The Dead Of Summer

TUESDAY, 11 JULY

KARIN WOKE WITH a jolt and reached for the clock on the nightstand. 6.55. She lay in bed for a while, thinking about the events of the previous day. The image of Peter Bovide’s lacerated body appeared in her mind.

Outwardly there seemed to be nothing remarkable about his life. Bovide was an ordinary father of two and part-owner of a construction company. The answers that his partner Johnny Ekwall had given seemed perfectly straightforward. Karin was looking forward to hearing the results of the search the police had carried out, both at Bovide’s home and at his company offices. The police had still been hard at work late last night.

Jacobsson climbed out of bed. She and Knutas were both morning people. She wondered what else they shared. How would he have handled the investigation? She realized that she wouldn’t be able to resist ringing him again later in the day.

She opened the window. Since she lived on the top floor, she could look out over the rooftops to the sea. Off in the distance she saw one of the Gotland ferries on its way out of Visby harbour.

The floorboards creaked under her feet as she went out to the kitchen. Her cockatoo, Vincent, was awake, and he said, ‘Good morning,’ to her, in English. He was the only bird she knew who was bilingual. Karin had inherited him from an Australian friend who had moved back to her home country a few years earlier.

She made herself some coffee and a couple of open sandwiches on rye. She fetched the newspaper from the letterbox and switched on the radio. The murder of Peter Bovide was of course the top story. She noted with relief that the news reports contained no surprises, only the information that the police had already revealed. After carefully reading everything written about the murder, she quickly scanned the rest of the newspaper. An article in Gotlands Tidningar caught her attention.

The Russian ships bringing coal to the cement factory in Slite were going to double their deliveries in the autumn. They would be arriving in Slite harbour once a week instead of every two weeks, as they did now. The factory was apparently increasing its production, and coal was used in its furnaces. The stone quarry in Slite was one of the largest in Sweden.

She poured herself another cup of coffee. Something about this article bothered her, but she couldn’t work out what it was. She read it again, this time paying more attention, but didn’t notice anything special.

No doubt it would come to her later on.

THE PHONE STARTED ringing even before Karin Jacobsson stepped into her office. She recognized at once the agitated voice of the director of tourism. No matter what the issue, Sonja Hedström always sounded as if it was a matter of life and death. Just the sound of her voice could raise the blood pressure and cause heart palpitations in even the calmest of people.

‘Hi, this is Sonja Hedström. We’ve got our hands full here with nervous campers and visitors. The public seem to think that this terrible murder has something to do with the fact that the man was staying at the campsite!’

As usual, the tourism director took it for granted that whoever she happened to be calling had all the time in the world to talk to her. She didn’t ask whether she might be interrupting anything, even though the police were in the middle of a homicide investigation. Jacobsson did her best not to sound too annoyed.

‘Is that right?’

‘Yes. It had already started yesterday morning, and since then it has escalated, getting worse and worse. And now the cancellations have started rolling in too. What if people decide they don’t dare come over here? What if the murderer strikes again, at some other tourist destination?’

The high season was not very long on Gotland; it lasted about six weeks, from Midsummer’s Eve until early August. During that time, between 300,000 and 400,000 tourists visited the island, which had only about 60,000 permanent residents. So of course the income from these tourists was essential. Jacobsson could understand why Sonja Hedström was so concerned.

‘Tell the people who call that there’s no indication that the murder has anything to do with camping or that particular campsite,’ said Jacobsson. ‘On the other hand, we really can’t rule out anything, since we’ve just started the investigation.’

‘The only thing that will calm the public down is if the police catch the murderer. How close are you to making an arrest?’

‘Impossible to say at this point. The murder was committed only yesterday, you know.’

‘And you really have no idea what this is all about? There must be some sort of clues at the crime scene, and I’m sure that lots of people must have noticed something. I mean, he was shot, after all, and the shots must have been heard in a wide area, and Sudersand was fully booked. Now lots of campers have decided to cut short their holidays and leave. Nobody is going to want to camp there after this. Do you realize what a disaster this is for the owner of the campsite?’

Great. Now it seemed Sonja Hedström also wanted to tell the police how to run a murder investigation.

‘At the moment my primary sympathies are not with the owner of the campsite,’ said Jacobsson dryly. ‘And of course there are witnesses and evidence. That’s exactly what I need to concentrate on right now instead of wasting time on unnecessary phone conversations.’

‘You don’t need to be so rude,’ said Sonja Hedström, clearly insulted. ‘Peter Bovide was a frequent visitor to the campsite, so it’s not so strange that rumours have been spreading; they say the murderer must hate people with caravans, or something like that. I just wanted to know what I can tell people to reassure them, at least a little bit, but I guess I’ll just have to wait until Anders gets back.’

The tourism director’s voice was quivering with indignation, and with an abrupt click she hung up.

The blood instantly raced through Jacobsson’s body, and with a flushed face she went out into the hall to get some water. That usually helped if she was feeling upset.

As she was drinking from her plastic cup, Thomas Wittberg showed up in the hall. As usual, he was more suntanned than anyone else; he wore a white T-shirt to show off his tan, and a pair of worn jeans. His curly blond hair was longer than normal and hung down into his eyes, which were barely visible.

‘Hi, how’s it going? You’re looking like a thundercloud.’

‘Don’t ask,’ Jacobsson said between clenched teeth. She turned her back to him as she filled another cup with water from the drinking fountain.

‘That bad, huh? Well, I’ve got some news. Would that help?’

A couple of minutes later they were seated in Jacobsson’s office. Wittberg had dropped on to the chair facing her desk.

‘I just talked to the man who was captain of the Fårö ferry yesterday morning. He told me that on the first crossing at four a.m. there were only three cars on board. He always finds it amusing to study the passengers on the ferry, so that’s why he remembers exactly who was sitting in those three cars. If the perp wasn’t already on Fårö, then he would have had to take the four o’clock ferry across the sound. There aren’t any earlier boats, and the one at five o’clock would have been too late.’

‘And?’

‘In the first car there was a young couple who looked as if they’d been partying in Visby all night. The driver of the second car was a pregnant woman, and in the third was a man with a horse trailer hitched to his car.

‘Does the captain remember what kind of cars they were driving?’

‘That’s what’s so amazing. He not only remembers the colour and type of car, he can even tell us the licence plate numbers. He usually memorizes at least the letters.’

‘What a guy! He should be a detective,’ said Jacobsson with a laugh, forgetting her earlier annoyance. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Bo Karlström. Sixty years old. From Fårösund.’

‘Good. Get him in here ASAP. He might have actually seen the perp. And get started on looking for those people in the cars. We need to find out why they were going out to Fårö so early in the morning.’

WHEN EMMA WINARVE drove into the car park near the Almedal library, part of her wanted to turn round and go straight back home. She cast a glance at her face in the mirror. She could see how pale she was under the sunburn, and there were bags under her eyes. Never mind. She was just going to leave Elin with Johan for a little while so she could go to the dentist. Nothing to get excited about.

She got out and opened the boot of the car. With some effort, she hauled out the pushchair and unfolded it. On the rack underneath she put Elin’s bag, containing nappies, a baby bottle filled with water and a stuffed animal. Then she lifted her daughter out of the car and kissed her neck before she put her in the chair and stuck a dummy in her mouth. She straightened the child’s cotton dress and patted her hair, which was pulled back in a ponytail. It had grown long and now reached all the way down her back. They headed toward Almedalen. The lovely park was right outside the Visby ring wall, an oasis between the town and the harbour.

The sun was blazing, and it was already hot. The park was relatively deserted this early in the morning. An elderly woman was sitting on a bench, tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks in the pond, and a couple of early-rising mothers and their toddlers had settled on blankets which they’d spread out on the grass. Otherwise Emma saw mostly tourists who were on their way to the boats in the harbour, or to their cars, carrying all their beach paraphernalia as they headed for the sea.

Everything seemed so carefree in the summertime. The people she passed all seemed happy and relaxed as they chatted and laughed. It made her feel even more lonely and miserable. Was life so much easier for everyone else? Was there something wrong with her, something that somehow made her life more difficult?

They had agreed to meet outside the Packhus restaurant on Strandgatan, but as she approached the ring wall she had already caught sight of Johan as he came through the gate opening. He was looking the other way and hadn’t yet seen her. She couldn’t help it if she still found him attractive. His dark hair, those sinewy arms, his unshaven cheeks. He was wearing shorts, which revealed that his long legs were slightly bowed, and of course the obligatory trainers. Johan had never been interested in fashion.

For a few moments she pretended that nothing had changed between them, that they were simply about to meet and take a walk in the park with their daughter. That everything was fine.

She had just managed to convince herself how that would feel when he turned his head and saw her. She flushed when she noticed how his face lit up.

He waved and started towards her.

‘Hi!’

‘Hi,’ she replied, sounding a bit strained.

He gave Elin a hug and planted a light kiss on Emma’s cheek before she managed to pull away.

‘Do you have time to keep us company for a bit?’

Of course she did; her dentist appointment wasn’t for another half-hour.

‘So how are you doing?’ asked Johan as he took over the pushchair.

‘OK, I suppose.’

They walked on in silence for a moment.

‘It’s so awful about that murder. Do you know anything more than what was reported in the papers?’

‘And on the radio and TV, you mean?’ he teased her. ‘No, not really.’

‘Pappa phoned. They were really upset because it happened so close to their house.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not surprised at their reaction. Although I don’t think they need to be scared. The murderer has probably left the island by now.’

The house belonging to Emma’s parents was quite isolated, located on Fårö’s north-eastern promontory.

‘So I guess you’re really under a lot of pressure right now.’

She studied his profile.

‘Yes, but don’t worry. We’ve got to do a follow-up report today, of course, but we’ll make it. You’ll be done around eleven, right?’

Emma noticed a trace of impatience in Johan’s dark-brown eyes, which annoyed her. He always seemed to think his job was so damn important.

‘Sure, probably even a little earlier.’

‘All right. That’ll be fine then.’

Emma took a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and lit one.

‘I thought you’d given up.’

‘I did, but I’ve started again,’ she snapped.

She hadn’t intended to sound so sharp, but it was too late now. She avoided meeting his eye.

‘You don’t need to be so grumpy. I didn’t mean it as a criticism.’

It was impossible to ignore the resignation in his voice. And it drove her crazy. As if all it took was for her to light up one cigarette to ruin everything. That’s how bad things were between them. They just couldn’t get along. After five minutes, it was all spoiled.

They had reached the path that wound its way along the harbour. The waves were rolling in, calmly and steadily lapping against the pebbles on the beach. Now and then they met a bicyclist heading towards town.

Suddenly Emma had a great urge to be somewhere else. She stopped abruptly.

‘I’ve got to go now.’

‘Already?’ Johan cast a glance at his watch.

‘Yes.’ She pressed her lips together for a second. ‘Just keep on going, it’s great for Elin to be near the water when there’s a cool breeze blowing. I’ll see you around eleven, back at Almedal library, OK?’

‘Sure, that’s fine. I’ll tell Pia to meet me at the office so we can drive out to Fårö.’

‘OK.’

In his mind he’s already making plans to be on his way, she thought. She turned round and dashed off.

When she was out of sight, the tears came.

ON THE DAY after the murder Vendela Bovide was still in Visby hospital. Jacobsson gave her name at the reception desk and was asked to take a seat and wait until she could be allowed into the patient’s room.

The sight of the young widow was distressing. She was sitting up in bed with several pillows behind her back. Her eyes were closed, and her face looked almost transparent. Her hair hung limply, dull and lifeless, the gown she was wearing was too big, and her hands were clasped on top of the blanket. Her despair filled the room like a heavy cloud.

Jacobsson greeted the woman without getting a response and then glanced around the room, feeling a bit lost. There was a chair standing in the corner. Cautiously she pulled it forward and sat down next to the bed.

‘Where are my children?’ asked Vendela Bovide, her voice weak.

‘They’re with your husband’s parents.’

‘Where?’

‘They live in Slite, don’t they?’

Jacobsson fidgeted, feeling uneasy as she considered whether to call a nurse. The woman in the bed seemed rather out of it. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since she’d learned that her husband had been murdered.

Her expression scared Jacobsson. During all her years in the police force, she had talked with a great many people who had lost someone they loved, but she’d never before witnessed such complete withdrawal and bottled-up despair as that exhibited by this woman in the bed. It was so strong it actually made the air hard to breathe.

Jacobsson wanted either to leave at once or else take the woman in her arms to console her. Just sitting there doing nothing seemed absurd.

‘I’m sorry to have to bother you,’ she began. ‘My name is Karin Jacobsson, and I’m in charge of the investigation. We spoke on the phone yesterday.’

Almost imperceptibly, Vendela Bovide nodded.

‘Let me start by offering my condolences. Are you ready to answer some questions?’

Silence.

‘Do you know what time it was when Peter left to go running yesterday morning?’

‘It was 5.35.’

‘How can you be so precise?’

‘I glanced at the clock when he left.’

‘So you were awake? Did you talk to him before he took off?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘The same as always.’

‘How was that?’

‘Cheerful. He was going to make breakfast when he came back. And put the coffee on. That was the last thing he said.’

‘Did he usually go running in the morning?’

‘That was his regular routine, all year round.’

‘And at about the same time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Both weekdays and weekends?’

‘Every day. He was a man of habit. Peter liked routines.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Because he was insecure.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘No, he never talked about it.’

‘But there was something worrying him?’

‘I think so.’

Her voice faded. Vendela turned her head so she could look out of the window.

‘What do you think it might have been?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe something to do with the company.’

‘Why would he be worried about that?’

‘It’s not easy running a company, you know…’

‘According to his partner, Johnny Ekwall, Peter thought he was being watched. Do you know anything about that?’

A faint twitch of an eyebrow.

‘No, nothing. Watched? No, he never said anything about that.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘And apparently he’d received some anonymous phone calls at the office. Did you know about that?’

‘No. I think we did get some calls that were wrong numbers, but that was a long time ago.’

Vendela’s hands were picking nervously at the covers.

Either she was telling the truth or there was some reason she didn’t want to admit that her husband thought he was being spied on. More likely the latter, but Jacobsson chose not to ask any more questions on that subject until later.

‘How was the company doing?’

‘Good. At least that’s what he told me.’

‘OK. But you don’t know anything about company operations or the book-keeping?’

‘No.’

Jacobsson paused for a moment and glanced down at the notepad she was holding on her lap.

‘Could you tell from your personal finances that things were going well at the company?’

‘Yes. It meant that we could take a holiday. This time of year we usually go camping, but we’ve never been able to afford a trip abroad. We were supposed to go to Mallorca after two weeks on Fårö. He’d booked a four-star hotel. I thought it was too expensive, but he was so determined, and he said we could afford it. He thought we deserved it after all the work involved in starting the company. The years when our kids were babies were really tough for me; he was working almost all the time.’

Vendela began sobbing. She took a tissue from a box on the bedside table and loudly blew her nose.

‘Why did you happen to choose the Sudersand campsite?’

‘We’ve gone there for several years, every holiday. Peter loved that campsite. He knew the owner. He reserved the same spot for us every year.’

‘Did you also socialize with the owner?’

‘No, almost never. Mats – that’s the owner’s name – works at the campsite all summer long, and as soon as the holidays are over, he and his wife go somewhere on the Black Sea. She’s from that area.’

Jacobsson’s pen raced to keep up as she took notes. For a moment she pondered what Vendela had just told her. The woman’s answers to her questions were quite lucid, considering her condition only a few minutes ago.

‘When Peter left the caravan yesterday morning, was that the last time you saw him?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do after he left?’

‘I couldn’t sleep any more, so I got up and made coffee. I decided to stay inside the caravan because it had rained all night. I drank my coffee and did a crossword puzzle.’

‘And after that?’

‘A couple of hours must have passed, and then the kids woke up.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Maybe around eight.’

‘Didn’t you wonder why Peter hadn’t come back?’

‘Yes, I did, but sometimes he stayed down at the beach and did callisthenics and then took a swim. I didn’t think it was so strange. The sun had come out rather quickly, you know.’

‘When did you start getting worried about his absence?’

‘I ate breakfast with the kids. They were watching a children’s programme on TV. By the time I’d cleaned up and made the beds it was eight thirty. That’s when I started to wonder where he was.’

‘Were you worried?’

‘Not really. But around ten o’clock the kids and I walked down to the beach, and there we saw that a big crowd had gathered. Later the police rang.’

In a matter of seconds the controlled façade had shattered, and Vendela Bovide again started sobbing loudly.

Jacobsson put her hand on the woman’s arm. Vendela yanked her arm away as if she’d been burned.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she snarled so vehemently that saliva sprayed from her lips. ‘He’s the only one who’s allowed to touch me. Do you understand?’

Jacobsson gave a start. She had been completely unprepared for such an outburst. She shoved her chair back as far as it would go, and for a while she didn’t say a word. There were still some questions that she wanted to ask. She sincerely hoped that Vendela wasn’t about to lose all control.

The woman’s sobs gradually diminished enough that Jacobsson dared continue the conversation.

‘Do you know whether your husband had any enemies? I mean, did he ever receive any threats, or was there anybody who was particularly hostile towards him?’

A shadow passed over Vendela’s face.

‘No. I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I don’t think so. Peter was a very generous man, and everybody liked him. He was kind and helpful and hardly ever disagreed with anyone. He hated any sort of conflict. It was the same in our relationship. We hardly ever argued.’

Vendela Bovide’s voice was fading, and Jacobsson could tell that it was time to stop. The woman’s thin body slumped lower on the bed.

‘So what was Peter like? Was he happy?’

Vendela hesitated before answering. She looked as if she were seriously mulling over the question. As if it were something new to consider, and unexpected.

‘I think he was happy, at least as happy as he could be.’

‘I realize this is difficult for you,’ said Jacobsson sympathetically. ‘But I’m afraid I have to ask these questions so that we can catch the person who did this as soon as possible. Has anything unusual happened lately?’

‘No.’

‘Did the two of you, or maybe just Peter, happen to meet anybody new?’

Vendela Bovide seemed to be considering what to say. Again she answered in the negative.

‘Do you have a job too?’

‘Yes, I work part-time at a beauty salon in Visby, every other Saturday.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘Sofia’s Nails and Beauty.’

Jacobsson wrote down the name in her notepad.

‘Is there anything else?’

Jacobsson noticed a momentary hesitation before Vendela replied.

‘Sometimes I work as a croupier at the Casino Cosmopol in Stockholm.’

‘I see. How often?’

‘Once a month. I go over on Friday afternoon, work all weekend and then come back home on Sunday afternoon. My sister and mother live in Stockholm, so I usually stay with my sister in Söder.’

‘OK.’

‘And my mother-in-law helps out with the children while I’m away.’

‘I understand.’

It was time to stop. She thanked the woman for her help and left the room.

By then Vendela Bovide had slipped down until she was lying flat on the bed, gazing vacantly out of the window. She already seemed to have forgotten all about Karin Jacobsson.

AFTER JOHAN HAD handed Elin back to Emma when she returned from her dentist’s appointment, he walked up the hill from the harbour and through the town’s winding lanes, then out of the gate on the other side. The Swedish TV and Radio building, which also housed the editorial office of Regional News, was located on the south-east side of town, a short distance beyond the ring wall.

He paid no attention to any of the passers-by; he was still seeing Emma in his mind. He passed the Café Vinäger on Hästgatan, where he had kissed her for the first time. A fleeting kiss, but the memory was etched into his body. Back then neither of them had any idea what was in store for them. Would he have subjected himself to all this trouble if he’d known ahead of time? Yes, of course. If nothing else, because of Elin.

He took the road past Söderport and bought an ice-cream cone at the kiosk. Standing in front of him in the queue were two kids about the same age as Sara and Filip, Emma’s other children. He’d managed to build a relationship with them over the past two years. Were all his efforts now going to be in vain? And most important of all: Elin. He loved his daughter. Was she going to grow up seeing him only every other weekend? The thought was unbearable.

Why did it have to be so difficult? Emma was still holding back, and the situation with her seemed deadlocked. He found it impossible to talk to her. He could make no headway, even though he’d tried every imaginable tactic. Everything from being gentle, positive, sweet and undemanding to behaving like a shrill martyr who complained that she didn’t care about him at all. Finally he’d tried to be as distant and indifferent as she was. Nothing worked. Did she have no feelings for him any more? In the spring, when she broke off the engagement, she had gone to stay with her parents on Fårö, taking Elin with her and refusing to see him. Johan’s life had fallen apart. For the first time, he sank into what felt like a depression, and he lost all interest in life. He sought help from a counsellor at the corporate health service who had steered him through the crisis. Now he didn’t know whether he even had the energy to try again.

When he arrived at the TV and Radio building he paused to smoke a cigarette. He had to push all of these thoughts aside. Maybe he should just stay away from Emma for a while and focus on his work. The murder investigation should keep him busy, at least for the next few days.

He went in through the front door, said hello to the receptionist and went up the stairs to the Regional News office.

Pia Lilja was already there. Her eyes were fixed on her computer screen.

‘Hi,’ she said, taking a pinch of snuff without shifting her gaze.

Her hair was pinned up in a sort of straggly knot that strongly resembled a bird’s nest. Her eyes were heavily made up, as usual, and a fiery red gemstone glittered on one nostril. Her lips were painted as red as the gemstone.

‘Hi, how’s it going? Nice hair-do.’ To tease her, Johan tugged on one of the wisps of hair sticking straight up. ‘Now what could we use this for? A pen holder?’

‘Ha, ha. Very funny,’ she muttered, although she couldn’t help smiling a bit.

‘It looks cool. I mean it.’

Pia had her own style and attitude, which he liked.

‘Anything new turn up yet?’ He looked over her shoulder.

‘No, not really. But check this out. These pictures were on the front page.’

Photos of the police helicopter on the beach were spread all over the evening newspapers.

‘You should get paid for those.’

‘Fat chance. But I’m happy to get the photo credit. Oh, by the way, Grenfors rang. He wants to talk to you.’

‘So why doesn’t he ring my mobile?’ scoffed Johan. The editor-in-chief was not his favourite person.

Pia took her eyes off her computer and turned to face him.

‘Because it’s switched off. I tried ringing you too.’

‘Shit.’

He dug out his mobile from the pocket of his jeans and plugged it in to recharge.

‘OK, what’s on the schedule for today?’

‘Hopefully we’ll find out more about who the murder victim is and how he was killed. The police have announced a press conference for three o’clock this afternoon. Before then, I think it would be a good idea for us to drive up to Sudersand. Find out what the mood’s like on the day after, you know. Talk to people, and not just those staying at the campsite, but people who work there too. Apparently the victim had been there several days with his family. Maybe they’d made friends with somebody; I’m sure plenty of people will have something to say. But ring Max first and find out what he wants.’

‘Sure.’

The editor-in-chief sounded stressed.

‘Good you rang. So what do we know now?’

‘No more than we did yesterday. I just got to the office. Haven’t even had a chance to check the TT wire yet.’

‘I’ve had a meeting with the national news guys, and everybody wants to use your report again today. Preferably before lunch.’

‘Excuse me for laughing. Not a chance in hell.’

‘Couldn’t the two of you put together a quick interview with the police? So we have something to give them?’

Johan could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. It always upset him that Regional News had to kowtow to the more important national news division, supplying them with all sorts of material at the expense of their own broadcasts.

‘If we do that, how do you think we’ll have time to drive up to Fårö? To take day-after pictures and do interviews and try to ferret out some of our own information? Besides, the police have announced a press conference for three o’clock. How are we going to attend that if we have to put together some shitty report to keep the national news guys happy? They should send over their own reporter.’

‘Take it easy. It was just a thought. I’ll talk to them. They’ve already mentioned sending somebody over. So I suppose they might as well do it sooner than later. With a camera person. I realize it’s too much for you to handle. I’ll get back to you.’

Johan ended the conversation and glared at Pia, who patted him on the shoulder.

‘Come on,’ she said, trying to console him. ‘Let’s get going.’

AT SUDERSAND CAMPSITE on Fårö, there was hardly any sign of the murder drama from the previous day. At least not at first glance. Tourists were picking up brochures from the check-in desk, taking the path down to the beach and going to the cafeteria. No police officers or police tape in sight.

An elderly grey-haired woman sat behind the front desk.

‘Hello,’ she greeted them automatically. ‘How can I help you?’

Johan introduced himself and Pia, causing the woman to raise her eyebrows with interest.

‘We’d like to know more about the man who was shot yesterday,’ Johan began. ‘Who was he? And how long had he been here?’

‘The police told me not to say a word to any reporters.’

The woman pressed her lips together as if to demonstrate and gave them a suspicious look.

‘Of course, and we respect that. But maybe you could tell us something about the sort of reactions you’ve witnessed here today. When we arrived, Pia and I were surprised to see that nobody seems the least bit upset. Everybody here seems very calm and collected. If nothing else, surely it can’t hurt to do a report for TV on what the day after the murder is like. To show that the campsite is functioning normally, I mean. Have you had any cancellations?’

‘Not very many, actually.’

‘Would you mind talking about that while we film? I’d think it would be in your interest to show the viewers that everything is OK here, right?’

Johan was ashamed of stooping to this sort of veiled threat, but he felt no sympathy for the stern-looking woman sitting behind the counter.

He watched as she debated with herself for a few seconds.

‘No,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Not interested. And I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. And take that camera with you.’

The same instant she made her decision, a man came inside. He was tall and lanky, with tousled hair. He was carrying a stack of cigarette cartons. He introduced himself as Mats Nilsson, owner of the campsite.

‘Hi,’ said Johan, ignoring the scowling elderly woman. ‘We’re from Regional News. Have you got a minute?’

‘All right, sure.’

‘Could we go outside to talk?’

‘OK. I need a smoke anyway.’

Outside, they explained what they’d like to film, and after they had talked to the campsite owner for a few minutes, his face lit up.

‘Now I know who you are,’ he exclaimed, jabbing Johan in the stomach. ‘I recognize you from TV.’

‘Oh, really?’

Mats Nilsson let out a bellow of laughter, displaying his nicotine-stained teeth. Johan stared at him, uncomprehending.

‘You and Emma are an item, right? Emma Winarve?’

‘Well…’ Johan said, hesitating.

‘You even have a kid together. I read all about it in the newspaper. I dated Emma in the ninth grade; she was in the other class. She was damned cute back then, a lot prettier than she is now. Even though she had rather small… well, you know what I mean.’

He pointed at his chest.

Johan wondered if he’d heard this guy correctly. He felt Pia looking at him, and sensed how close she was to delivering a crushing remark to the unpleasant campsite owner. Even Johan had to make the utmost effort not to punch the guy in the face. He made a lightning-quick decision about which tactic would be best in this situation, and he chose to focus on their report, which meant assuming an ingratiating attitude. Even at his own expense.

‘Right. How cool. So I guess we have something in common.’

He managed a strained smile. Nilsson didn’t seem to notice his sarcastic tone of voice, and Johan quickly changed the subject.

‘How are things going here after that young man was shot yesterday?’

The campsite owner’s face clouded over.

‘I wouldn’t call him young. Peter was over forty. Bloody awful, the whole thing.’

Johan was all ears. The police hadn’t yet revealed the victim’s identity. It was important to tread lightly.

‘Did you know him?’

‘Yes I did, quite well in fact. He and his wife have come here several years in a row, and after a while I get to know all the regular campers. It’s a bleeding shame he had to go and get himself shot. Makes me wonder what was behind it.’

‘Is it OK if I film you while we’re talking?’ asked Pia.

‘Sure, go ahead.’

‘What’s Peter’s last name?’

‘Bovide.’

‘How long had he and his family been here before this happened?’

‘Just over the weekend. They arrived Friday night and were supposed to stay two weeks. They do that every year. And they like to have the same camping spot each time. Before they left, he would always reserve it for the following year.’

‘Where is it located?’

He nodded towards the campsite.

‘It’s number fifty-three, the very last space, you know, and the one closest to the beach. There’s a sign, but right now the area is blocked off so you won’t be able to see it. It’s the space they had the first summer they were here, and since then they’ve never wanted to park their caravan anywhere else. Even though there’s no electrical hook-up over there; they have to run everything on liquefied natural gas, but that works fine.’

‘So he was married and had kids?’

‘Of course. His wife’s name is Vendela, and they have two children, a little girl and a boy.’

‘How old are they?’

‘Not very old. Maybe three and five, something like that. But how the hell would I know? I haven’t got any kids myself.’

‘Where are they from?’

‘Slite, so they didn’t have far to drive, you might say.’

‘Do you know what kind of work he did?’

‘Sure, he was a carpenter, and he had his own construction company. He was really good at his job. And always willing to lend a hand. He did quite a bit of carpentry work for me, so I gave him a good discount on the camping fee and made sure he got the spot he wanted. I felt like I needed to pay him back in some way. I know that he also helped out other people here at the campsite if they were having trouble with something. He could fix almost anything.’

‘What’s the name of the company?’

‘Slite Construction.’

‘What was Peter like as a person?’

‘A real decent guy. There’s no doubt about that. But he did have some odd habits.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, he went out running every single morning, for example. And it was always so damn early. I used to see him sometimes if I had to be here extra early for the bread delivery or something like that. You’d always see him out running before six.’

Johan was so fascinated by all the information that came pouring out of the man standing in front of him that he almost forgot that he was doing an interview. He pulled himself together and changed direction.

‘How did you react when you heard about the murder?’

‘I was shocked, you know. To think that somebody could end up getting killed here. And to top it off, it was somebody that I actually happened to know. And to think he was killed in such an awful way. Shot dead, and with multiple bullet wounds. A gangster-style execution right here in our little campsite.’

‘How has the murder affected the other campers?’

‘Of course they’re nervous. I’ve been forced to keep the check-in desk open round the clock since it happened. Lots of campers have been over here to ask questions.’

‘What are they asking about?’

‘They want to know what happened, how he was killed, and whether the murderer has been caught. They think I have all the answers. I have to supply information and also play the roles of psychologist and master detective. And I really don’t know much. At any rate, I don’t think it was anyone who’s been staying here at the campsite.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, who would it be? The campers are all completely ordinary citizens who just want to spend their holiday in peace and quiet. Why would any of them go around with a gun and start killing people? You can hear for yourself how unlikely that sounds.’

There was a plaintive note in the man’s voice, and Johan gave him an encouraging nod so he’d keep talking.

‘You must have given the whole episode a lot of thought. Has anything happened lately that might have some bearing on the murder?’

‘No, nothing. Everything has been the same as usual. The weather hasn’t been great, but most people have seemed perfectly happy, at least I think so. We haven’t had any complaints or anything like that.’

‘No strangers acting suspiciously?’

Nilsson shook his head, looking gloomy. Johan had the feeling that the reality of what had happened so close to his peaceful campsite was just beginning to sink in.

‘Have you had any cancellations since the murder?’

‘A bunch of people left as soon as they found out what had happened, and we’ve had about twenty or thirty phone calls with cancellations. But plenty of people have actually stayed, especially our regular campers. About 80 per cent of the campers are regulars, you know; they come back year after year. Most of them are from Gotland, and they probably realize that this was a one-off occurrence.’

‘What about you? How sure are you of that?’

‘Of course you never know, but I have a hard time imagining that we’re dealing with a serial killer who’s only interested in killing campers on Fårö. What do you think?’

Johan left the question unanswered.

BY THE TIME Karin Jacobsson got back to police headquarters after her interview with Vendela Bovide, Thomas Wittberg had already located the passengers who had been aboard the first ferry to cross Fårösund the previous morning.

The captain of the ferry had remembered enough of the licence plate numbers to allow the police to track down the vehicle owners.

‘It was easier than I thought to get hold of these people,’ Wittberg told Jacobsson with satisfaction as they sat down across from each other in her office.

He brushed the shock of blond hair out of his eyes and began his report.

‘Let’s start with the young couple. They’re from Gotland and had been spending the past week on holiday on Fårö. They’d been out partying in Visby and were on their way back. That’s why they took such an early ferry. They’re renting a cottage from a farm family. We’ve asked the couple to be here at one o’clock for an interview. They’ll be going home on a boat this afternoon.’

‘OK, we’ll have to wait and see whether we should let them go.’

‘The woman travelling by herself is married and lives in Kyllaj.’

‘All year round? I thought there were only summer homes out there.’

‘No, she and her family actually live there permanently, but I think they’re practically the only ones. There might be one other family.’

Karin had been out to Kyllaj only once in her life. It had been for a summertime party when she was thirteen, and she’d had her first kiss down at the beach. It was a lovely memory, and the little village by the sea had a special place in her heart.

She pushed the thought aside.

‘Will she be coming in too?’

‘No. She’s pregnant, and fairly far along from what I understand. She asked if we could do the interview on the phone, but I explained that wasn’t possible; we need to see her in person. Apparently she has a hard time getting around; she said something about pelvic girdle pain.’

‘If she’s about to give birth, she probably has other things on her mind besides our investigation, but of course she might have seen something,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I’d be happy to go out to Kyllaj; I haven’t been there since I was thirteen. But I can’t make it today. Find out if she noticed anything out of the ordinary, and we’ll have to make do with that for the time being. By the way, what was she doing on the Fårö ferry at four in the morning?’

‘She said that she can’t sleep at night now that she’s pregnant and it’s so hot, so she likes to drive around and take a look at the countryside when there’s no traffic. She hasn’t lived here very long. And it’s still light almost all night long.’

‘That sounds a bit odd, but I’ve heard that pregnant women can come up with all sorts of weird ideas. What about the third car, with the horse trailer?’

‘It belongs to a farmer on Fårö. His son had gone over to the mainland to buy a horse, and he arrived by the night boat from Nynäshamn. The family has run their farm on Fårö for many years.’

‘Darn it.’ Jacobsson spun her chair around. ‘I had high hopes the perp would turn out to be someone on the ferry. But I suppose that would have been too easy. How often do we run into someone who’s as observant and has such a good memory as that captain?’

‘But we don’t have to give up hope yet. We still have to interview the passengers.’

‘Sure, but the most likely scenario is that Peter Bovide’s killer was already on Fårö on the morning of the murder, meaning that he had slept there overnight. And we can’t rule out the possibility that he’s still on the island. Let’s keep checking everyone leaving on the ferries for a few more days.’

JACOBSSON HAD JUST finished a phone conversation with the fraud division, asking them to look into the finances of Peter Bovide’s company, when she heard voices out in the hall. Her colleagues from the NCP had arrived. She smiled to herself when she recognized Martin Kihlgård’s bellowing voice mixed with the laughter and happy shouts of the others. As soon as the inspector made his appearance in the corridors of police headquarters, the mood always improved considerably. The mere sight of him brought smiles to the faces of his co-workers. Martin Kihlgård was close to 6 foot 3 inches tall and he weighed well over 220 pounds. He never bothered to comb his hair, which stuck out in all directions in the strangest way. His eyes were big and round, giving the impression that he was staring attentively at whoever he happened to be talking to.

‘Hi, Karin,’ he exclaimed heartily when he caught sight of his significantly smaller colleague. A foot shorter and weighing only half as much as Kihlgård, she practically drowned in his embrace.

‘Hi, it’s great you’re here.’

Jacobsson returned his bear hug as best she could, glimpsing several more colleagues from Stockholm standing behind the huge inspector.

The entire investigative team immediately gathered in the meeting room. A tray of coffee and cold drinks was brought in, along with a platter of fresh fruit. Jacobsson had specifically requested a more healthy alternative for refreshments at their meetings, instead of the usual cinnamon rolls and Wienerbröd pastries. She noted with amusement the look of disappointment on Martin Kihlgård’s face.

‘I heard that Knutie is on holiday,’ said Kihlgård as they all sat down.

‘Yes,’ said Jacobsson. ‘He’s in Denmark with his family. His wife is Danish, you know.’

‘Lina, yes. Terribly attractive woman. And what a sense of humour. They’re a lot of fun, those Danes.’

‘Right.’

Jacobsson felt a sudden stab of annoyance. She wasn’t sure why. But it was gone as abruptly as it had appeared.

‘When will he be back?’

‘In a week.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Kihlgård ran his eyes over the table. Presumably in search of a treat, thought Jacobsson. He was the most voracious glutton and had the biggest sweet tooth of anybody she’d ever met.

She asked each of her colleagues to introduce themselves briefly before she turned to Wittberg.

‘You’ve compiled all the interviews, Thomas. What do they tell us?’

‘The murder took place just after six yesterday morning. We can pin that down with some certainty because a couple living in a cabin near the crime scene heard the shots while they were listening to the news broadcast on the radio. They both heard at least five or six shots. They didn’t call the police because they were convinced somebody was just out shooting rabbits. A lot of that goes on in the area – poachers hunting rabbits, that is,’ he said, turning to his colleagues from Stockholm. ‘In the peaceful terrain of Fårö we would hardly expect somebody to be murdered.’

‘They still could have called the police,’ objected Kihlgård. ‘It’s illegal to shoot rabbits!’

‘I know,’ admitted Wittberg. ‘But the people who live on Fårö are so used to it that nobody pays any attention any more.’

‘At any rate, there’s nothing to contradict the witnesses’ statement as to the time of the murder,’ said Sohlman. ‘Peter Bovide probably died instantly from the first shot, the one that struck his forehead. And he’d been dead for three and a half hours before he was found.’

Sohlman got up and pulled down the white screen at the front of the room. He turned off the lights and switched on his computer. A detailed map of the bay and the campsite at Sudersand appeared on the screen.

‘If he left the caravan just after five thirty, he should have reached this point no later than five or ten minutes before six o’clock. It takes about fifteen or twenty minutes to run to the other end of the beach.’

Sohlman pointed with his pen to indicate the route that Bovide must have taken. Nobody said a word.

‘Somewhere along here on the beach, at the water’s edge, he encountered his killer. His footprints were still in the sand when we searched the area. Judging by the bloodstains on the sand and the way the body had fallen, it seems that the victim was first shot in the forehead. He toppled over on to the sand, then the perpetrator took a few steps forward and continued to fire – we’re talking about no fewer than seven shots to the abdomen. After that the body was dragged into the water, where it drifted out quite a distance, at least twenty to thirty yards. That’s not so strange, considering the offshore wind that we had yesterday morning.’

Sohlman tugged at a lock of his hair, a habit of his, and then went on.

‘We’ve found two empty shell casings on the beach, but no bullets. They’re probably all still in the body. The post mortem is being done right now, so we’ll have to wait for the preliminary report.’

‘Yes, I’m hoping to get it some time this evening,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Now I think we should discuss what the motive might be for the murder. What sort of options do you see? I’d like all of us to do some brainstorming on the subject. Feel free to voice your opinions.’

Her colleagues, who had worked with Knutas for aeons, now looked at her in astonishment. They weren’t used to anything like this, being asked to speculate about possible scenarios with so few facts on the table. Knutas detested speculation. Wittberg was the first to respond.

‘If he was shot just after six o’clock but arrived at the site five or ten minutes before six, then the question is: what did Peter Bovide do during the last minutes of his life?’

‘Maybe he injured himself while he was running and had to stop. Or maybe he was simply tired and needed to take a break,’ suggested Jacobsson.

‘Why would he be tired after only a few kilometres?’ objected Wittberg. ‘He’d been going out to run every day for years. Maybe he stopped to talk to the perp before he was shot to death.’

‘That sounds to me like a more plausible explanation,’ interjected Kihlgård. ‘The victim and the perp might have known each other.’

‘Another possibility is that he happened upon an armed madman who was bent on killing somebody,’ Jacobsson went on. ‘Any random victim.’

‘The question we need to ask,’ said Kihlgård, ‘is why would a carpenter and the father of two young children from Slite be shot in cold blood at a campsite while out for his usual morning jog? It sounds completely unbelievable when put into words. Especially since it all takes place on peaceful little Fårö.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Wittberg protested. ‘Keep in mind that we had the manhunt of the century on Fårö just a few years ago. You remember Emma Winarve, don’t you? You were really taken by her.’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ said Kihlgård, his face lighting up. ‘By the way, is she still together with that pesky TV reporter?’

‘I have no idea.’ Wittberg threw out his hands. ‘They had a baby together and everything but apparently things kind of fell apart for them.’

‘All right then,’ Jacobsson interrupted her colleagues. ‘Let’s keep on topic. You can do all the gossiping you want later on.’

She gave them a stern look.

‘According to Peter Bovide’s partner, the victim had recently felt that he was being watched. Johnny Ekwall couldn’t say exactly what was going on, but Peter had mentioned several times that he thought somebody was tailing him. He had also received anonymous phone calls at the office. Apparently there was nobody on the line, but from what I understand, the calls gave Bovide the jitters.’

‘When did all this start?’ asked Kihlgård.

‘Several weeks ago.’

‘And he’d never received any threats before?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘If the phone calls and the feeling that he was being shadowed began at the same time, there must be something to it,’ Kihlgård went on. ‘And of course it reinforces the theory that the perpetrator had specifically targeted Bovide. We need to find out if anybody else can confirm this information. I’d be happy to follow up on the lead.’

‘Fine,’ said Jacobsson. ‘The strange thing is that his wife denies knowing anything about it, and yet they seem to have had a good relationship.’

‘Maybe he didn’t want to worry her,’ Wittberg interjected. ‘Maybe he was mixed up in something shady and wanted to keep her out of it.’

‘That’s possible, of course,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Or maybe we should be focusing our efforts on the wife. She works in a casino in Stockholm. And in the gambling business there are plenty of sleazy characters, as you well know.’

‘So you think it could be some sort of revenge directed against her?’ said Kihlgård.

‘Maybe, maybe not. Or the wife could be the next victim. How do I know? We need to ask Stockholm to help us by interviewing Vendela’s co-workers at the casino.’

‘Wasn’t Peter Bovide found guilty of assault and battery?’ Wittberg tossed out. ‘Of course it was a long time ago and it happened only once, but you never know. I’ll check up on it.’

Jacobsson nodded pensively and scribbled a note on her pad of paper.

‘How long had he been at the campsite? A few days?’ Wittberg went on. ‘And he went out at approximately the same time every morning to run practically the same route?’

‘Yes,’ said Jacobsson. ‘His wife confirmed that when I interviewed her earlier today.’

‘So it seems very likely that the perp was keeping an eye on him and took note of his usual routines. That would also confirm what his partner said about Bovide feeling he was being watched. The murderer then chose the most advantageous time and place to kill him, meaning down near the end of the beach and at six in the morning when everybody was in bed asleep.’

‘In other words, the killer was presumably at the campsite, at least during the weekend, and he may have even been staying there,’ said Kihlgård.

‘Naturally we’ll need to keep that possibility open,’ said Jacobsson. ‘If you look at the layout of the area, you can see that you have to walk downhill a bit to reach the beach.’

Erik Sohlman stood up and pointed to the map.

‘Evidently the perp was on foot. We’re continuing to interview witnesses, and it seems likely that somebody will have noticed him, even though it was so early. At this time of year, there are people out at all hours of the day and night.’

Jacobsson turned to Sohlman.

‘Do we know anything about the weapon?’

‘Only that it was probably a handgun, judging by the bullet wounds and the empty casings that we found. We’ll have to see what SCL comes up with.’

‘This afternoon we’ll be conducting several more important interviews,’ Jacobsson went on. ‘Thomas?’

Wittberg reported on the observations that had been made by the captain of the first ferry. While he was talking, Jacobsson noticed that Kihlgård was getting restless.

‘Interesting,’ he said when Wittberg was finished with his report. ‘Is it lunchtime yet?’

FOR A CHANGE, head office reacted swiftly to Johan’s demands. On Tuesday afternoon, as he and Pia were on their way back to their office, his mobile rang. Johan was startled when he recognized the voice. It was Madeleine Haga, a reporter for the national TV news. She and cameraman Peter Bylund had just arrived on Gotland and were staying at the Strand Hotel.

They agreed to meet at the editorial office.

Johan had known Madeleine for several years. Once, long ago, it had seemed as if something might develop between then, but the spark had fizzled out before any sort of relationship got started. Then he was sent to Gotland, and he met Emma. Since then, there had been no other woman in his life.

When Madeleine came into the Regional News office on Östra Hansegatan in Visby, he couldn’t help taking notice. She had just returned from a holiday trip to Spain and was deeply tanned. A petite brunette wearing a denim skirt and a blouse, and with a cleavage that should have been considered too risqué for a reporter. Her big brown eyes were shining.

‘Hi,’ she said cheerfully.

He got up from his computer to give her a hug. She smelled faintly of lemon.

‘Hi.’

The cameraman, Peter Bylund, appeared right behind her. Johan gave him a hug too.

‘What a surprise to see you here again,’ said Johan. ‘How was Russia?’

Peter Bylund had worked with Johan for a summer several years earlier. The summer he’d met Emma. Peter had also been a bit infatuated with her.

‘Good, thanks. Of course, Moscow is totally changed compared to ten years ago, when I was there last. It’s a completely different city.’

‘How long were you there this time?’

‘It’s been almost two years now. I can’t believe it myself, but it’s true.’

‘You’ll have to tell me more later, but it’s damn good you’re here, at any rate.’

‘What about yourself? You and Emma? I heard that the two of you had a baby and everything.’

‘Yes, we have a daughter, Elin. She’s just turned one. She’s the most amazing child in the world.’

‘Jeez, that’s something – you a father. I wouldn’t have believed it.’ Peter slapped him on the back.

Johan’s face clouded over.

‘Things aren’t going very well, as a matter of fact; it’s been pretty rocky, you might say.’

‘OK, well, we don’t need to talk about it now.’

Madeleine was looking at Johan with interest, though she didn’t say a word. Peter patted his shoulder.

‘So what’s next on the agenda?’

Pia came back from the bathroom. She said hello to the two from Stockholm and sat down in front of her computer.

‘We’re in the process of uploading the material. Do you want to check it out?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Peter, whose face had lit up at the sight of Pia. He sat down next to her. Johan and Madeleine sat down on the other side.

‘We won’t have time to put together anything for today, but just let me know if you want me to do a short piece for the national news,’ Madeleine offered.

Johan hesitated. It would actually be a big help; he was feeling super-stressed and would like nothing more than to get the report done as soon as possible. At the same time, he didn’t like just turning over his material to another reporter. But he trusted Madeleine.

‘Sure, go ahead.’

Grenfors would be pleased. Johan cast a glance at his newly arrived colleagues – he really liked both of them.

He was glad they were here.