Dark Angel (21 page)

‘Come on now,’ said Knutas in his gentlest tone of voice. ‘I’m not accusing you, but you need to tell me what you were doing in that room. Did you find him there?’

Veronika sniffed and coughed. The door opened and a nurse stuck her head in.

‘Everything all right in here?’

‘Yes, we’re fine.’ Knutas waved her away.

The nurse cast an enquiring glance at Veronika, who nodded. That seemed to satisfy her, and she closed the door again.

Knutas refilled Veronika’s glass with water from the small sink in the room. Then he tore off a piece of paper towel.

‘All right now,’ he murmured, as if speaking to a child. ‘Dry your tears and then let’s work this out, once and for all.’

‘OK,’ she whimpered. ‘I didn’t do anything. It’s just been too much to take.’

‘I understand.’

He handed her the glass and she drank the water greedily.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘At the end of the party – at the conference centre, I mean – I went to get my coat from the cloakroom, and then I looked around for Viktor. I got lost in the corridors but finally I found the room downstairs where we were supposed to meet. I went inside and saw a light coming from the lift a short distance away. The doors were open.’

She covered her face with her hands, stammering out the words.

‘And there he was. Lying on the floor. Not moving. I went over,
thinking
that he was alive. His face was turned away. But when I got closer, I realized that he was dead.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I panicked. I yanked open the nearest door and rushed home. I was terrified. I thought the murderer might still be in the room and would come after me.’

‘But you didn’t think about calling the police?’

‘I was drunk and exhausted. I wasn’t thinking straight. No one knew about our affair, and I couldn’t see why everybody should have to find out about it. And nothing could change what had already happened. My Viktor was dead.’

‘If what you’re telling me is the truth, it casts a whole new light on the case.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The fire, your explanation of why your fingerprints were at the crime scene, and everything else. It strips away any suspicions we may have had about you.’

‘What do you mean? That I’m no longer a suspect?’

‘That’s right,’ said Knutas, puzzled to see that the woman lying in the bed suddenly seemed to cheer up. ‘In fact, I’d say you’re free and clear.’

‘Are you saying that you seriously thought I was behind all this? Responsible for killing the love of my life? The man I’d finally met after an entire lifetime of dealing with miserable jerks? Because that’s what you are, the whole lot of you! It’s a chilling thought that the police would come to such an infantile conclusion: that I was a cold-blooded murderer who would kill my own dream. Unbelievable!’

Veronika Hammar was now sitting up in bed, shouting at the top of her lungs. Suddenly she didn’t seem fragile at all.

‘How dare you come here and accuse me of first one crime and then another! Here I am, suffering from smoke inhalation, the victim of arson, and I could just as easily have died in that fire. And you have the nerve to barge in here and accuse me of murder! Get out! I want you out of here! Get out, and I don’t ever want to set eyes on you again! You fucking cop! Go to hell!’

Knutas was astonished not only by the woman’s sudden outburst but by the strength of her voice.

Within seconds two nurses came running into the room and tried to calm their patient, who continued to scream and cry and wave her arms about.

They glared at Knutas but didn’t say a word to him.

In the midst of all the commotion, he left the room, relieved to make his escape.

ELISABETH ALGÅRD WAS INTERVIEWED
by the police on Friday, but nothing new came of it. She had an alibi for the night of the fire since she was in Stockholm with her children. They had gone to see a film, then to a restaurant, and she had stayed overnight with her daughter. Knutas had never believed that she had had anything to do with the murder; there was something about her that made him doubt she could be the killer. And his gut feeling was usually right. At least when it came to his work.

No one had witnessed the setting of the fire, but the techs found ignition points at several different places inside the cabin. They had also recovered a petrol can and some rags. A neighbour who was out walking his dog had noticed a motorcycle parked outside the Pensionat Holmhällar, which was just a stone’s throw from the cabin. The bed and breakfast was closed at this time of year, and the car park was usually deserted. Unfortunately, the man couldn’t identify the model of the motorcycle, nor was he able to recall the licence number.

Veronika Hammar had been discharged from the hospital and was given an escort to her home on Tranhusgatan inside the ring wall. The police had installed a security alarm and added an extra lock to her front door. For the next few days she would be under police surveillance around the clock. An unmarked police car was present at all times outside her home. The authorities were hoping that the perpetrator might turn up over the weekend when he realized that once again he had failed to kill her.

* * *

As soon as the meeting was over, Knutas and Jacobsson left to interview Veronika’s son, Andreas.

Andreas Hammar owned one of the biggest sheep farms in southern Gotland. His property was on the road between Havdhem and Eke. His house wasn’t built in the typical Gotland style; instead, it was a stone villa that looked more as if it belonged in Provence. The yellow stucco was flaking off in places, and the roof needed to be replaced. In front was a beautiful veranda with stately pillars and a flower garden. Two border collies were lying on the front lawn, keeping an eye on the chickens pecking at the ground.

Knutas had called ahead to tell him they were coming. Andreas Hammar said that he was very busy weighing the ewes, so they’d have to meet in the farmyard and talk as best they could while he continued to work. He didn’t have time to take a break.

When Knutas and Jacobsson parked, the collies began barking and a large man appeared from around the corner of the house. He wore blue overalls and heavy boots. He peered at them from under the visor of his cap and gave them a less than enthusiastic greeting.

‘Follow me in your car,’ he told the officers.

They drove along a tractor path into the fields next to the house and then stopped near a gate. Hundreds of sheep were out in the pasture and they came trotting from all directions, making an enormous din. Knutas watched in fascination as the huge flock gathered in a matter of minutes and came running towards them en masse. More disciplined than soldiers, he thought. A lorry was parked near the field. Inside the pasture, two smaller areas had been fenced off. The two dogs helped herd the sheep into the first enclosure. Andreas then shoved one sheep at a time through a chute that was covered with chicken wire and into the next pen, which was so small that there was barely enough room for the single sheep with its thick coat of wool. On the floor of the pen was a scale. It was a matter of getting the sheep to stand still for the few seconds required to register the animal’s weight. Jacobsson helped to steer the sheep into the chute and then hold them still while Andreas wrote down the weight in his notebook. Then he pushed the sheep back into the pasture. Some
of
the animals submitted to the procedure without protest, while others panicked and did everything possible to get away. Occasionally a sheep would go berserk and look as if it might break its spindly legs in a vain attempt to escape. Jacobsson had her hands full trying to help, and after a few minutes she was soaked with sweat.

‘That’s what happens,’ Andreas explained. ‘They panic as soon as they’re alone. They’re sensitive animals, highstrung, but smarter than most people think.’

Feeling impatient, Knutas began the interview.

‘Why didn’t you mention that your mother might be at the summer house when we told you that we were looking for her?’

‘It never occurred to me. She never goes out there until the Whitsun holiday, because she’s terribly afraid of the dark. She hates being there unless other people are around.’

Knutas cast a dubious glance at the farmer, who continued working unperturbed. For the moment he decided to accept the man’s explanation and went on: ‘What sort of relationship do you have with your mother?’

‘Parents are parents.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You don’t have a choice who your parents are, do you? So there’s really not much to think about.’

‘And your siblings?’

‘I hardly ever see them, and these days none of them spends much time with Mamma. Mats and Mikaela never see her at all, and Simon is depressed and has shut everyone out of his life. Including Mamma, as much as he’s been able to. Mats grew up with a foster family and never had any real contact with Mamma. My sister Mikaela broke off all communication with her years ago.’

‘That’s what we heard. But why?’

‘Hmm. I suppose she just couldn’t take it any more. My mother is … how should I put it? Extremely demanding.’

‘In what way?’

‘She doesn’t really have a life of her own, so she expects her children to fill the void. She phones every five minutes, asking for help with all sorts
of
things. As if she constantly needs to be acknowledged. But the problem is that even if you do a lot for her, it’s never enough. She always wants more. She also interferes in our lives and has an opinion about absolutely everything, from what to name a child to which curtains are best suited to a kitchen. I think Mikaela finally had enough. It’s as simple as that. Mamma takes up a lot of room and sucks up too much energy. My sister couldn’t stand it any more. She has her own family to think about, her own children. She needs to spend her time and energy on them.’

Knutas was surprised at how well the farmer was able to express himself. The next second he was ashamed for having such a stereotyped view of the man.

‘What about Simon?’

‘Well, he has his own story. A while back he split up with his live-in girlfriend Katrina, and after that he sank into a deep depression. He’s been living temporarily in a flat in Stockholm that belongs to a friend. I don’t think he’s capable of doing much of anything at the moment.’

‘Do you know where he is right now?’

‘I have no idea. Sometimes he disappears for a while. No one knows where he goes.’

‘So what about you? How do you deal with your mother if she’s so difficult?’

‘Who said that I deal with her? I don’t think anybody can handle that woman.’

He shook his head as he leaned forward to check the tag on the ear of the next sheep to be weighed.

‘It’s nothing but constant trouble with Mamma, and it never ends. Whenever one problem is solved, the next one arrives like a letter in the post.’

‘How often do you see each other?’

‘Every once in a while, usually only if I stop by to have coffee with her. We talk about meaningless things for an hour, and then I leave. I just let all her drivel run off me like water off a duck’s back. Simon and Mikaela have had a harder time of it. They’re like sponges, soaking up all her complaints. They end up feeling annoyed and insulted. They have a symbiotic
relationship
with her. If she feels bad, they do too; if she’s happy, then they are too. It’s never been like that for me.’

‘Why do you think that is?’

‘Maybe because I’m older and had time to get to know Pappa before my parents were divorced and he disappeared out of our lives. I managed to form my own impression of him, and of Mamma and their relationship. I’ve always known that things weren’t nearly as one-sided as Mamma tries to make them out to be.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t explain it. And I don’t really want to talk about it.’

‘Do you know whether your mother has ever received any threats, or whether someone would want to harm her?’

‘Threats? I’ve never heard about anything like that. And she would have mentioned it, because she always wants to get us involved in the smallest details of her daily life. Like telling us that she burned the soup or that she can’t find her slippers.’

‘What about someone who might want to harm her?’

Andreas gave Knutas an inscrutable look.

‘A person may have the will, but that’s not always enough,’ he said tersely.

Then he went back to his work. The next sheep was waiting to be weighed.

WALPURGIS EVE WAS
the most beautiful it had been in years. Usually the day was cold with a strong wind, but this time the sun was shining and it was so warm that it felt as if summer was just around the corner.

Johan had worked all weekend putting together reports for both Regional News and the national news broadcasts, so he’d been given the day off. It had been hectic for both Johan and Pia after Alexander Almlöv died. The outcry about the assault case had overshadowed the murder of Viktor Algård. Big demonstrations were staged in Visby, protesting against violence and the politicians’ lack of interest in providing services for young people. Instead, they had voted to shut down recreation centres, lay off school counsellors and cut funding for education, after-school programmes and sports activities. The investment in the new conference centre had once again come under fire. How could anyone justify spending millions of kronor for that sort of building when the island’s young people had nowhere to go when they weren’t in school?

Johan and Pia had compiled reports that were broadcast as part of the national news seen all over Sweden. The series they had planned was now put on the fast track; at the same time, it was given much more space in the news programmes than they could ever have imagined. Johan noted with satisfaction that so much attention was being focused on youth violence that now all the editorial pages and news programmes were concentrating on how to deal with the problem. But everything came at a price. This time it had cost a sixteen-year-old boy his life.

Johan had hardly even had time to miss Emma and Elin. But now that he was on his way out to Fårö, he could barely contain himself. He stood on the deck of the ferry with the sea wind blowing in his face, finally relaxed enough that he could stop thinking about work. He was going to devote himself to what was most important – namely, his family.