The Dead Of Summer

by Mari Jungstedt

  The Dead Of Summer

  Mari Jungstedt

  The jogger ran north along the water's edge, the sand heavy underfoot after the night's rain. At the promontory he turned and headed back down the beach. In the distance he saw a figure walking towards him. Suddenly the person stumbled and fell, then just lay there not moving. Feeling uneasy, he ran forward.

  'Are you all right?'

  The face that turned towards him was expressionless, the eyes cold.

  For the jogger, time seemed to stand still. Deep down inside him something came alive, something he had tried to bury for years.

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

  Mari Jungstedt

  The Dead Of Summer

  The fifth book in the Anders Knutas series, 2011

  Translated from the Swedish by Tiina Nunnally

  For Ewa Jungstedt, my dearest sister

  From the lighthouse-keeper’s diary, the island of Gotska Sandön, August 1864

  In the early-morning hour of 25 August, at ten minutes after midnight, on the south-east side of the island, the Russian steamship Vsadnik ran aground with a crew of one hundred and forty, of which three officers and twelve seamen drowned; all of the others were rescued. A hard easterly storm with rain.

  MONDAY, 10 JULY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Wait. Come back here.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  His demons were haunting him less and less.

  Vendela hugged him hard.

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

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

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

  �
�I’m going to take off now.’

  ‘OK.’

  She gave him another hug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Are you all right?’

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

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

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

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

  His body felt limp, loose-jointed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Are you ready?’

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

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

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

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