He called Knutas while he waited for Peter to pick him up at the hotel. The cameraman had been out, giving one of Gotland’s many golf courses a try, and Johan had interrupted him in the middle of a game. Knutas didn’t answer. Jacobsson didn’t, either. So he tried the duty officer, but he referred Johan to the head of the investigation, which meant Knutas. Shit. The duty officer would say only that something had happened on a farm in Nar. He refused to give any further details. The police were on the scene and needed to be able to work undisturbed. Johan impatiently lit a cigarette and cast a glance down the street. What was taking him so long?
A reporter from the central desk would be arriving on the first plane he could get. Over the next few days he would represent Swedish TV’s national news while Johan would continue to work for the regional division. The national reporter showed up only when things were hot. Like right now, when the inconceivable had happened: a third murder. Under normal circumstances, Johan would have felt offended that the national news wasn’t satisfied with using his reports in their program. Now he was glad. If he had to be working for all the news broadcasts at once, he wouldn’t have time to see Emma.
“Hurry up. Come on.”
Jacobsson sounded agitated. Knutas followed her out to the yard. In a clump of trees a short distance away, Sohlman and Kihlgard were bending over something. He trotted over to join them.
Sohlman was using tongs to pick up some object from the ground. It was oblong in shape and made of plastic. He turned it this way and that. Sweat was running down his back in the heat.
“What the hell is it?” grunted Kihlgard.
“It’s an inhaler for asthmatics.”
“Was Gunilla Olsson asthmatic?” asked Knutas.
His colleagues shrugged their shoulders.
Knutas ran back to the house. Cecilia Angstrom and the policewoman were just about to leave.
“Do you know whether Gunilla had asthma?” asked Knutas.
“I don’t think so,” replied Cecilia hesitantly. “No, she didn’t,” she then said more firmly. “She couldn’t have. We were at a party a few weeks ago, visiting some of my friends, and they have both a dog and a cat. Gunilla didn’t say anything about it bothering her.”
“Do you have asthma?”
“No.”
Knutas went back outside to his colleagues, who turned to him with a look of inquiry.
“All right,” he said. “It is very possible that we now know something new about our killer. He might have asthma.”
Johan didn’t know much about Nar, other than that it was the home district of the Ainbusk Singers. In his attempts to find Gunilla Olsson’s farm, he and Peter ended up on the road leading to the windy harbor of Narshamn. The little fishing village reminded them of Norway or Iceland. A wharf jutted out into the sea. On it was a long barracks with fish stalls inside. There were fishing trawlers, stacks of polystyrene fishing crates, and piles of netting. The boats that weren’t out at sea rocked on their moorings beside the wharf. In the distance they saw a couple of tourists pedaling their bikes against the wind, heading for the lighthouse on Narsholmen. The waves broke in a steady rhythm that seemed predetermined.
Johan rolled down the window. The smell of seaweed awakened memories. He felt an urge to walk right out to the end of the wharf and let the wind fill him with energy. Thoughts of Emma floated around him, seizing hold of his heart, his brain, his genitals, and his stomach. Right now, though, a different reality was demanding his attention. Peter turned the car around.
“Goddamn it. We took the wrong road.”
After getting lost two more times, they finally reached the farm. As windy as it had been down at the harbor, it was completely still outside the murdered woman’s house. The police had cordoned off a large area, and a number of curiosity seekers had interrupted their Midsummer celebrations to gather outside the police tape.
From the village came the faint sounds of accordion music. The Midsummer celebrations were in full swing just a short distance away from the murder scene.
Johan made inquiries and learned that Knutas had left the woman’s residence only fifteen minutes earlier. Jacobsson had left, too. They were the only ones he had good contact with among the Visby police.
Johan called Knutas, who confirmed that a thirty-five-year-old woman had been killed at her home. The precise time of the murder was unclear. The police refused to comment on how she had been killed.
Knutas, who knew that the journalists could quickly find out the victim’s identity, asked Johan not to include her name or photo in his report. The police had not yet been able to contact her family.
Before it was time for his report, Johan managed to talk to a young guy in the crowd that had gathered outside the police tape.
Yes, it was true that a girl lived here alone. She was in her thirties, the guy told him. She worked with ceramics.
It was a few minutes before six when he called the Aktuellt editor in Stockholm. He was linked up to the studio and reported live on what he had learned to the TV audience.
When the phone spot was done, he had to try to find more material for the later broadcasts. A press conference at police headquarters was scheduled for 9:00 P.M.
By then the national reporter should have arrived, and they could work together. That suited him fine.
Peter walked around outside the police tape, shooting footage. The police refused to say anything more. Johan decided instead to talk to the people standing on the narrow dirt road outside the farm. Some had arrived on bicycles, a couple of teenagers came on delivery mopeds, and a few cars had stopped and parked along the road. Most of them turned out to be neighbors who had seen the police cars gathering around the farm.
Johan approached a short, plump, middle-aged woman wearing shorts and a polo shirt. She had a dog with her, and she was standing by herself, slightly apart from the other spectators.
He introduced himself.
“Did you know the woman who lived here?” he asked.
“No,” replied the woman. “Not really. I heard that she was murdered. Is that true? Was it the same person who killed those other two women?”
She kept on talking without waiting for an answer.
“This is crazy. It’s like in a movie. It can’t possibly be true.”
“What was her name?”
“Gunilla Olsson.”
“Did she have any family?”
“No, she lived here alone. She was a potter. She worked in that studio over there.” The woman pointed to a low building with big windows inside the restricted area.
“How old was she?”
“Thirty-four or thirty-five.”
“Do you live around here?”
“Yes, farther up the road.”
“How well did you know each other?”
“I knew her mother when she was alive. We were in the same sewing circle, but I never had much contact with the daughter. We would say hello to each other whenever we happened to meet, but it didn’t seem like she wanted to talk much. She mostly kept to herself. She moved in quite recently. It must be, what, six months ago? She lived abroad for a long time. Far away, in Hawaii. Her parents lived in Ljugarn, so that’s where she grew up. They’ve been dead several years now. They died in a car accident while Gunilla was living so far away. And just imagine, she didn’t even come home for their funeral! They lost nearly all contact with each other after she grew up. She didn’t even want to have the same last name as they did. As soon as she was old enough, she changed her name to Olsson, even though her parents’ name was Brostrom. I know that her mother was very upset about that. She has a brother, too, but he lives on the mainland. I think his name is still Brostrom. It’s the daughter that the parents had the most trouble with.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“She skipped school a lot and wore strange clothes. And every time I saw her, she had changed her hair color. Her father was a pastor. I think it was especially hard for him. She was… what should
I say? Rebellious. That was when she was young, of course. Later she moved to Stockholm and went to art school, and then I know she left to live abroad.”
Johan was astonished by this woman who had turned out to be a virtual news bureau all on her own. Peter had joined them, and the camera was rolling as the woman talked.
“In any case, she had a couple of shows this past spring,” she went on. “I think it was all going really well for her. And she did make beautiful things.”
The talkative woman patted her dog. He had started to whine with impatience.
“This whole thing is just so awful. A person hardly even dares go out anymore. I went to one of her exhibits, and I tried to talk to her there, but I didn’t have much luck. She barely answered me.”
“Do you know whether she had any kind of relationship?”
“No. But now that you mention it, I’ve seen a man that I didn’t recognize around here lately. I take a lot of walks with my dogs, and I’ve seen him several times.”
“Is that right? Where was that?”
“The first time was maybe a few weeks ago. I was walking past one evening when he came out of her house.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No. I don’t think he noticed me.”
“Can you describe him?”
“He was tall with very blond hair.”
“How old was he?”
“I think he was quite young. Maybe about thirty. I’ve seen a man here a couple of times since then, and I’m almost positive he was the same one.”
“When was that?”
“About a week after I saw that man the first time, I caught sight of him again. He was coming from her house and heading down the road toward the bus stop. It seemed like he was in a big hurry, because he was walking really fast. I met him on the road and got a good look at him. He was stylish, very nicely dressed. He was no slacker by any means.”
“He was about thirty, you said?”
“Well, maybe a little younger or a little older than that. It’s hard to tell.”
Johan could feel his pulse quicken. This old lady might actually have seen the killer.
“Do you know whether he had a car?”
“Yes, there’s been a car that I didn’t recognize parked out here a couple of times. A Saab. Quite old. I don’t know what model it was, but it looked like it had at least ten years under its belt.”
After Johan was done with the interview, he and Peter went back to their car to drive to police headquarters, where the press conference was going to be held. He got hold of the reporter for national news, Robert Wiklander, who had already arrived. Aktuellt was going to broadcast live. There weren’t any outside broadcast vans on Gotland that had the technical equipment needed for a live transmission, but a van from Stockholm was due to arrive in time for the nine o’clock news. That meant that Johan and Peter could go over to the editorial offices to put together their material for the later broadcasts that night.
Until then, they were free. Regional wouldn’t be doing a report on Midsummer Eve. Robert and his cameraman would take over for the rest of the evening. Johan had been promised Midsummer Day off, too. Robert had worked on Gotland before and knew the setup. He promised to call Johan the next day only if it was absolutely necessary. Mamma, help. It’s so dark. Mamma, help me. So dark. He was crying with his open mouth pressed against the soft down pillow. Repeating the same words over and over. Snot was running from his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut so hard that he saw creepy figures wriggling around in the darkness. On the inside of his eyelids squirmed bright worms, snakes with giant heads, and monsters swaying from side to side. He was lying on his side with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around the pillow, a hard ball of pain in his stomach. Now and then he rocked back and forth as he lay there. The pillowcase was wet with tears and snot. It was four in the afternoon. His sister was out in the barn, and his parents wouldn’t be home until six. It had turned out to be a terrible day. They grabbed him on the way home from school. He had actually been feeling happy. That hadn’t happened in such a long time that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like-a tingle of joy in his stomach, mixed with a touch of hope that his situation might be about to change. He hadn’t been subjected to any teasing or malicious remarks all day long, and at recess a boy from another class had even talked to him. They had agreed to bring their hockey pictures on the following day. When he hurried off, as usual, after the last class and ran across the playground, they were al-ready there, the hated demons. They blocked his way. He tried to escape, but they were faster. They grabbed hold of him and dragged him down the stairs outside the gym. Between the entrance to the gym and the stairwell, there was a broom closet that was never used. That’s where they took him. Panic flung him into a fog. Hard, dry, unrelenting hands were clamped over his mouth. He tasted the salt of his own tears as they ran between the fingers and onto his lips. Two of them were holding his arms and covering his mouth while the others punched him. They beat him all over his body, clawing and biting him. It got worse and worse. When one of them started unbuttoning his pants, he thought he was going to die. Strong arms took hold of him and forced him down on the floor. They whipped his backside with a jumprope. Stinging, persistent lashes. They took turns, one after the other. Everyone wanted a chance. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think about something else. Sunshine, a bath, an ice cream cone. The fishing trips with his grandfather. The beating continued without stopping as they hurled insults at him. Their voices were filled with contempt. You disgusting piece of blubber. You pig. After a while he started having trouble breathing. The hands were pressed so hard over his mouth that he couldn’t get any air. He screamed, but not a sound came out. The scream would sit inside his body for the rest of his life. He felt something warm running between his legs. “Shit, how disgusting. He’s pissed himself,” said a voice. “Let’s get out of here,” said someone else. The beating stopped, the grip loosened, and they were gone from the broom closet. He collapsed onto the cement floor. He didn’t know how long he lay there. Finally he managed to get to his feet, straighten his clothes, and leave. When he reached home, he went up to his room, closed the door, and alternated between crying and screaming. He curled up on his bed. His backside stung and had started to bleed. They never hit him in the face. He thought it was because they didn’t want any marks to show. In the midst of his despair, he felt ashamed. What a loser he was, to be subjected to such abuse. He didn’t dare tell anyone. “Mamma!” he shrieked into the pillow. “Mamma!” At the same time, he knew that when she came home he would act perfectly normal. By then he would have dried his tears and washed his face. He would also drink several glasses of water to calm himself down. Like so many times before, she wouldn’t notice a thing. And he hated her for that.
For the press conference the Visby police had chosen the largest hall available at headquarters. Every last seat in the room was taken. Now the media from the rest of Scandinavia had become interested in this case of the mysterious serial killer who was eluding the Swedish police.
Knutas expressly asked the journalists not to disclose the identity of the victim. All members of her family had not yet been notified. The police had not been able to contact her brother, who was out sailing along the Swedish west coast.
No mention was made of the asthma inhaler.
Knutas had never felt under such great pressure before. He was dead tired, and furious at being cheated out of his Midsummer party. Furious that a new murder had been committed. Furious that they weren’t any closer to solving the case. Several times he looked to his colleagues for assistance in answering the journalists’ questions-in particular to Karin Jacobsson, but also to Martin Kihlgard, who turned out to be a rock in this kind of situation.
In spite of their failure to catch the murderer, which had proved deadly once again, Knutas was forced to defend the enormous amount of work that had already been accomplished. His words sounded hollow, even to his own ears. The image of the dea
d Gunilla Olsson had become permanently etched onto his retina, and there it remained during the entire press conference.
All the reporters in attendance did everything they could to refute the police argument and attack the work that had been done so far. Sometimes Knutas wondered how journalists could stand to do their job: their endlessly critical attitude, their eternal search for some type of conflict, and their constant focus on the negative. How could they live with themselves? What did they talk about at the dinner table at home? The war in the Middle East? The situation in Northern Ireland? The monetary union? Prime Minister Persson’s tax policies?
He was suddenly overwhelmed by an enormous sense of fatigue. The questions were buzzing through the air like angry hornets. He was losing his concentration. He downed a whole glass of water and managed to pull himself together.
Afterward, the reporters buttonholed him for individual interviews.
Two hours later it was finally over. He told his colleagues that he didn’t want to be disturbed, and he shut himself up in his office. When he sank down on the chair at his desk, he felt close to tears. Good Lord, he was a grown man-but he was dead tired and starving, and he realized that he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast except for a sandwich, since his Midsummer dinner had been so cruelly interrupted. No wonder hunger was gnawing at his stomach. He called his wife at their summer house in Lickershamn.
“Come home, sweetheart. The guests left a long time ago. The party never really got going. There’s lots of food left over. I’m going to put together a real Midsummer plate for you, and we have cold beer. Doesn’t that sound good? Why don’t you leave right now?”
Her soft voice made him feel warm and vulnerable.
Johan honored the request from the police not to make public the name or photo of the latest murder victim. He didn’t even say that she was a potter.
When Johan and Peter were finally done with their work, they decided to go out, even though it was past midnight and they were dog tired. It was still Midsummer Eve, as Peter pointed out.
Johan agreed. For several days he had called and sent text messages to Emma’s cell phone without getting any reply. She was undoubtedly out in some summer meadow celebrating Midsummer with her entire dear family. It was no use to keep yearning for her. It would never work out. Still, he ached with longing, and the only thing that helped was to drown it in alcohol. He wanted to forget about Emma, about the murders, about his depressed mother, about the whole fucking lot of it.
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