The killer's art

6

Usually Sundays were calm in the editorial offices of the Regional News division at the headquarters of Swedish TV in the Gardet district, and today was no exception. Johan Berg was feeling hung-over and worn out as he sat at his desk, listlessly scanning the daily papers. Absolutely nothing was going on. Not in Stockholm, on Gotland, or in Uppsala, which were the areas covered by Regional News.

The previous evening had turned out to involve far more drinks and had lasted much longer than he had planned. He’d gone out for a few beers with his best friend Andreas, who was also a journalist. They’d ended up at Kvarnen, and had then stupidly accompanied several colleagues from Swedish Radio’s Eko news programme to a party out in Hammarbyh?jden. Not until four a.m. had he stumbled through the door of his one-bedroom flat on Heleneborgsgatan.

Adding to his distaste for spending Sunday on the job was the fact that the editor in charge was a substitute in whom he had very little faith. He had hardly taken off his jacket before she was enthusiastically proposing one mediocre assignment after another. She seemed to be nervously grasping at every straw. Good Lord, there were still ten hours left before the five-minute fluff piece they usually broadcast on Sundays. And besides, they had a report in the can. Calm down, for God’s sake, he thought morosely. The mere sight of her made him tired. She was also the newscaster, so she was the only person around to talk to. On Sundays the resources were so meagre that one person had to be both editor and newscaster.

He glanced through the various press releases that had been sent to the editorial offices over the weekend. Ninety-five per cent had to do with various PR gimmicks for different functions going on in town, including announcements about hip-hopper Markoolio being the master of ceremonies when the new Tumba Centre was opened, something about a lace workshop at Skansen, and publicity for a guinea-pig race at the Sollentuna exhibition hall.

He hated all these different ‘days’ that had been invented over the past few years. First there were Children’s Day and Book Day and Women’s Day, which were OK — but lately there had been a plethora of days that had to be celebrated. Days officially designated to honour cinnamon rolls, the suburbs, go-karts, and so on. This Sunday was apparently Mitten Day. What could that possibly mean? Was everybody supposed to go around wearing home-made mittens, waving their hands around and looking happy? What purpose could that possibly serve? Were they going to sell pastries shaped like mittens and exchange knitting patterns? He almost felt like doing a report on the topic just because it sounded so dumb.

The rest of the press releases were either from groups dissatisfied with the public-transportation system, or from obscure groups of activists protesting about everything imaginable: a dangerous road outside a school in Gimo, a day-care centre in Vaxholm that was about to be closed, or the long queue at the welfare office in Salem. Johan shook his head as he tossed one press release after another into the wastebasket.

The cameraman for the day showed up and joined him with a cup of coffee. They sat and commiserated about the fact that there were no worthwhile stories to report. Now and then Johan could feel the editor glancing at them, but he chose to ignore her. For just a little while longer.

He tried to ring Emma several times, but the line was always busy. Should she really be spending so much time on the phone when she’s taking care of Elin? he thought with annoyance. Yet he also felt the familiar stab of yearning. His daughter was now eight months old, but he saw her only sporadically.

He put down the phone and looked over at the editor’s desk; she was putting in calls to all the small police stations in their area to find out if anything was going on that might be newsworthy.

He suddenly felt guilty and realized that he needed to pull himself together. It wasn’t her fault that he was tired and out of sorts. Or that Sundays were always hopeless news days. Maybe he could use his police contacts to fish out some tiny morsel that with a little effort could be turned into a story. Good enough for a Sunday, at least.

He was just about to pick up the phone on his cluttered desk when his mobile rang.

He recognized Pia Lilja’s voice at once. She was the cameraperson he most often worked with whenever he went over to Gotland. ‘Did you hear the news?’ she gasped.

‘No, what is it?’

‘They found a dead man hanging from one of the gates in the ring wall this morning.’

‘Are you joking?’

‘No, damn it. It’s true.’

‘Was it suicide?’

‘No idea, but I’m going to find out. I can’t talk any more. I’ve got to go and see what’s happening.’

‘OK. Ring me again as soon as you know anything.’

‘Sure. Ciao.’

Johan punched in the mobile number for Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas. When he answered, he sounded out of breath.

‘Hello, Johan Berg here.’

‘It’s been a long time. Are you back on the job again?’

‘Hey, don’t you ever watch Regional News? I’ve been at it for weeks.’

‘Good to hear that you’re back on your feet again. That’s what I meant.’

Johan chuckled. He’d been off sick for several months after having been stabbed in connection with a homicide case that he’d been involved with the previous summer. His wounds had been quite serious. Knutas had come to see him in the hospital several times, but that was a while ago, and they hadn’t spoken since. ‘So what’s going on over there?’

‘We found a dead man hanging from Dalman Gate this morning.’

‘Was it murder?’

‘Don’t know yet. That’s something the ME’s examination will determine.’

‘So there’s nothing to indicate that it might be murder?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Come on, Knutas. You know my situation. I’m sitting over here in Stockholm. I need to know whether it’s worth me coming to Gotland or not. What does it look like? Murder or suicide?’

‘Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to answer that question.’ Knutas’s tone was a bit less stern.

‘Do you know who the victim is?’

A brief pause.

‘Yes, but he hasn’t been formally identified. And as you very well know, we can’t give out the name just yet. Not until the family’s been notified.’

Knutas was breathing hard. Johan could hear that he was walking as he talked.

‘How old is the victim?’

‘He’s middle-aged. That’s as much as I can tell you. I’ve got to go now. We’ll be sending out a press release later on. There are lots of journalists here, asking questions.’

‘When will you know more?’

‘We’ll probably have a preliminary report by lunchtime, at the earliest.’

‘I’ll get back to you then.’

‘Do that.’