The Dangerous Game

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘Who was on the phone?’

  ‘Tina. She wanted to talk to you, but she’ll call you right back.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Uh-huh. I asked her if I could interview Jenny, so she was going to talk to her and let me know in a few minutes.’

  ‘You just couldn’t resist, could you?’

  He heard a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Emma had never had much patience for the way journalists were always on the hunt for the next big scoop. Or their irrepressible delight when they were the first to break a news story. She had personally been subjected to a media onslaught, and she wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy. Luckily, she had benefited from Johan’s ability to handle such situations. Although, when it came right down to it, he was just as hungry for a good news story as his colleagues were. She could see the gleam of anticipation in his eyes as he thought about how close he was to snagging the one interview that every reporter in Sweden was hoping for at the moment. Like a bloodhound on the trail.

  Ten minutes later Tina rang again. Jenny had agreed to do the interview.

  The farm was in Gammelgarn in the eastern part of Gotland. Located as it was, high on a hill, the buildings were visible from the road. Johan and Pia turned off on to a straight gravel road with expansive fields, lying fallow now during the winter, spreading out on either side. The old farm was built in the typical Gotland style of greyish limestone, with a main house, a sheep barn and a big old barn used by the family as a shop selling sheepskins during the tourist season. Johan had been here many times before. Tina and Emma had been friends for ages, ever since teacher training college. Johan liked Tina and her husband, Fredrik, and enjoyed their company. The two couples got on well together, and regularly met for dinner.

  As Pia parked the car in the yard at the front, Tina came out of the house and waited for them on the porch. Two lively Border collies raced about at top speed, wagging their tails in greeting.

  Johan gave Tina a hug, thinking that she looked a bit worn out.

  In the kitchen, they found Jenny sitting at the table holding a cat on her lap. She got up to hug Johan and shake hands with Pia.

  Jenny looked more beautiful every time he saw her. It had to be at least six months since they’d last met, because she’d been doing so much travelling recently. Her hair hung over her shoulders in a thick, shiny red curtain. Her almond-shaped, inscrutable green eyes had an intense look to them. Long, thin legs in jeans, and a simple V-necked red jumper. She wore no make-up, no watch or any jewellery.

  They filmed the interview in the kitchen. Jenny sat there with the cat curled up on her lap, a lit candle on the table, a fire crackling in the wood stove. Outside the window sheep with heavy woollen coats could be seen scattered over the fields, grazing. The collies lay under the table and sighed.

  With much emotion, Jenny told Johan about the terror and panic she’d felt as she wandered in the woods, trying to find the hermit’s cabin in the night. Her shock when she discovered Markus and all the blood inside it. Her uncertainty about whether he was dead or alive. Her fear of the assailant, not knowing whether he might still be out there somewhere in the dark. And how she had sat in the latrine, feeling so alone and vulnerable.

  And, in no time, they had the whole story, as told by the key person in the drama.

  ‘What is your relationship to Markus Sandberg?’ Johan asked at the end.

  ‘I’m in love with him,’ she said, quite candidly. ‘We’ve been seeing each other for a while, but not for very long. Only a few months. We wanted to keep it private for a while.’

  Johan gave a start. What the hell? He hadn’t heard anything about this before. He cleared his throat and tried to restrain his glee.

  ‘Why is that?’

  Jenny blushed. She was clearly reluctant to answer the question.

  ‘It’s not something I want to discuss on TV.’

  ‘So why have you decided to say anything about the relationship now?’

  ‘Because, er … because of what happened to Markus. I feel like I might as well tell everyone what the situation is. So that …’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well … you never know …’

  ‘What do you never know?’

  ‘Whether the man who did this … I mean … whether it had something to do with our relationship.’

  ‘Are you saying that jealousy might have been the motive?’

  ‘I don’t know, but …’

  Jenny Levin fell silent and turned to look at her mother. It was obvious she wanted to end the interview.

  Tina was sitting in the corner, listening. She stood up at once.

  ‘I think that’s enough now. Okay, Jenny?’

  She nodded. Johan put down the microphone.

  ‘Sure. Of course. You can stop the camera,’ he said, turning to Pia.

  ‘But I need a few still photos,’ she told him.

  ‘Okay, but let’s wait a few minutes.’

  She turned off the camera and set it on the tripod before going outside to the front porch to have a smoke. Pia hated it when Johan told her what to do.

  ‘Sorry,’ Johan said to Jenny. ‘Was I too tough on you?’

  ‘Not really, except for the last part …’

  ‘About your relationship with Markus?’

  ‘No, about why I’ve decided to talk about it now. It’s because I’m so scared. Scared that this has something to do with us.’

  ‘You mean that Markus was attacked because he’s with you?’

  ‘Uh-huh. I think that might be one reason.’

  ‘We’re not filming this, right?’ Tina interrupted them.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Johan. ‘And, as I said, we won’t use any material that you’re not comfortable with. If you like, you can come over to the office and watch the report before we broadcast it.’

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ said Tina, patting Johan on the shoulder. ‘I trust you.’ Johan turned back to Jenny.

  ‘Are you thinking of someone in particular who might react to the fact that you’re together, you and Markus?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Do you have an ex-boyfriend who might be jealous?’

  ‘No. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve only had one long-term relationship, and it ended six months ago.’

  ‘Did he break it off, or did you?’

  ‘I did, actually. But he was fine with it. There wasn’t any drama or anything.’

  ‘How long were you together?’

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘David Gahnström. He’s from here in Gammelgarn. We’re neighbours. If you step outside you can see his parents’ farm over there.’ She looked out of the window and pointed. ‘But he’d never do anything like this.’

  ‘Are you still in touch with each other?’

  ‘Uh-huh. I always see him when I come here. He’s one of my best friends, and he still means a lot to me, but not in a romantic way. We grew up together, so we have a special relationship.’

  ‘Okay. What about Markus?’

  ‘I know that he’s had a number of girlfriends, including one named Diana, and she’s been really difficult. She keeps ringing him up. She works for the same modelling agency but, luckily, she does a lot of photo shoots in New York.’

  ‘Does Markus still have much contact with her?’

  ‘Er … I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s over between them. Or he broke it off, at least. But she seems to be having a hard time accepting the fact.’

  Jenny turned to gaze out of the window.

  ‘Are you worried about your own safety?’

  She looked at Johan again.

  ‘I don’t really know. Maybe a little.’ She shrugged her thin shoulders.

  ‘Do the police know about all this? That you and Markus are together?’

  ‘Yes. But you’re the only reporter I’ve talked to.’

  ‘Thank you, Jenny. I really ap
preciate the fact that you let me do this interview.’

  Johan glanced at his watch. ‘Okay, we hope that Markus gets well soon.’ He gave Jenny a hug. ‘Could we take a few photos?’

  She nodded. Pia had finished her cigarette and come back into the kitchen. She gave Johan her sweetest smile and her voice dripped with sarcasm as she said, ‘So why don’t you go outside and say hello to the sheep in the meantime. You’ll just be in the way here. And I’m sure you and the sheep will get on famously together.’

  THE MAN WHO had Eduardo Morales in a neck lock looked surprised when Dolores came storming out of the shed, but he didn’t let go of the slender Spaniard.

  Dolores spoke excellent English, since she’d been an environmental activist for Greenpeace. Now, she shouted angrily, ‘What are you doing to my husband? Release him at once!’

  She rushed over to the stout Swede and made a futile attempt to yank his arm off Eduardo. But the man didn’t budge.

  ‘Are you out of your mind? Let him go, or I’ll call the police!’

  At the word ‘police’, the man did loosen his hold slightly. He turned to look at Dolores.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, in faltering English. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘We’re Spanish tourists, and we’re studying various fishing villages on Gotland. My name is Dolores Morales, and this is my husband, Eduardo. We’re from Seville.’

  Now, the man finally released Eduardo and offered to shake hands with Dolores.

  ‘Please excuse me. My name is Björn Johansson. I live over there, in Lergrav.’ He pointed a rough finger towards a spot along the shore. ‘There are good fishing houses there, too.’

  A smile appeared on his wrinkled and weather-beaten face.

  Dolores was still cross, and Eduardo was coughing as he held one hand to his throat, as if to emphasize that the attack hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  ‘Why did you attack my husband?’ she demanded to know, glaring at Björn with her brown Spanish eyes. ‘Are you in the habit of assaulting tourists?’

  The man waved his hands in a dismissive gesture.

  ‘No, no, not at all. Something terrible has happened. Over there on the peninsula. You can see it from here. Furillen.’

  ‘Furillen?’ Dolores said. It was one of the strangest names she’d ever heard. ‘What happened over there?’

  ‘Last night, a man was beaten almost to death. Someone hit him again and again with an axe, and the police think that the murderer got away in a boat and then came over here.’

  Dolores opened her eyes wide in alarm. Her husband tapped her arm, and said something in Spanish.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I need to translate what you said for my husband. He doesn’t speak English.’

  Dolores rattled off a long stream of Spanish, waving her arms about as she did so. That prompted an even longer and equally incomprehensible volley of words from Eduardo.

  ‘I need to show you what I’ve found,’ Dolores then said, tugging at Björn Johansson’s jacket. ‘Come inside.’

  The burly man followed them into the shed. Cautiously, Dolores opened the lid of the America-trunk to show him the contents.

  The Swede didn’t touch the clothes. One glance was enough for him to realize what he was looking at.

  Without a word, he took out his mobile and dialled the number for the police.

  THE INVESTIGATIVE TEAM was having a meeting when the next important call came in from Kyllaj. The discovery of the bloodstained clothing was such a spectacular find that Knutas wanted to go out there in person. The Spanish couple and the neighbour who had made the call were asked not to leave until the police arrived. This discovery bolstered the theory that the writer who was staying in the fishing village really had seen the perpetrator.

  ‘Now the question is: Where’s the boat that he used?’ said Knutas in the car.

  Jacobsson was driving, as usual.

  ‘No one has reported a boat stolen anywhere on Gotland during the past month,’ she said. ‘On the other hand, a lot of people don’t really keep an eye on their boats in the winter. It’s very possible someone might not have noticed their boat was missing.’

  ‘Kyllaj,’ said Knutas, then he paused before going on. ‘It’s been a while since you and I were last out there. Do you remember?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Jacobsson, feeling her face flush. She knew all too well what he was referring to.

  ‘They’ve slipped through the net again. Vera Petrov and Stefan Norrström. I’d give anything to know where they’re hiding.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  For obvious reasons, Karin Jacobsson avoided talking about that particular subject. Because of her, the couple who were on all the international lists of wanted criminals had escaped. This was something that only she and Knutas knew. Vera Petrov was suspected of committing two murders on Gotland several years earlier. Her husband, Stefan Norrström, had also been involved. They had fled abroad and had last been seen in the Dominican Republic. Knutas had thought the police were close to catching them but, for some inexplicable reason, they had again managed to get away. He hadn’t heard anything more for the past few months, and he was starting to lose hope that they’d ever be caught. Their house in Kyllaj had stood empty ever since they had disappeared.

  By the time Knutas and Jacobsson reached the small-boat marina, the crime-scene techs had already arrived. Police tape had been put up, keeping out a few nearby residents who had noticed all the activity going on down at the harbour.

  ‘It won’t be long before we have reporters hounding us,’ said Knutas with a grimace as he lifted the blue-and-white plastic tape and slipped underneath.

  Inside, Jacobsson studied the contents of the trunk without touching anything. She frowned.

  ‘Why didn’t the perpetrator make a better attempt to hide the clothes? Why didn’t he dump them in the sea or burn them? He should have realized they’d be found eventually. And, of course, they’re full of his DNA. But what’s that smell?’

  Sohlman appeared behind them. He stepped forward and, using a pair of tongs, lifted up the T-shirt so his colleagues could see it.

  ‘See that? There’s vomit on the T-shirt. Also on the sweatshirt and the jacket.’

  ‘Puke?’

  ‘That’s another way of putting it,’ said Sohlman dryly. ‘Maybe the perpetrator got seasick on his way over here from Furillen. The wind was blowing at fifty-four kilometres per hour in the daytime on Monday, so the backwash would have been considerable. Probably really rough seas.’

  ‘Or maybe the vomit is a result of what he’d done,’ said Knutas thoughtfully. ‘I can only imagine what it was like in that cramped little cabin, with blood spraying all around. It would make anybody sick to their stomach.’

  ‘Stop, for God’s sake,’ Jacobsson said, her face turning white.

  ‘Sorry.’ Knutas sat down cautiously on an overturned beer crate. ‘But what does this mean? The assailant must have planned his escape in advance, presumably by stealing a boat. He parked his car somewhere in Kyllaj, most likely fairly close to the harbour, since he’d want to get out of here as fast as possible. How long would it take to cross the water from Furillen?’

  ‘According to that writer, Olof Hellström, the boat was very small,’ said Sohlman, scratching his head. ‘Maybe half an hour?’

  ‘To be honest, I haven’t a clue,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I know nothing about boats.’

  ‘We’ll need to find out, at any rate,’ said Knutas, getting up. ‘Right now, I want to talk to that Spanish couple. We’ll leave you here to work in peace.’

  He nodded to Sohlman and went out.

  The man from Lergrav had taken Mr and Mrs Morales to a cabin that he owned near the harbour. They both had blankets draped over their shoulders and were warming themselves in front of the fireplace, drinking hot chocolate. They looked pale and blue with cold. Poor souls, thought Knutas. They’re not used to our Swedish winter. And it hasn’t even started yet.

  Ja
cobsson did most of the talking, since Knutas’s command of English was far from sufficient to carry on a conversation, much less an official interview. With much emotion and vigorous hand gestures, Mr and Mrs Morales described what had happened to them, the two of them frequently talking at the same time. The husband didn’t speak English, but he kept on wanting to interject remarks in Spanish and add details, which his wife translated.

  The interview took twice as long as it should have.

  When Knutas and Jacobsson returned to headquarters, they were greeted by the police spokesperson, who was in an agitated state.

  ‘We’ve been inundated with reporters,’ Norrby complained, throwing up his hands. ‘Apparently, Rapport used its noon broadcast to reveal that Markus Sandberg was having an affair with Jenny Levin. And the news got out that the police have made a macabre discovery in Kyllaj. Now everybody is asking whether the news about the romantic relationship is true, and they want to know what we found in Kyllaj.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Knutas grimly. His stomach was growling with hunger. He looked at his watch. ‘Call a press conference for an hour from now. In the big meeting room.’

  ONE OF THE routines that Agnes hates most in the clinic is the mandatory sessions in the warm room. She has tried to talk to Per about it, asked to be excused from the requirement, but he says there’s nothing he can do. It’s the same for everyone.

  There are five warm rooms lined up in a row along one corridor. On the wall outside are shelves holding baskets, each assigned to a specific person. Every basket has a pink label with a patient’s name on it. Linda, Erika, Josefine, Sofia, Agnes … This is just like in a childcare centre, too, thinks Agnes as she reaches into her basket to take out her own sheet and pillowcase. She has to put them on the bed in the room before lying down. The room is small and has no windows. It reminds her of a prison cell with a round peephole in the door. The nurses can peer inside whenever they like. The room is furnished only with a low bed with a heated mattress, an electric heater and a stool, which is used by a nurse if the patient happens to be feeling particularly anxious. The thermostat next to the door shows that the temperature is 40 degrees Celsius. A lamp with a frosted shade casts a soft glow over the room. And there’s not a sound, as if the walls were padded.