Yet people travel halfway around the world to find beaches that aren’t even half as beautiful, thought Karin. She dropped her towel on the sand and ran into the water.
AS SOON AS Johan returned to the editorial office, and in spite of being in a rush to file his report about the new murder, he rang up the pastor. The Fårö church was free for a wedding one Saturday in August at four in the afternoon. Someone had cancelled. Was that a bad omen? He pushed the thought aside.
Ever since he’d first seen the church, he’d wanted to get married there. To Emma. This time they were going to do it.
That evening he drove out to Roma. As he walked up the gravel path to Emma’s house, he was in good spirits. He’d bought twenty red roses, which he was holding behind his back, along with a bottle of champagne.
He rang the bell and listened to the chiming inside. No one was visible in the kitchen window. If only she was at home. He hadn’t wanted to ring ahead to say he was coming over. He wanted to surprise her, just as she had surprised him with her card.
Then the door opened, and there she stood. Wearing a grey hoodie and sweatpants, her hair wet. She looked exactly the same as when they had first met. He would never forget that day. He and the photographer Peter Bylund had come to the house in Roma to interview Emma, who was best friends with a woman who had been brutally murdered with an axe on the beach. The two men had both left feeling slightly infatuated with Emma.
He felt quite moved when he saw her. She almost seemed unreal.
‘Hi.’ She looked pleased.
‘Emma,’ was all he said.
He pulled her soft, lean body into his arms and buried his face in her long, wet hair. Then he stepped back and looked deep into her eyes.
‘I’ll leave at once if you can’t answer my question.’
‘OK,’ she said, sounding puzzled, although she didn’t look at all nervous. Just full of anticipation.
‘Will you marry me on 19 August in Fårö church, in the presence of our families, relatives, friends and all the children? And I’m talking about a big church wedding with a huge party afterwards.’
Emma replied without hesitation.
‘Yes, Johan. I will.’
He put down the bouquet of roses and champagne bottle and lifted her up in his arms. How light she was. She’d lost a lot of weight since the spring. He carried her upstairs, put her down on the bed. Pulled off her sweatpants and the grey hoodie as he caressed her silky skin. Then he held her head in his hands and kissed her soft lips. His mouth pressed against hers. The kiss went on and on. She unbuttoned his shirt and straddled him.
How long it had been – an eternity since they’d last made love. The kiss didn’t stop. She never wanted to let go. And neither did he.
JACOBSSON ENTERED THE museum building, where she was to meet with head ranger Mattias Bergström. He was in his thirties, with a beard and ice-blue eyes. On the phone she had explained why she wanted to see him. He suggested they should sit in his office, where they could talk undisturbed. The office was small and crowded with shelves; books and papers were everywhere. They sat down on either side of his cluttered desk, and he gave her a cup of coffee, though without offering milk or sugar.
‘So it has to do with the murder of that man at the stone quarry in Slite,’ he said. It was more of a statement than a question.
‘Yes, exactly. Apparently he was over here at the weekend. The next day, he was fatally shot while he was at work. We want to find out whether he met anyone here, or whether something happened that might have caused the murder.’
‘How horrible. I talked to him just yesterday. He’d been to the island on numerous occasions.’
‘I see. Did he come out here alone, or was someone with him?’
‘I think he was alone, actually.’
‘Do you have any idea when he was here the first time?’
‘Sure, I can check.’ Bergström got up and opened a filing cabinet.
‘We keep a handwritten list of everybody who has stayed here, and the dates. I guess we’re a little old-fashioned that way.’
He carefully flicked through the file.
‘Now let me see… L… for Larsson. We keep a file on everybody, arranged by last names, nothing else. We need only the last name to see when each visitor has been here, how long they stayed, and where; also whether they came alone or with somebody else.’
‘Yes, I see.’ Jacobsson could feel her impatience growing.
‘Larsson, yes, here it is,’ he said, sounding pleased when he finally found the name. ‘Morgan. The first time he was here was 1990. He’s been back quite a few times since then.’
‘How many times?’
Bergström counted them up.
‘Five. Approximately every third year. And always on the same date.’
Jacobsson raised her eyebrows and leaned forward.
‘The same date, you said? When?’
‘He came over on 21 July and left on the twenty-third. Every single time.’
‘Strange. That could hardly be a coincidence. Do you know why he chose those dates?’
‘No, I have no idea. And now we’ll never know. Unfortunately, it’s too late to ask him.’
‘Has a man named Peter Bovide ever spent the night here?’
The head ranger picked up a different file and looked for the name.
‘We have an Anette Bovide, and Stig and Katarina Bovide, but no Peter.’
‘When were they here?’
‘Anette came here with her husband, Anders Eriksson, in June, three years ago. And Stig and Katarina have made two visits to the island. The first time was in August 1991, and the second last year, in May.’
‘Do you have a list of the other people who were here at the same time as Morgan Larsson, on his last visit?’
‘Of course.’
Jacobsson scanned the list of names. She didn’t see anything. She compared the names with the list from Morgan’s previous visits. No name seemed to appear more than once.
‘Can I have a copy?’
‘Just a sec.’
He got up and went into an adjacent room. Jacobsson heard a good deal of rattling and clattering before he came back with a grimy photocopy.
‘Thanks,’ she said as he handed her the paper. ‘Can you tell me your impression of Morgan Larsson? And what did he do while he was here?’
The head ranger leaned back and clasped his hands.
‘He was always alone whenever I ran into him. I didn’t notice anything in particular about him, except that he seemed quite reserved.’
‘Did he behave strangely?’
‘No, not exactly. Although he seemed to be quite a person of habit. On the day after he arrived, he left the campsite very early in the morning with a rucksack, so I assume that he did what so many others do here – hike around the island.’
‘How long does it take?’
‘Hmm… the perimeter is about 30 kilometres, so not everybody makes it all the way round. You can choose different options. Some people start by going straight across the island through the woods and then follow the path along the shore back home. Others start at the lighthouse and take the shoreline path, or else they turn off by Tärnudden on the other side and take the forest path back.’
‘If you choose the coastal path all the way round the island, how long does it take?’
‘Nine or ten hours, if you’re used to hiking. Parts of the shoreline are rocky and difficult, and in a number of places you have to turn inland; for instance, out by Säludden, which is a protected area.’
‘Are there any seals out there?’
‘Yes, we almost always see seals out there. The biggest chance is in the morning or the evening, when they lie on the rocks out in the water.’
‘Do you know which route Morgan Larsson chose?’
‘I actually ran into him early on Saturday morning, on the path that goes straight through the woods and down to the Las Palmas beach on the east side of the island. And I know that
others saw him coming back in the evening from the south, on the west side. Since he seemed to be such a man of habit, I would guess that he took one of the more common routes, which take seven or eight hours.’
‘Could you show me on a map?’
‘Sure.’
Again he got up and went into the next room, returning with a map labelled: ‘County Administrative Board’. He pointed out the route.
‘If I take the same route tomorrow, what do I need to keep in mind?’
‘Get up early and eat a good breakfast. Pack light, but remember that you need to take along enough water and food to last you all day. Wear sturdy shoes, shorts and a sunhat. Take a swimming costume. It can be quite a strenuous hike if the sun is as hot as it is today. Down on the southern side, here’ – he used a ballpoint pen to circle a spot on the map – ‘you’ll find a pump with fresh water that’s OK to drink. That’s about the halfway point, and you can fill up your water bottles.’
‘Thanks for your help. Is there anything else you can tell me about Morgan Larsson?’
‘Yes, there’s one other thing he always did. He visited the chapel.’
‘There’s a chapel on the island?’ asked Jacobsson in surprise, at the same time embarrassed by her ignorance.
‘Yes, it’s close to the campsite. You’ll pass right by it if you take this path. It’s always open. And if you’d like to go there tonight, there’s going to be a service at nine o’clock.’
‘Thanks.’
‘If you need any more information about the island, the museum and library are upstairs. Feel free to go up there and browse,’ the ranger suggested helpfully.
Jacobsson thanked him again and left the office.
She was looking forward to following in Morgan Larsson’s footsteps.
GOTSKA SANDÖN, THE NIGHT OF 22 JULY, 1985
THE SEARCH FOR Tanya went on all night. At the campsite, every single person turned out to help find the missing young woman. The core group of the Folklore Society on the island had gathered a number of people together and gone out in their own vehicle. In all, a hundred people took part, organized into different search parties that left from the campsite. The police would arrive as soon as it was light.
Vera was in the group searching on the western side. She felt numb, moving mechanically, staring at the ground, shining her torch into crevices and groves of trees. She wanted to find her sister, and yet she didn’t. The dread got worse with every step. Oleg and Sabine walked hand in hand about ten yards ahead of her, seeking support and solace from each other. She was locked out. The injustice of it all burned inside her. As if it was her fault. Her parents were punishing her by closing themselves off in their own bubble, and she was not allowed to enter. They were so focused on the search for their younger daughter that they hardly even noticed Vera. She continued doggedly on, shouting until she was hoarse, walking without a pause across the forest floor, the beaches and the rocky cliffs.
Suddenly she tripped over an invisible tree root on the ground. Then she lay on the ground in the dark, sobbing. She didn’t have the energy to get up. She had a horrible feeling she was never going to see her little sister again. Maybe it didn’t matter whether she got up. What she really wanted to do was to walk right out into the sea and let herself drown. Just disappear.
‘What’s the matter?’
The man appeared out of nowhere and leaned over her. At first she was scared, but she calmed down as soon as she saw the look in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘OK.’
He switched to English. He wanted to know if she was OK and offered to help. He didn’t know who she was, probably assumed she was just an ordinary summer visitor who was taking part in the search for the missing young woman. He helped Vera to her feet. They were standing in the middle of the woods, utterly alone. The others had already moved on. The moon was spreading a pale light that trickled through the trees and cast ghostlike shadows.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m OK.’ She brushed off the dirt that was clinging to her clothes.
‘Are you cold?’
She shook her head.
‘Where are you from? Germany?’
‘Yes, Hamburg. We got here a few days ago. It’s my sister who’s missing.’
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just put his arm around her shoulders.
‘Are you able to keep searching?’
‘Sure. Of course.’
Silently, they walked side by side. He didn’t ask any questions, and she was grateful for that. It just felt comforting to walk next to somebody.
The hours passed, and every once in a while they would sit down to rest. He’d brought along a rucksack containing water and biscuits. The sun started coming up, and then it was time to head back to camp.
When they arrived, people had begun to gather, coming from every direction. More police had arrived, with dogs on leads, and they were in the process of organizing another search. Oleg and Sabine were nowhere in sight.
‘You need to rest,’ said her new-found friend. ‘Which cabin are you staying in?’
‘I don’t want to go there.’
The thought of sleeping in a room that she had shared with Tanya horrified her.
‘Would you like to come with me?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
They walked past the tents. Vera could feel everyone staring at her. None of the police officers seemed to know who she was.
They quickly passed the crowd. He was holding her by the arm and leading her away from the Folklore Society cottages. They stopped in front of a red-painted wooden house with white trim at the edge of the settlement. Vera was so tired she could hardly stand up.
A narrow stairway led up to the top floor. He made her hot chocolate and several sandwiches, which he coaxed her to eat. They sat across from each other at the little table. He looked out of the window.
‘There’s the police helicopter.’
Vera couldn’t bring herself to reply.
THE MUSEUM WAS deserted when Jacobsson went in. It consisted of only two rooms. One of them housed displays of objects from the sea and the island, with texts describing their history. The other room was used as a library. Along the wall were rows of books about Gotska Sandön, the lighthouses and the fisheries. On a table stood file folders with different labels: the lighthouse-keepers’ diaries, newspaper clippings from various periods, general facts. Jacobsson leafed through them and was again struck by how little she’d known before coming here. She sat down and began going through the folders. From the lighthouse-keepers’ diaries she learned what a hard life it must have been for them, and she was shocked by the large number of ships that had gone down in the vicinity over the years. There was even a cemetery on the island, near Franska Bukten, where Russian sailors had been buried after their ship sank.
Suddenly she caught sight of a folder with the title ‘Crimes on the Island’. The first page showed newspaper clippings from the early twentieth century, when a lighthouse-keeper’s assistant was suspected of murdering the lighthouse-keeper by pouring arsenic into his box of macaroni. The pages continued with stories of burglaries, the plundering of wrecked ships, and a man who had heaved an enemy overboard during the crossing to the island.
An article about a missing young woman caught Jacobsson’s attention. The text described the search for a German woman who had disappeared in the 1980s after an outing with her sister at Franska Bukten, where the two young women had spent the night. The family had notified the police the following evening, and a patrol had come over the next morning. A search party was organized, but without result. The headline of the next article announced: ‘Missing woman found dead.’ Jacobsson read with growing interest. A police helicopter had flown over the island, and that was when Tanya Petrov’s body was found in the water a short distance out in Franska Bukten.
At first the theory was that her death was an ordinary drowning accident. Then came
a series of articles recounting how the story had developed. It was discovered that the woman hadn’t drowned at all. She’d been murdered, and then her body was thrown into the water. The post mortem showed that she was killed by a blow to the head delivered with a blunt instrument, that someone had gripped her throat in a stranglehold, and that she had most likely been raped. Jacobsson shivered as she read on. The police had put out a nationwide alert for a boat with two men, probably Stockholmers. According to the interview with the sister, the young women had met the men when they anchored their sailboat in Franska Bukten. They had partied together on the beach, and later the older sister had gone off to bed. In the morning her little sister and both men were gone, and the boat was too. Twenty-four hours later, the woman’s body was found in the water of Franska Bukten.
The evening newspapers couldn’t get enough of the story, reporting on the lives of the entire Petrov family, how the father had fled from the Soviet Union and created a new life for himself in the West. How Tanya was missed by her classmates, and how the sunny story of the happy family that was finally going to make their dream trip to Gotska Sandön had ended in a tragedy as black as night.
In spite of intensive investigative work, neither man had ever been found. The case was eventually shelved.
Jacobsson leafed through the rest of the folder, looking for more articles. What had happened to the family? She had a vague memory of hearing something about the case when it happened. She had some scattered images in her mind of the newspaper headlines and photographs of Gotska Sandön. That was even before she’d started at the Police Academy, in 1985.
She closed up the folder and left the museum with an uneasy churning in her stomach.
TUESDAY, 25 JULY
IT FELT UNREAL to be waking up in the double bed in Roma next to Emma. It took Johan a moment to comprehend that he was really there. Only now, as he lay in bed, did he realize how intense his longing had been. She lay on her side, turned away from him. Gently he stroked the small of her back. How fragile she was, both inside and out. Suddenly he felt so strong. And then he had a great yearning to see Elin. He wanted to drive out and get her at once. But his work was waiting for him; they hadn’t sent over another reporter from the national news, so he was responsible for the continuing coverage of the murder of the explosives expert.
The Dead Of Summer Page 20
