The Dead of Summer (6 page)

‘That’s what’s so amazing. He not only remembers the colour and type of car, he can even tell us the licence plate numbers. He usually memorizes at least the letters.’

‘What a guy! He should be a detective,’ said Jacobsson with a laugh, forgetting her earlier annoyance. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Bo Karlström. Sixty years old. From Fårösund.’

‘Good. Get him in here ASAP. He might have actually seen the perp. And get started on looking for those people in the cars. We need to find out why they were going out to Fårö so early in the morning.’

WHEN EMMA WINARVE drove into the car park near the Almedal library, part of her wanted to turn round and go straight back home. She cast a glance at her face in the mirror. She could see how pale she was under the sunburn, and there were bags under her eyes. Never mind. She was just going to leave Elin with Johan for a little while so she could go to the dentist. Nothing to get excited about.

She got out and opened the boot of the car. With some effort, she hauled out the pushchair and unfolded it. On the rack underneath she put Elin’s bag, containing nappies, a baby bottle filled with water and a stuffed animal. Then she lifted her daughter out of the car and kissed her neck before she put her in the chair and stuck a dummy in her mouth. She straightened the child’s cotton dress and patted her hair, which was pulled back in a ponytail. It had grown long and now reached all the way down her back. They headed toward Almedalen. The lovely park was right outside the Visby ring wall, an oasis between the town and the harbour.

The sun was blazing, and it was already hot. The park was relatively deserted this early in the morning. An elderly woman was sitting on a bench, tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks in the pond, and a couple of early-rising mothers and their toddlers had settled on blankets which they’d spread out on the grass. Otherwise Emma saw mostly tourists who were on their way to the boats in the harbour, or to their cars, carrying all their beach paraphernalia as they headed for the sea.

Everything seemed so carefree in the summertime. The people she passed all seemed happy and relaxed as they chatted and laughed. It made her feel even more lonely and miserable. Was life so much easier for everyone else? Was there something wrong with her, something that somehow made her life more difficult?

They had agreed to meet outside the Packhus restaurant on Strandgatan, but as she approached the ring wall she had already caught sight of Johan as he came through the gate opening. He was looking the other way and hadn’t yet seen her. She couldn’t help it if she still found him attractive. His dark hair, those sinewy arms, his unshaven cheeks. He was wearing shorts, which revealed that his long legs were slightly bowed, and of course the obligatory trainers. Johan had never been interested in fashion.

For a few moments she pretended that nothing had changed between them, that they were simply about to meet and take a walk in the park with their daughter. That everything was fine.

She had just managed to convince herself how that would feel when he turned his head and saw her. She flushed when she noticed how his face lit up.

He waved and started towards her.

‘Hi!’

‘Hi,’ she replied, sounding a bit strained.

He gave Elin a hug and planted a light kiss on Emma’s cheek before she managed to pull away.

‘Do you have time to keep us company for a bit?’

Of course she did; her dentist appointment wasn’t for another half-hour.

‘So how are you doing?’ asked Johan as he took over the pushchair.

‘OK, I suppose.’

They walked on in silence for a moment.

‘It’s so awful about that murder. Do you know anything more than what was reported in the papers?’

‘And on the radio and TV, you mean?’ he teased her. ‘No, not really.’

‘Pappa phoned. They were really upset because it happened so close to their house.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not surprised at their reaction. Although I don’t think they need to be scared. The murderer has probably left the island by now.’

The house belonging to Emma’s parents was quite isolated, located on Fårö’s north-eastern promontory.

‘So I guess you’re really under a lot of pressure right now.’

She studied his profile.

‘Yes, but don’t worry. We’ve got to do a follow-up report today, of course, but we’ll make it. You’ll be done around eleven, right?’

Emma noticed a trace of impatience in Johan’s dark-brown eyes, which annoyed her. He always seemed to think his job was so damn important.

‘Sure, probably even a little earlier.’

‘All right. That’ll be fine then.’

Emma took a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and lit one.

‘I thought you’d given up.’

‘I did, but I’ve started again,’ she snapped.

She hadn’t intended to sound so sharp, but it was too late now. She avoided meeting his eye.

‘You don’t need to be so grumpy. I didn’t mean it as a criticism.’

It was impossible to ignore the resignation in his voice. And it drove her crazy. As if all it took was for her to light up one cigarette to ruin everything. That’s how bad things were between them. They just couldn’t get along. After five minutes, it was all spoiled.

They had reached the path that wound its way along the harbour. The waves were rolling in, calmly and steadily lapping against the pebbles on the beach. Now and then they met a bicyclist heading towards town.

Suddenly Emma had a great urge to be somewhere else. She stopped abruptly.

‘I’ve got to go now.’

‘Already?’ Johan cast a glance at his watch.

‘Yes.’ She pressed her lips together for a second. ‘Just keep on going, it’s great for Elin to be near the water when there’s a cool breeze blowing. I’ll see you around eleven, back at Almedal library, OK?’

‘Sure, that’s fine. I’ll tell Pia to meet me at the office so we can drive out to Fårö.’

‘OK.’

In his mind he’s already making plans to be on his way
, she thought. She turned round and dashed off.

When she was out of sight, the tears came.

ON THE DAY after the murder Vendela Bovide was still in Visby hospital. Jacobsson gave her name at the reception desk and was asked to take a seat and wait until she could be allowed into the patient’s room.

The sight of the young widow was distressing. She was sitting up in bed with several pillows behind her back. Her eyes were closed, and her face looked almost transparent. Her hair hung limply, dull and lifeless, the gown she was wearing was too big, and her hands were clasped on top of the blanket. Her despair filled the room like a heavy cloud.

Jacobsson greeted the woman without getting a response and then glanced around the room, feeling a bit lost. There was a chair standing in the corner. Cautiously she pulled it forward and sat down next to the bed.

‘Where are my children?’ asked Vendela Bovide, her voice weak.

‘They’re with your husband’s parents.’

‘Where?’

‘They live in Slite, don’t they?’

Jacobsson fidgeted, feeling uneasy as she considered whether to call a nurse. The woman in the bed seemed rather out of it. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since she’d learned that her husband had been murdered.

Her expression scared Jacobsson. During all her years in the police force, she had talked with a great many people who had lost someone they loved, but she’d never before witnessed such complete withdrawal and bottled-up despair as that exhibited by this woman in the bed. It was so strong it actually made the air hard to breathe.

Jacobsson wanted either to leave at once or else take the woman in her arms to console her. Just sitting there doing nothing seemed absurd.

‘I’m sorry to have to bother you,’ she began. ‘My name is Karin Jacobsson, and I’m in charge of the investigation. We spoke on the phone yesterday.’

Almost imperceptibly, Vendela Bovide nodded.

‘Let me start by offering my condolences. Are you ready to answer some questions?’

Silence.

‘Do you know what time it was when Peter left to go running yesterday morning?’

‘It was 5.35.’

‘How can you be so precise?’

‘I glanced at the clock when he left.’

‘So you were awake? Did you talk to him before he took off ?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘The same as always.’

‘How was that?’

‘Cheerful. He was going to make breakfast when he came back. And put the coffee on. That was the last thing he said.’

‘Did he usually go running in the morning?’

‘That was his regular routine, all year round.’

‘And at about the same time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Both weekdays and weekends?’

‘Every day. He was a man of habit. Peter liked routines.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Because he was insecure.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘No, he never talked about it.’

‘But there was something worrying him?’

‘I think so.’

Her voice faded. Vendela turned her head so she could look out of the window.

‘What do you think it might have been?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe something to do with the company.’

‘Why would he be worried about that?’

‘It’s not easy running a company, you know …’

‘According to his partner, Johnny Ekwall, Peter thought he was being watched. Do you know anything about that?’

A faint twitch of an eyebrow.

‘No, nothing. Watched? No, he never said anything about that.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘And apparently he’d received some anonymous phone calls at the office. Did you know about that?’

‘No. I think we did get some calls that were wrong numbers, but that was a long time ago.’

Vendela’s hands were picking nervously at the covers.

Either she was telling the truth or there was some reason she didn’t want to admit that her husband thought he was being spied on. More likely the latter, but Jacobsson chose not to ask any more questions on that subject until later.

‘How was the company doing?’

‘Good. At least that’s what he told me.’

‘OK. But you don’t know anything about company operations or the book-keeping?’

‘No.’

Jacobsson paused for a moment and glanced down at the notepad she was holding on her lap.

‘Could you tell from your personal finances that things were going well at the company?’

‘Yes. It meant that we could take a holiday. This time of year we usually go camping, but we’ve never been able to afford a trip abroad. We were supposed to go to Mallorca after two weeks on Fårö. He’d booked a four-star hotel. I thought it was too expensive, but he was so determined, and he said we could afford it. He thought we deserved it after all the work involved in starting the company. The years when our kids were babies were really tough for me; he was working almost all the time.’

Vendela began sobbing. She took a tissue from a box on the bedside table and loudly blew her nose.

‘Why did you happen to choose the Sudersand campsite?’

‘We’ve gone there for several years, every holiday. Peter loved that campsite. He knew the owner. He reserved the same spot for us every year.’

‘Did you also socialize with the owner?’

‘No, almost never. Mats – that’s the owner’s name – works at the campsite all summer long, and as soon as the holidays are over, he and his wife go somewhere on the Black Sea. She’s from that area.’

Jacobsson’s pen raced to keep up as she took notes. For a moment she pondered what Vendela had just told her. The woman’s answers to her questions were quite lucid, considering her condition only a few minutes ago.

‘When Peter left the caravan yesterday morning, was that the last time you saw him?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do after he left?’

‘I couldn’t sleep any more, so I got up and made coffee. I decided to stay inside the caravan because it had rained all night. I drank my coffee and did a crossword puzzle.’

‘And after that?’

‘A couple of hours must have passed, and then the kids woke up.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Maybe around eight.’

‘Didn’t you wonder why Peter hadn’t come back?’

‘Yes, I did, but sometimes he stayed down at the beach and did callisthenics and then took a swim. I didn’t think it was so strange. The sun had come out rather quickly, you know.’

‘When did you start getting worried about his absence?’

‘I ate breakfast with the kids. They were watching a children’s programme on TV. By the time I’d cleaned up and made the beds it was eight thirty. That’s when I started to wonder where he was.’

‘Were you worried?’

‘Not really. But around ten o’clock the kids and I walked down to the beach, and there we saw that a big crowd had gathered. Later the police rang.’

In a matter of seconds the controlled façade had shattered, and Vendela Bovide again started sobbing loudly.

Jacobsson put her hand on the woman’s arm. Vendela yanked her arm away as if she’d been burned.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she snarled so vehemently that saliva sprayed from her lips. ‘He’s the only one who’s allowed to touch me. Do you understand?’

Jacobsson gave a start. She had been completely unprepared for such an outburst. She shoved her chair back as far as it would go, and for a while she didn’t say a word. There were still some questions that she wanted to ask. She sincerely hoped that Vendela wasn’t about to lose all control.

The woman’s sobs gradually diminished enough that Jacobsson dared continue the conversation.

‘Do you know whether your husband had any enemies? I mean, did he ever receive any threats, or was there anybody who was particularly hostile towards him?’

A shadow passed over Vendela’s face.

‘No. I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I don’t think so. Peter was a very generous man, and everybody liked him. He was kind and helpful and hardly ever disagreed with anyone. He hated any sort of conflict. It was the same in our relationship. We hardly ever argued.’

Vendela Bovide’s voice was fading, and Jacobsson could tell that it was time to stop. The woman’s thin body slumped lower on the bed.