The Dead of Summer (3 page)

‘We’re from Swedish TV,’ he shouted to the pilot. ‘Is that the ME who just arrived?’

‘That’s right. We came straight here from the helipad at Karolinska hospital.’

‘When are you heading back?’

‘They said we’d be taking off in half an hour. I can’t keep the chopper here any longer than that. It’s needed at Berga.’

‘OK.’

Johan waved his thanks to the pilot. He’d found out what he wanted to know. Now he just needed to try talking to the police. He noticed Erik Sohlman, who had stepped away to get himself a cup of coffee.

‘Hi, Erik. What’s going on here?’

Sohlman nodded to Berg. Johan had been a crime reporter on the island for quite a while now, and on several occasions he’d actually helped the police, once when his daughter’s life was at stake and once when his own life was in jeopardy. So Sohlman felt compelled to repay the favour. He hesitated before answering, taking a moment to decide what he wanted to say. Then he came over to Johan.

‘I can tell you this much: a man was found dead, and we suspect foul play. The ME is doing his first examination right now. Later the body will be moved to the morgue in Visby, and from there it will be transported by ferry to the forensic medicine lab in Solna.’

‘I understand, but …’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything else. And you’re inside the police tape, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

Johan and Pia headed back to their car. Both were more than satisfied. Now they even had time to shoot some reactions from people at the campsite.

Their story was in the can.

LATE THAT AFTERNOON the investigative team gathered for a meeting at police headquarters. Besides Karin Jacobsson, Thomas Wittberg and Erik Sohlman, the group included Lars Norrby and chief prosecutor Birger Smittenberg.

Jacobsson started by welcoming everyone.

‘So it looks like we have yet another brutal murder on our hands. You might call it an execution, pure and simple. The victim has already been identified down at the beach by his wife. His name is Peter Bovide, born in 1966, married and the father of two, from Slite. He’s been on holiday with his family at Sudersand campsite since Friday – in other words, he’d spent three days there. Early this morning, around five thirty according to his wife, he went out for a run. Apparently this was not out of the ordinary for him. The victim appears to have had a stable family life. He and Vendela Bovide have been married for six years. They have two children, a boy, five, and a girl, three. We interviewed the wife very briefly when she was asked to identify the body. She’s suffering from severe shock, so she was taken to the hospital, where they’ve decided to keep her overnight for observation. I’m hoping to be able to talk to her tomorrow.’

Jacobsson paused for a moment to glance down at her papers before she went on.

‘The body was found around nine thirty by two boys from Stockholm. They’re both thirteen years old, and their parents rent a cabin nearby. They were playing soccer on the beach and ended up quite a distance away. Then they decided to go for a swim and discovered the body in the water a short way from shore. They shouted for help and several people came to their aid. The man who rang the police is the father of one of the boys. The call to the emergency number 112 came in at nine forty-two. The first officers to respond arrived forty-five minutes later.’

‘How long had he been dead?’ asked Prosecutor Smittenberg.

‘At least a couple of hours, but five or six, max,’ replied Sohlman.

‘Precisely,’ said Jacobsson. ‘So there’s no sense in setting up road blocks or stopping the ferry traffic. Of course, all day we’ve been checking everyone who leaves the island by ferry, and we’ll keep doing so into the evening. Does anyone here happen to know the victim?’

All those seated around the table shook their heads.

‘So what do we know about Peter Bovide?’

Jacobsson answered her own question.

‘He actually has a police record, but just for a minor crime. A charge of assault and battery from back in the eighties, when he was twenty. A fight at Burmeister here in town. The bouncers refused to let him into the disco, so he punched one of them. Because he didn’t have a prior record, he got off with a fine. Nothing since then. He’s done construction work, and now he runs his own building company along with a partner. Slite Construction, with six full-time employees. The partner’s name is Johnny Ekwall, and we’re going to interview him tonight. In short, that’s all we can say about the victim right now. When it comes to the crime itself, I’m afraid we don’t have much to go on. We’ve been knocking on doors in the area, but there are no eyewitnesses. On the other hand, somebody did hear the shots. A couple that lives nearby heard first one shot and then several more bangs that they thought might have been gunfire. The sound woke them up, and according to them, it was around six this morning. They thought it was either rifle practice or someone who was out shooting rabbits illegally. Apparently that’s common in the area. We’re continuing to interview visitors and employees at the campsite and at the nearby restaurants. Some people left the campsite during the course of the day, and we’re trying to track them down. Since we need to do a large number of interviews, I’ve contacted the National Criminal Police. Martin Kihlgård and some of his colleagues will be here early tomorrow morning.’

‘Good,’ said Lars Norrby. ‘Sounds like we’ll need their help.’

Jacobsson gave him a quick look. It was impossible to tell whether his remark was intended to be sarcastic or not. Her appointment as Knutas’s deputy had taken place only six months earlier. When her older colleague realized that Karin was going to be given the promotion, he had loudly voiced his objections, devoting a large part of his work days to bad-mouthing both Knutas and Jacobsson. Norrby was also suspected of having leaked information to the press. Finally he had been removed from the investigative team. Today he was present solely because of his role as spokesman; this was their first meeting, and he needed to be kept informed, at least to some extent, regarding the progress of the investigation.

Jacobsson wanted to believe that all grudges had been forgotten, but she wasn’t sure whether that was true. Norrby’s expression revealed nothing of what he was actually feeling. She had to admit to herself that because Knutas was away, anybody who still wished to oppose her authority now had free rein.

She was looking forward to Martin Kihlgård’s arrival to help with the investigation. Jacobsson had always liked the inspector from the NCP in Stockholm, ever since the first time they’d met in connection with a manhunt for a serial killer several years earlier.

She turned to Sohlman.

‘Erik, would you like to take it from here?’

‘Sure.’

He sat down in front of the computer, signalling for Jacobsson to turn off the lights. On the white screen at the front of the room a map of the campsite and Sudersand bay appeared. Peter Bovide’s presumed jogging route had been marked with a red line.

‘Here you can see the area. The campsite itself covers the whole top half of the map. The Bovide family caravan was parked at the very edge. On the other side of the fence is the path that leads to the beach restaurants and the summer cottage colony. Peter Bovide didn’t take that path; instead he ran straight down to the shore and then turned left and followed the shoreline north. He turned around out by the promontory, and on his way back he encountered the perpetrator, only a kilometre from the actual campsite.’

‘How do we know this?’ asked Smittenberg.

He was the chief prosecutor for Gotland’s district court, and he’d worked with the investigative team on so many cases that it felt as if he were a regular member. He still spoke with a distinct Stockholm accent in spite of the fact that he’d lived on the island and been married to a Gotlander for more than twenty years.

‘We’ve identified Bovide’s footprints. We found them both on the path from the caravan heading down towards the sea, and along the beach. It was easy to follow his route.’

‘Did you find footprints from the perpetrator as well?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘There are a bunch of different prints in the area where the victim was found. The most interesting are from a type of trainer, size 7
. We’re working on that. Otherwise we haven’t found much evidence in the area so far.’

‘No bullets or empty casings?’

‘No, but it looks like he has a number of slugs still in his body. He was shot no fewer than eight times. The ME has been here and examined the body at the scene, so what I’m telling you about now is the first impression we both had. In other words, nothing has been confirmed yet, so take it all with a grain of salt. We’re hoping that the post mortem will be done in the morning, and then we should have a preliminary report by tomorrow evening.’

‘Good,’ said Jacobsson. ‘At this stage, how would you interpret the wounds?’

‘In terms of the shot to the forehead, we can see that the bullet penetrated the skull and entered the brain, where it stopped. Judging by the appearance of the entry wound, we think that the shot was fired at very close range. Either the perp pressed the gun to the victim’s forehead, or the muzzle was only a few inches from Bovide’s head.’

‘How can you tell?’ asked Wittberg with interest.

‘We know that it was fired at close range because of the type of entry wound in the victim’s head. It’s quite large and star-shaped. You can see how jagged it is if you look at the photo. That’s because the bullet carries a cloud of hot gas that follows it into the body when the shot is fired at close range. The gas collects under the skin like a bubble which bursts when the bullet penetrates farther inside – rather like a zit, actually – and that results in this type of star-shaped wound. Carbon particles also collect around the entry hole, and there are some traces left on his forehead.’

‘Even though he was floating in the water for several hours?’ asked Wittberg.

‘Yes, it’s rather like a tattoo.’

‘Good lord,’ groaned Jacobsson.

She couldn’t understand how Sohlman could sound so unmoved when he talked about a victim’s wounds.

‘The shot to the forehead should have been sufficient to kill him, since it was fired so close to his body,’ Sohlman continued. ‘So it’s a mystery what the hell went on after that.’

The next picture showed the bullet holes in the abdomen.

‘If the shot to the forehead was fired first, the murderer must have gone crazy afterwards. He seems to have emptied an entire magazine into the body. Seven shots fired at the man’s gut, also at close range.’

‘What does it mean?’ muttered Jacobsson. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘The first thing that comes to mind is rage,’ said Wittberg. ‘It must have been somebody who was really furious with the victim.’

‘Yes,’ Jacobsson agreed. ‘It seems very charged with emotion. Maybe they knew each other.’

‘Unprofessional is what I’d call it,’ Sohlman interjected. ‘If you want to kill somebody, you don’t fire a bunch of shots at the stomach. There’s a good chance the victim might survive, as long as the bullets don’t hit the aorta or the heart. A pro would have fired another shot to the head if he wasn’t sure that the first bullet had been fatal.’

‘So an amateur then. Somebody who hasn’t killed before,’ said Jacobsson. ‘At the same time, it seems incredibly cold-blooded. I mean, not everyone would be able to shoot a man standing right in front of them, and in the forehead at such close range.’

‘But why do you think he was shot in the head first and then in the stomach?’ asked Wittberg. ‘Wouldn’t the opposite seem more reasonable? The perp shoots the victim in the stomach, and then to make sure he dies, he fires a shot at his head.’

‘It’s just a feeling I have,’ said Sohlman. ‘We really won’t know until after the post mortem. I’m sure the ME will be able to determine in what order the bullets were fired.’

‘Can you tell us anything about the weapon?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘Nothing except that we’re talking about a small-calibre pistol. I won’t know more until we’ve taken a look at the slugs.’

‘The question is how the murderer knew that Peter Bovide was going to be out running so early,’ murmured Wittberg. ‘In other words, was the murder premeditated?’

‘It seems most likely that it was planned,’ said Norrby, crossing one long leg over the other. ‘How long did you say they’d been at the campsite?’

‘Three days,’ replied Jacobsson.

‘The perp must have followed Bovide to the campsite and observed his routines.’

‘Apparently, he always went running every morning at the same time,’ interjected Jacobsson. ‘Every single day of the year.’

She reached for the flask of coffee standing on the table.

‘What I can’t understand is why the perp would choose to commit the murder so close to a campsite swarming with people. Doesn’t that seem a bit crazy?’

‘Maybe he was staying at the campsite himself,’ said Wittberg. ‘It might have been someone that Peter Bovide had just met.’

‘Or maybe there’s some reason why the perp didn’t want to kill Bovide close to home,’ said Smittenberg. ‘A neighbour, a work colleague, or someone else with strong ties to Bovide’s life back in Slite. Killing him on Fårö could serve as some sort of diversionary manoeuvre.’