The Dangerous Game

by Mari Jungstedt

  She is expected to lie here for half an hour without moving as the warmth spreads through her body. Twice a day, after lunch and after dinner. Thirty minutes of total silence after she has been forced to eat a huge amount of food. The nurses claim that the heat is good for her, that it will decrease the level of her anxiety. To hell with them. Agnes knows all too well what the sessions in the warm room will mean if she follows their orders. With her heart pounding, she opens the door. She hates how diminished she feels in this place, hates how they force her to do things. Do they really believe she’s so stupid that she’d agree to lie in this room for a whole thirty minutes and allow the food to invade her body? If she stretches out her legs as she lies on the bed she can even see how they start to swell up from the treatment. They get fatter and fatter with each passing minute.

  The first thing she does when she enters the room is to turn off the light so the nurse can’t see what she’s doing. Since there are no windows, the room is pitch black. She tells them that she finds it much easier to relax when it’s dark. Then she turns off the heat and spends the half-hour doing physical exercises. She tries to do sit-ups, but her vertebrae jut out and scrape against the floor. The pain is unbearable. She lies down on the bed and does her sit-ups there instead. Then she raises and lowers her arms and does leg lifts until she runs out of steam. She is soon sweating and out of breath. Her joints ache, making her weep, but she keeps on going. She is locked into these compulsory exercises and can’t stop, even though what she wants most is to relax. As she lies there in the dark, frantically exercising, she thinks about how all of this began. How she ended up in this nightmare.

  About a year after her mother and older brother died, plunging her into a grief that was as black as night, she started going out and seeing her friends again. One evening in May they happened to go to a club for teens in Visby, and on that particular night there was a modelling contest. On impulse, Agnes decided to enter, and she ended up winning. The grand prize was a trip to Stockholm and a photo shoot with a professional fashion photographer working for the Fashion for Life agency, which had sponsored the contest. Agnes went to Stockholm, where a room had been booked for her at a fancy hotel in the city centre. After checking in, a cab took her to the agency. She was both scared and impressed to see it was so flashy and exclusive, the walls covered with photos of models, all of them unbelievably beautiful.

  Everyone she met greeted her cheerfully, with polite smiles. At the same time, she couldn’t help noticing the appraising looks they gave her, casting swift, critical glances at her body. This blatant assessment of her appearance made her feel clumsy, and she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She tried to suck in her stomach, stand up straight, and look natural, even though she was shaking inside. She was ushered into a studio where she met the photographer Markus Sandberg. The same photographer who was now in hospital, seriously injured after a murder attempt on Furillen. She could hardly believe it when she saw the news on TV. But it was definitely him. In her mind, she pictures him from that first meeting. He was wearing trendy jeans with dozens of pockets and rivets. A simple white T-shirt over his buff torso. He seemed friendly but a bit stressed as he greeted her, running his hand through his unruly hair and smiling. He had very white teeth and at least a day’s stubble on his cheeks. He was cute, but old. She had only seen him before in magazine photos of celebrities. It felt unreal to be in the same room as him.

  Then it was time for the photo shoot. She felt sick to her stomach at the thought of trying to pose naturally for him in that cold studio. The floor and walls were white as chalk. In the middle of the room a black cloth had been stretched out to serve as a backdrop for the photos. She wasn’t given any make-up or asked to change her clothes. They wanted her just as she was. Natural. She tried to move as easily as she could, but the whole time she was terribly conscious that she wasn’t any good. Not thin enough, not cute enough, not professional enough. Markus did his best to get her to relax. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he told her. ‘You’re super-cute. Loosen up. Pretend the camera is a guy you’re in love with.’ Agnes had just turned fifteen and had never been in love with any guy. But she did her best. Tried to imitate the models she’d seen on TV and in magazines. Twisting one way and then the other. ‘Shake your shoulders loose. Put your hand on your hip. Turn your body to the side, but look at me. Flirt with the camera.’ The dead lens blinked like an evil eye at her. How was she supposed to flirt with that? She felt stiff and awkward. All she wanted was for the session to be over. When the assistant left the room and she was alone in the studio with the photographer, she felt even more embarrassed. He must think I’m hopeless, she thought, strongly regretting her choice of clothing. Why had she worn such baggy jeans and this loose-fitting top? She probably looked grotesquely fat. As if the photographer could read her mind, he asked her, ‘Do you have anything on underneath?’ Yes, she was wearing a camisole. ‘Take off that big shirt. We can’t see how you look.’ Hesitantly, she unbuttoned the shirt and took it off, casting a quick glance down at her camisole. White, with a black bra underneath. How embarrassing. What was she doing here, anyway? Unhappy, she looked at the photographer.

  Then he put down the camera and came over to her with a smile. Before she had time to react, he took her face in both hands and kissed her on the mouth. She stood motionless, with her arms hanging limply at her sides. She had no idea what to do. Abruptly, he let her go, but his face was still very close, with laughter in his eyes. Her cheeks burned. Playfully, he ruffled her hair; he wore rings on every finger. ‘You’re beautiful, sweetheart. You taste good. Don’t be offended. I just wanted to get you to relax a bit. Okay, let’s start again. Think of it as a game, because that’s exactly what it is. Not real. Just a game.’

  PRESS CONFERENCES WERE a curse, equally trying every time. Afterwards, Knutas fled to his office and resolutely shut the door. The reporters had behaved like starving wolves, ravenously casting themselves upon each titbit of information the police handed out. Their hunger was insatiable. That was what bothered Knutas the most. The way they never backed down, were never satisfied. Their craving for scandal knew no bounds. Their appetite merely grew as each new fact was presented. New circumstances led to new questions, which led to even more. And always the balancing act that he had to manage, giving the reporters what they wanted so they’d think they’d got it all, but keeping the most important evidence to himself. He didn’t want to disclose anything that might jeopardize the investigation, so he had to look out for every trap, every attempt at manipulation, as the reporters tried to coax more out of him than he intended to say.

  He was exhausted. He sank down on to his old desk chair and closed his eyes. He was longing for Lina. Wanting to be at home with her in peace and quiet, eating a good dinner and afterwards snuggling together on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Just sitting there, gazing at the fire and holding her close.

  But it would be hours before he was able to go home. He rocked slowly back and forth in his chair. Tried to clear his mind. Out with all the non-essentials that were whirling around in there, so he could think better. The clothes that had been found in the fisherman’s shed in Kyllaj ought to give the police some leads. He’d asked SCL, the Swedish Crime Laboratory, to rush their test through. The sight of the shed and the trunk with the bloodstained contents had given him flashbacks to a case involving a serial killer a number of years earlier. In that instance, a young couple had found some bloodstained garments in the storage space under a sofa inside a boathouse in Nisseviken. The clothing had belonged to the female victims. The murderer had stowed them away, wanting to keep them because of some sort of perverse and sadistic sense of possession. This time, the police were apparently dealing with clothing that the perpetrator had discarded as soon as he came ashore.

  One thing that Knutas had not revealed to the journalists was that Sandberg’s mobile phone had been traced to the Stockholm area. And, more specifically, to the suburbs south of the city.

&nb
sp; The police had asked for help from the National Communications Centre, which had picked up the signal from a mast in Flemingsberg. It had not been possible to find out any further details. If the perpetrator lived in Stockholm, why would he have chosen to commit the assault on Furillen? It was such an inaccessible site, nor was it the easiest place to approach or leave without being noticed. If someone wanted to kill Markus Sandberg, why not do it in Stockholm, where the photographer lived and worked? Maybe the assailant had some sort of connection to Gotland, maybe he was from here. Apparently, he knew enough about the area to have managed to find his way out to Furillen without making himself conspicuous.

  Knutas opened the top desk drawer and took out his pipe and a tobacco pouch. He knocked out the pipe and then meticulously proceeded to refill it as his thoughts wandered. Sandberg’s mobile was not the only thing that had been traced. The phone call from the inquisitive stranger to the Hotel Fabriken, which had been reported by the cleaning woman, had been pinpointed to the Grand Hotel in Stockholm. If the man on the phone was the assailant, this opened up completely new avenues to investigate. The man had made the call from the hotel lobby, so it wasn’t certain that he had been staying there. But it did present a strong possibility that the perpetrator had come from Stockholm. Could Sandberg’s relationship with Jenny be the motive? The police were in the process of gathering information about the photographer’s background and closest relatives, so Knutas hoped they would soon have a clearer picture of the victim’s life. He was starting to feel very impatient but, fortunately, the phone rang.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Hi. This is Pelle Broström, the helicopter pilot. We’ve spotted a boat out here, close to Sankt Olofsholm. It might be the one you’re looking for.’

  Knutas felt his pulse quicken.

  ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘A small dinghy with an outboard motor, brand name Uttern. It’s tucked in among the reeds, so we almost missed it. We didn’t see it during our search this morning, but we went out again after lunch, and we happened to spot it a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Can you see anything else?’

  ‘No, not from up here in the air. It looks empty, but it’s drifting freely. Doesn’t seem to be moored to anything.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Knutas with enthusiasm. ‘Good job. Alert the coastguard and make sure they go out there at once to tow it back to the harbour in Kyllaj. I’ll send over the crime-scene techs.’

  ‘Good. Roger that. We’ll notify the coastguard.’

  A couple of hours later, the police had confirmed that the boat was most likely the one used by the perpetrator out at Furillen. The floorboards were covered with bloodstains and traces of vomit. That was going to make it easy to link the boat to the clothes discovered in Kyllaj earlier in the day.

  That evening, the police also received word from an individual in Lergrav who wanted to report that his boat, an Uttern, was missing from its berth in the boathouse.

  THE SHRILL SOUND of a whistle raced across the soggy, muddy football pitch. The members of the Visby women’s team were practising their free kicks. Karin Jacobsson stood off to the side, watching her players. It was eight thirty in the evening, and she could sense the listlessness of the team. On a night like this, it wasn’t easy to be a coach. The women’s league was always assigned worse time slots than the men, who practised from seven to eight thirty. The women had to make do with eight thirty to ten. Equality within the sports world left much to be desired.

  She tucked a pinch of snuff under her lip, shivering and stamping her feet to stay warm. The floodlights cast a cold glare over the pitch, it was drizzling, and puddles of water had formed everywhere. The surface had turned into muck that was almost like liquid cement, making it hard for the players to run with any speed. Their clothes were mud-spattered, and almost everyone had been sprayed in the face with gravel. Jacobsson was finding it challenging to keep the team motivated. The previous season had ended, and it felt like the next one would never start. Some of the players weren’t even trying; they were merely dashing about and chatting, instead of giving the practice session their full attention. Jacobsson tried to cheer them on as best she could. She had always thought that training on dirt was important. They could at least make an effort. She had divided up the players so that half were wearing blue vests, the other half red. Now they had started practising various passing manoeuvres.

  While Jacobsson kept her eyes fixed on the women on the pitch, her mind wandered. Earlier in the day she had phoned Karolinska University Hospital to enquire about Markus Sandberg’s condition. He was still sedated, and as before the prognosis was uncertain. All they could do was hope. If Sandberg did pull through, Jacobsson wanted to be the one to interview him, and she had asked Knutas to allow her to do that. She might even have to travel to Stockholm. Their police colleagues in the capital would help out, of course, but it wasn’t the same as going there in person, meeting the staff at the modelling agency as well as Sandberg’s colleagues, people who knew him and might be able to provide the police with leads.

  She also had another purpose in mind. She was hoping to see her daughter in the city. She felt her expression soften as she thought about Hanna.

  Six months ago, Karin had met her for the first time in Stockholm. She had been forced to give Hanna up for adoption at birth, but she had always felt a great longing to find her daughter. It was like a dark void inside her heart. And that had probably contributed to her inability to love anyone. Jacobsson had never had a long-term relationship. As soon as things started to get serious and she became so attached to someone that she felt vulnerable, she would flee. Even her friendships were more or less superficial, also with colleagues at police headquarters, people she saw every day. Anders Knutas was the person she felt closest to, no doubt because he never gave up on her. And it was after a conversation with Knutas that she had dared to consider, after so many years, getting in touch with her daughter.

  The previous summer, she had finally done something about it. She had already found out her daughter’s name, and her address in Stockholm. Hanna von Schwerin. The rather posh name had made her nervous.

  Without giving any advance warning, Karin had gone to the address in Södermalm and sat down in a café outside the front entrance of the building to wait. At long last, a young woman and her dog had emerged. Karin knew at once that this had to be her daughter. They were so similar in appearance. Karin had started to cry.

  Hanna had studied her in silence for a moment, and then she said only one word: ‘Mamma?’ She sank down on a chair on the other side of the café table and regarded her with a wary expression. All the colour had drained from her face.

  ‘Is that you? Are you my biological mother?’

  Karin noticed how she emphasized the word ‘biological’, as if she didn’t really want to acknowledge the fact that this was her mother. But not her real mother; only her biological mother. Karin couldn’t utter a sound. She nodded and looked down at the table. Hanna had glanced over her shoulder, as if afraid that someone might hear. Neither of them spoke. Karin took several deep breaths before she dared look her daughter in the eye.

  ‘I want you to know what happened,’ she whispered.

  ‘In that case, you’ll have to come with me and my dog, Nelson, to the park. He can’t hold it much longer.’

  Karin immediately stood up. They were the exact same height and had the same slender build. They both wore jeans, but Karin had put on a more expensive shirt than usual, one that she’d bought in an exclusive boutique in Visby. Hoping to fit in better, considering her daughter’s upper-class surname. Giving in to her own prejudices, she had expected to meet an elegant young woman wearing a tight skirt with slits, a blouse with a bow at the neck and a string of pearls. Hanna’s casual attire, which happened to correspond to Karin’s own tastes in clothing, made things somewhat easier. At least in those first few minutes. Clothes no longer played a role.

  They had walked across Maria
torget, crossed Hornsgatan, and strolled along the promenade to the top of the hill. There was a magnificent view of the waters of Riddarfjärden, of Gamla Stan and of the city hall. But Karin didn’t even notice. With frequent pauses, she stammered through the story of how she had become pregnant at the age of fourteen and how she’d never had any contact with Hanna’s father, not even back then.

  ‘Why not?’ Hanna wanted to know, and Karin felt her blood run cold.

  Of course, the question was unavoidable. Hundreds of times she had considered this dilemma. Should she tell her daughter that she was the result of a rape? That her father was the riding teacher in town who had attacked Karin?

  For a while they walked side by side in silence. A great abyss between them. The dog named Nelson ran on ahead, eagerly sniffing at the ground. Karin slowed down.

  ‘You won’t like what I’m going to tell you.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘First of all, your father is dead. He died more than twenty years ago.’

  A shadow passed across Hanna’s face.

  ‘Oh.’

  Then Karin mustered her courage and recounted the whole story, from beginning to end. How her parents had convinced her that the best thing to do would be to give up the baby for adoption. How she had regretted this decision the minute she held her newborn child in her arms, but her parents had claimed that it was too late.

  Hanna’s expression changed several times as she listened. When Karin finished, a long silence ensued. They kept on walking, but neither of them spoke. Karin was waiting. She didn’t know what else to say. She felt completely empty inside. Finally, her daughter spoke.