Dark Angel

by Mari Jungstedt

  Dark Angel

  Mari Jungstedt

  No one can hurt you like your own family.

  A mother’s love should be the most natural and sustaining thing in the world. But when that love twists into obsession, and from obsession into control, the consequences can be devastating.

  When glamorous party-planner Viktor Algard is found murdered at one of his own glitzy events, suspicion falls immediately on to a wife spurned. But if Inspector Anders Knutas has learnt anything from his years in the Gotland Police Force, it is that there is no such thing as an open-and-shut case. A second attack confirms that things are not as they first appeared.

  Knutas’s investigation will take him into the dark and hidden corners of another family’s tragedy – but if he is to catch the killer, he is going to have to face some family secrets of his own.

  Mari Jungstedt

  Dark Angel

  The sixth book in the Anders Knutas series, 2012

  English translation © Tiina Nunnally 2012

  For Bosse Jungstedt, beloved brother – always in my heart

  SHE LOOKED SO beautiful standing there. Wearing a white dress with a wide belt around her slender waist. Her blond hair pinned up high in a knot. Very stylish. She was smiling at the photographer with her head tilted to one side. Flirting with the camera, as usual. Always well dressed. Sometimes she wore her hair tied back with a ribbon. And that dazzling smile of hers. Standing in front of the stove as she fried Falun sausages, picking apples out in the country, walking out to the car with the children. A façade. As fragile as the glass in the frame of the photograph. He picked up the portrait and hurled it against the wall.

  The shattered glass flew all over the room. That was his life.

  THE BLINDS DRAWN, shutting out the springtime sun. Silence in the room. From far off the sound of car doors slamming, dogs barking. Sirens. The muted conversation of passersby, an occasional laugh. Street sounds, the sounds of life. It has nothing to do with us. My story is etched into the face of the person sitting across from me. As if the lines had deepened, the eyes filled with compassion. Neither of us says a word.

  Once again I have described a memory from my childhood. In truth, nothing out of the ordinary, not at all. Just a fragment from daily life. Yet the image is still razor-sharp in my mind, although twenty-five years have passed.

  I was seven when I decided to surprise my mother by serving her breakfast in bed. The idea came to me the minute I woke up and realized that everyone else was still asleep. I was ecstatic at the thought. I would make Mamma happy again. She’d been so sad on the previous day, sitting on the sofa and crying for such a long time. She never seemed to stop. I didn’t know why she was so sad. Mamma was often like that. She would cry and smoke, and smoke and cry. Then she would talk on the phone all evening, and afterwards we had to go to bed. There was nothing I could do. Or my siblings either. It made all of us sad. But now I’d come up with a good plan. I would serve her breakfast in bed.

  Eagerly I climbed out of bed and padded down the hall to the bathroom. I tried not to wake anyone. I wanted to do this on my own, without any help from my siblings. I wanted to be the one she would thank, the one she would hug. Her face would be beaming with joy when I came into her bedroom carrying the tray. And then everything would be fine again.

  Cautiously I crept down the stairs. I remember how I cringed at every creak of the steps, scared that the sound might wake her. In the kitchen I got out a cereal bowl and a spoon. But the box of cornflakes was high up on a shelf in the pantry. I couldn’t reach it. I went to get a chair from the table. It was so heavy. With great effort I lugged the chair into the narrow work area and then into the pantry. I climbed up on it and stretched out my hand for the box. Pleased that I’d managed to grab it, I filled the bowl and then poured just the right amount of milk over the cereal. Mamma was very particular about things like that. It had to be done just so. Not too much and not too little. What about sugar? She usually wanted sugar on her cereal. But where was it? There, behind the porridge oats. Good. I used the spoon to scoop out what I thought was the proper amount of sugar, but not too big a spoonful. Mamma always complained if her cereal was too sweet; I’d heard her say that so many times.

  What was I missing? Oh, yes, an open sandwich. I looked inside the bread box. There was a loaf of bread. Skogholm Bakery, it said on the wrapper. I knew how to read. My older siblings had taught me. I found the bread knife in a drawer, but now came the hard part: cutting two slices. I thought I could manage it, but if the pieces ended up being too big, Mamma didn’t have to eat all the bread. She was a grown-up, and grown-ups didn’t have to obey the same rules as children. The problem was that she hated slices of bread that were too thick. They had to be thin. I sawed at the loaf with the knife, but it went in crooked. Thick on top and thin at the bottom. I studied the first slice with a frown. It didn’t look good. I didn’t dare throw it in the trash, because then Mamma would get mad. I knew she would. She often complained about how much everything cost. Cheese was so expensive that my siblings and I were each allowed only one slice on our sandwiches. Mamma always had two. And if I occasionally asked for a second glass of milk, she would always look so displeased that I didn’t ask again. I held the piece of bread in my hand. What should I do with it? This slice would never do. All of my efforts to make her breakfast would be ruined because she’d be so annoyed by the size of that piece of bread. If only the slice were the proper thickness, everything would have been fine. Now I was not going to see the look of total joy on her face that I longed for. Instead a deep furrow would appear between her eyes, or lines of disapproval would form around her mouth. All because of that darn slice of bread.

  I cast a glance out in the hall, listening for any sounds. It was OK; everyone was still asleep. Quickly I stuffed the piece of bread in my mouth in order to get rid of it. Then I tried again, and this time I made a better job of it. The butter was hard and I couldn’t get the lumps to spread out evenly. I covered up the lumps with cheese. Then I had an idea. What if I put on three pieces of cheese instead of the two she usually ate? Wouldn’t that make her even happier? But when I saw the three pieces piled on top of each other on the bread, doubt seized hold of me again. It looked like a lot. What if she got angry because I was being wasteful? I didn’t dare take that risk, so I ate the extra piece of cheese too. Then I studied my handiwork. I was almost done.

  In a cupboard I found a tray and a small plate. Mamma hated to set sandwiches directly on the bare tabletop. After I’d arranged everything on the tray, I could see that something was still missing.

  Of course – how could I be so stupid? Coffee. I mustn’t forget the coffee. That was the most important part of all. Mamma always drank coffee first thing in the morning, otherwise she didn’t feel human, she said. And a paper napkin! She needed something to wipe her mouth with. She was always annoyed if the kitchen roll wasn’t on the table. I rushed over to the breakfast nook and tore off a piece. It looked a bit ragged. I tried again and managed to tear off a whole sheet. The first one I crumpled up and tossed in the bin. Now for the coffee. Again I was in doubt. How exactly was it made? I’d watched my mother cooking it on the stove. After that she would pour it into a thermos. Ours was made of red plastic with a black spout and lid. I needed water and coffee grounds, which were kept in a metal tin in the pantry. I got out the tin but then wondered how to get the powder inside the thermos. And it had to be cooked too. I turned around to look at the stove. I’d seen how my mother turned those knobs to make the burners hot. That much I knew. I paused to think. This was the only thing left to do, and I had to work it out for myself. Then my mother could have her breakfast. And be happy again. I chose one of the knobs and turned it to the number six, thinking that the biggest number
must be the hottest. I waited for a moment, and then I held my hand over the burners. The one closest to me was getting warm. Hurray! I was excited, now that I was so close to achieving my goal. I picked up the thermos and turned on the tap. I had to climb up on the chair again to reach it. Then I filled the thermos half full of water. That seemed like enough. I picked up the coffee scoop and put a lot of grounds into the water. Now all I had to do was put it on the burner to cook. Proud of my ingenuity, I set the thermos on top of the hot burner. Just then I heard someone go into the bathroom upstairs. Darn. I hoped it wasn’t my mother.

  At that moment smoke began pouring from the stove. The smoke smelled terrible. Something must be wrong. The next second I heard Mamma come pounding down the stairs. My heart froze.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she roared, yanking the thermos off the stove. ‘You must be bloody well out of your mind! Are you trying to burn down the whole house?’

  Thick smoke was now swirling around in the cramped kitchen. Mamma was furious. Through the billowing haze I saw the scathing look on her face. She was shouting and screaming. Behind her I heard my siblings come into the kitchen. My sister started wailing.

  ‘I was just trying to…’ I ventured, feeling my lower lip begin to quiver. I was paralysed with fear.

  ‘Out!’ she bellowed. ‘Get out of here this minute, you stupid child!’ She was shaking one hand at me. In the other she held the thermos. ‘You’ve wrecked the sodding thermos. Do you have any idea how expensive they are? Now I’m going to have to buy a new one. And I can’t afford it!’

  Her voice rose to a shriek, and then she started sobbing. Scared out of my wits, I raced upstairs to my room, closing the door behind me. I wished that I could have locked it. Wished that I could have run away and never come back. I crept under the covers like a frightened animal, shaking all over.

  I lay there for hours. But she never came.

  And the hole inside me grew.

  THE DEDICATION OF the new conference centre in Visby was decidedly one of the high points of the year. The centre would put Gotland on the map in terms of hosting conferences and help to bring people to the island all year round – not just sun-seeking tourists in the summertime. Their shoulders hunched against the capricious April wind, the invited guests hurried towards the main entrance. The Visby brass band was bravely playing their horns in the gusts, which ruffled their hair and fluttered their ties like banners.

  The wind also hampered the efforts of the photographers jostling for space near the red carpet.

  Everyone from the local press corps had turned up. Even a couple of paparazzi from the Stockholm tabloids had been sent over from the mainland to cover the event.

  The building gleamed in the evening sunlight. Magnificently modern, it was constructed from glass and concrete and centrally located just outside the ring wall near the verdant park called Almedalen, only a stone’s throw from the sea. An unnecessary showpiece of a building, according to some people. A visionary project that would benefit all of Gotland, others claimed.

  Most of the faces in the crowd of people were well known to the island residents. Local politicians, the top business people, the county governor and the bishop, the cultural élite as well as famous summer guests who had flown over from the mainland to take part in the festivities. The number of celebrities and bigwigs who bought summer houses on Gotland seemed to increase every year.

  In the lobby of the conference centre stood the evening’s host, the event planner Viktor Algård. Along with the governor and the chair of the county administrative board he had formed a receiving line to greet the guests. There was the steady sound of people kissing each other on the cheek as polite words were exchanged.

  The foyer quickly filled, accompanied by the cheerful buzz of voices. It was at least 10 metres to the ceiling, and the décor was done in an authentic Gotland style, with pastel colours. Young waitresses moved deftly among the assembled guests, offering hors d’oeuvres and chilled Moët et Chandon. White lilies had been meticulously arranged in slender crystal vases, and candles were burning in lanterns placed on cocktail tables scattered about the lobby. The view from the enormous picture windows was magnificent: Visby seen at its very best. Almedalen, with its green lawns, the pond with the ducks and the rippling fountain. The ring wall, partially covered with ivy, surrounding a hotchpotch of medieval buildings. The thirteenth-century ruins of St Drotten and St Lars churches, and crowning everything the cathedral’s three black spires reaching up to the heavens. Beyond it, the endless sea. The site chosen for the conference centre was perfect.

  When all the guests had arrived, the county governor ascended a podium that had been positioned in a corner of the lobby. She was an elegant woman in late middle age, wearing a black floor-length skirt and silk blouse. Her blond hair had been stylishly cut.

  ‘I would like to welcome all of you,’ she began, letting her gaze sweep over the festively clad audience. ‘It’s a great honour for me to dedicate, at last, our new conference centre here in Visby. The project has taken five years and so many of us have been longing to see the final result. And what a result it is.’

  She made a grand gesture to indicate the setting. Then she paused for dramatic effect, as if wanting to give everyone time to truly take in the atmosphere and savour the tasteful furnishings. The light grey floor was made of Gotland limestone from Slite, the walls were adorned with guild banners, and the long reception counter was decorated with knotted wool from Gotland sheep. A wide, illuminated staircase made from American cherrywood led up to the next floor, which was to be the setting for the banquet and after-dinner dancing.

  ‘Of course there have been sceptics,’ the governor went on. ‘Anyone who wants to change things will always face opposition. But I think that most people realize what an asset the conference centre is going to be for Gotland.’

  She cleared her throat. What she had just said was a vast understatement. The protests against construction had been both numerous and loud. She had been surprised at the force of the opposition. A never-ending flow of complaints had been lodged with the municipality and the county administrative board ever since the plans had been made public. The debate had raged in the local newspapers. Many feared that the scanty tax revenues from Gotland residents would be eaten up by an unnecessary luxury building at the expense of childcare and services for the elderly. Islanders still had fresh memories of other ventures that had ended in disaster. They were apprehensive of another Snäck, the plan to build a hotel and condos just north of the city. The project had gone to pot and cost the district millions. When the construction project went bankrupt, the municipality was forced to sell the whole kit and caboodle to a local entrepreneur for a paltry sum. No one wanted to see that sort of fiasco repeated.

  And that didn’t even take into account the opposition that arose because of the location of the conference centre. The monstrosity stood smack in the line of sight from the Gotlanders’ beloved park, Almedalen. To top it all off, the structure blocked the view of the sea.

  Environmental activists had staged demonstrations during the entire construction process, chaining themselves to fences surrounding the site. Their protests had caused delays, which in turn had led to cost overruns. Yet in spite of everything, the building was now complete. The governor was relieved that the project had finally been brought to a successful conclusion.

  ‘At the moment it may be hard to see what the significance of the conference centre will be, but one thing is certain: this is a step in the right direction so that Gotland will be able to grow. And it’s totally in keeping with the favourable development that has taken place on the island over the past few years.’

  A delighted murmur and nods of approval from members of the audience.

  ‘The community college has been growing year by year, and we’re managing to entice more and more students to attend,’ she went on. ‘Our young people no longer need to leave the island to study on the mainland. Many respected teachers
have moved here and, in my view, the future looks bright for Gotlanders. Businesses have put their faith in our future and the tourist industry is enjoying an upswing. Last year there were forty thousand more nights spent at our tourist facilities, compared to the previous year. Let’s all rejoice at this development and celebrate our important new asset, which will help to promote Gotland. Let’s all drink a toast! Cheers for the conference centre!’

  The governor’s voice wavered and her eyes were shining. There was no mistaking her emotion.

  All of the assembled guests raised their glasses.

  VIKTOR ALGÅRD OPENED A bottle of Ramlösa mineral water and looked around. So far the dedication celebration had proceeded largely as planned. There really hadn’t been any reason for him to be nervous. He’d organized so many events over the years that by now it was mostly routine. He was Gotland’s very own Bindefeld, the party king. Slightly older, a bit thicker around the middle and without the same network of contacts, but still a local celebrity. Viktor Algård was elegantly attired in a black suit tailored in a fashionably modern style. His lavender silk shirt was handsomely cut, giving him a touch of the dandy. He was past fifty but clearly in excellent shape. Hardly any wrinkles were evident on his open, friendly face except when he laughed, which he did frequently. His hair was still dark and thick. In honour of the occasion, he had combed his long hair back so it reached almost to his shoulders. He had an olive complexion, which he’d inherited from his Tunisian-born father, along with his dark eyes and full lips. In general, he was quite satisfied both with himself and with his appearance.

  Now he gazed with pleasure at the building’s hyper-modern banquet hall, which could hold up to a thousand guests.

  He took a certain pride in being allowed to arrange a dedication, in being the very first on the scene. He’d spent the past few months meticulously planning this event, fine-tuning all the details down to the very last minute.