Unknown ak-3

by Mari Jungstedt

  A gloomy mood had settled over the room. Maybe they were all thinking about the same thing: the image of Martina, futilely fighting for her life in the reeds while her friends were partying only a few hundred yards away, having no idea what was happening.

  "It sounds premeditated," said Kihlgard, "and ice cold. He must have counted on getting her alone so that he could carry out the deed. I mean, who goes around with a knife and a rope and things like that in his car for no reason?"

  "Maybe he'd been spying on her for a while," Jacobsson tossed out. "We don't know how long he may have been waiting for the right opportunity. Maybe it was just a lucky chance that it happened that night."

  "Can we be sure that it was Martina he was out to get?" asked Kihlgard. "Who's to say he wasn't just after some random victim, anyone at all?"

  "That might also be the case," Knutas admitted.

  "Another thing that strikes me is that this crime required time," Kihlgard went on. "He must have needed at least a couple of hours to get everything done."

  "Then there's the ritualistic element. What does that tell us?" said Knutas. He turned to look at the forensic psychiatrist.

  "It's much too early for me to make any sort of evaluation," said Agneta Larsvik. "I want to see more pictures of the victim and study more of the facts. I also need to wait for the autopsy report. In addition, I'd like to see the crime scene before I say anything specific."

  "But what's your first reaction?" Knutas ventured.

  "What we see here," she said with a glance at the photo of Martina, which filled the entire screen, "is an expression of extreme and improbable violence. It's a very strange act, which makes me think of a solitary, gravely ill perpetrator with a strong hatred for women. Possibly inexperienced sexually. The knife wound in the abdomen may signify a curiosity about the female body in the same way that other perps insert objects into the vagina to examine it. The fact that the victim is naked might imply a sexual association, but as I said, at this stage it's impossible to draw any definite conclusions."

  "Do you think this is the perp's first crime?" asked Jacobsson.

  "Probably not. I would guess it's a young killer who has committed violent crimes before. This sort of macabre crime is not something a person would do his first time out."

  "Why do you think he's young?"

  "An individual who is sick enough to be capable of a crime of this nature wouldn't be able to get along in society for very long. To put it simply, he wouldn't get very old before he was caught. But keep in mind that these are only my initial thoughts."

  Knutas was looking resolute. "Can you say anything about the modus operandi?"

  All eyes were fixed on Larsvik.

  "The fact that the perpetrator hung the body up in the tree may mean that he wants to be seen. By exposing his victim, he's saying to us that he's dangerous, almost like 'Look what I can do!' It may indicate that the murderer wants to tell us that we'd better stop him in time, before he does the same thing again."

  Late that afternoon the preliminary autopsy report arrived by fax from the forensic medicine lab in Solna. In his mind Knutas sent the ME words of thanks; then he closed the door to his office and started leafing through the pages.

  It turned out that Martina had died from drowning after all. Her lungs were severely inflated; she had foam in her windpipe and seawater in her stomach. Traces of sperm were found in her vagina, but there were no injuries to indicate a sexual assault. The sperm sample had been sent to the Swedish Crime Laboratory in Linkoping. The knife wound in her abdomen was deep; it had injured the aorta and intestines. Her blood alcohol level was. 12, which meant that she was definitely intoxicated when the murder was committed.

  The discovery of the ring and the autopsy results indicated that the murder had occurred at Warfsholm-to be more precise, at the shoreline in front of the youth hostel, not far from the front door and the parking area but hidden by the surrounding juniper bushes. The killer had presumably been so bold as to park right there. When Martina was dead it would have been a simple matter to carry her to his car. The bushes would have hidden him from view. After that he most likely drove straight out to Vivesholm. It would have been about 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. At that hour all the summer guests would have been sound asleep in their houses.

  The perpetrator must have parked his car near the fence, far enough away that it wouldn't be seen from the gate or the summer houses. Then he lifted out the body and carried it into the grove of trees.

  He had probably prepared the site earlier. Hoisting up a corpse was heavy work. It was unlikely that a woman could have done it, unless she'd had help. Of course, there could have been two or more perpetrators.

  Why had the killer chosen to hoist up the body, thereby making it visible and easier to discover? For one thing, it decreased any lead he may have had. For another, executing the maneuver itself entailed a risk of discovery. Was it as the forensic psychiatrist had thought: that this was a way for the perpetrator to call attention to himself? Knutas had his doubts.

  Then there was the matter of the abdominal wound. If it didn't have anything to do with Larsvik's assumption about sexual curiosity, what did it mean? Was the killer trying to desecrate his victim? Was it the assault itself that gave him some sort of satisfaction?

  Otherwise, as Knutas saw it, there was only one other reason: to drain the body of a great deal of blood, just as had been done with the horse. The blood would then be used for some specific purpose.

  The question was: What?

  Gunnar Ambjornsson, Social Democrat and local politician, lived alone. He had done so all his adult life, and that was how he preferred it. To be his own master, to avoid always having to negotiate with others about one thing or another, to compromise, to give and take. He'd done enough of that while he was growing up with four siblings in a cramped row house on Irisdalsgatan in Visby. He'd always had to share a bedroom. The sofa in front of the TV in the living room was always occupied. The chairs around the dining room table were always crowded together. He never had even a corner to himself. The only place he could find any peace was in the bathroom, but never for very long.

  When he moved away from home, he first went to Goteborg to study at the university. There he lived in a student dorm with a shared shower and kitchen, so there wasn't much private space there, either. When he finished his degree, he immediately got a job with the county of Gotland, and he'd been on the island ever since. He found an apartment on Stenkumlavag-centrally located but not in the middle of downtown. A two-room place with a kitchen and a view of the street. On the fourth floor of the building. He would never forget the feeling when he entered his apartment for the first time. Empty, newly remodeled, and fresh. He remembered how he ran his finger over the shiny tiles in the bathroom, sniffed at the new paint in the kitchen, and admired the pristine moldings in the living room. He was delighted by the solitude and by how orderly it all was.

  Gradually he worked his way up to better apartments, and for the past twenty years he had lived in his own small house with a garden surrounded by a wall-in Klinten itself, the picturesque residential area across from the cathedral, which was the most attractive area in all of Visby. In the past it been the poorest neighborhood, with a gallows hill so that the condemned could be seen from all over the city and serve as a deterrent. The view was magnificent, with the entire medieval city spread out below with its narrow lanes, its ruins, and the ring wall. On the other side of town was the sea, forming a blue backdrop.

  Gunnar Ambjornsson had never married, nor did he have any children, and at the age of sixty-two he realized that he never would. He'd had women in his life, but the relationships had never resulted in living with any of them. A few had tried to get him to do so, but each time he had backed out at the last minute. Of course he had been interested, and even in love, but he didn't think it was worth giving up his solitude.

  For the past few years he'd had a steady relationship with a woman from Stanga. Berit was a teacher, an
d she was very busy with her job and the small farm where she lived. She would never give up her life in the country to move in with him in the city, and that suited him perfectly. They each lived their separate lives and got together on the weekends. That was precisely the way he wanted it.

  Right now he was on his way home after taking part in a golf tournament in Slite. Golf was one of his great passions in his free time, aside from politics. He'd been a Social Democrat since childhood, having grown up in a true working-class family; he was a member of the city council, belonged to several commissions, and served on various boards of directors. He didn't work during the summer, so he took the opportunity to travel a great deal. In a few days he would be heading for the Moroccan city of Marrakech. He had fallen in love with the place as a teenager and had gone back regularly over the years. He always traveled alone. That was the whole point, in his opinion. That made it possible for him to meet new people in an entirely different way than if he'd had a traveling companion. Berit didn't care; she was so busy with her farm, her animals, her children and grandchildren.

  He barely managed to maneuver his car between the small, low buildings and turn onto Norra Murgatan, which was up the hill next to the northeastern section of the ring wall. He parked the car in the slot reserved for him. He was looking forward to taking a shower and then sitting in the garden reading Aftonbladet with a shot of whiskey. It was a warm evening with no wind. He glanced at his watch as he climbed out of the car. Nine fifteen and as bright as daylight. The Swedish summer was unbeatable when the weather was good. He opened the trunk and took out his heavy golf bag. Then he got out his key and unlocked the gate in the seven-foot-high fence that shielded his property from view. The garden consisted of several beds of roses, a rectangular plot of grass with patio furniture, and a barbecue area. There was also a shed where he kept his gardening tools.

  This was his oasis, a little piece of green paradise in the midst of the city. He had even put in a pond with a fountain that murmured in blissful tranquility.

  After he closed the gate behind him and walked along the well-weeded gravel path to the front door of his house, something made him stop short. Something had changed since he left the house early that morning.

  Ambjornsson was a very meticulous person with set routines; he always did everything in exactly the same way each day. Something was different, but he couldn't figure out what it could be.

  He set down his golf bag and scanned the deep red climbing roses on the trellis that separated the sitting area from the lawn and the facade of the house. The neighbor's black cat was perched on the fence facing the street, watching him from her elevated position.

  Then he realized what was out of the ordinary. The fountain wasn't on. He didn't hear it splashing. At first he thought that some problem must have arisen to shut off the water. Then he saw that the broom wasn't in its usual place, leaning against the wall where it normally was. Now he was certain: Someone had been here. He was positive. Had there been a break-in? He hurried over to the door and tried it. No, it was locked and undamaged, as far as he could tell. With fumbling fingers he unlocked the door and went in. The house had only one floor, so it didn't take long to search it. His original painting by Peter Dahl hung undisturbed on the wall above the sofa in the living room, along with the Zorn etching. He pulled out the drawer in the chiffonier; the silverware was still there, as was his coin collection.

  Everything seemed untouched. He went back outside and caught sight of the broom, leaning against the shed. He never left it there. Cautiously he approached the shed, listening for any sound. There was a risk that someone might be hiding inside. The intruder had apparently not bothered with the house itself. Maybe he had been surprised to hear someone show up and had taken refuge in the shed. Since Ambjornsson always locked the gate, he sometimes left the shed door open. He was on the alert and moved as quietly as he could. It was extremely uncommon to have a burglary in this neighborhood. He'd never known it to happen in all the years he had lived here. If only it wasn't some junkie who was high and might do anything at all. Occasionally one of them would sit and drink with the local winos on the lawn across from the Rackarbacken ring wall when the weather was good.

  Cautiously he climbed the steps, just enough so that he could reach out and slowly press down the door handle. Something was there, he could clearly sense it; he hardly dared breathe. Now it was too late to change his mind.

  At first he didn't comprehend what it was that came rushing out at him when the door opened. He fell over backward, and he could feel something big and bloody come toppling over him. He screamed when he looked into the dead eyes of a horse's head.

  He washed his hands with great care, rubbing on the soap and scrubbing with the stiff brush so that his skin hurt. Then he continued up along his arms, brushing so vigorously that his skin stung and layers were gradually scraped off. He started to bleed. By that time he no longer felt any pain. The water didn't flow properly from the faucet, nor did it ever get truly hot. He didn't care; in some way that was all part of the whole process. He bled into the sink, and he liked seeing the blood splash up on the stainless steel sides. Then he scrubbed his chest, his stomach, his legs, and his arms in the same rough manner.

  He came out here every time. This was his starting point, the center of his circle, the hub in his life. Here the present shook hands with the future, stood eye to eye with the past. Everything became knotted together into one entity. It was only in this house that he could feel peace.

  The turning point had occurred here, and he knew exactly when it had happened. He now understood that he had been chosen, but also that this had not occurred by mere chance.

  He had arranged it himself by finally taking command of his own life. He would never have to wonder what it was that had prompted his actions from the very beginning. Perhaps it was merely a feeling of satiety, that now it was enough. From being a victim, he had now gone on the attack. Once and for all.

  There was something painful yet at the same time liberating about getting older. Life's insights caught up with you, and there was no avoiding them. They nudged the back of your knees, breathed down your neck until you let them emerge, and then it was like a dam bursting. All the torments that he had hidden under his skin came to the surface and broke through the wall of defenses that he had so carefully constructed since the very first violations in his childhood. To live was to suffer, but he had been punished enough. So one day when he was wandering through the woods alone, he confronted them eye to eye. They spoke through pine and spruce, juniper and blueberry branches. He could hear their whispering voices in the crowns of the trees, in the marshy ground, and in the overcast sky. When he trudged along the shore he heard their cries from far off in the foamy white wave tops and in the sandy dunes.

  He screamed and drowned out the roar of the waves.

  "I hear you, I hear you. I'm here, I'm yours! I'm your eternal servant, I offer my blood, my life!"

  They answered him quickly and firmly. It was not his blood they were interested in.

  The call came into police headquarters at 9:15 p.m. Speaking in a distressed and disjointed manner, Gunnar Ambjornsson told the officer on duty about the horse's head in his shed. The officer then contacted Anders Knutas, who in turned called Jacobsson. Since she lived within walking distance of Norra Murgatan, they agreed to meet there.

  When Knutas arrived, she was already waiting outside the fence. They found Ambjornsson, with whom Knutas was slightly acquainted, wrapped in a blanket and sitting on a chair in the yard. He was speaking agitatedly with a female police officer. When he caught sight of Knutas, he stood up.

  "Anders, this is insane. Come see for yourselves."

  He led the way to the shed, which stood in a corner of the property.

  Jacobsson took out a handkerchief in preparation for what they were about to see and pressed it to her mouth.

  Her stomach still turned over when she saw what Ambjornsson had found an hour earlier. T
he swollen and bloody head of a horse was affixed to a sturdy wooden pole that was leaning against the door. The pole had been shoved up into the head through the neck. The mouth hung open, and the eyes gave both officers a glassy stare. Several seconds passed before anyone said a word.

  "Do you see what I see?" said Knutas in a toneless voice.

  Jacobsson slowly nodded from behind her handkerchief. She could hardly bear to look.

  "What is it?" Ambjornsson seemed terrified.

  Both the detectives gave him a solemn look.

  "Do you know about the horse that was found decapitated recently?"

  Ambjornsson nodded without speaking.

  "Well, this head," said Knutas, "doesn't belong to the same horse."

  FRIDAY, JULY 9

  When Knutas closed the door to his house and set off for work, it was only six thirty in the morning on the day after the discovery in Ambjornsson's shed. He had lain awake most of the night, and by five he gave up all attempts to sleep. As soon as he got outside, he perked up. The morning air was fresh and clear, and the city was quiet and still.

  It was 11:00 p.m. by the time they left the house in Klinten the night before. Ambjornsson had reluctantly agreed to be taken to the hospital to be examined. He'd had a weak heart for many years and had to take medicine for it. Afterward he was given a police escort over to his girlfriend's place in Stanga. The police refused to allow him to spend the night alone in his house. The horse's head on the pole couldn't be regarded as anything less than a threat.

  The conference room had a charged atmosphere when the investigative team took their places. A certain anticipation could be felt in the air. What had happened was definitely out of the ordinary.