The Dead of Summer (22 page)

Morgan Larsson wiped the sweat from his forehead and left the barracks-like office in the western section of the pit, next to the car-wash for the tractor-trailers.

Underneath the broiling sun, the temperature slowly but relentlessly rose to more than 85 degrees, even though it was not yet noon. He got into his pick-up and drove along the road towards the biggest limestone quarry, Fila Hajdar, five kilometres away.

He was going to set things up for the blasting to be done that day.

It was scheduled for eleven thirty. That was the best time, because that was when the shift change took place and most of the workers were on lunch break in the factory’s big cafeteria at the other end of the property.

The road, 200 feet wide, was dusty and white with limestone. The road had to be wide in order to make room for all the vehicles travelling between the factory and the two quarries. The tractor-trailers drove back and forth all day long carrying stone to the big crusher inside the factory, where it was transformed into cement. If they didn’t water the road to keep down the dust, a gigantic dust cloud would be perpetually visible over Gotland.

The vehicles drove the road every day, year round, from six in the morning until ten at night. The only time they took a break was during the daily blasting.

On either side of the road was a lowland forest. Dwarf pines and juniper shrubs looked as if they were fighting for their lives in the arid surroundings. They were covered with white dust, as if someone had sprinkled the entire forest with powdered sugar, producing a ghostlike and sinister impression.

Morgan Larsson waved a greeting to the driver of a fully loaded truck on its way back from the quarry.

He felt the familiar tingling in his stomach that always occurred right before the blasting, when forty thousand tons of stone were broken apart in an instant. Even though he’d participated in so many blastings, he never stopped being fascinated by the sight when enormous chunks of the hillside collapsed, making the huge crater open up even more. There was something irrevocable about the whole spectacle. The rock gave way, cracked open, never to exist again.

When Morgan Larsson reached the quarry, he drove up the slope until he came to the top. He stopped a safe distance from the edge, opened the door of his pick-up and got out. Sweat was running down his back, soaking his armpits and groin. He took the edge off his thirst by finishing off a whole bottle of water in one draught.

His two colleagues, who would help supervise the blasting, were due to arrive in a few minutes. He couldn’t see them from where he was standing, but they had contact via radio. Strict safety measures were enforced so that no one would be in the blast area or even nearby when it occurred. A tremendous explosive force was released when tons of stone were broken away from the edges and roared down into the gigantic pit, which lay below where he stood.

There was a risk that stones would fly through the air. Last year, a fellow worker had died when a rock struck him on the head.

Morgan took up position as close to the edge as he dared and ran his eyes over the rim surrounding the quarry. It was 1,000 yards long and 650 yards wide. The surrounding walls were 200 feet high. It was one of the largest stone quarries in Sweden, and he was proud to be working here. He’d been an explosives expert for almost twenty years, and he enjoyed his job. It was also a big responsibility, making sure that the holes packed with two or three hundred kilos of explosives had each been bored in the right place and at a precise depth.

About 65 feet from the precipice stood a round wooden shed; that was where he took shelter during the actual blasting. Inside was a cable, which he would soon attach to the detonator that was now in his pocket.

He glanced at his watch: ten more minutes. He saw a flash of light from the other side of the quarry. The car with his two colleagues had arrived. They took up positions on either side of the pit, 1,000 yards apart, as they checked that nobody else was in the vicinity. He switched on his radio.

‘Hello, Morgan here. Everything OK?’

‘Sure, it looks deserted,’ he heard Kjell say.

‘Five more minutes.’

‘Fine. Want to have lunch afterwards?’

‘Absolutely. See you then.’

He stuffed the radio in his breast pocket, turned round and walked over to the many deep holes that had been bored in rows along the edge of the quarry. He bent down and checked to see that everything was as it should be.

When he straightened up again, he thought he saw someone moving down below in the pit. What the hell? Such an unexpected development was worrisome, to say the least. Only authorized personnel were allowed here. Especially since only a few minutes remained before the blasting. He rushed over to the pit and shouted. His colleagues were much too far away for him to attract their attention. He fumbled for his radio and managed to switch it on just as he reached the pit opening. Strangely enough, it was completely deserted. He looked up towards the edge of the woods. Nothing. Was it some sort of optical illusion? Maybe it was the heat playing tricks on him. It was almost time to detonate. He glanced up at the sky. Not a cloud in sight, and the sun was like a blazing lamp shining in his face. His mouth was completely dry, and his tongue stuck to his palate. A crackling sound came from his radio.

‘Is everything ready, Morgan?’

‘Yup. I thought I saw somebody, but I must have been imagining things. You haven’t seen anything strange, have you?’

‘No, the quarry is empty. But I can check again with my binoculars, just to be sure. We’ve still got a few minutes.’

‘OK, thanks.’

He peered through the observation slit in the shed while he waited. The sweat was pouring off him. He felt upset and wasn’t filled with the usual anticipation; all he wanted was to get this over with so he could leave and have something to eat.

‘Hey, Morgan. I don’t see anything unusual. Everything seems quiet.’

‘Good. Let’s go, then.’

When he glanced up again, he gave a start. He hadn’t noticed how it happened, but a stranger was standing across from him, just outside the opening of the shed. He looked into the cold eyes of the intruder. All of a sudden, the muzzle of a gun was pointing at him.

‘What’s all this about?’ he stammered.

The walls of the cramped shed seemed to close in on him.

The radio in Morgan Larsson’s pocket began crackling.

‘Come in, Morgan … Are you there? Morgan … Morgan?’

‘Turn it off,’ said the stranger. ‘Otherwise I’ll shoot you.’

With trembling fingers, Morgan switched off the radio. Silence.

All sorts of thoughts were whirling around in his confused brain. He should have detonated the explosives by now. He was always very precise, down to the second. He wondered how long it would take for his two colleagues to react when they discovered his radio was turned off and the explosion hadn’t taken place.

The image of Peter Bovide’s face flickered past. He’d been shot to death two weeks earlier. Was it his turn now? That was all he had time to think before the intruder handed him the cable that was supposed to be attached to the detonator and signalled for him to proceed.

He fumbled in his pocket for the detonator, which was no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. Then he attached the cable and pressed the button. The sound was deafening. The low, scraggly forest, covered with white powder, shook from the blast. An enormous cloud of dust rose up from the crater below. The little shed was enveloped in a haze of dust from the explosion.

The dust stung his eyes, filled his mouth, got under his clothes. He closed his eyes tight to avoid the worst of it and because he had no idea what was going to happen next. The thundering of the huge boulders still filled the air as they broke apart and then plummeted to the bottom of the pit with a deafening crash.

When the first shot was fired, the sound was drowned out by the din of the explosion.

FOREMAN KJELL JOHANSSON slowly lowered his hand, which was holding the silent radio. At least Morgan had carried out the blasting, although after a delay of several minutes. He was never late, but no doubt he’d be able to explain. It was odd that he wasn’t answering his radio. Had he put it down somewhere? That seemed very unlikely. They always stayed on site for five or ten minutes after the explosion, just for safety’s sake. Sometimes rocks broke loose quite a distance away from the detonation.

Something wasn’t right. Kjell Johansson raised the binoculars to study the other side of the quarry and find out what his colleague was doing.

At first he didn’t see anything. The blasting hut looked deserted, and Morgan’s pick-up was still parked in the same place. He began surveying the area and couldn’t believe his eyes when he spotted a dark figure, which definitely wasn’t Morgan Larsson, emerge from the shed and disappear into the woods. Kjell Johansson tried his radio again, his eyes still peering through the binoculars.

‘Morgan, damn it all. Morgan, what’s going on?’

Still no answer.

Kjell Johansson called to his colleague on the other side of the pit.

‘Something’s wrong. Morgan’s not answering, and somebody was here, inside the shed. I just saw him come out. We have to go over there. Right now.’

When the two men drove up to the opposite side of the quarry, they instantly realized that something serious had happened. Morgan Larsson’s communications radio lay on the ground, smashed to bits.

When they approached the shed that was the explosives expert’s domain, they suddenly slowed their pace.

Both men recoiled at what they saw. Morgan Larsson was lying on the floor, his body twisted at an odd angle. Their eyes went first to his abdomen. It was riddled with bloody bullet holes; in the heat, flies and other insects had already begun to swarm over the wounds.

KNUTAS, JACOBSSON AND Wittberg were all riding in the same vehicle, on their way up to Slite. The big factory buildings dominated the town, located on the north-east side of Gotland. The limestone quarry was gigantic, with its huge crater off to one side of the road.

Knutas pulled to a stop at the entrance to the factory.

The Cementa harbour master then joined them to show the way to the quarry where the body had been found.

‘Can you tell us what you know so far?’ asked Knutas as they drove through the wrought-iron gates to the factory area.

‘Sure. Morgan was in charge of the blasting here, and he had two workmates with him, although they were on the other side of the quarry to him, almost a kilometre apart.’

‘How did they stay in contact?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘By radio. The two other men were supposed to make sure that nobody came near the site while the blasting was going on. It creates a tremendous force, you know, when thousands of tons of rock are broken up. Right before the detonation, Morgan said that he thought he could see someone near his shed, but then he decided it was only his imagination. The explosion went off, but it was late, so his colleagues tried to get hold of him by radio. He didn’t answer. One of them used his binoculars and saw somebody running away from the area, heading for the woods.’

‘What’s the name of that man, and where can I find him?’

‘Kjell Johansson. He’s probably still sitting in the office with the workmate who was there, Arne Pettersson. They were the ones who found the body.’

‘Ask them to stay there so we can talk to them before they leave. It’s very important.’

The harbour master called the office on his radio and gave instructions for both witnesses to remain in the office.

‘We’re almost there,’ he said then.

First they drove past the factory with the enormous silos, the conveyor belts that transported gravel for additional processing and the rotary kilns in which the limestone was heated.

They drove towards the larger stone quarry where the murder had taken place. The car jolted over the gravel road, which ran like a flat, wide furrow between the towering walls.

‘How well did you know Morgan Larsson?’ asked Knutas.

‘Quite well. He’s worked here for twenty years, almost as long as I have.’

‘How difficult is it for unauthorized personnel to get into the area?’

‘It’s really not very difficult. We can’t block off the whole factory property, or even the area around the limestone quarry. Across from it there’s a big stretch of forest called Fila Hajdar, which is where the quarry gets its name.’

‘So if somebody was up above here, they could get away without any problem? Even in a car?’

‘Of course. There are all sorts of small tracks going through the forest.’

Knutas cursed silently. The car continued up a slope next to the entrance to the quarry itself, and they parked outside the explosive expert’s shed.

‘That’s where he is. Inside there,’ said the harbour master.

The circular wooden shed was no more than 16 square feet. They stopped outside so as not to destroy any potential evidence. Morgan Larsson lay on the floor, turned on his side, his face up.

Knutas saw immediately that he’d been shot both in the head and in the abdomen. Just like Peter Bovide. There could be no doubt that they were dealing with a murderer who had now killed twice.

He glanced at Jacobsson. All colour had left her face.

‘Bloody hell. What a lunatic,’ muttered Wittberg.

Jacobsson didn’t say a word. Knutas looked at his colleagues.

‘OK, it looks like there’s no question that it’s the same perpetrator. The wound in the forehead looks identical to the one that killed Peter Bovide.’

Two more police vehicles came up the hill. Erik Sohlman jumped out of the first one.

‘What’s happened?’

Before anyone could answer, Sohlman stepped over to the body. He stopped short and stared with dismay at the dead man’s face.

‘Morgan … Morgan, what the hell?’

Jacobsson went over to Sohlman and put her hand on his shoulder.

‘What’s wrong? Did you know him?’

‘It’s Morgan,’ murmured Sohlman. ‘Morgan Larsson.’

SEVERAL BARRACKS AT the smaller quarry housed offices and staff rooms. That was where Kjell Johansson, the foreman who’d been present when the murder was committed, was now waiting. He was in his fifties; he looked pale and upset. Most likely, he was in a state of shock.