“Of course I don’t. Fanny and I are just good friends. Nothing more. Nobody should be spreading lies that we’re seeing each other.”
“Why didn’t you say anything about this before, when we talked to you the first time? Why didn’t you say that you’re in the habit of hugging each other?”
“We’re not in the habit of hugging each other, damn it.”
“But have you ever hugged?”
“I may have given her a little hug, but it was just a way of comforting her. She needs support. The girl has a terrible home life. Her mother drinks, and she doesn’t have a father or any brothers or sisters. She has no friends. She’s all alone. Can you understand that? She’s all alone!”
Tom Kingsley had grown very angry.
“So you deny having a relationship with Fanny. Is that correct?” asked Knutas.
Kingsley merely shook his head in reply.
“How do you explain that people think the two of you have been seeing each other?”
“It must be their sick imaginations. Can’t a guy even show a girl a little kindness and concern? This is crazy, damn it! Is Agneta the one who told you this? Agneta Stenberg?”
Knutas and Jacobsson looked at each other in surprise.
“Why would you think that?” they said in unison.
“Because she’s jealous, of course. She’s been following me around for months, but I told her that I wasn’t interested. We had a party for the stable employees a while back, and that’s when she really put the moves on me. I finally had to tell her to get lost.”
Knutas was amazed at Kingsley’s verbal prowess. He spoke perfect colloquial Swedish. If it weren’t for a slight accent, anyone would take him for a native speaker.
When the interview was over, Knutas felt disappointed. He had been counting on catching Kingsley off guard so that he would be at a loss to come up with an answer. But that hadn’t happened.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 3
There was no new trip to Gotland for Johan. It’s just as well, he thought grimly. He hadn’t heard a word from Emma all weekend. And yet they had just had such a cozy time together. He couldn’t figure her out. If only she hadn’t started to waver again.
At the moment Gotland seemed far away, also in terms of his work. Just as Grenfors finally seemed to be paying attention to the Gotland murder case, the police had reached an impasse. And besides, an act of madness had occurred at Stockholm’s Medborgarplatsen in Sodermalm at the very same time. Late on Monday afternoon, the newsroom learned that a madman had gone berserk with a crowbar, killing at least one person. Five others were injured, including an infant. Regional News was tipped off about the event practically as it was happening. Johan immediately took off with a camerawoman. In the car on the way there, he sat with his cell phone pressed to his ear, alternating between talking to the duty officer, emergency services, and the newsroom.
The camerawoman drove swiftly and expertly through the traffic, constantly changing lanes to gain time and occasionally making an illegal move, which was necessary for anyone who wanted to make good time. At Medborgarplatsen she brazenly parked the car right on the open square and instantly pulled out her camera.
Ambulances and police cars were on the scene. The police were starting to cordon off the area, and crowds of people watched in dismay as medics tended to the wounded.
Johan interviewed both the police and witnesses, who said that the man, without any sort of provocation, had started attacking anyone who happened to cross his path. Finally he threw down the iron bar and disappeared down the stairs to the subway station at Bjorn’s Garden. All traffic had been halted, and the police were searching the subway cars and platforms, using dogs.
The newsroom was seething with activity when Johan returned. Grenfors was talking on two phones at once, the program producer was running between video-editing machines to make sure the reports were all ready on time while he also kept in contact with the national news program, which of course was also working intently on the drama in Sodermalm.
The idea was for the news programs to collaborate; interviews were divided up among the reporters, clips were exchanged back and forth. The Regional News footage was much in demand, since their camerawoman had been first on the scene. The producer was busy lining up appropriate individuals to interview live in the studio. The county police commissioner was called in, along with the head of the homeless shelter, since many people had gotten the impression that the man who had gone amok was homeless. In the meantime, he was still at large.
Regional News sent a direct feed from Medborgar-platsen. People had started arriving there to light candles and torches and to leave flowers. The casualty count was now at two, since the infant had died from his injuries.
On his way home in the subway, Johan was again struck by the unusual working conditions of journalists. When the most horrible events occurred, they had to set aside their own feelings because their first priority was to report the story. Their professional role took over, but it had nothing to do with a hyena mentality, as some people scornfully implied when they poured out their venom at the media. Johan thought that, like himself, most journalists were driven by a desire to get the story-it was that simple. It was all a matter of reporting, as quickly and accurately as possible, what had happened. It was each reporter’s responsibility to gather as much material as he could in order to present the best possible report.
Back in the newsroom, they went through all the material, discussing it with the editors. What was relevant to include in the broadcast and what was not? All close-ups of the wounded were omitted, interviews with people who were clearly in shock were rejected, and anything that was considered an invasion of privacy was cut.
Each day was a new day with more ethical discussions. And behind each news story there was careful deliberation, especially in the case of stories of a sensitive nature, such as this one. Of course there were occasional oversights when a name or a photo was broadcast that should not have been made public; the editors didn’t always see the story before it was shown, since time was often tight. Yet for the most part, things went smoothly with regard to the ethical rules that applied to all journalists. Of course, there was always the occasional rotten egg who crossed the prescribed boundaries. Some TV stations and newspapers had stretched those boundaries rather far, but still, this applied to only a handful of reporters.
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 4
The perpetrator from the Medborgarplatsen attack was caught the next day as he lay sleeping in the corner of a garage in Skarholmen. That gave the media reports about the incident a new impetus.
That’s the way the newsroom operated-the hottest story came first, and everything else had to wait. Something that was of intense interest one day could be completely forgotten the next. The list of priorities was constantly being revised at the morning meetings, during the day, and at the onset of each new event. The content of the workday was continuously being changed, renewed, and reversed to take in new points of view. One thing was certain-the job was seldom monotonous.
For that reason, the entire day had passed before Johan could think about Emma. But when he reached home, she once again dominated his thoughts. He called her even though he wasn’t supposed to. She sounded tired.
“How are things going?”
“Better. I picked up the kids from school today.”
“That’s great.”
“Yes.”
Silence. Johan felt uneasiness settling in his stomach.
“Have you talked to Olle?”
“I’m at the house right now. He’s reading a story to the children.”
“What are you doing there? Have you moved back in?”
“No, but we have to be able to spend time together. You do understand that, don’t you?”
She sounded annoyed, and she was speaking in a low voice, as if afraid that someone might hear.
“So he’s not mad anymore?”
“Of course he’s mad, but he has calmed dow
n enough that we can talk, which means a lot to me. But I don’t want to risk causing any more trouble by talking to you right now. Bye!”
Johan stared at the phone in bewilderment. At the same time the freezing temperature outdoors swiftly moved inside and took up lodging in his guts. All of a sudden she was giving priority to Olle again. She sounded as if he didn’t mean shit to her, and that threat sapped him of all energy. He couldn’t bear to lose her again.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 5
Emma stared at the indicator in her hand. It just couldn’t be true. Did two intersecting blue stripes forming a plus sign really mean that she was pregnant? It had been so long since she’d done this sort of test. With a pounding heart she got out the package. The directions couldn’t be clearer. A blue line in the window meant not pregnant. Two blue lines intersecting meant pregnant. How could this be possible? She and Johan had slept together only once recently, two weeks ago. And she could hardly remember the last time she had slept with her husband. Frantically she searched her memory. When was the last time with Olle? It must have been last summer. She counted the months since then: August, September, October, November, December. Good Lord, that would make her five months pregnant, and she ought to be showing more than she was. But her period was only three weeks late, and she’d had regular periods all fall. She felt suddenly faint when she realized what that meant. It had to be Johan. That Friday in October. His work had brought him to Gotland, and he had called her up. She was feeling weak and had agreed to meet him at the newsroom before he went back home. They had made love on the sofa. Damn it. How could she have such incredible bad luck? The one time they had given in when they were supposed to be taking a break from each other, and she ended up pregnant. That kind of thing could only happen to her.
She felt tears filling her eyes. This was more than she could take.
She just about jumped out of her skin when someone knocked on the bathroom door. She heard Olle’s voice saying, “Emma, are you almost ready?”
“Yes, just a minute.”
She tossed the indicator and the empty package in the wastebasket. She couldn’t say anything about this right now. She needed time to think. Quickly she washed her hands and opened the door.
“What’s wrong? Why are you so pale?” Olle gave her a worried look. “Are you sick?”
“You might call it that. I’m pregnant.”
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 13
Every seat was taken in Visby Cathedral on this morning to celebrate the Saint Lucia holiday. Knutas was sitting with Lina and Nils on the third pew to the right of the center aisle. The cross vaulting in the church ceiling high overhead and the magnificent arches cast long shadows, in contrast to the glow of hundreds of burning candles. The churchgoers were whispering quietly to each other as they waited with anticipation. Only an occasional cough or shuffling of feet from the pews broke the gentle murmuring.
The Lucia procession in the cathedral was one of the high points of the year. Petra was one of the bridesmaids. She sang in the youth choir, which was now participating in this year’s Lucia procession, just as all the other choirs had done for as far back as anyone could remember. Knutas glanced through the brochure about the church as they waited for the event to begin. Construction of the St Maria Cathedral was started in the twelfth century with funds collected from the German ships that docked at Visby. In the beginning it was meant to serve only German merchants, but later it became the church of the entire German congregation. After the Reformation, it was opened to everyone. No extensive changes to the church had been made since the Middle Ages, and that seemed to Knutas quite evident as he sat there admiring the high ceiling, the beautifully painted windows, and the pulpit, which had probably been imported from the German city of Lubeck in the seventeenth century.
Suddenly a faint singing could be heard in the church, and everyone turned their heads to look back toward the entrance. The tones of the traditional Lucia song grew louder, and the white-clad figure of Lucia appeared in the doorway. Slowly she walked forward, wearing a long white dress. On her head was a wreath with candles. Behind her walked the brides-maids, two by two, with tinsel wrapped around their waists. They each held a lit candle. Behind them came the star boys, wearing paper cones on their heads.
The glow of the candles made it a magical spectacle, as the young people dressed in white walked forward, singing in their clear voices. A star boy who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven sang so beautifully in a loud and lovely voice that Knutas felt tears fill his eyes. In the middle of the solo, his cell phone began vibrating in the inside pocket of his jacket. Cautiously he pulled out the phone and held it up to his ear. It was hard to make out what Karin Jacobsson was saying on the other end. He managed to squeeze past the other people sitting on the pew and went out to the entryway.
“This better be important. I’m here watching my daughter in the Lucia celebration at the cathedral,” he said.
“Fanny Jansson was found dead out on Lojsta Heath.”
It took almost an hour to reach the site. Jacobsson and Knutas took the 142 down to Hejde and then headed out to Lojsta Heath. Old limestone farm buildings stood at the turnoff into the woods. A flock of black sheep with shaggy winter coats was crowded together at the fence, staring at them as they drove past.
A police car was waiting to show them the way. They bumped over the unpaved forest road, which was normally used only by tractors. The snow on the ground between the trees was untouched, and there was no wind. The low mixed forest had dense undergrowth, with withered ferns, heather, and lingonberry bushes. Here and there a few remaining berries shone bright red among the snow-covered hillocks. At the end of the road the forest opened into a clearing where another police car was parked. A short distance away, near an embankment, crime scene tape had been put up. The air was cold and fresh.
Fanny’s body lay in a hollow beneath several thick spruce trees covered with heavy green moss.
The site was relatively protected. The girl was fully dressed in dark riding pants, a short quilted jacket that was unbuttoned, and a brown woolen sweater that was torn at the neck. Her face was dark against the snow. Her beautiful long hair, which was spread out on the ground, seemed strangely alive. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the sky. When Knutas took a closer look, he noticed that there were red specks in the whites of her eyes. Dark bruises covered her throat.
Her body had been found by a woman who was out riding. She had fallen off her horse when it was startled by a fox. The horse had wandered off and led her to the clearing. The woman had hurt her back in the fall, and she was also in such a state of shock that she had been taken to the hospital in Visby.
On their way back to the city, Knutas’s cell phone started ringing. The third call was from Johan.
“What happened?” said the familiar voice on the phone.
“Fanny Jansson has been found dead,” said Knutas wearily.
Jacobsson was driving the car so he could devote all his attention to answering the journalist’s questions.
“Where?”
“In a wooded area out on Lojsta Heath.”
“When?”
“At eight thirty this morning.”
“Who found her?”
“A woman who was out horseback riding.”
“Was she murdered?”
“All indications are that she was, yes.”
“How?”
“I can’t go into that right now.”
“How long has she been there?”
“That’s something the ME will have to determine. I can’t answer any more questions. We’re going to hold a press conference later today.”
“When?”
“Sometime this afternoon. You’ll have time to get here.”
Johan and Peter landed right after lunchtime at Visby airport. The cab ride into town didn’t take long.
Police headquarters in Visby had changed radically since they were last there. The ice blue metallic facade had been rep
laced with a soft beige stucco. The rooms were now bright and airy, and they had been decorated in a typically Nordic style that was very tranquil, with natural materials and muted shades of white and blue.
The old and rather shabby room in which they had previously held press conferences was nothing but a memory. The journalists were now shown into a spacious room on the ground floor with rows of stainless steel chairs facing a podium. Thin curtains hung in front of the windows that faced the drab wall of another building. The press had already started setting up their microphones at the podium. Johan counted four reporters from competing TV networks.
He was grateful that he had been entrusted with the task of reporting for all the news programs on Swedish TV. There hadn’t even been any discussion about it. After Johan’s highly praised reporting on the homicides last summer, the national editors had no doubts: Johan Berg was the man for the job. He was pleased that his report would be aired on all the news programs that evening. He felt a great satisfaction knowing that he would be reaching so many viewers and have such an impact.
He took a seat in the front row while Peter set up his camera. His colleagues from the local media greeted him. He recognized some of them from press conferences that summer.
A moment later Anders Knutas, Karin Jacobsson, Martin Kihlgard, and Lars Norrby all took seats on the podium.
“Welcome,” Knutas began. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas, and I’m in charge of this investigation.”
He introduced the others and then went on.
“As you already know, the body of Fanny Jansson was found in a remote wooded area on Lojsta Heath. Her body was found around eight thirty this morning by an individual who was out horseback riding. Fanny Jansson was murdered. The injuries that she sustained could not have been self-inflicted, so there is no question of suicide, as we had previously speculated.”
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