Unspoken ak-2

by Mari Jungstedt

  “What were her injuries?” asked Johan.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” replied Knutas curtly.

  He sighed a bit. In spite of the fact that he had barely started on what he had intended to say, the questions had already begun. A number of hands were waving in the air. He had a hard time dealing with the eternal impatience of journalists.

  “We’ll answer your questions in a moment,” he said, “but first I want to present some of the facts.”

  He had no intention of allowing them to run the show. The reporters lowered their hands.

  “The body had been lying at the site for some time. We don’t yet know how long. Fanny Jansson was fully dressed when she was found, and there are no signs of sexual assault. The crime scene has been cordoned off, and the area is being searched by our technicians. An ME will be here tomorrow to examine the body. The area will be kept under guard until the body can be moved and the technical investigation has been completed. That is all I have to say at the moment. Do any of you want to add anything?”

  He gave his colleagues an inquiring look, but they shook their heads.

  “Then we’ll take questions.”

  “How long has the body been there?”

  “It could be a matter of weeks, meaning the entire time that Fanny has been missing. But we’re not at all sure about that. We’ll have to wait for the ME’s report.”

  “Was any sort of weapon found?”

  “I have no comment.”

  “Can you say anything about how she was killed?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Did the perpetrator leave any clues?”

  “I can’t divulge that, out of consideration for the ongoing investigation.”

  “Does Fanny Jansson have any connection to the place where she was found?” asked Johan.

  “Not as far as we know.”

  “Was she murdered at the site, or was she moved there?”

  “We have reason to believe that she was killed somewhere else and that her body was later moved to the wooded area.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “As I said earlier, I can’t divulge anything about any evidence or other information found at the crime scene,” said Knutas with forced composure.

  “Who found the body?”

  “A local woman. I don’t want to give her name.”

  “Are there any witnesses?”

  “It’s possible. We haven’t yet started interviewing anyone who lives in the area. But we’re going to appeal to the public for information. We want to talk to anyone who may have seen or heard anything suspicious, especially during the last few weeks, in connection with the place where the body was found. No information will be considered too insignificant. Everything is of interest.”

  Knutas gave them the number for the police hotline and the press conference was over.

  That evening Johan presented live reports on all the news broadcasts, giving the television viewers the latest update. He and Peter had a late supper at their hotel and then went to bed.

  Again Emma didn’t answer her phone when Johan tried to call her. It had now been more than a week since they had last talked to each other. Her friend Viveka had explained to him that Emma was ill and wanted to be left alone. He would just have to wait until she decided to call.

  The ME was expected on Gotland the following day, but that evening Sohlman was able to present to the investigative team a preliminary report along with some visual images.

  “It’s difficult to say how long she has been lying there, but her body is quite well preserved, as you can see, as a result of the cold weather. The perpetrator also covered the body with moss, so no animal got to her. Fanny was fully dressed when she was found, but her sweater was torn at the neck. Her clothing will be examined more closely when the ME arrives, but we’re leaving her body where it is until he gets here tomorrow. I can make an educated guess and say that she died from lack of oxygen. Do you see the red specks in the whites of her eyes and the bruises on her neck? Without going out on a limb, we can assume that she was strangled.

  “She apparently offered some resistance, since her sweater was torn. I’m hoping that the perpetrator has left some evidence on her clothing-skin particles or saliva, for instance. The body was protected by the woods and the moss. It was also lying in a hollow, so we hope we can find some traces from the killer. We’ve taken scrapings from under her fingernails. There are skin particles that most likely came from him. Everything is being sent to SCL, as usual.

  “When it comes to the location of the body, we can conclude that she was probably killed elsewhere and was then dumped in the woods. There are no traces of blood or anything else that might indicate the murder was committed at the site. We haven’t yet been able to examine the body, but we did discover one thing. She has cuts on her wrists.”

  Sohlman clicked through the photographs until he found the pictures of Fanny Jansson’s hands. Cuts were clearly visible on both of her wrists.

  “Someone has cut her here. She probably did it herself.”

  “So she did try to kill herself, after all,” exclaimed Norrby.

  “Well, I’m not so sure about that,” Sohlman objected. “I think it’s more likely that she was one of those girls who cut themselves. It’s not all that uncommon among teenage girls who are depressed. She had cut herself in other places as well, for instance behind her ears. The cuts are superficial, so there’s no question of a real suicide attempt. It’s possible that there are more cuts hidden under her clothing.”

  “Why would she do that?” asked Wittberg.

  “Girls who cut themselves do it because they don’t know how to handle their fears,” Jacobsson explained. “When they cut themselves, all their anxiety collects in that one spot. It’s also possible that they experience the pain and the blood as liberating. It’s something concrete and controllable. The moment they cut themselves, all their other anxieties disappear; their fear becomes concentrated in the part of their body that is being subjected to pain.”

  “But why would she cut herself in such odd places?”

  “Probably so that it wouldn’t be visible.”

  Knutas switched on the lights and looked at his colleagues with a serious expression on his face.

  “We now have two murders to investigate. The question is whether there is any connection between them. What does a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl have in common with an alcoholic man in his sixties?”

  “As I see it, there are two obvious connections,” said Kihlgard. “First, alcoholism. Fanny’s mother drinks, and Dahlstrom was an alcoholic. Second is the racetrack. Dahlstrom bet on the horses, and Fanny worked at a stable at the trotting track.”

  “Those are two reasonable connections,” said Knutas. “Is there anything else that might not be as obvious? Anyone?”

  No one replied.

  “All right,” he said. “That’s all for now. Both lines of inquiry need to be explored without bias.”

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 14

  It felt as if the dawn would never come on that cold December morning. Knutas was having oatmeal with his wife and children in the kitchen. They had lit candles, which made their shared breakfast a bit more pleasant. Lina and the kids had baked saffron rolls while he was out at the site where Fanny was found. He was going to need them. Today he had to pick up the ME at the airport and then drive back out to the forest clearing. He put on a wool sweater and got out his warmest winter jacket. The frost of the past few weeks was holding on.

  The children were upset and worried, and they wanted to talk about Fanny’s murder. They had been greatly affected by the death, since Fanny wasn’t much older than they were and they knew her by sight. Knutas ran the palm of his hand over their cheeks as they stood at the front door on their way to school.

  In the car on his way to the airport, he felt a cold sweat come over him, and he was overcome by such nausea that he had to pull over and stop for a moment. Everything swam be
fore his eyes, and he felt a tight pressure in his chest. Occasionally he suffered from panic attacks, a form of anxiety, but it had been a long time since the last one. He opened the car door and tried to calm his ragged breathing. The images of Fanny’s body, combined with his worries about his own children, had apparently brought on this attack. With his type of work, it was impossible to protect his kids from all the shit he was forced to deal with: drunkenness, drugs, and violence. As his children were growing up, society seemed to be getting more and more brutal. It was probably worse in the big cities, but even here on Gotland the change was noticeable.

  He tried not to say too many negative things about his job. At the same time, he could seldom come home and tell them that he’d had an uplifting sort of day. Of course he was always relieved when a case was solved, but it was hardly a matter of feeling elated. When an investigation was successfully completed, he just felt tired afterward. There was no sense of catharsis, as some people might think. Instead, he mostly had a feeling of emptiness, as if he were utterly deflated. Then all he wanted to do was go home and sleep.

  After a few minutes he felt better. He rolled down the window and slowly continued driving to the airport.

  The ME was waiting for him outside the terminal. His plane had landed earlier than anticipated. It was the same doctor that Knutas had worked with last summer, a lean man with thinning hair and a horselike face. His extensive experience lent him an air of gravity and authority. On their way out to the site where the body was found, Knutas told the doctor about everything they knew so far.

  By the time they arrived, it was ten fifteen in the morning, and Fanny Jansson’s eyes were still staring up at the gray December sky. Knutas grimaced with dread as he thought about what the beautiful girl lying on the ground might have gone through. Her body looked so small and thin under her clothing. Her cheeks were brown and smooth, her chin softly childish. Knutas was annoyed to feel tears welling up in his eyes.

  He turned his back and gazed at the woods, which were dense and inaccessible. Over near the tractor road he could see that the forest thinned out a bit. Since he had previously studied the map of the area, he knew that some distance away there were open fields and pastures. A crow cawed from far off, otherwise everything was silent except for a quiet rustling from the dark green branches of the trees. The ME was now fully involved in his examination, and would be for the next several hours. Erik Sohlman and a couple of the other techs were assisting him with his work.

  Knutas realized that his presence wasn’t needed. Just as he got into the car to drive back to police headquarters, Karin Jacobsson called him.

  “There’s one person who has ties to both Dahlstrom and Fanny Jansson.”

  “Really? Who is it?”

  “His name is Stefan Eriksson, and he’s the stepson of Fanny’s aunt in Vibble. She has a daughter of her own, but she divorced the father early on and married someone else, a man who had a son from a previous marriage. Fanny and this Stefan have seen each other for years at various family gatherings and the like. He’s forty years old, married with two children, and he also happens to own a horse at the stable.”

  “I know that. We’ve been down the whole list,” said Knutas impatiently. “What about him?”

  “He was an intern under Dahlstrom when he was in high school. He worked at the newspaper for two weeks. After that he was a temp for Gotlands Tidningar and later he also worked for Dahlstrom when he started his own business. This Eriksson owns a cafe in town, the Cafe Cortado on Hastgatan, but his hobby is photography.”

  “Is that right?” exclaimed Knutas in surprise. This was new information to him.

  “He and Dahlstrom may have kept in contact over all these years, even though Eriksson denied it when Wittberg and I interviewed him. A most unpleasant type of person. I could easily imagine him-”

  “All right, but let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Knutas interrupted her. “What else?”

  “I asked him if he spends any time at the stable, and he said that he’s there now and then. The staff at the stable confirm this. He would also occasionally drive Fanny home.”

  “Does he have a police record?”

  “No. On the other hand, there have been a number of complaints filed against him for suspected neglect. His family used to raise sheep, and the animals were evidently treated badly, according to the person who complained. Eriksson no longer has any sheep.”

  “I want to talk to him myself. Where is he?”

  “I think he’s at home. He lives in… oh my God!”

  Jacobsson abruptly fell silent.

  “What is it?”

  “Stefan Eriksson lives in Gerum, which is only a couple of miles from the place where Fanny Jansson’s body was found.”

  “I’m ten minutes from there. I’m on my way.”

  Gerum is not a real town. It’s just a church with a few scattered farms right next to the large and inaccessible Lojsta Heath. The landscape is flat, but Stefan Eriksson’s farm and surrounding property were the exception. It stood on a hill with a panoramic view of the area. The farm consisted of a stone farmhouse with two wings and a large barn. A late-model Jeep was parked outside along with a BMW.

  When Knutas rang the bell, he heard dogs barking inside. No one came to the door.

  He took a stroll around the farm and looked in the windows of the separate wings. One was apparently used as an artist’s studio, and there were paintings leaning against the walls. A painting of a woman’s face was set on an easel in the middle of the room. Crowded onto a table splotched with paint were cans and tubes of paint along with paintbrushes.

  As he peered in the windows, Knutas was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat behind him. The detective was so startled that he jumped and dropped his pipe on the ground. A man was standing right behind him.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  Stefan Eriksson was almost six foot six inches tall, by Knutas’s estimate. He had on a blue down jacket and a black knit cap.

  Knutas introduced himself. “Could we go inside to talk? It’s starting to get cold.”

  “Of course, come with me.”

  The man led the way inside. Knutas was practically knocked down by two Dobermans, who seemed beside themselves with joy.

  “So you’re not afraid of dogs?” asked Eriksson without making any attempt to calm the animals.

  They sat down in what must have been the good parlor. To think that people still have rooms like this, thought Knutas. A remnant of bygone times.

  Stefan Eriksson was clearly fond of antiques. A mirror in an elaborate gold frame hung on the wall. Next to it stood a bureau with curved legs and lion’s claw feet; along one wall stood a grand cabinet with rounded feet. The room smelled stuffy and dusty. Knutas felt as if he were sitting inside a museum.

  He declined the offer of coffee. His stomach growled, reminding him that lunchtime was long past.

  “Well, I don’t really understand what you want. I’ve already talked to the police,” said the tall man, who had sat down on a plush armchair. The dogs had settled at his feet, with their eyes fixed on their master.

  “I need to ask you a few additional questions, but first I would like to express my condolences.”

  The man sitting across from him did not change expression.

  “It’s true that Fanny was my cousin, but we hardly knew each other. And we’re not real cousins, anyway. My father-”

  “I know about the family ties,” Knutas interrupted him. “How often did you see each other?”

  “Very rarely. Sometimes at someone’s birthday celebration. There were problems with her mother, so they didn’t always come. Majvor can’t keep away from the bottle.”

  “How well did you know Fanny?”

  “There was a big age difference between us, so we didn’t really have anything in common. She was a little girl who sometimes came to visit with her mother. She never said anything. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more
silent girl.”

  “You own a horse at the stable where Fanny worked. Didn’t you ever see each other there?”

  “That old nag is practically useless. It costs a lot more to keep her than she ever brings in from racing. But of course I do stop by the stable once in a while. Occasionally Fanny was there at the same time.”

  “Did you sometimes give her a lift home?”

  “Not very often.”

  “Which car did you drive?”

  Stefan Eriksson shifted uneasily in his chair. A frown appeared on his face.

  “What are you getting at? Am I under suspicion?”

  “Not at all,” said Knutas dismissively. “I’m sorry if I seem pushy, but we have to talk to everyone who knew Fanny.”

  “I understand.”

  “So which car did you drive?”

  “The BMW that’s parked outside.”

  “You knew Henry Dahlstrom, too, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I was an apprentice for him eons ago when I was still in school. After I graduated I sometimes filled in for him at GT, and I also worked as a temp at Master’s. I mean, Master Pictures, his company.”

  “How did you happen to meet him?”

  “I’m interested in photography, and he was teaching a course that I attended when I was in high school. And then, as I mentioned, I was an apprentice for him.”

  “Did you keep in contact over the years?”

  “No. When the business folded, he went completely downhill.”

  “Do you still take photographs?”

  “When I can. I’m married and have children and we moved out here. The cafe that I own in town also takes up a lot of my time. It’s Cafe Cortado, on Hastgatan,” he added.

  Knutas detected a note of pride in the man’s voice. Cafe Cortado was one of the most popular cafes in town.

  Suddenly the dogs rushed for the door and began barking. Knutas gave a start. Eriksson’s face lit up.

  “That’s my wife and kids. Just a minute.”

  He got up and went out to the entryway. The dogs were barking wildly and jumping around.

  “Hi, sweetheart. Hi, kids. How are you?”