The Dead of Summer (12 page)

One by one, Jacobsson picked up the framed photos that stood on a shelf. Traditional wedding pictures taken by Hemlin’s photo studio in Visby, and a picture of Peter Bovide receiving a trophy. There was something about his expression and his crooked smile that Jacobsson didn’t like. Especially the look in his eyes, which was strangely vacant.

‘Find anything?’

Wittberg had come back downstairs and was giving her an inquisitive look.

‘No. How about you?’

‘Not really.’

Jacobsson cast a glance at the Mora grandfather clock in the room. It was 3.15.

‘I wonder where she is. It seems strange to leave the door unlocked. Although I suppose they do that out here in the country.’

Wittberg gave a start. ‘What was that?’

‘What?’

‘I thought I heard a car.’

They both stood still to listen. There was no doubt about it. They could hear a car engine outside.

Quickly, they slipped out through the patio door and made their way to the back of the house. They had no desire to get caught sneaking about inside. Jacobsson peered round the corner and saw Vendela being dropped off by somebody she recognized. It was Johnny Ekwall, her husband’s business partner.

After the car had driven off, Jacobsson and Wittberg went round to the front and rang the bell.

It was a few moments before Vendela Bovide opened the door.

She stared in surprise at the two police officers.

‘Hi,’ said Jacobsson and then introduced Wittberg. ‘We had agreed to meet today at three o’clock, but maybe you forgot?’

The widow’s face flushed bright red.

‘Was that today? I thought it was tomorrow.’

‘I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Would this be a good time? It shouldn’t take very long.’

Vendela Bovide hesitated.

‘Where are the children?’ asked Jacobsson, to break the stalemate.

‘They’re staying with Peter’s sister in Othem. I’m actually staying there too right now, but I had to come by here to take care of a few things. I can’t stand to sleep here yet.’

‘May we?’

Jacobsson took a step forward.

‘Yes, of course.’

Vendela sounded far from convinced that this would be a good idea, but she let them come in. She led the way to the living room.

‘Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ said both officers in unison. It was hot, and they were thirsty.

Vendela came back in a few minutes with a pitcher of juice and glasses.

‘Who was it that dropped you off outside?’

Vendela looked down as she filled their glasses.

‘That was Johnny from the company. He’s so nice and helpful.’

Jacobsson gave her a searching look.

‘It turns out the gun that was used to kill your husband was Russian,’ said Wittberg. ‘So we’re wondering whether your husband had any contact with Russians.’

‘Russian?’ Vendela’s voice quavered slightly. ‘The gun was Russian?’

‘Yes. Did your husband have any contact with Russians or anyone from other Eastern European countries? A lot of them come here as guest workers, especially in the construction business.’

‘Sure. He did have some part-time employees, from Poland at any rate. But I don’t know about Russia. Peter handled all the company business. I didn’t get involved. He took care of everything himself.’

‘Did he ever talk about any of these guest workers?’

‘No. He spent so much time at work, and we tried to avoid talking about the company here at home.’

‘So you don’t know anything about this?’

‘No.’

‘As we mentioned earlier, apparently, during the spring and early summer Peter felt that he was being watched. He also received some anonymous phone calls,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Are you sure you don’t remember hearing anything?’

‘Yes, I am. He never mentioned anything like that. I would have remembered it if he did.’

Jacobsson was convinced that Vendela Bovide was lying. She looked the widow in the eye and repeated the question one last time.

‘So he never mentioned that he felt that someone was spying on him or following him?’

‘No. But if that’s really true, I’m sure he would have told me about it. We talked about everything.’

‘Except for company business?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much time did he spend at the office?’ asked Wittberg.

‘I suppose you could say that he was there a lot. Like all small-business owners. He would leave the house early in the morning, but he came home for lunch if he was working in the office or at a construction site nearby. Then he usually got home around six or seven. Sometimes he worked in the evening. Mostly with the accounts; he put together bids and things like that.’

‘What about at weekends?’

‘He was usually home.’

‘What sort of marriage did you have? What were your feelings for him?’

‘I loved him. Now that he’s dead, I don’t feel like living any more. It’s only because of the children that I’m trying to go on.’

She spoke the words in a voice that was dry and matter-of-fact, as if discussing some trivial matter. Yet when it came to Vendela’s feelings for her husband, there was something in her voice that made both Wittberg and Jacobsson believe what she said.

THE SALON CALLED Sofia’s Nails and Beauty was located on a side street to Hästgatan, a bit off the main tourist path.

Roses clung to the rough façade, and lying on the worn stone steps outside the front entrance was an orange cat, basking in the sun. A bell jingled as Johan and Pia stepped inside, and the strong scent of a floral perfume overwhelmed them.

‘It smells like bubble bath in here,’ Pia whispered in Johan’s ear.

Three sturdy wooden tables stood along the walls, covered with terry-cloth towels in pastel colours, and small pots and jars attractively arranged. Seated on either side of one of the tables were two young women. One was holding out her hands so the other woman could file and polish her nails. They were so immersed in their conversation that they didn’t even turn round to see who had come in. From hidden speakers came the sound of gentle eastern Mediterranean music.

In the very back of the room they saw an old-fashioned cash register on a counter. Behind it sat another woman with her head bowed as she wrote something in a book. She glanced up as they approached.

‘Hi, Pia!’

The woman behind the counter wore a blue linen dress, and her curly blond hair was pinned up in a bun. She stood up to give Pia a hug and then shook hands with Johan.

‘Let’s go over to the café next door so we can talk in peace.’

As they sat down at a table in the café’s garden, Anna cast a nervous glance at Pia’s camera.

‘This isn’t going to be on TV, is it? Because I don’t want any part of that.’

‘No, don’t worry,’ said Johan soothingly. ‘We won’t use anything that you’d rather not have included. We always protect our sources. Nobody needs to know that what we found out came from you.’

‘Promise me that.’

‘Sure. Of course we promise,’ said Pia. ‘You can trust me.’

‘So how was Peter Bovide being threatened?’ asked Johan.

‘He had had anonymous phone calls, both at home and at work. But that’s not the worst thing. Just a few days before Vendela and I went out to have our last dinner together before the summer holiday, several unpleasant types showed up at their house really late at night.’

‘What did they do?’

‘They didn’t go inside. They talked to Peter out in the front garden, apparently for quite a long time. Vendela said that when he came back into the house, he was very upset.’

‘Did he tell her who they were?’

‘No, but they spoke broken English. Vendela thought they might be from Finland or the Baltics.’

‘Why did they threaten him?’

‘He said that the company was having problems at one of the construction jobs they had taken on, but that everything was going to be fine. He hadn’t received payment from the person who had contracted the job, and so he didn’t have any money to pay the workers. And apparently it was a really big project.’

‘Did Vendela have any idea what project it was? Or which building site?’

‘I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.’

‘Do the police know about this?’

‘No. She didn’t want to say anything because she’s afraid everything would start to unravel.’

Anna leaned forward.

‘I think it has to do with illegal workers,’ she whispered.

‘You still need to go to the police and tell them what you know. This could be a serious matter,’ said Johan. ‘And in our report tonight, we’re going to mention the fact that Peter Bovide was being threatened. Although, as I said, we won’t say where we got the information.’

‘Good. Vendela doesn’t know that Pia and I are friends, so I don’t think she’ll realize that I told you about this. But I actually don’t care,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’ll ring the police as soon as I get back to the salon. And to hell with what she thinks. The only reason I’m telling anybody about this at all is to protect her.’

She shrugged and tried to look like she didn’t care, but it was obvious how worried she was.

‘I’m sure everything will work out,’ said Pia.

‘It’s just all so awful,’ murmured Anna. ‘I feel so bad about Peter. And so sorry for Vendela. And their kids.’

More questions began swarming through Johan’s mind. Was it here, at this café table, that they had discovered the motive for Peter Bovide’s murder? Was Vendela’s life in danger too? How should he deal with the information?

This was much too serious to keep to himself.

AFTER LEAVING ANNA Nyberg and the beauty salon, Johan tried to ring both Grenfors and Knutas. Neither of them picked up.

‘What do we do now?’ he asked Pia.

‘The only thing to do is to start working on our story. We need to use the information in tonight’s report, but we have to have two independent sources. Unfortunately, it won’t be enough to have Anna’s account, even though I’m convinced she’s telling the truth. Who else could confirm that Peter Bovide was being threatened?’

‘Maybe someone at Slite Construction, but nobody is answering the phone there either,’ said Johan with a sigh. ‘The question is whether we should drive up there, even if nobody’s in the office. In the meantime, I’ll ring the union and find out if they know anything about that under-the-table job.’

‘Do that. Then we’ll drive to Slite.’

‘OK.’

Johan got hold of the representative for the Union of Construction Workers on Gotland.

‘I’m trying to find out some information about a company called Slite Construction.’

‘Oh, right. He’s the one who was shot to death on Fårö. Peter Bovide. Awful thing to happen.’

‘I’ve heard that he was using illegal workers. Do you know anything about that?’

‘Yes, we had our suspicions, as a matter of fact. He had a union at his job sites, but there have been rumours that he wasn’t paying the proper wages. Those workers from Eastern Europe are willing to work cheap.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They come here to Sweden and bring down the wages. Plus they take jobs away from our own members.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Johan impatiently. ‘Do you know which projects Bovide’s company has been working on recently?’

‘Sure. We’ve received job-site reports from a few guys who still work for them. I can check. Wait a sec.’

Johan heard him typing on a computer keyboard. It took a minute before he was back on the phone.

‘The ones we know about are a residential project on Furillen, the remodelling of a restaurant in Åminne and a masonry job in Stenkyrkehuk. It’s a limestone house that’s being built right next to the old lighthouse up there. There’s also been talk that he had a bunch of illegal guys from Poland or the Baltics or somewhere like that building summer cabins all over northern Gotland.’

‘But how do you check up on that sort of thing? I mean, if you think they’re using illegal workers?’

‘It’s extremely difficult. We can’t keep track of every little construction site on the island; buildings are going up everywhere. The only way is if somebody rings us to say that they suspect illegal workers, but nobody ever bothers to do that.’

The representative heaved a big sigh. Johan checked his watch and made a quick decision.

‘Do you know exactly where in Stenkyrkehuk this limestone house is being built?’

‘It’s probably less than thirty kilometres from here. Take highway 149 from Visby, heading north. Turn off at the shop in Hälge, past Vale, and you’ll end up on a little gravel road that leads to the lighthouse. On the property beyond the lighthouse you’ll see the building. They’ve cleared away a lot of trees and widened the road.’

‘OK, thanks.’

After clicking off, Johan turned to Pia, who was driving.

‘We’re going to Stenkyrkehuk.’

THE SOUND OF pounding hammers could be heard from quite a distance away. They had followed the union rep’s directions and found their way to the building site close to the old lighthouse. The house under construction was situated on a limestone cliff a hundred feet above the sea with a wonderful view of the shimmering waters of the Baltic. The walls were up and two bare-chested men were perched on the roof, hammering the roofing felt in place. The sun was high overhead, and their backs glistened with sweat. At one end of the house two more men were busy applying plaster to the gable.

‘What a place,’ said Pia, sighing with delight.

‘Not bad.’

Johan looked around. A narrow, bumpy gravel road had been made, leading to the building site, which was surrounded by woods. A neighbour’s house was close by, although it wasn’t visible from the site. Only the old lighthouse, which was no longer in use, could be seen sticking up above the trees. The construction workers were busy with their tasks and hadn’t noticed Pia and Johan arrive. Music was blaring from a radio.

‘Let’s go over and have a talk with them,’ said Johan.

But before he could make a move, a man came out of the construction shed that stood a short distance from the new building. He was very short and powerfully built, and he stared at them with suspicion.

‘Hi,’ said Johan. ‘We’re from Swedish TV, doing a story on the murder of Peter Bovide. Did you know him?’