In a copy of Gotlands Tidningar from six months earlier, he found an article that caught his interest: suspected theft at regional museum warehouse.
None of the people he had interviewed in connection with the current theft had mentioned that objects had disappeared at any previous time. This article dealt with thefts from a warehouse located in a different part of the city, so maybe it wasn't so strange that they hadn't said anything. Naturally they wouldn't want to advertise the thefts any more than necessary.
The article said that several coins were missing from the warehouse in which all artifacts not on display were stored; the Antiquities Room only had space to show a small portion of everything that had been dug up on the island. Interviewed in the article was the person in charge of the warehouse, Eskil Rondahl, who took the matter of the missing coins very seriously.
Johan found the phone number for the warehouse and asked to speak with Rondahl.
He heard a voice, dry as dust, on the other end of the line say, "Hello?"
"Hi. My name is Johan Berg, and I'm calling from Regional News, Swedish TV."
Silence. Johan went on.
"I'm calling about an article in Gotlands Tidningar from six months ago. It has to do with the theft of some Arabic coins from the warehouse."
"Yes?"
"Do you know what I'm talking about? You were the one who was interviewed in the article."
"Yes, I know. The theft was solved."
"What happened?"
"It turned out that no theft had actually taken place after all. The missing coins were found. They had just been misplaced. That's all."
"How did that happen?"
"It was a matter of negligence, and I can only blame myself. When coins are received here, they're put in the special security section of the warehouse, where we keep everything that is particularly valuable and might be enticing to steal. In this instance, a box of coins was misplaced, but we found it later. It was quite embarrassing for me, so it's something that I'd prefer to forget."
"I understand. Have you had any other thefts?"
"Nothing that we can pinpoint with certainty, but of course things do disappear sometimes."
"But surely that's a serious matter. People can't very well just walk off with objects that are thousands of years old, can they? What do the police say about it?"
"They don't really care. There's no one on the police force who wants to get involved with the theft of ancient relics. Those kinds of things are way down on their list of priorities," said Rondahl with a snort. "I'm afraid I don't have any more time right now."
Johan thanked him and hung up.
He was puzzled by the conversation. Were thefts occurring and no one cared about the matter?
He called the college and asked to speak with an archaeologist. The only person available was the theory teacher Aron Bjarke.
Johan told him about the article he had read and what Eskil Rondahl had said.
Bjarke partly confirmed what Johan had heard. "It's possible that individual objects have been stolen without anyone noticing, but the worst part isn't that a few things disappear here or there. The big problem is the fortune hunters who come to Gotland to search for silver treasure. Some years ago a new law was instituted to put a stop to the plundering. Nowadays it's illegal to use metal detectors on Gotland without special permission from the county council. Last year the police caught two Englishmen red-handed as they were using metal detectors to search for treasure."
"What happens to the stolen goods?"
"There are collectors all over the world who will pay considerable sums for silver jewelry or coins from the eleventh century, for example. Not to mention all the beautiful jewelry we find from the Viking Age. Naturally there's a big market and plenty of money involved."
"Do thefts still occur?"
"Without a doubt. It's just that the police aren't interested."
"Can you cite a specific theft that you happen to know about?"
Bjarke was silent for a few seconds.
"No, actually I can't. Not at the moment."
FRIDAY, JULY 23
Almost two weeks had passed since the burglary in the Antiquities Room. No arrests had yet been made for the murder of Martina Flochten, for the horse incidents, or for the theft. Knutas didn't actually think that there was a connection between the crimes, but he had asked the officer assigned to the burglary to keep him informed on the progress of the investigation. The crimes did have one thing in common: They were all a long way from being solved.
Knutas hadn't felt that he could join his family in Denmark as long as the murder of Martina Flochten remained unsolved. However, that didn't stop him from longing for a vacation when he could play golf, go fishing, and sit on the porch with a glass of wine and a book. He was tired and worn out and starting to feel truly frustrated. Nothing had turned out as he'd hoped. He thought the investigative work might open up when the severed horse's head was found at the home of Gunnar Ambjörnsson. That hadn't happened. Lina and the children had returned from vacation, suntanned and rested, while he had no good news to tell them when asked about the investigation.
The fact was that the police had made virtually no progress at all. The few neighbors who lived near Ambjörnsson and had been home on the night in question hadn't seen or heard a thing, with the exception of an elderly woman who had noticed an unfamiliar car on the street. She couldn't say what type of car it was or how old it was, only that it was red and big.
It could have been the perpetrator's car—a horse's head was not something that you could carry around on foot—but so far the police hadn't received any reports of a missing horse or a mangled horse's body. Knutas wondered why that was. He knew of only one place where a horse would be able to disappear without anyone quickly taking notice: Lojsta Heath, the refuge for the wild Gotland ponies. The only snag was that the head didn't belong to a pony.
The police hadn't wanted to put out any sort of bulletin because then the incident would become public knowledge. A horse's head stuck on a pole, right on the doorstep of a highly placed politician, would without a doubt cause a stir among both the island residents and the tourists. In the worst-case scenario, it might mean the death knell for the hotel project. The foreign investors might back out, and that wasn't something Gotland could afford. Knutas had met with the police commissioner, the county governor, and the municipal executive board, and they earnestly agreed that the incident had to be kept quiet.
The fact that the media hadn't gotten wind of the matter was just as unexpected as it was fortunate. Maybe it was because the crime had occurred in the middle of the vacation season. Many of the local reporters, who had an extensive network of contacts, were away, and their places had been taken by substitutes. Knutas was extremely impressed that everyone involved had actually kept their promise not to say a word.
On the other hand, he was not nearly as pleased with the work of the police. When it came to the tragic and brutal death of Martina Flochten, they were still fumbling around blindly. They had interviewed the few people she had known on Gotland, including the hotel owner Jacob Dahlén. Unfortunately he could offer no help. He claimed that he hadn't even seen Martina this summer.
Nor had their colleagues from the National Criminal Police contributed anything particularly useful. Agneta Larsvik had gone back to Stockholm for the weekend, and even though Kihlgård was a capable detective, his contribution to the police investigation had so far been limited, to put it mildly. On the other hand, the one thing that he had managed to do was to cheer up Karin Jacobsson. She seemed much happier ever since he had arrived on Gotland. Sometimes Knutas even imagined that something was going on between those two, but he was probably just succumbing to his usual touchiness when it came to Karin.
Johan and Pia had done their series of reports on the overheated housing market in Visby, which had been well received by the Regional News editors in Stockholm. At the height of the summer it was hard to come up with good sto
ries that didn't have to do with tourism, pub life, or the quality of the bathing beaches.
Grenfors had left for vacation, and he had been replaced in Stockholm by a reporter who was used to stepping in as editor whenever she was needed. For the most part she let Johan work in peace. He was only able to get a few scattered days off, since he was the summer replacement on Gotland. There was no question of any lengthy vacation time until September. He had cautiously suggested to Emma that it might be fun for them to take a trip somewhere. She seemed doubtful. Elin might be too young to fly.
Sometimes Johan felt genuinely sick of Emma. She could never make up her mind that they were a couple and allow him to move in. Not that he intended to settle for living in the same house where she and Olle had built a life together, but surely it would be all right temporarily. For the sake of Sara and Filip he would put up with the situation. He was ready. He was starting to get annoyed by Emma's constant harping about how complicated her life was. He was fed up. What about him? He had sacrificed everything for her sake. Left his job, his apartment, his friends, and his whole life back in Stockholm in order to move to an island where he hardly knew a soul. He never complained, but it was as if she had no room for him here.
At first he thought it was understandable. Emma had been well along in her pregnancy, and then came the birth with everything that followed. At some point, though, she had to be prepared to go on with her life—and to allow him in. They had argued last night when he brought up the subject, and they hadn't spoken to each other since. Right now what he wanted most was to go out and drink himself senseless.
His thoughts were interrupted by Pia coming into the office.
"Hi."
She put down the camera, the tripod, and the carrying case.
"Where have you been?" Johan asked her.
"Out getting some great summer shots that I think we can use for the closing scenes. That kind of thing is always fun, and I didn't have anything else to do. You haven't exactly come up with any brilliant ideas."
She gave him a teasing smile and sat down at her computer to upload the video.
Johan watched her as she worked. Pia was nice, really nice. Somehow he hadn't noticed that before. It's true that her appearance was a little too punk for his taste, but she was both gentle and feminine, yet at the same time she knew what she wanted. Johan appreciated that. She always had an opinion about things going on in the community. She got involved. When was the last time that he and Emma had discussed anything going on in society? Was she at all interested in what was happening in the world around her? The thought had never occurred to him before. He tried to recall when they'd had a political discussion or talked about some current world problem. The thought gave him pause. Falling in love had overshadowed so much that he wasn't even certain where she stood politically.
"You're sure quiet." Pia turned her head to look at him. "What's up?"
He pulled himself together. He'd gotten lost in his brooding and was probably sitting there staring at her like an idiot without being aware of what he was doing.
"Er, nothing." He shrugged his shoulders. The new thoughts both annoyed and saddened him.
"You look like you could use some cheering up. How about going out for a beer?"
"Great."
They left the editorial office and went out into the Mediterranean heat of the summer evening. It was a little past seven o'clock, and all the restaurants and bars were starting to fill up with sunburned tourists ready to party. They went to a bar on Stora Torget and chose seats outdoors.
"So what's really going on with you?" asked Pia when they each had a big, ice-cold pilsner.
"I'm okay. I'm fine. It's just that so much has happened lately that I don't know whether I'm coming or going."
"Becoming a father is a big deal, of course." Pia sipped at her beer. "So why aren't you with Emma and Elin tonight?"
"Emma has her other children, Sara and Filip, staying with her. They've been on vacation with their father, so she hasn't seen them in a while. That's why she wanted to spend time alone with them."
"Well, that's understandable."
"Yes, although sometimes I think that all I ever do is worry about getting in the way of her and her other family."
"Jeez, that really must get old," said Pia sympathetically. "As if it's not hard enough trying to keep a so-called normal relationship going." She rolled her eyes.
"So what about you?" asked Johan out of curiosity. Pia had never said anything about a partner, and he hadn't thought to ask. "Are you dating anyone?"
"I wouldn't exactly call it that. You might say that I screw this guy off and on, when it suits me."
"Are we talking about buddy sex?"
"No, I like him a lot, but it's never going to amount to anything, if you know what I mean. We just seem to be treading water. We aren't getting anywhere."
"Rather like me and Emma."
"But good Lord, the two of you just had a baby!"
"Sure. But in a strange way, it seems like that hasn't made much of a difference in our relationship. No matter how odd that sounds. For example, Emma has a thousand arguments for why she doesn't want us to move in together."
"You have to give her time. I'm sure you can see that. She had to split apart her whole family, and she has two other children to take into consideration. Plus the problem of working out everything with her ex. It's not so strange that she can't rush into anything. Elin is only a few weeks old, right?"
"Yes, I can see that," said Johan, disappointed that Pia wasn't taking his side. He could have used a little support right now. He emptied his glass and stood up. "Would you like another?" he asked.
"Sure."
There was a big crowd at the bar, and the volume of the music had been turned up full blast. Johan was enjoying being out on the town. Visby pulsed with life in the summer, and if he hadn't been with Emma, he would have probably gone out every single evening. While he waited to order, he surveyed the bar.
Suddenly he caught sight of someone he thought he recognized. The man was standing with his back to Johan, talking to a cute blonde who couldn't have been more than twenty-five. She was laughing at him as she sipped at her glass, which seemed to contain a sparkling wine or possibly champagne. When the man clinked glasses with his young companion, he turned enough for Johan to see his profile.
It was Staffan Mellgren.
SATURDAY, JULY 24
The next day Staffan Mellgren stayed out at the excavation site for a long time. He had made a late night of it. He was hungover and tired, but he preferred to be at work instead of having to explain to Susanna why he had spent the night in town. Even though he suspected that she knew what he was up to and didn't care in the least whether he saw other women, she still seemed to enjoy pretending just the opposite. She played the role of the gullible and wronged wife, just for the pleasure of seeing him suffer.
In the car on his way home he called her, and, after the obligatory argument, she accepted his explanation that he'd had to work overtime. Sounding hurt, she reminded him that this was the third time in the past week he'd missed dinner. He played along, explaining that there was a lot of work to do during the excavation part of the courses. In fact, that happened to be true. Especially this time, since the excavation work had been delayed by Martina's death and the shock and despondency it had prompted among the students. Some had chosen to leave, but most of them were still there, and he was grateful for that. Three weeks had passed since the murder, and they were still being constantly reminded of it. The fact that the killer hadn't been caught didn't exactly improve the situation. Mellgren tried to explain all this to his wife, but she would have none of it. Instead she accused him of neglecting his family. He couldn't even count how many times he'd heard all this before. He regretted calling her, and he tried to placate her by offering to feed the chickens when he got home.
They lived in Lärbro, about twenty miles north of Visby, so it was a bit of a drive. He turned up the volu
me on the stereo as loud as it would go, enjoying the music. It helped him to unwind.
He wondered when the love between them had disappeared. He couldn't remember when he'd last seen any warmth in his wife's eyes. He was living in a loveless, phony marriage. The laughter had gotten stuck in his throat long ago. Maybe a divorce was unavoidable, but he was too much of a coward to take the first step.
The children kept him in the marriage. They were still so young; the oldest was only ten. He had neither the energy nor the desire to get out of the marriage right now. It would have to wait. In the meantime he would do whatever he could to make it bearable.
When he drove into the yard, everything was quiet. The kids were probably asleep by now. He might as well go out to the chicken coop right away.
Their farm had a view of the pastures and fields. He looked at the whitewashed limestone house, the blue-painted trim around the windows with their curtains and potted plants, and the porch with its ornate gingerbread carvings. On one side was the studio where his wife made her pots; she even had her own kiln. How he used to admire her work. When was the last time they had talked about her pottery?
The dilapidated barn that they had planned to paint this summer looked the same as always. So far nothing had come of their plans. Why bother to paint it? Why should they fix up anything? No reason.
Anders Knutas 03 - The Inner Circle aka Unknown Page 17
