The Dead Of Summer

by Mari Jungstedt

  He eyed Jacobsson’s plate greedily.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said.

  ‘It’d be a shame to throw out good food.’

  He swiftly traded his empty plate for his colleague’s.

  Just as Jacobsson was about to oppose Kihlgård’s theory, her mobile rang. It was Knutas.

  ‘What, can’t you resist phoning me?’ she teased him. ‘Don’t you think I can handle the investigation on my own, or what? Just relax, Anders – you’re on holiday.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just walked in the door of police headquarters. I came straight from the airport.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I couldn’t stay away. After I heard about the murder I couldn’t relax, since I was so close to home. So I decided I might as well come back. My family is still in Denmark, but I caught the first plane home.’

  Kihlgård saw Jacobsson’s disappointed expression.

  ‘I see,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t sound especially happy about it,’ said Knutas, a little annoyed.

  ‘Sure I am. Of course I’m glad you’re back. You know that.’

  EMMA HAD JUST raised her wine glass to her lips when she caught sight of Johan above all the heads in Donner’s Bar. How typical that he should be here too, she thought, now that she had finally decided to go out, for a change.

  She took several small sips, keeping her eyes fixed on him. He hadn’t noticed her as he stood there chatting merrily with Pia Lilja and a man who looked familiar, although she couldn’t place him. Closest to Johan stood a woman that Emma didn’t recognize. Her appearance was disturbing, to say the least. She was everything that Emma was not: petite, dark-haired, mysterious, voluptuous. Like a soft, cuddly cat, she was laughing and affectionately nudging Johan, who presumably reciprocated in his usual playful way. His hair seemed abnormally long and curly, he was unshaven, and he looked pale among all the suntanned tourists. What’s he been up to, anyway? Emma thought, annoyed. Partying all night long and then sleeping through half the day? And why doesn’t he have any colour in his face when he tans so easily? She hadn’t noticed it the day before when they met at Almedalen. At the time she was just thinking how cute he looked.

  She studied him, feeling upset. The father of her youngest child stood over there, on the other side of the outdoor bar, holding a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, carefree and flirting, without giving a thought to her or Elin.

  It was true that he’d phoned her several times on her mobile and left messages. She hadn’t bothered to call back. Whenever she was uncertain how to handle a situation, her response was to flee. Emma was aware of this, but felt incapable of breaking the pattern.

  Her relationship with Johan had come to a standstill, and she couldn’t see any way out. He was going to be on Gotland all summer, working, and in her mind Emma had planned out how they could divide up taking care of Elin. That was as far as she dared think.

  Now she needed to find a way to leave the restaurant without running into him. Just as she was wondering how to do this, he caught sight of her. She saw how startled he looked, and she quickly turned her head, pretending she hadn’t seen him. It took ten seconds for him to appear at her side.

  ‘Hi, Emma.’

  A wave of heat filled her stomach when he said her name. She gazed into his dark-brown eyes, then looked away so as not to drown in his gaze. He made her feel weak, down to her very marrow.

  ‘Hi,’ she calmly replied.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘We just finished working, Pia and I, and Peter and Madeleine; they work for the national news division. The murder case on Fårö, you know.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right.’ She nodded. So that’s who they were – colleagues from work.

  ‘How’s Elin?’

  ‘Fine, just fine.’ She laughed awkwardly. ‘Mamma and Pappa are babysitting her tonight.’

  ‘OK.’ Johan nodded and glanced over at the others.

  Emma felt ill at ease.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be going back to join your colleagues?’ she said, giving the last word a sarcastic emphasis.

  The girlfriend she’d come with had disappeared in the crowd. Too bad she wasn’t here with a guy.

  Johan turned towards her again.

  ‘You know, I rang you several times today. Why didn’t you call me back?’

  For a microsecond she relented, wanting to sink into his arms and shut out the whole world. Instead she said, ‘I’ve been really busy. And by the way, I’ve got to go.’

  She pretended to wave to somebody over by the door and strode off. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Johan’s expression, but when she cast a glance at the bar before she stepped out on to the street, he had rejoined the others and was chatting easily with the brunette. Emma felt a pang of bitterness. Without knowing why, she felt humiliated. She couldn’t understand why she was reacting so strongly.

  It felt as if her relationship with Johan had definitely come to an end. For good.

  WEDNESDAY, 12 JULY

  KNUTAS WAS WELCOMED with open arms the following morning when the entire investigative team gathered for a meeting. The only person he wondered about was Karin. He hoped that she wouldn’t interpret his return as a sign that he didn’t have confidence in her abilities. She hadn’t been quite as warm as she usually was.

  Coffee and cinnamon rolls from Konditori Siesta were on the table. Knutas cast a glance at Kihlgård, who had put two rolls on a plate in front of him. Of course he was the one who had replaced the fruit with pastries.

  They had just started when Erik Sohlman came in, waving a piece of paper in his hand. His red hair was dishevelled, and his eyes were shining. Knutas recognized the expression; it was exactly the way Sohlman looked when he was watching a soccer match and the AIK team was winning.

  ‘Hi, sorry I’m late, but I’ve been talking to SCL and the ME this morning. They’ve been unusually quick this time round.’

  The air of anticipation in the room rose perceptibly, and everyone looked at Sohlman with interest.

  ‘We’ve received an answer from SCL regarding the type of ammunition that was used. It’s Russian.’

  ‘Russian?’ repeated Knutas with surprise.

  ‘You heard right. And it’s such a special kind that the lab can even say what sort of gun the bullets came from. A Russian army pistol, a Tulski brand, and the model is called Korovin. It’s a fully automatic gun in an odd calibre of 6.35 millimetres. It’s quite old, manufactured in 1926.’

  ‘Who would use an eighty-year-old Russian army pistol?’ exclaimed Wittberg. ‘That doesn’t really sound like the work of a pro.’

  ‘We need to check out everybody who has a gun permit on Gotland, in fact in all of Sweden,’ said Knutas. ‘Find out if anybody has a permit for that particular type of weapon. What does it look like? Do you have a photo, Erik?’

  ‘No, but I’ll find one ASAP. If I’m not mistaken, it’s a very small gun, like a Browning.’

  ‘We need to investigate what sort of Russian contacts Bovide had,’ Knutas went on. ‘Who could have imported an old Russian army gun, and above all: what sort of person would use this type of weapon to murder somebody?’

  ‘The best-case scenario would be if we could find the gun, but the chance of that happening diminishes with each day that passes,’ said Sohlman. ‘The coast-guard divers are searching the waters today too, but that will be the end of it. And I don’t think the gun is anywhere on shore, or else the police dogs would have found it.’

  ‘What sort of part-time workers were hired by Bovide’s company, aside from the full-time employees?’ asked Wittberg. ‘Do you know whether Bovide used illegal workers?’

  ‘I’ve turned over that part of the investigation to the fraud division,’ said Jacobsson. ‘They’re going over everything with a fine-tooth comb: financial statements, book-keeping practices, employ
ees, what sort of projects the company was involved in – the works.’

  ‘Every contractor probably uses the occasional illegal, and there are plenty of workers from the Baltic countries and from Poland in the construction business,’ Wittberg went on. ‘Maybe from Russia too.’

  ‘Of course, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that the perp has to be Russian, just because the gun came from there,’ Jacobsson objected. ‘There are plenty of Russian weapons in circulation on the black market.’

  Knutas turned to Kihlgård, who had his mouth full. ‘How’s it going with mapping out Peter Bovide’s life?’

  Kihlgård carefully finished chewing before he replied.

  ‘If we first look at his family, friends and circle of acquaintances, a large number of interviews have been done, and in summary I can say that so far nothing out of the ordinary has turned up. The neighbours didn’t notice anything particular about the family, and the Bovides don’t seem to have fought or argued. Not a single person could confirm that Peter Bovide thought he was being watched or that he’d ever received anonymous phone calls at the office. So far, that information has come only from his business partner, Johnny Ekwall.’

  ‘What about the others who work at the company? The office secretary, Linda?’ asked Jacobsson.

  Kihlgård shook his head.

  ‘Her answers were inconclusive. She says that somebody might have called, but she thought it was just a wrong number. She says she had no idea that Bovide felt he was being watched.’ Kihlgård took a gulp of coffee and continued: ‘According to their relatives, the Bovides were a perfect couple; they had a nice home, the children were well looked after and they always behaved politely. Everyone we talked to seemed genuinely shocked by the murder.’

  ‘There’s something else that comes to mind when I hear that a Russian gun was used, and that’s the traffic related to the Russian coal transports in Slite harbour,’ Wittberg interjected. ‘I mean, the barges arrive several times a month, and everybody knows they’re selling illegal booze over there.’

  Jacobsson thought about the article she’d seen in the newspaper. The same idea had occurred to her.

  Knutas agreed that Wittberg had a plausible argument. The coal barges were a problem. The police were well aware that the sale of illegal liquor was going on, but they didn’t have the resources to check every shipment. They were able to make only random checks.

  ‘That sounds reasonable,’ said Kihlgård. ‘We should follow up on that lead.’

  ‘Does anybody know when the next transport is due to arrive?’ asked Knutas. ‘And on the Swedish side, who’s responsible for the unloading?’

  ‘The harbour master at the Cementa company,’ said Wittberg. ‘That’s where the coal is headed. They use it as fuel in the furnaces.’

  ‘OK,’ said Knutas. ‘I’ll ring him after the meeting.’

  ‘Wait a sec,’ Kihlgård interjected. ‘One of the neighbours mentioned something about Cementa.’

  He quickly flicked through his notebook.

  ‘Right. Here it is. An Arne Nilsson who lives next door to the Bovides said that Peter had a big fortieth birthday celebration not long ago. And quite a lot of booze was served. He said something about vodka… oh, that’s right, he said that the vodka flowed and it wasn’t the usual kind you can buy at the state liquor store. It was a stronger type that was imported directly from Russia. Apparently it was from one of the Russian barges that deliver coal to Cementa.’

  ‘But plenty of people buy illegal booze,’ Sohlman objected. ‘Why should this have anything to do with the murder?’

  ‘It’s at least worth looking into,’ said Knutas. ‘I’ll find out when the next shipment is due.’

  WHEN JOHAN WOKE up, he didn’t know at first where he was. He peered at the ceiling, which had a yellowish tint he didn’t recognize. Cautiously, he turned over; the bed was much softer and wider than his own. For a split second he thought he was lying in Emma’s bedroom out in Roma. He felt a rush of euphoric joy shoot through his body until he realized that he hadn’t spent the previous evening with her and the sounds outside the window were much louder and more diverse than in the peaceful residential neighbourhood in Roma. Then images from the previous day came flooding in. Oh shit. They’d gone to Donner’s Bar and from there to the outdoor tavern Vinäger, where they’d run into a bunch of people from the local radio station. They’d partied all night and got very drunk. The night had ended outside the Saint Karin church ruins, with him and Madeleine getting together instead of going their separate ways. After that he’d accompanied her back to the hotel. No, he thought. No, no.

  He turned on to his side and saw the cloud of brown hair sticking out of the covers.

  Shit. They’d had sex. He’d slept with his work colleague. How low could he go? He wanted to forget the whole thing. As quietly as possible, he crept out of bed and went into the bathroom. He turned on the tap, but only halfway so the splash of the water wouldn’t be audible. He looked at himself in the mirror: his face was a sallow colour, his eyes were bloodshot, with a weary and slightly melancholy expression. Who was this man he was looking at? He discovered several new wrinkles near his eyes and on his throat. A new furrow that hadn’t been there before. His face had changed, aged. He had a bad taste in his mouth. The image of Emma’s face appeared before him. How could he have been so stupid? He felt so sleazy, and the contempt he felt for himself was nauseating. He’d wait until he got home to take a shower. He had to leave, get out of here. He slipped back into the room and grabbed his clothes, terrified that Madeleine would wake up.

  Without a sound he closed the door behind him.

  THE NEXT COAL transport wasn’t due to arrive in Slite harbour until the following week. Knutas set the matter aside for the time being and decided instead to pay a visit to Peter Bovide’s parents, even though they’d already been interviewed. He wanted to meet them in person.

  It was great to leave police headquarters and set off alone. He chose to drive his own vehicle, an old Mercedes with no air conditioning, so he was feeling sweaty by the time he made it out to Slite. Katarina and Stig Bovide lived in a ground-floor flat in the middle of town. The blinds were closed, and from the outside it looked like no one was home.

  Knutas rang the bell and then had to wait for a while.

  Eventually the door opened, and Knutas was taken aback when he saw the expression of the elderly woman standing there. Even though Katarina Bovide’s face was both freckled and tanned, and in her long, bright dress she actually reminded him a bit of Lina, her grief and despair were painfully evident.

  She merely nodded to him and led the way to the living room, which under normal circumstances was no doubt quite pleasant, but right now it was only dimly lit. The curtains had been drawn so that very little light seeped in from the windows. It was as if Peter Bovide’s parents wanted to close out the lovely summer day. As if they couldn’t bear the beauty.

  The next instant a man appeared in the doorway. He looked just as haggard and empty of all life as his wife. Stig Bovide was tall and thin with sparse light-brown hair and blue eyes. He wore a light-coloured shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. On his feet he had a pair of Birkenstock slippers. A heavy sense of grief hung in the air, and the temperature bordered on intolerably hot. Knutas was thirsty, but neither of them offered him anything to drink. He decided to try toughing it out.

  ‘First, please accept my condolences, of course,’ he began. ‘As you may have heard, I’m in charge of the investigation. I was out of town, but I came back yesterday and I’ve taken over from Karin Jacobsson. She’s my deputy superintendent.’

  He cleared his throat, wondering why he was wasting words on such things.

  ‘All right then. I have a few questions that I’d like to ask you.’

  ‘We’ve already talked to the police,’ said Stig Bovide. ‘With somebody by the name of Kihlgård. He was here yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. But since I’ve now taken over responsibilit
y, I wanted to meet you in person. I hope you don’t mind. Naturally we’re doing everything in our power to catch the person who did this, and so it’s important that I find out as much as possible about Peter. Could you start by telling me how you think he was doing?’

  ‘How he was doing?’ repeated Katarina Bovide tonelessly.

  ‘I mean in general terms, both in his work and in his marriage.’

  ‘Hmm, I don’t really know,’ Katarina said hesitantly. ‘I suppose he was doing fine. He and Vendela had their problems, just like everybody else, but no worse than other parents of young children. What do you think?’

  She turned to her husband. He didn’t answer, just nodded.

  ‘They had their hands full with William and Mikaela, of course, but we helped out as much as we could. Right now the children are staying with Peter’s sister in Othem. We thought it was best at the moment, since she and her family live out in the country and keep animals. And the children will be able to play with their cousins, so that will give them something else to think about. But we go out every day to help out. Until Vendela is feeling better.’

  ‘So you think Peter was happy?’

  ‘I don’t know if “happy” is the right word,’ said Stig Bovide. ‘He had his epilepsy to contend with, and that could be very difficult.’

  Knutas frowned. ‘You mean he suffered from epileptic fits?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Not very often, maybe a few times a year. It was worse if he was under stress or feeling depressed.’

  ‘Depressed? Was that common for him?’

  Both parents fidgeted uneasily.

  ‘Occasionally he felt a bit down,’ said Katarina reluctantly. ‘Whenever that happened, it was hard to talk to him. He would withdraw into himself.’