The Dangerous Game (13 page)

One thing that Knutas had not revealed to the journalists was that Sandberg’s mobile phone had been traced to the Stockholm area. And, more specifically, to the suburbs south of the city.

The police had asked for help from the National Communications Centre, which had picked up the signal from a mast in Flemingsberg. It had not been possible to find out any further details. If the perpetrator lived in Stockholm, why would he have chosen to commit the assault on Furillen? It was such an inaccessible site, nor was it the easiest place to approach or leave without being noticed. If someone wanted to kill Markus Sandberg, why not do it in Stockholm, where the photographer lived and worked? Maybe the assailant had some sort of connection to Gotland, maybe he was from here. Apparently, he knew enough about the area to have managed to find his way out to Furillen without making himself conspicuous.

Knutas opened the top desk drawer and took out his pipe and a tobacco pouch. He knocked out the pipe and then meticulously proceeded to refill it as his thoughts wandered. Sandberg’s mobile was not the only thing that had been traced. The phone call from the inquisitive stranger to the Hotel Fabriken, which had been reported by the cleaning woman, had been pinpointed to the Grand Hotel in Stockholm. If the man on the phone was the assailant, this opened up completely new avenues to investigate. The man had made the call from the hotel lobby, so it wasn’t certain that he had been staying there. But it did present a strong possibility that the perpetrator had come from Stockholm. Could Sandberg’s relationship with Jenny be the motive? The police were in the process of gathering information about the photographer’s background and closest relatives, so Knutas hoped they would soon have a clearer picture of the victim’s life. He was starting to feel very impatient but, fortunately, the phone rang.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Hi. This is Pelle Broström, the helicopter pilot. We’ve spotted a boat out here, close to Sankt Olofsholm. It might be the one you’re looking for.’

Knutas felt his pulse quicken.

‘What does it look like?’

‘A small dinghy with an outboard motor, brand name Uttern. It’s tucked in among the reeds, so we almost missed it. We didn’t see it during our search this morning, but we went out again after lunch, and we happened to spot it a few minutes ago.’

‘Can you see anything else?’

‘No, not from up here in the air. It looks empty, but it’s drifting freely. Doesn’t seem to be moored to anything.’

‘Okay,’ said Knutas with enthusiasm. ‘Good job. Alert the coastguard and make sure they go out there at once to tow it back to the harbour in Kyllaj. I’ll send over the crime-scene techs.’

‘Good. Roger that. We’ll notify the coastguard.’

A couple of hours later, the police had confirmed that the boat was most likely the one used by the perpetrator out at Furillen. The floorboards were covered with bloodstains and traces of vomit. That was going to make it easy to link the boat to the clothes discovered in Kyllaj earlier in the day.

That evening, the police also received word from an individual in Lergrav who wanted to report that his boat, an Uttern, was missing from its berth in the boathouse.

THE SHRILL SOUND
of a whistle raced across the soggy, muddy football pitch. The members of the Visby women’s team were practising their free kicks. Karin Jacobsson stood off to the side, watching her players. It was eight thirty in the evening, and she could sense the listlessness of the team. On a night like this, it wasn’t easy to be a coach. The women’s league was always assigned worse time slots than the men, who practised from seven to eight thirty. The women had to make do with eight thirty to ten. Equality within the sports world left much to be desired.

She tucked a pinch of snuff under her lip, shivering and stamping her feet to stay warm. The floodlights cast a cold glare over the pitch, it was drizzling, and puddles of water had formed everywhere. The surface had turned into muck that was almost like liquid cement, making it hard for the players to run with any speed. Their clothes were mud-spattered, and almost everyone had been sprayed in the face with gravel. Jacobsson was finding it challenging to keep the team motivated. The previous season had ended, and it felt like the next one would never start. Some of the players weren’t even trying; they were merely dashing about and chatting, instead of giving the practice session their full attention. Jacobsson tried to cheer them on as best she could. She had always thought that training on dirt was important. They could at least make an effort. She had divided up the players so that half were wearing blue vests, the other half red. Now they had started practising various passing manoeuvres.

While Jacobsson kept her eyes fixed on the women on the pitch, her mind wandered. Earlier in the day she had phoned Karolinska University Hospital to enquire about Markus Sandberg’s condition. He was still sedated, and as before the prognosis was uncertain. All they could do was hope. If Sandberg did pull through, Jacobsson wanted to be the one to interview him, and she had asked Knutas to allow her to do that. She might even have to travel to Stockholm. Their police colleagues in the capital would help out, of course, but it wasn’t the same as going there in person, meeting the staff at the modelling agency as well as Sandberg’s colleagues, people who knew him and might be able to provide the police with leads.

She also had another purpose in mind. She was hoping to see her daughter in the city. She felt her expression soften as she thought about Hanna.

Six months ago, Karin had met her for the first time in Stockholm. She had been forced to give Hanna up for adoption at birth, but she had always felt a great longing to find her daughter. It was like a dark void inside her heart. And that had probably contributed to her inability to love anyone. Jacobsson had never had a long-term relationship. As soon as things started to get serious and she became so attached to someone that she felt vulnerable, she would flee. Even her friendships were more or less superficial, also with colleagues at police headquarters, people she saw every day. Anders Knutas was the person she felt closest to, no doubt because he never gave up on her. And it was after a conversation with Knutas that she had dared to consider, after so many years, getting in touch with her daughter.

The previous summer, she had finally done something about it. She had already found out her daughter’s name, and her address in Stockholm. Hanna von Schwerin. The rather posh name had made her nervous.

Without giving any advance warning, Karin had gone to the address in Södermalm and sat down in a café outside the front entrance of the building to wait. At long last, a young woman and her dog had emerged. Karin knew at once that this had to be her daughter. They were so similar in appearance. Karin had started to cry.

Hanna had studied her in silence for a moment, and then she said only one word: ‘Mamma?’ She sank down on a chair on the other side of the café table and regarded her with a wary expression. All the colour had drained from her face.

‘Is that you? Are you my biological mother?’

Karin noticed how she emphasized the word ‘biological’, as if she didn’t really want to acknowledge the fact that this was her mother. But not her real mother; only her biological mother. Karin couldn’t utter a sound. She nodded and looked down at the table. Hanna had glanced over her shoulder, as if afraid that someone might hear. Neither of them spoke. Karin took several deep breaths before she dared look her daughter in the eye.

‘I want you to know what happened,’ she whispered.

‘In that case, you’ll have to come with me and my dog, Nelson, to the park. He can’t hold it much longer.’

Karin immediately stood up. They were the exact same height and had the same slender build. They both wore jeans, but Karin had put on a more expensive shirt than usual, one that she’d bought in an exclusive boutique in Visby. Hoping to fit in better, considering her daughter’s upper-class surname. Giving in to her own prejudices, she had expected to meet an elegant young woman wearing a tight skirt with slits, a blouse with a bow at the neck and a string of pearls. Hanna’s casual attire, which happened to correspond to Karin’s own tastes in clothing, made things somewhat easier. At least in those first few minutes. Clothes no longer played a role.

They had walked across Mariatorget, crossed Hornsgatan, and strolled along the promenade to the top of the hill. There was a magnificent view of the waters of Riddarfjärden, of Gamla Stan and of the city hall. But Karin didn’t even notice. With frequent pauses, she stammered through the story of how she had become pregnant at the age of fourteen and how she’d never had any contact with Hanna’s father, not even back then.

‘Why not?’ Hanna wanted to know, and Karin felt her blood run cold.

Of course, the question was unavoidable. Hundreds of times she had considered this dilemma. Should she tell her daughter that she was the result of a rape? That her father was the riding teacher in town who had attacked Karin?

For a while they walked side by side in silence. A great abyss between them. The dog named Nelson ran on ahead, eagerly sniffing at the ground. Karin slowed down.

‘You won’t like what I’m going to tell you.’

‘No?’

‘First of all, your father is dead. He died more than twenty years ago.’

A shadow passed across Hanna’s face.

‘Oh.’

Then Karin mustered her courage and recounted the whole story, from beginning to end. How her parents had convinced her that the best thing to do would be to give up the baby for adoption. How she had regretted this decision the minute she held her newborn child in her arms, but her parents had claimed that it was too late.

Hanna’s expression changed several times as she listened. When Karin finished, a long silence ensued. They kept on walking, but neither of them spoke. Karin was waiting. She didn’t know what else to say. She felt completely empty inside. Finally, her daughter spoke.

‘I need to be alone to think about everything. It’s a lot to take in at once. I need time to process all of it. I don’t want you to contact me for a while. I’ll phone you when I feel ready. I hope you understand.’

She called Nelson, then turned on her heel and left.

Karin had taken the next flight back to Gotland, her stomach churning with a dull sense of disappointment mixed with worry. Safely back home, she had replayed the whole encounter over and over. Maybe she should have written a letter instead. Given some warning. Allowed Hanna to think about the whole matter and prepare herself. But, after all these years, she had simply popped up like some sort of jack-in-the-box. She’d had so many questions she wanted to ask her daughter. But she hadn’t had a chance to do that.

Several times after that first meeting she’d been on the verge of ringing Hanna, but she’d stopped herself at the last minute. Hanna had asked her to wait. That was a request she needed to honour. But, now, her job was taking her back to Stockholm.

Six months had passed. Karin wondered if she would be able to keep her promise and refrain from contacting her daughter. She would probably have to.

THE STAIRS CREAKED
as Jenny quietly made her way down to the kitchen. She knew every creak of every step, and which ones made the most noise. So many times she had crept up these stairs, worried that she might wake her parents when she came home later than she’d promised.

But, to all intents and purposes, she was now an adult. It was both liberating and frightening.

After being discovered by the modelling agency and going to Stockholm, she had left her childhood behind for good. These days, she flew all over the world between assignments and handled everything herself, while money flowed into her bank account. She had wholeheartedly enjoyed her new life, up until the fateful incident on Furillen, which had turned her world upside down. At the moment, she felt completely at a loss.

In the kitchen, she found the dogs curled up in their basket. They yawned as they peered at her sleepily and reluctantly wagged their tails. As if they weren’t quite ready to wake up.

She poured herself a glass of water and took a banana from a bowl on the worktop, then sat down at the table. It was pitch black outside, but when dawn came the landscape would be hidden under a haze. At this time of year, everything was grey. The limestone façade of the farmhouse, the bare fields with no trace of vegetation and no sign of snow yet, the cold trees stretching their naked branches upwards, as if entreating, their bark silhouetted against a dreary sky.

A week had passed since that terrifying night on Furillen. The initial shock had faded, only to be replaced by a gnawing anxiety. Not just about Markus, but also about herself. She felt a vague uneasiness, as if she had a premonition that something even worse was about to happen. That was probably stupid, and she’d tried again and again to talk some sense into herself. It was only her imagination; it was just the shock. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. The psychologist at the hospital had said that she needed to be prepared for some sort of delayed reaction. She had the psychologist’s card and phone number, and she had been urged to call whenever she liked.

In her mind, she saw Markus’s face. She remembered his laugh earlier in the day, before he was attacked, and the stolen kisses in her room between sessions. Feeling sick to her stomach, she recalled his injured body, the blood all over the inside of that small cabin, his face beaten so badly that it was unrecognizable. The terror and panic she’d felt. Would he survive? Would everything go back to normal? She thought about him all the time. Apprehension flooded over her. She needed to have a cigarette before her mother and father awoke. Even though she now considered herself an adult, she didn’t want them to see her smoking. She glanced at the clock on the wall. 5.15. They’d be asleep for a while longer.

She put on her wellingtons and her long black down coat, which she always wore whenever she came home to the farm. She dug through her pockets and found a packet of cigarettes and her lighter. The dogs realized at once that she was going out, and they stood ready at the door, eagerly wagging their tails.