The Dangerous Game

by Mari Jungstedt

  She and her personal nurse, Per, trudge down the corridor towards the dining room. There they will pick up their lunch and carry it on trays to the food lab, which is a room that is used by those who can’t handle eating with the rest of the patients in the dining room. Agnes has brought along a device that tells her how much she should put on her plate and how fast she should eat. It’s like a little computer attached to a plate that functions as a scale. Everyone on the ward has their own device. Agnes calls hers the Widget. Each food portion weighs 250 grams and has to be eaten in twenty-five minutes, in accordance with the guidelines that have been individually designed for her. If she eats too slowly, the voice of the actor Mikael Nyqvist issues from the device, telling her that she has to speed up. Usually, it takes her an hour to finish the food. Mikael Nyqvist gets to speak several times.

  The patients had been allowed to vote on which voice would speak from the Widget. The choice was Rikard Wolff or Mikael Nyqvist. And Nyqvist won. She doesn’t know why. Maybe he was asked first. At any rate, he agreed to be the human voice for seriously ill patients suffering from anorexia. Maybe it was his way of doing a good deed. Sometimes Agnes turns off the sound when she can’t stand listening to his admonishments any more. But usually she appreciates his company. It’s almost as if Nyqvist is right next to her in the room and she doesn’t have to be alone with the nurse, who is always sitting across from her like some sort of prison guard.

  The room is small, windowless and claustrophobic. A pine table and two chairs, one on each side, are the only furniture. A clock on the wall ticks relentlessly, demonstrating with the utmost clarity what a wretchedly long time it takes for her to eat the food. The colourful runner on the table jeers at her. The chairs scrape on the floor as they sit down. Per sits across from her. He’s the nurse she likes best in the clinic. She guesses he must be about twenty-five, but she has never asked. Sometimes she can’t bear his presence either. On certain days he seems preoccupied, like today. Then it’s easier to fool him.

  Agnes stares at her tray. A glass contains 8.25 millilitres of milk, and she has to drink every drop. Milk is difficult, as are all dairy products. It feels so fatty and thick. As if the milk settles in a layer inside her guts and stays there. Making her heavy.

  The lunch is in an aluminium container. She lifts the lid and stares at the fish. It’s in a creamy sauce. Dread seizes hold of her. How in the world is she going to eat that? She turns on the Widget, taps in her password, and instantly hears Nyqvist saying, ‘Set the plate on the scale.’ She does as he says. ‘Serve the food.’ She begins spooning out the contents of the aluminium box until the digits on the display reach one hundred and turn green – a hundred per cent. No more, no less. If she puts only ninety per cent on the scale, the Widget goes on strike and won’t continue. There’s no use trying to cheat.

  As always, she’s amazed at the huge amount of food in front of her. It rises up like an unconquerable mountain. A heap of mashed potatoes, a piece of cod with egg sauce, two wedges of tomato, several slices of cucumber and a couple of lettuce leaves. She also has to get down a glass of milk and a piece of white bread with Bregott cream cheese. All this food in twenty-five minutes.

  Unconcerned, Per starts eating while, inside Agnes, a war commences in which obsessive thoughts wrestle with each other. The battle is right in front of her. What matters now is to eat as little as possible without drawing Per’s attention.

  Agnes has become an expert at finding topics to talk about. She is able to distract a nurse by starting up a conversation that becomes so lively that he or she forgets to stay on alert every second. She’s very good at chatting when she’s in the right mood.

  And all she needs is a second to get rid of at least part of the serving of food. At first, when the nurse is paying closest attention, she proceeds cautiously. She starts by cutting up the fish into tiny pieces. She stirs the mashed potatoes with her fork, dabbing at them and moulding little bits into various shapes. If she divides up the food as much as possible, maybe it won’t stay inside her body as long. Maybe it will burn off more quickly. Everything depends on getting the horrible stuff out of her body as fast as possible.

  Carefully and discreetly, she moves the glass of milk, making drops spill down the outside. She clanks her fork and knife on the plate for extended intervals before putting a tiny little piece of food in her mouth. She chews for a long time, frequently pushing out a dab of mashed potato and sauce on to her lips. Quick as lightning, she wipes it off with her napkin. Agnes wipes her lips many times during the meal. Every bit she avoids eating is a victory. The spilled sauce is a triumph.

  But Nyqvist protests when she eats too slowly. ‘Eat a little faster.’

  Agnes chats eagerly about all sorts of things in order to distract Per. Breadcrumbs land on the floor as she urgently makes a point about something. When Per looks down at his plate to take another bite of food, a piece of fish swiftly disappears into the pocket of Agnes’s hoodie. She leans forward a bit as she talks, managing at the same time to poke her finger into the mashed potatoes, which she then wipes on the underside of the table. She pretends to scratch her head, but what Per doesn’t notice is that at the same time she sticks the rest of the bread and cream cheese on to the back of her neck, underneath her hair. And she keeps on in that way. By the time they leave the room an hour later, Agnes has managed to sneak away almost a third of the designated portion of food. It has gone better than expected. Per must be tired today, preoccupied with his own thoughts.

  Her anxiety has diminished. At least for now.

  THE PHONE WAS ringing and it was only five thirty in the morning. Fear gripped Johan as he rushed to take the call. In a matter of seconds he managed to remind himself that all the children were staying with them so, no matter who was ringing, it couldn’t be about his kids. He felt a flash of relief before he picked up. It was one of Emma’s closest friends.

  ‘Hi. It’s Tina,’ said an agitated voice. ‘I’m sorry to wake you, but something terrible has happened.’

  ‘What is it?’

  A moment of hesitation before she said apologetically, ‘I think I should talk to Emma first. It’s about my daughter, Jenny.’

  ‘Sure. Let me get her.’

  Johan hurried to the bedroom to wake Emma. For once, she came wide awake immediately, as if she could hear in his voice that something serious had happened.

  Johan went out to the kitchen to make coffee as he waited. When Emma had finished talking on the phone, she came into the room and sank down on a chair.

  ‘Tina is at the hospital with Jenny. She was doing a photo shoot on Furillen, and very early this morning she found that the photographer, Markus Sandberg, was lying injured in his cabin. He’d been assaulted.’

  ‘Good Lord. Was he badly hurt?’

  ‘He’s alive, but his injuries are life-threatening. They took him by helicopter to the hospital in Stockholm.’

  ‘How’s Jenny?’

  ‘In a state of shock, of course. But she’s not hurt. By the time she turned up, whoever attacked Sandberg had disappeared.’

  ‘Did some sort of quarrel lead to the attack?’

  ‘No, everything was normal at the photo session yesterday. But Markus didn’t make it to dinner, so Jenny went looking for him and found him lying on the floor, beaten to a pulp. Nobody knows who did it.’

  ‘Where did she find him?’

  ‘In a cabin on Furillen. One of those little remote cabins that belong to the hotel. The police want to interview Jenny when she feels up to it. Apparently, the doctors have given her a sedative.’

  The next second, Johan was on his way back to the bedroom to get dressed. The fact that Markus Sandberg was the one who’d been assaulted made the news a much hotter story than if the victim had been unknown to the general public. Sandberg had an odd career behind him. He was one of the few photographers in Sweden who was a household name, largely because of his reputation as a scandalous porn photographer, and because he’d been
the host of a controversial TV programme on a commercial channel. The programme was accused of being sexist and demeaning to women, and it didn’t last long. But enough episodes were broadcast that the name Markus Sandberg became etched into the public’s consciousness. There was no mistaking his personal appeal: with his warmth, humour and charisma, he was a big hit among viewers. And even though the programme was cancelled, he continued to turn up on various game and quiz shows on TV. He always acquitted himself well, and gradually people forgot about his dubious past. He then shifted gear to become a full-time fashion photographer, and suddenly he was appearing in all sorts of contexts. He was a judge for various fashion and beauty contests, and he published a photography book that catalogued Swedish fashion through the ages. Markus Sandberg had certainly succeeded in building a new brand for himself, and that had been irrefutably confirmed in the summer when he became a regular interviewer on the radio station P1.

  Johan eagerly tapped in Pia Lilja’s phone number. Since she answered at once, he assumed that she’d already heard what had happened. He quickly told her what he knew.

  ‘I was just about to ring you,’ said Pia. ‘Julia, a girl that I know, called to tell me about it. Her mother is a cleaner at the hotel. Are you going to contact the police?’

  ‘Yup, although I thought we might as well head for Furillen first. We can always interview the police later, but we need to get pictures.’

  ‘Definitely. I’ll gather up my equipment and we can leave as soon as you get here.’

  BY 7 A.M., after Sandberg had been discovered out on Furillen, the investigative team was already gathered at police headquarters in Visby. Knutas noted that his colleagues looked tired and pale in the merciless white glare from the fluorescent ceiling light. November certainly was a gloomy month.

  The most important team members were all present: Assistant Superintendent Karin Jacobsson; Detective Inspector Thomas Wittberg, who was a real charmer; and the somewhat reserved spokesperson, Lars Norrby. Technician Erik Sohlman would stay for part of the meeting, but then he had to return to the crime scene on Furillen. The forensic work would get started as soon as there was enough daylight. Chief Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg had also been called in. Knutas had great confidence in the prosecutor and liked to have him participate from the very outset.

  ‘Well, friends,’ Knutas began, ‘you’ve all been awakened in the middle of the night, and we now have an unusual case in front of us. Early this morning the photographer Markus Sandberg was the victim of a murder attempt by an unknown assailant at the Hotel Fabriken on Furillen. Do all of you know who Sandberg is?’

  Everyone sitting at the table nodded.

  Knutas went on. ‘The perpetrator attacked the victim, possibly using an axe, but that hasn’t yet been verified. This information is based on a statement from the medics. I plan to talk to the doctor at the hospital as soon as we’re done with this meeting. What we do know is that Markus Sandberg was seriously injured, and it’s unclear whether he’ll survive. He was taken by helicopter to the neurosurgery division of Karolinska University Hospital. He has been heavily sedated and will be undergoing surgery soon, if that hasn’t already happened. All right, then. Sandberg was found by no less than Gotland’s own Kate Moss – the Swedish celebrity and fashion model Jenny Levin, from Gammelgarn. Does everyone here know her?’

  Again, they all nodded.

  ‘He was found inside a small cabin that belongs to the hotel. It’s about a kilometre from the main building, and he was supposed to spend the night there. When he didn’t turn up for dinner, Jenny got worried, so later she cycled over there to check on him. And that’s when she found him.’

  ‘Check on him?’ Wittberg queried, raising his eyebrows. ‘I’ve seen those cabins. They’re called “hermit retreats” and are deep inside the woods. What time did she get there?’

  ‘A few minutes past one. The call came in at 1.17, but it took a while for her to find a place where she had mobile coverage.’

  ‘Why would she go out in the dark so late at night to “check on him”? Was it purely out of concern for a colleague? I doubt it.’ Wittberg shook his head with the golden curls.

  ‘She was worried. I think the whole crew was probably a bit concerned. As I mentioned, Sandberg never turned up for dinner.’

  ‘Right,’ snorted Wittberg, looking at his fellow officers seated around the table. ‘Those two are having an affair. She was going to spend the night with him. That’s obvious. And Jenny Levin isn’t just anybody, let me tell you. She’s probably the hottest model in Sweden at the moment. She was discovered only a year ago, and her rise has been nothing short of meteoric. I was just reading about her in Café.’

  ‘Of course you were,’ said Jacobsson caustically.

  ‘She’s bloody gorgeous,’ replied Wittberg, laying it on thick as he grinned at Jacobsson. He loved teasing his colleague.

  ‘Maybe so, but that has nothing to do with the matter at hand,’ said Knutas sharply.

  It was well known that Wittberg was a real playboy. Almost every woman who worked at police headquarters had at one time or another been in love with the suntanned and buff ladies’ man. Except for Karin Jacobsson. They often worked together, and she always kept Wittberg at a safe distance, although the two of them couldn’t help bickering. Sometimes they behaved just like siblings.

  Knutas continued, ‘At the moment Jenny Levin is in hospital. We’ll have to wait to interview her. So far, we have no specific leads regarding the perpetrator. None of the hotel staff noticed anything out of the ordinary. Nor did any of the crew doing the photo shoot, and they were the only guests at the hotel. But we’ll see. After Sandberg was discovered, everybody out there was upset and confused, of course, and no one was thinking clearly. Right after this meeting, we’ll start by conducting the necessary interviews. Hopefully, they’ve all had a chance to calm down. Four staff members sleep at the hotel: the hotel owner and his wife, the restaurant manager and a cleaner. They were all questioned at the scene, but they’ll be coming here this morning, along with the other staff. We’ve cordoned off a large area around the cabin, and a dog unit is patrolling the site. We need to start knocking on doors as soon as possible.’

  ‘Knocking on doors?’ said Norrby. ‘How many permanent residents live on Furillen?’

  ‘None, as far I know. But there are a few homes in the area around Lergrav. The question is: How should we handle the press? This is going to attract a lot of attention. Markus Sandberg is a very well-known photographer, and as soon as the reporters get wind of the fact that Jenny Levin was the one who found him, they’ll be after us like sharks. What do you think, Lars?’

  ‘I suggest that we hold a press conference as soon as we can,’ said Norrby, giving Knutas a challenging look. ‘That’s essential, given the situation.’

  There had been a certain tension between the two men since Norrby had been passed over for promotion a few years earlier. Knutas had chosen Jacobsson for the position instead.

  ‘Okay. We might as well take on the whole bunch at once,’ Knutas concluded, slapping the palm of his hand on the table as if to underscore his words.

  ‘Who was on the crew at the photo shoot?’ asked Wittberg.

  Knutas put on his reading glasses and leafed through his notes.

  ‘There were five people in addition to Jenny and Markus. A stylist by the name of Hugo Nelzén, an art director named Sebastian Bigert, a photographer’s assistant named Kevin Sundström, a producer, Anna Neumann, and also Maria Åkerlund, who’s a make-up artist. So seven people in all.’

  ‘How well do they know each other?’

  ‘I have no idea. That’s something we’ll find out today. Everyone is on their way over here to be interviewed.’

  ‘Were there any other models?’ asked Wittberg. ‘If so, I’d be happy to interview them.’

  ‘You’re hopeless,’ said Jacobsson, but she couldn’t help smiling.

  Knutas was starting to get a headache, and his stomach
was growling. He rubbed his forehead and then glanced at his watch. Seven thirty. He’d been up since one thirty but hadn’t yet had anything to eat.

  Sohlman stood up. ‘If there’s nothing else, I need to go. I’ve got a lot of work to do out there.’

  ‘Okay.’ Knutas looked intently at everyone seated around the table. ‘Our colleagues have been searching all night for the perpetrator, and they’ve set up roadblocks at several places in the area. More officers are also on their way out to Furillen right now. The dog unit will continue to search. Who knows? Maybe the assailant is still there, hiding out someplace. As I mentioned, we’ll do a door-to-door in the vicinity this morning. It’s important for us to talk to as many people out there as possible. Those of you staying here at headquarters will help to conduct the interviews. As far as the press conference is concerned, I suggest we hold off on that for a while.’

  Norrby frowned and looked as if he wanted to protest, but he restrained himself. He settled for muttering his displeasure.

  ‘For now, the media will have to make do with a press release,’ Knutas went on. ‘We need to find out more about what happened before we talk to any reporters. It remains to be seen what we’ll learn today, and whether the victim even survives. I’ll stay in contact with the hospital. The media interest is going to be huge, so we need to be prepared,’ he said, turning to look at Lars Norrby, who didn’t always find it easy to deal with journalists when the pressure was on.

  Jacobsson stopped Knutas as he was heading for the door.

  ‘How come you know who Kate Moss is?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I know who she is?’ he remarked, giving her an inscrutable look.

  ‘I can’t imagine that you’d be interested in fashion.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. I’m a virtual fashion maven,’ said Knutas, plucking at the checked shirt that he’d bought at the Dressmann menswear shop five years ago.