Dark Angel (16 page)

Both Johan and Pia were deeply moved by what they’d heard.

‘We need to talk to some of the parents,’ said Johan. ‘We haven’t heard anything from them in a while.’

‘Sure. How about that couple over there?’

Pia nodded towards a middle-aged man and woman leaving the auditorium hand in hand.

Johan cautiously tapped the man on the shoulder and then introduced himself.

‘Why are you and your wife here?’ was his first question.

It was the man who answered.

‘Because our son was a witness to the assault, and we wanted to offer our support. To Alexander’s family, but also to the boys who were responsible and to their families. They are victims too.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, who’s the winner here? Nobody. Everyone loses. And what is the whole thing really about? A mere few seconds that have lifelong consequences for umpteen people. Anger sparked by an ill-tempered word, an obscene gesture, a nasty look. When I was young, these sorts of quarrels were resolved with a fist fight. In the worst-case scenario, it turned into a brawl that ended at the first sign of bloodshed or when your opponent fell to the ground. But what happens nowadays? The person on the ground gets kicked – in the head! Several boys gang up on an unconscious kid. Why aren’t there any boundaries any more? Is a human life of no value to these kids? Do they think they have the right to kill someone just because they feel insulted or humiliated? Why do our children have so much anger inside? Where does that come from? Those are the sort of questions we need to be asking.’

Johan simply held out the microphone, without saying a word, as Pia filmed. They were standing outside the auditorium in the schoolyard and, one by one, people stopped to listen to the man’s tirade. A crowd started to form around them.

The man went on: ‘And it’s not a simple matter of putting all the blame on violent computer games and the brutality shown on TV and in films. That does tend to desensitize viewers, but it’s not the core of the problem. No, it has to do with the whole structure of society. The grown-ups work
too
hard and are too stressed, so they don’t have time for their kids the way they used to in the past. And don’t misunderstand me – I’m not advocating that women should be forced back into the kitchen. But all parents, both men and women, need to spend more time with their children. Kids are too often left to their own devices; they have to manage too much on their own. And just look what happens.’

He threw out his arms in a gesture of helplessness, and then fell silent as he shook his head. After that he walked straight through the crowd and across the asphalt of the schoolyard.

Johan slowly lowered the microphone, watching the man and his wife, who was hurrying to catch up. Everyone else was shifting nervously from one foot to the other, and a few slunk away. Others remained where they were, as if they didn’t really know what to do.

I have to ring Grenfors, thought Johan. We need to interview an expert in the studio about this topic. Maybe several.

His thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping him on the shoulder. He glanced up to see a young, lanky teenage boy with curly red hair, peach fuzz on his upper lip and a spotty complexion.

‘Are you the reporter called Johan Berg?’ the boy asked.

Johan nodded.

‘I think you know my dad. My name is Nils Knutas.’

I ALWAYS BICYCLED
home from school. Even in winter, when the snow was piled high in drifts. On that particular day in March, most of it had melted away, and crocuses and snowdrops were peeking up along the side of the road. Our class had been allowed to go home early because the woodwork teacher was sick, and we were supposed to have had an extra hour in that class at the end of the day. I was relieved.

As usual, I hurried to my locker before anybody else, got out my backpack, and then was the first to leave the school building. I headed straight for the bicycle racks and unlocked my bike. To my horror, I noticed that I’d forgotten my English textbook. I needed to take it home with me since we had a test the following day. Shit. The last thing I wanted to do was go back inside.

When I reached the break room where our lockers were located, Steffe and Biffen were both there. They were talking to some girls from another class. Everybody turned to look at me. I avoided their eyes and went over to my locker, fumbling with the keys. To my dismay, I dropped the key ring, which clanged as it hit the floor. In a flash, Steffe dashed over and grabbed it. He waved the keys in the air. Clinking and clanking. ‘Come and get it, if you can.’ He grinned wickedly, and the thick wad of snuff that he’d shoved under his lip made black streaks in the spaces between his teeth.

Scattered laughter from the others, along with remarks about the ‘little guy’, and ‘that wimp’. My cheeks were flushed and my ears burned. Normally they paid no attention to me, didn’t even give me a
thought
. And that’s what I preferred. My mouth was dry and I couldn’t manage to utter a single word. Just waited. The keys swung back and forth, right in front of my face, but just out of reach. I raised my hand, tried to grab them. Steffe, who was two heads taller than me, took a few steps back. He began circling around me. ‘Come on, come on.’ The others drew closer, forming a tight circle. I needed those keys. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a teacher in the corridor. But he merely rushed past.

Steffe held the keys above my head. The clinking sound echoed in the room as he swung them back and forth. My body felt as heavy as lead as I clumsily made several more fruitless attempts to grab the key ring. The girls giggled. ‘Did you see his ears? They look like stupid wingnuts.’

Swoosh. The key ring sailed past and disappeared behind me to land in a wastepaper basket. ‘Go get it, you worm. You worthless little vermin.’ I ran over and found the key ring lying in the middle of a soggy mess of banana peels, wads of snuff and old chewing gum. I reached down to pull it out.

At that moment Biffen and Steffe were on top of me, pressing my head down. The edge of the metal container cut into my throat as they forced my head into the rubbish, and the smell of rotting food filled my nostrils. I tried to turn my head but I couldn’t budge even an inch. I was locked into position as if held in a vice. I panicked. It was impossible to breathe. ‘What a bloody retard you are.’

I heard the girls’ voices behind me. ‘Stop it, let him go. Take your sodding keys and run home to Mamma. Just don’t pee your pants.’ One last shove before they released their grip. ‘You fucking weirdo.’

My legs were shaking as I cycled home. I refused to cry. I was never going back there. I’d kill myself first. A big lorry rumbled past on the wide road. For a few seconds I considered pulling in front of it, right in the middle of the street. Anything to avoid going back to school. To escape all that shit. And my worthless life.

When I parked my bike round the back and opened the door, I
immediately
heard the sobbing. I went into the living room, and there she sat. In a corner, with her legs pulled up, weeping.

‘What’s wrong, Mamma?’ I asked. ‘Did something bad happen?’

I knew perfectly well what her answer would be. Nothing ever happened. She just cried all the time. She was always finding new things to cry about, new problems. A fuse might blow, she might drop a glass on the floor, or the car could refuse to start. It might be because a bill was more than she’d expected, or because she’d burnt the dinner, or because she had lost her keys. There were endless annoyances every day. And they all represented a catastrophe. Nothing was allowed to go wrong.

I’d lived with her sobs all my life. I felt like a container filled with her tears. I was aware of them sloshing around inside me from the moment I got out of bed in the morning. I had no idea what I was going to do when they overflowed one day.

‘No,’ she whimpered. ‘I’m just sad.’

A lump formed in my stomach; the black curtain descended in front of my eyes.

Cautiously I approached. She smelled of perfume and a slightly stale, stuffy odour. Her face was wet, swollen and bright red. She looked grotesque.

‘Come here, my boy. Come here and comfort your mother.’ Her voice was whiny.

I bent forward but avoided looking her in the eye. She stretched out her arms and pulled me close. As usual, I didn’t know what to say to make her stop crying. I couldn’t think of any words. She was sniffing and snuffling. Her tears ran down my shirt.

‘Oh, it’s all so awful. I work so hard, you know. It’s not easy being a single mother. I’m so lonely. And I have to do everything myself. I just can’t handle it any more.’

She began sobbing loudly, howling and wailing, making no attempt to restrain herself in front of me.

I was filled with both disgust and sympathy. I didn’t know what to feel or say.

‘Now, now, Mamma. You have us, you know,’ I ventured.

‘Yes, I know, and I’m so lucky,’ she sniffled. ‘What would I do without all of you? I’d fall apart. You’re all that I live for.’

She didn’t notice the bruise on my forehead or the smell of rotten banana peel in my hair.

She had enough to do just taking care of herself.

THE DEATH OF
Alexander Almlöv turned the focus away from the homicide investigation on Wednesday.

Even though Knutas wasn’t in charge of the assault case, all the journalists wanted to ask him questions, since he was head of the criminal police. The story of the close friendship that had once existed between Knutas and Alexander’s father just added to their interest. He spent the entire morning on the phone.

At the same time, one question kept nagging at the back of his mind: Could the motive for killing Viktor Algård be found in the case involving the assault on Alexander? The interviews the police had conducted at the club had produced very little, although it was likely that there were more witnesses to the beating who hadn’t yet come forward.

Could someone close to Alexander have exacted revenge on the club owner? Knutas had seen Algård speak to the media several times about whether he considered himself responsible for some of the out-of-control behaviour among local teenagers. Each time he had brushed aside all criticism. That sort of thing might really infuriate people. Maybe somebody had finally had enough.

Knutas still hadn’t paid a visit to the club in person after the incident. He needed to do that soon. Possibly even this afternoon.

He went over the latest findings with Rylander, his colleague from the NCP. The skinny detective folded his lanky body into a chair in front of Knutas’s desk, holding a thick file folder containing a stack of documents. He placed the folder on the desk.

‘This isn’t an easy task, let me tell you. Not with so many damn people involved.’

‘I know,’ said Knutas sympathetically. ‘We have two murders now, with no obvious connections, other than the fact that they were both committed brazenly in the midst of a crowd of partygoers. It’s one of the hardest things for the police to handle – having to interview people who were more or less drunk when a crime was committed.’

‘You’re right about that,’ Rylander agreed. ‘We just have to do the best we can. So far, the interviews that we’ve conducted haven’t brought us much further. This is the most interesting of the lot.’

He pulled a page out of the folder.

‘One of Algård’s closest colleagues, the pub manager called Rolf Lewin, was also at the dedication festivities at the conference centre. He was helping out at the bar.’

‘And?’

‘Maybe that’s not so strange. Viktor usually brought in the same staff for his events. But during the interview it came out that Rolf and Viktor had had their differences. It might be worthwhile having another talk with the pub manager.’

‘What else do you know about him?’

‘A typical superannuated biker, if you want my honest and highly biased opinion. Lives alone in a two-room flat in Visby. Unmarried. No children. He’s about forty-five, with straggly hair that sticks out in all directions. Wears an earring and always has a cigarette between his lips. From the broken blood vessels on his nose I’d assume he drinks too much.’

‘OK, I guess I’ll go out and see him,’ Knutas muttered. ‘Anything else?’

‘Not much. The two bouncers don’t exactly have a spotless past, but there’s nothing to indicate that they had anything to do with Algård’s murder. Besides, both of them have watertight alibis.’

‘Which are?’

‘That they were at home with their wives and kids on Saturday evening. They didn’t set foot outside their houses all night.’

* * *

By the time they finished, it was one o’clock and Knutas could feel his stomach growling. After his morning swim he was extra hungry. He knocked on the door of Jacobsson’s office and asked if she’d like to go out for some lunch. He needed fresh air and wanted to stretch his legs. The noisy lunchroom at police headquarters didn’t seem very appealing.

There weren’t many lunch places to choose from in Visby during the winter, but the Café Ringduvan, located near the eastern gate in the ring wall, was a pleasant place. At the counter they each ordered the special of the day and then sat down at a table outside. The sun felt gloriously warm. Jacobsson lit a cigarette.

‘Have you started smoking again?’ asked Knutas.

‘You should talk. You with your pipe.’

‘But I never light it.’

‘Of course you do.’

He was well aware that Karin smoked only when she was worried about something.

‘By the way, you said that later on you’d tell me what’s been bothering you. Is this a good time?’ asked Knutas.

‘Definitely not. We need to talk about work. And besides, I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to talk to you about this particular problem. It’s way too serious.’

Knutas placed his hand on top of hers. ‘I’m your friend, Karin. Don’t forget that.’

‘But just how good a friend are you?’

He looked at her in surprise, startled by the question. ‘A very good friend. Probably much better than you even know.’

‘OK. I’ll think about it.’