‘Who the hell would use such an old gun?’ asked Kihlgård. ‘It’s practically an antique.’
‘It doesn’t sound like a professional, but it does seem to fit the MO,’ said Wittberg. ‘And by the way, this means we can forget about the Estonians as murder suspects, since they’re sitting in jail.’
‘Let’s take a look at the facts,’ said Knutas abruptly. ‘We do have a witness. One of the foremen who was present at the blasting saw the perpetrator with his own eyes. Granted, from quite a distance, since he was on the other side of the quarry and looking through binoculars, but still. He says the perp was wearing dark clothing. He was about 5 foot 8 and apparently had a slight limp.’
‘5 foot 8,’ said Wittberg. ‘Then it’s no surprise that he wears only size 7½ shoes.’
‘It’s a good description, and let’s just hope it helps us catch him soon,’ Knutas went on. ‘We’ve put out an all-points bulletin, also on the radio. In the meantime, we need to find out what links there might be between Morgan Larsson and Peter Bovide. Did they know each other? Did they have the same circle of friends?’
‘Does Morgan Larsson have a police record?’ asked the prosecutor.
‘No,’ replied Knutas. ‘We’ve already checked on that.’
The door opened, and Erik Sohlman came in.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Kihlgård sympathetically, patting Sohlman’s arm as he sat down next to him.
‘I’m fine,’ said Sohlman. ‘Just fine.’ He turned to look at the others. It was obvious that the situation had upset him. ‘We’re positive that it’s the same perp who killed Peter Bovide. Morgan took one bullet to the forehead and seven to the abdomen – exactly like before.’
‘What sort of technical evidence have you found?’ asked Knutas.
‘Footprints that are identical to the ones found on the beach at Norsta Auren. Also size 7½, and the same type of shoe, an ordinary, cheap brand of trainer you can buy just about anywhere. The bloodstains on the ground show that Morgan was shot where he was found. Most likely first in the head, then in the abdomen. Several casings were lying on the floor, and they match those we found in connection with Peter Bovide’s murder. Of course, they’ll be sent over to the SCL, but I can tell you right now that the same gun was probably used.’
‘How sure are you about that?’ asked Wittberg.
‘Quite sure, since the gun is so unique. A Russian army pistol from 1926, a special-calibre Korovin. And once again, the perp emptied the clip.’
‘How well did you know Morgan Larsson?’ asked Kihlgård.
‘Not very well, actually. We were classmates in primary school, and we lived fairly close to each other in Slite. But we were never close friends.’
‘He was unmarried with no children and, according to his workmates, had no girlfriend. Do you know if he was dating anyone?’
‘I don’t think so. He lived in a flat in Slite. Alone, as far as I know.’
‘Do you have any idea whether he had contacts in the construction industry, or whether he knew Peter Bovide?’
Erik Sohlman shrugged.
‘No clue.’
‘We’ll start by mapping out any links to Peter Bovide,’ Knutas decided. ‘Right now, finding a connection between the two victims has to take priority. Plus, finding out what Morgan Larsson was doing on Gotska Sandön, and why he was in such a hurry to go there.’
JOHAN WAS INCLINED to believe that Pia was right when she predicted what her future would be. The images from the stone quarry were sharp and revealing. A good photographer also had to be lucky, and in this case good fortune had definitely been on Pia’s side. Just as she’d started shooting, the body was carried out of the little hut, which they later learned was the shed where the explosives expert always stood when the blasting took place. Pia had also filmed Knutas, Jacobsson and crime-scene tech Sohlman as they inspected the site.
They’d found out the victim’s identity by talking to Pia’s good friend who worked at Cementa. Everybody knew who he was: Morgan – the explosives guy. Forty-one years old and a bachelor. The killer had chosen to strike at the precise moment of the detonation.
‘Maybe he wanted to make use of the explosion to drown out the sound of the gunshots,’ Johan suggested as they sat in the office, splicing and editing the images.
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler just to use a silencer on the gun?’ said Pia. ‘By the way, what’s going on with you? Seems like you’re in an especially good mood today. It’s not just because we’ve got ourselves a scoop on this story, is it?’
‘That should be enough. But here’s another scoop for you.’
‘What is it?’
Johan stood up to fetch an envelope, which he handed to Pia.
‘Take a look.’
‘But isn’t this a personal letter?’ asked Pia hesitantly when she saw that it said ‘To Johan’ on the envelope.
‘Yes, but it’s OK. I want you to read it.’
Pia opened the envelope and frowned.
A card fell out with a picture of a potato patch on the front. Underneath were only a few handwritten words: ‘Yes, I will. Again.’
‘I don’t get it. From somebody who grows potatoes?’
‘A bit more than that, Pia.’
‘Huh?’ Pia gave her colleague a quizzical look. ‘What do you mean?’
Then she noticed the ring on his left hand.
‘What? Don’t tell me you’re engaged again? You and Emma? Oh, Johan, that’s great! Congratulations!’
‘Thanks,’ said Johan, laughing. ‘Thanks.’
THE WHARF AT Fårösund was crowded with people wearing shorts and sensible shoes and carrying rucksacks, heading out on nature expeditions to the island of Gotska Sandön. When Jacobsson boarded the boat, she noticed the captain looking pleased as he waved and motioned for her to come into the wheelhouse. She couldn’t remember having seen him before, but apparently he recognized her.
‘I know you’re from the police because I’ve seen you on TV,’ he explained when she came in and shook hands with him. He introduced himself as Stefan Norrström.
The first thing that struck Karin was that she and the captain were actually rather similar. He was about her height and age. He also had dark hair, and when he smiled, she saw the gap between his middle teeth. The one difference was that he was short and stocky while she was fine-boned.
Stefan Norrström turned out to be easy to talk to, and he gave a lively account of Gotska Sandön during the two-hour crossing. He told vivid stories about how ships often sank in the fierce storms that raged over the island, about accidents and the hardships of the lighthouse-keepers. In the past, several lighthouses had been manned, but in the 1970s they were automated. Four rangers still worked at the national park year round, and during the tourist season, which was from May to September, there were campsite supervisors available to help visitors. In the winter the island was mostly deserted. Its lonely location in the middle of the sea meant that Gotska Sandön was subject to harsh weather conditions, which made it difficult for anyone to live there permanently.
While the captain talked, Jacobsson admired the view. They had left Fårö and Gotland behind and were making their way through open waters. Nothing but sun-glinting water as far as the eye could see.
‘It won’t be long now,’ said the captain after little more than an hour, and Jacobsson caught a glimpse of a solitary strip of land in the middle of the sea. It grew into a green ribbon without any discernible hills or significant elevation. As they got closer, she could make out the sandy beach that emerged from a long, light-coloured border around the remote island. She was surprised to see so much forested land.
Jacobsson had never set foot on Gotska Sandön before, and she’d always imagined it to be nothing more than a flat, sandy strip of land. As they approached, her image of the place changed.
The boat rounded the last promontory before reaching the area where they would go ashore, and Stefan Norrström handed her his binoculars.
Jacobsson raised the binoculars to her eyes. It took a moment before she found the correct focus, but when she did, she was astounded.
She was looking at thousands and thousands of seabirds flying around each other at different elevations and sailing back and forth over the promontory. It was an impressive sight.
‘You have to go out there and watch at sunset. It’s really something worth seeing. And it’s not far from the campsite, just a five-minute walk. The beach is so white and wide you’ll think you’re in Bali or somewhere like that.’
‘How often do you get to leave the boat and spend time on the island?’
‘Rarely. This boat shuttles between Nynäshamn, Gotska Sandön and Fårösund. But I once worked as an assistant to the head ranger. That’s why I know my way around the island.’
Jacobsson took out the photo of Morgan Larsson.
‘Do you recognize this man? His name is Morgan Larsson, and he used to come out to Gotska Sandön every once in a while.’
Stefan Norrström took the picture and studied it carefully.
‘No, I’ve never seen him before. And the name doesn’t sound familiar. But I see so many people. It’s impossible to remember them all.’
GOTSKA SANDÖN, 22 JULY 1985
BY THE TIME Vera reached the campsite, she was physically and emotionally drained. The hike back had been ten times harder than when they had taken the same route on the previous day. She prayed to God that her sister had returned to the campsite on her own, or gone there by boat with the boys they’d met. Her mother and father were sitting outside the cabin drinking coffee when she arrived. Judging by their expressions, she could tell that Tanya hadn’t come back yet.
‘Why are you alone? Where’s Tanya?’ shouted Oleg before even saying hello.
Both her parents stood up from the table and came to meet her. Their faces expressed surprise and concern. In spite of the circumstances, Vera couldn’t help feeling a twinge of irritation. Her sister was always number one in their minds and the focus of all their attention. She’d been walking for almost four hours, worn out and sick with worry. She’d finished off the drinking water long ago, as she’d left behind half of what they’d taken with them. She was soaked with sweat, parched and completely done in, but neither of her parents made any move to help her with her gear or offer her anything to drink. Vera clenched her teeth. Then she came right out and told them exactly what had happened. She would never forget the look on her father’s face when she finished her story. He’d turned pale under the suntan, and his lips were pressed tight into a narrow line.
‘Are you telling me that you got so drunk you just went to bed? You left her alone with two total strangers?’
‘Yes, but…’ Vera tried to reply but fell silent when she saw her father’s ominous expression.
‘How could you? You’re the older sister and should take responsibility. Tanya doesn’t know how to look out for herself. You just fell asleep, and now she’s gone missing – presumably with two boys we don’t even know!’
He was standing only inches away from her, and his saliva sprayed her in the face. Vera just stood there, the sweat pouring from her armpits and the heavy rucksack a leaden weight on her back. She felt dizzy and faint; her head began to spin.
‘Calm down,’ she heard her mother say. ‘It’s not Vera’s fault that Tanya is missing. We need to go looking for her. She probably just got lost.’
They looked for Tanya all evening, with help from other visitors, the ranger and the rest of the employees. Their shouts echoed all over the island, but the search proved futile. When it began to get dark, they alerted the police. The next day, a patrol was due to come over to the island, and a helicopter was going to start searching as soon as it was light. A search was also initiated for the boat with the two young men, but Vera had only a vague idea of what sort of boat it was. Nor did she recall their names, although she thought they came from Stockholm.
AFTER THE MEETING of the investigative team, Knutas rang Peter Bovide’s parents. Katarina Bovide answered the phone.
‘Hello, this is Superintendent Knutas here, from the Visby police. I’m very sorry to disturb you again, but I was wondering whether Peter knew somebody named Morgan Larsson.’
There was silence on the phone.
‘That’s not the man who was found dead, is it? I just heard on the radio that somebody out at the stone quarry…’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Naturally, we haven’t yet made his identity public, but his name is Morgan Larsson. And he was shot in exactly the same way as Peter.’
Knutas heard Katarina Bovide take a deep breath.
‘But that’s horrible! Why Morgan? And Peter? I don’t understand. They were such nice boys.’
‘I’m afraid it’s true. Did they know each other?’
‘Yes, they were best friends when they were younger. But not later on. They haven’t been in contact for years.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘I suppose that’s just what happens. People grow apart.’
‘But you said they used to be good friends?’
‘Morgan was a year older than Peter, so they were never classmates in school. But when Morgan was thirteen, something terribly tragic happened. His parents died in a car crash. He was an only child, so he moved in with his grandparents, who lived only a stone’s throw from Slite. Morgan wasn’t doing well after everything he’d been through, but Peter knew lots of kids in the neighbourhood, and the two boys quickly became friends, so Morgan also became part of the whole group, you might say. Later, they were as thick as thieves for years. They travelled together on Interrail cards, and things like that. But eventually their friendship came to an end. I don’t know why.’
‘And you never asked Peter about it?’
‘I’m sure I did, but I don’t actually remember what he told me. By that time Peter had been living on his own for a long time, and Morgan too. Both of them lived in Visby. That’s how it goes with friends; they come and go. You can’t take it for granted that you’ll have the same friends your whole life. It’s just like everything else.’
Katarina Bovide’s voice quavered, and Knutas could hear that she was close to breaking point. He thanked her for her help and said goodbye.
THE BOAT DOCKED on the north-east side of the promontory, near the lighthouse, only a few minutes’ walk from the campsite. The weather was perfect, sunny and without a breath of wind. The temperature was 77 degrees. Karin almost forgot that she was here because of a homicide investigation. The huge beach stretched out before her, kilometre after kilometre, as far as the eye could see, until the shoreline disappeared in the distance behind the next promontory. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a wider beach, and the sand was fine-grained and practically white.
It was four thirty in the afternoon, and she was thinking of taking a dip before she started interviewing the park personnel on the island about Morgan Larsson. At the moment they were busy with all the new arrivals. Bags were flung on to a cart, which tractors then came to haul away. That was the only type of vehicle that could make it through the loose sand. The visitors were directed to walk along the wooden planks that had been placed on the sand, stretching for over 300 yards up to the campsite.
First they passed Fyrbyn, a cluster of red-painted wooden houses with white trim and splendid gardens. They belonged to the local folklore society. Members of the society and the head ranger lived in the houses during the summer and on a few weekends during the rest of the year.
Karin Jacobsson drew a deep breath into her lungs. The air was fresher than any place she’d ever been. From the woods came the scent of pine needles with a touch of moss, and mixed with sea air.
In the middle of the open square, which was surrounded by the cottages, stood a small museum that also hou
sed a library and archives. That was where the rangers had their office. The ranger currently on duty was on his way back from the other side of the island, and it would take about an hour before he returned.
The path continued up to the campsite where the tourists would be staying. Tents and small cabins were arranged around an open clearing. In the centre were the public buildings, with laundry and kitchen facilities as well as showers. A short distance away were the toilets, which were actually outhouses, set up in a long row. The only thing to drink on the island was well water; all the food and anything else to drink had to be transported over. No kiosks, no shops, nothing. That was another sort of experience, in addition to everything else exotic about the island.
Jacobsson realized that she’d be forced to spend the night, since she’d arrived so late in the afternoon, so she asked for help in finding a cabin, food and clothing.
She was soon installed in her cabin, where she changed into a swimsuit, and then walked past the campsite towards the west side of the island. She wondered where Morgan Larsson had stayed and whether he’d been alone. She hoped that the people who worked on the island would remember the visitors who had stayed here, at least for the past few days.
The path to the beach wound its way through a wooded section. She couldn’t recall ever having experienced such silence. She stopped to listen. No car engines or voices, not even a rustling from the trees. And no sounds from the sea. Karin was filled with a sense of calm and almost forgot about the tragic events that had brought her here. The beach was at least 50 yards wide, and the sand glittered in the afternoon sun. A few sailboats were anchored a short distance away, and here and there she could see several sunbathers on the shore, but not many.
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