‘Unprofessional is what I’d call it,’ Sohlman interjected. ‘If you want to kill somebody, you don’t fire a bunch of shots at the stomach. There’s a good chance the victim might survive, as long as the bullets don’t hit the aorta or the heart. A pro would have fired another shot to the head if he wasn’t sure that the first bullet had been fatal.’
‘So an amateur then. Somebody who hasn’t killed before,’ said Jacobsson. ‘At the same time, it seems incredibly cold-blooded. I mean, not everyone would be able to shoot a man standing right in front of them, and in the forehead at such close range.’
‘But why do you think he was shot in the head first and then in the stomach?’ asked Wittberg. ‘Wouldn’t the opposite seem more reasonable? The perp shoots the victim in the stomach, and then to make sure he dies, he fires a shot at his head.’
‘It’s just a feeling I have,’ said Sohlman. ‘We really won’t know until after the post mortem. I’m sure the ME will be able to determine in what order the bullets were fired.’
‘Can you tell us anything about the weapon?’ asked Jacobsson.
‘Nothing except that we’re talking about a small-calibre pistol. I won’t know more until we’ve taken a look at the slugs.’
‘The question is how the murderer knew that Peter Bovide was going to be out running so early,’ murmured Wittberg. ‘In other words, was the murder premeditated?’
‘It seems most likely that it was planned,’ said Norrby, crossing one long leg over the other. ‘How long did you say they’d been at the campsite?’
‘Three days,’ replied Jacobsson.
‘The perp must have followed Bovide to the campsite and observed his routines.’
‘Apparently, he always went running every morning at the same time,’ interjected Jacobsson. ‘Every single day of the year.’
She reached for the flask of coffee standing on the table.
‘What I can’t understand is why the perp would choose to commit the murder so close to a campsite swarming with people. Doesn’t that seem a bit crazy?’
‘Maybe he was staying at the campsite himself,’ said Wittberg. ‘It might have been someone that Peter Bovide had just met.’
‘Or maybe there’s some reason why the perp didn’t want to kill Bovide close to home,’ said Smittenberg. ‘A neighbour, a work colleague, or someone else with strong ties to Bovide’s life back in Slite. Killing him on Fårö could serve as some sort of diversionary manoeuvre.’
‘That doesn’t sound very likely,’ said Jacobsson. ‘The MO seems to indicate that a lunatic is on the loose. We need to do everything we can to catch this person as soon as possible. One way to proceed is to look for the gun. The perp might have thrown it away somewhere nearby. We’ll use metal detectors and get the coast guard to bring in divers who can search the area where the body was found.’
Jacobsson silently reminded herself that she needed to make sure the Swedish Crime Laboratory, the SCL in Linköping, gave priority to examining the bullets to find out what type of gun was used. She turned to Sohlman.
‘Erik, could you see to it that the SCL puts a rush on this case, both the post mortem and the examination of the bullets? We can’t rule out that we’re dealing with someone who’s mentally ill, and in the worst-case scenario he may have developed a taste for killing. There’s a good chance he’ll strike again.’
PETER BOVIDE’S PARTNER, Johnny Ekwall, looked pale and upset when he arrived for the interview at police headquarters on the night of the murder. His muscular body slumped, and he was obviously having trouble holding back the tears. He sank heavily on to the chair across from Jacobsson, who was already sitting at the table in the cramped interrogation room. He smelled strongly of sweat. Jacobsson wrinkled her nose but decided she’d have to overlook it, since the man’s colleague had just been murdered, after all.
‘I realize that it’s tough to have to come here,’ she said sympathetically, ‘but I’m afraid it’s necessary. We need to gather as much information as we can about Peter Bovide, and do it quickly, so that we can catch the murderer.’
She switched on the tape recorder and ran through the standard statements. Then she leaned back in her chair and studied the man sitting in front of her. She knew that he was fifty-two, but she thought he looked older. His hair was thinning, and he had deep lines on his face.
‘How long have you been running the company together?’
‘Five years. Peter had dreamed of doing it for a long time – starting his own company, I mean – and recently things have really taken off. This is too bloody awful.’
He stared down at the table.
‘How did you divide up the work?’
‘Peter mostly handles the administrative and financial sides of the business, plus he goes after more jobs and writes bids. I take care of the practical matters. Meaning, I find the men to do the work and things like that. Make sure that everything is going smoothly. I also get more personally involved in the operational side than Peter does. I spend as much time as I can out at the construction sites. Peter mostly stays in the office. You might say that he’s the brains of the company while I’m the heart.’
Jacobsson raised her eyebrows at this use of metaphor. She felt an instant empathy for this man who spoke of Peter Bovide as if he were still alive.
‘How did you happen to meet?’
‘It was back in the nineties, when there were very few construction jobs to be had. We were both working extra hard as longshoremen at Slite harbour. After that we often ended up working at the same building sites, and we became good friends.’
‘Why did you decide to start a company together with Peter?’
‘I’ve spent my whole life working for other people, and I thought it was about time for me to run my own business. Peter was always a driving force at the construction sites. He inspired the other guys to work more efficiently and pick up the tempo, so I trusted him. If I was going to try starting my own company, I wanted to do it with him. And I’d saved up a fair amount of money, so that was enough for our initial investment.’
‘Are you married? Do you have children?’
‘No.’
‘Could you describe Peter? What was he like?’
‘Everybody liked him. He was the quiet type, very meticulous. And he was a workaholic, he really was. Never stopped working.’
‘How was his marriage?’
‘Vendela and the kids were everything to him. He was one of the few guys I know who actually had a great relationship with his wife. He put in long hours, but he always went straight home when the work was done.’
Johnny Ekwall sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. Jacobsson paused for a moment before asking her next question.
‘And the business was doing well, you said?’
‘Yes. It was tough in the beginning, but for the past year the work has been pouring in. People are building like crazy. We’ve also had some big jobs that paid really well. Things are going better and better. We’ve even been thinking about hiring a couple more guys. And now this happens. It’s so damn unfair.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm Peter?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Have you noticed any changes lately? Somebody new he’d made contact with, or anything like that? Think carefully. Every detail is important, no matter how small.’
Johnny Ekwall hesitated before replying.
‘Well, actually, Peter told me that sometimes he felt like he was being watched. Just recently, not long before he died.’
Jacobsson gave a start.
‘What do you mean by “watched”?’
‘As if someone was literally tailing him, shadowing him.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Once when we were having coffee at the company office, as usual. He suddenly got up and went over to the window to look outside. I asked him what was going on, and he told me that he thought he’d heard something, and then he saw a shadow pass by outside.’
>
‘Did you see anything?’
‘No. It happened again when we were doing some grocery shopping in Slite. He kept turning round, and he said that he had the feeling somebody was after him.’
‘When did all this start?’
‘A few weeks ago, maybe in early June.’
‘Did he ever show this sort of behaviour before?’
‘No. But lately he started getting strange phone calls as well.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone would ring him up and then just put down the phone.’
‘Did you get these kinds of calls too?’
‘No, but I know it happened to Peter several times.’
‘What did the person on the phone say?’
‘I don’t think they said anything. Maybe it was just a wrong number.’
‘What time of day did these calls take place?’
‘Any time at all, I think.’
‘Do you know whether he got these calls at home too?’
‘He never mentioned it.’
‘Did anyone else at the company get these types of phone calls?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think it had something to do with your business?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest. I don’t even know whether he was really being followed or whether it was just his imagination. He was a bit fragile from a psychological standpoint, I have to admit.’
‘Fragile? What do you mean by that?’
‘Sometimes he’d get depressed and hardly say a word all day. He seemed to retreat inside himself. It was obvious that he was feeling low.’
‘Do you know what caused it?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ever talk about it?’
‘No. I did try to bring it up a few times, but I could tell that he didn’t want to talk about it, so I dropped the subject.’
‘How much do you know about the company’s finances?’
‘Not a thing, as a matter of fact. As I said, Peter handled everything to do with the account books. I have no sense for numbers.’
JOHAN AND PIA were working to get their report ready in time for the first evening news broadcast. They were sitting in the editorial office of Regional News, housed in the Swedish TV and Radio building on Östra Hansegatan, just outside the ring wall. For the past few years Gotland had been included in the area covered by Regional News, but there was no permanent staff on the island. Johan had been forced to get used to commuting back and forth between Stockholm and Visby. It had been very trying, not just professionally but also in terms of his personal life. His relationship with Emma Winarve was complicated enough, and it had been that way from the very beginning. She was married when they first met, and she had two young children. They instantly fell in love and carried on a passionate affair in secret. When Emma was pregnant with Johan’s child, she got a divorce and gave birth to their daughter, Elin, who was now a year old. Emma had been too bewildered after the divorce to move in with Johan right away, which had greatly upset him.
But eventually he was allowed to move into her house in Roma.
Their familial happiness was short-lived, because soon afterwards they had landed in the middle of a kidnapping drama, and for a few terrifying hours Elin was held captive by a murderer on the run from the police. While carrying out his reporting duties for Swedish TV, Johan had come too close to the perpetrator. Emma had accused Johan of putting their daughter’s life in danger, even though deep inside she knew that he hadn’t done it on purpose. After Elin was found safe, Emma had broken off the engagement. Several months had passed since then, and the contact between them was still chilly. They saw each other only when picking up Elin or dropping her off.
During the whole turbulent spring, Johan had rushed back and forth between Stockholm and Gotland, trying to spend as much time with Elin as he could.
Swedish TV had rented an apartment for him on Adelsgatan in the middle of Visby so that he didn’t have to stay in a hotel. Just a little cubbyhole, of course, but the location couldn’t have been more central.
Emotionally, Johan found himself in a miserable state. His body was screaming for Emma, and he constantly felt an aching yearning to be with Elin. It was like having a black hole inside him. Right now he had no idea what he was going to do; it was probably merely a matter of accepting the situation. He had wanted to demand to see his daughter at least 50 per cent of the time, as was his right, but it was actually his own mother who had made him change his mind.
‘One thing at a time,’ she had said to console him. ‘One thing at a time.’ Making demands in the midst of such chaos would just make everything worse. His mother thought that, with time, Emma would calm down and listen to reason. And he wanted to believe in her.
The situation couldn’t be described as anything but disastrous, yet the kidnapping drama that occurred in the early spring had also taken its toll on Johan, and he didn’t have the energy to deal with the conflict with Emma right now. For the time being, he made do with the few days he was allowed to spend with Elin.
DARK HAD FALLEN by the time Karin Jacobsson walked home from police headquarters. She crossed Norra Hansegatan and continued along the main street down to Östercentrum. The shops were closed, but some young guys were sitting at tables outside McDonald’s, bellowing into the warm July night. Teenagers walked past, on their way down to the ring wall and the old town looming inside. It was close to midnight, and she still hadn’t been able to get in touch with Knutas. Now it was too late to call. Instead, she sent off a brief text message:
‘Murder on Fårö. Man shot to death, execution-style. Ring when you have time.’
Just as she passed Ali’s barbecue stand outside Österport, her mobile rang.
‘Hi, it’s Anders. Are you kidding?’
‘I wish I was.’
She couldn’t resist smiling a bit when she heard how flabbergasted he sounded. She realized he must be frustrated at being so far away.
‘I tried to call you several times.’
‘I know. I was recharging my mobile, so it was switched off. Then I forgot about it. I’m on holiday, after all,’ he joked. ‘So tell me what happened.’
Jacobsson quickly outlined the sequence of events as she walked through the gate in the Visby ring wall at Österport and down Hästgatan.
The restaurants she passed were packed with people enjoying the warm night. Music poured out of the bars and eating establishments. Visby had a lively entertainment scene in the summer, and it was high season right now.
She had reached Mellangatan by the time she had finished her report.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Knutas. ‘What are you doing now?’
‘I’ve talked to Martin Kihlgård, and he and a few colleagues from the NCP will be here tomorrow.’
There was silence on the line for a moment. Jacobsson was at her front door. She felt a pang of guilt. Partly because Knutas was having a well-deserved holiday, which he really needed. Partly because it was so late, and he should be spending time with his wife instead of talking shop with her.
‘OK,’ she went on. ‘So now you know what happened, at any rate. But you’re on holiday. We can handle things here, Anders.’
‘I have every confidence that you can. Ring if you need anything. It’s no bother.’
‘Thanks. Good night.’
‘Good night. Give my best to everyone else.’
‘Sure.’
When Karin went to bed that night, she felt lonelier than she had in a long time.
HAMBURG, 22 JUNE 1985
VERA SAT IN the kitchen, staring with yearning at the other side of Friedenstrasse. The building directly opposite was six storeys tall with a light-coloured façade. She no longer needed to count the rows of windows to know where he lived. Gotthard Westenfelder – she tried out the name. Said it aloud. Never before in the twenty years of her life had she been so in love. They had met at the university just after she had completed her first year. Both of them were studying t
o be teachers, and they were in the same class. Even on the first day she thought there was something special about him. Not just in terms of appearance, even though he was very attractive with his blond hair and green eyes. It was a week before they spoke to each other. He asked her if she knew where to find one of the textbooks required for the course. She knew at once that his question wasn’t solely about books. They went out to a café and the next day to the cinema, and that was when he kissed her. That had been two weeks ago, and she was so in love that she couldn’t think about anything else. When she wasn’t with him, she still saw his face everywhere.
Now she was sitting here and trying to concentrate on the last exam before the summer holidays, but her eyes kept shifting to the window to stare at his building. Unfortunately, his bedroom window faced the other direction.
She looked down at her book, but the letters forming the words swam before her eyes, merging and separating and taking on a life of their own. She sighed and glanced out at the street one last time before she got up and went to the bathroom.
She stood in front of the mirror, studying her face. Vera was quite pleased with how she looked, even though she thought her sister Tanya was prettier. Tanya had their mother’s beauty, while Vera had inherited her features from their father’s Russian ancestors. Her parents had met in West Berlin, and after a few years there the family had moved to Hamburg, where her father, Oleg, had found a new job as a biologist at a large company while her mother, Sabine, worked as a teacher in a secondary school.
Vera ran her finger over her forehead, followed the curve of her cheekbone down to the tip of her chin. She had big grey eyes with dark lashes and eyebrows. The door slammed downstairs, startling her out of her reveries, and she heard her little sister’s voice saying: ‘Hello?’
Vera went back to her place at the kitchen table.
‘I’m so hungry,’ said Tanya.
She yanked open the refrigerator door and began pulling out one thing after another: cheese, salami, Sabine’s homemade meatloaf left over from dinner the night before.
The Dead Of Summer Page 3