slite, so they didn’t have far to drive, you might say.’

  ‘Do you know what kind of work he did?’

  ‘Sure, he was a carpenter, and he had his own construction company. He was really good at his job. And always willing to lend a hand. He did quite a bit of carpentry work for me, so I gave him a good discount on the camping fee and made sure he got the spot he wanted. I felt like I needed to pay him back in some way. I know that he also helped out other people here at the campsite if they were having trouble with something. He could fix almost anything.’

  ‘What’s the name of the company?’

  ‘Slite Construction.’

  ‘What was Peter like as a person?’

  ‘A real decent guy. There’s no doubt about that. But he did have some odd habits.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, he went out running every single morning, for example. And it was always so damn early. I used to see him sometimes if I had to be here extra early for the bread delivery or something like that. You’d always see him out running before six.’

  Johan was so fascinated by all the information that came pouring out of the man standing in front of him that he almost forgot that he was doing an interview. He pulled himself together and changed direction.

  ‘How did you react when you heard about the murder?’

  ‘I was shocked, you know. To think that somebody could end up getting killed here. And to top it off, it was somebody that I actually happened to know. And to think he was killed in such an awful way. Shot dead, and with multiple bullet wounds. A gangster-style execution right here in our little campsite.’

  ‘How has the murder affected the other campers?’

  ‘Of course they’re nervous. I’ve been forced to keep the check-in desk open round the clock since it happened. Lots of campers have been over here to ask questions.’

  ‘What are they asking about?’

  ‘They want to know what happened, how he was killed, and whether the murderer has been caught. They think I have all the answers. I have to supply information and also play the roles of psychologist and master detective. And I really don’t know much. At any rate, I don’t think it was anyone who’s been staying here at the campsite.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, who would it be? The campers are all completely ordinary citizens who just want to spend their holiday in peace and quiet. Why would any of them go around with a gun and start killing people? You can hear for yourself how unlikely that sounds.’

  There was a plaintive note in the man’s voice, and Johan gave him an encouraging nod so he’d keep talking.

  ‘You must have given the whole episode a lot of thought. Has anything happened lately that might have some bearing on the murder?’

  ‘No, nothing. Everything has been the same as usual. The weather hasn’t been great, but most people have seemed perfectly happy, at least I think so. We haven’t had any complaints or anything like that.’

  ‘No strangers acting suspiciously?’

  Nilsson shook his head, looking gloomy. Johan had the feeling that the reality of what had happened so close to his peaceful campsite was just beginning to sink in.

  ‘Have you had any cancellations since the murder?’

  ‘A bunch of people left as soon as they found out what had happened, and we’ve had about twenty or thirty phone calls with cancellations. But plenty of people have actually stayed, especially our regular campers. About 80 per cent of the campers are regulars, you know; they come back year after year. Most of them are from Gotland, and they probably realize that this was a one-off occurrence.’

  ‘What about you? How sure are you of that?’

  ‘Of course you never know, but I have a hard time imagining that we’re deal
ing with a serial killer who’s only interested in killing campers on Fårö. What do you think?’

  Johan left the question unanswered.

  BY THE TIME Karin Jacobsson got back to police headquarters after her interview with Vendela Bovide, Thomas Wittberg had already located the passengers who had been aboard the first ferry to cross Fårösund the previous morning.

  The captain of the ferry had remembered enough of the licence plate numbers to allow the police to track down the vehicle owners.

  ‘It was easier than I thought to get hold of these people,’ Wittberg told Jacobsson with satisfaction as they sat down across from each other in her office.

  He brushed the shock of blond hair out of his eyes and began his report.

  ‘Let’s start with the young couple. They’re from Gotland and had been spending the past week on holiday on Fårö. They’d been out partying in Visby and were on their way back. That’s why they took such an early ferry. They’re renting a cottage from a farm family. We’ve asked the couple to be here at one o’clock for an interview. They’ll be going home on a boat this afternoon.’

  ‘OK, we’ll have to wait and see whether we should let them go.’

  ‘The woman travelling by herself is married and lives in Kyllaj.’

  ‘All year round? I thought there were only summer homes out there.’

  ‘No, she and her family actually live there permanently, but I think they’re practically the only ones. There might be one other family.’

  Karin had been out to Kyllaj only once in her life. It had been for a summertime party when she was thirteen, and she’d had her first kiss down at the beach. It was a lovely memory, and the little village by the sea had a special place in her heart.

  She pushed the thought aside.

  ‘Will she be coming in too?’

  ‘No. She’s pregnant, and fairly far along from what I understand. She asked if we could do the interview on the phone, but I explained that wasn’t possible; we need to see her in person. Apparently she has a hard time getting around; she said something about pelvic girdle pain.’

  ‘If she’s about to give birth, she probably has other things on her mind besides our investigation, but of course she might have seen something,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I’d be happy to go out to Kyllaj; I haven’t been there since I was thirteen. But I can’t make it today. Find out if she noticed anything out of the ordinary, and we’ll have to make do with that for the time being. By the way, what was she doing on the Fårö ferry at four in the morning?’

  ‘She said that she can’t sleep at night now that she’s pregnant and it’s so hot, so she likes to drive around and take a look at the countryside when there’s no traffic. She hasn’t lived here very long. And it’s still light almost all night long.’

  ‘That sounds a bit odd, but I’ve heard that pregnant women can come up with all sorts of weird ideas. What about the third car, with the horse trailer?’

  ‘It belongs to a farmer on Fårö. His son had gone over to the mainland to buy a horse, and he arrived by the night boat from Nynäshamn. The family has run their farm on Fårö for many years.’

  ‘Darn it.’ Jacobsson spun her chair around. ‘I had high hopes the perp would turn out to be someone on the ferry. But I suppose that would have been too easy. How often do we run into someone who’s as observant and has such a good memory as that captain?’

  ‘But we don’t have to give up hope yet. We still have to interview the passengers.’

  ‘Sure, but the most likely scenario is that Peter Bovide’s killer was already on Fårö on the morning of the murder, meaning that he had slept there overnight. And we can’t rule out the possibility that he’s still on the island. Let’s keep checking everyone leaving on the ferries for a few more days.’

  JACOBSSON HAD JUST finished a phone conversation with the fraud division, asking them to look into the finances of Peter Bovide’s company, when she heard voices out in the hall. Her colleagues from the NCP had arrived. She smiled to herself when she recognized Martin Kihlgård’s bellowing voice mixed with the laughter and happy shouts of the others. As soon as the inspector made his appearance in the corridors of police headquarters, the mood always improved considerably. The mere sight of him brought smiles to the faces of his co-workers. Martin Kihlgård was close to 6 foot 3 inches tall and he weighed well over 220 pounds. He never bothered to comb his hair, which stuck out in all directions in the strangest way. His eyes were big and round, giving the impression that he was staring attentively at whoever he happened to be talking to.

  ‘Hi, Karin,’ he exclaimed heartily when he caught sight of his significantly smaller colleague. A foot shorter and weighing only half as much as Kihlgård, she practically drowned in his embrace.

  ‘Hi, it’s great you’re here.’

  Jacobsson returned his bear hug as best she could, glimpsing several more colleagues from Stockholm standing behind the huge inspector.

  The entire investigative team immediately gathered in the meeting room. A tray of coffee and cold drinks was brought in, along with a platter of fresh fruit. Jacobsson had specifically requested a more healthy alternative for refreshments at their meetings, instead of the usual cinnamon rolls and Wienerbröd pastries. She noted with amusement the look of disappointment on Martin Kihlgård’s face.

  ‘I heard that Knutie is on holiday,’ said Kihlgård as they all sat down.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jacobsson. ‘He’s in Denmark with his family. His wife is Danish, you know.’

  ‘Lina, yes. Terribly attractive woman. And what a sense of humour. They’re a lot of fun, those Danes.’

  ‘Right.’

  Jacobsson felt a sudden stab of annoyance. She wasn’t sure why. But it was gone as abruptly as it had appeared.

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘In a week.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Kihlgård ran his eyes over the table. Presumably in search of a treat, thought Jacobsson. He was the most voracious glutton and had the biggest sweet tooth of anybody she’d ever met.

  She asked each of her colleagues to introduce themselves briefly before she turned to Wittberg.

  ‘You’ve compiled all the interviews, Thomas. What do they tell us?’

  ‘The murder took place just after six yesterday morning. We can pin that down with some certainty because a couple living in a cabin near the crime scene heard the shots while they were listening to the news broadcast on the radio. They both heard at least five or six shots. They didn’t call the police because they were convinced somebody was just out shooting rabbits. A lot of that goes on in the area – poachers hunting rabbits, that is,’ he said, turning to his colleagues from Stockholm. ‘In the peaceful terrain of Fårö we would hardly expect somebody to be murdered.’

  ‘They still could have called the police,’ objected Kihlgård. ‘It’s illegal to shoot rabbits!’

  ‘I know,’ admitted Wittberg. ‘But the people who live on Fårö are so used to it that nobody pays any attention any more.’

  ‘At any rate, there’s nothing to contradict the witnesses’ statement as to the time of the murder,’ said Sohlman. ‘Peter Bovide probably died instantly from the first shot, the one that struck his forehead. And he’d been dead for three and a half hours before he was found.’

  Sohlman got up and pulled down the white screen at the front of the room. He turned off the lights and switched on his computer. A detailed map of the bay and the campsite at Sudersand appeared on the screen.

  ‘If he left the caravan just after five thirty, he should have reached this point no later than five or ten minutes before six o’clock. It takes about fifteen or twenty minutes to run to the other end of the beach.’

  Sohlman pointed with his pen to indicate the route that Bovide must have taken. Nobody said a word.

  ‘Somewhere along here on the beach, at the water’s edge, he encountered his killer. His footprints were still in the sand when we searched the area. Judging by the bloodstains on
the sand and the way the body had fallen, it seems that the victim was first shot in the forehead. He toppled over on to the sand, then the perpetrator took a few steps forward and continued to fire – we’re talking about no fewer than seven shots to the abdomen. After that the body was dragged into the water, where it drifted out quite a distance, at least twenty to thirty yards. That’s not so strange, considering the offshore wind that we had yesterday morning.’

  Sohlman tugged at a lock of his hair, a habit of his, and then went on.

  ‘We’ve found two empty shell casings on the beach, but no bullets. They’re probably all still in the body. The post mortem is being done right now, so we’ll have to wait for the preliminary report.’

  ‘Yes, I’m hoping to get it some time this evening,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Now I think we should discuss what the motive might be for the murder. What sort of options do you see? I’d like all of us to do some brainstorming on the subject. Feel free to voice your opinions.’

  Her colleagues, who had worked with Knutas for aeons, now looked at her in astonishment. They weren’t used to anything like this, being asked to speculate about possible scenarios with so few facts on the table. Knutas detested speculation. Wittberg was the first to respond.

  ‘If he was shot just after six o’clock but arrived at the site five or ten minutes before six, then the question is: what did Peter Bovide do during the last minutes of his life?’

  ‘Maybe he injured himself while he was running and had to stop. Or maybe he was simply tired and needed to take a break,’ suggested Jacobsson.

  ‘Why would he be tired after only a few kilometres?’ objected Wittberg. ‘He’d been going out to run every day for years. Maybe he stopped to talk to the perp before he was shot to death.’

  ‘That sounds to me like a more plausible explanation,’ interjected Kihlgård. ‘The victim and the perp might have known each other.’

  ‘Another possibility is that he happened upon an armed madman who was bent on killing somebody,’ Jacobsson went on. ‘Any random victim.’

  ‘The question we need to ask,’ said Kihlgård, ‘is why would a carpenter and the father of two young children from Slite be shot in cold blood at a campsite while out for his usual morning jog? It sounds completely unbelievable when put into words. Especially since it all takes place on peaceful little Fårö.’