I close my eyes. These memories are painful. My eyes are stinging. I don’t want to cry right now. I’m feeling a little sick, but I go on: ‘Even today I can still hear the sound of the spraying shower water, the rough voices, the joking and teasing. The snap of towels slapping bare skin. Water fights, towel fights. And the whole time I’m standing in the corner with my back turned to all the other boys. It was pure hell. PE lessons were too. I was always the last one to be picked. Everyone sighed if they were forced to have me on their team. They never passed the ball to me. When I lie awake at night, I can still see their faces and hear their comments.’
‘How did you get through it?’
‘I didn’t. Finally I asked the teacher if I could practise discus throwing instead. Can you imagine that? The discus, of all ridiculous ideas. And the teacher went for it. So instead of playing basketball and football with the others, which was actually what I loved most, I would stand all alone on the grass behind the sports hall and throw the discus. Lesson after lesson. The teacher didn’t care. He just let me keep practising. That was probably a lot easier for him.’
Silence settles over the room. I down the rest of the water in the glass on the table in order to stave off the feeling of nausea. I’m about to fall into the darkness, and I don’t want to go there. I clutch the glass tight, holding it with both hands. I need to concentrate. How am I going to make it home? I’m on the verge of collapsing. I open my mouth again and the words automatically spill out. I listen to the voice, which sounds unfamiliar, as if it doesn’t belong to me.
‘If only I’d known what was ahead of me when I entered that classroom. A darkness that would last three years. And that’s an endless number of dark days. A feeling of dread would fill me each morning when I forced myself to get out of bed. Three years of humiliation and annihilation. Do you know what that does to a person? I’ve never understood why they hated me so much. I was completely alone.’
The memories are still buried in my body. My hands are shaking so badly that I have to put down the glass.
‘But what about at home? During all those years when you were having such a bad time, didn’t your mother notice anything? What did she do?’
I can hear the bitterness in my voice as I say: ‘Nothing. She never did anything.’
‘Nothing?’
‘It must have been obvious that I was having a bloody awful time of it. I never wanted to get out of bed in the morning. After school and all evening I would lie on my bed, alone in my room, and listen to music on my headset. Do you understand? Every night! Weekdays and weekends. Year after year. For three years not a single friend ever came home with me. No one ever phoned. And what did my mother do? Nothing.’
‘And you never talked about this with her? Didn’t she ever ask you what was wrong?’
* * *
I can’t bring myself to answer. Nausea has taken hold of me full force, and I feel as if I’m going to throw up at any second. My vision blurs. I see that the person across from me is leaning forward and saying something, but I no longer hear the voice.
I can’t stay here. I pick up my jacket and rush out of the door, then set off running for home. Along the way I bump into a pram, almost toppling it over. A woman screams abuse after me. Outside of the Konsum supermarket I knock over a bucket of tulips.
I manage to stay in control as I ride up in the lift. As soon as I get my door open, I dash for the toilet.
I lift the lid just in time.
JOHAN HAD NEVER received so much criticism for a story as he did after his report on the murder at the conference centre, which was broadcast on Monday evening. Regional News was the only programme to reveal Viktor Algård’s identity and the first to mention his pending divorce, as well as the possibility that he was having a love affair. All of this provoked a heated discussion about journalistic ethics.
After every broadcast Johan and Pia had a teleconference with the head office back in Stockholm. This time both were harshly reprimanded, primarily for choosing to publicize the information about Viktor’s mistress. It didn’t help that the neighbour’s speculation about Algård’s dalliances had been confirmed by his employees.
Several managing editors also found it appalling that Regional News had revealed the victim’s identity only twenty-four hours after he was found murdered. Johan defended his decision by saying that there was enormous interest in the case on Gotland, since Algård was so well known on the island. Besides, they had checked with the police to make sure that all family members had been informed about the death.
Johan, together with Pia and their boss Max Grenfors, had thought the information sufficiently relevant to make it public, given that this was a high-profile homicide. It might also provide an important clue to the motive.
Even though Johan defended himself fiercely and certainly presented a convincing argument, doubt was gnawing at him as he drove home to Roma in the dark.
He hoped to find Emma still awake. What he needed right now was a glass of wine and a chance to talk.
And Emma. He was longing for her. He was always longing for her. Finally they were able to be together, all the time. They could fall asleep together every night, and wake up together every morning.
Their relationship had definitely had its ups and downs since they’d met five years ago. Back then, Emma was married to Olle, she had two children in primary school, and she was living a quiet life with her family in Roma.
Then she met Johan. He happened to interview her in connection with a murder case, and they instantly fell in love. Eventually she divorced Olle and gave birth to Johan’s child. Their relationship had been stormy ever since. Against all odds, they had decided to get married during the previous summer. Johan had begun to doubt that they’d ever become husband and wife, when Emma had suddenly accepted his marriage proposal. On the day of the wedding, she kept him nervously waiting outside the church. Fårö Church was filled with guests, the time for the wedding came and went, and the pastor was wringing her hands. Johan’s best man, Andreas, started looking worried, while all the groom wanted to do was run away. Half an hour late, Emma and her maid of honour had finally appeared, both of them out of breath. They’d had a flat tyre and had left their mobiles at home.
For the past six months they’d led a normal family life with their three-year-old daughter Elin. Every other week the family expanded when Sara and Filip, Emma’s children from her first marriage, now eleven and ten, came to stay. Johan had moved into Emma’s house in Roma and sublet his flat in the Södermalm district of Stockholm.
His routine of buying fast food at the local 7-Eleven had now been replaced by major shopping expeditions at Willy’s supermarket. Takeaway pizza had been replaced by home-cooked meals served at specific times of the day. He’d become an expert at making sausage stroganoff, mincemeat sauce and pancakes. Instead of sleeping late on the weekend, he now got up to fix porridge for the kids in the kitchen. The days were filled with playing with the doll’s house and plastic cars, watching children’s programmes on TV, Parcheesi, football and sledding.
Instead of spending late nights at the pub, Johan would fall asleep by ten o’clock in front of the TV, with Emma leaning on his shoulder and sometimes one or two of the kids on his lap. His job didn’t claim all his attention the way it used to do. Sometimes in the middle of editing a story he’d find himself suddenly wondering what Elin was doing at the day-care centre. And an interview that unexpectedly ran late could make him start to fret because he’d promised to take the children swimming or to football practice, or he was supposed to attend a parents’ meeting at school. Previously he’d been the type of person who more or less lived for his job, endlessly on his computer or discussing work with colleagues. But now he was always in a rush to get home. His family was waiting for him. They needed him. And he loved that.
It was dark by the time he parked outside the house, but there were lights on in all the windows. Emma was awake.
‘Hello,’ he called as h
e went in, pushing aside ten pairs of shoes and some little rubber boots decorated with flowers.
‘Hi,’ he heard her reply from the kitchen. She was sitting there, clad in her usual grey jogging suit, with her long, sandy-coloured hair hanging loose down her back. Her eyes looked tired.
He gave her a hug.
‘Hi, sweetheart. How are things?’
‘OK. Elin’s cough is better. She’s asleep now, thank God.’
Johan went upstairs and opened the door to Sara’s room. Her breathing was slow and regular; she always slept so soundly. He gently touched her cheek, and then turned off the light next to her bed, which was shining right in her face.
In the next bedroom Filip was asleep with his arms stretched over his head and his mouth wide open. He had kicked off the covers. Johan stood there looking at the boy for a moment. He almost thought of Filip as his own son. Lately they’d had such good times together. They shared a passion for football and a week ago Johan had gone to watch Filip play in a match. The boy had scored his first goal and they’d celebrated afterwards with hamburgers for dinner.
Then he went to look in on Elin. Her room was next to the bedroom he shared with Emma. All of her stuffed animals were lined up in her bed, barely leaving any room for the little girl. There she lay, squeezed in between the dolls, rabbits, teddy bears and shaggy dogs, a monkey with long arms and a cuddly elephant. All of them had names, and whenever Johan or Emma kissed their daughter goodnight, they also had to kiss all the animals, one after the other, and in the proper order. He smiled and kissed Elin on the forehead, prompting a little sigh. She turned on to her side and hugged one of the rabbits even closer.
AFTER COMPLETING THE interviews with Sofia and Fredrik Algård, Knutas felt utterly confused. Never had he met two children from the same family who had such vastly different attitudes towards their father. While Fredrik’s feelings bordered on hatred, his sister Sofia had praised her father to the skies. She said that he’d been her best friend, always available and ready to help. She was devastated by her father’s death, completely undone, and she burst into tears several times during the interview. According to her, Viktor had been the best father in the world.
Knutas yawned, rubbing his tired eyes, and went to get a cup of coffee. He also bought a dry sandwich from the vending machine. He hadn’t made it home for dinner today either. He was lucky that Lina was so understanding. After all these years she had become used to his erratic schedule, and she almost never complained. Besides, as a midwife, she often had to work late herself. Things were easier now that the kids were older. Knutas suddenly pictured his son’s face. He would just gather up a few documents and then head for home before Nils went to bed.
He thought about Elisabeth Algård. Apparently there had been another woman in Viktor’s life. Who was she? It was absolutely essential that they find her. He wondered why she hadn’t come forward, especially now that the victim’s identity had been revealed on TV. On the other hand, that had happened only a few hours ago. Did she even know about the murder?
Knutas had talked to the technicians who had examined Viktor’s phones and computers. There were no text messages or emails with any woman who might be the person they were looking for. And of the friends and colleagues that the police had interviewed so far, not one had any idea who the event planner’s new love interest could have been. The only clues they had were the items that had been left behind in the flat in town.
The box was sitting on Knutas’s desk. It contained an ordinary bra, a pair of white cotton knickers, a cotton shirt, size medium, and a pair of linen trousers. A small bag held make-up and toiletries. The police had also found a handwritten note among a stack of old newspapers: ‘Thanks for yesterday. Love you. Your sweetie-pie.’ With a drawing of a flower at the bottom.
Knutas tapped the note. Sweetie-pie. What a thing to say.
According to his wife, Viktor Algård had planned to stay in town after the party at the conference centre, which seemed perfectly natural. No one had questioned his decision. That was what he usually did whenever he had to work late.
What puzzled Knutas was the fact that Algård and his mistress never seemed to have phoned each other or corresponded by email.
The police had talked to the other tenants in the building. No one had ever seen Viktor enter or leave his flat with a woman. Either the relationship was very new, or the couple must have met somewhere else. Which meant that the investigative team would have to contact all the hotels and bed-and-breakfast establishments that were open during the wintertime. Knutas wrote himself a reminder to do this.
He went back to studying the note, turning it first one way and then the other. Why hadn’t the woman come forward? He felt restless with frustration. The techs had lifted fingerprints from the flat, but found only three different sets. One belonged to Algård, the second to the building custodian who had recently repaired the window. The third set of fingerprints most likely belonged to the unknown woman.
How had they managed to keep their relationship so secret? On Gotland Knutas could hardly step outside his front door without running into someone he knew.
Maybe she lived on the mainland. Viktor Algård was a very fit fifty-three-year-old who was extremely fastidious about his appearance. Men in that time of their life – and Knutas was actually the same age – often sought out younger women. Maybe because they were afraid of growing old, or simply because they were feeling randy. A man like Viktor would certainly have had no problem attracting women. He had money and status, and plenty of women would have enjoyed basking in the spotlight that focused on him.
Knutas puffed on his pipe. They had met somewhere. The question was: Where? And how did they keep in touch?
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, an idea popped into his head. Could it be that simple?
Suddenly he was in a big hurry.
ALGÅRD’S PIED-À-TERRE WAS located on Hästgatan in the centre of down-town Visby, in a whitewashed two-storey building that housed four flats. The building was surrounded by a high wooden fence that prevented passersby from looking in. To Knutas’s surprise the gate in the fence was unlocked, so he was able to simply step inside. The courtyard was exceptionally beautiful with resplendent flowerbeds, lilac bushes and a bubbling fountain in the middle. On the other side of the courtyard was an artist’s studio. Knutas walked across to the studio but found it closed and shuttered. On the door hung a hand-painted sign showing a flock of sheep grazing in a pasture. Also on the sign was a name painted in ornate letters. It said ‘Veronika Hammar’.
Knutas read the name several times as his heart began pounding faster. He took a few steps back to look at the studio’s façade. Veronika Hammar was a well-known artist on Gotland. Her speciality was painting sheep in every possible and improbable guise and setting. Her paintings were not highly regarded by the local citizens, but they were certainly popular among tourists.
He had seen her in photographs from the dedication of the conference centre. Veronika Hammar had been one of the guests. And her studio shared the courtyard with Viktor Algård’s pied-à-terre. Could that be the explanation for the absence of emails and phone calls? Because they were unnecessary, given the close proximity of Viktor and Veronika? Wouldn’t the neighbours have noticed? Maybe not if they were sufficiently discreet. Knutas pictured Veronika Hammar’s face. An attractive woman, about fifty, he would guess.
Knutas turned on his heel and quickly made his way back to the police station.
VERONIKA HAMMAR LOOKED NERVOUS as she sat on the very edge of the chair in the small interview room. As if she might take off at any moment. Calm down, thought Knutas. Just stay calm. This is going to take a while.
It was almost midnight, but the fatigue he had felt earlier was completely gone. Jacobsson took the lead in the interview.
Knutas studied Algård’s lover sitting on the other side of the table. She looked younger than her fifty-six years, but he suspected that she’d had some work done to hide her age. T
he smooth, taut skin on her face hinted at Botox treatments. Her breasts seemed unnaturally full and positioned too high for a woman her age.
She was a striking woman, her blond hair pinned up under a colourful scarf wrapped around her head. She was petite and slender, clad in dark trousers and a dove-grey polo-neck sweater. Her lips were painted bright red, and the mascara and eyeliner had been applied with a heavy hand.
As Jacobsson made the usual introductory statements for the tape recording of the interview, she leaned back in her chair and gave Veronika Hammar a friendly look. She wanted the older woman to relax. Her voice was gentle when she asked the first questions.
‘Do you understand why you’re here?’
‘Yes,’ Veronika replied. ‘I suppose it’s because Viktor is dead.’
‘What was your relationship with him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How did you know him?’
Veronika’s gaze shifted.
‘Viktor and I got to know each other a couple of months ago.’
‘Surely you must have met before then. You’re a well-known artist, after all, and he was Gotland’s most important event planner. You were also about the same age, weren’t you?’
‘Well, yes. And of course we’d met before. We knew of each other’s existence, but that was about all. I’ve been invited to a lot of events, but…’
‘But what?’
‘It was only recently that we really got to know each other. I mean, we started spending time together.’
‘As a couple?’
Veronika Hammar looked down.
‘We were in love. Actually, it was more than that. We were thinking of getting married. He had even proposed.’
Dark Angel Page 9
