Solberga swimming pool was only a ten-minute walk from his house, and on the way to police headquarters. In the water he was weightless and free; his thoughts became clearer as he swam one lap after another at the same monotonous tempo. He practically had the whole pool to himself, except for a couple of elderly, plump women wearing swimming caps who swam at a snail’s pace and talked non-stop, as if they were at a coffee morning. He chose the lane furthest away from them, hoping that no other early-morning swimmers in need of exercise would show up. As he ploughed his way through the water, he went over the case in his mind.
Three days had passed since the Estonian construction workers had been brought to police headquarters in Visby, but unfortunately their arrest had not signified the breakthrough the police had been hoping for. The interviews had led nowhere. All three men gave the same account of events, except when it came to the assault on Vendela Bovide. Then they each accused the others. The court proceedings for the issue of a detention order had been held the previous day, and all three had been arraigned, charged with working illegally, assaulting Vendela Bovide, burgling the house on Furillen and depriving Anders Knutas of his liberty. It remained to be seen whether they were involved in the murder of Peter Bovide. No matter what, the sentence was bound to be harsh.
Knutas’s feeling that the murder had to do with something other than illegal workers had grown stronger. From the very beginning, he’d actually been sceptical that any of the three Estonian construction workers would turn out to be the perpetrator the police were looking for, especially after his own encounter with them on Furillen. Their behaviour didn’t mesh with the image of a brutal killer. On the other hand, they had definitely assaulted Vendela Bovide. Maybe they’d been more cautious with Knutas because they knew he was a police officer.
One lead that the police were now following, and which had made him wrack his brain all night, concerned the Russian coal transports that regularly docked at Slite harbour. They’d been waiting for the arrival of the next boat, and now it was finally going to happen. Over the past week the investigative team had been working on how to make its move, which would take place late this evening. Knutas was hoping that things would become much clearer after talking to the crew on board.
He stood in the shower for a long time, letting the water course over him. Then he studied his body in the mirror. It was impossible to tell that, so far, the summer had been one of the hottest in years. The slight tan that he’d acquired in Denmark was nearly gone. When he looked at himself in profile and sucked in his stomach, he looked OK; it was another matter when he viewed himself from the front. He needed to be exercising more regularly, which was made apparent by the flab that had started forming around his waist whenever he was too lazy to go swimming. Knutas was actually very athletic, but the indoor hockey season was over, and he hadn’t yet found time to play golf.
When he came out on to the street again, he was blinded by the sunlight. The heatwave was continuing, which explained why the swimming pool was almost empty, since most people naturally preferred to go to the beach. The algae blooms that often struck Gotland at the height of the summer had not yet appeared. In the evenings, all the outdoor restaurants lining Visby’s streets were packed. He and Lina were supposed to go out to dinner tonight and then enjoy a classical concert in the ruins of Saint Nicolai church. He’d finally made an effort, and ordered the tickets and reserved a table. Lina was so surprised and happy that he felt guilty.
After the morning meeting he and Jacobsson got in the car to drive up to Slite. They’d made an appointment with the harbour master who was responsible for the coal transports, who was going to show them around before the police raid, planned for that evening.
As soon as they parked the car near the front entrance of Cementa in Slite, a stout man came forward to greet them. He wore a blue overall and a cap. He gave them a friendly smile and introduced himself as harbour master Roger Nilsson.
They followed him in their car down to the harbour and then went into the office, where they all sat down to drink coffee.
Knutas got right to the point.
‘We know that illegal alcohol is being sold in connection with the coal transports, and we’ve also had it confirmed that Peter Bovide occasionally made purchases down here. What do you know about this?’
The harbour master fidgeted nervously.
‘That’s a big concern of ours. We depend on receiving coal from Russia, but at the same time, it brings other problems. The sale of illegal alcohol seems constantly on the increase. As soon as a boat docks, all sorts of people come down to the harbour to buy vodka. We’ve also noticed that more and more young people have started making purchases from the boats. We’ve contacted the police numerous times and asked them to do something about it, but so far it hasn’t done any good. Every once in a while the police come down here to check things out, but that’s about it. I can’t understand what they are waiting for. How many teenagers have to drink themselves to death before they take action?’
The harbour master shook his head. Jacobsson shifted uneasily in her chair. She had no desire to enter into a debate about how the police force made use of its limited resources.
‘Unfortunately, we can’t do anything about the matter at the moment,’ she said, ‘but I can have a talk with our county police chief later on. How are the sales conducted?’
‘People have figured out when the boats are due, and the schedule is made known through word of mouth. It’s not as if we announce it in the newspapers or put up a sign on some bulletin board. People start gathering as soon as the boat docks, and then they fall into conversation with the crew members, who also come ashore. We can’t very well forbid them from moving about freely in Slite. They usually go to the restaurants and pizzerias and to the local pub. That’s where they meet their customers, if they don’t at the harbour. We’ve also had problems with certain people who go on board the boats, so it’s been hard to keep track of what goes on.’
That caught Jacobsson’s attention.
‘People go on board? Why?’
‘The Russian crew members normally stay here for two days, and they come here so often that it’s not unusual for them to make friends with residents in the area.’
‘And some find lovers here too, perhaps?’
‘I’m sure that happens.’
‘Have you noticed any signs of prostitution?’ asked Jacobsson.
‘No, we haven’t seen any of that.’
‘Narcotics?’
‘We’re not sure, but of course it can’t be ruled out. Although I think we would have noticed if that sort of trafficking was occurring on a large scale. But we think the sale of illegal alcohol is serious enough.’
‘Did you know that Peter Bovide had been here to buy booze?’
‘No, not until people started talking about him after the murder.’
‘Do you know whether he had any contact with the Russian crew members?’
‘I don’t know if he did.’
‘Is there anyone else who works here who might have known him?’
‘It’s very possible, but I can’t think of anyone in particular.’
‘But he was from Slite, and people must be talking about the murder,’ Jacobsson insisted. ‘Do you seriously mean to say that you haven’t heard about anyone who knew Peter Bovide?’
‘No, like I said, I haven’t.’
Harbour master Roger Nilsson was obviously annoyed.
Knutas changed tack.
‘How often do the boats come here?’
‘Previously it was every other week, but as of 1 August, they’re arriving twice as often. The demand for cement is increasing all the time, and since we’re not yet making full use of the factory’s capacity, we’ve been able to increase production, and that means we need more fuel to stoke the furnaces. That’s how the limestone is melted down and transformed.’
‘And what’s your opinion of this development, in your position as harbour master?’
‘It’s double-sided. On the one hand, it’s a positive thing, of course, that the demand for cement is on the rise and that we can increase production. On the other hand, we can probably expect more problems in connection with the sale of illegal alcohol.’
When they said goodbye to the harbour master, thoughts were whirling through Knutas’s head. Who was to say that drug deals weren’t taking place in connection with the boat transports? Was it possible that Peter Bovide was a drug addict? Maybe amphetamines. Was that the reason he could run ten kilometres or so each day, keep his company going, take care of his young children and get up early every morning? He’d suffered from regular bouts of depression and he was epileptic. That sort of thing could lead to drug abuse. It was also possible that he could have been dealing drugs without taking any himself. Did he owe some ugly customers money? The MO seemed to indicate this might be a possibility. The murder was committed with a Russian gun, and the victim was shot at very close range, which testified to a brutal ruthlessness. Maybe the perp was a professional hitman.
Yet there were two circumstances that didn’t fit the picture: the fact that the perp chose to shoot Bovide in the head first and then several times in the stomach; and the fact that the gun was so old. What hitman or hard-boiled drug lord would use a gun that was eighty years old?
Knutas couldn’t make the facts add up.
EMMA WAS LYING on the sofa in the living room, watching an action film on TV. It was supposed to be exciting, but she didn’t have the energy to get involved.
Images flickered past on the TV screen: a car chase, gunshots, men running after each other through a big crowd – classic scenes. But superimposed over everything she saw vestiges of herself and Johan, like damaged fragments of a dream that had never come true. Unwanted, troublesome thoughts hounded her, and she kept shifting around on the sofa cushions. It was impossible to find a comfortable position.
She was alone in the house, left to her own thoughts. Their fight the previous Sunday and the ensuing silence from Johan had truly shaken her. At first she was angry because he’d yelled at her, but then came the shame when she realized that he was right. Even though she was upset because he’d slept with another woman, she could partially understand why it had happened.
She pictured his face and how miserable he’d looked as he sat there on that bench. She had felt so awkward, just waiting there like an idiot until he stopped sobbing. Then he handed Elin back to her, got up and left. The distance between them was so obvious. What if he never wanted to let her in again? There was a risk that the door had now been shut for good.
When her parents offered to take care of Elin for a few days, Emma had gratefully accepted. She needed to be alone to think things through.
Again she asked herself what was actually preventing her from being with Johan. She had pushed him away for a very specific reason. How could she have done otherwise, when he had put their child’s life in jeopardy? But she hadn’t received any support for her actions – not from her parents or any of her friends. Everybody thought she was being too hard on him, even her ex-husband Olle. His attitude towards Johan had become significantly friendlier ever since he’d met Marianne, who was the new woman in his life. Many things in their relationship, previously so inflammatory, had now become easier, including their shared custody of the children, Sara and Filip. Right now the kids were spending two weeks with Olle and Marianne on Crete.
The kids liked Johan, and he, in turn, had clearly demonstrated his affection for them. His job was really no obstacle either; he could work as a freelancer from Gotland or find a job with one of the local newspapers or radio stations.
She sat up on the sofa and turned off the TV. Why was she so resistant to creating a future with Johan? Was she afraid of true love? Did she think, deep in her heart, that she didn’t deserve it?
All of a sudden she had a clear insight into what was going on. She was the one, not anyone else, who kept blocking their relationship, and if she didn’t stop soon, she was going to lose Johan for good.
She was suddenly in a big hurry. Now she knew what she had to do; she just hoped it wasn’t too late.
THE BOAT COULD be seen from a great distance away. A barge-like vessel was silhouetted against the horizon. It was eight p.m., and the sun, which was on its way down, had coloured the sky red. Johan and Pia were sitting on a hilltop, gazing out at the sea. They had brought along grilled chicken and several beers so it would look as if they were just an ordinary couple enjoying an evening picnic. They ate their food in silence. Pia had binoculars with her, and now and then she would raise them to her eyes.
‘Now it’s turning in this direction.’
Johan took the binoculars from her. He saw that she was right; the boat had changed course and was slowly turning towards land. Earlier, they had gone down to the harbour to reconnoitre. Everything had seemed very quiet, like the calm before a storm. Pia had made an appointment with her friend who worked at the harbour to meet them at nine o’clock. He was a longshoreman, and officially they were just friends who were getting together and at the same time planned to buy some booze from the boat. Pia’s friend, whose name was Viktor, had told them that a bunch of people always turned up on the dock whenever the boats arrived. So they could blend right in.
Johan gave only monosyllabic replies to Pia’s attempts to carry on a conversation. He was thinking about Emma, and he had no desire to chat.
‘What are you thinking about? You seem really far away,’ said Pia, opening the cool-box. ‘Would you like another beer?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’ He took a big gulp of the cold beer, then lit a cigarette.
‘You’ve really started smoking a lot. Why is that?’ Pia grabbed the pack and shook out a cigarette for herself.
‘You should talk, especially when you happen to use snuff too. But it’s the same old issue: Emma.’
‘I can’t understand why the two of you can’t get along. What do you think you’re doing, anyway? Even a blind chicken can see that you’re made for each other.’
‘Yes, but it’s so complicated.’
‘Well, don’t make it even worse. If you ask me, I think it’s just plain human for Emma to panic after that kidnapping episode, but what surprises me is that you fail to understand it.’
Johan sat up. ‘What do you mean? What is it I don’t understand?’
‘How tough it’s been for Emma, practically since the first day she met you. It seems perfectly reasonable that she wouldn’t want to have anything to do with you after the kidnapping; from her point of view, you were the one who put Elin in danger. But now she’s become stuck in that attitude, and so it’s just easier for her to shut you out completely. After everything else, her divorce, and then the fact that you can never seem to get your life together – I mean, you seem unable to decide whether to stay on the mainland or live on Gotland. And in the meantime, she’s here and has to take full responsibility and try to work things out with her other children, with Olle, and with you and Elin. How hard have you tried to understand her position? You act so damned empathetic and ethical when you’re on the job, always taking consideration of one thing or another, but how much compassion do you really have when it comes right down to it? When it has to do with your own personal life and the people who are closest to you?’
Pia ended her harangue by taking several big gulps of beer.
Johan had a perplexed expression on his face as he sat and stared at her.
‘Why haven’t you said any of this before?’
‘I’ve tried, in small doses, but you never pay any attention.’
Johan couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Pia’s mobile rang before he could collect himself.
‘That was Viktor,’ she said after ending the conversation. ‘It’s time.’
THEY DROVE DOWN to the harbour and parked a safe distance away from the huge iron gates that marked the entry to the actual harbour area.
Pia was fitted out with a camera and
microphone inside her thin shirt, invisible under her jacket. The ship was just about to dock. It had arrived an hour ahead of schedule. Johan wondered what sort of cargo it was carrying besides the fuel. The harbour master, with whom he’d had a talk earlier in the day, had said that the fuel was unloaded via pipes that were hooked up to the boat, leading straight into big silos inside the factory. The operation took several hours. Then the cargo was replaced with cement. The boat would remain docked for a day or two each time.
Johan lit a cigarette and felt his pulse quicken.
More people came down to the dock. Longshoremen, the harbour master, and others, who were presumably waiting to buy booze. Like Pia and himself, they pretended they were there simply to watch.
When the boat docked, a hatch opened immediately and several rugged-looking men emerged. Pia poked Johan in the side.
‘Coarse-looking types,’ she hissed. ‘By the way, I’m shooting. I’m going to take off and have a look around.’
She gave him a wink. Between two buttons on her jacket he caught a glimpse of the camera lens.
The men from the boat jumped ashore. One lit a cigarette and glanced around expectantly. Another clearly knew some of the people who were standing on the dock, and he went over to give them a warm hug. They chatted and joked. Things started happening around the ship, and the harbour master began issuing orders. The unloading commenced at once, as an engine roared. Johan guessed that the transfer of the coal had already started.
He had disguised himself behind a pair of sunglasses and had pulled a cap down over his face as he didn’t want to take the chance of being recognized. He was frequently on television, even though he was a reporter and not a TV newsreader.
He glanced around and saw some men looking at the ship with anticipation. There wasn’t much for him to do at the moment, so he sat down on a barrel and lit another cigarette. Two guys were standing near the gangway, looking as if they were conducting business. One of them pulled bottles of booze out of a box, while the other collected the money. Notes changed hands as the transactions were carried out quite openly. Johan hoped that Pia was getting it all on film; he looked around to see where she was.
The Dead Of Summer Page 16
