The Dead Of Summer

MONDAY, 10 JULY

AS NIGHT GAVE way to morning a solitary car was driving north on the main road that cut across the island of Fårö. The rain had stopped. Heavy clouds were still covering the sky in grey sheets. The birds had been singing since three a.m.; the light of dawn was spreading across the fields and meadows. Through the haze it was possible to glimpse juniper bushes, the crooked trunks of dwarf pines, and stone walls dividing the fields. There were also farm buildings made of Gotland limestone, seemingly scattered about haphazardly, along with an occasional windmill, though the sails had long since disappeared. Flocks of black sheep could be seen in the pastures. Indolently they got to their feet, one after another, and began grazing on the meagre grass offered by the mostly bare earth.

Calm still reigned at the Sudersand campsite in the north of Fårö, although the area was fully occupied now, in the middle of summer. The campsite extended for three kilometres along the beach with its fine-grained sand. Caravans and tents were decoratively lined up in a meticulously ordered pattern. The Swedish flags adorning the entrance drooped limply from their poles. Here and there round grills had been set up, along with plastic tables, which still had wine glasses standing on them, left over from the dinners served the previous evening. Bath towels, soaked from the night-time rain, had been fastened with clothes-pegs to the improvised clothes-lines. There were striped, collapsible deck chairs in bright colours, inflatable mattresses and beach toys. A few bikes.

In the centre of the grounds stood a low wooden building with several doors leading to a kitchen, laundry room, toilets and showers. A well-organized holiday community, just a stone’s throw from the sea.

In one of the caravans parked near the perimeter of the campsite, Peter Bovide abruptly came wide awake. At exactly five a.m. he opened his eyes. Out of old habit he checked the time on his watch, which lay on a shelf next to the bed.

Always the same thing. Sleeping late in the morning was not part of his world.

He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling for a while, but soon realized that he wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep. Not on this morning either. All those years working construction had taken their toll on him, and the habit of getting up early was hard to break. Although he really didn’t mind. He appreciated having some time to himself before Vendela and the kids got up. He usually went out for a run and then did some callisthenics.

During the night he had lain in bed for a long time listening to the pattering of the rain on the metal roof of the caravan. He hadn’t slept well. Now the rain seemed to have stopped, and faint morning light was seeping through the thin cotton curtains.

He looked at his sleeping wife. Her blanket had slipped off, and she was lying on her side. At five foot eleven she was slightly taller than he was. He found that sexy. He ran his eyes over her slender legs, the curve of her hips, and he could just make out her small breasts. He felt himself getting an erection, but this was not the right time for it. The kids were lying nearby in their narrow bunks. Five-year-old William with his mouth open and his arms comfortably stretched above his head, as if he owned the whole world. Mikaela curled up in a foetal position, three years old and holding her teddy bear in her arms.

They had four weeks ahead of them, with very few obligations or demands. First here on the island of Fårö and later two weeks in Mallorca. The company had been doing well lately.

‘Are you awake?’ He heard Vendela’s clear and slightly drawling voice behind him, just as he was about to open the door.

‘Yes, sweetheart. I’m going out for a run.’

‘Wait. Come back here.’

Still lying on her side, she stretched out her arms towards him. He burrowed his head against her breasts, warm with sleep, and wrapped his arms around her. In their relationship she was the strong one; in spite of his robust appearance, he was actually fragile and vulnerable. Nobody who knew them realized how things really stood. Their friends never saw Peter Bovide when he wept like a child in his wife’s arms during one of his recurring panic attacks. Or how she soothed him, comforted him and helped him to get back on his feet again. The anxiety came in waves, always unexpected, always unwelcome, like an uninvited guest. It suffocated him.

Each time he felt the onset of symptoms, he would try to suppress them, pretend they weren’t there, think about something else. For the most part his attempts failed. Once the attack had begun, it was usually impossible to stop.

It had been a long time now since the last bad episode. But he knew that the panic attacks would inevitably return. Sometimes they occurred at the same time as the epileptic fits that had plagued him since early adulthood. These days the incidents were rare, but the fear of another one was always in the back of his mind. Underneath his self-confident façade, Peter Bovide was a frightened man.

When he met Vendela, his life was in a hell of a mess. Alcohol had taken an ever firmer hold on his life, leading him to neglect his job and increasingly lose his grip on reality. He had no steady girlfriend, and he never managed to maintain any long-term relationships. He neither dared nor wished to get too close to anyone. But everything had been different with Vendela.

When they met six years ago on the boat going to Finland, it was love at first sight for him. She was from Botkyrka and worked as a croupier in a casino in Stockholm. They decided to marry when she got pregnant after they’d been dating for only six months, and then they bought an old farm in the country outside Slite. A fixer-upper that they were able to buy cheap; since he was a carpenter, he could do most of the remodelling work himself.

Their two children were born two years apart. Everything was going well. For the past five years he had run a construction company along with a former work colleague, and they had gradually been able to hire several employees. The company was doing better and better, and at the moment they had more work than they could handle. New stormclouds had recently appeared on the horizon, but they were nothing he couldn’t cope with.

His demons were haunting him less and less.

Vendela hugged him hard.

‘I can’t believe that we’re going to have such a long holiday,’ she murmured, with her lips pressed against his neck.

‘I know. Damn, it’s going to be great.’

For a moment they lay quietly, listening to the even breathing of their children. Soon the old, familiar uneasiness began creeping over him.

‘I’m going to take off now.’

‘OK.’

She gave him another hug.

‘I’ll be back soon. Then I’ll put the coffee on.’

IT WAS LIBERATING to leave behind the close confines of the caravan. From the sea came the fresh smell of seaweed and salt. The rain had stopped. He inhaled the air deep into his lungs and stopped to take a piss at the edge of the woods.

Going out jogging every morning was a must. He didn’t feel human if he couldn’t start his day with a run. When he cut back on his alcohol consumption after meeting Vendela, he started running instead. Strangely enough, running seemed to have the same kind of effect on him as alcohol. He needed some kind of drug to keep the anxiety at bay.

The trail felt spongy under his feet. On both sides of him were sand dunes spreading out between grass-covered hills. He quickly reached the shore. The sea was rough, the swells moving every which way, without direction or purpose. Farther out, a flock of seagulls balanced atop the crests.

He started running north along the water’s edge. Clouds swept across the leaden sky, and it was hard to run on the sand after the rain. It didn’t take long before he was soaked with sweat. Out by the promontory he turned round. His thoughts became clearer as he ran. The jogging seemed to provide him with a respite of some sort.

On the way back, off in the distance he noticed somebody coming towards him, but suddenly the person stumbled and toppled over on to the sand. Then just lay there, apparently without making any attempt to get up. Feeling uneasy, he ran forward.

‘Are you all right?’

The face that turned towards him was expressionless, the eyes cold and indifferent. The question remained unanswered.

For several seconds time stood still, as Peter froze in place. A disturbing churning started up inside his stomach. Deep down inside of him something came alive, something he had tried to bury for years. Finally it had caught up with him.

The eyes that were fixed on him changed; now they were filled with contempt.

He couldn’t manage to utter a word, though he was breathing hard, and the familiar pain in his chest was back. He struggled not to collapse.

His body felt limp, loose-jointed.

Then he saw the muzzle of the gun. It was pointed straight at him. He automatically sank to his knees; everything in his mind went still. His thoughts stopped.

The shot struck him between the eyes. The report made the black-backed gulls lift up from the surface of the water with frightened shrieks.

DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT ANDERS KNUTAS was pottering about in the spacious country kitchen that belonged to his parents-in-law while the rest of the family slept. He was planning to surprise them with his special breakfast: American-style pancakes with maple syrup. They tasted almost like sponge-cake, and when they were hot, they melted in your mouth. Knutas was no master in the kitchen, but he had two specialities: macaroni cheese, and pancakes.

After he had finished mixing the batter, he decided to let it sit in the bowl for a while. He picked up his coffee cup and went outside to sit down on the steps. The house stood on a promontory surrounded by the sea at the edge of a little coastal town on the Danish island of Fyn. The sun had shone non-stop ever since they’d arrived. At first Knutas had been only moderately enthusiastic when Lina suggested they go to Denmark for two whole weeks. He would have preferred to spend his holiday lazing about at their own summer place at Lickershamn in the north of Gotland, but Lina had succeeded in persuading him. For once her parents were away, and they would have the house all to themselves. And besides, she was homesick for Denmark. No matter how happy she was living in Sweden, her heart would always belong to her native country.

After a week on Fyn, Knutas was grateful that Lina had stood her ground. He hadn’t felt so relaxed in years. An entire day could pass without him giving a thought to his job. And the weather was fantastic, much better than back home. They swam, fished and gorged themselves on shellfish, which tasted even more delicious here. In the evening they took strolls through the town, sat by the sea, drank wine and played cards on the porch after dark. Their twins, Petra and Nils, were having a blast. The kids had made lots of friends during their many summer visits to their grandparents, and they were gone most of the day. They would soon be sixteen, and spending time with their parents wasn’t exactly a high priority.

At the moment, that was a good thing. Knutas and Lina needed to have some time to themselves. He loved his wife, but during the spring it felt as though their marriage had gone stale. He had felt exhausted and run down after yet another complicated murder investigation; for a long time afterwards, he had been plagued by guilt and spells of brooding, with no energy left whatsoever, not even for Lina.

She complained that he seemed distant and uninterested, which of course was the truth. Both of them had probably been expecting their love life to heat up now that they finally had some time off together, but that hadn’t happened. They just kept plodding along in their familiar routines, and their sex life wasn’t amounting to much; neither of them was particularly interested in taking the initiative.

It wasn’t that he found Lina unattractive; that wasn’t the problem at all. She was just as beautiful as ever with her long, fiery-red hair, freckled complexion and warm eyes. But she had almost become like a piece of furniture, like a marvellous armchair in the house. Serene and secure, comfortable but not especially exciting. Lina was a midwife at the hospital in Visby, and she loved her job. She still told stories about the mothers and their troubles with the same fervent enthusiasm. He’d heard stories like these thousands of times. In the past he’d found them entertaining and interesting, but now he would merely listen politely as he thought about something else. The feelings he had were upsetting him. Maybe he was just in a slump. It wasn’t that he was looking for someone else, not at all. His sex drive had diminished; he just didn’t think it was worth the effort. Sometimes he wondered if it was his age, but he was only fifty-two.

It had been a difficult spring in general. The weather was cold and rainy. At the office he’d had to deal with a ton of paperwork and other administrative tasks, which he detested. He’d felt he would never get it all done. On the other hand, he was pleased that Karin Jacobsson, the colleague he felt closest to, had been named his deputy. And she was definitely putting her best foot forward. She was such a ball of fire that she could make him feel like the least efficient and most slow-witted and lethargic person on earth. But that didn’t bother him. Anders Knutas admired Karin; he had felt that way about her ever since they started working together, more than fifteen years ago.

The surly expressions that appeared when her appointment was announced had finally begun to fade. The only person who still seemed to have a hard time accepting Jacobsson’s promotion was the police spokesman, Lars Norrby, who had considered himself the most likely candidate for the position. Even though they’d been colleagues for many years now, Knutas sometimes wished that Norrby would leave the Visby police department. His attitude towards Jacobsson since she’d become the deputy superintendent was very hard to take.

He hoped that things would go well for Karin while he was away on holiday. Everything had seemed calm when he left. The tourist season was in full swing, of course, but it was the same old story. The biggest problem they had was with the kids from Stockholm who arrived on the ferries in droves, intent on partying in Visby. Every summer their presence meant drunken sprees, fights, drugs and, unfortunately, more rapes. It was unpleasant, but nothing that Karin couldn’t handle.

In a week he would be back on the job. He hoped that nothing major happened while he was away.

AT 9.42 ON Monday morning the call came in to Visby police headquarters. Two young boys had discovered a dead body in the water near Sudersand beach on Fårö. One of the boys had swum right into the body as it floated twenty or so yards from shore.

By the time acting Detective Superintendent Karin Jacobsson and Detective Inspector Thomas Wittberg arrived at the crime scene a crowd had gathered on the beach. After a rainy night, the sun was peeking out. Crime-scene technician Erik Sohlman had managed to get help in cordoning off the area and setting up a white plastic tent over the body to protect it from both the sun and the gawking of curious bystanders. Over by the tent, Sohlman took Jacobsson’s arm.

‘He was murdered, no doubt about it. And that’s not just a shot in the dark, if you’ll excuse the expression. You need to sound the alarm immediately. After that, I’ll show you.’

Jacobsson took out her mobile to summon more police officers and the dog patrol to Sudersand; she also ordered all cars on the ferries leaving Fårö to be checked. She turned to the officers who were setting up the police tape and shouted, ‘We need to cordon off a much bigger area!’

Jacobsson and Sohlman then went over to look at the body, which was covered with a cotton cloth inside the improvised tent.

‘Are you ready?’

Sohlman cast a glance at his colleague’s pale face. Jacobsson always had difficulty looking at dead bodies. For her to throw up at a murder scene was more the rule than the exception. As the crime-scene tech lifted off the cloth, she pressed a handkerchief to her mouth.

The dead man was about her age. He had a very striking appearance, with deep-set eyes that were an unusually bright blue. Almost nonexistent eyebrows. He had high cheekbones and a slightly protruding jaw. If not for the bullet hole in his forehead, his face would have seemed quite peaceful.

‘The shot was fired from a distance of a few inches, maximum. It’s obvious from the entry wound that the murderer was very close. The guy never had a chance.’

‘How can you be so sure he didn’t do it himself?’ muttered Jacobsson from behind the handkerchief as she struggled to fend off the nausea.

‘There’s more. Prepare yourself.’

Cautiously Sohlman lifted off the rest of the covering. Jacobsson groaned when she saw what was underneath. The man’s stomach was riddled with bullet holes.

‘Shot to hell. I’ve counted seven shots to the abdomen. It’s completely insane.’

Jacobsson turned away and threw up.

JOHAN BERG WAS standing in a cow pasture interviewing a farmer who was complaining about the cutbacks in EU subsidies when the call came through. He had forgotten to switch off his mobile during the interview; it was just the type of stupid mistake that TV reporters were not supposed to make. But the damage was done. His camera person, Pia Lilja, rolled her eyes and threw out her hands, then left the camera on its tripod as she went over to pat a cow while Johan took the call. It was Max Grenfors, the head of Regional News.

‘Have you heard?’

‘No, what is it? I’m in the middle of an interview.’

‘Yeah, OK,’ said Grenfors impatiently, ‘but a man was found shot to death over on Fårö. Right next to the campsite. Sudersand. You know it, right?’

‘Of course. What happened?’

While he talked Johan fixed his eyes on the farmer, who was looking unhappy about the interruption. No doubt he wanted nothing more than to continue his complaints about the bureaucrats down in Brussels.

‘He was found this morning, in the sea near Sudersand beach.’

‘How do you know he didn’t drown?’

‘I’m just reading what it says on the TT wire service. According to their report, the body was in the water, but he’d been shot several times.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘So stop what you’re doing and get over there as fast as you can. Ring me when you’re in the car. I’ll give you the latest news update while you’re on the road.’

Johan quickly said goodbye to the disappointed farmer, explaining that they would have to finish the interview some other time.

Luckily they were in Lärbro in the north of Gotland, not far from Fårösund. Pia Lilja’s face shone with excitement as she stomped on the accelerator, making the car tyres squeal as they took the curves at high speed. Her black hair was sticking out in all directions, as usual. Her eyes, with their heavy coating of mascara, were firmly fixed on the road ahead.

‘Fabulous,’ she exclaimed. ‘Finally something is happening.’

‘Fabulous?’ Johan looked at her in surprise. ‘The fact that a human being has been shot to death?’

‘Come on, you know what I mean. Of course not. But it’s much more exciting to report on a homicide than to film a story about unhappy farmers.’

Pia loved it when things got cracking and stuff was happening. Gotland was really too small a place for someone as news-hungry as Pia Lilja. She was twenty-five and wanted to get out into the world, to accompany one of the TV foreign correspondents and witness wars and famines.

But so far she was considered too young and inexperienced. For the time being she had to settle for documenting more ordinary domestic events, such as disputes about putting in a new road in Burgsvik, or the complaints of students about the poor quality of the food served in the school cafeteria in Hemse, or the drama of the local championship match in throwing the varpa, a flat round stone, to get closest to the pin.

But no matter what the news report, she somehow managed to take all sorts of exciting pictures. Pia always did her best. In addition, she had a huge network of contacts that was truly astonishing. She was the youngest of seven siblings, and her extended family was spread all over Gotland. Thanks to them, and her highly developed social skills, she seemed to know absolutely everyone.

In the car on their way over to the Fårösund ferry dock, Johan listened to Grenfors with one ear and to the local radio station with the other, all the while taking notes at lightning speed. The news had come over the TT wire ten minutes earlier. The press was always cautious if there was the slightest suspicion of suicide, but a witness had managed to catch a glimpse of the body and had seen first-hand the bullet hole in the head, as well as the wounds in the abdomen. Anybody could work out that the dead man couldn’t possibly have caused such wounds all on his own. The witness had been interviewed by a journalist from Radio Gotland who just happened to be on Fårö with all of his equipment. The police had confirmed that they were dealing with a suspected homicide.

The ferry crossing to Fårö took only a few minutes. The sky had cleared and the sun glittered on the surface of the sea. The road north towards Sudersand took them through the rocky landscape of Fårö. Along the way Johan and Pia encountered bicyclists, camping caravans and cars filled with families on holiday.

When they reached the intersection of four roads near Sudersand and turned right towards the campsite, a picture of Emma’s face flashed through Johan’s mind. If they had turned left at the intersection instead, they would have eventually ended up at Norsta Auren, the beach near her parents’ house.

Emma Winarve was the great love of Johan’s life. Or at least she had been. They had spent so many wonderful days in that house by the sea when her parents were away, there on the beach between Skärsände and the Fårö lighthouse, on the extreme tip of Fårö. It was the most beautiful of places. But now their relationship was non-existent.

He was roused from his thoughts as they reached Sudersand campsite. The police had blocked off the entire area. Officers were everywhere, but there was no one available to speak to journalists. Neither Karin Jacobsson nor the police spokesman, Lars Norrby, answered their mobile, and Knutas was on holiday in Denmark with his family.

‘Typical.’ Johan stared with dismay at the campsite as they stood outside the police tape. ‘What do we do now?’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Pia as she finished shooting one last panorama of the area. ‘Come with me.’

They jumped back in the car. Pia drove back to the intersection that would take them to Sudersand East and headed for the nearby colony of summer cottages. She turned on to a small side road, no bigger than a cow path, and the car began jolting along through the woods, thick with underbrush, and across a meadow filled with flowers and tall grass.

Several times Johan thought they were going to get stuck, but Pia managed to make the car forge its way onward. When she finally stopped next to a big shrub that was blocking their way, he could hear the sea. It was three thirty in the afternoon, and they still had about an hour left to file their report. Johan patted Pia on the shoulder.

‘You’re damned good at this.’

It took them all of two minutes to walk down to the shore. In one direction they could see the promontory that marked the end of Sudersand bay, and in the other direction was the campsite. Close to the shoreline a small tent had been set up, and a group of people was gathered around it. Suddenly a whirring sound was heard overhead. It was the police helicopter from Stockholm, probably with the medical examiner on board.

Pia immediately began filming. Even though Johan was well aware that he was inside the area that had been cordoned off, he walked over to see if he could talk to the pilot when the helicopter landed. It was worth a try. A man got out and hurried over to the tent. That had to be the ME.

‘We’re from Swedish TV,’ he shouted to the pilot. ‘Is that the ME who just arrived?’

‘That’s right. We came straight here from the helipad at Karolinska hospital.’

‘When are you heading back?’

‘They said we’d be taking off in half an hour. I can’t keep the chopper here any longer than that. It’s needed at Berga.’

‘OK.’

Johan waved his thanks to the pilot. He’d found out what he wanted to know. Now he just needed to try talking to the police. He noticed Erik Sohlman, who had stepped away to get himself a cup of coffee.

‘Hi, Erik. What’s going on here?’

Sohlman nodded to Berg. Johan had been a crime reporter on the island for quite a while now, and on several occasions he’d actually helped the police, once when his daughter’s life was at stake and once when his own life was in jeopardy. So Sohlman felt compelled to repay the favour. He hesitated before answering, taking a moment to decide what he wanted to say. Then he came over to Johan.

‘I can tell you this much: a man was found dead, and we suspect foul play. The ME is doing his first examination right now. Later the body will be moved to the morgue in Visby, and from there it will be transported by ferry to the forensic medicine lab in Solna.’

‘I understand, but…’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything else. And you’re inside the police tape, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

Johan and Pia headed back to their car. Both were more than satisfied. Now they even had time to shoot some reactions from people at the campsite.

Their story was in the can.

LATE THAT AFTERNOON the investigative team gathered for a meeting at police headquarters. Besides Karin Jacobsson, Thomas Wittberg and Erik Sohlman, the group included Lars Norrby and chief prosecutor Birger Smittenberg.

Jacobsson started by welcoming everyone.

‘So it looks like we have yet another brutal murder on our hands. You might call it an execution, pure and simple. The victim has already been identified down at the beach by his wife. His name is Peter Bovide, born in 1966, married and the father of two, from Slite. He’s been on holiday with his family at Sudersand campsite since Friday – in other words, he’d spent three days there. Early this morning, around five thirty according to his wife, he went out for a run. Apparently this was not out of the ordinary for him. The victim appears to have had a stable family life. He and Vendela Bovide have been married for six years. They have two children, a boy, five, and a girl, three. We interviewed the wife very briefly when she was asked to identify the body. She’s suffering from severe shock, so she was taken to the hospital, where they’ve decided to keep her overnight for observation. I’m hoping to be able to talk to her tomorrow.’

Jacobsson paused for a moment to glance down at her papers before she went on.

‘The body was found around nine thirty by two boys from Stockholm. They’re both thirteen years old, and their parents rent a cabin nearby. They were playing soccer on the beach and ended up quite a distance away. Then they decided to go for a swim and discovered the body in the water a short way from shore. They shouted for help and several people came to their aid. The man who rang the police is the father of one of the boys. The call to the emergency number 112 came in at nine forty-two. The first officers to respond arrived forty-five minutes later.’

‘How long had he been dead?’ asked Prosecutor Smittenberg.

‘At least a couple of hours, but five or six, max,’ replied Sohlman.

‘Precisely,’ said Jacobsson. ‘So there’s no sense in setting up road blocks or stopping the ferry traffic. Of course, all day we’ve been checking everyone who leaves the island by ferry, and we’ll keep doing so into the evening. Does anyone here happen to know the victim?’

All those seated around the table shook their heads.

‘So what do we know about Peter Bovide?’

Jacobsson answered her own question.

‘He actually has a police record, but just for a minor crime. A charge of assault and battery from back in the eighties, when he was twenty. A fight at Burmeister here in town. The bouncers refused to let him into the disco, so he punched one of them. Because he didn’t have a prior record, he got off with a fine. Nothing since then. He’s done construction work, and now he runs his own building company along with a partner. Slite Construction, with six full-time employees. The partner’s name is Johnny Ekwall, and we’re going to interview him tonight. In short, that’s all we can say about the victim right now. When it comes to the crime itself, I’m afraid we don’t have much to go on. We’ve been knocking on doors in the area, but there are no eyewitnesses. On the other hand, somebody did hear the shots. A couple that lives nearby heard first one shot and then several more bangs that they thought might have been gunfire. The sound woke them up, and according to them, it was around six this morning. They thought it was either rifle practice or someone who was out shooting rabbits illegally. Apparently that’s common in the area. We’re continuing to interview visitors and employees at the campsite and at the nearby restaurants. Some people left the campsite during the course of the day, and we’re trying to track them down. Since we need to do a large number of interviews, I’ve contacted the National Criminal Police. Martin Kihlgård and some of his colleagues will be here early tomorrow morning.’

‘Good,’ said Lars Norrby. ‘Sounds like we’ll need their help.’

Jacobsson gave him a quick look. It was impossible to tell whether his remark was intended to be sarcastic or not. Her appointment as Knutas’s deputy had taken place only six months earlier. When her older colleague realized that Karin was going to be given the promotion, he had loudly voiced his objections, devoting a large part of his work days to bad-mouthing both Knutas and Jacobsson. Norrby was also suspected of having leaked information to the press. Finally he had been removed from the investigative team. Today he was present solely because of his role as spokesman; this was their first meeting, and he needed to be kept informed, at least to some extent, regarding the progress of the investigation.

Jacobsson wanted to believe that all grudges had been forgotten, but she wasn’t sure whether that was true. Norrby’s expression revealed nothing of what he was actually feeling. She had to admit to herself that because Knutas was away, anybody who still wished to oppose her authority now had free rein.

She was looking forward to Martin Kihlgård’s arrival to help with the investigation. Jacobsson had always liked the inspector from the NCP in Stockholm, ever since the first time they’d met in connection with a manhunt for a serial killer several years earlier.

She turned to Sohlman.

‘Erik, would you like to take it from here?’

‘Sure.’

He sat down in front of the computer, signalling for Jacobsson to turn off the lights. On the white screen at the front of the room a map of the campsite and Sudersand bay appeared. Peter Bovide’s presumed jogging route had been marked with a red line.

‘Here you can see the area. The campsite itself covers the whole top half of the map. The Bovide family caravan was parked at the very edge. On the other side of the fence is the path that leads to the beach restaurants and the summer cottage colony. Peter Bovide didn’t take that path; instead he ran straight down to the shore and then turned left and followed the shoreline north. He turned around out by the promontory, and on his way back he encountered the perpetrator, only a kilometre from the actual campsite.’

‘How do we know this?’ asked Smittenberg.

He was the chief prosecutor for Gotland’s district court, and he’d worked with the investigative team on so many cases that it felt as if he were a regular member. He still spoke with a distinct Stockholm accent in spite of the fact that he’d lived on the island and been married to a Gotlander for more than twenty years.

‘We’ve identified Bovide’s footprints. We found them both on the path from the caravan heading down towards the sea, and along the beach. It was easy to follow his route.’

‘Did you find footprints from the perpetrator as well?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘There are a bunch of different prints in the area where the victim was found. The most interesting are from a type of trainer, size 7. We’re working on that. Otherwise we haven’t found much evidence in the area so far.’

‘No bullets or empty casings?’

‘No, but it looks like he has a number of slugs still in his body. He was shot no fewer than eight times. The ME has been here and examined the body at the scene, so what I’m telling you about now is the first impression we both had. In other words, nothing has been confirmed yet, so take it all with a grain of salt. We’re hoping that the post mortem will be done in the morning, and then we should have a preliminary report by tomorrow evening.’

‘Good,’ said Jacobsson. ‘At this stage, how would you interpret the wounds?’

‘In terms of the shot to the forehead, we can see that the bullet penetrated the skull and entered the brain, where it stopped. Judging by the appearance of the entry wound, we think that the shot was fired at very close range. Either the perp pressed the gun to the victim’s forehead, or the muzzle was only a few inches from Bovide’s head.’

‘How can you tell?’ asked Wittberg with interest.

‘We know that it was fired at close range because of the type of entry wound in the victim’s head. It’s quite large and star-shaped. You can see how jagged it is if you look at the photo. That’s because the bullet carries a cloud of hot gas that follows it into the body when the shot is fired at close range. The gas collects under the skin like a bubble which bursts when the bullet penetrates farther inside – rather like a zit, actually – and that results in this type of star-shaped wound. Carbon particles also collect around the entry hole, and there are some traces left on his forehead.’

‘Even though he was floating in the water for several hours?’ asked Wittberg.

‘Yes, it’s rather like a tattoo.’

‘Good lord,’ groaned Jacobsson.

She couldn’t understand how Sohlman could sound so unmoved when he talked about a victim’s wounds.

‘The shot to the forehead should have been sufficient to kill him, since it was fired so close to his body,’ Sohlman continued. ‘So it’s a mystery what the hell went on after that.’

The next picture showed the bullet holes in the abdomen.

‘If the shot to the forehead was fired first, the murderer must have gone crazy afterwards. He seems to have emptied an entire magazine into the body. Seven shots fired at the man’s gut, also at close range.’

‘What does it mean?’ muttered Jacobsson. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘The first thing that comes to mind is rage,’ said Wittberg. ‘It must have been somebody who was really furious with the victim.’

‘Yes,’ Jacobsson agreed. ‘It seems very charged with emotion. Maybe they knew each other.’

‘Unprofessional is what I’d call it,’ Sohlman interjected. ‘If you want to kill somebody, you don’t fire a bunch of shots at the stomach. There’s a good chance the victim might survive, as long as the bullets don’t hit the aorta or the heart. A pro would have fired another shot to the head if he wasn’t sure that the first bullet had been fatal.’

‘So an amateur then. Somebody who hasn’t killed before,’ said Jacobsson. ‘At the same time, it seems incredibly cold-blooded. I mean, not everyone would be able to shoot a man standing right in front of them, and in the forehead at such close range.’

‘But why do you think he was shot in the head first and then in the stomach?’ asked Wittberg. ‘Wouldn’t the opposite seem more reasonable? The perp shoots the victim in the stomach, and then to make sure he dies, he fires a shot at his head.’

‘It’s just a feeling I have,’ said Sohlman. ‘We really won’t know until after the post mortem. I’m sure the ME will be able to determine in what order the bullets were fired.’

‘Can you tell us anything about the weapon?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘Nothing except that we’re talking about a small-calibre pistol. I won’t know more until we’ve taken a look at the slugs.’

‘The question is how the murderer knew that Peter Bovide was going to be out running so early,’ murmured Wittberg. ‘In other words, was the murder premeditated?’

‘It seems most likely that it was planned,’ said Norrby, crossing one long leg over the other. ‘How long did you say they’d been at the campsite?’

‘Three days,’ replied Jacobsson.

‘The perp must have followed Bovide to the campsite and observed his routines.’

‘Apparently, he always went running every morning at the same time,’ interjected Jacobsson. ‘Every single day of the year.’

She reached for the flask of coffee standing on the table.

‘What I can’t understand is why the perp would choose to commit the murder so close to a campsite swarming with people. Doesn’t that seem a bit crazy?’

‘Maybe he was staying at the campsite himself,’ said Wittberg. ‘It might have been someone that Peter Bovide had just met.’

‘Or maybe there’s some reason why the perp didn’t want to kill Bovide close to home,’ said Smittenberg. ‘A neighbour, a work colleague, or someone else with strong ties to Bovide’s life back in Slite. Killing him on Fårö could serve as some sort of diversionary manoeuvre.’

‘That doesn’t sound very likely,’ said Jacobsson. ‘The MO seems to indicate that a lunatic is on the loose. We need to do everything we can to catch this person as soon as possible. One way to proceed is to look for the gun. The perp might have thrown it away somewhere nearby. We’ll use metal detectors and get the coast guard to bring in divers who can search the area where the body was found.’

Jacobsson silently reminded herself that she needed to make sure the Swedish Crime Laboratory, the SCL in Linköping, gave priority to examining the bullets to find out what type of gun was used. She turned to Sohlman.

‘Erik, could you see to it that the SCL puts a rush on this case, both the post mortem and the examination of the bullets? We can’t rule out that we’re dealing with someone who’s mentally ill, and in the worst-case scenario he may have developed a taste for killing. There’s a good chance he’ll strike again.’

PETER BOVIDE’S PARTNER, Johnny Ekwall, looked pale and upset when he arrived for the interview at police headquarters on the night of the murder. His muscular body slumped, and he was obviously having trouble holding back the tears. He sank heavily on to the chair across from Jacobsson, who was already sitting at the table in the cramped interrogation room. He smelled strongly of sweat. Jacobsson wrinkled her nose but decided she’d have to overlook it, since the man’s colleague had just been murdered, after all.

‘I realize that it’s tough to have to come here,’ she said sympathetically, ‘but I’m afraid it’s necessary. We need to gather as much information as we can about Peter Bovide, and do it quickly, so that we can catch the murderer.’

She switched on the tape recorder and ran through the standard statements. Then she leaned back in her chair and studied the man sitting in front of her. She knew that he was fifty-two, but she thought he looked older. His hair was thinning, and he had deep lines on his face.

‘How long have you been running the company together?’

‘Five years. Peter had dreamed of doing it for a long time – starting his own company, I mean – and recently things have really taken off. This is too bloody awful.’

He stared down at the table.

‘How did you divide up the work?’

‘Peter mostly handles the administrative and financial sides of the business, plus he goes after more jobs and writes bids. I take care of the practical matters. Meaning, I find the men to do the work and things like that. Make sure that everything is going smoothly. I also get more personally involved in the operational side than Peter does. I spend as much time as I can out at the construction sites. Peter mostly stays in the office. You might say that he’s the brains of the company while I’m the heart.’

Jacobsson raised her eyebrows at this use of metaphor. She felt an instant empathy for this man who spoke of Peter Bovide as if he were still alive.

‘How did you happen to meet?’

‘It was back in the nineties, when there were very few construction jobs to be had. We were both working extra hard as longshoremen at Slite harbour. After that we often ended up working at the same building sites, and we became good friends.’

‘Why did you decide to start a company together with Peter?’

‘I’ve spent my whole life working for other people, and I thought it was about time for me to run my own business. Peter was always a driving force at the construction sites. He inspired the other guys to work more efficiently and pick up the tempo, so I trusted him. If I was going to try starting my own company, I wanted to do it with him. And I’d saved up a fair amount of money, so that was enough for our initial investment.’

‘Are you married? Do you have children?’

‘No.’

‘Could you describe Peter? What was he like?’

‘Everybody liked him. He was the quiet type, very meticulous. And he was a workaholic, he really was. Never stopped working.’

‘How was his marriage?’

‘Vendela and the kids were everything to him. He was one of the few guys I know who actually had a great relationship with his wife. He put in long hours, but he always went straight home when the work was done.’

Johnny Ekwall sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. Jacobsson paused for a moment before asking her next question.

‘And the business was doing well, you said?’

‘Yes. It was tough in the beginning, but for the past year the work has been pouring in. People are building like crazy. We’ve also had some big jobs that paid really well. Things are going better and better. We’ve even been thinking about hiring a couple more guys. And now this happens. It’s so damn unfair.’

‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm Peter?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘Have you noticed any changes lately? Somebody new he’d made contact with, or anything like that? Think carefully. Every detail is important, no matter how small.’

Johnny Ekwall hesitated before replying.

‘Well, actually, Peter told me that sometimes he felt like he was being watched. Just recently, not long before he died.’

Jacobsson gave a start.

‘What do you mean by “watched”?’

‘As if someone was literally tailing him, shadowing him.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Once when we were having coffee at the company office, as usual. He suddenly got up and went over to the window to look outside. I asked him what was going on, and he told me that he thought he’d heard something, and then he saw a shadow pass by outside.’

‘Did you see anything?’

‘No. It happened again when we were doing some grocery shopping in Slite. He kept turning round, and he said that he had the feeling somebody was after him.’

‘When did all this start?’

‘A few weeks ago, maybe in early June.’

‘Did he ever show this sort of behaviour before?’

‘No. But lately he started getting strange phone calls as well.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone would ring him up and then just put down the phone.’

‘Did you get these kinds of calls too?’

‘No, but I know it happened to Peter several times.’

‘What did the person on the phone say?’

‘I don’t think they said anything. Maybe it was just a wrong number.’

‘What time of day did these calls take place?’

‘Any time at all, I think.’

‘Do you know whether he got these calls at home too?’

‘He never mentioned it.’

‘Did anyone else at the company get these types of phone calls?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think it had something to do with your business?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest. I don’t even know whether he was really being followed or whether it was just his imagination. He was a bit fragile from a psychological standpoint, I have to admit.’

‘Fragile? What do you mean by that?’

‘Sometimes he’d get depressed and hardly say a word all day. He seemed to retreat inside himself. It was obvious that he was feeling low.’

‘Do you know what caused it?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ever talk about it?’

‘No. I did try to bring it up a few times, but I could tell that he didn’t want to talk about it, so I dropped the subject.’

‘How much do you know about the company’s finances?’

‘Not a thing, as a matter of fact. As I said, Peter handled everything to do with the account books. I have no sense for numbers.’

JOHAN AND PIA were working to get their report ready in time for the first evening news broadcast. They were sitting in the editorial office of Regional News, housed in the Swedish TV and Radio building on Östra Hansegatan, just outside the ring wall. For the past few years Gotland had been included in the area covered by Regional News, but there was no permanent staff on the island. Johan had been forced to get used to commuting back and forth between Stockholm and Visby. It had been very trying, not just professionally but also in terms of his personal life. His relationship with Emma Winarve was complicated enough, and it had been that way from the very beginning. She was married when they first met, and she had two young children. They instantly fell in love and carried on a passionate affair in secret. When Emma was pregnant with Johan’s child, she got a divorce and gave birth to their daughter, Elin, who was now a year old. Emma had been too bewildered after the divorce to move in with Johan right away, which had greatly upset him.

But eventually he was allowed to move into her house in Roma.

Their familial happiness was short-lived, because soon afterwards they had landed in the middle of a kidnapping drama, and for a few terrifying hours Elin was held captive by a murderer on the run from the police. While carrying out his reporting duties for Swedish TV, Johan had come too close to the perpetrator. Emma had accused Johan of putting their daughter’s life in danger, even though deep inside she knew that he hadn’t done it on purpose. After Elin was found safe, Emma had broken off the engagement. Several months had passed since then, and the contact between them was still chilly. They saw each other only when picking up Elin or dropping her off.

During the whole turbulent spring, Johan had rushed back and forth between Stockholm and Gotland, trying to spend as much time with Elin as he could.

Swedish TV had rented an apartment for him on Adelsgatan in the middle of Visby so that he didn’t have to stay in a hotel. Just a little cubbyhole, of course, but the location couldn’t have been more central.

Emotionally, Johan found himself in a miserable state. His body was screaming for Emma, and he constantly felt an aching yearning to be with Elin. It was like having a black hole inside him. Right now he had no idea what he was going to do; it was probably merely a matter of accepting the situation. He had wanted to demand to see his daughter at least 50 per cent of the time, as was his right, but it was actually his own mother who had made him change his mind.

‘One thing at a time,’ she had said to console him. ‘One thing at a time.’ Making demands in the midst of such chaos would just make everything worse. His mother thought that, with time, Emma would calm down and listen to reason. And he wanted to believe in her.

The situation couldn’t be described as anything but disastrous, yet the kidnapping drama that occurred in the early spring had also taken its toll on Johan, and he didn’t have the energy to deal with the conflict with Emma right now. For the time being, he made do with the few days he was allowed to spend with Elin.

DARK HAD FALLEN by the time Karin Jacobsson walked home from police headquarters. She crossed Norra Hansegatan and continued along the main street down to Östercentrum. The shops were closed, but some young guys were sitting at tables outside McDonald’s, bellowing into the warm July night. Teenagers walked past, on their way down to the ring wall and the old town looming inside. It was close to midnight, and she still hadn’t been able to get in touch with Knutas. Now it was too late to call. Instead, she sent off a brief text message:

‘Murder on Fårö. Man shot to death, execution-style. Ring when you have time.’

Just as she passed Ali’s barbecue stand outside Österport, her mobile rang.

‘Hi, it’s Anders. Are you kidding?’

‘I wish I was.’

She couldn’t resist smiling a bit when she heard how flabbergasted he sounded. She realized he must be frustrated at being so far away.

‘I tried to call you several times.’

‘I know. I was recharging my mobile, so it was switched off. Then I forgot about it. I’m on holiday, after all,’ he joked. ‘So tell me what happened.’

Jacobsson quickly outlined the sequence of events as she walked through the gate in the Visby ring wall at Österport and down Hästgatan.

The restaurants she passed were packed with people enjoying the warm night. Music poured out of the bars and eating establishments. Visby had a lively entertainment scene in the summer, and it was high season right now.

She had reached Mellangatan by the time she had finished her report.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Knutas. ‘What are you doing now?’

‘I’ve talked to Martin Kihlgård, and he and a few colleagues from the NCP will be here tomorrow.’

There was silence on the line for a moment. Jacobsson was at her front door. She felt a pang of guilt. Partly because Knutas was having a well-deserved holiday, which he really needed. Partly because it was so late, and he should be spending time with his wife instead of talking shop with her.

‘OK,’ she went on. ‘So now you know what happened, at any rate. But you’re on holiday. We can handle things here, Anders.’

‘I have every confidence that you can. Ring if you need anything. It’s no bother.’

‘Thanks. Good night.’

‘Good night. Give my best to everyone else.’

‘Sure.’

When Karin went to bed that night, she felt lonelier than she had in a long time.