The Dead Of Summer

WEDNESDAY, 12 JULY

KNUTAS WAS WELCOMED with open arms the following morning when the entire investigative team gathered for a meeting. The only person he wondered about was Karin. He hoped that she wouldn’t interpret his return as a sign that he didn’t have confidence in her abilities. She hadn’t been quite as warm as she usually was.

Coffee and cinnamon rolls from Konditori Siesta were on the table. Knutas cast a glance at Kihlgård, who had put two rolls on a plate in front of him. Of course he was the one who had replaced the fruit with pastries.

They had just started when Erik Sohlman came in, waving a piece of paper in his hand. His red hair was dishevelled, and his eyes were shining. Knutas recognized the expression; it was exactly the way Sohlman looked when he was watching a soccer match and the AIK team was winning.

‘Hi, sorry I’m late, but I’ve been talking to SCL and the ME this morning. They’ve been unusually quick this time round.’

The air of anticipation in the room rose perceptibly, and everyone looked at Sohlman with interest.

‘We’ve received an answer from SCL regarding the type of ammunition that was used. It’s Russian.’

‘Russian?’ repeated Knutas with surprise.

‘You heard right. And it’s such a special kind that the lab can even say what sort of gun the bullets came from. A Russian army pistol, a Tulski brand, and the model is called Korovin. It’s a fully automatic gun in an odd calibre of 6.35 millimetres. It’s quite old, manufactured in 1926.’

‘Who would use an eighty-year-old Russian army pistol?’ exclaimed Wittberg. ‘That doesn’t really sound like the work of a pro.’

‘We need to check out everybody who has a gun permit on Gotland, in fact in all of Sweden,’ said Knutas. ‘Find out if anybody has a permit for that particular type of weapon. What does it look like? Do you have a photo, Erik?’

‘No, but I’ll find one ASAP. If I’m not mistaken, it’s a very small gun, like a Browning.’

‘We need to investigate what sort of Russian contacts Bovide had,’ Knutas went on. ‘Who could have imported an old Russian army gun, and above all: what sort of person would use this type of weapon to murder somebody?’

‘The best-case scenario would be if we could find the gun, but the chance of that happening diminishes with each day that passes,’ said Sohlman. ‘The coast-guard divers are searching the waters today too, but that will be the end of it. And I don’t think the gun is anywhere on shore, or else the police dogs would have found it.’

‘What sort of part-time workers were hired by Bovide’s company, aside from the full-time employees?’ asked Wittberg. ‘Do you know whether Bovide used illegal workers?’

‘I’ve turned over that part of the investigation to the fraud division,’ said Jacobsson. ‘They’re going over everything with a fine-tooth comb: financial statements, book-keeping practices, employees, what sort of projects the company was involved in – the works.’

‘Every contractor probably uses the occasional illegal, and there are plenty of workers from the Baltic countries and from Poland in the construction business,’ Wittberg went on. ‘Maybe from Russia too.’

‘Of course, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that the perp has to be Russian, just because the gun came from there,’ Jacobsson objected. ‘There are plenty of Russian weapons in circulation on the black market.’

Knutas turned to Kihlgård, who had his mouth full. ‘How’s it going with mapping out Peter Bovide’s life?’

Kihlgård carefully finished chewing before he replied.

‘If we first look at his family, friends and circle of acquaintances, a large number of interviews have been done, and in summary I can say that so far nothing out of the ordinary has turned up. The neighbours didn’t notice anything particular about the family, and the Bovides don’t seem to have fought or argued. Not a single person could confirm that Peter Bovide thought he was being watched or that he’d ever received anonymous phone calls at the office. So far, that information has come only from his business partner, Johnny Ekwall.’

‘What about the others who work at the company? The office secretary, Linda?’ asked Jacobsson.

Kihlgård shook his head.

‘Her answers were inconclusive. She says that somebody might have called, but she thought it was just a wrong number. She says she had no idea that Bovide felt he was being watched.’ Kihlgård took a gulp of coffee and continued: ‘According to their relatives, the Bovides were a perfect couple; they had a nice home, the children were well looked after and they always behaved politely. Everyone we talked to seemed genuinely shocked by the murder.’

‘There’s something else that comes to mind when I hear that a Russian gun was used, and that’s the traffic related to the Russian coal transports in Slite harbour,’ Wittberg interjected. ‘I mean, the barges arrive several times a month, and everybody knows they’re selling illegal booze over there.’

Jacobsson thought about the article she’d seen in the newspaper. The same idea had occurred to her.

Knutas agreed that Wittberg had a plausible argument. The coal barges were a problem. The police were well aware that the sale of illegal liquor was going on, but they didn’t have the resources to check every shipment. They were able to make only random checks.

‘That sounds reasonable,’ said Kihlgård. ‘We should follow up on that lead.’

‘Does anybody know when the next transport is due to arrive?’ asked Knutas. ‘And on the Swedish side, who’s responsible for the unloading?’

‘The harbour master at the Cementa company,’ said Wittberg. ‘That’s where the coal is headed. They use it as fuel in the furnaces.’

‘OK,’ said Knutas. ‘I’ll ring him after the meeting.’

‘Wait a sec,’ Kihlgård interjected. ‘One of the neighbours mentioned something about Cementa.’

He quickly flicked through his notebook.

‘Right. Here it is. An Arne Nilsson who lives next door to the Bovides said that Peter had a big fortieth birthday celebration not long ago. And quite a lot of booze was served. He said something about vodka… oh, that’s right, he said that the vodka flowed and it wasn’t the usual kind you can buy at the state liquor store. It was a stronger type that was imported directly from Russia. Apparently it was from one of the Russian barges that deliver coal to Cementa.’

‘But plenty of people buy illegal booze,’ Sohlman objected. ‘Why should this have anything to do with the murder?’

‘It’s at least worth looking into,’ said Knutas. ‘I’ll find out when the next shipment is due.’

WHEN JOHAN WOKE up, he didn’t know at first where he was. He peered at the ceiling, which had a yellowish tint he didn’t recognize. Cautiously, he turned over; the bed was much softer and wider than his own. For a split second he thought he was lying in Emma’s bedroom out in Roma. He felt a rush of euphoric joy shoot through his body until he realized that he hadn’t spent the previous evening with her and the sounds outside the window were much louder and more diverse than in the peaceful residential neighbourhood in Roma. Then images from the previous day came flooding in. Oh shit. They’d gone to Donner’s Bar and from there to the outdoor tavern Vinäger, where they’d run into a bunch of people from the local radio station. They’d partied all night and got very drunk. The night had ended outside the Saint Karin church ruins, with him and Madeleine getting together instead of going their separate ways. After that he’d accompanied her back to the hotel. No, he thought. No, no.

He turned on to his side and saw the cloud of brown hair sticking out of the covers.

Shit. They’d had sex. He’d slept with his work colleague. How low could he go? He wanted to forget the whole thing. As quietly as possible, he crept out of bed and went into the bathroom. He turned on the tap, but only halfway so the splash of the water wouldn’t be audible. He looked at himself in the mirror: his face was a sallow colour, his eyes were bloodshot, with a weary and slightly melancholy expression. Who was this man he was looking at? He discovered several new wrinkles near his eyes and on his throat. A new furrow that hadn’t been there before. His face had changed, aged. He had a bad taste in his mouth. The image of Emma’s face appeared before him. How could he have been so stupid? He felt so sleazy, and the contempt he felt for himself was nauseating. He’d wait until he got home to take a shower. He had to leave, get out of here. He slipped back into the room and grabbed his clothes, terrified that Madeleine would wake up.

Without a sound he closed the door behind him.

THE NEXT COAL transport wasn’t due to arrive in Slite harbour until the following week. Knutas set the matter aside for the time being and decided instead to pay a visit to Peter Bovide’s parents, even though they’d already been interviewed. He wanted to meet them in person.

It was great to leave police headquarters and set off alone. He chose to drive his own vehicle, an old Mercedes with no air conditioning, so he was feeling sweaty by the time he made it out to Slite. Katarina and Stig Bovide lived in a ground-floor flat in the middle of town. The blinds were closed, and from the outside it looked like no one was home.

Knutas rang the bell and then had to wait for a while.

Eventually the door opened, and Knutas was taken aback when he saw the expression of the elderly woman standing there. Even though Katarina Bovide’s face was both freckled and tanned, and in her long, bright dress she actually reminded him a bit of Lina, her grief and despair were painfully evident.

She merely nodded to him and led the way to the living room, which under normal circumstances was no doubt quite pleasant, but right now it was only dimly lit. The curtains had been drawn so that very little light seeped in from the windows. It was as if Peter Bovide’s parents wanted to close out the lovely summer day. As if they couldn’t bear the beauty.

The next instant a man appeared in the doorway. He looked just as haggard and empty of all life as his wife. Stig Bovide was tall and thin with sparse light-brown hair and blue eyes. He wore a light-coloured shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. On his feet he had a pair of Birkenstock slippers. A heavy sense of grief hung in the air, and the temperature bordered on intolerably hot. Knutas was thirsty, but neither of them offered him anything to drink. He decided to try toughing it out.

‘First, please accept my condolences, of course,’ he began. ‘As you may have heard, I’m in charge of the investigation. I was out of town, but I came back yesterday and I’ve taken over from Karin Jacobsson. She’s my deputy superintendent.’

He cleared his throat, wondering why he was wasting words on such things.

‘All right then. I have a few questions that I’d like to ask you.’

‘We’ve already talked to the police,’ said Stig Bovide. ‘With somebody by the name of Kihlgård. He was here yesterday.’

‘Yes, I know that. But since I’ve now taken over responsibility, I wanted to meet you in person. I hope you don’t mind. Naturally we’re doing everything in our power to catch the person who did this, and so it’s important that I find out as much as possible about Peter. Could you start by telling me how you think he was doing?’

‘How he was doing?’ repeated Katarina Bovide tonelessly.

‘I mean in general terms, both in his work and in his marriage.’

‘Hmm, I don’t really know,’ Katarina said hesitantly. ‘I suppose he was doing fine. He and Vendela had their problems, just like everybody else, but no worse than other parents of young children. What do you think?’

She turned to her husband. He didn’t answer, just nodded.

‘They had their hands full with William and Mikaela, of course, but we helped out as much as we could. Right now the children are staying with Peter’s sister in Othem. We thought it was best at the moment, since she and her family live out in the country and keep animals. And the children will be able to play with their cousins, so that will give them something else to think about. But we go out every day to help out. Until Vendela is feeling better.’

‘So you think Peter was happy?’

‘I don’t know if “happy” is the right word,’ said Stig Bovide. ‘He had his epilepsy to contend with, and that could be very difficult.’

Knutas frowned. ‘You mean he suffered from epileptic fits?’

‘Yes.’

‘How often?’

‘Not very often, maybe a few times a year. It was worse if he was under stress or feeling depressed.’

‘Depressed? Was that common for him?’

Both parents fidgeted uneasily.

‘Occasionally he felt a bit down,’ said Katarina reluctantly. ‘Whenever that happened, it was hard to talk to him. He would withdraw into himself.’

‘He felt a great need to have time alone,’ her husband added. ‘I think that’s why he loved running so much. He could be gone for hours. I know Vendela wasn’t always very happy about that.’

‘She thought he spent too much time away from her and the children,’ explained Katarina. ‘And that’s not so strange, since he worked so much,’ she said with a sigh.

‘How often did he get depressed?’

‘Maybe a couple of times a year.’

‘Was he seeing a psychologist? Or was he on any kind of medication?’

‘Yes, he took anti-depressants,’ said Katarina.

Her husband looked at her in surprise.

‘He did?’

‘Yes, dear.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘I didn’t want to worry you. I’m sorry.’

Stig Bovide kept his eyes fixed on his wife. He pressed his lips together but didn’t say a word. Knutas changed the subject.

‘We know that recently Peter felt as if he was being watched. Do you know anything about that?’

‘No, we’ve really never heard anything about that.’ Stig Bovide’s voice had taken on a belligerent tone. ‘Why did he think he was being watched? And who actually told you that?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that at the moment. Are you sure that Peter never mentioned anything about this?’

Stig Bovide leaped from his chair. ‘Can’t discuss it?’ he shouted. ‘What on earth do you mean by that? This is our son we’re talking about. Our son who was murdered! We’re his parents. Don’t you understand that?’ He pointed first at himself and then at his wife. ‘We demand that you tell us everything about the investigation. And I mean everything!’

This sudden outburst caught Knutas off guard. Stig Bovide was now leaning over him, his face contorted with anger.

‘You come barging into our home two days after our son was found murdered, asking a lot of questions that you demand we answer. And then you refuse to tell us what our boy was mixed up in. Are you out of your mind? Get out of here! Get out!’

He grabbed hold of Knutas’s shirt collar.

‘Calm down!’ cried Katarina. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

She managed to pull her husband away from Knutas, who quickly got to his feet.

‘I think we should continue this interview at some other time,’ muttered Knutas. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but we’re not at liberty to discuss the investigation. Not even with family members. I’ll be in touch. Goodbye. And again, please accept my condolences.’

Katarina Bovide was still holding on to her husband’s arm as he glared fiercely at Knutas without saying another word. He was breathing hard and seemed to be having trouble regaining his composure. Knutas fled the stuffy room, grabbed his jacket and dashed out.

All the grief and despair in the flat seemed to follow him.

JOHAN WAS HAVING a hard time concentrating at work. Pia asked him what was wrong, but he didn’t feel like telling her what had happened. Not at the moment. Although she probably had her suspicions. Last night he and Madeleine had lingered on the street after the restaurant had closed, and she hadn’t gone with her colleague, Peter, back to their hotel. Who the fuck cares, he thought. Let Pia think whatever she likes. He was neither married nor engaged. Emma had broken off their engagement, and since they hadn’t been together in months, there was really no reason for him to feel guilty. She had pushed him away, yet he still felt miserable and didn’t understand how he could have behaved so despicably. He needed to talk to Maddie as soon as she arrived at the office.

Grenfors, editor-in-chief of Regional News, rang from Stockholm. During the summertime he had to step in and actually get involved in the editing, which made no one happy, least of all himself. He discussed with Johan what had to be done for the day’s report.

‘I have a feeling that the police have no idea where to look,’ said Johan. ‘The murder seems to be a total mystery. On the surface at least, Peter Bovide appears to be a completely ordinary conscientious family man who loved his wife, worked hard and never drew much attention to himself.’

‘Have you talked to his parents?’

‘No,’ said Johan sharply, annoyed by the question. ‘Do you really think that’s acceptable? It’s only been two days since their son was found murdered. They must still be in a state of shock.’

‘Give it a try, anyway,’ Grenfors insisted. ‘There’s been nothing from them in the papers or on TV. We could be the first, and the national news-’

‘Enough with the national news,’ Johan interrupted him, tired of constantly sucking up to the national news big shots. ‘If they want something from the parents, let them do the interview. Maddie can pester the parents – I won’t.’

He’d hardly finished his sentence before Madeleine came into the office. She cast an inquisitive glance at Johan.

‘I’ll ring you later,’ he snapped and put down the phone.

‘Hi,’ said Maddie. Her expression was both amused and not amused.

‘Hi.’

For several seconds Johan considered what he should do, before deciding it was best to take the bull by the horns. He got up from his chair and was just about to ask Madeleine to step outside with him to have a talk when the phone rang. Pia picked it up. Judging by her expression and tone of voice, they could tell that she was listening to something important. She motioned for Johan to toss her a pen. Quickly she wrote down what the person on the other end of the line was saying. Pia looked so tense that Johan completely forgot what he’d been planning to say to Maddie. When the conversation was over, Pia slowly put down the phone.

‘Hold on a minute. This tip might be a good one.’

Johan sat back down.

‘That was a girl I know, Anna, who works at Sofia’s Nails and Beauty here in town. A beauty salon. Anna is a manicurist, and she knows Vendela Bovide, in fact they’re best friends. Vendela works in the same place, on Saturdays.’

‘And?’

‘Anna said that the two of them went out for dinner together just a week before the murder. Sort of a little farewell dinner before the summer holiday, because Vendela was going to be gone for a month.’

‘OK,’ said Johan impatiently.

He cast a quick glance at Madeleine, who had dropped on to the chair next to him.

‘Vendela was nervous during the dinner because Peter had received some sort of threat. And now Anna doesn’t know what to do. She’s afraid Vendela might be in danger too.’

‘She should start by talking to us,’ suggested Johan.

‘That’s just what I was thinking.’

WITH VENDELA BOVIDE’S permission, the police had searched the family home and the company office, but they hadn’t found anything of interest. The company computers had been confiscated and were being examined. On Wednesday afternoon, Wittberg and Jacobsson went to see the widow and interview her more extensively. She was now home from hospital, and they’d made an appointment to see her at three o’clock.

The Bovides’ house was located north of town, on the road to Othem. A red-painted wooden house with white trim and a neatly raked gravel courtyard in front. On the lawn stood a blue trampoline; a short distance away was a playhouse, and a striped hammock hung between two apple trees. A low wooden fence surrounded the property. It looked freshly painted and the lawn had been recently mown.

They rang the bell and listened to the hollow clang.

They waited a while, then rang the bell again.

Jacobsson tried the door. It wasn’t locked. She pushed it open and cautiously called out, ‘Hello.’ No answer.

They stepped into the front hall, which was hot and stuffy.

‘I’ll check upstairs, while you have a look around down here,’ said Wittberg and then headed for the stairs.

The kitchen was off to the left; Jacobsson peeked inside. Light-coloured shutters on the windows, curtains with a floral pattern and windowsills crowded with flower pots. The flowers were wilting, as if they hadn’t been watered in a while. Everything was shiny clean, but the house felt deserted. She went into the living room. The floor creaked under her feet. The room was quite large, with a hardwood floor, leather sofa, two armchairs, a TV and a bookshelf. Photographs of the two children adorned the walls.

One by one, Jacobsson picked up the framed photos that stood on a shelf. Traditional wedding pictures taken by Hemlin’s photo studio in Visby, and a picture of Peter Bovide receiving a trophy. There was something about his expression and his crooked smile that Jacobsson didn’t like. Especially the look in his eyes, which was strangely vacant.

‘Find anything?’

Wittberg had come back downstairs and was giving her an inquisitive look.

‘No. How about you?’

‘Not really.’

Jacobsson cast a glance at the Mora grandfather clock in the room. It was 3.15.

‘I wonder where she is. It seems strange to leave the door unlocked. Although I suppose they do that out here in the country.’

Wittberg gave a start. ‘What was that?’

‘What?’

‘I thought I heard a car.’

They both stood still to listen. There was no doubt about it. They could hear a car engine outside.

Quickly, they slipped out through the patio door and made their way to the back of the house. They had no desire to get caught sneaking about inside. Jacobsson peered round the corner and saw Vendela being dropped off by somebody she recognized. It was Johnny Ekwall, her husband’s business partner.

After the car had driven off, Jacobsson and Wittberg went round to the front and rang the bell.

It was a few moments before Vendela Bovide opened the door.

She stared in surprise at the two police officers.

‘Hi,’ said Jacobsson and then introduced Wittberg. ‘We had agreed to meet today at three o’clock, but maybe you forgot?’

The widow’s face flushed bright red.

‘Was that today? I thought it was tomorrow.’

‘I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Would this be a good time? It shouldn’t take very long.’

Vendela Bovide hesitated.

‘Where are the children?’ asked Jacobsson, to break the stalemate.

‘They’re staying with Peter’s sister in Othem. I’m actually staying there too right now, but I had to come by here to take care of a few things. I can’t stand to sleep here yet.’

‘May we?’

Jacobsson took a step forward.

‘Yes, of course.’

Vendela sounded far from convinced that this would be a good idea, but she let them come in. She led the way to the living room.

‘Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ said both officers in unison. It was hot, and they were thirsty.

Vendela came back in a few minutes with a pitcher of juice and glasses.

‘Who was it that dropped you off outside?’

Vendela looked down as she filled their glasses.

‘That was Johnny from the company. He’s so nice and helpful.’

Jacobsson gave her a searching look.

‘It turns out the gun that was used to kill your husband was Russian,’ said Wittberg. ‘So we’re wondering whether your husband had any contact with Russians.’

‘Russian?’ Vendela’s voice quavered slightly. ‘The gun was Russian?’

‘Yes. Did your husband have any contact with Russians or anyone from other Eastern European countries? A lot of them come here as guest workers, especially in the construction business.’

‘Sure. He did have some part-time employees, from Poland at any rate. But I don’t know about Russia. Peter handled all the company business. I didn’t get involved. He took care of everything himself.’

‘Did he ever talk about any of these guest workers?’

‘No. He spent so much time at work, and we tried to avoid talking about the company here at home.’

‘So you don’t know anything about this?’

‘No.’

‘As we mentioned earlier, apparently, during the spring and early summer Peter felt that he was being watched. He also received some anonymous phone calls,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Are you sure you don’t remember hearing anything?’

‘Yes, I am. He never mentioned anything like that. I would have remembered it if he did.’

Jacobsson was convinced that Vendela Bovide was lying. She looked the widow in the eye and repeated the question one last time.

‘So he never mentioned that he felt that someone was spying on him or following him?’

‘No. But if that’s really true, I’m sure he would have told me about it. We talked about everything.’

‘Except for company business?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much time did he spend at the office?’ asked Wittberg.

‘I suppose you could say that he was there a lot. Like all small-business owners. He would leave the house early in the morning, but he came home for lunch if he was working in the office or at a construction site nearby. Then he usually got home around six or seven. Sometimes he worked in the evening. Mostly with the accounts; he put together bids and things like that.’

‘What about at weekends?’

‘He was usually home.’

‘What sort of marriage did you have? What were your feelings for him?’

‘I loved him. Now that he’s dead, I don’t feel like living any more. It’s only because of the children that I’m trying to go on.’

She spoke the words in a voice that was dry and matter-of-fact, as if discussing some trivial matter. Yet when it came to Vendela’s feelings for her husband, there was something in her voice that made both Wittberg and Jacobsson believe what she said.

THE SALON CALLED Sofia’s Nails and Beauty was located on a side street to Hästgatan, a bit off the main tourist path.

Roses clung to the rough façade, and lying on the worn stone steps outside the front entrance was an orange cat, basking in the sun. A bell jingled as Johan and Pia stepped inside, and the strong scent of a floral perfume overwhelmed them.

‘It smells like bubble bath in here,’ Pia whispered in Johan’s ear.

Three sturdy wooden tables stood along the walls, covered with terry-cloth towels in pastel colours, and small pots and jars attractively arranged. Seated on either side of one of the tables were two young women. One was holding out her hands so the other woman could file and polish her nails. They were so immersed in their conversation that they didn’t even turn round to see who had come in. From hidden speakers came the sound of gentle eastern Mediterranean music.

In the very back of the room they saw an old-fashioned cash register on a counter. Behind it sat another woman with her head bowed as she wrote something in a book. She glanced up as they approached.

‘Hi, Pia!’

The woman behind the counter wore a blue linen dress, and her curly blond hair was pinned up in a bun. She stood up to give Pia a hug and then shook hands with Johan.

‘Let’s go over to the café next door so we can talk in peace.’

As they sat down at a table in the café’s garden, Anna cast a nervous glance at Pia’s camera.

‘This isn’t going to be on TV, is it? Because I don’t want any part of that.’

‘No, don’t worry,’ said Johan soothingly. ‘We won’t use anything that you’d rather not have included. We always protect our sources. Nobody needs to know that what we found out came from you.’

‘Promise me that.’

‘Sure. Of course we promise,’ said Pia. ‘You can trust me.’

‘So how was Peter Bovide being threatened?’ asked Johan.

‘He had had anonymous phone calls, both at home and at work. But that’s not the worst thing. Just a few days before Vendela and I went out to have our last dinner together before the summer holiday, several unpleasant types showed up at their house really late at night.’

‘What did they do?’

‘They didn’t go inside. They talked to Peter out in the front garden, apparently for quite a long time. Vendela said that when he came back into the house, he was very upset.’

‘Did he tell her who they were?’

‘No, but they spoke broken English. Vendela thought they might be from Finland or the Baltics.’

‘Why did they threaten him?’

‘He said that the company was having problems at one of the construction jobs they had taken on, but that everything was going to be fine. He hadn’t received payment from the person who had contracted the job, and so he didn’t have any money to pay the workers. And apparently it was a really big project.’

‘Did Vendela have any idea what project it was? Or which building site?’

‘I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.’

‘Do the police know about this?’

‘No. She didn’t want to say anything because she’s afraid everything would start to unravel.’

Anna leaned forward.

‘I think it has to do with illegal workers,’ she whispered.

‘You still need to go to the police and tell them what you know. This could be a serious matter,’ said Johan. ‘And in our report tonight, we’re going to mention the fact that Peter Bovide was being threatened. Although, as I said, we won’t say where we got the information.’

‘Good. Vendela doesn’t know that Pia and I are friends, so I don’t think she’ll realize that I told you about this. But I actually don’t care,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’ll ring the police as soon as I get back to the salon. And to hell with what she thinks. The only reason I’m telling anybody about this at all is to protect her.’

She shrugged and tried to look like she didn’t care, but it was obvious how worried she was.

‘I’m sure everything will work out,’ said Pia.

‘It’s just all so awful,’ murmured Anna. ‘I feel so bad about Peter. And so sorry for Vendela. And their kids.’

More questions began swarming through Johan’s mind. Was it here, at this café table, that they had discovered the motive for Peter Bovide’s murder? Was Vendela’s life in danger too? How should he deal with the information?

This was much too serious to keep to himself.

AFTER LEAVING ANNA Nyberg and the beauty salon, Johan tried to ring both Grenfors and Knutas. Neither of them picked up.

‘What do we do now?’ he asked Pia.

‘The only thing to do is to start working on our story. We need to use the information in tonight’s report, but we have to have two independent sources. Unfortunately, it won’t be enough to have Anna’s account, even though I’m convinced she’s telling the truth. Who else could confirm that Peter Bovide was being threatened?’

‘Maybe someone at Slite Construction, but nobody is answering the phone there either,’ said Johan with a sigh. ‘The question is whether we should drive up there, even if nobody’s in the office. In the meantime, I’ll ring the union and find out if they know anything about that under-the-table job.’

‘Do that. Then we’ll drive to Slite.’

‘OK.’

Johan got hold of the representative for the Union of Construction Workers on Gotland.

‘I’m trying to find out some information about a company called Slite Construction.’

‘Oh, right. He’s the one who was shot to death on Fårö. Peter Bovide. Awful thing to happen.’

‘I’ve heard that he was using illegal workers. Do you know anything about that?’

‘Yes, we had our suspicions, as a matter of fact. He had a union at his job sites, but there have been rumours that he wasn’t paying the proper wages. Those workers from Eastern Europe are willing to work cheap.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They come here to Sweden and bring down the wages. Plus they take jobs away from our own members.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Johan impatiently. ‘Do you know which projects Bovide’s company has been working on recently?’

‘Sure. We’ve received job-site reports from a few guys who still work for them. I can check. Wait a sec.’

Johan heard him typing on a computer keyboard. It took a minute before he was back on the phone.

‘The ones we know about are a residential project on Furillen, the remodelling of a restaurant in Åminne and a masonry job in Stenkyrkehuk. It’s a limestone house that’s being built right next to the old lighthouse up there. There’s also been talk that he had a bunch of illegal guys from Poland or the Baltics or somewhere like that building summer cabins all over northern Gotland.’

‘But how do you check up on that sort of thing? I mean, if you think they’re using illegal workers?’

‘It’s extremely difficult. We can’t keep track of every little construction site on the island; buildings are going up everywhere. The only way is if somebody rings us to say that they suspect illegal workers, but nobody ever bothers to do that.’

The representative heaved a big sigh. Johan checked his watch and made a quick decision.

‘Do you know exactly where in Stenkyrkehuk this limestone house is being built?’

‘It’s probably less than thirty kilometres from here. Take highway 149 from Visby, heading north. Turn off at the shop in Hälge, past Vale, and you’ll end up on a little gravel road that leads to the lighthouse. On the property beyond the lighthouse you’ll see the building. They’ve cleared away a lot of trees and widened the road.’

‘OK, thanks.’

After clicking off, Johan turned to Pia, who was driving.

‘We’re going to Stenkyrkehuk.’

THE SOUND OF pounding hammers could be heard from quite a distance away. They had followed the union rep’s directions and found their way to the building site close to the old lighthouse. The house under construction was situated on a limestone cliff a hundred feet above the sea with a wonderful view of the shimmering waters of the Baltic. The walls were up and two bare-chested men were perched on the roof, hammering the roofing felt in place. The sun was high overhead, and their backs glistened with sweat. At one end of the house two more men were busy applying plaster to the gable.

‘What a place,’ said Pia, sighing with delight.

‘Not bad.’

Johan looked around. A narrow, bumpy gravel road had been made, leading to the building site, which was surrounded by woods. A neighbour’s house was close by, although it wasn’t visible from the site. Only the old lighthouse, which was no longer in use, could be seen sticking up above the trees. The construction workers were busy with their tasks and hadn’t noticed Pia and Johan arrive. Music was blaring from a radio.

‘Let’s go over and have a talk with them,’ said Johan.

But before he could make a move, a man came out of the construction shed that stood a short distance from the new building. He was very short and powerfully built, and he stared at them with suspicion.

‘Hi,’ said Johan. ‘We’re from Swedish TV, doing a story on the murder of Peter Bovide. Did you know him?’

‘Know him? He was my partner. We ran the company together.’

Johan then realized that this man standing in front of him had to be Johnny Ekwall. He couldn’t believe their luck.

‘So you’re Johnny? Could we have a talk with you?’

‘Not if you’re going to shoot video. I don’t want to be on TV.’

‘That’s fine. I promise we won’t.’

Johnny Ekwall cast a glance at the construction workers, who looked at the reporters with curiosity for a moment before returning to what they were doing. Then Johnny turned on his heel and went back inside the shed. He left the door open, which Johan took to be an invitation.

He and Pia followed. Inside the shed was a row of metal lockers, a bench and a stainless-steel sink with a dusty mirror hanging above it.

They passed through an opening into what seemed to be a kitchen. On a simple table next to the window was a plastic container of biscuits and several dirty coffee mugs. Along the wall stood a refrigerator and a shelf holding a microwave and a stained coffee-maker. In a corner, several mattresses had been propped against the wall. They all sat down at the table, and Johnny poured the coffee, shoving forward the biscuits. Johan decided to get right to the point.

‘We’ve heard that Peter Bovide was being threatened. What do you know about that?’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘I can’t tell you. We have to protect our sources.’

‘OK. Does that mean that if I tell you something, you won’t tell anyone else?’

‘We won’t say that you were the one who gave us the information. If that’s what you prefer.’

Johnny Ekwall took a gulp of the lukewarm coffee.

‘Hmm… I don’t know,’ he said hesitantly. ‘There’s been a bit of trouble lately. Peter was the one who took care of paying the guys, but I think we’re behind. With their wages, I mean. And a few workers have been unhappy, saying they should be paid more, things like that. But Peter always took care of these matters himself; he never discussed them with me.’

‘Do you know if he was being threatened?’

‘He told me several times that he thought he was being watched, that somebody was spying on him.’

‘Is that right? Why did he think so?’

‘I don’t know. I think it was mostly a gut feeling he had.’

Johan leaned forward and lowered his voice.

‘The thing is, we’ve heard from a very reliable source that he actually was being threatened, for real. He wasn’t just imagining things. So, what do you know about it?’

Johnny Ekwall fidgeted nervously. His expression again turned suspicious.

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘As I said before, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. We’re reporters, and we have to protect our sources. It’s not the same thing as talking to the police.’

Ekwall regarded Johan for a moment in silence.

‘Do you promise you won’t tell that I was the one who told you? I don’t want to get in any trouble.’

‘We promise.’

‘Well, Peter got some strange phone calls, mysterious types who rang up anonymously, but he never wanted to discuss it. He said they were just a couple of idiots, nothing to worry about. It had to do with financial matters, and he always wanted to keep that bit to himself.’

‘Can you tell us anything else about these phone calls?’

‘Somebody would ring and start making threats, saying that if Peter didn’t pay the wages we owed… But that was only recently.’

‘Why are you behind in paying the wages? Isn’t the company doing well?’

‘Yes, it is. But we have a big client who hasn’t been paying us on time. And then we can’t pay the wages, and we end up falling behind.’

‘Who’s been complaining?’

‘Mostly the guys from Poland and the Baltics who’ve been working for us. They get paid less than those in the union; that’s only natural. I suppose they’ve started comparing notes with the others.’

‘Peter was apparently being threatened by several individuals who were thought to be from either Finland or the Baltics. They went to his house several weeks ago. Do you know anything about that?’

‘Yes, he told me about them, and it made me nervous, but he said there was no reason to worry.’

‘Do you know the nationality of the people who made the phone calls?’

‘No, he didn’t mention where they were from. And I didn’t think to ask.’

‘Do you have any Swedish workers on this job site?’ asked Pia.

‘No, not at this one.’

‘How many employees does the company have altogether?’

‘Three full-time construction workers, besides me and Peter. And Linda, our secretary. We bring in other employees as we need them.’

‘What’s your opinion about the murder? I mean, who do you think might have done it?’

‘There’s no doubt that it’s made me think about those threats and whether they might have something to do with the murder.’

‘Are you worried for your own safety?’

‘Not really, although of course the thought has crossed my mind.’

‘What are you going to do about the company now?’

‘I’ll keep running it, along with Linda. We’ll buy out Peter’s share – provided Vendela agrees, of course. She’s part-owner now. And if she does, Linda can handle the finances.’

‘Will she be able to do that?’

‘Sure. She studied economics in school. And she’s taken a bunch of courses. One thing is certain – we’re going to pay all those back wages so we can keep the employees happy. Although at the moment we can’t do a damn thing because the police have got their mitts on our account books.’

‘So you and Peter actually disagreed on how the company should be run?’ asked Pia.

‘Hell no, I don’t think you can say that. Not really. We had a good partnership, Peter and I.’