The Dead of Summer (16 page)

‘But we can go over to my place,’ said Jacobsson.

Knutas hesitated. He was starting to feel quite drunk, and tomorrow was a work day, even though it was Sunday.

‘Come on. Just one drink, since we’re having such a good time. Good lord, how often do we go out and have fun? We just work, work, work.’

‘OK. But just one drink.’

It was only one a.m., and no one was waiting for him at home.

They left the restaurant and headed towards Mellangatan. Knutas walked alongside his bike. When they had almost reached Jacobsson’s place, Wittberg stopped short.

‘Listen here, I’m going to have to renege on the invitation. The booze has suddenly taken effect, and I’m feeling really drunk. I think it’s best if I go home to bed.’

‘But why? Are you sure?’ said Jacobsson. ‘Don’t you want to come over?’

‘No, I’m sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Jacobsson looked at Knutas. He felt confused. What should he do now?

‘Would you like to come over for a little while at least?’

‘All right,’ he muttered, feeling as embarrassed as a gawky schoolboy. But this was just Karin, his long-time colleague.

They trudged up the four flights of stairs. Outside her door, he held his breath so as not to reveal how out of shape he was. Lately he hadn’t been getting as much exercise as usual.

Knutas had been to Jacobsson’s flat before, but that was a long time ago, when she once gave a small party for her colleagues.

He’d forgotten how attractive her place was. Wide wooden floorboards, a high ceiling, plasterwork on the ceiling, and country-style furniture mixed with modern pieces. Cosy and tasteful. And there was nothing wrong with the view, either, although at the moment the sea was barely visible in the dark.

‘Good morning!’ shouted Vincent enthusiastically when the lights were switched on. Knutas cautiously poked his finger through the bars of the cage where the cockatoo was enthroned in the middle of the living room.

‘I didn’t know you still had the bird,’ Knutas called to Jacobsson, who was out in the kitchen.

‘Yes, well, I don’t think I could live without him.’

She came in holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

‘That looks expensive.’

‘Oh, it’s been in the fridge for a while. We might as well finish it off. I love champagne. What kind of music would you like to listen to?’

‘Have you got anything by the Weeping Willows?’

‘Of course.’ She raised her eyebrows appreciatively. ‘I thought you were going to say Simon and Garfunkel, or something else from the Stone Age.’

Everybody at police headquarters was always teasing Knutas about driving around in his old Mercedes, weeping over ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’.

Jacobsson sat down in an armchair, while Knutas, with his long legs, chose the sofa. She lit a few candles standing on the coffee table and filled their glasses with ice-cold champagne.

‘God, that’s good,’ said Knutas. ‘Really delicious.’

‘Isn’t it? People should drink champagne more often.’

Both of them fell silent.

‘So how have things been going for you?’ Knutas asked awkwardly after a moment.

‘What? How are things going? Good, fine, damned good, actually.’

‘Great.’

He took a sip of his champagne. Why did she always have to be so secretive? Especially since he told her practically everything about himself. She was the one person at work he could really talk to, and she knew almost everything about him and Lina. Except for the recent lull in their relationship, which he hadn’t yet mentioned.

On the other hand, he knew very little about Karin. She was almost forty, and he thought she was very attractive, but year after year she had remained single. He never heard about any boyfriends, at any rate. Occasionally he’d asked her personal questions, but she’d made it clear that she didn’t want to talk about herself. Consequently, he’d stopped asking about her private life. Yet she was more than willing to talk about ordinary, trivial matters, such as soccer, which played an important role in her life, and her friends and other activities. But never about how she was feeling or her problems, and definitely not about her love life.

The conversation lagged, as if the fact that the two of them found themselves alone in Karin’s flat in the middle of the night was affecting them more than they had planned when she initially suggested that they go to her place.

‘Would you like something to eat?’

‘Sure. Thanks.’

She got up and went out to the kitchen.
How petite she is, and dainty
, he thought. Nothing like Lina. She came right back with a bowl of pretzels.

‘This is all I could find. Hope it’s OK.’

She sat down on the sofa next to him. Knutas felt his mouth go dry. He took another sip of champagne. They started up the conversation again, but he could hardly concentrate on what they were saying. The situation felt so odd. He cleared his throat and glanced at his watch.

‘Well, I think it’s about time for me to get going.’

He could have bitten his tongue. How could he sound so stilted? Like an old fogey. Annoyed with himself, he stood up. Maybe a little too quickly.

‘Right. Of course,’ said Jacobsson, brushing back a lock of hair from her forehead. She followed him out to the hall. At the door he leaned forward to give her a hug. Again it occurred to him how petite she was. Before he knew what was happening, she kissed him on the mouth. A quick, warm kiss. And yet.

‘Bye,’ she said, opening the door for him.

‘Bye. See you tomorrow.’

‘Or today, you mean.’

She smiled. There was that gap between her teeth again.

EMMA WAS AWAKENED by her own scream. The nightmare had ended with her falling into a deep abyss.

She sat up with a jolt, breathing hard and staring into the darkness. The bed was as big and hot as a desert. For a moment she sat there without moving, hardly able to think and overcome by a loneliness that seemed without end.

Not a sound came from Elin’s cot. Suddenly Emma had the feeling that something was wrong. She leaped out of bed and went over to look at her daughter. There she lay, clad only in a nappy and white knickers. She had kicked off the thin blanket in the heat.

Emma sank back down on to the bed. She stared vacantly at the ceiling, realizing she was longing for Johan to be with her. Before now, her body had certainly missed him, but her mind had always said no. Had the nightmare made her weak? Couldn’t she think clearly any more?

She decided to phone him right then. It was a little past three in the morning, but maybe he was still awake. He could get a cab and come over. Within an hour he could actually be lying next to her in bed. The thought was so enticing that she got up and dashed out to the hall, picked up the phone and punched in his number before she could change her mind. With her heart pounding, she listened to the ring tone on the other end of the line. One, two, three. Maybe he was asleep after all. Then she heard someone pick up. The next second, a woman’s voice spoke.

‘Hi, this is Maddie, on Johan’s mobile.’

Emma could tell that it was very quiet in the background. At first she was disconcerted and didn’t know what to do. She had been totally unprepared to hear a woman answer the phone. Who the hell was Maddie? Then she remembered – Madeleine Haga, the reporter for the national news who worked at
Aktuellt
and
Rapport
. They must be working together in the editorial office. Maybe something new had happened in the murder case. Emma was so relieved she felt dizzy.

‘Hi, this is Emma Winarve. Could I speak to Johan?’

A brief pause before the woman answered.

‘He’s in the shower at the moment. Can I ask him to call you?’

Emma didn’t reply. She had already hung up.

SUNDAY, 16 JULY

THE INVESTIGATION INTO the murder of Peter Bovide plodded on; the longed-for breakthrough hadn’t occurred. The perpetrator was still on the loose.

The fraud division’s examination of the finances of Slite Construction showed that Peter Bovide had taken on far more jobs than could be handled by his employees. This reinforced the suspicion that he had been using illegal workers. Currently the company had several projects under way: the biggest included a new house on Furillen, another in Stenkyrkehuk and the remodelling of a restaurant at Åminne campsite.

On Sunday, Knutas decided to go out and have a look at all three sites, if he had the time. He hoped to find a worker who was willing to talk. Since he wasn’t in any hurry and didn’t want to attract attention, he took his own car, the old Mercedes. The vehicle should really have been junked long ago, but Knutas couldn’t bear to part with it, no matter how much Lina urged him to do so. In the end, she had simply gone out and bought her own car. He had been surprised to find the brand-new Toyota parked in their garage when he came home from work one evening, but he couldn’t really blame her. There was a limit; even Knutas could understand that.

The lovely weather was still hanging on, much to the delight of the tourists. The sun seemed to have parked itself over Gotland for the foreseeable future, and the beaches were crowded with sunbathers.

In no time, Knutas was out of the city, and he was still able to appreciate the idyllic Gotland countryside as he drove through it. Well-nourished livestock grazed in the pastures of the farms he passed, and the road was lined with bright red poppies and blue chicory. Now and then he caught a glimpse of the sea along the way. Billowing fields of grain and chalk-white churches. He loved this island that he called home, and he couldn’t imagine moving anywhere else. Knutas had lived on Gotland all his life. He was lucky that Lina had agreed to move here; if he was perfectly honest with himself, he doubted he would have done the same for her.

On his way to Slite he rang the hospital to find out how Vendela Bovide was doing. The doctor thought she would need to stay a few more days. The broken rib was giving her a lot of pain, but otherwise her injuries were largely superficial. The men who had beaten her had apparently meant only to scare her. It made Knutas sick to recall how she had looked when they found her. He had never understood how men could be capable of beating up women.

He decided to start with the house on Furillen. He didn’t really think that anyone would be there on a Sunday, but you never knew.

Furillen was a rough-hewn and isolated island encompassing five hundred hectares, located at the tip of Gotland’s north-eastern coast. It had a diverse landscape, combining dense forest with sandy and stone-covered beaches, hills, boulders, sea-stacks and moors. In the past there had been a large limestone quarry on the island, and the vestiges from those times were still visible in the form of old factory buildings.

The factory had been transformed into a hotel and restaurant by several enthusiasts from Göteborg. The defence ministry also had a few buildings at its disposal, but otherwise Furillen was mostly uninhabited. A long bridge went from Gotland out to the island. From looking at the map, Knutas had determined that the construction site was right across from the old factory. He drove along the gravel road, dusty with limestone, past the factory buildings. Not a soul in sight.

When he came to the top of the hill behind the hotel, he had a splendid view of the sea, and of Kyllaj, the last outpost on Gotland, in the distance. A lonely village on the shore of Valleviken that had previously subsisted on seafaring and the stone quarry but was now occupied almost solely by tourists.

He found the job site without any trouble. On an open plot of land with a view of the water and the nearby islets stood a newly built house that looked almost finished. An expensive, fancy two-storey house with panoramic windows facing south. A two-car garage stood next to the house, and a curved stone staircase with pillars on either side framed the front entrance. The whole place had a nouveau riche air about it, as if the owner wanted to show that he could afford to be ostentatious. Knutas parked outside. No one was around. At the back, he saw a huge patio made of wood, built on several levels, with a swimming pool and an unobstructed view of the sea.

A fishing boat was on its way towards Kyllaj, followed by a flock of shrieking gulls which kept diving at the deck. Knutas perched on a saw horse near the construction site and filled his pipe. Then he lit it and began puffing away. Images of Peter Bovide’s lacerated body and of his injured wife filled Knutas’s thoughts.
Was this what it was all about? The fact that Bovide owed money to some illegal workers?
It had to involve more than 300,000 kronor, at any rate. But to murder the person who owed the money seemed completely idiotic. And then assaulting his widow afterwards didn’t seem to indicate any sort of careful planning.
Maybe it’s about something else entirely
, thought Knutas as he studied the house.

He got up to peer through the windows, admiring the stone fireplace, the floor paved with pebbles, a tiled bathroom and an ultra-modern kitchen with all the appliances in place. Mosaic, tile and brick everywhere.

The silence was suddenly shattered by the sound of an approaching engine.

Knutas walked over to the very edge of the plateau and looked down the slope. On the road below he saw a large delivery van which turned in at the hotel and then continued past, on its way up towards the building site.

Suddenly Knutas felt uneasy. He had come out here to talk to the workers, but at the same time it was possible that one of them might be the killer. He was here all alone, without his service revolver, and he wouldn’t have a chance if the situation turned hostile. He cursed himself for not asking someone to come with him. The smartest thing to do now would be to hide and then wait to see who or what appeared on the scene. He looked around. Did he have time to move the car out of sight? He yanked open the door and put the key in the ignition. The road continued on past the property.

He’d just managed to drive around the curve before the front of the delivery van appeared in his rearview mirror. When he had driven safely out of sight, he turned off the engine and rolled down the window to listen to what was happening. The van doors slammed, and he could hear voices speaking a foreign language. It sounded like Finnish, except softer. Maybe it was Estonian. A witness had seen a car with Estonian plates outside Vendela Bovide’s house. Had her attackers arrived? Knutas’s nerves were on high alert.