The Dead of Summer (25 page)

Katarina Bovide’s voice quavered, and Knutas could hear that she was close to breaking point. He thanked her for her help and said goodbye.

THE BOAT DOCKED on the north-east side of the promontory, near the lighthouse, only a few minutes’ walk from the campsite. The weather was perfect, sunny and without a breath of wind. The temperature was 77 degrees. Karin almost forgot that she was here because of a homicide investigation. The huge beach stretched out before her, kilometre after kilometre, as far as the eye could see, until the shoreline disappeared in the distance behind the next promontory. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a wider beach, and the sand was fine-grained and practically white.

It was four thirty in the afternoon, and she was thinking of taking a dip before she started interviewing the park personnel on the island about Morgan Larsson. At the moment they were busy with all the new arrivals. Bags were flung on to a cart, which tractors then came to haul away. That was the only type of vehicle that could make it through the loose sand. The visitors were directed to walk along the wooden planks that had been placed on the sand, stretching for over 300 yards up to the campsite.

First they passed Fyrbyn, a cluster of red-painted wooden houses with white trim and splendid gardens. They belonged to the local folklore society. Members of the society and the head ranger lived in the houses during the summer and on a few weekends during the rest of the year.

Karin Jacobsson drew a deep breath into her lungs. The air was fresher than any place she’d ever been. From the woods came the scent of pine needles with a touch of moss, and mixed with sea air.

In the middle of the open square, which was surrounded by the cottages, stood a small museum that also housed a library and archives. That was where the rangers had their office. The ranger currently on duty was on his way back from the other side of the island, and it would take about an hour before he returned.

The path continued up to the campsite where the tourists would be staying. Tents and small cabins were arranged around an open clearing. In the centre were the public buildings, with laundry and kitchen facilities as well as showers. A short distance away were the toilets, which were actually outhouses, set up in a long row. The only thing to drink on the island was well water; all the food and anything else to drink had to be transported over. No kiosks, no shops, nothing. That was another sort of experience, in addition to everything else exotic about the island.

Jacobsson realized that she’d be forced to spend the night, since she’d arrived so late in the afternoon, so she asked for help in finding a cabin, food and clothing.

She was soon installed in her cabin, where she changed into a swimsuit, and then walked past the campsite towards the west side of the island. She wondered where Morgan Larsson had stayed and whether he’d been alone. She hoped that the people who worked on the island would remember the visitors who had stayed here, at least for the past few days.

The path to the beach wound its way through a wooded section. She couldn’t recall ever having experienced such silence. She stopped to listen. No car engines or voices, not even a rustling from the trees. And no sounds from the sea. Karin was filled with a sense of calm and almost forgot about the tragic events that had brought her here. The beach was at least 50 yards wide, and the sand glittered in the afternoon sun. A few sailboats were anchored a short distance away, and here and there she could see several sunbathers on the shore, but not many.

Yet people travel halfway around the world to find beaches that aren’t even half as beautiful
, thought Karin. She dropped her towel on the sand and ran into the water.

AS SOON AS Johan returned to the editorial office, and in spite of being in a rush to file his report about the new murder, he rang up the pastor. The Fårö church was free for a wedding one Saturday in August at four in the afternoon. Someone had cancelled. Was that a bad omen? He pushed the thought aside.

Ever since he’d first seen the church, he’d wanted to get married there. To Emma. This time they were going to do it.

That evening he drove out to Roma. As he walked up the gravel path to Emma’s house, he was in good spirits. He’d bought twenty red roses, which he was holding behind his back, along with a bottle of champagne.

He rang the bell and listened to the chiming inside. No one was visible in the kitchen window. If only she was at home. He hadn’t wanted to ring ahead to say he was coming over. He wanted to surprise her, just as she had surprised him with her card.

Then the door opened, and there she stood. Wearing a grey hoodie and sweatpants, her hair wet. She looked exactly the same as when they had first met. He would never forget that day. He and the photographer Peter Bylund had come to the house in Roma to interview Emma, who was best friends with a woman who had been brutally murdered with an axe on the beach. The two men had both left feeling slightly infatuated with Emma.

He felt quite moved when he saw her. She almost seemed unreal.

‘Hi.’ She looked pleased.

‘Emma,’ was all he said.

He pulled her soft, lean body into his arms and buried his face in her long, wet hair. Then he stepped back and looked deep into her eyes.

‘I’ll leave at once if you can’t answer my question.’

‘OK,’ she said, sounding puzzled, although she didn’t look at all nervous. Just full of anticipation.

‘Will you marry me on 19 August in Fårö church, in the presence of our families, relatives, friends and all the children? And I’m talking about a big church wedding with a huge party afterwards.’

Emma replied without hesitation.

‘Yes, Johan. I will.’

He put down the bouquet of roses and champagne bottle and lifted her up in his arms. How light she was. She’d lost a lot of weight since the spring. He carried her upstairs, put her down on the bed. Pulled off her sweatpants and the grey hoodie as he caressed her silky skin. Then he held her head in his hands and kissed her soft lips. His mouth pressed against hers. The kiss went on and on. She unbuttoned his shirt and straddled him.

How long it had been – an eternity since they’d last made love. The kiss didn’t stop. She never wanted to let go. And neither did he.

JACOBSSON ENTERED THE museum building, where she was to meet with head ranger Mattias Bergström. He was in his thirties, with a beard and ice-blue eyes. On the phone she had explained why she wanted to see him. He suggested they should sit in his office, where they could talk undisturbed. The office was small and crowded with shelves; books and papers were everywhere. They sat down on either side of his cluttered desk, and he gave her a cup of coffee, though without offering milk or sugar.

‘So it has to do with the murder of that man at the stone quarry in Slite,’ he said. It was more of a statement than a question.

‘Yes, exactly. Apparently he was over here at the weekend. The next day, he was fatally shot while he was at work. We want to find out whether he met anyone here, or whether something happened that might have caused the murder.’

‘How horrible. I talked to him just yesterday. He’d been to the island on numerous occasions.’

‘I see. Did he come out here alone, or was someone with him?’

‘I think he was alone, actually.’

‘Do you have any idea when he was here the first time?’

‘Sure, I can check.’ Bergström got up and opened a filing cabinet.

‘We keep a handwritten list of everybody who has stayed here, and the dates. I guess we’re a little old-fashioned that way.’

He carefully flicked through the file.

‘Now let me see … L … for Larsson. We keep a file on everybody, arranged by last names, nothing else. We need only the last name to see when each visitor has been here, how long they stayed, and where; also whether they came alone or with somebody else.’

‘Yes, I see.’ Jacobsson could feel her impatience growing.

‘Larsson, yes, here it is,’ he said, sounding pleased when he finally found the name. ‘Morgan. The first time he was here was 1990. He’s been back quite a few times since then.’

‘How many times?’

Bergström counted them up.

‘Five. Approximately every third year. And always on the same date.’

Jacobsson raised her eyebrows and leaned forward.

‘The same date, you said? When?’

‘He came over on 21 July and left on the twenty-third. Every single time.’

‘Strange. That could hardly be a coincidence. Do you know why he chose those dates?’

‘No, I have no idea. And now we’ll never know. Unfortunately, it’s too late to ask him.’

‘Has a man named Peter Bovide ever spent the night here?’

The head ranger picked up a different file and looked for the name.

‘We have an Anette Bovide, and Stig and Katarina Bovide, but no Peter.’

‘When were they here?’

‘Anette came here with her husband, Anders Eriksson, in June, three years ago. And Stig and Katarina have made two visits to the island. The first time was in August 1991, and the second last year, in May.’

‘Do you have a list of the other people who were here at the same time as Morgan Larsson, on his last visit?’

‘Of course.’

Jacobsson scanned the list of names. She didn’t see anything. She compared the names with the list from Morgan’s previous visits. No name seemed to appear more than once.

‘Can I have a copy?’

‘Just a sec.’

He got up and went into an adjacent room. Jacobsson heard a good deal of rattling and clattering before he came back with a grimy photocopy.

‘Thanks,’ she said as he handed her the paper. ‘Can you tell me your impression of Morgan Larsson? And what did he do while he was here?’

The head ranger leaned back and clasped his hands.

‘He was always alone whenever I ran into him. I didn’t notice anything in particular about him, except that he seemed quite reserved.’

‘Did he behave strangely?’

‘No, not exactly. Although he seemed to be quite a person of habit. On the day after he arrived, he left the campsite very early in the morning with a rucksack, so I assume that he did what so many others do here – hike around the island.’

‘How long does it take?’

‘Hmm … the perimeter is about 30 kilometres, so not everybody makes it all the way round. You can choose different options. Some people start by going straight across the island through the woods and then follow the path along the shore back home. Others start at the lighthouse and take the shoreline path, or else they turn off by Tärnudden on the other side and take the forest path back.’

‘If you choose the coastal path all the way round the island, how long does it take?’

‘Nine or ten hours, if you’re used to hiking. Parts of the shoreline are rocky and difficult, and in a number of places you have to turn inland; for instance, out by Säludden, which is a protected area.’

‘Are there any seals out there?’

‘Yes, we almost always see seals out there. The biggest chance is in the morning or the evening, when they lie on the rocks out in the water.’

‘Do you know which route Morgan Larsson chose?’

‘I actually ran into him early on Saturday morning, on the path that goes straight through the woods and down to the Las Palmas beach on the east side of the island. And I know that others saw him coming back in the evening from the south, on the west side. Since he seemed to be such a man of habit, I would guess that he took one of the more common routes, which take seven or eight hours.’

‘Could you show me on a map?’

‘Sure.’

Again he got up and went into the next room, returning with a map labelled: ‘County Administrative Board’. He pointed out the route.

‘If I take the same route tomorrow, what do I need to keep in mind?’

‘Get up early and eat a good breakfast. Pack light, but remember that you need to take along enough water and food to last you all day. Wear sturdy shoes, shorts and a sunhat. Take a swimming costume. It can be quite a strenuous hike if the sun is as hot as it is today. Down on the southern side, here’ – he used a ballpoint pen to circle a spot on the map – ‘you’ll find a pump with fresh water that’s OK to drink. That’s about the halfway point, and you can fill up your water bottles.’

‘Thanks for your help. Is there anything else you can tell me about Morgan Larsson?’

‘Yes, there’s one other thing he always did. He visited the chapel.’

‘There’s a chapel on the island?’ asked Jacobsson in surprise, at the same time embarrassed by her ignorance.

‘Yes, it’s close to the campsite. You’ll pass right by it if you take this path. It’s always open. And if you’d like to go there tonight, there’s going to be a service at nine o’clock.’

‘Thanks.’

‘If you need any more information about the island, the museum and library are upstairs. Feel free to go up there and browse,’ the ranger suggested helpfully.

Jacobsson thanked him again and left the office.

She was looking forward to following in Morgan Larsson’s footsteps.

GOTSKA SANDÖN, THE NIGHT OF 22 JULY, 1985

THE SEARCH FOR Tanya went on all night. At the campsite, every single person turned out to help find the missing young woman. The core group of the Folklore Society on the island had gathered a number of people together and gone out in their own vehicle. In all, a hundred people took part, organized into different search parties that left from the campsite. The police would arrive as soon as it was light
.

Vera was in the group searching on the western side. She felt numb, moving mechanically, staring at the ground, shining her torch into crevices and groves of trees. She wanted to find her sister, and yet she didn’t. The dread got worse with every step. Oleg and Sabine walked hand in hand about ten yards ahead of her, seeking support and solace from each other. She was locked out. The injustice of it all burned inside her. As if it was her fault. Her parents were punishing her by closing themselves off in their own bubble, and she was not allowed to enter. They were so focused on the search for their younger daughter that they hardly even noticed Vera. She continued doggedly on, shouting until she was hoarse, walking without a pause across the forest floor, the beaches and the rocky cliffs
.