The Dead Of Summer

by Mari Jungstedt

  Suddenly she noticed a man who looked familiar standing in the queue. He was talking to a boy who couldn’t be more than five or six. She looked more closely, scanning the man’s face.

  The man, who looked to be a few years older than her, had a unique appearance. He had a prominent high forehead, light-blue eyes, and seemed to have no eyelashes or eyebrows at all. He also had a slightly protruding jaw. His hair was cut short, and he was wearing carpenter overalls. There was something self-conscious about him, a slight nervousness. Maybe it was the child’s constant questions; maybe it was something else.

  He was standing a few yards in front of her, in the queue for the other check-out, but she had a clear view of him because he’d turned round to talk to the boy, who she assumed was his son. All of a sudden he glanced up, and she looked away. He must have noticed that she was watching him; maybe he thought she was flirting.

  She couldn’t help taking another look at him. He was staring straight at her as he replied to a question his son had asked. When their eyes met and she simultaneously heard his voice, her body turned to ice. She’d heard that high-pitched, slightly nasal voice before. A long, long time ago. In an entirely different context.

  As if struck by a whip, she felt a stinging blow to her forehead. She shut her eyes and opened them again. He was still there, continuing to talk to his son, unaffected. He glanced at her and smiled faintly. He hadn’t recognized her. In reality, that wasn’t so strange. Not strange at all. It was twenty years ago that they’d last met. She had changed more than he had.

  She felt sick, overcome by dizziness as her legs began to wobble. She couldn’t bear to stand there any longer. She had to get out. She left the queue and pushed her way past the check-out. Outside the supermarket, she sank down on to a bench. Tears filled her eyes, but she did her best to hold them back. She took long, deep breaths. The terrible pressure she felt in her chest frightened her; she felt as if she was going to die. She was hyperventilating.

  A young woman came out and asked her if she was OK. She managed to say she was fine. The woman brought her some water and asked if she was going into labour. Should she ring for an ambulance?

  No, she wasn’t going into labour. She just needed to rest for a moment. The woman sat down next to her and held her hand. How considerate she was.

  Thoughts were flying through her mind. It was him. There was absolutely no doubt about it. What was he doing here?

  She was still having a hard time breathing, and appreciated the concern of the woman, who remained sitting next to her. Not saying anything, not asking any questions.

  Suddenly the doors of the supermarket opened and he came out. He didn’t notice her as he walked past with his son and bags of shopping. With the woman’s help, she got to her feet and stared after him. He went over to a white van. On the door it said: Slite Construction, with a phone number.

  That was enough.

  WHEN KARIN JACOBSSON regained consciousness, everything was quiet. She couldn’t hear the sound of any engine. She was lying in a terribly uncomfortable position, leaning forward, with her back hunched and her head stuck between her knees. Tape had been placed over her mouth, and her wrists and ankles burned from the rope tied around them. It was pitch dark in the small space. Her body ached. She had a splitting headache, and she could taste blood. He must have really hit her hard. It took a moment before she even tried to move, which turned out to be nearly impossible; she felt as if she were held in a vice.

  Take it easy, she thought. Stay calm. Keep a cool head. You’re locked up somewhere, and you need to find a way out.

  She wondered how much time had passed since she was knocked out. A few minutes? Half an hour? Several hours?

  She made an effort to try and make out the shapes in the dark. She managed to lift her head enough to pull herself into an upright position. The headache felt like a migraine and was almost unbearable. She touched the wall with her elbow. The surface felt hard and smooth. She could tell that she was still on the boat, but the silence was so complete that all the passengers must have disembarked by now; presumably, they had reached the harbour in Fårösund. How long would the boat stay docked? Maybe twenty-four hours? How long would it be before Knutas began to wonder why she hadn’t reported back? And before he or any of the others worked out what had happened to her?

  Who was Captain Stefan Norrström, and how was he involved in these events? Why had he knocked her out and then locked her up in here? Thoughts whirled through her mind without making any sort of coherent picture.

  Jacobsson desperately tried to move her arms and legs, but the rope refused to budge. A sea captain would know knots, of course. It felt impossible for her to get free. She tried rocking back and forth. There was a little space next to her, and she tried to tap on the wall, but she couldn’t hear anything.

  To top it all off, she needed to pee.

  She listened for some sound. She had no idea where she was on the boat.

  Suddenly she heard a ruckus on the other side of the wall. The door opened, and a strong light blinded her. There he stood, right in front of her. He stared at her for a couple of seconds, then slammed the door shut again. She heard the clack of the lock turning.

  Wasn’t he even going to let her use the toilet? Give her anything to drink? She felt terribly thirsty after her long hike on Gotska Sandön in the blazing sun. She’d been in such a hurry back at the campsite that she hadn’t filled her water bottles. It had been a long time since she’d had anything to drink, much less any food. Her head felt heavy, and she was starting to feel dizzy. Was he going to leave her here to die? She tried again to loosen the ropes, to move her fingers, hands and feet, but nothing did any good.

  For a long time after the door closed, she sat there trying to make out any noises. She heard nothing. It was utterly quiet. Thirst and dizziness were making her confused. She closed her eyes, and her body went numb.

  KNUTAS AND KIHLGÅRD took the lead, followed closely by two other police vehicles. They drove north-east at top speed, heading for Kyllaj. Kihlgård had managed to bring along the report on what the police had dug up so far about the investigation into Tanya Petrov’s death.

  ‘Tell us everything you know,’ commanded Knutas, concentrating on keeping his eyes on the road.

  ‘Let’s take it from the beginning,’ said Kihlgård. ‘A week after Tanya’s murder, the family returned to Hamburg. Vera had been studying languages at the university, but she gave it up and took a job in a supermarket. Both parents, Sabine and Oleg Petrov, went on sick leave. When autumn came, more specifically, on 22 October 1985, Oleg committed suicide. He threw himself in front of an express train that was just pulling into Hamburg Hauptbahnhof. He died instantly.’

  ‘What an awful way to die.’

  ‘After that, things starting going downhill for the mother too. She became addicted to painkillers, and she never returned to her job. The following year, in February 1986, she retired on a disability pension. She moved to a smaller flat in a suburb of Hamburg, but her daughter Vera didn’t move with her. She lived in several different places in the city while she worked at the supermarket. Two years after the murder, in August 1987, she went back to university and completed her studies. After that, she spent many years working as a language teacher at a school in Hamburg. Until she moved to Sweden, that is, two years ago.’

  ‘Why did she move here?’ asked Knutas.

  He was just in the process of overtaking a long-distance tractor-trailer that seemed to go on and on, and he really couldn’t see far enough ahead. Kihlgård winced but went on with his report.

  ‘I suppose she moved here because she got married to Stefan Norrström.’

  ‘How did they happen to meet?’

  ‘I have no idea. All I know is that they were married last summer. And now they’re about to have a baby.’

  ‘OK. We’re almost there.’

  Kyllaj was only ten kilometres from Slite, but its location seemed very remote, all the way out
by the sea. Nowadays, it consisted mostly of summer visitors, but for centuries Kyllaj had been an important town because of its stone quarry and port. The harbour was lined with boathouses and piers. Towering above the houses that had been built on the slope leading down to the harbour and Valleviken was the bare, rocky cliff with its magnificent view of the sea and the islets Klausen, Fjögen and Lörgeholm. As far back as the seventeenth century, limestone had been heated in kilns here, and traces of them still remained.

  The police cars drew a good deal of attention as they arrived, one after the other, disrupting the idyllic atmosphere.

  The house that Stefan Norrström and his wife had built stood in lonely majesty high up on a huge plot of land that sloped gently down towards the water. Great expanses of lawn with carefully arranged shrubs and trees surrounded the big white limestone house. The land must have been passed down through the family, thought Knutas. The place looked much too aristocratic to belong to an ordinary sea captain.

  After parking their cars at a safe distance, the officers spread out and surrounded the house. They were dealing with someone who had already killed twice, and it was impossible to know what awaited them.

  Knutas and Kihlgård took the lead and crept up to the front door. Knutas rang the bell. Waited. No response. He rang the bell again.

  They waited a moment longer. Knutas was sweating in the heat. The tension was also taking its toll. When nothing happened, he gave the order to go in.

  One of the officers broke down the door, and they all stormed inside.

  KARIN JACOBSSON WAS getting really desperate. She dozed off for a while, exhausted as she was, and by now very dehydrated. She couldn’t change position other than to move sideways a few inches. She did that now and then so that her body wouldn’t go completely numb. She wondered how long she’d be able to hold out. She started losing hope that anyone would ever find her. The boat still wasn’t moving, and she couldn’t hear a single sound from outside. She’d lost all sense of time and could no longer tell how long she’d been taped and tied up like some sort of package.

  Her thoughts focused on Knutas. Why wasn’t he doing anything? By now he must have realized that she was on board. After all, she’d told him she would ring from the ship. Maybe the captain had fed him some lies that meant nobody was going to come to her rescue.

  Strangely enough, she no longer needed to pee. It was as if her body was already in retreat. Turning off its functions, slowing down until it would gradually shut down completely. No, she shouldn’t be thinking like that.

  It was pitch dark as she sat there with her legs tucked up and her arms held in front of her as if she were praying.

  Suddenly she heard a thud. At first she thought she’d imagined it. Then there was another thud, and one more. Voices shouting. She repeatedly tried to throw herself against the wall to make some sort of noise, at the same time doing her best to slam her feet against the door.

  Miraculously, she heard someone turning the lock outside. When the door opened, the light was so blinding she had to squint.

  THE HOUSE IN Kyllaj was empty. They searched the garden and outbuildings as well but, obviously, the Norrströms had taken off. Knutas got out his mobile to sound the alarm, but before he could do that, it rang.

  ‘Hi, it’s Thomas,’ said Wittberg, his voice agitated. ‘We’ve just found Karin. She was tied up and locked in a cargo space on board the M/S Gotska Sandön. It was Stefan Norrström who knocked her out and threw her in there.’

  ‘Bloody hell! How is she?’ shouted Knutas.

  ‘She’s exhausted, but otherwise there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with her. Just very dehydrated. We’re in the car on our way to the hospital. What’s going on out there?’

  ‘We’re at the house in Kyllaj right now, but the place is deserted. I assume they’re going to try to leave the island, so I need to notify headquarters. I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘OK, I’ll phone you after I drop Karin off.’

  Knutas issued orders quickly to his colleagues. The airport had to be alerted, as well as the ferry system. Suddenly he noticed that Kihlgård had disappeared, but then he saw him coming out of the kitchen with a cordless phone in his hand.

  ‘I think we can forget about the airport. I checked the last number that was called, and it’s the number for a boat company called Destination Gotland. The next boat leaves at eight o’clock, which means in twenty minutes.’

  FORTUNATELY, THE FERRY to the mainland hadn’t yet left the dock, but all 1,500 passengers were already on board. Not wanting to cause a panic, the crew had informed everyone that the delay was due to a minor technical problem that would soon be fixed. Only plainclothes officers boarded the ship. The ferry had two levels in addition to the car deck, and the police spread out to make their search.

  Knutas and Kihlgård went to the information counter to get help checking the passenger cabins. The crew member behind the counter gave them four key cards that would serve as master keys.

  Just at that moment, Knutas noticed out of the corner of his eye two people rushing towards him. He turned round and was surprised to see Wittberg and Jacobsson.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Karin. ‘Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?’

  Jacobsson looked worn out, but there was nothing wrong with her tongue.

  ‘Did you really think I was going to miss out on all the fun? I was just a little dehydrated. I poured about half a gallon of water down my throat on the way over here, plus an equal amount of juice. That should be sufficient.’

  Wittberg threw out his arms. ‘She refused to go to hospital. What are we doing now?’

  ‘OK, well, we’ve spread out to search the ship. We’re almost positive that they’re on board. The whole terminal has been blocked off, so there’s no chance of them escaping. Now we just have to find them. Martin and I were just about to start checking the cabins.’

  They each took a key card and split up. Jacobsson started with the cabins on the port side, one level up. She didn’t bother to knock, but just yanked open the doors.

  ‘Police!’ she shouted each time, her gun drawn.

  The first cabin was empty; the second one was too. In the third, an elderly man was sound asleep. In the fourth cabin, some young guys were in the middle of playing cards and drinking beer. They stared in surprise at Jacobsson standing in the doorway. Then came a long series of cabins that all turned out to be empty.

  Finally, she reached the end of the corridor. Only two cabins remained to be checked. By now she was out of breath, and her head was pounding. When she stuck the card in the door slot, the lock jammed. She tried several times without success.

  Suddenly she heard a sound from inside the cabin. Someone was whimpering. It sounded like a half-stifled scream, as if someone were wearing a muzzle. Damn it all, she thought. She was alone on this level; her colleagues were on the deck below. She pulled out her mobile to ring Knutas. Shit, it wasn’t charged.

  She stood there for several seconds, uncertain what to do. Should she run downstairs and get the others and maybe risk losing the Norrströms, if they were the ones inside the cabin? They must have heard her shouting and trying to open the door.

  She tried the key card again, shoving it into the slot. At last, it worked, and she pressed down the door handle.

  When Karin looked into Vera Norrström’s panic-stricken, staring eyes, all the remembered images came back to her. Fragmentary, incoherent, but razor-sharp, they sliced into her consciousness. Assaulting her, ruthlessly, violently. As they always did. She stood in the narrow doorway, frozen to the spot. Breathing hard, with a fierce band of pressure on her forehead; her legs began to buckle and she could hardly stay on her feet. The images were familiar; she woke up to them every morning, and they were in her mind when she was about to fall asleep at night. Every day for twenty-five years she had struggled to make those memories disappear.

  Vera Norrström lay on the narrow lower bunk. Her face was as white as c
halk and contorted with pain. She was biting down on a towel, which prevented her from screaming aloud. Her legs were apart, with one foot hanging off the side of the bed. She was pressing that foot against a chair placed next to the bunk. A cotton sheet barely covered her. She was going to give birth at any moment.

  Karin knew all about that. She had just turned fifteen.

  The pain is wracking her body. She can hardly understand what’s happening. Both her mother and father have refused to be present at the birth. They’re waiting outside until it’s over. As if they’re pretending that she’s suffering from some serious illness. Something bad that requires an operation and has to be surgically removed, like a cancerous tumour.

  A nurse dressed in green is standing next to her. Karin wants to take her hand, but she doesn’t dare. She thinks she’s going to be torn apart. Terrified. She’s only a child.

  One last violent push. Her own wail is replaced by the newborn’s hesitant, tremulous voice. Hardly a scream, merely a cry. In the dimly lit room she feels the warm, alive body next to her bare skin. A piece of herself in another human being. A girl.

  Karin secretly gives her the name Lydia. She closes her eyes, places her hand carefully on the baby’s back. Time stops, the world stops spinning, all activity comes to a halt. Just her and Lydia, nothing else. Just the two of them.

  She doesn’t know how much time passes before the nurse dressed in green takes the baby away from her. She will never see her again. Forever miss her. Forever long for her.

  Next to Vera sat her husband, Stefan, who had assaulted Karin a few hours earlier. His eyes were terrified and desperate. Karin swallowed hard, trying to pull herself together and control the dizziness.

  Then she stepped inside the cabin and closed the door behind her.

  THE SEARCH PROVED fruitless. After going over the ferry with a fine-tooth comb, the police officers returned to the aft salon, where they gathered to consider the situation. Jacobsson was the last to join the others. She paused in the doorway, explained that she wasn’t feeling well and needed to go home. No one even had time to react before she was gone.