Jacobsson had to hide a smile. Sten Bergström seemed so out of place in this tumbledown house in the middle of nowhere. He had a bombastic way of speaking and carried himself almost like a nobleman. His surname ought to be something more aristocratic, such as Knorring or Silfversparre, she thought.
‘So what did you do?’
‘Nothing. I just let him scream and shout and contact various authorities while I tended to my business. And he couldn’t touch me, which no doubt made the poor man even more frustrated.’
‘Why did your company go bankrupt?’
Sten Bergström’s face took on a distressed expression.
‘Unfortunately a few parties got out of hand. There was a lot of trouble with drunken guests and brawls. It tarnished my reputation, and people began talking behind my back. My clients fled and my revenue dropped dramatically. Finally it all went to hell. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that Viktor was behind what happened. But I didn’t have the energy to pursue that theory. And besides, I’d lost any desire to go on since I no longer had the confidence and trust of my clients.’
Bergström suddenly looked as if he were in terrible pain.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to lie down,’ he said with a moan. ‘I can’t stay on my feet any longer. Is there anything else you’d like to know at the moment?’
He pressed his hand to his lower back and then, with an effort, got down on his knees. The dog began whimpering.
‘Would one of you be kind enough to bring over a chair?’
Jacobsson watched in astonishment as the elegant man lay down on his back on the floor and held up his legs. Knutas helped him to prop his feet on the chair so his legs were at a 90-degree angle to his body. Knutas knew exactly what was going on. Lina had suffered from intermittent back pain for years.
The dog eagerly licked his master’s face, clearly happy to have him down at his own level on the floor. Bergström didn’t share his enthusiasm. He ordered the dog away and the Afghan immediately retreated to his basket, curling up with a sigh of resignation.
‘Thank you so much for your time,’ said Knutas. ‘We’ll get back to you if there’s anything more.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Bergström faintly. He closed his eyes. ‘Goodbye.’
As they left, closing the door behind them, the dog stared after them.
ALL OF TUESDAY passed with no progress in locating Veronika Hammar. By the time it was six thirty and Knutas realized that he’d been on the job for twelve hours straight, he gave up.
There was nothing more he could do, and besides, he’d promised to take care of dinner. Lina was again working the night shift at the hospital and wouldn’t be back until the early morning hours. He stopped on his way home to buy pizzas. The children had each requested a pizza topped with fillet of pork and Béarnaise sauce. He shuddered when he ordered the food. How could anyone come up with such a combination? Pretty soon they’ll be serving pizzas with shrimp and sweet-and-sour sauce, he thought. Or a Thai pizza with chicken and red curry. And why not a dessert pizza with saffron in the dough, topped with almonds and raisins?
As soon as he stepped inside, he could tell that something was wrong. The house was dark, with not a single light turned on.
‘Hello,’ he called from the hall. No answer. He set down the pizza boxes and went upstairs.
‘Hello,’ he called again. ‘Anybody home?’
He opened the door to Petra’s room. The only light came from a pair of thick scented candles on a tray on the nightstand. Several sticks of incense in a porcelain jar were spreading a heavy musk fragrance through the air. On the computer screen he saw flickering images of scantily clad teenagers against the Manhattan skyline, while incomprehensible hip hop music thudded through the room. His daughter was lying on the bed with her legs stretched up against the wall, her eyes on the ceiling as she talked on her mobile.
‘Shhh,’ she hushed her father, gesturing with annoyance for him to leave the room.
‘It’s time for dinner and—’
‘Shhh!’
Knutas closed the door. Feeling discouraged, he tried the next room. It was pitch black inside, but he could hear the crashing of hard rock music from his son’s iPod.
‘Hi,’ he said, switching on the ceiling light. ‘What are you doing?’
Nils quickly turned to face the wall, but not before Knutas saw that his eyes were red. It looked as if he’d been crying.
‘What’s wrong?’ He took a few steps towards the bed.
‘Nothing.’
‘But I can see that you’re upset about something.’ Cautiously he sat down on the edge of the bed. Nils had his back turned and pulled away until he was even closer to the wall. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, I said. Leave me alone. Get out of my room.’
‘But, Nils.’ Knutas gently touched his son’s head. ‘Won’t you tell me what’s going on?’
‘Cut it out.’ He pushed his father’s hand away. ‘Just leave me alone,’ he snarled, his voice cracking.
‘But I bought pizza for dinner.’
‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ said the boy, his tone now much less aggressive.
Feeling powerless, Knutas left the room. Pushed away again. Locked out. There was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t very well force Nils to open up to him if the boy didn’t want to. That sort of thing had to be based on trust.
Disappointed, Knutas went down to the kitchen and began setting the table. He was so respected and decisive at work, but his teenage children regarded him as a pitiful old man. He really had no clue how to deal with them. At the same time, he felt hurt and sad. Don’t they like me? he thought.
He heard the stairs creaking. Petra came into the kitchen. As if she sensed how he was feeling, she gave him a brief hug.
‘Sorry, Pappa. But I was on the phone, and it was a really sensitive conversation.’
‘Anything you want to tell me about?’ he asked cautiously, encouraged by the meagre gesture of affection that she’d shown him.
‘Alexander died.’
‘What did you say?’ Knutas felt an icy stab in the pit of his stomach. He stared at his daughter, uncomprehending.
Slowly it sank in that what she had said was true. All hope was gone. Then his brain began whirling like a centrifuge filled with questions. He immediately thought about Alexander’s mother, Ingrid, and his sister, Olivia.
‘I was talking to Olivia on the phone,’ said Petra, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘They just found out. She’s completely devastated. I promised to go over to see her after dinner.’
‘I didn’t know you were such good friends.’
‘We are now. After what happened over the past few weeks.’
Again it occurred to Knutas how little he knew about his children these days.
Nils came into the kitchen to join them.
‘Do you know what’s happened?’ Knutas asked. ‘Do you know that Alexander is dead?’
Nils and his sister exchanged glances.
‘Yes,’ said Nils without looking at his father.
They ate dinner in silence. Knutas didn’t know what to say, other than to reiterate how awful it was, and that he felt terrible for Alexander’s mother and sister.
The case had largely been solved, with three sixteen-year-old boys under arrest, charged with aggravated assault. Now the charge would have to be changed. All three of the boys denied involvement, but the evidence was against them. Alexander’s blood was found on their clothes and shoes, and a couple of witnesses among the crowd of kids that had been present at the time had dared to single them out.
It’s not just the fact that assault cases are becoming more frequent and severe, and increasingly involve younger kids, thought Knutas. But people are also less willing to testify.
It was an alarming development.
After dinner both children left the table and went out to the hall to put on their shoes.
‘Are you both go
ing out?’ Knutas asked as he filled the dishwasher.
‘Yes,’ they answered in unison.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked Nils.
‘He’s coming with me to see Olivia,’ Petra said before her brother had time to answer.
‘Why?’
‘Oh, Pappa,’ said Petra, giving him a look of pity as she shook her head.
The door closed after them.
Knutas took a deep breath, sat down at the kitchen table, and picked up his mobile to call Ingrid Almlöv.
THE SWIMMING HALL was deserted when Knutas arrived the following morning. He was there at six thirty when the doors opened, and for the first fifteen minutes he enjoyed the luxury of having the whole pool to himself.
Nothing helped him to unwind as much as swimming. He powered his way through one length after another, his body moving mechanically as if steered by a robot. Clarity was restored to his brain in the calm water, in the silence whenever his head dipped below the surface. The news of Alexander’s death had temporarily pushed aside the perplexities of the homicide investigation. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to lose a child. What if the same thing had happened to Nils or Petra? He hardly dared complete the thought. We need to take care of each other, he thought. While we’re still here. Everything can change in an instant.
Knutas had talked with Ingrid, Alexander’s mother, on the phone for a long time last night. Both of his own children had chosen to sleep over at the Almlöv home, mostly for Olivia’s sake. He was touched that they cared so much and that they were capable of such empathy. At the same time, he was feeling guilty for having neglected Ingrid over the past few years. He hadn’t been in touch with her except right after the events that had led to her husband’s death. Then life had continued on. And now Alexander was also gone.
He came to the end of the pool and turned, realizing that he’d lost count of how many lengths he’d already swum. He glanced up at the clock and decided it didn’t matter. Half an hour was enough. Two elderly women in bathing suits appeared at the edge of the pool and then climbed down the ladder, their legs dimpled and unsteady. They grumbled a bit and then with a titter sank down into the water, choosing the lane furthest away from Knutas, much to his relief.
His thoughts returned to Veronika Hammar. Was she still on the island? He cursed himself for not detaining her immediately after that first interview. From the very beginning her explanation for not coming forward had seemed like a feeble excuse.
They now had evidence that she had actually been at the crime scene, although she hadn’t mentioned it during the interview. Veronika Hammar might well be guilty of murder. The important thing now was to find her.
JOHAN WAS SITTING in the editorial office with a dull weight in the pit of his stomach. Over the past few days he’d been so focused on the murder at the conference centre that he’d put the assault case aside. Now that he’d received word of the boy’s death, he felt ice cold inside, and his heart ached. The sixteen-year-old had lost his life because of a completely meaningless dispute. What a shitty deal. Something that had lasted only a few seconds had put a halt to his future and destroyed his family’s life. The whole thing was the result of several kicks to the head. It was incomprehensible.
At that moment Johan decided to concentrate all his efforts on the series of reports that he and Pia had planned about the current state of youth violence in Sweden – its causes and consequences, as well as what was being done to stop it from getting even worse. Later in the day they were expected to deliver a news story about Alexander’s death, along with a follow-up report on the Algård murder. At the moment talking about the boy’s death seemed more urgent.
Johan was roused from his melancholy thoughts by Pia’s arrival. She didn’t say anything, just gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as she walked past and noticed what was on his computer screen.
They had coffee together and discussed the assault case.
Alexander had been in his first year at the Rickard Steffen secondary school in Visby. They decided to start there.
When Johan and Pia drove up to the school, they saw the flags fluttering at half-mast in the springtime sun. On the phone the principal had told Johan that the teachers would not be following the normal curriculum for the day. Instead, they would be talking about Alexander with their students. A memorial was planned for eleven o’clock in the school auditorium. They got there just in time. Every seat was already taken. It was clear that the students, teachers and other school staff members were not the only ones who had gathered. Parents and siblings were also present. Pia and Johan found room to stand at the very back of the hall. Traditionally the principal would have been the first to speak but, surprisingly enough, that was not what happened. When the lights went out in the auditorium, and a single spotlight shone on the stage, the audience saw a thin teenage girl standing there. She wore jeans and a black camisole under a pink hoodie. Her long dark hair fell loosely to her shoulders. Goosebumps appeared on Johan’s arms at her first words.
‘My brother is dead.’
In a low, carefully controlled voice, Olivia Almlöv then spoke about her brother Alexander and what he had meant to her. How they had grown up together and what sort of things they had done – ordinary, everyday events. About Alexander’s interests and dreams for the future. How they had got ready for the party on that Friday evening, what they had talked of and what they had done when they arrived at the club. He sometimes liked to sneak a cigarette, she said, and the last she saw of him was when he went outside to have a smoke with a couple of his friends.
He never came back.
Half an hour later she saw her brother beaten beyond recognition and lying in a pool of blood on the ground.
That was how Alexander ended his days, and her own life would never be the same again.
Everyone in the auditorium was deeply touched by what she had said, and here and there people could be heard weeping.
Afterwards, the principal spoke about the importance of not allowing Alexander’s life to have been taken in vain. About the necessity of regarding this as a wake-up call – for the young people, their parents and society as a whole.
Both Johan and Pia were deeply moved by what they’d heard.
‘We need to talk to some of the parents,’ said Johan. ‘We haven’t heard anything from them in a while.’
‘Sure. How about that couple over there?’
Pia nodded towards a middle-aged man and woman leaving the auditorium hand in hand.
Johan cautiously tapped the man on the shoulder and then introduced himself.
‘Why are you and your wife here?’ was his first question.
It was the man who answered.
‘Because our son was a witness to the assault, and we wanted to offer our support. To Alexander’s family, but also to the boys who were responsible and to their families. They are victims too.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, who’s the winner here? Nobody. Everyone loses. And what is the whole thing really about? A mere few seconds that have lifelong consequences for umpteen people. Anger sparked by an ill-tempered word, an obscene gesture, a nasty look. When I was young, these sorts of quarrels were resolved with a fist fight. In the worst-case scenario, it turned into a brawl that ended at the first sign of bloodshed or when your opponent fell to the ground. But what happens nowadays? The person on the ground gets kicked – in the head! Several boys gang up on an unconscious kid. Why aren’t there any boundaries any more? Is a human life of no value to these kids? Do they think they have the right to kill someone just because they feel insulted or humiliated? Why do our children have so much anger inside? Where does that come from? Those are the sort of questions we need to be asking.’
Johan simply held out the microphone, without saying a word, as Pia filmed. They were standing outside the auditorium in the schoolyard and, one by one, people stopped to listen to the man’s tirade. A crowd started to form arou
nd them.
The man went on: ‘And it’s not a simple matter of putting all the blame on violent computer games and the brutality shown on TV and in films. That does tend to desensitize viewers, but it’s not the core of the problem. No, it has to do with the whole structure of society. The grown-ups work too hard and are too stressed, so they don’t have time for their kids the way they used to in the past. And don’t misunderstand me – I’m not advocating that women should be forced back into the kitchen. But all parents, both men and women, need to spend more time with their children. Kids are too often left to their own devices; they have to manage too much on their own. And just look what happens.’
He threw out his arms in a gesture of helplessness, and then fell silent as he shook his head. After that he walked straight through the crowd and across the asphalt of the schoolyard.
Johan slowly lowered the microphone, watching the man and his wife, who was hurrying to catch up. Everyone else was shifting nervously from one foot to the other, and a few slunk away. Others remained where they were, as if they didn’t really know what to do.
I have to ring Grenfors, thought Johan. We need to interview an expert in the studio about this topic. Maybe several.
His thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping him on the shoulder. He glanced up to see a young, lanky teenage boy with curly red hair, peach fuzz on his upper lip and a spotty complexion.
‘Are you the reporter called Johan Berg?’ the boy asked.
Johan nodded.
‘I think you know my dad. My name is Nils Knutas.’
Inspector Anders Knutas 6 - Dark Angel Page 12
