The Dead Of Summer

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘Sure, that’s fine. I’ll tell Pia to meet me at the office so we can drive out to Fårö.’

  ‘OK.’

  In his mind he’s already making plans to be on his way, she thought. She turned round and dashed off.

  When she was out of sight, the tears came.

  ON THE DAY after the murder Vendela Bovide was still in Visby hospital. Jacobsson gave her name at the reception desk and was asked to take a seat and wait until she could be allowed into the patient’s room.

  The sight of the young widow was distressing. She was sitting up in bed with several pillows behind her back. Her eyes were closed, and her face looked almost transparent. Her hair hung limply, dull and lifeless, the gown she was wearing was too big, and her hands were clasped on top of the blanket. Her despair filled the room like a heavy cloud.

  Jacobsson greeted the woman without getting a response and then glanced around the room, feeling a bit lost. There was a chair standing in the corner. Cautiously she pulled it forward and sat down next to the bed.

  ‘Where are my children?’ asked Vendela Bovide, her voice weak.

  ‘They’re with your husband’s parents.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘They live in Slite, don’t they?’

  Jacobsson fidgeted, feeling uneasy as she considered whether to call a nurse. The woman in the bed seemed rather out of it. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since she’d learned that her husband had been murdered.

  Her expression scared Jacobsson. During all her years in the police force, she had talked with a great many people who had lost someone they loved, but she’d never before witnessed such complete withdrawal and bottled-up despair as that exhibited by this woman in the bed. It was so strong it actually made the air hard to breathe.

  Jacobsson wanted either to leave at once or else take the woman in her arms to console her. Just sitting there doing nothing seemed absurd.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to bother you,’ she began. ‘My name is Karin Jacobsson, and I’m in charge of the investigation. We spoke on the phone yesterday.’

  Almost imperceptibly, Vendela Bovide nodded.

  ‘Let me start by offering my condolences. Are you ready to answer some questions?’

  Silence.

  ‘Do you know what time it was when Peter left to go running yesterday morning?’

  ‘It was 5.35.’

  ‘How can you be so precise?’

  ‘I glanced at the clock when he left.’

  ‘So you were awake? Did you talk to him before he took off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘The same as always.’

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘Cheerful. He was going to make breakfast when he came back. And put the coffee on. That was the last thing he said.’

  ‘Did he usually go running in the morning?’

  ‘That was his regular routine, all year round.’

  ‘And at about the same time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Both weekdays and weekends?’

  ‘Every day. He was a man of habit. Peter liked routines.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Because he was insecure.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘No, he never talked about it.’

  ‘But there was something worrying him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Her voice faded. Vendela turned her head so she could look out of the window.

  ‘What do you think it might have been?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe something to do with the company.’

  ‘Why would he be worried about that?’

  ‘It’s not easy running a company, you know…’

  ‘According to his partner, Johnny Ekwall, Peter thought he was being watched. Do you know anything about that?’

  A faint twitch of an eyebrow.

  ‘No, nothing. Watched? No, he never said anything about that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And apparently he’d received some anonymous phone calls at the office. Did you know about that?’

  ‘No. I think we did get some calls that were wrong numbers, but that was a long time ago.’

  Vendela’s hands were picking nervously at the covers.

  Either she was telling the truth or there was some reason she didn’t want to admit that her husband thought he was being spied on. More likely the latter, but Jacobsson chose not to ask any more questions on that subject until later.

  ‘How was the company doing?’

  ‘Good. At least that’s what he told me.’

  ‘OK. But you don’t know anything about company operations or the book-keeping?’

  ‘No.’

  Jacobsson paused for a moment and glanced down at the notepad she was holding on her lap.

  ‘Could you tell from your personal finances that things were going well at the company?’

  ‘Yes. It meant that we could take a holiday. This time of year we usually go camping, but we’ve never been able to afford a trip abroad. We were supposed to go to Mallorca after two weeks on Fårö. He’d booked a four-star hotel. I thought it was too expensive, but he was so determined, and he said we could afford it. He thought we deserved it after all the work involved in starting the company. The years when our kids were babies were really tough for me; he was working almost all the time.’

  Vendela began sobbing. She took a tissue from a box on the bedside table and loudly blew her nose.

  ‘Why did you happen to choose the Sudersand campsite?’

  ‘We’ve gone there for several years, every holiday. Peter loved that campsite. He knew the owner. He reserved the same spot for us every year.’

  ‘Did you also socialize with the owner?’

  ‘No, almost never. Mats – that’s the owner’s name – works at the campsite all summer long, and as soon as the holidays are over, he and his wife go somewhere on the Black Sea. She’s from that area.’

  Jacobsson’s pen raced to keep up as she took notes. For a moment she pondered what Vendela had just told her. The woman’s answers to her questions were quite lucid, considering her condition only a few minutes ago.

  ‘When Peter left the caravan yesterday morning, was that the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you do after he left?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep any more, so I got up and made coffee. I decided to stay inside the caravan because it had rained all night. I drank my coffee and did a crossword puzzle.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘A couple of hours must have passed, and then the kids woke up.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Maybe around eight.’

  ‘Didn’t you wonder why Peter hadn’t come back?’

  ‘Yes, I did, but sometimes he stayed down at the beach and did callisthenics and then took a swim. I didn’t think it was so strange. The sun had come out rather quickly, you know.’

  ‘When did you start getting worried about his absence?’

  ‘I ate breakfast with the kids. They were watching a children’s programme on TV. By the time I’d cleaned up and made the beds it was eight thirty. That’s when I started to wonder where he was.’

  ‘Were you worried?’

  ‘Not really. But around ten o’clock the kids and I walked down to the beach, and there we saw that a big crowd had gathered. Later the police rang.’

  In a matter of seconds the controlled façade had shattered, and Vendela Bovide again started sobbing loudly.

  Jacobsson put her hand on the woman’s arm. Vendela yanked her arm away as if she’d been burned.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she snarled so vehemently that saliva sprayed from her lips. ‘He’s the only one who’s allowed to touch me. Do you understand?’

  Jacobsson gave a start. She had been completely unprepared for such an outburst. She shoved her chair back as far as it would go, and for a while she didn�
�t say a word. There were still some questions that she wanted to ask. She sincerely hoped that Vendela wasn’t about to lose all control.

  The woman’s sobs gradually diminished enough that Jacobsson dared continue the conversation.

  ‘Do you know whether your husband had any enemies? I mean, did he ever receive any threats, or was there anybody who was particularly hostile towards him?’

  A shadow passed over Vendela’s face.

  ‘No. I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Peter was a very generous man, and everybody liked him. He was kind and helpful and hardly ever disagreed with anyone. He hated any sort of conflict. It was the same in our relationship. We hardly ever argued.’

  Vendela Bovide’s voice was fading, and Jacobsson could tell that it was time to stop. The woman’s thin body slumped lower on the bed.

  ‘So what was Peter like? Was he happy?’

  Vendela hesitated before answering. She looked as if she were seriously mulling over the question. As if it were something new to consider, and unexpected.

  ‘I think he was happy, at least as happy as he could be.’

  ‘I realize this is difficult for you,’ said Jacobsson sympathetically. ‘But I’m afraid I have to ask these questions so that we can catch the person who did this as soon as possible. Has anything unusual happened lately?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did the two of you, or maybe just Peter, happen to meet anybody new?’

  Vendela Bovide seemed to be considering what to say. Again she answered in the negative.

  ‘Do you have a job too?’

  ‘Yes, I work part-time at a beauty salon in Visby, every other Saturday.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Sofia’s Nails and Beauty.’

  Jacobsson wrote down the name in her notepad.

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  Jacobsson noticed a momentary hesitation before Vendela replied.

  ‘Sometimes I work as a croupier at the Casino Cosmopol in Stockholm.’

  ‘I see. How often?’

  ‘Once a month. I go over on Friday afternoon, work all weekend and then come back home on Sunday afternoon. My sister and mother live in Stockholm, so I usually stay with my sister in Söder.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And my mother-in-law helps out with the children while I’m away.’

  ‘I understand.’

  It was time to stop. She thanked the woman for her help and left the room.

  By then Vendela Bovide had slipped down until she was lying flat on the bed, gazing vacantly out of the window. She already seemed to have forgotten all about Karin Jacobsson.

  AFTER JOHAN HAD handed Elin back to Emma when she returned from her dentist’s appointment, he walked up the hill from the harbour and through the town’s winding lanes, then out of the gate on the other side. The Swedish TV and Radio building, which also housed the editorial office of Regional News, was located on the south-east side of town, a short distance beyond the ring wall.

  He paid no attention to any of the passers-by; he was still seeing Emma in his mind. He passed the Café Vinäger on Hästgatan, where he had kissed her for the first time. A fleeting kiss, but the memory was etched into his body. Back then neither of them had any idea what was in store for them. Would he have subjected himself to all this trouble if he’d known ahead of time? Yes, of course. If nothing else, because of Elin.

  He took the road past Söderport and bought an ice-cream cone at the kiosk. Standing in front of him in the queue were two kids about the same age as Sara and Filip, Emma’s other children. He’d managed to build a relationship with them over the past two years. Were all his efforts now going to be in vain? And most important of all: Elin. He loved his daughter. Was she going to grow up seeing him only every other weekend? The thought was unbearable.

  Why did it have to be so difficult? Emma was still holding back, and the situation with her seemed deadlocked. He found it impossible to talk to her. He could make no headway, even though he’d tried every imaginable tactic. Everything from being gentle, positive, sweet and undemanding to behaving like a shrill martyr who complained that she didn’t care about him at all. Finally he’d tried to be as distant and indifferent as she was. Nothing worked. Did she have no feelings for him any more? In the spring, when she broke off the engagement, she had gone to stay with her parents on Fårö, taking Elin with her and refusing to see him. Johan’s life had fallen apart. For the first time, he sank into what felt like a depression, and he lost all interest in life. He sought help from a counsellor at the corporate health service who had steered him through the crisis. Now he didn’t know whether he even had the energy to try again.

  When he arrived at the TV and Radio building he paused to smoke a cigarette. He had to push all of these thoughts aside. Maybe he should just stay away from Emma for a while and focus on his work. The murder investigation should keep him busy, at least for the next few days.

  He went in through the front door, said hello to the receptionist and went up the stairs to the Regional News office.

  Pia Lilja was already there. Her eyes were fixed on her computer screen.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, taking a pinch of snuff without shifting her gaze.

  Her hair was pinned up in a sort of straggly knot that strongly resembled a bird’s nest. Her eyes were heavily made up, as usual, and a fiery red gemstone glittered on one nostril. Her lips were painted as red as the gemstone.

  ‘Hi, how’s it going? Nice hair-do.’ To tease her, Johan tugged on one of the wisps of hair sticking straight up. ‘Now what could we use this for? A pen holder?’

  ‘Ha, ha. Very funny,’ she muttered, although she couldn’t help smiling a bit.

  ‘It looks cool. I mean it.’

  Pia had her own style and attitude, which he liked.

  ‘Anything new turn up yet?’ He looked over her shoulder.

  ‘No, not really. But check this out. These pictures were on the front page.’

  Photos of the police helicopter on the beach were spread all over the evening newspapers.

  ‘You should get paid for those.’

  ‘Fat chance. But I’m happy to get the photo credit. Oh, by the way, Grenfors rang. He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘So why doesn’t he ring my mobile?’ scoffed Johan. The editor-in-chief was not his favourite person.

  Pia took her eyes off her computer and turned to face him.

  ‘Because it’s switched off. I tried ringing you too.’

  ‘Shit.’

  He dug out his mobile from the pocket of his jeans and plugged it in to recharge.

  ‘OK, what’s on the schedule for today?’

  ‘Hopefully we’ll find out more about who the murder victim is and how he was killed. The police have announced a press conference for three o’clock this afternoon. Before then, I think it would be a good idea for us to drive up to Sudersand. Find out what the mood’s like on the day after, you know. Talk to people, and not just those staying at the campsite, but people who work there too. Apparently the victim had been there several days with his family. Maybe they’d made friends with somebody; I’m sure plenty of people will have something to say. But ring Max first and find out what he wants.’

  ‘Sure.’

  The editor-in-chief sounded stressed.

  ‘Good you rang. So what do we know now?’

  ‘No more than we did yesterday. I just got to the office. Haven’t even had a chance to check the TT wire yet.’

  ‘I’ve had a meeting with the national news guys, and everybody wants to use your report again today. Preferably before lunch.’

  ‘Excuse me for laughing. Not a chance in hell.’

  ‘Couldn’t the two of you put together a quick interview with the police? So we have something to give them?’

  Johan could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. It always upset him that Regional News had to kowtow to the more important national ne
ws division, supplying them with all sorts of material at the expense of their own broadcasts.

  ‘If we do that, how do you think we’ll have time to drive up to Fårö? To take day-after pictures and do interviews and try to ferret out some of our own information? Besides, the police have announced a press conference for three o’clock. How are we going to attend that if we have to put together some shitty report to keep the national news guys happy? They should send over their own reporter.’

  ‘Take it easy. It was just a thought. I’ll talk to them. They’ve already mentioned sending somebody over. So I suppose they might as well do it sooner than later. With a camera person. I realize it’s too much for you to handle. I’ll get back to you.’

  Johan ended the conversation and glared at Pia, who patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, trying to console him. ‘Let’s get going.’

  AT SUDERSAND CAMPSITE on Fårö, there was hardly any sign of the murder drama from the previous day. At least not at first glance. Tourists were picking up brochures from the check-in desk, taking the path down to the beach and going to the cafeteria. No police officers or police tape in sight.

  An elderly grey-haired woman sat behind the front desk.

  ‘Hello,’ she greeted them automatically. ‘How can I help you?’

  Johan introduced himself and Pia, causing the woman to raise her eyebrows with interest.

  ‘We’d like to know more about the man who was shot yesterday,’ Johan began. ‘Who was he? And how long had he been here?’

  ‘The police told me not to say a word to any reporters.’

  The woman pressed her lips together as if to demonstrate and gave them a suspicious look.

  ‘Of course, and we respect that. But maybe you could tell us something about the sort of reactions you’ve witnessed here today. When we arrived, Pia and I were surprised to see that nobody seems the least bit upset. Everybody here seems very calm and collected. If nothing else, surely it can’t hurt to do a report for TV on what the day after the murder is like. To show that the campsite is functioning normally, I mean. Have you had any cancellations?’

  ‘Not very many, actually.’

  ‘Would you mind talking about that while we film? I’d think it would be in your interest to show the viewers that everything is OK here, right?’