The Dangerous Game (12 page)

‘Now the question is: Where’s the boat that he used?’ said Knutas in the car.

Jacobsson was driving, as usual.

‘No one has reported a boat stolen anywhere on Gotland during the past month,’ she said. ‘On the other hand, a lot of people don’t really keep an eye on their boats in the winter. It’s very possible someone might not have noticed their boat was missing.’

‘Kyllaj,’ said Knutas, then he paused before going on. ‘It’s been a while since you and I were last out there. Do you remember?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Jacobsson, feeling her face flush. She knew all too well what he was referring to.

‘They’ve slipped through the net again. Vera Petrov and Stefan Norrström. I’d give anything to know where they’re hiding.’

‘Uh-huh.’

For obvious reasons, Karin Jacobsson avoided talking about that particular subject. Because of her, the couple who were on all the international lists of wanted criminals had escaped. This was something that only she and Knutas knew. Vera Petrov was suspected of committing two murders on Gotland several years earlier. Her husband, Stefan Norrström, had also been involved. They had fled abroad and had last been seen in the Dominican Republic. Knutas had thought the police were close to catching them but, for some inexplicable reason, they had again managed to get away. He hadn’t heard anything more for the past few months, and he was starting to lose hope that they’d ever be caught. Their house in Kyllaj had stood empty ever since they had disappeared.

By the time Knutas and Jacobsson reached the small-boat marina, the crime-scene techs had already arrived. Police tape had been put up, keeping out a few nearby residents who had noticed all the activity going on down at the harbour.

‘It won’t be long before we have reporters hounding us,’ said Knutas with a grimace as he lifted the blue-and-white plastic tape and slipped underneath.

Inside, Jacobsson studied the contents of the trunk without touching anything. She frowned.

‘Why didn’t the perpetrator make a better attempt to hide the clothes? Why didn’t he dump them in the sea or burn them? He should have realized they’d be found eventually. And, of course, they’re full of his DNA. But what’s that smell?’

Sohlman appeared behind them. He stepped forward and, using a pair of tongs, lifted up the T-shirt so his colleagues could see it.

‘See that? There’s vomit on the T-shirt. Also on the sweatshirt and the jacket.’

‘Puke?’

‘That’s another way of putting it,’ said Sohlman dryly. ‘Maybe the perpetrator got seasick on his way over here from Furillen. The wind was blowing at fifty-four kilometres per hour in the daytime on Monday, so the backwash would have been considerable. Probably really rough seas.’

‘Or maybe the vomit is a result of what he’d done,’ said Knutas thoughtfully. ‘I can only imagine what it was like in that cramped little cabin, with blood spraying all around. It would make anybody sick to their stomach.’

‘Stop, for God’s sake,’ Jacobsson said, her face turning white.

‘Sorry.’ Knutas sat down cautiously on an overturned beer crate. ‘But what does this mean? The assailant must have planned his escape in advance, presumably by stealing a boat. He parked his car somewhere in Kyllaj, most likely fairly close to the harbour, since he’d want to get out of here as fast as possible. How long would it take to cross the water from Furillen?’

‘According to that writer, Olof Hellström, the boat was very small,’ said Sohlman, scratching his head. ‘Maybe half an hour?’

‘To be honest, I haven’t a clue,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I know nothing about boats.’

‘We’ll need to find out, at any rate,’ said Knutas, getting up. ‘Right now, I want to talk to that Spanish couple. We’ll leave you here to work in peace.’

He nodded to Sohlman and went out.

The man from Lergrav had taken Mr and Mrs Morales to a cabin that he owned near the harbour. They both had blankets draped over their shoulders and were warming themselves in front of the fireplace, drinking hot chocolate. They looked pale and blue with cold. Poor souls, thought Knutas. They’re not used to our Swedish winter. And it hasn’t even started yet.

Jacobsson did most of the talking, since Knutas’s command of English was far from sufficient to carry on a conversation, much less an official interview. With much emotion and vigorous hand gestures, Mr and Mrs Morales described what had happened to them, the two of them frequently talking at the same time. The husband didn’t speak English, but he kept on wanting to interject remarks in Spanish and add details, which his wife translated.

The interview took twice as long as it should have.

When Knutas and Jacobsson returned to headquarters, they were greeted by the police spokesperson, who was in an agitated state.

‘We’ve been inundated with reporters,’ Norrby complained, throwing up his hands. ‘Apparently,
Rapport
used its noon broadcast to reveal that Markus Sandberg was having an affair with Jenny Levin. And the news got out that the police have made a macabre discovery in Kyllaj. Now everybody is asking whether the news about the romantic relationship is true, and they want to know what we found in Kyllaj.’

‘Okay,’ said Knutas grimly. His stomach was growling with hunger. He looked at his watch. ‘Call a press conference for an hour from now. In the big meeting room.’

ONE OF THE
routines that Agnes hates most in the clinic is the mandatory sessions in the warm room. She has tried to talk to Per about it, asked to be excused from the requirement, but he says there’s nothing he can do. It’s the same for everyone.

There are five warm rooms lined up in a row along one corridor. On the wall outside are shelves holding baskets, each assigned to a specific person. Every basket has a pink label with a patient’s name on it. Linda, Erika, Josefine, Sofia, Agnes … This is just like in a childcare centre, too, thinks Agnes as she reaches into her basket to take out her own sheet and pillowcase. She has to put them on the bed in the room before lying down. The room is small and has no windows. It reminds her of a prison cell with a round peephole in the door. The nurses can peer inside whenever they like. The room is furnished only with a low bed with a heated mattress, an electric heater and a stool, which is used by a nurse if the patient happens to be feeling particularly anxious. The thermostat next to the door shows that the temperature is 40 degrees Celsius. A lamp with a frosted shade casts a soft glow over the room. And there’s not a sound, as if the walls were padded.

She is expected to lie here for half an hour without moving as the warmth spreads through her body. Twice a day, after lunch and after dinner. Thirty minutes of total silence after she has been forced to eat a huge amount of food. The nurses claim that the heat is good for her, that it will decrease the level of her anxiety. To hell with them. Agnes knows all too well what the sessions in the warm room will mean if she follows their orders. With her heart pounding, she opens the door. She hates how diminished she feels in this place, hates how they force her to do things. Do they really believe she’s so stupid that she’d agree to lie in this room for a whole thirty minutes and allow the food to invade her body? If she stretches out her legs as she lies on the bed she can even see how they start to swell up from the treatment. They get fatter and fatter with each passing minute.

The first thing she does when she enters the room is to turn off the light so the nurse can’t see what she’s doing. Since there are no windows, the room is pitch black. She tells them that she finds it much easier to relax when it’s dark. Then she turns off the heat and spends the half-hour doing physical exercises. She tries to do sit-ups, but her vertebrae jut out and scrape against the floor. The pain is unbearable. She lies down on the bed and does her sit-ups there instead. Then she raises and lowers her arms and does leg lifts until she runs out of steam. She is soon sweating and out of breath. Her joints ache, making her weep, but she keeps on going. She is locked into these compulsory exercises and can’t stop, even though what she wants most is to relax. As she lies there in the dark, frantically exercising, she thinks about how all of this began. How she ended up in this nightmare.

About a year after her mother and older brother died, plunging her into a grief that was as black as night, she started going out and seeing her friends again. One evening in May they happened to go to a club for teens in Visby, and on that particular night there was a modelling contest. On impulse, Agnes decided to enter, and she ended up winning. The grand prize was a trip to Stockholm and a photo shoot with a professional fashion photographer working for the Fashion for Life agency, which had sponsored the contest. Agnes went to Stockholm, where a room had been booked for her at a fancy hotel in the city centre. After checking in, a cab took her to the agency. She was both scared and impressed to see it was so flashy and exclusive, the walls covered with photos of models, all of them unbelievably beautiful.

Everyone she met greeted her cheerfully, with polite smiles. At the same time, she couldn’t help noticing the appraising looks they gave her, casting swift, critical glances at her body. This blatant assessment of her appearance made her feel clumsy, and she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She tried to suck in her stomach, stand up straight, and look natural, even though she was shaking inside. She was ushered into a studio where she met the photographer Markus Sandberg. The same photographer who was now in hospital, seriously injured after a murder attempt on Furillen. She could hardly believe it when she saw the news on TV. But it was definitely him. In her mind, she pictures him from that first meeting. He was wearing trendy jeans with dozens of pockets and rivets. A simple white T-shirt over his buff torso. He seemed friendly but a bit stressed as he greeted her, running his hand through his unruly hair and smiling. He had very white teeth and at least a day’s stubble on his cheeks. He was cute, but old. She had only seen him before in magazine photos of celebrities. It felt unreal to be in the same room as him.

Then it was time for the photo shoot. She felt sick to her stomach at the thought of trying to pose naturally for him in that cold studio. The floor and walls were white as chalk. In the middle of the room a black cloth had been stretched out to serve as a backdrop for the photos. She wasn’t given any make-up or asked to change her clothes. They wanted her just as she was. Natural. She tried to move as easily as she could, but the whole time she was terribly conscious that she wasn’t any good. Not thin enough, not cute enough, not professional enough. Markus did his best to get her to relax. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he told her. ‘You’re super-cute. Loosen up. Pretend the camera is a guy you’re in love with.’ Agnes had just turned fifteen and had never been in love with any guy. But she did her best. Tried to imitate the models she’d seen on TV and in magazines. Twisting one way and then the other. ‘Shake your shoulders loose. Put your hand on your hip. Turn your body to the side, but look at me. Flirt with the camera.’ The dead lens blinked like an evil eye at her. How was she supposed to flirt with that? She felt stiff and awkward. All she wanted was for the session to be over. When the assistant left the room and she was alone in the studio with the photographer, she felt even more embarrassed. He must think I’m hopeless, she thought, strongly regretting her choice of clothing. Why had she worn such baggy jeans and this loose-fitting top? She probably looked grotesquely fat. As if the photographer could read her mind, he asked her, ‘Do you have anything on underneath?’ Yes, she was wearing a camisole. ‘Take off that big shirt. We can’t see how you look.’ Hesitantly, she unbuttoned the shirt and took it off, casting a quick glance down at her camisole. White, with a black bra underneath. How embarrassing. What was she doing here, anyway? Unhappy, she looked at the photographer.

Then he put down the camera and came over to her with a smile. Before she had time to react, he took her face in both hands and kissed her on the mouth. She stood motionless, with her arms hanging limply at her sides. She had no idea what to do. Abruptly, he let her go, but his face was still very close, with laughter in his eyes. Her cheeks burned. Playfully, he ruffled her hair; he wore rings on every finger. ‘You’re beautiful, sweetheart. You taste good. Don’t be offended. I just wanted to get you to relax a bit. Okay, let’s start again. Think of it as a game, because that’s exactly what it is. Not real. Just a game.’

PRESS CONFERENCES WERE
a curse, equally trying every time. Afterwards, Knutas fled to his office and resolutely shut the door. The reporters had behaved like starving wolves, ravenously casting themselves upon each titbit of information the police handed out. Their hunger was insatiable. That was what bothered Knutas the most. The way they never backed down, were never satisfied. Their craving for scandal knew no bounds. Their appetite merely grew as each new fact was presented. New circumstances led to new questions, which led to even more. And always the balancing act that he had to manage, giving the reporters what they wanted so they’d think they’d got it all, but keeping the most important evidence to himself. He didn’t want to disclose anything that might jeopardize the investigation, so he had to look out for every trap, every attempt at manipulation, as the reporters tried to coax more out of him than he intended to say.

He was exhausted. He sank down on to his old desk chair and closed his eyes. He was longing for Lina. Wanting to be at home with her in peace and quiet, eating a good dinner and afterwards snuggling together on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Just sitting there, gazing at the fire and holding her close.

But it would be hours before he was able to go home. He rocked slowly back and forth in his chair. Tried to clear his mind. Out with all the non-essentials that were whirling around in there, so he could think better. The clothes that had been found in the fisherman’s shed in Kyllaj ought to give the police some leads. He’d asked SCL, the Swedish Crime Laboratory, to rush their test through. The sight of the shed and the trunk with the bloodstained contents had given him flashbacks to a case involving a serial killer a number of years earlier. In that instance, a young couple had found some bloodstained garments in the storage space under a sofa inside a boathouse in Nisseviken. The clothing had belonged to the female victims. The murderer had stowed them away, wanting to keep them because of some sort of perverse and sadistic sense of possession. This time, the police were apparently dealing with clothing that the perpetrator had discarded as soon as he came ashore.