Read The Dead of Summer Online
Authors: Mari Jungstedt
The Dead of Summer
About the Book
The jogger ran north along the water’s edge, the sand heavy underfoot after the night’s rain. At the promontory he turned and headed back down the beach. In the distance he saw a figure walking towards him. Suddenly the person stumbled and fell, then just lay there not moving. Feeling uneasy, he ran forward.
‘Are you all right?’
The face that turned towards him was expressionless, the eyes cold.
For the jogger, time seemed to stand still. Deep down inside him something came alive, something he had tried to bury for years.
Then he saw the muzzle of the gun. It was pointed straight at him. He sank to his knees; everything in his mind went still…
Contents
THE DEAD OF SUMMER
MARI JUNGSTEDT
Translated from the Swedish by Tiina Nunnally
For Ewa Jungstedt, my dearest sister
From the lighthouse-keeper’s diary, the island of Gotska Sandön, August 1864
In the early-morning hour of 25 August, at ten minutes after midnight, on the south-east side of the island, the Russian steamship
Vsadnik
ran aground with a crew of one hundred and forty, of which three officers and twelve seamen drowned; all of the others were rescued. A hard easterly storm with rain.
MONDAY, 10 JULY
AS NIGHT GAVE way to morning a solitary car was driving north on the main road that cut across the island of Fårö. The rain had stopped. Heavy clouds were still covering the sky in grey sheets. The birds had been singing since three a.m.; the light of dawn was spreading across the fields and meadows. Through the haze it was possible to glimpse juniper bushes, the crooked trunks of dwarf pines, and stone walls dividing the fields. There were also farm buildings made of Gotland limestone, seemingly scattered about haphazardly, along with an occasional windmill, though the sails had long since disappeared. Flocks of black sheep could be seen in the pastures. Indolently they got to their feet, one after another, and began grazing on the meagre grass offered by the mostly bare earth.
Calm still reigned at the Sudersand campsite in the north of Fårö, although the area was fully occupied now, in the middle of summer. The campsite extended for three kilometres along the beach with its fine-grained sand. Caravans and tents were decoratively lined up in a meticulously ordered pattern. The Swedish flags adorning the entrance drooped limply from their poles. Here and there round grills had been set up, along with plastic tables, which still had wine glasses standing on them, left over from the dinners served the previous evening. Bath towels, soaked from the night-time rain, had been fastened with clothes-pegs to the improvised clothes-lines. There were striped, collapsible deck chairs in bright colours, inflatable mattresses and beach toys. A few bikes.
In the centre of the grounds stood a low wooden building with several doors leading to a kitchen, laundry room, toilets and showers. A well-organized holiday community, just a stone’s throw from the sea.
In one of the caravans parked near the perimeter of the campsite, Peter Bovide abruptly came wide awake. At exactly five a.m. he opened his eyes. Out of old habit he checked the time on his watch, which lay on a shelf next to the bed.
Always the same thing. Sleeping late in the morning was not part of his world.
He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling for a while, but soon realized that he wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep. Not on this morning either. All those years working construction had taken their toll on him, and the habit of getting up early was hard to break. Although he really didn’t mind. He appreciated having some time to himself before Vendela and the kids got up. He usually went out for a run and then did some callisthenics.
During the night he had lain in bed for a long time listening to the pattering of the rain on the metal roof of the caravan. He hadn’t slept well. Now the rain seemed to have stopped, and faint morning light was seeping through the thin cotton curtains.
He looked at his sleeping wife. Her blanket had slipped off, and she was lying on her side. At five foot eleven she was slightly taller than he was. He found that sexy. He ran his eyes over her slender legs, the curve of her hips, and he could just make out her small breasts. He felt himself getting an erection, but this was not the right time for it. The kids were lying nearby in their narrow bunks. Five-year-old William with his mouth open and his arms comfortably stretched above his head, as if he owned the whole world. Mikaela curled up in a foetal position, three years old and holding her teddy bear in her arms.
They had four weeks ahead of them, with very few obligations or demands. First here on the island of Fårö and later two weeks in Mallorca. The company had been doing well lately.
‘Are you awake?’ He heard Vendela’s clear and slightly drawling voice behind him, just as he was about to open the door.
‘Yes, sweetheart. I’m going out for a run.’
‘Wait. Come back here.’
Still lying on her side, she stretched out her arms towards him. He burrowed his head against her breasts, warm with sleep, and wrapped his arms around her. In their relationship she was the strong one; in spite of his robust appearance, he was actually fragile and vulnerable. Nobody who knew them realized how things really stood. Their friends never saw Peter Bovide when he wept like a child in his wife’s arms during one of his recurring panic attacks. Or how she soothed him, comforted him and helped him to get back on his feet again. The anxiety came in waves, always unexpected, always unwelcome, like an uninvited guest. It suffocated him.
Each time he felt the onset of symptoms, he would try to suppress them, pretend they weren’t there, think about something else. For the most part his attempts failed. Once the attack had begun, it was usually impossible to stop.
It had been a long time now since the last bad episode. But he knew that the panic attacks would inevitably return. Sometimes they occurred at the same time as the epileptic fits that had plagued him since early adulthood. These days the incidents were rare, but the fear of another one was always in the back of his mind. Underneath his self-confident façade, Peter Bovide was a frightened man.
When he met Vendela, his life was in a hell of a mess. Alcohol had taken an ever firmer hold on his life, leading him to neglect his job and increasingly lose his grip on reality. He had no steady girlfriend, and he never managed to maintain any long-term relationships. He neither dared nor wished to get too close to anyone. But everything had been different with Vendela.
When they met six years ago on the boat going to Finland, it was love at first sight for him. She was from Botkyrka and worked as a croupier in a casino in Stockholm. They decided to marry when she got pregnant after they’d been dating for only six months, and then they bought an old farm in the country outside Slite. A fixer-upper that they were able to buy cheap; since he was a carpenter, he could do most of the remodelling work himself.
Their two children were born two years apart. Everything was going well. For the past five years he had run a construction company along with a former work colleague, and they had gradually been able to hire several employees. The company was doing better and better, and at the moment they had more work than they could handle. New stormclouds had recently appeared on the horizon, but they were nothing he couldn’t cope with.
His demons were haunting him less and less.
Vendela hugged him hard.
‘I can’t believe that we’re going to have such a long holiday,’ she murmured, with her lips pressed against his neck.
‘I know. Damn, it’s going to be great.’
For a moment they lay quietly, listening to the even breathing of their children. Soon the old, familiar uneasiness began creeping over him.
‘I’m going to take off now.’
‘OK.’
She gave him another hug.
‘I’ll be back soon. Then I’ll put the coffee on.’
IT WAS LIBERATING to leave behind the close confines of the caravan. From the sea came the fresh smell of seaweed and salt. The rain had stopped. He inhaled the air deep into his lungs and stopped to take a piss at the edge of the woods.
Going out jogging every morning was a must. He didn’t feel human if he couldn’t start his day with a run. When he cut back on his alcohol consumption after meeting Vendela, he started running instead. Strangely enough, running seemed to have the same kind of effect on him as alcohol. He needed some kind of drug to keep the anxiety at bay.
The trail felt spongy under his feet. On both sides of him were sand dunes spreading out between grass-covered hills. He quickly reached the shore. The sea was rough, the swells moving every which way, without direction or purpose. Farther out, a flock of seagulls balanced atop the crests.
He started running north along the water’s edge. Clouds swept across the leaden sky, and it was hard to run on the sand after the rain. It didn’t take long before he was soaked with sweat. Out by the promontory he turned round. His thoughts became clearer as he ran. The jogging seemed to provide him with a respite of some sort.
On the way back, off in the distance he noticed somebody coming towards him, but suddenly the person stumbled and toppled over on to the sand. Then just lay there, apparently without making any attempt to get up. Feeling uneasy, he ran forward.
‘Are you all right?’
The face that turned towards him was expressionless, the eyes cold and indifferent. The question remained unanswered.
For several seconds time stood still, as Peter froze in place. A disturbing churning started up inside his stomach. Deep down inside of him something came alive, something he had tried to bury for years. Finally it had caught up with him.
The eyes that were fixed on him changed; now they were filled with contempt.
He couldn’t manage to utter a word, though he was breathing hard, and the familiar pain in his chest was back. He struggled not to collapse.
His body felt limp, loose-jointed.
Then he saw the muzzle of the gun. It was pointed straight at him. He automatically sank to his knees; everything in his mind went still. His thoughts stopped.
The shot struck him between the eyes. The report made the black-backed gulls lift up from the surface of the water with frightened shrieks.
DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT ANDERS KNUTAS was pottering about in the spacious country kitchen that belonged to his parents-in-law while the rest of the family slept. He was planning to surprise them with his special breakfast: American-style pancakes with maple syrup. They tasted almost like sponge-cake, and when they were hot, they melted in your mouth. Knutas was no master in the kitchen, but he had two specialities: macaroni cheese, and pancakes.
