‘What’s the name of that man, and where can I find him?’
‘Kjell Johansson. He’s probably still sitting in the office with the workmate who was there, Arne Pettersson. They were the ones who found the body.’
‘Ask them to stay there so we can talk to them before they leave. It’s very important.’
The harbour master called the office on his radio and gave instructions for both witnesses to remain in the office.
‘We’re almost there,’ he said then.
First they drove past the factory with the enormous silos, the conveyor belts that transported gravel for additional processing and the rotary kilns in which the limestone was heated.
They drove towards the larger stone quarry where the murder had taken place. The car jolted over the gravel road, which ran like a flat, wide furrow between the towering walls.
‘How well did you know Morgan Larsson?’ asked Knutas.
‘Quite well. He’s worked here for twenty years, almost as long as I have.’
‘How difficult is it for unauthorized personnel to get into the area?’
‘It’s really not very difficult. We can’t block off the whole factory property, or even the area around the limestone quarry. Across from it there’s a big stretch of forest called Fila Hajdar, which is where the quarry gets its name.’
‘So if somebody was up above here, they could get away without any problem? Even in a car?’
‘Of course. There are all sorts of small tracks going through the forest.’
Knutas cursed silently. The car continued up a slope next to the entrance to the quarry itself, and they parked outside the explosive expert’s shed.
‘That’s where he is. Inside there,’ said the harbour master.
The circular wooden shed was no more than 16 square feet. They stopped outside so as not to destroy any potential evidence. Morgan Larsson lay on the floor, turned on his side, his face up.
Knutas saw immediately that he’d been shot both in the head and in the abdomen. Just like Peter Bovide. There could be no doubt that they were dealing with a murderer who had now killed twice.
He glanced at Jacobsson. All colour had left her face.
‘Bloody hell. What a lunatic,’ muttered Wittberg.
Jacobsson didn’t say a word. Knutas looked at his colleagues.
‘OK, it looks like there’s no question that it’s the same perpetrator. The wound in the forehead looks identical to the one that killed Peter Bovide.’
Two more police vehicles came up the hill. Erik Sohlman jumped out of the first one.
‘What’s happened?’
Before anyone could answer, Sohlman stepped over to the body. He stopped short and stared with dismay at the dead man’s face.
‘Morgan… Morgan, what the hell?’
Jacobsson went over to Sohlman and put her hand on his shoulder.
‘What’s wrong? Did you know him?’
‘It’s Morgan,’ murmured Sohlman. ‘Morgan Larsson.’
SEVERAL BARRACKS AT the smaller quarry housed offices and staff rooms. That was where Kjell Johansson, the foreman who’d been present when the murder was committed, was now waiting. He was in his fifties; he looked pale and upset. Most likely, he was in a state of shock.
‘Could you tell us what happened?’ Knutas began.
‘We drove over to the quarry, as usual, about fifteen minutes before the scheduled detonation. Morgan was already there; he was always early.’
‘Did you notice anything in particular on the way there?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘So what happened when you arrived?’
‘My colleague and I each went to our usual positions, meaning on the other side of the pit from where Morgan was. We talked to each other on the radio, as always, but then Morgan said he thought he’d seen somebody moving around near the shed where he waits during the blasting.’
‘Where was he when he said that?’
‘He was checking the charges. That’s what he always did.’
‘What exactly did he see?’
‘He didn’t say, just that he noticed something moving. He asked me to check it out. I scanned the area with my binoculars but didn’t see anything.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I don’t really know. It was eleven thirty, and Morgan always detonated the explosion on the dot. It was a little game of his, to detonate at precisely the scheduled time. But this time, several minutes passed and nothing happened. I tried to call Morgan, but he didn’t answer. Then came the explosion.’
Kjell Johansson fell silent as he looked down at his callused hands.
‘What can you tell us about the person you saw?’
‘I only caught a glimpse of him, but he was wearing a lot of clothes, considering the heat. I think he had on dark trousers and a dark, baggy shirt.’
With a solemn expression, Knutas stared at the man seated across the table.
‘What you’re telling us is extremely important. You’ve actually seen the killer with your own eyes. Try to remember as much as possible about how he looked. Even the smallest detail is important.’
‘Take your time,’ Jacobsson added. ‘Think carefully.’
‘I only saw him for a few seconds, and from far away. He came out of Morgan’s shed right after the explosion. He moved in a rather strange way, sort of awkwardly. Maybe he had a slight limp. He was shorter than Morgan, who I think was about six feet tall. The other person was at least four inches shorter. I’m positive about that.’
‘That means that the person you saw was about 5 foot 8?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. It all happened so fast.’
‘What were they doing?’
‘I think they were talking to each other. Since Morgan didn’t answer his radio, I kept my binoculars trained on the shed. When the explosion was detonated, the whole shed disappeared in a cloud of dust, but then the person came out and headed for the woods.’
‘Then what?’
‘Nothing after that. I was worried about Morgan, so we drove right over there.’
‘And by then the other person was gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know whether Morgan knew Peter Bovide, the carpenter who was shot to death a couple of weeks ago?’ asked Jacobsson.
Kjell Johansson’s face clouded over.
‘I don’t think so, but I noticed that he acted kind of strange whenever anyone else at work started talking about the murder on Fårö.’
‘Strange in what way?’
‘Well, everybody was talking about it, of course. Peter Bovide lived in Slite, after all, and his company has done a lot of work for the factory; for instance, they remodelled the barracks. Morgan was the only one who never commented on the murder. At first, I didn’t think anything about it, but after a few days I noticed that he would get real quiet and move away every time the murder came up in conversation. And so I asked him whether he knew Bovide.’
Jacobsson leaned forward.
‘And?’
‘He denied it and asked me why I thought he might. He looked really worried, as if the mere question made him nervous.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing, really. I could tell that it was a sensitive subject, for some reason, so I dropped it. And now Morgan has been killed too. Damn it to hell.’
Johansson sounded despondent.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Morgan?’ asked Knutas. ‘Anything you reacted to or thought was strange? Any new person he may have met?’
The foreman rubbed his eyes and looked up at both officers.
‘Actually, there is one thing.’
‘What is it?’
‘He seemed really insistent about going out to Gotska Sandön.’
‘Gotska Sandön?’
‘Yes. He was there this past weekend. He used to go out there occasionally, even though he wasn’t exactly the nat
ure type. In fact, he detested anything having to do with hikes through the woods or other outdoor activities. Whenever we had any sort of excursions here at work, he never participated. Morgan preferred to sit inside and drink beer while he watched sports on TV. That was how he relaxed. But he did go out to Gotska Sandön. Last weekend, he booked a trip out there, and even though we were really short-handed here at work because several people called in sick, he wouldn’t postpone his trip. I know that the boss offered him various incentives to try and persuade him to stay and work, but he refused. He needed to go out there right away, and he couldn’t delay it a week.’
‘What was he going to do on Gotska Sandön?’ asked Jacobsson.
‘I have no idea. I only know that sometimes he went out there. He’s been there several times before.’
‘Did he go alone?’
‘Yes, I think so. He was a real loner. Didn’t have any family or girlfriend. He lived alone, and I think he did almost everything by himself.’
‘When exactly did he go out there?’
‘He left on Friday and came home last night.’
‘So that was the last thing he did? Visit Gotska Sandön? And he’d been there before?’
‘Yes, a least a few times.’
‘Do you know where exactly he went?’
‘I have no idea. I’ve never thought much about those trips before, but this time it was obvious that nothing could make him change his travel plans, so there must have been something really special about that trip. I asked him what could be so damn important to make him leave his workmates in the lurch, and then he got real mad and started shouting that it was none of my business. I was really surprised that he overreacted like that.’
‘We need to look into this,’ Knutas decided. ‘Right away.’
He cast a glance at Jacobsson.
‘OK, don’t worry, I’ll do it. I can leave now.’
JOHAN DECIDED TO sleep late, even though it was Monday. He didn’t know whether he even had the energy to go to work. The problem with Emma had thrown him completely. A whole week had passed since their fight, and he hadn’t been able to make himself get in contact with her again. Madeleine had gone back to Stockholm the day after that unhappy Sunday, and that was just as well. He’d been busy at work all week long, trying not to think about Emma at all. He needed a break from her and all their problems. He’d taken time off work and gone up to where Emma’s parents lived on Fårö to pick up Elin to spend the whole day with her. It had been both wonderful and painful, because he didn’t get to see his daughter very often.
Now Johan was worn out and feeling low. He rang Pia to tell her that he’d be at home if anything special happened. He didn’t give a damn what Grenfors might think about it. He went back to bed for an hour before he finally got up out of sheer boredom.
He took a shower and made some coffee. With his hair wet and a towel wrapped around his waist, he went out into the hall to get the morning papers, and there he discovered an envelope lying on the mat. He recognized the handwriting.
All it said on the front was ‘To Johan’.
She must have come over and delivered it personally, which meant it was important. He had to pour himself a cup of coffee and light up a cigarette before he could open the envelope. He didn’t usually smoke indoors, but what the hell. A thousand thoughts flew through his head as he tore open the envelope with fumbling fingers.
He licked his lips nervously before he read the message.
When Pia rang he was still sitting with the card in his hand, incapable of moving. He was too busy trying to collect his thoughts.
He could tell from her voice that something was happening.
‘A man was shot to death out at the stone quarry in Slite. It happened only about half an hour ago. I’ll pick you up. Go over to Söderport, and I’ll be there in five minutes.’
Johan stood up. Only something of this magnitude could have torn him away from studying Emma’s note. He pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and ran down towards Söderport, his hair still wet.
Ten minutes later they were on their way to Slite. Johan spent a major part of the drive talking on his mobile. First with the police, who refused to say anything except that a man had been found dead at the quarry in Slite. Then he talked to Grenfors, who could hardly believe that another murder had been committed on Gotland.
The area near the entrance to the quarry and factory had been cordoned off.
‘Damn it, we won’t be able to get in at all, we’re screwed,’ said Pia with a sigh.
They stood there staring like two fools. Suddenly Pia’s face lit up.
‘I know somebody who works here. I’ll try to get hold of him,’ she said.
The area where the murder had been committed was gigantic and it would be impossible to force their way in. Plus the factory employees were keeping their distance from the entrance, so there was no one to corner for an interview.
When Pia finished her phone call, she gave Johan a look of triumph.
‘I’ve found out what to do.’
A short time later, they reached the top of the stone quarry. Pia turned off from the main road and took a small track through the forest. The car jolted along. They could see limestone everywhere. The ground was white, and the bushes and trees that had managed to survive in what seemed like such an inhospitable environment were covered with a fine layer of dust.
‘It feels unreal,’ said Johan. ‘What a ghostly atmosphere.’
The track got narrower until Johan began to wonder whether they should venture any further.
‘What if we can’t turn round?’
‘We’ll just have to take that chance,’ said Pia, staring straight ahead. Branches and boughs kept striking the windscreen, and they had to plough their way through dense underbrush. Gradually, a clearing opened up, and that was where they parked.
Pia brought her camera with her as they followed an even smaller path into the woods. A moment later, they reached the quarry. It yawned before them like some sort of giant cauldron.
‘Good god,’ exclaimed Pia. ‘Have you ever seen anything like this before?’
‘No, never.’
The view was both fascinating and terrifying.
‘How typical that we forgot to bring along anything to drink. My throat feels as dust-coated as the ground.’
They ventured closer to the edge and saw several police vehicles with people moving around them. They quickly backed up into the woods so as not to be seen.
‘What’s that over there?’ asked Pia, pointing to the other side of the quarry.
‘I have no idea.’ Johan squinted into the glare of the sun. ‘It looks like a little hut.’
Pia set up her tripod and began recording. She took a panoramic shot of the quarry and then pointed the lens at the hut.
‘What now?’ she asked.
‘What do you see?’
Pia raised her hand to shush him. She stood there for such a long time, shooting without moving the camera, that Johan began to feel uncomfortable in the heat. And he couldn’t see what had caught her eye, since it was too far away. When she finally finished, she simply looked at him, giving him an odd smile.
‘I think I’ll have a job with Rapport by autumn. Just so you know.’
JACOBSSON WAS OUT of luck. The police helicopter was in use, and the coast guard happened to be conducting extensive exercises elsewhere. To interrupt what they were doing in order to go out to Fårösund to pick up Jacobsson would take longer than her just catching the regular ferry out to Gotska Sandön. The next boat departed at two thirty. Before she left the quarry, someone at police headquarters had enough foresight to fax over personal information on Morgan Larsson, along with a copy of his passport photo.
When Knutas returned to police headquarters, the place was a whirlwind of activity. His colleagues were running from one office to another, exchanging information. Kihlgård came over to talk to Knutas.
‘What on earth is going on? This so
-called summer paradise is turning out to be another Sicily!’
The allusion may have been something of a stretch, but Knutas understood what he meant, since he still had the events of the previous year, when decapitated horses had played a role, fresh in his mind. He chose not to reply. Instead he took his colleague by the arm and steered him towards the meeting room.
‘Meeting – of the investigative team – right now!’ he shouted as they moved quickly down the corridor. In spite of all the noise and commotion, his words seemed to penetrate through the walls, because a minute later everyone had gathered.
The only person missing, aside from Karin Jacobsson, was Erik Sohlman, who was still out at the crime scene.
‘At 11.52 a.m., a call came in to the officer on duty, reporting that a man had been found shot to death in a wooden building at the biggest stone quarry in Slite, known as Fila Hajdar and located on the western edge of town,’ Knutas began. ‘He was found by two individuals who were there with him to supervise the blasting. He was lying on the shed floor, shot in the forehead. And that’s not all. He’d also taken a large number of shots to the stomach. Exactly like Peter Bovide.’
‘What’s the victim’s name?’ asked the prosecuter, Smittenberg.
‘The man’s name is Morgan Larsson. He’s forty-one years old, unmarried, no children. He worked as an explosives expert at the factory, where he’d been employed for twenty years. He lived in a flat in central Slite. That’s all we know so far. Except for the fact that he was a classmate of Erik’s.’
‘Oh. So they knew each other? How well?’ asked Kihlgård.
‘Not very well, from what I can gather. At any rate, Erik is still out there. And by the way, when we were at the scene, we heard that Morgan Larsson had visited Gotska Sandön over the weekend. So that was the last thing he did before he was murdered. Karin caught the next ferry out to the island. All right, then. We’ve cordoned off a large area around the quarry. The forest above it is being searched by police dogs, and roadblocks have been set up all around Slite. All indications are that we’re dealing with the same killer. The empty casings that were found at the crime scene match those from the first murder, and according to Sohlman, they appear to have come from the same gun, meaning a Russian army pistol from the 1920s.’
The Dead Of Summer Page 18
