Anders Knutas 03 - The Inner Circle aka Unknown

by Mari Jungstedt

  That was one of the big advantages of working on Gotland—not having to take the brunt of the editor's constant anxiety. Right now Johan could at least keep it at a distance.

  THURSDAY, JULY 1

  Exactly as Knutas had expected, there was strong reaction to the news about the decapitated horse.

  Ever since he had arrived at work at seven thirty that morning, the phone had been ringing off the hook. In the wake of the reports in the media came reactions from municipal politicians, horse lovers, animal rights activists, vegans, and the general public. Everyone wanted the police to hurry up and catch the scumbag who had committed such a crime.

  As Knutas entered the room there was a rustling of morning newspapers from everyone who had gathered for the next meeting of the investigative team.

  Lars Norrby was back from his two-week vacation to the Canary Islands. He had arrived home late last night, and he was deeply engrossed in the morning paper. The police spokesman was tall and dark, and now he also had an attractive suntan. He had worked at Visby police headquarters just as long as Knutas had, and he served as the superintendent's deputy. Norrby was phlegmatic but scrupulous and reliable. He was not a man of surprises; Knutas always knew where he stood with him.

  The meeting started off with a discussion of what the local media had publicized.

  "I can't understand how the girls wound up on TV," said Jacobs-son. "We expressly told them not to give anyone an interview."

  "That Johan Berg from Regional News is an asshole to manipulate children that way," raged Wittberg. "A damned idiot."

  "We can't stop anyone, whether they're children or adults, from talking to the press if they want to," said Knutas. "At the same time, it may not be such a bad thing. The fact that the girls spoke out will hopefully lead to some sort of tip, and that's what we need. So far they've been few and far between. Even worse is the fact that everyone now knows that the horse's head is missing. That's going to stir up a lot of speculation."

  Sohlman looked tired. He had probably worked late into the night.

  "We've examined the tire tracks more closely and were able to distinguish sets from two different vehicles. One of them was easy to identify; it's from the farmer's car. We've compared the tread on the tires to the tracks, and they're a perfect match. As for the other set of tracks, it's more difficult. The tires have big tread and are worn almost bald. They're probably from a small truck, maybe a pickup, but they might also belong to a van."

  "Any other evidence?" asked Jacobsson.

  "We've picked up a lot of things: plastic bags, Popsicle sticks, cigarette butts, a few bottles. Nothing especially interesting."

  "We should go visit other horse owners in the area and find out if they've seen anything fishy," she suggested. "Sometimes you have to ask people directly."

  "Although I don't know how much energy we should invest in this matter," said Knutas. "It is just a horse, after all."

  "What do you mean 'just'? It's a disgusting case of animal abuse," said Jacobsson indignantly. "Should we forget about the whole thing simply because no human being was harmed?"

  "Anyone who could do that to an animal might definitely be a danger to people as well," added Wittberg.

  "If nothing else, the TV news really managed to stir people up after the story last night. The public is demanding that we do everything in our power to find the person who killed the horse. The phone has been ringing nonstop. I think we may need to spend as much time calming down all the outraged people as we do on the actual investigation. But no matter what, we do need to discuss the part about the decapitation. What sort of person do you think would do something like that?" Knutas let his gaze move from one colleague to the next.

  "I think it seems as if someone is out for personal revenge against the farmer. Or maybe against the wife. Or why not the eldest son?" Norrby rubbed his hand meditatively over his clean-shaven chin. "It's definitely a warning, no doubt about it. Some bizarre sort of vendetta."

  "Or maybe the whole thing has to do with what we can't find in the pasture, meaning the horse's head," Knutas countered. "What's the perp going to use it for? Maybe we should start over from that angle instead. He can't very well be thinking of making it into a trophy and hanging it up over the fireplace like a moose head. Someone who doesn't have a thing to do with the Larsson family might have reason to be afraid."

  "The whole thing is starting to sound like The Godfather," said Jacobsson. "Don't you remember the man who woke up to find the horse's head in his bed?"

  Everyone around the table grimaced.

  "Maybe a Gotland Mafia has secretly taken root down there in the south of the island," snickered Norrby. "Just like in Sicily."

  "Oh, sure, there are lots of similarities between Gotland and Sicily," added Knutas with a wry smile. "We have plenty of sheep. And sheep heads."

  FRIDAY, JULY 2

  The prop plane landed at the Bromma domestic airport outside Stockholm just after 3:00 p.m. The man with the dark blue sports bag stood up the minute the plane stopped moving. He wore tinted glasses and a cap pulled down over his forehead. He'd been lucky enough to have two seats to himself, so there was no risk that someone might try to converse with him. The flight attendant must have sensed his antipathy because she came by only once to make him a discreet offer of coffee; after that she left him in peace. As his cab headed toward Stockholm, he let out a quiet sigh of anticipation. He was looking forward to the meeting.

  He asked the driver to stop several blocks from his destination. There could be nothing that would trace him to the address. It was the height of the summer, and Stockholm was trembling with heat. Outdoor cafés filled the sidewalks, where customers were enjoying a caffe latte or a glass of wine. The water glittered down by Strandvägen. At the wharf old sailboats were moored side by side with luxury yachts and passenger ferries, which during the peak hours would transport Stockholmers and tourists out to the archipelago.

  He had never felt comfortable in the capital, but on a day like today, even he could almost understand why some people loved Stockholm. Everybody in the part of the city where he now found himself was well dressed, and almost everyone he saw was wearing sunglasses. He smiled in amusement—how typical for city dwellers. As if the slightest encounter with nature made them want to protect or equip themselves in some way.

  In the city he was a stranger, an outsider. It was hard to comprehend that these well-dressed people who walked with such purpose along the street all around him were actually his fellow countrymen. Here everyone knew where they were going.

  The quick pace made him nervous. Everything had to move so fast, so very fast. When he stopped to buy a can of snuff at the Pressbyrån kiosk and searched for change, he could feel the impatience of the clerk behind the cash register as the line behind him grew longer.

  The building was one of the city's most exclusive addresses, and the trees that lined the street lent it an imposing frame. He had memorized the code, and the massive oak door slid open with an ease that surprised him. The stairwell inside was empty and silent. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and on the floor lay a thick red carpet that continued up the entire staircase. The ceiling height was impressive. The austere grandeur and permeating silence made him uncertain. He stood there for a moment, staring at the names on the elegant sign on the wall: von Rosen, Gyllenstierna, Bauer busch.

  Suddenly he felt like a timid little boy. He had the same sense of submissiveness and lack of self-esteem that he'd had when he was growing up. He didn't belong here; he was a house cat among ermines; he wasn't good enough or distinguished enough to be in this luxurious marble foyer among the refined people who lived behind these dark-varnished doors. For a moment he stood there, struggling with himself. He couldn't just turn around and leave, not after he'd come so far. He had to pull himself together, muster his courage. He'd done that before. He sat down on the bottom step, put his head in his hands, and shut his eyes tight. He needed to concentrate, although at the
same time he was worried that someone might come in the front door. Finally he felt able to stand up.

  He chose to walk up the four flights of stairs, even though there was an elevator. He'd never been able to tolerate elevators. Outside the apartment door he stopped to catch his breath. He fixed his eyes on the shiny brass plate with the name engraved in elegant script. Again he felt uncertain. Of course, they had met before, but not here. They barely knew each other. What if the man waiting for him was not alone? He fumbled to pull a handkerchief out of his inside breast pocket. Not a sound came from the neighboring apartments. Not a sign of life.

  Uneasiness struck him once more and quickly grew stronger; he felt dizzy. Not again, he thought.

  The muted walls began to shrink around him, coming closer. Thoughts raced back and forth in his head. He couldn't do it; he had to turn around. The doors were enemies, barriers that were keeping him out; they didn't want him here. The porcelain pot in the window with the magnificent white azalea seemed to be staring at him with hostility: You have no business being here. Go back to the alley where you came from.

  He stood there paralyzed, concentrating on his breathing, trying to regulate his heartbeat. He had suffered from panic attacks for as long as he could remember. He had to leave that's what he had now decided. First he just needed to marshal his forces and concentrate so that he wouldn't faint. What a fine mess that would bettor be found here, lying stretched out on the marble floor. What an impression that would make.

  Far below he heard the front door open and close. He waited tensely. The building had five floors, and he was up on the fourth. If he was unlucky, the person who had just come in would be heading for the top floor.

  Suddenly he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The footsteps got louder. Someone was about to appear on the stairs at any second, and he wanted at all costs to avoid being seen here. Swiftly he wiped the worst of the sweat from his forehead and took a deep breath. He had to go inside now; he had to force himself to act normal. Resolutely he rang the doorbell.

  One hospital delivery room was like any other. Emma wondered if this was the same room in which she had given birth to Sara and Filip. That was almost ten years ago. It seemed to her an eternity as she was maneuvered inside and expert arms moved her over to the birthing bed. Her cervix was now dilated to almost three inches, and everything was happening fast. The nurse was young and dressed in white. She had kind eyes, and her blond hair was wound into a knot on top of her head. She gave Emma's arm a reassuring pat as she recorded the contractions on a chart.

  "We've brought you in here because it won't be long now. Soon you'll be all the way open."

  The contractions came rushing over her like an earthquake, gradually increasing in strength; everything went black when they exploded into fireworks of pain, only to slowly fade away into a brief respite before the next one rolled through her. They came and went, like swells on the sea outside the window.

  Even though Johan was only five minutes away from the hospital, Emma hadn't called him as she had promised to do when the labor pains started. Everything was so complicated, and she had convinced herself that it would be best if she handled the birth on her own. Now she regretted her decision. Johan was the father of her child; that was an irrevocable fact. What did it matter if she allowed him to give her some support? Her pride bordered on pig-headed stupidity. Here she lay, at the mercy of her pain, and she had only herself to blame. She had chosen not to summon him here, to share the moment with her. He could have held her hand, consoled her, and massaged her aching back.

  She breathed according to the instructions she had been given in the prenatal course she had attended when she was pregnant with Sara. How different things were back then. They had been so happy— she and Olle. His face flickered past. They had practiced breathing together, they had spent weeks preparing for how they would handle the labor pains, and she had taught him how she wanted to be massaged.

  "It's only a matter of minutes now," said the nurse gently as she wiped the sweat from Emma's brow.

  "I want Johan to come," whimpered Emma. "The father."

  "All right. How do we get hold of him?"

  "Call his cell phone. Please."

  The young woman didn't waste any time. She rushed out and came right back with a cordless phone. Emma rattled off Johan's number.

  She didn't know how much time had passed before the door opened and she saw Johan's face, looking worried and tense. He took her hand.

  "How are you?"

  "I'm sorry," she said before the pain overwhelmed her again with even greater force, making any further conversation impossible. She clutched his hand as hard as she could. Now I'm going to die, she thought. I'm going to die.

  "You're open all the way now," said the midwife. "Breathe now, breathe. Don't start pushing yet."

  Emma panted like a thirsty dog. The bearing-down contractions tore at her, trying to pull her along with them. She had to use all her strength not to give in.

  "Don't push," she heard the midwife urging her.

  In a haze she noticed the obstetrician come in and sit beside the midwife, down there somewhere between her white legs, spread wide apart. A sheet covered her, so at least she didn't have to look at all the misery. She had intended to stand up to give birth, or at least to squat down. How shameful this was. She had absolutely no strength left in her legs.

  Every now and then, in her groggy state, she was aware of Johan next to her, his hand holding hers.

  She lost all sense of time and space as she listened to her own hysterical breathing—it was the only thing that could stop her from pushing.

  Suddenly Emma heard a voice that she had heard before. Another midwife had come into the room. She recognized the woman's Danish accent from one of her previous births.

  "All right, here's what we're going to do."

  Emma no longer cared about what was happening around her; she had slipped into a vacuum in which she felt no pain. It didn't matter whether she died right here and now. There was something liberating about that thought.

  A woman is never so close to death as when she gives life, thought Emma.

  Night arrived with unusually high temperatures. The air was oppressive, and the ventilation in the building, which was more than a hundred years old, was all but nonexistent. Warfsholm's youth hostel resembled a merchant's villa from the nineteenth century, but it had originally been built as a public bathhouse. It stood off by itself, right near the water, as an annex to the main building, which housed the hotel and dining room and was several hundred yards farther out on the promontory.

  In front of the youth hostel was a neatly mown lawn with some garden furniture, a small parking lot, and an area with juniper shrubs nearly six feet high that grew in a labyrinth before giving way to tall reeds and the water. Behind the hostel was a wooden footbridge that extended three hundred yards out over the water and led to the harbor and the road to the town of Klintehamn.

  At this time of day it was tranquil and quiet.

  The guests had sat outside for a long time, enjoying the warm night, but now they had all gone off to bed. Outdoor lamps lit up the building. Not that it was needed—the nights at this time of year were very bright. It never really got completely dark.

  The hallway on the ground floor was deserted. The doors to the rooms had been decorated with hand-painted signs: grötlingbo, hablingbo, havdhem. Each of them had been named for a parish on Gotland. The doors were closed, and not a sound penetrated through the solid walls.

  Martina Flochten was sweating on her bed. She wore only a pair of panties. She had pulled the duvet out of its cover and tossed it aside. The window was wide open, but it made little difference. Eva seemed to be sleeping soundly on the other side of the room.

  Something had made Martina wake up. Maybe it was the heat. She lay motionless, listening to her friend's steady breathing. If only she could sleep like that. Martina was thirsty and had to pee. Finally she gave up trying to go back to
sleep. With a sigh she got out of bed, pulled a T-shirt over her head, and looked out the window. A dark haze covered the foliage on the trees, the lawn, and the reeds farther away at the edge of the water. The sun had sunk below the horizon, but the light was still holding on.

  Silence reigned. Not even a seagull could be heard at this late hour. A glance at the digital clock on the table told her that it was ten minutes past two.

  Martina went to use the bathroom that was halfway down the hall and then padded up the narrow spiral staircase to the kitchen and got herself a glass of water. She opened the freezer and took out a few ice cubes, dropping them into her glass with a discreet plop. She opened all the windows and left them ajar, to let in the warm night air. She had a hard time imagining that she was so far north.

  In one hand she held the glass of water and in the other a cigarette that she stole from a pack on the kitchen counter. She went outside and sat down on the creaky wooden steps.

  The lush, overgrown summer greenery was beautiful in the glow of the night. She had really come to love Gotland.

  Martina's mother had left the island at the age of eighteen to work as a nanny for a family in Rotterdam. She had planned to stay in the Netherlands for a year, but then she met Martina's father, who was studying to be an architect. They got married, and it didn't take long before Martina and her brother were born.

  The family had come to Gotland every year on vacation. They would stay with Martina's maternal grandparents in Hemse or at a hotel in the city. Her grandparents had passed away long ago, and her mother had died in a car crash when Martina was eighteen, but the rest of the family still came to Gotland every year.

  Now she was more in love than she had ever been before. A month ago she didn't even know he existed, but now she felt that he was the very breath of life for her.