The Dead of Summer (27 page)

She dashed into the cabin and threw all her things into the rucksack, then raced over to the museum. Luckily, it was open. Not a soul was in sight. She bounded up the stairs and grabbed the folder she was looking for. Five minutes until the boat left.

On her way down to the beach, she saw that the mobile phone signal was back, and she rang Knutas. He answered immediately.

‘Hi,’ she panted. ‘I’ve worked out how everything fits together. The murders have to do with an old case. A German girl who came here to Gotska Sandön on holiday with her family, an unsolved homicide from 1985.’

Her mobile beeped, warning her that the battery was almost used up.

‘Damn it. If we get cut off, I’ll ring from the boat. I’m going on board right now; it leaves in a few minutes. I think the father is the killer. He’s Russian.’

‘OK, start over. I’m not following you.’

‘You remember the case, don’t you? It was in the middle of the summer, a German family whose daughter was murdered, in 1985.’

‘Oh right, I do now. Although I was working in uniform back then, so I don’t recall much about it. But good God, that was twenty years ago, and the case was never solved.’

‘Exactly, but now I’ve …’

The connection was broken. The battery was dead. Karin swore as she ran down towards the boat, where the gangway was being pulled on board.

‘Wait!’ she shouted, waving her arms.

A boy standing on shore, who was tossing the last bag on to the ship’s deck, signalled to the captain.

Jacobsson thanked him as she stumbled on board, gasping for breath.

It was with relief that she recognized the captain, Stefan Norrström, from before, and she quickly went up to the wheelhouse.

‘Hi again. Could I borrow your phone?’

‘Absolutely. Has something happened?’

‘Yes, you might say that,’ replied Jacobsson as she opened the folder containing the old newspaper clippings.

She wanted to find out the date that the German woman was murdered before she talked to Knutas. The captain cast a curious glance at the folder over her shoulder.

‘I have to ring the police. My crappy mobile isn’t working.’

‘Sometimes there are problems with coverage out here.’

‘The battery’s dead, and I left the charger back home in Visby,’ she said, with a gesture of resignation.

She had reached the pages with the clippings about the murder of Tanya Petrov. In her mind, she went over what she knew. Morgan Larsson always travelled to Gotska Sandön on the same date. He’d visited the island every few years over the past fifteen years. And each time he’d been here from 21 July until 23 July.

Her eyes fell on the date of the murder. Tanya had been killed in the early hours of 22 July 1985. Her body had been found on the twenty-third. Jacobsson took a deep breath. The connection was crystal clear.

‘What do you have there?’ asked the captain as he handed her the phone. ‘Is that about the girl who was murdered out here?’

‘Yes,’ said Jacobsson curtly as she took the phone. She had neither the time nor the desire to tell an outsider about what she’d discovered.

She began punching in Knutas’s number.

‘Do you have any water?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’

Stefan Norrström got up from his chair and turned away to get a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. Jacobsson happened to catch a glimpse of his expression. It had changed completely.

AT POLICE HEADQUARTERS in Visby, Knutas contacted the German police and asked them to find out what had happened to the family from Hamburg that had spent a holiday on Gotska Sandön in July 1985. A holiday that had ended in tragedy. Could it be the father, Oleg Petrov, who had finally decided to avenge his daughter’s death?

While he waited to hear back from the Germans, he summoned to his office everyone from the investigative team who was available. He told them the facts that Karin Jacobsson had managed to tell him before their conversation was cut off.

‘So it’s the father who’s supposedly the murderer?’ said Kihlgård, sounding dubious. ‘After such a long time? Why now?’

‘Yes, that’s the big question,’ said Wittberg. ‘Something must have triggered the whole chain of events.’

‘I remember that case,’ interjected Prosecutor Smittenberg. ‘The girl went missing, and at first a search party was organized; a lot of officers from here helped look for her. Then her body was found in the water off the coast of Gotska Sandön; she’d been raped and murdered. A terrible story. There was something about some young men who had come ashore from a boat and later disappeared. They were never caught.’

‘I can’t understand why Karin hasn’t reported in again,’ said Knutas, annoyed. ‘She was supposed to ring me as soon as she was on board.’

‘Why don’t you try the boat?’ suggested Wittberg. ‘Ask them to call her on the loudspeakers.’

‘Oh, right. Good idea.’

Knutas looked a bit embarrassed, but he got the police switchboard on the line, and was connected to the
M/S Gotska Sandön
. A man’s deep voice could be heard over a crackling sound.

‘
M/S Gotska Sandön
. Captain Stefan Norrström speaking.’

Knutas introduced himself.

‘Would it be possible to contact a specific individual on board, by using the loudspeaker system, for example?’

‘Who do you want to speak to?’

‘A police officer named Karin Jacobsson.’

‘Do you want to wait on the line or ring back in a few minutes?’

‘I’d like to wait.’

‘OK.’

Knutas heard the captain announcing Karin’s name, asking her to come to the wheelhouse immediately. Then he was back on the phone.

‘If she’s on board, she should be here in a minute. This boat isn’t very big.’

‘OK.’

Several minutes passed.

‘Shouldn’t she have responded by now?’

‘Yes. She can’t be on board.’

‘Could you try one more time?’

The captain hesitated.

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘I think it is. Just to be sure.’

Again the captain announced Karin’s name. After another couple of minutes, Knutas gave up.

‘I guess she didn’t make it on board.’

‘I guess not.’

‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Not at all.’

An uneasy feeling had settled in Knutas’s chest during the conversation. Karin had found a link between the murder on Gotska Sandön and the two current homicide cases. And now she was missing. He asked the operator to phone the head ranger on Gotska Sandön. When he was connected, Knutas explained why he was calling.

‘She left on the two-thirty boat. Apparently she was in a real hurry.’

‘Are you sure she made it on board?’

‘Absolutely. I was down at the dock helping with the loading, and I saw her go on board.’

‘Are you a hundred per cent sure? I mean, do you know what Karin Jacobsson looks like? Petite, thin, about forty, although she looks younger, with short dark hair, brown eyes, a big gap between her front teeth, quite attractive …’

He heard the ranger sigh with impatience.

‘Yes, of course I know what she looks like. She interviewed me yesterday about that man named Morgan Larsson who was murdered.’

‘OK. When does the boat arrive at Fårösund?’

‘At four thirty. The crossing takes two hours.’

Knutas had barely put down the phone before the operator rang to say that he had the Germans on the line. Knutas pushed his uneasiness about Jacobsson aside.

The other members of the investigative team listened intently to his stumbling English. Knutas looked at them with an inscrutable expression as he slowly put down the phone.

‘That was our German colleagues. Oleg Petrov can’t be the killer, because he’s dead. Three months after Tanya was found murdered, he committed suicide by throwing himself in front of a train.’

Everyone in the room exchanged puzzled looks.

‘What about the mother and sister? What happened to them, and where are they now?’ asked Wittberg.

‘The mother still lives in Hamburg, but wait until you hear this: the sister lives here on Gotland. She’s married to a Gotlander and they live in Kyllaj.’

‘Kyllaj,’ Wittberg repeated, a pensive look coming over him. ‘That woman on the ferry, the first ferry on the morning the murder was committed. She lived in Kyllaj. She was pregnant and married. But she had an alibi – that’s why we didn’t question her further. Her husband provided her with an alibi.’

Knutas leaned forward. ‘That’s right, her husband. She’s married to a man by the name of Stefan Norrström. He’s the captain that I was just talking to!’

Knutas’s brain now went into high gear. The captain had claimed that Karin wasn’t on board his boat. And now she was missing.

IT ALL STARTED that day in early June when she went shopping at the ICA supermarket. It was a lovely, warm day, full of promise for the coming summer. She’d gone to Slite and parked near the ICA, where she usually shopped. She grabbed a cart outside and then went in to buy some food.

They were planning to have a barbecue that evening. Strangely enough, she had a particular craving for strongly spiced meat now that she was pregnant. She picked up a couple of big potatoes which she was going to bake and fill with the special herbed butter that Stefan liked so much. She spent a long time in the fruit and vegetable section, carefully selecting green peppers, tomatoes and fresh mushrooms. They could grill the steaks separately and then make some vegetable skewers. She put some cobs of sweetcorn in her cart. Suddenly she felt a kicking inside of her, then another. She stood still. She loved feeling the child moving around. She rested for a moment, leaning on the shopping cart and running her hand gently over her stomach. She still couldn’t believe she was going to be a mother. It looked as if her life was finally going to work out. So often in the past she’d had her doubts. But every time, Stefan had persuaded her not to give up. Of course they were meant to be together. Surely she understood that. ‘Don’t even think of objecting,’ he’d say. ‘Don’t even think of it.’

And in the end she’d begun to believe him. Really believe him, deep in her heart. To her surprise, she realized that she was actually on her way to feeling safe. From the outside, she appeared to have had a stable upbringing, but the pain and insecurity had never gone away. She’d been marginalized by her parents, constantly compared to her sister. She’d never felt good enough just the way she was. She’d never felt a real sense of security. To be utterly secure, no matter how she looked, what she did, or what happened around her. Stefan loved her like no one ever had before. But she still had wounds she would have to live with to the end of her days. It helped a lot that he knew everything, and had even been present when the very worst had happened to her. He understood her like no one else did.

The kicking stopped for the moment, and she went back to her shopping. She put some beer in her cart for Stefan; she herself drank only mineral water.

There was a long queue at both check-outs. It was Friday afternoon, and everyone was out shopping. She stood at the back of one of the queues and let her eyes slide over the people patiently waiting their turn with baskets and carts full of shopping. Several people were chatting with each other, and every once in a while someone laughed. Most people knew each other here, since Slite wasn’t a big place.

She hadn’t made any friends of her own yet, and she didn’t really feel the need to do so. Occasionally, they got together with Stefan’s relatives and acquaintances. She also talked to her classmates at the Swedish lessons she was taking, and she made regular visits to the antenatal clinic. All in all, that was more than enough socializing for her.

Suddenly she noticed a man who looked familiar standing in the queue. He was talking to a boy who couldn’t be more than five or six. She looked more closely, scanning the man’s face.

The man, who looked to be a few years older than her, had a unique appearance. He had a prominent high forehead, light-blue eyes, and seemed to have no eyelashes or eyebrows at all. He also had a slightly protruding jaw. His hair was cut short, and he was wearing carpenter overalls. There was something self-conscious about him, a slight nervousness. Maybe it was the child’s constant questions; maybe it was something else.

He was standing a few yards in front of her, in the queue for the other check-out, but she had a clear view of him because he’d turned round to talk to the boy, who she assumed was his son. All of a sudden he glanced up, and she looked away. He must have noticed that she was watching him; maybe he thought she was flirting.

She couldn’t help taking another look at him. He was staring straight at her as he replied to a question his son had asked. When their eyes met and she simultaneously heard his voice, her body turned to ice. She’d heard that high-pitched, slightly nasal voice before. A long, long time ago. In an entirely different context.

As if struck by a whip, she felt a stinging blow to her forehead. She shut her eyes and opened them again. He was still there, continuing to talk to his son, unaffected. He glanced at her and smiled faintly. He hadn’t recognized her. In reality, that wasn’t so strange. Not strange at all. It was twenty years ago that they’d last met. She had changed more than he had.

She felt sick, overcome by dizziness as her legs began to wobble. She couldn’t bear to stand there any longer. She had to get out. She left the queue and pushed her way past the check-out. Outside the supermarket, she sank down on to a bench. Tears filled her eyes, but she did her best to hold them back. She took long, deep breaths. The terrible pressure she felt in her chest frightened her; she felt as if she was going to die. She was hyperventilating.

A young woman came out and asked her if she was OK. She managed to say she was fine. The woman brought her some water and asked if she was going into labour. Should she ring for an ambulance?

No, she wasn’t going into labour. She just needed to rest for a moment. The woman sat down next to her and held her hand. How considerate she was.

Thoughts were flying through her mind. It was him. There was absolutely no doubt about it. What was he doing here?