The Dead Of Summer

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘I’d like to know as much as you can tell me about Bovide.’

  ‘He came here in the early hours of 1 August 1985, at 3.15 a.m., to be precise,’ the doctor read from the file. ‘He was suffering from violent convulsions. We gave him the appropriate medicines and detoxified him. His blood alcohol level was.16 when he arrived.’

  ‘From what I understand, that was his first epileptic fit, and it brought on a severe depression.’

  ‘Hmm… that’s not exactly how I’d describe the situation. Peter Bovide did begin therapy after that event, and then he started seeing an authorized therapist. The psychologist and I kept in contact the whole time, since I was the doctor handling his case from a purely medical perspective, and we both saw a connection between the epilepsy and the depression.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It’s not easy to say. But both started at the same time.’

  ‘On that day, 1 August?’

  ‘No, he’d actually had his first epileptic fit a week earlier.’

  ‘Really? In what context?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I don’t know. He didn’t want to say. On that occasion he was admitted to Nynäshamn hospital.’

  ‘Nynäshamn? What was he doing there?’

  ‘He may have been on his way either to or from Gotland. It was in the middle of the summer, after all. He must have been on holiday.’

  ‘Sure, you’re probably right. Well, don’t hesitate to ring again if you think of anything else.’

  Knutas thanked the doctor for his information.

  LATE MONDAY NIGHT, Knutas received the message he was hoping for. The Estonian police reported that the owner of the white van, Ants Otsa, had been arrested, along with his two companions, at his home in central Tallinn. All three had openly admitted to the police that they’d been working illegally in Sweden for a company on Gotland called Slite Construction. The contact between the Swedish and Estonian police had functioned beyond all expectations. The extradition process, which was normally difficult to handle, had been carried out with astonishing ease. On Tuesday the men would be flown to Stockholm, and from there to Gotland.

  Knutas leaned back in his chair. He was pleased to know that the men who had most likely beaten Vendela Bovide and also threatened him and locked him in a cupboard had now been caught. And maybe all three, or at least one of them, had murdered Peter Bovide.

  TUESDAY, 18 JULY

  RIGHT AFTER LUNCH on Tuesday, the three Estonians arrived at police headquarters, along with officers from the Estonian police force. An interpreter was summoned to help out if needed.

  Knutas was not allowed to participate since he was a plaintiff in the incident that had occurred on Furillen. He caught a glimpse of the men as they were escorted to the interrogation room, and he recognized them at once. A wave of revulsion ran through his body. Maybe he’d been more affected by the experience than he thought.

  The men were identified as Ants Otsa, Andres Sula and Evald Kreem. They were interviewed separately.

  Jacobsson and Wittberg started with Ants Otsa, the owner of the van.

  They took seats in one of the interrogation rooms on the ground floor of police headquarters. The arrested man sat on one side of the table, and Jacobsson sat across from him. As a witness to the interview, Wittberg sat in a chair a short distance away. Otsa was no more than twenty-three years old, and he seemed nervous. His English was good enough that they didn’t need an interpreter.

  ‘We had nothing to do with killing Peter. Nothing. You have to realize that,’ he insisted over and over again, even before the interview had begun.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Jacobsson admonished him. ‘Take it easy. Let’s take one thing at a time.’

  She switched on the tape recorder, asked the usual introductory questions and then leaned back in her chair to study the young man’s face; he was clearly panic-stricken. He was blond, with a pale complexion, and his tongue was pierced. A pinch of snuff made his upper lip bulge on one side. His eyes were a watery light blue.

  ‘What have you been doing here on Gotland?’

  ‘I work in construction.’

  ‘Illegally?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you have a work permit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long have you been working here?’

  ‘About six months.’

  ‘Is Slite Construction the only company you’ve worked for?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell us about the building project on Furillen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For instance, how many of you worked there?’

  Otsa looked away.

  ‘I don’t really know. Three or four.’

  ‘OK. Why did you remove all the appliances from the house?’

  The young man fidgeted uneasily.

  ‘Because we hadn’t been paid. We’d been working day and night for two months without getting an öre.’

  ‘Why hadn’t you been paid?’

  ‘Peter said he’d pay us, but he never did.’

  ‘But you got your wages in the beginning?’

  ‘Yes, back then he came out every two weeks and gave us the wages we’d agreed on. Later on, he started making excuses.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘He said he was waiting for money from someone else who was late in paying, and that we’d get paid soon, but we never did.’

  ‘Was Peter always the one who paid you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he give you the money?’

  ‘He came out to the building site.’

  ‘Were you paid in cash?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Eighty kronor an hour.’

  ‘But you haven’t been paid anything recently?’

  ‘No. We worked on several jobs for him, and we haven’t received any wages for the past two months.’

  ‘OK, let’s go back to that Sunday on Furillen. Why did you lock up Superintendent Knutas?’

  ‘We felt bad that we had to do that. But when we saw that he was a police officer, we got scared. We needed to go back home to our families. We have wives and children to support. We took the things from the house as payment for back wages.’

  ‘What about the beating?’ said Jacobsson. ‘What do you know about the assault on Vendela Bovide, Peter’s wife?’

  Otsa looked like he’d been expecting the question.

  ‘It wasn’t something we’d planned. We were desperate, because we hadn’t been paid, and now Peter was dead. And that other guy, Johnny, said that he had nothing to do with the money. So the only one who could pay our wages was Peter’s wife. We’d heard that they had a safe at home. We didn’t intend to hit her, but Evald lost control.’

  ‘Evald? You mean he was the only one who hit her? While you two stood and watched? Or maybe you were comforting her two little children while he beat her?’

  Jacobsson was infuriated by the man’s evasive answers.

  Otsa lowered his eyes. ‘No. We didn’t think about the fact that she had little kids in the house. I’m sorry, but we were desperate. We didn’t know what to do.’

  Jacobsson and Wittberg exchanged glances.

  ‘Do you own a gun?’

  ‘A gun? No.’ The man sitting across the table shook his head.

  ‘Do any of your friends own a gun?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where were you on the morning of 10 July, around six o’clock?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Otsa, and for the first time his voice shook.

  ‘Take your time and think about it,’ Jacobsson urged him.

  ‘On 10 July, that early in the morning? I was sleeping in the construction shack out on Furillen. That’s where we were staying. Well, I was probably up by then. We usually started work at seven.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can confirm your statement?’

  ‘Sure, my friends who are here with me. All three of us were out there.’
/>   ‘Are they the only ones?’

  ‘Yes, we were the only ones sleeping there.’

  ‘So there’s nobody else who can vouch for the truth of what you’re telling us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In other words, you don’t have an alibi for the time of the murder?’

  Ants Otsa didn’t reply. He just stared straight ahead with a vacant expression.

  GOTSKA SANDÖN, 21 JULY 1985

  AS THE TWO sisters walked around Kyrkudden on Gotska Sandön and saw the waters of Franska Bukten ahead of them, they felt like explorers who had just come ashore on a deserted island.

  There was no sign of any human habitation as far as the eye could see. The shoreline stretched out for several kilometres, making a soft curve of fine-grained sand all the way out to Tärnudden on the other side. Even though it was still before noon, the heat was already intense; the sun glittered on the water, and the only living creatures to be seen were a few black-backed seagulls strutting about on the beach. Some distance from shore and higher up was a belt of short-shafted reeds, and beyond them began a lowland pine forest. It would be hard to get much farther away from civilization.

  They stopped for a moment to catch their breath. Their rucksacks were heavy, and their feet hurt after walking for three hours along the uneven shore, which alternated between sand and stones. They had left behind their campsite on the other side of the island, where people could pitch their tents or rent one of the few cabins available to tourists.

  Oleg had been walking around in an elated state ever since they had come ashore on the island several days earlier. Gotska Sandön was more beautiful and more amazing than any of them could have imagined. They had seen the place where Oleg’s great-grandfather had drowned when the Russian ship, the Vsadnik, had sunk in a storm on an August night in 1864. They had visited the cemetery and admired the Russian cannons that were still on the beach called Franska Bukten. It was the girls’ favourite beach, and they had been given permission to spend the night there under open skies. Pitching a tent was not allowed.

  They started making camp by laying out their sleeping bags in the middle of the beach and setting up a windbreak, even though there was only a light breeze. The weather forecast promised beautiful summer weather for the next few days, and almost no wind at all. One of their rucksacks was functioning as an insulated bag containing their dinner, which consisted of roast beef and potato salad.

  After they’d set up camp, they took off their clothes and ran naked into the sea. The water was invigorating and crystal clear.

  They spent the whole day swimming, reading and playing beach tennis. Every once in a while someone would walk past, but they could see from far away if anyone was coming, so they had plenty of time to put their clothes back on. Towards evening, they sat on the sand looking at the water. They had smuggled along a bottle of wine, which they shared.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Tanya, raising her paper cup. ‘Oh, how cosy it is here. I wish we could stay here all day tomorrow too.’

  Vera tapped her cup against Tanya’s.

  ‘Me too. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a more gorgeous place.’

  ‘Or more isolated. It’s like a dream. Somehow unreal. I could stay here my whole life.’

  They gazed out at the sea. Just at that moment, a sailboat rounded the point.

  THURSDAY, 20 JULY

  JOHAN STROLLED THROUGH the streets of Visby. It was early evening, and many of the shops were still open, while the tables in the restaurants were filling up. Down by Stora Torget he went into a bar and sat down to drink a cold beer. Sometimes he really did enjoy being alone, with no one making demands on him; he didn’t need to think about anyone but himself. His thoughts wandered from Emma to Elin to his job.

  He finished off his beer and got up to continue on his way through town. The lead that he and Pia had uncovered regarding threats and illegal workers, which had at first seemed so hot, had already gone cold. They simply hadn’t made any headway. It had been leaked to the media that the police were looking for a Russian in connection with the murder. Johan had no idea how the information had got out, but it wasn’t really so strange. Such things happened sooner or later. The head office in Stockholm was no longer particularly interested in the murder; other news had taken priority. It was now ten days since Bovide had been killed, and that was an eternity in the news business. As the murderer hadn’t struck again, the tourists had calmed down and everything had gone back to normal. The campsites were just as full as usual. And it looked as if, this summer, the temperatures would reach record highs, which of course was good for tourism. Many people who came to Gotland decided to do so at the last minute, especially young people. These days it was hard to find a single empty space on the most popular beaches after eleven in the morning.

  Both Johan and Pia had made a search for the Russian citizens who lived on Gotland and tried to ferret out what sort of Russian contacts Peter Bovide might have had. The problem was that Grenfors, back in Stockholm, kept interrupting them with new stories that had to be covered, all of them more or less meaningless. This very morning they’d ended up in a major argument when the editor wanted Johan and Pia to drive out to the countryside near Gerum and interview a father whose son had died the previous day from drinking illegal booze. The son had gone to a party and was offered some sort of industrial alcohol. Afterwards he came home and went to bed, never to wake up again. Now his father wanted to talk to the media to issue a warning to others. Johan had tried to make Grenfors understand that, naturally, the father was in shock and incapable of comprehending what consequences there might be if he appeared on TV. It was obvious that all the newspapers and other media would come running, and his home would be besieged by reporters. For Grenfors, it was enough that somebody was willing to speak publicly – he didn’t think his responsibility extended any further. Johan didn’t agree. Over the years they’d had countless clashes over what was ethically or morally defensible for journalists.

  Pia had sided with Grenfors and said that of course they should interview the father, since he seemed so adamant about wanting to talk to the media. Everybody else would be reporting the story, she insisted.

  Johan lit a cigarette and had hardly managed to take a few puffs before he passed Strandgärdet, outside the ring wall to the north. Judging by the music coming from the loudspeakers, he should have realized what was going on. The Friskis and Svettis gym was holding its daily session outdoors on the big lawn. A hundred people were doing exercises in unison under the open sky. The evening sun shone over the energetic crowd, and Johan felt like a truly bad person as he walked past. He considered putting out his cigarette but decided against it.

  He started thinking again about the father who had lost his son; the boy had just turned seventeen. The Russian coal transports that came into the harbour at Slite popped into his mind. They sold illegal booze there. He’d almost forgotten about that lead. And now they knew that Peter Bovide had been shot with a Russian gun. Quickly he punched in Pia’s number on his mobile. She answered immediately.

  ‘Are you still pissed off?’

  ‘No, not at all. I know that I’m right, and you’ll feel the same way after you’ve worked in this business long enough,’ he teased her.

  ‘Super. Why’d you ring?’

  ‘Do you remember when the next coal transport is due at Slite? Bovide was killed with a Russian gun, and those ships come from Russia. And they also sell illegal booze. That’s a story we’ve never reported before. We can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, and hopefully find out more about the murder.’

  ‘Do you know whether the police are following up on that lead? I haven’t seen or read anything about it.’

  ‘Me neither, but I’m sure they’re checking it out. It should be of great interest to them.’

  ‘Have you talked to Knutas?’

  ‘No, I was thinking of phoning him, but do you know when the next boat is due?’

  ‘No idea, but I
can find out. I have a friend who works at the harbour.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  Johan began walking home through the botanical garden. All of a sudden, he felt much more cheerful. Pia rang back.

  ‘We’re in luck. Those boats arrive only a couple of times a month, but the next one is expected here tomorrow.’

  ‘Fantastic. Now all we need to do is convince Grenfors to let us work on the story.’

  He ended the call and rang Max Grenfors in Stockholm. The editor agreed at once.

  ‘Good thinking. If the transports have nothing to do with the murder, it’s still a story that’s worth reporting. And we’ve never covered this angle before. Russian coal transports, illegal booze – sounds really exciting. But shouldn’t we do the story undercover?’

  Johan felt like laughing. Grenfors loved to use police terms. Especially in English.

  ‘OK, we’ll take along a little camera that we can hide under our clothes. I don’t think we’re going to get any major scoop if we show up down at the harbour carrying a big TV camera.’

  ‘Good. And then we just have to hope that something related to the murder will come out. It’s been confirmed that Peter Bovide bought booze down there, right?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve had that information confirmed by several sources,’ said Johan. ‘So you can count on having some sort of story, at any rate.’

  ‘Fine. Good luck tomorrow night. And be careful.’

  ‘Your concern is very touching.’

  FRIDAY, 21 JULY

  KNUTAS HAD LAIN awake most of the night, brooding over the investigation. At five in the morning, he gave up and got out of bed. The swimming pool opened at six thirty, and it had been a long time since he’d had a chance to get some exercise. He made himself some coffee and ate a couple of sandwiches before he woke Lina.