The Dead Of Summer

FRIDAY, 14 JULY

THURSDAY PASSED WITHOUT anything else important coming to light that might move the investigation forward. Both Vendela Bovide and her friend Anna Nyberg had been interviewed, and the police were able to confirm that Peter Bovide had been threatened several times during the weeks prior to his death. His widow finally admitted that she knew about the threats, but she hadn’t wanted to say anything because it involved the hiring of illegal workers.

Everybody having anything at all to do with Slite Construction was interviewed, but no one contributed any information that the police hadn’t already known.

When the investigative team gathered for the Friday morning meeting, they were greeted by a beaming Kihlgård, who stood in the doorway to welcome them by singing the ‘Marseillaise’ at the top of his lungs.

Enthroned atop the light pine table in the middle of the room were two big chocolate cakes decorated with miniature French flags attached to toothpicks.

‘What’s this all about?’ asked Wittberg. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was clearly suffering from a hangover. His blond hair stuck out in all directions and he was holding a bottle of Coca-Cola in one hand. For many years Wittberg had been the department’s Don Juan, but a year ago he’d settled down and moved in with his girlfriend. Then early in the summer their relationship had fallen apart, as was clearly evident. Now he was back to his old partying ways.

‘What are we celebrating?’ asked Jacobsson.

Kihlgård sighed loudly as he gave his colleagues an insistent look.

‘What sort of uneducated group is this, anyway? Don’t you know what today is?’

No one in the room had a clue.

‘It’s a national holiday in France, damn it!’ shouted Kihlgård enthusiastically. ‘The fourteenth of July! Bastille Day, celebrating the French Revolution – haven’t you ever heard of it?’

‘Good lord,’ said Jacobsson, laughing. ‘We hardly even know why we celebrate Sweden’s national holiday. I had no idea you were such a Francophile.’

‘My dear, how could you not know? The food, the wine, the people, the weather – I love France. And these,’ he said, pointing eagerly at the chocolate cakes, ‘these are French chocolate cakes, homemade from a recipe I got from my French-born boyfriend, Laurent!’

A sudden silence descended over the room. Kihlgård had never mentioned before that he was gay or that he had a boyfriend. Knutas looked completely bewildered, and Wittberg’s confused expression swiftly changed to amusement. Sohlman looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Jacobsson’s expression remained neutral. She’d known about Kihlgård’s sexual orientation for a long time. To her eyes, it seemed quite obvious.

It was interesting to see how her otherwise so astute colleagues could be completely blind when it came to someone’s sexual preference. Some people in the department had even imagined that there was something going on between her and Kihlgård. Several times Knutas had displayed signs of jealousy. That had amused Jacobsson no end.

At the moment it was clear even to Kihlgård that he had just revealed something that his colleagues on Gotland hadn’t known about, although it was common knowledge among his colleagues back at police headquarters in Stockholm.

‘All right then,’ he said to dispel the confusion that had arisen. ‘Help yourselves. These cakes are fantastic!’

Kihlgård reached for a knife and began slicing the cakes. Everyone took a piece.

‘So maybe we should get started with the meeting, if Monsieur Kihlgård doesn’t mind?’

Knutas turned to give a wry smile to his colleague, who was already working on his second large piece of cake.

‘Wittberg, I think you had some substantial news for us?’

‘Yes, we’ve conducted another interview with Linda Johansson, who works at Slite Construction. She still claims not to know anything about the threats or about illegal workers. She’s mostly in charge of the phones and the usual office tasks, and says she just does what she’s told to do. When it comes to the company’s finances, it was Peter who made the decisions, while she mostly took care of the paperwork. At least that’s what she says. To be honest, she doesn’t exactly seem like the brightest person.’

‘What do we really know about her?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘She’s from Slite, twenty-five years old. Married with two kids. Nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘How long has she worked at the company?’

‘Six months, apparently. They hired her and a couple of construction workers at the same time.’

‘How credible is it that she had no inkling that the company was using illegal workers?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘If it’s true that Peter Bovide took care of the finances, it could be that the others really had no idea about what was going on,’ said Wittberg. ‘Maybe they hired a few foreigners with work permits and the usual union agreement and then others who didn’t have the proper documents.’

‘We’ll soon have a report from the fraud division on their investigation. It’ll be interesting to see what they find out,’ said Knutas. ‘Moving on to a whole different matter – have you checked up on the passengers who were on the first ferry to Fårö?’

‘Yes, and it turns out that all of them have an alibi for the time of the murder. The couple from Göteborg drove straight over to their rented cabin, where they sat and drank their morning coffee with the female owner until eight o’clock, when she left for work. Upon arrival at Fårö the pregnant woman was apparently met by her husband, and they spent the whole morning together. And when the man with the horse trailer arrived home with the horse, he was greeted by his son. None of them noticed anything unusual.’

‘OK, so that’s that. How’s it going with the interviews of people who spent the night in summer cabins on Fårö? Is the report ready?’

‘Nothing noteworthy so far, but we haven’t finished all the interviews yet. We still have to go looking for people who have left the area, you know.’

‘Sure. I understand.’