The Dead Of Summer

MONDAY, 24 JULY

THE HEAT IN the limestone quarry was almost unbearable.

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.

‘Could you tell us what happened?’ Knutas began.

‘We drove over to the quarry, as usual, about fifteen minutes before the scheduled detonation. Morgan was already there; he was always early.’

‘Did you notice anything in particular on the way there?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘So what happened when you arrived?’

‘My colleague and I each went to our usual positions, meaning on the other side of the pit from where Morgan was. We talked to each other on the radio, as always, but then Morgan said he thought he’d seen somebody moving around near the shed where he waits during the blasting.’

‘Where was he when he said that?’

‘He was checking the charges. That’s what he always did.’

‘What exactly did he see?’

‘He didn’t say, just that he noticed something moving. He asked me to check it out. I scanned the area with my binoculars but didn’t see anything.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I don’t really know. It was eleven thirty, and Morgan always detonated the explosion on the dot. It was a little game of his, to detonate at precisely the scheduled time. But this time, several minutes passed and nothing happened. I tried to call Morgan, but he didn’t answer. Then came the explosion.’

Kjell Johansson fell silent as he looked down at his callused hands.

‘What can you tell us about the person you saw?’

‘I only caught a glimpse of him, but he was wearing a lot of clothes, considering the heat. I think he had on dark trousers and a dark, baggy shirt.’

With a solemn expression, Knutas stared at the man seated across the table.

‘What you’re telling us is extremely important. You’ve actually seen the killer with your own eyes. Try to remember as much as possible about how he looked. Even the smallest detail is important.’

‘Take your time,’ Jacobsson added. ‘Think carefully.’

‘I only saw him for a few seconds, and from far away. He came out of Morgan’s shed right after the explosion. He moved in a rather strange way, sort of awkwardly. Maybe he had a slight limp. He was shorter than Morgan, who I think was about six feet tall. The other person was at least four inches shorter. I’m positive about that.’

‘That means that the person you saw was about 5 foot 8?’

‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No. It all happened so fast.’

‘What were they doing?’

‘I think they were talking to each other. Since Morgan didn’t answer his radio, I kept my binoculars trained on the shed. When the explosion was detonated, the whole shed disappeared in a cloud of dust, but then the person came out and headed for the woods.’

‘Then what?’

‘Nothing after that. I was worried about Morgan, so we drove right over there.’

‘And by then the other person was gone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know whether Morgan knew Peter Bovide, the carpenter who was shot to death a couple of weeks ago?’ asked Jacobsson.

Kjell Johansson’s face clouded over.

‘I don’t think so, but I noticed that he acted kind of strange whenever anyone else at work started talking about the murder on Fårö.’

‘Strange in what way?’

‘Well, everybody was talking about it, of course. Peter Bovide lived in Slite, after all, and his company has done a lot of work for the factory; for instance, they remodelled the barracks. Morgan was the only one who never commented on the murder. At first, I didn’t think anything about it, but after a few days I noticed that he would get real quiet and move away every time the murder came up in conversation. And so I asked him whether he knew Bovide.’

Jacobsson leaned forward.

‘And?’

‘He denied it and asked me why I thought he might. He looked really worried, as if the mere question made him nervous.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing, really. I could tell that it was a sensitive subject, for some reason, so I dropped it. And now Morgan has been killed too. Damn it to hell.’

Johansson sounded despondent.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Morgan?’ asked Knutas. ‘Anything you reacted to or thought was strange? Any new person he may have met?’

The foreman rubbed his eyes and looked up at both officers.

‘Actually, there is one thing.’

‘What is it?’

‘He seemed really insistent about going out to Gotska Sandön.’

‘Gotska Sandön?’

‘Yes. He was there this past weekend. He used to go out there occasionally, even though he wasn’t exactly the nature type. In fact, he detested anything having to do with hikes through the woods or other outdoor activities. Whenever we had any sort of excursions here at work, he never participated. Morgan preferred to sit inside and drink beer while he watched sports on TV. That was how he relaxed. But he did go out to Gotska Sandön. Last weekend, he booked a trip out there, and even though we were really short-handed here at work because several people called in sick, he wouldn’t postpone his trip. I know that the boss offered him various incentives to try and persuade him to stay and work, but he refused. He needed to go out there right away, and he couldn’t delay it a week.’

‘What was he going to do on Gotska Sandön?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘I have no idea. I only know that sometimes he went out there. He’s been there several times before.’

‘Did he go alone?’

‘Yes, I think so. He was a real loner. Didn’t have any family or girlfriend. He lived alone, and I think he did almost everything by himself.’

‘When exactly did he go out there?’

‘He left on Friday and came home last night.’

‘So that was the last thing he did? Visit Gotska Sandön? And he’d been there before?’

‘Yes, a least a few times.’

‘Do you know where exactly he went?’

‘I have no idea. I’ve never thought much about those trips before, but this time it was obvious that nothing could make him change his travel plans, so there must have been something really special about that trip. I asked him what could be so damn important to make him leave his workmates in the lurch, and then he got real mad and started shouting that it was none of my business. I was really surprised that he overreacted like that.’

‘We need to look into this,’ Knutas decided. ‘Right away.’

He cast a glance at Jacobsson.

‘OK, don’t worry, I’ll do it. I can leave now.’

JOHAN DECIDED TO sleep late, even though it was Monday. He didn’t know whether he even had the energy to go to work. The problem with Emma had thrown him completely. A whole week had passed since their fight, and he hadn’t been able to make himself get in contact with her again. Madeleine had gone back to Stockholm the day after that unhappy Sunday, and that was just as well. He’d been busy at work all week long, trying not to think about Emma at all. He needed a break from her and all their problems. He’d taken time off work and gone up to where Emma’s parents lived on Fårö to pick up Elin to spend the whole day with her. It had been both wonderful and painful, because he didn’t get to see his daughter very often.

Now Johan was worn out and feeling low. He rang Pia to tell her that he’d be at home if anything special happened. He didn’t give a damn what Grenfors might think about it. He went back to bed for an hour before he finally got up out of sheer boredom.

He took a shower and made some coffee. With his hair wet and a towel wrapped around his waist, he went out into the hall to get the morning papers, and there he discovered an envelope lying on the mat. He recognized the handwriting.

All it said on the front was ‘To Johan’.

She must have come over and delivered it personally, which meant it was important. He had to pour himself a cup of coffee and light up a cigarette before he could open the envelope. He didn’t usually smoke indoors, but what the hell. A thousand thoughts flew through his head as he tore open the envelope with fumbling fingers.

He licked his lips nervously before he read the message.

When Pia rang he was still sitting with the card in his hand, incapable of moving. He was too busy trying to collect his thoughts.

He could tell from her voice that something was happening.

‘A man was shot to death out at the stone quarry in Slite. It happened only about half an hour ago. I’ll pick you up. Go over to Söderport, and I’ll be there in five minutes.’

Johan stood up. Only something of this magnitude could have torn him away from studying Emma’s note. He pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and ran down towards Söderport, his hair still wet.

Ten minutes later they were on their way to Slite. Johan spent a major part of the drive talking on his mobile. First with the police, who refused to say anything except that a man had been found dead at the quarry in Slite. Then he talked to Grenfors, who could hardly believe that another murder had been committed on Gotland.

The area near the entrance to the quarry and factory had been cordoned off.

‘Damn it, we won’t be able to get in at all, we’re screwed,’ said Pia with a sigh.

They stood there staring like two fools. Suddenly Pia’s face lit up.

‘I know somebody who works here. I’ll try to get hold of him,’ she said.

The area where the murder had been committed was gigantic and it would be impossible to force their way in. Plus the factory employees were keeping their distance from the entrance, so there was no one to corner for an interview.

When Pia finished her phone call, she gave Johan a look of triumph.

‘I’ve found out what to do.’

A short time later, they reached the top of the stone quarry. Pia turned off from the main road and took a small track through the forest. The car jolted along. They could see limestone everywhere. The ground was white, and the bushes and trees that had managed to survive in what seemed like such an inhospitable environment were covered with a fine layer of dust.

‘It feels unreal,’ said Johan. ‘What a ghostly atmosphere.’

The track got narrower until Johan began to wonder whether they should venture any further.

‘What if we can’t turn round?’

‘We’ll just have to take that chance,’ said Pia, staring straight ahead. Branches and boughs kept striking the windscreen, and they had to plough their way through dense underbrush. Gradually, a clearing opened up, and that was where they parked.

Pia brought her camera with her as they followed an even smaller path into the woods. A moment later, they reached the quarry. It yawned before them like some sort of giant cauldron.

‘Good god,’ exclaimed Pia. ‘Have you ever seen anything like this before?’

‘No, never.’

The view was both fascinating and terrifying.

‘How typical that we forgot to bring along anything to drink. My throat feels as dust-coated as the ground.’

They ventured closer to the edge and saw several police vehicles with people moving around them. They quickly backed up into the woods so as not to be seen.

‘What’s that over there?’ asked Pia, pointing to the other side of the quarry.

‘I have no idea.’ Johan squinted into the glare of the sun. ‘It looks like a little hut.’

Pia set up her tripod and began recording. She took a panoramic shot of the quarry and then pointed the lens at the hut.

‘What now?’ she asked.

‘What do you see?’

Pia raised her hand to shush him. She stood there for such a long time, shooting without moving the camera, that Johan began to feel uncomfortable in the heat. And he couldn’t see what had caught her eye, since it was too far away. When she finally finished, she simply looked at him, giving him an odd smile.

‘I think I’ll have a job with Rapport by autumn. Just so you know.’

JACOBSSON WAS OUT of luck. The police helicopter was in use, and the coast guard happened to be conducting extensive exercises elsewhere. To interrupt what they were doing in order to go out to Fårösund to pick up Jacobsson would take longer than her just catching the regular ferry out to Gotska Sandön. The next boat departed at two thirty. Before she left the quarry, someone at police headquarters had enough foresight to fax over personal information on Morgan Larsson, along with a copy of his passport photo.

When Knutas returned to police headquarters, the place was a whirlwind of activity. His colleagues were running from one office to another, exchanging information. Kihlgård came over to talk to Knutas.

‘What on earth is going on? This so-called summer paradise is turning out to be another Sicily!’

The allusion may have been something of a stretch, but Knutas understood what he meant, since he still had the events of the previous year, when decapitated horses had played a role, fresh in his mind. He chose not to reply. Instead he took his colleague by the arm and steered him towards the meeting room.

‘Meeting – of the investigative team – right now!’ he shouted as they moved quickly down the corridor. In spite of all the noise and commotion, his words seemed to penetrate through the walls, because a minute later everyone had gathered.

The only person missing, aside from Karin Jacobsson, was Erik Sohlman, who was still out at the crime scene.

‘At 11.52 a.m., a call came in to the officer on duty, reporting that a man had been found shot to death in a wooden building at the biggest stone quarry in Slite, known as Fila Hajdar and located on the western edge of town,’ Knutas began. ‘He was found by two individuals who were there with him to supervise the blasting. He was lying on the shed floor, shot in the forehead. And that’s not all. He’d also taken a large number of shots to the stomach. Exactly like Peter Bovide.’

‘What’s the victim’s name?’ asked the prosecuter, Smittenberg.

‘The man’s name is Morgan Larsson. He’s forty-one years old, unmarried, no children. He worked as an explosives expert at the factory, where he’d been employed for twenty years. He lived in a flat in central Slite. That’s all we know so far. Except for the fact that he was a classmate of Erik’s.’

‘Oh. So they knew each other? How well?’ asked Kihlgård.

‘Not very well, from what I can gather. At any rate, Erik is still out there. And by the way, when we were at the scene, we heard that Morgan Larsson had visited Gotska Sandön over the weekend. So that was the last thing he did before he was murdered. Karin caught the next ferry out to the island. All right, then. We’ve cordoned off a large area around the quarry. The forest above it is being searched by police dogs, and roadblocks have been set up all around Slite. All indications are that we’re dealing with the same killer. The empty casings that were found at the crime scene match those from the first murder, and according to Sohlman, they appear to have come from the same gun, meaning a Russian army pistol from the 1920s.’

‘Who the hell would use such an old gun?’ asked Kihlgård. ‘It’s practically an antique.’

‘It doesn’t sound like a professional, but it does seem to fit the MO,’ said Wittberg. ‘And by the way, this means we can forget about the Estonians as murder suspects, since they’re sitting in jail.’

‘Let’s take a look at the facts,’ said Knutas abruptly. ‘We do have a witness. One of the foremen who was present at the blasting saw the perpetrator with his own eyes. Granted, from quite a distance, since he was on the other side of the quarry and looking through binoculars, but still. He says the perp was wearing dark clothing. He was about 5 foot 8 and apparently had a slight limp.’

‘5 foot 8,’ said Wittberg. ‘Then it’s no surprise that he wears only size 7½ shoes.’

‘It’s a good description, and let’s just hope it helps us catch him soon,’ Knutas went on. ‘We’ve put out an all-points bulletin, also on the radio. In the meantime, we need to find out what links there might be between Morgan Larsson and Peter Bovide. Did they know each other? Did they have the same circle of friends?’

‘Does Morgan Larsson have a police record?’ asked the prosecutor.

‘No,’ replied Knutas. ‘We’ve already checked on that.’

The door opened, and Erik Sohlman came in.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Kihlgård sympathetically, patting Sohlman’s arm as he sat down next to him.

‘I’m fine,’ said Sohlman. ‘Just fine.’ He turned to look at the others. It was obvious that the situation had upset him. ‘We’re positive that it’s the same perp who killed Peter Bovide. Morgan took one bullet to the forehead and seven to the abdomen – exactly like before.’

‘What sort of technical evidence have you found?’ asked Knutas.

‘Footprints that are identical to the ones found on the beach at Norsta Auren. Also size 7½, and the same type of shoe, an ordinary, cheap brand of trainer you can buy just about anywhere. The bloodstains on the ground show that Morgan was shot where he was found. Most likely first in the head, then in the abdomen. Several casings were lying on the floor, and they match those we found in connection with Peter Bovide’s murder. Of course, they’ll be sent over to the SCL, but I can tell you right now that the same gun was probably used.’

‘How sure are you about that?’ asked Wittberg.

‘Quite sure, since the gun is so unique. A Russian army pistol from 1926, a special-calibre Korovin. And once again, the perp emptied the clip.’

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

‘Not very well, actually. We were classmates in primary school, and we lived fairly close to each other in Slite. But we were never close friends.’

‘He was unmarried with no children and, according to his workmates, had no girlfriend. Do you know if he was dating anyone?’

‘I don’t think so. He lived in a flat in Slite. Alone, as far as I know.’

‘Do you have any idea whether he had contacts in the construction industry, or whether he knew Peter Bovide?’

Erik Sohlman shrugged.

‘No clue.’

‘We’ll start by mapping out any links to Peter Bovide,’ Knutas decided. ‘Right now, finding a connection between the two victims has to take priority. Plus, finding out what Morgan Larsson was doing on Gotska Sandön, and why he was in such a hurry to go there.’

JOHAN WAS INCLINED to believe that Pia was right when she predicted what her future would be. The images from the stone quarry were sharp and revealing. A good photographer also had to be lucky, and in this case good fortune had definitely been on Pia’s side. Just as she’d started shooting, the body was carried out of the little hut, which they later learned was the shed where the explosives expert always stood when the blasting took place. Pia had also filmed Knutas, Jacobsson and crime-scene tech Sohlman as they inspected the site.

They’d found out the victim’s identity by talking to Pia’s good friend who worked at Cementa. Everybody knew who he was: Morgan – the explosives guy. Forty-one years old and a bachelor. The killer had chosen to strike at the precise moment of the detonation.

‘Maybe he wanted to make use of the explosion to drown out the sound of the gunshots,’ Johan suggested as they sat in the office, splicing and editing the images.

‘Wouldn’t it be simpler just to use a silencer on the gun?’ said Pia. ‘By the way, what’s going on with you? Seems like you’re in an especially good mood today. It’s not just because we’ve got ourselves a scoop on this story, is it?’

‘That should be enough. But here’s another scoop for you.’

‘What is it?’

Johan stood up to fetch an envelope, which he handed to Pia.

‘Take a look.’

‘But isn’t this a personal letter?’ asked Pia hesitantly when she saw that it said ‘To Johan’ on the envelope.

‘Yes, but it’s OK. I want you to read it.’

Pia opened the envelope and frowned.

A card fell out with a picture of a potato patch on the front. Underneath were only a few handwritten words: ‘Yes, I will. Again.’

‘I don’t get it. From somebody who grows potatoes?’

‘A bit more than that, Pia.’

‘Huh?’ Pia gave her colleague a quizzical look. ‘What do you mean?’

Then she noticed the ring on his left hand.

‘What? Don’t tell me you’re engaged again? You and Emma? Oh, Johan, that’s great! Congratulations!’

‘Thanks,’ said Johan, laughing. ‘Thanks.’

THE WHARF AT Fårösund was crowded with people wearing shorts and sensible shoes and carrying rucksacks, heading out on nature expeditions to the island of Gotska Sandön. When Jacobsson boarded the boat, she noticed the captain looking pleased as he waved and motioned for her to come into the wheelhouse. She couldn’t remember having seen him before, but apparently he recognized her.

‘I know you’re from the police because I’ve seen you on TV,’ he explained when she came in and shook hands with him. He introduced himself as Stefan Norrström.

The first thing that struck Karin was that she and the captain were actually rather similar. He was about her height and age. He also had dark hair, and when he smiled, she saw the gap between his middle teeth. The one difference was that he was short and stocky while she was fine-boned.

Stefan Norrström turned out to be easy to talk to, and he gave a lively account of Gotska Sandön during the two-hour crossing. He told vivid stories about how ships often sank in the fierce storms that raged over the island, about accidents and the hardships of the lighthouse-keepers. In the past, several lighthouses had been manned, but in the 1970s they were automated. Four rangers still worked at the national park year round, and during the tourist season, which was from May to September, there were campsite supervisors available to help visitors. In the winter the island was mostly deserted. Its lonely location in the middle of the sea meant that Gotska Sandön was subject to harsh weather conditions, which made it difficult for anyone to live there permanently.

While the captain talked, Jacobsson admired the view. They had left Fårö and Gotland behind and were making their way through open waters. Nothing but sun-glinting water as far as the eye could see.

‘It won’t be long now,’ said the captain after little more than an hour, and Jacobsson caught a glimpse of a solitary strip of land in the middle of the sea. It grew into a green ribbon without any discernible hills or significant elevation. As they got closer, she could make out the sandy beach that emerged from a long, light-coloured border around the remote island. She was surprised to see so much forested land.

Jacobsson had never set foot on Gotska Sandön before, and she’d always imagined it to be nothing more than a flat, sandy strip of land. As they approached, her image of the place changed.

The boat rounded the last promontory before reaching the area where they would go ashore, and Stefan Norrström handed her his binoculars.

‘Take a look. Out there is Bredsand promontory. See the birds? There are eider ducks, goosanders, black-throated divers, and of course black-backed gulls, common terns and herring gulls.’

Jacobsson raised the binoculars to her eyes. It took a moment before she found the correct focus, but when she did, she was astounded.

She was looking at thousands and thousands of seabirds flying around each other at different elevations and sailing back and forth over the promontory. It was an impressive sight.

‘You have to go out there and watch at sunset. It’s really something worth seeing. And it’s not far from the campsite, just a five-minute walk. The beach is so white and wide you’ll think you’re in Bali or somewhere like that.’

‘How often do you get to leave the boat and spend time on the island?’

‘Rarely. This boat shuttles between Nynäshamn, Gotska Sandön and Fårösund. But I once worked as an assistant to the head ranger. That’s why I know my way around the island.’

Jacobsson took out the photo of Morgan Larsson.

‘Do you recognize this man? His name is Morgan Larsson, and he used to come out to Gotska Sandön every once in a while.’

Stefan Norrström took the picture and studied it carefully.

‘No, I’ve never seen him before. And the name doesn’t sound familiar. But I see so many people. It’s impossible to remember them all.’