‘Certain people we’ve talked to claim that they suspected Viktor had a mistress.’
Elisabeth got up and went over to look out of the window, with her back turned to the two officers. When she spoke, her voice was dry and composed.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Several witnesses have said that they recently started to suspect that he had fallen in love. This could be of great importance to the investigation. Think carefully. Did you notice any change in his behaviour? Some small sign that might indicate he was having an affair?’
‘No, nothing. I didn’t notice anything like that.’
‘Did you ever spend the night in Viktor’s flat in Visby?’
‘No.’
‘When was the last time you were there?’
‘Good Lord, it must be at least a year ago. I’ve never had any reason to go there.’
‘So you didn’t keep any personal belongings in the flat? Clothing or toiletries?’
‘No.’ Elisabeth turned around and gave the officers a resigned look. ‘Is that what you found there? In Viktor’s flat?’
Knutas had no option but to nod.
YET ANOTHER NIGHT when Johan had slept very poorly. Elin woke up at least ten times, coughing so hard that it sounded as if her lungs would burst. He’d phoned both the doctor on call and the paediatric hotline, but both times he was advised to remain calm, give the child some cough syrup and keep an eye on her. How typical, he thought with annoyance. Just because they don’t want to use any of their sodding resources to make a house call. He deeply regretted that he and Emma had decided not to vaccinate their daughter against whooping cough, but they had both judged the vaccine to be too new and unproven.
Around 4 a.m. Elin finally fell asleep, and she was still sleeping soundly when he got up. Emma would stay home with Elin as long as necessary. Johan had taken care of their daughter the previous week, but now he was swamped with work because of the Algård murder case. Besides, Emma was feeling generally worn out, so she candidly admitted that she was more than happy to stay home from work. She was a primary school teacher at the small Kyrk School in Roma. Right now the pupils were bubbling over with spring fever, which made them even more rambunctious than usual.
Luckily, Johan and Pia had agreed that he didn’t need to drive into town to the editorial office. She was going to pick him up in Roma on her way south. As expected, the murder in the conference centre had prompted big headlines in the local morning papers. It was front-page news, with other related stories inside as well. None of the papers mentioned the victim’s name, merely speaking of ‘a well-known individual in Visby’s hospitality industry’. When Johan carefully read through all the articles about the murder, he happened to notice a brief story in Gotlands Allehanda. It was about the case of the sixteen-year-old boy who had been assaulted. Shit. He’d completely forgotten about that because of everything that had happened yesterday. The boy’s condition was still serious. I need to remember to check up on the case sometime today, he told himself.
Pia turned up at nine o’clock sharp, as agreed, and then they headed south.
‘I think we should start with Birgitta Österman. She’s the one who usually takes care of the Algårds’ dogs.’
‘Do you think she’ll talk to us?’
‘I’ve already phoned her,’ said Pia with a grin.
‘Of course you have. I should have guessed.’
The farm they were headed for was located a short distance before the road ended at the Algård farm and on the opposite side. The farmhouse was an impressive limestone building with barns forming separate wings on either side and a horse pasture where a colt was restlessly trotting back and forth. The front door opened even before they could get out of the car. Birgitta Österman was a stout woman in her sixties. She gave them a friendly smile when they introduced themselves and then invited them in, but they politely declined the obligatory offer of coffee. Instead, they all sat down outside in the comfortable patio chairs. The yard was warm with sunshine and there was no wind.
‘What do you think about the news of the murder?’
‘Well, I was certainly shocked.’ Birgitta Österman shook her head. ‘Even though it happened up north in Visby, it still feels so close, since he was a neighbour and all.’
‘What was Viktor like?’
‘To be honest, I really couldn’t stand the man. There was something fishy about him. I could never figure him out. He was perfectly nice as a neighbour, but he always seemed wound up somehow, as if he could never relax. I always had the feeling he was hiding something, but I don’t know why. That’s just how he seemed. He was that way from the very beginning.’ She paused to look towards the Algård farm. ‘And it turned out that he wasn’t the reliable sort after all, since he suddenly wanted a divorce. Elisabeth told me about it just last week.’
Johan gave a start. This was something new, but he didn’t let on that he hadn’t known about it.
‘Do you know why he wanted a divorce?’
‘She had no idea. Nobody did. Everyone thought he must be having a mid-life crisis. But I knew that he’d found someone else.’
‘Really? What makes you think that?’
‘It’s not something I “think”. I know it for a fact.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I saw them. Not here – oh no. It was in Stockholm. I went there one weekend to visit a friend who lives in Vasastan. It’s something I do a few times a year. We were on our way to a restaurant, but stopped for a glass of wine at a pub first. And who do you think I saw? Viktor. With another woman! I just about had a heart attack, and I had no idea what I was going to say to him. But they were sitting at the very back of the pub, and they were so wrapped up in one another that they didn’t have eyes for anybody else. They had their heads close and were practically cooing to each other. There was no question what was going on. They left soon after, and he didn’t see me. If he had, he probably would have fainted.’
‘What did she look like?’ asked Johan, trying hard not to sound too eager.
‘She was petite, with blond hair to her shoulders, in a pageboy style. Thin and expensively dressed. I never saw her face.’
‘How old?’
‘I’d guess about forty-five, maybe fifty.’
‘Have you told this to the police?’
‘No, I wasn’t home yesterday when they came around to talk to the neighbours. They left a note asking me to contact them, but I just haven’t had time yet. I’ve been out feeding the livestock this morning.’
‘When did you see Viktor in Stockholm?’
‘It was exactly one month ago.’
‘Did his wife know about this other woman?’
‘I have no idea. But she didn’t mention it to me. On the other hand, it’s not really something that you go around talking about, and we’re not exactly close friends. More like acquaintances. And I didn’t want to say anything. I’m not the sort who goes running about spreading gossip.’
THE FIRST THING that struck Knutas when he met Viktor Algård’s children at the police station was how astonishingly different they looked.
Fredrik was relatively short and robust, with an olive complexion, and he had his hair combed back, just like his father. He wore a white cotton shirt with a green-checked pullover, a preppy look that reminded Knutas of an American college boy.
His sister, Sofia, was tall and fair. She was dressed in an oversize lilac shirt, black tights and patterned canvas shoes. She also wore enormous silver earrings and a checked Palestinian scarf.
Silent and tense, they sat next to each other on a bench in the corridor outside the interview room.
Jacobsson and Knutas chose to start with the son.
The minute they all sat down, Fredrik asked for a glass of water. Knutas switched on the tape recorder.
‘I’d like to begin by expressing our condolences. As you no doubt realize, we need to ask you a number of questions.’
‘Of cou
rse.’
The young man looked at him attentively. Knutas was again struck by how much he resembled Viktor.
‘When was the last time you saw your father?’
‘On his birthday, a couple of months ago. He was born on the twenty-eighth of February.’
‘What sort of impression did he make on you at the time?’
‘He was the same as always. We were at the house in Hamra. It turned out to be quite a bash, with about fifty guests. Pappa loved to celebrate on a grand scale.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he was a real party-person, even outside of his job. That was probably why he enjoyed his work so much. Pappa loved parties, and he was always ready to organize one at the drop of a hat.’
Knutas discerned a trace of scorn in the young man’s voice. Jacobsson came back with a glass of water and then sat down on a chair at the other end of the room. Her presence was needed as a witness to the interview.
‘And what did you think about that?’
‘It didn’t bother me. I didn’t care.’
‘What sort of relationship did you have with your father?’
‘We didn’t really have one. He was always working when we were growing up, and he was almost never home. So we didn’t really know each other very well. I’m much closer to my mother, as you can imagine.’
‘How did you react when you heard that your parents were getting a divorce?’
‘I thought it was about time.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘They were miles apart, in almost every way. They had completely different interests and never enjoyed doing the same things. Even politically they were mismatched – well, actually I don’t think Pappa even had any political opinions of his own. He was simply ignorant. Mamma devours books, while Pappa never read anything except the evening paper and glossy magazines about celebrities. They had different views about nearly everything. They didn’t even like the same kind of food. Mamma is a vegetarian, while Pappa loved rare steaks. Mamma got involved with the Red Cross and other charitable projects, while Pappa didn’t give a damn about the problems of the world. I remember once when he yelled at my mother because she’d decided to sponsor a child in Guatemala.
‘Mamma cares about her family far more deeply than he ever did. She often comes to Stockholm to visit us, but he never came with her. She has her friends and colleagues, and they like to travel together and go to the theatre. Mamma reads a lot and keeps up on social matters. If we ever wanted to discuss a current issue in world politics or some hot topic in general, Pappa never had anything sensible to say.’
Crimson patches had appeared on Fredrik Algård’s throat. He took several sips of water.
‘Do you know whether your father had any enemies?’
‘I’m sure he’d managed to collect quite a few over the years. You know how it is in the hospitality business and the world of celebrities. Pretty on the outside, but lots of shit underneath.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Pappa only cared about people who could be of benefit to him at that moment. People who were rich, successful and famous. If an artist who counted him as a true friend happened to lose the spotlight, he was suddenly of no use to Pappa. If a well-known author’s books stopped selling, or if a top politician was found to have a drinking problem, or if an actor began to slide downhill, they no longer existed as far as Pappa was concerned.’
Knutas was surprised at the way this young man expressed himself. There was no mistaking the sarcastic tone.
‘In other words, I think there must be plenty of people who were disappointed in Pappa. But whether they would go so far as to kill him, that’s a whole different matter.’
‘And what about you? How did you feel about him?’
‘To be perfectly honest, I didn’t care much for him. To win someone’s trust and respect, you have to show the same in return. Don’t you agree? You get the relationship with your children that you deserve. Everything depends on how you behave as a parent.’
For an instant, his words prompted Knutas to look inside himself. And he was frightened by what he saw.
He shook off his personal unease and went on: ‘It sounds as if you actually hated your father.’
‘No, I wouldn’t say that. He had his good sides, just like everyone else. But who says that you have to love your parents? That’s not a law. Honour thy father and mother? What kind of shit is that? Am I supposed to love him just because of a few seconds of orgasm when he impregnated my mother and I was conceived? He never gave a damn about me. We just ended up having to live in the same house.’
Knutas cast a glance at Jacobsson. The conversation was getting more and more unpleasant. Fredrik Algård’s anger seemed to fill the whole room.
‘Do you know whether your father ever received any threats?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Did you notice anything different about his behaviour lately?’
‘No. As I said, I saw him at his birthday party in February, and before that at Christmas.’
‘But not for your mother’s birthday? Wasn’t that very recent?’
‘Yes, but she came to Stockholm. She was angry and upset with my father because he wanted a divorce. We celebrated her birthday at our place instead.’
‘So you live with someone?’
‘Yes, my girlfriend Sanna. We live in Söder, near Mariatorget.’
‘And you’re studying at the university?’
‘Yes. Political science. I also have a law degree, but I wanted to expand my interests. This is my last term, then I’ll be finished.’
‘How long are you planning to stay here on Gotland?’
‘I have a breathing space in my studies at the moment, so I can stay at least a week. Mamma needs all the help and support she can get.’
A GLANCE IN the mirror inside the lift is enough to remind me of my sorry state. I’ve lost weight and look ghastly. But I’m in one piece and clean. That ought to be sufficient. Today I’m going out, which demands a great deal of mental concentration.
Life nowadays is a struggle, periodically marked by a lull and a vacuum. I have to think in small steps. Cleanse away everything else. The dreams I may have had, the goals and ambitions, no longer exist. I can’t even remember what they were. Or whether I ever really had any.
The next test comes when I open the heavy front door to the street. Like a stinging slap in the face, I’m confronted with all the traffic noise of the city, the people and the smells. I hadn’t noticed that it was raining and I’m freezing in my thin jacket. I refuse to meet anyone’s eye as I walk along the pavement. I shut everyone out, pretending that they don’t exist: all those poplin coats, jackets and sweaters, the ribbed umbrellas, the briefcases and the shoulder bags made of brown leather. Rubber galoshes and walking shoes. The blurry faces that I glimpse passing by are nothing but hazy masks.
Finally I arrive. A moment of panic because at first I can’t remember the door code. I rummage around in my pocket for the slip of paper and breathe a sigh of relief when I find it. I can’t handle any setbacks right now.
It’s a square room, with one window facing the street, a bed along one wall, and a small table and two armchairs.
‘I had a bad dream last night.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I dreamed that all of my teeth turned black and became porous bits of coal. One by one they came loose and then fell out into my cupped hands. Soon my gums were bare and my hands were full. I was heartbroken and thought to myself: But I’m so young. I woke up screaming, and after that I couldn’t go back to sleep, as usual.’
‘What did you think about while you were lying there awake?’
‘Those horrible years when I was a teenager. I haven’t had that dream in a long time, but back then I had it all the time, when I was in my early teens.’
‘It sounds like you were suffering from anxiety.’
‘I was. It lasted three years.’
> ‘Can you tell me about it?’
I shake my head. I don’t really want to. I know that whenever I dredge up memories, I feel as if I’m transported back to that time for a moment. And it’s too painful. I’m overwhelmed by the same abysmal sense of despair. It has taken up residence inside my body, and it will always be there. For as long as I live.
‘Try.’
‘It doesn’t make any sense. For example, I still have a hard time taking a shower.’
‘Taking a shower?’
‘Yes. Ever since my schooldays. I can’t believe I can’t get over it. During my first years I was very popular. In photographs from back then, I often looked happy. My classmates thought I was fun, sort of the class clown. Plus I was a good football player. I liked sports and music. Those were my two main interests. But when I started secondary school, everything changed.’
‘In what way?’
‘I still have no clue what happened, but it had something to do with my father dying in a car accident that summer before secondary school. Mamma and Pappa had already been divorced for a long time, but we lived in a small town and everyone knew everything about everyone else. There was something about that accident… My siblings and I spent nearly the whole summer holiday at a camp for kids. When I got back, my old friends’ attitude towards me had changed. They avoided me. No one wanted to be around me any more.
‘I started at a new school, with new classmates, and suddenly it was as if I didn’t exist. The other kids treated me like air. No one said a single word to me; they hardly even gave me a glance. For the rest of my schooldays I never talked to anyone in my classes. I was alone during breaks and at lunchtime in the cafeteria. I was never chosen for any sports teams; I moved like a shadow along the walls. Frozen out.’
‘What about the shower?’
‘The shower?’
‘You said something about having a hard time taking a shower.’
‘Oh, right. PE lessons were the worst. I was the smallest boy in my class, a late bloomer, and I looked like a child. One after the other, they all entered puberty. Lots of the boys were more than a head taller than me. They had broad shoulders, and their voices were changing. They had peach fuzz on their upper lips, hair on their legs and in their armpits. Their Adam’s apples were as big as ripe plums. Before games I used to try to hide in the changing room. It was a torment to have to undress in front of the others. I always claimed the shower in the corner and stood with my back turned, washing as fast as I could.’
Dark Angel Page 8
