The Dangerous Game

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘Leave the bike at the shed. The path is too rough for a bike. Walk twenty metres to your right and down the slope towards the sea. Be careful. It’s really steep. You’ll see the light from the paraffin lamps and the fire burning in the fireplace through the window. The light will guide you.’

  She jumped off the bike and leaned it against the shed. She couldn’t hear the wind turbine any more. The sound was drowned out by the increasing roar of the sea. She walked down the slope and glimpsed a faint light a hundred metres away. That was lucky. Otherwise, she would never have dared go through what seemed like impenetrable thickets. She had a hard time making her way forward. Several times she stumbled over roots and loose stones. Branches slapped at her face, and she bumped into trees that she couldn’t see in the dark.

  Suddenly, without warning, the light went out in the cabin, and it was pitch black all around her.

  JOHAN BERG JOLTED awake. He was lying in bed in Roma, feeling sweaty from the nightmare he’d been having. In his dream he’d started smoking again. How banal. Reluctantly, he climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Emma. The stone floor felt cold under his bare feet. He used the toilet and then went out to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water and looked at the digital clock on the cooker. It was a quarter past midnight. A sense of uneasiness still lingered from his dream, and he was too restless to go back to bed. He looked in on the kids. All four were staying with them this week. They were sound asleep. Eleven-year-old Sara and Filip, who was ten, were Emma’s children from her previous marriage. They came to stay every other week. Johan and Emma also had two children together: Elin, who was three and a half, and Anton, who would soon have his first birthday.

  Johan sat down on the sofa in the living room and looked out at the garden. It was partially lit by the white glow of the street lamps. The apple trees had lost almost all their leaves. He was not looking forward to winter. He listened to the wind blowing outside the window. That damned wind. He still wasn’t used to the winters on Gotland. They seldom had what he considered a real winter. The paltry amount of snow usually lasted only a few days before melting and disappearing. Elin and Anton had really had only one chance to play in the snow, and that was when they’d gone to visit his mother in Rönninge, a suburb south of Stockholm where Johan had grown up. In a few years he was hoping that they’d be able to go to the mountains at least once a year. That was something he’d done before he met Emma. She, on the other hand, had never been skiing.

  He yawned. He ought to go back to bed, because he had to go to work in the morning. Johan liked his job as a reporter in the local Visby office of the Regional News division. He was back at work now, after taking a six-month paternity leave, and he had to admit that he looked forward to every single workday. Of course, he had enjoyed being at home with Anton, and also with Elin on those days when she wasn’t at the day nursery. But all the daily chores, the lack of stimulation and little contact with other adults had taken their toll on him. Much more than he’d ever imagined. Maybe it was different for men who took leave from work to stay at home with the children. Women were better at networking and making contacts. And many mothers had got to know each other at the prenatal clinics. But for men, it was easy to end up feeling isolated. He’d felt very lonely as he pushed the pram through Roma, going from the Konsum supermarket to the nursery, to the playground, and back home.

  Yet, right now, very little was going on at the editorial office. There was hardly any news worth reporting. They found themselves in a strange in-between period, here in the middle of November. All Swedes should really go into hibernation, he thought. At least for a month. In December, they had the Christmas holidays to look forward to, at any rate. At the moment life was nothing but dreary darkness. Everybody looked pale and worn out, sniffling with colds and generally morose. He was at heart very fond of Pia Lilja, his camera woman, but this past week they had ended up quarrelling several times at work. They were the only staff members of the news division in Visby, and sometimes they acted like an old married couple, grumbling about nearly everything. Pia was also feeling frustrated, in terms of both her work and her personal life. Her affair with a shepherd from Hablingbo, which was the longest relationship she’d had so far, had recently ended. And a temporary job in Stockholm that she’d been hoping to get had gone to someone else.

  Something needs to happen, thought Johan. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as we can have some story to work on. Otherwise, Pia was going to scratch out his eyes with her long, turquoise-coloured fingernails.

  He sighed, then got up and went into the bedroom. Emma was wrapped up in all the covers. He lay down, put his arm around her and fell asleep.

  SHE NEEDED TO stay calm. Not lose control. It was only darkness. Out here in the middle of nowhere, she was all alone. Just her and nature. Like back at home on the farm in Gammelgarn. Nothing dangerous about it. Jenny could feel that her cheek was bleeding. No doubt they would give her hell for getting all these scratches on her hands and face.

  Then she worked out what must have happened. Markus had turned off the paraffin lamp because he’d given up hope that she might come out to the cabin. He probably hadn’t been able to resist sitting down to go through the day’s photographs, and then he’d forgotten all about the time until he realized that it was too late for dinner. And then the battery on his computer had run out, or he’d simply felt too tired to do any more work and decided to go to bed.

  Her courage bolstered, she continued on.

  Suddenly, she could make out the wall of a building a few metres away. The cabin stood in the midst of thick undergrowth and, nearby, a big rock jutted up from the hillside like a rauk. Now she remembered. Markus had laughed and pointed to the tag fastened to his key. His cabin was called ‘The Rauk’. So she was in the right place. It was a cabin with unpainted wooden cladding and a slender chimney made of sheet metal. There was only one window. She called Markus’s name several times. No answer.

  Jenny stepped on to the porch and found a padlock on the plain wooden door. She felt hope slipping away as she yanked on the door handle.

  She was worn out and freezing, and now the bloody door was locked. A padlock on the outside. Wasn’t Markus even here? At that moment she felt drops of rain on her face. She peered into the darkness but could barely see anything at all. Then she noticed another small hut a short distance away.

  Hunching forward as the rain started coming down harder, she stumbled over roots and stones as she headed in that direction. She held out one hand and ran her fingers over the wall. A hasp. She opened the door, and a faint, unpleasant smell wafted towards her. It was the outdoor latrine. At least she could get out of the rain. She sat down on the closed lid. What the hell should she do now? Why had the light vanished if Markus wasn’t even inside the cabin? Maybe the fire in the fireplace had died out, or the flame of a paraffin lamp had gone out on its own. But would he have left a light burning if he was going to leave the cabin? She didn’t understand.

  Raindrops were pelting the metal roof. Where was Markus? The most likely explanation was that he’d gone over to the hotel when he realized that she wasn’t coming to see him. In that case, she was all alone out here in the wilderness.

  That realization brought her to the verge of tears, but the next instant she got hold of herself. She was a big girl now; she could take care of herself. She considered her options. In reality, there were only two choices. She could cycle back to the hotel, take a hot shower, dry herself off and then crawl into bed. Then she would at least get a few hours’ sleep. But she shuddered at the mere thought of stumbling over the rough terrain in the dark and the rain.

  The alternative was to try to get inside the cabin. If Markus had gone over to the hotel, he would find her room empty and realize that she was here.

  She would need some sort of tool to pick the lock. She searched her pockets and found a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. She’d forgotten all about them. She lit a cigarette and inhaled the sm
oke deep into her lungs. She looked up at the ceiling and listened. It wasn’t raining nearly as hard. Thank God for that. She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to one. This was insane. She had to be in make-up by six o’clock. She pushed that thought away; it was too stressful at the moment. She took another drag on her cigarette.

  Jenny rummaged through her shoulder bag. In her make-up bag she found her toothbrush and birth-control pills, as well as a couple of hairpins. To her great relief there was also a pair of tweezers. Now she should have a good chance of picking the lock. It seemed like a small and simple padlock. She opened the door of the latrine and tossed out her cigarette butt. The cabin was only a few metres away. She was wet and cold. All she wanted was to get indoors.

  She made her way back to the cabin and stuck a hairpin in the lock. She cursed as she twisted it in every direction, but the lock was stubborn and refused to budge. Then she tried the tweezers, wiggling them back and forth. Finally, with a little click, the lock opened.

  He was lying just inside the door, on his stomach, face down on the floor. She stared at his body in horror. She recognized Markus instantly, even in the dim light. With a sob she reached for a shelf near the door and found a box of matches. She struck a match and lit the paraffin lamp hanging close by on the wall. The minute the light filled the room, she screamed. He had a deep wound in the back of his head, and blood had gushed out on to the floor. The small cabin was a chaotic mess with things tossed all about, a toppled chair and smashed cameras littering the floor. Markus had big gashes in his arms and hands. There was blood everywhere.

  Panic-stricken and sobbing, she dug her mobile out of her bag. Her hands were shaking as she tapped in Maria’s number, but the call didn’t go through. Shit. That’s what the desk clerk had said. There was no signal out at the cabin.

  THE CALL CAME into the police station at 1.17 a.m. A nearly incoherent woman spoke to the officer on duty. After it had been checked with the hotel owner out on Furillen, her confused report turned out to be true. The famous fashion photographer Markus Sandberg, who was working on a photo shoot there, had been found gravely injured in the cabin where he was staying. Sandberg had been assaulted with an unknown weapon, but he was still alive.

  An hour later, Anders Knutas and Karin Jacobsson were in the first vehicle to arrive at Hotel Fabriken. From there they were to be escorted to the cabin where Markus Sandberg had been found.

  As soon as they pulled into the gravel courtyard in front of the entrance, the owner came out to take them to the crime scene. He was a well-known figure on Gotland. He had once been a fashion photographer himself, but he’d left the profession to open the hotel in this isolated location. Knutas had met him several times before under various circumstances. Right now, he looked paler than usual.

  ‘Hi.’ He greeted them curtly. ‘The ambulance just left with Sandberg and that model, Jenny Levin. Damn, this is so awful. Follow me in your car. I’ll lead the way.’

  Before they could say anything, he jumped into an SUV and started up the engine. Knutas and Jacobsson dashed back to their car as Knutas shouted instructions to their colleagues in the other vehicles.

  ‘Sohlman, you come with us. And the dog unit, too. The rest of you stay here and take care of things in the hotel.’

  Several minutes later they parked as close as they could to the cabin. There they found a path that only a few people knew about. The rain had stopped, but the ground was muddy. As cautiously as they could, they made their way through the undergrowth. Their torches provided only scant light. They soon reached the remote cabin.

  Knutas peered inside the open door. The interior had been ransacked, and blood was spattered all over the floor and walls. Crime-scene technician Erik Sohlman came over to stand next to Knutas.

  ‘Jesus, what a mess. It won’t be light for hours. And it wouldn’t make any sense for us to start our technical work until then. We don’t want to risk disturbing any evidence.’ He ran his hand through the red mane of his hair as he looked around. ‘We should focus on catching the perpetrator. Whoever the madman is who did this.’

  AN IMPENETRABLE DARKNESS had settled over the little community of Kyllaj, a lonely outpost with only six permanent residents located right on Gotland’s east coast. In the old days it had been a fishing village, but over the years it had become transformed into a summer paradise for tourists. There was a short sandy beach, a row of boathouses and a marina for small boats. Now that it was November, the hustle and bustle of the summer seemed a distant memory. The place was deserted. No shops, kiosks, or any other form of commerce. Only houses that had been closed up for the winter, standing there like abandoned stage sets waiting for the springtime sun and their owners to return.

  On the outskirts of the village was a larger house made of limestone that belonged to a local family. They had gone abroad, so the house had been rented out to an author who wanted to get away from civilization to write in peace and quiet. He couldn’t have chosen a better place. Kyllaj’s isolation suited him perfectly. He was thrilled when he discovered the advert in the newspaper: ‘Limestone house on Gotland for lease for an indefinite length of time. Modern amenities, located in Kyllaj. Sea view and large garden. Free rent in exchange for gardening and general maintenance.’ The timing couldn’t have been better. He had just gone through a difficult separation, and at the same time had been awarded a grant that he was planning to use to write his next book. He needed to get away from the city, away from his daily routines. He needed a quiet place to write. And the house had turned out to be exactly what he was looking for.

  The dog was his only companion. She never nagged him or interrupted, and she didn’t care when he ate or slept. She simply adapted to whatever he did. When he sat down in front of the computer for yet another writing session, she would obediently curl up under the desk, heave a big sigh and fall asleep. She was a quiet and undemanding companion who gave him constant and unconditional love. Thanks to her, he went out every day for long walks that helped him to clear his head while also getting some fresh air and exercise without needing to sweat. At night she lay at his feet, which he found comforting on those occasions when he felt too alone in this isolated setting. The dog was definitely an author’s best friend.

  By now, Olof Hellström had been living in the house for six months. And his book was practically finished. At Christmastime, he would go back to Stockholm.

  He was spending this particular night writing. That was often the case. There’s no one else I need to consider, he thought, rather bitterly. He was sitting at the kitchen table, with only a candle for light as he worked on the last chapter. He was astonished that, once again, he’d actually managed to write a whole book. The months in this house had done him good. His publisher would be pleased and he was ready to face the big city again.

  Every once in a while he would look out at the darkness. The house stood close to the sea, its black and endless expanse visible outside the window. Now and then, the moon would peek out from the clouds and cast a white glow over the lawn leading down to the water.

  He heard a sound outside. A faint clattering, like the sound of a boat motor. He gave a start. Who the hell could that be? Hardly anybody came out here in the winter.

  The dog growled from under the table. She sensed that something wasn’t right. Olof hushed her, then decided to leave her in the house. On his way out, he put on his jacket and grabbed a pocket torch.

  The night air was cold and fresh, with almost no wind. The boat motor was now clearly audible. He walked briskly across the grass, soft with night-time dew.

  The clattering sound had slowed, sounding intermittent, as if the motor might be shut down at any second. That meant the boat was about to dock. And even if it was an ordinary fishing boat, that would be odd. Those boats always left from the small-boat marina, which was further away. Here the shore was rocky, and there was only a private dock that belonged to the house. Olof Hellström suddenly felt uneasy. He didn’t want to get involved in anyth
ing.

  A two-metre-high stone wall ran along the shore on this side, hiding him from view. He turned off his torch well before he came to the wall. The fact that a boat had arrived here in the middle of the night was so unexpected that he didn’t want to make his presence known. When he reached the end of the wall, he cautiously peered around it.

  Down by the water a beacon emitted a red light towards the sea to guide boats into the harbour. In the glow from the beacon he saw a man pull up next to the dock and climb out of a small fibreglass vessel that was hardly bigger than a rowboat. Surprised, Olof watched as the stranger shoved the boat back out to sea instead of tying it to a mooring post. The man wore dark clothing and seemed in a hurry. He dashed across the wooden planks and headed for the road. Olof Hellström was puzzled and didn’t know what to do. Should he shout, or not? He decided not to. Then the man stopped and turned around.

  Olof stood there as if paralysed, and waited. He now regretted not bringing the dog.

  DREAD WRIGGLES ITS way like a poisonous snake through her stomach as time for the next meal approaches. A voice screams inside her that she won’t. But no one hears. No one is listening. No one cares. What she feels or wants is no longer taken into consideration. She has become dehumanized, degraded into some sort of living doll that must get fatter at all costs. Just so that the staff on the ward can improve their statistics and boast of the results. As a human being, she is worth nothing.