The Dangerous Game (14 page)

She breathed in the raw cold air as soon as she stepped out on to the porch. She didn’t dare turn on the outdoor light for fear of waking her parents. The gravel crunched under her feet. The dogs paused to pee on the lawn, then followed at her heels as she crossed the front garden. The gate squeaked when she opened it. She was used to the darkness here at home; it didn’t frighten her. She knew every rock and shrub. Not a sound came from the sheep barn, or the other, older barn. Even the animals were asleep. She walked over to the corner of the sheep barn and stopped there to look out at the fields and the extensive pastures. Off in the distance was the house belonging to her friend David or, rather, to his parents. She hadn’t found time to phone him, and she wondered whether he was home. There were no lights on at their farm, and it was only because she was so familiar with the area that she even knew it was there. It was eerie, like peering into a dark void. She heard only a rustling from the bushes as the dogs nosed about. Then a flare of light as she lit her cigarette. And inhaled deeply.

She sat down on a wooden bench next to the wall of the house. This was where her father liked to drink his morning coffee in the summertime as the sun came up. She thought about Markus and felt such a longing to see him. Her parents had thought she should stay at home and recuperate for at least a week. All her assignments had been cancelled, and her boss, Robert, had been so understanding, telling her that of course she should take as much time as she needed.

And Markus was still unconscious, so there was nothing she could do. He had to get well. She had never been so in love before and, right now, her feelings for him seemed even stronger, because of what had happened. Markus was the first real man she’d ever met. What they had together couldn’t be compared to any of her experiences with the awkward guys she’d previously dated. What if the worst of all possible things should happen? What if he didn’t make it? And he died before she had a chance to see him again? Before she even went to the hospital? Would the sight of his mauled body in the cabin on Furillen be her last memory of Markus? The image of him lying there, stretched out on the floor, his body bloody and beaten? No, no. That was impossible. What was she doing here? She took one last drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out on the gravel. Then she tossed it into the bushes. She had to go back to Stockholm. She refused to wait any longer.

Taking long strides, she hurried back to the house.

THE PLANE LANDED
at Bromma Airport, just outside central Stockholm, at ten thirty in the morning. Markus Sandberg had been under heavy sedation for a week and had undergone several operations, but this morning Knutas had been notified that the photographer was now awake. He had immediately decided to send Jacobsson and Wittberg to Stockholm to interview him. In spite of the doctor’s misgivings that Sandberg might not remember anything, Knutas was hoping for a miracle.

Jacobsson swallowed hard as the plane touched down. A car would be waiting to take them to Karolinska University Hospital, yet she wanted nothing more than to drive straight out to Södermalm to try to talk to Hanna. She hoped it would be worth trying again.

When they entered the arrivals hall they were met by a couple of police colleagues who were going to accompany them to the hospital. The doctor had promised to let them speak to his patient for a short time, provided that Markus was sufficiently alert. The Stockholm police could have certainly conducted the interview on their own, but Jacobsson had insisted on being present when they spoke to Markus Sandberg for the first time.

A nurse showed them to the room. Their Stockholm colleagues waited outside the intensive care ward.

‘I need to ask you to treat him very gently,’ the nurse said as she opened the door. ‘Don’t try to force anything. Let him take as much time as he needs, and see that he doesn’t get upset. He’s still in a lot of pain, even though we’ve given him medication for it. So go easy with the questions. It’s not certain that he’ll be able to give you any answers. We don’t know what he remembers, or if he remembers anything at all. At the moment he’s not able to speak or write, so you’ll have to find some other way to communicate.’

Markus Sandberg’s eyes were closed as he lay in bed under a yellow hospital blanket. His head was heavily bandaged, with two tubes snaking out from under the dressing. His face was swollen, with huge bruises that were various shades of yellow, green and brown. A plastic tube had been inserted in the front of his throat to allow him to breathe. The nurse placed her hand on his arm.

‘You have visitors.’

Jacobsson had to take a deep breath and collect herself as she stepped into the room. It was impossible to imagine that the man in the bed was the roguish and charismatic TV host who had often been seen rubbing shoulders with celebrities on the red carpet.

‘Just press that button if you need anything,’ said the nurse, pointing at a button attached to a cord that hung from the wall. Then she left the room.

‘Hello,’ said Jacobsson quietly. Then she introduced herself and Wittberg.

She couldn’t tell whether Markus was awake. His eyes were still shut, and he gave no indication that he was aware of anyone having come into the room.

She pulled a chair over to the bed, sat down, and cautiously tapped his arm. Then he opened his eyes and turned his head slightly towards her. The expression in his eyes was inscrutable.

‘We’re from Visby police. We’re investigating the assault that left you injured. It’s very important that we get your help in finding the assailant, and that’s why we wanted to talk to you as soon as possible. We’re so happy to see you awake.’

She gave him a little smile of encouragement. No reaction.

‘I understand that you’re not able to speak, so we have to find some other way for you to communicate with us. Could you blink twice for yes and once for no?’

A long pause. Then Markus blinked twice.

‘Do you remember what happened out on Furillen?’

Several minutes passed without a response. Markus’s right eyebrow twitched uncontrollably. Jacobsson and Wittberg waited patiently. Finally, Markus replied by moving the palm of his hand back and forth. He seemed to be saying that he recalled at least a little of the event.

‘Did you recognize the person who attacked you?’

Markus Sandberg narrowed his eyes.

Two blinks.

‘Was it a woman?’

No reaction.

‘Was it a man?’

He gave her a blank look. As if he wasn’t listening or hadn’t understood what she said. Jacobsson repeated her question. A trickle of saliva seeped out of his mouth and ran down his chin. He whimpered as if in pain. The next second he uttered a long-drawn-out sound, a howl that rose up from his throat. Jacobsson jumped in fright and was just about to press the call button when the door opened and the nurse came in. Markus raised one arm. Greatly agitated, he grunted and pointed at her. Jacobsson cast a helpless glance at Wittberg, who merely shook his head.

‘You need to leave now,’ said the nurse firmly. ‘As I said, we don’t want him to get upset.’

‘But we really need to talk to him,’ Jacobsson objected. ‘It’s terribly important that we continue the interview.’

‘Not at the moment. He has been seriously injured, and it will endanger his life if he doesn’t have peace and quiet.’

The nurse refused to give in.

‘You can come back tomorrow if he doesn’t get any worse. Now, out!’

She shooed the two police officers out of the door as if they were children.

Jacobsson and Wittberg reluctantly left the hospital ward.

‘He’s much worse than I thought,’ said Wittberg in the car as they drove to police headquarters. ‘And he seemed really distraught.’

‘He got upset when the nurse came in, and then he pointed at her.’

‘But she can’t be the one who did it.’

‘No,’ said Jacobsson. ‘But he pointed at her when I asked him whether it was a man or a woman.’

‘How could it be a woman?’ Wittberg objected. ‘The clothes that were found in Kyllaj belonged to a man.’

‘I know. That’s something we’ll have to work out.’

THE PREMISES OF
the Fashion for Life agency were in a beautiful, early-twentieth-century building in a street with trendy restaurants and shops in central Stockholm. Jacobsson and Wittberg had made an appointment to meet with Robert Ek, the agency director. The young receptionist who greeted them had raven-black hair cut in a pageboy style with a fringe that completely hid one of her eyes. Heavy black eyeliner and mascara had been applied to the eye that was visible, which regarded them with some curiosity as she rang her boss. Her fingernails were long and perfectly painted in a leopardskin pattern. Fascinated, Jacobsson couldn’t help staring. She was amazed that such women existed. She felt like a twit and a country bumpkin in her jeans, Converse shoes and ugly old army-surplus jacket. If only she had at least remembered to comb her hair and put on some lipstick. Made some sort of effort. But the next second she was cursing herself. What a fool she was. First of all, she was a police officer, not a wannabe model. And secondly, what difference would it have made? In their eyes, her appearance was beyond hope, no matter what she did.

At that moment a man opened a glass door and came in. Jacobsson guessed that he was probably about forty-five. Tall and clean-shaven, with close-cropped hair that gleamed with recently applied gel, as if he’d stepped right out of a toiletries commercial. His face was as shiny as a newly polished copper pan. He wore a light-coloured shirt, leather trousers, red braces and a chic little ascot around his neck. He gave them a big smile, revealing unnaturally white teeth. He wore rectangular eyeglasses with heavy red frames and quite a few rings on his fingers. Jacobsson shook his hand more firmly than usual, as if to make up for her drab appearance and to counteract the antipathy she felt towards this man.

They went to his office. Robert Ek closed the glass door and invited them to sit down on a lime-green sofa. On the wall above it hung an enormous portrait of a woman holding a tartan umbrella as she crossed Fifth Avenue on a windy, rainy day in Manhattan. The woman wore only knickers and a bra, and her long red hair was being blown in all directions, just like the umbrella that she was trying to manoeuvre. Jacobsson immediately recognized Jenny Levin.

‘Our new star,’ said Ek when he noticed her looking at the photo. ‘She’s come a long way. Isn’t she fabulous?’

‘Yes, she certainly is,’ said Thomas Wittberg reverently.

Jacobsson merely nodded.

‘Can I offer you anything? An espresso? Macchiato? San Pellegrino?’

‘What is …’ Wittberg began, but stopped when Jacobsson poked him in the side.

‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘We won’t stay long.’

‘Okay. I understand. So how can I help you?’

If only he’d wipe that damned grin off his face, thought Jacobsson. His top photographer is in intensive care, for God’s sake.

‘How would you describe your relationship with Markus Sandberg?’

‘Excellent. We’re on very friendly terms. We’ve known each other a long time.’

‘How long?’

‘Oh, it must be about fifteen years now, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Long before Markus started working in the fashion business?’

‘That’s right. We used to run into each other at various functions. Stockholm isn’t as big as you’d think if you were from the provinces.’

He gave Jacobsson another amiable smile, but she did not smile back. This man was already proving to be unbearably irritating. And she was surprised at how unfazed he seemed to be by Markus’s present unfortunate condition.

‘How do you feel about what happened to Markus?’

As if he’d read her mind, Robert Ek immediately changed his expression.

‘It’s awful,’ he said emphatically. ‘Terrible. That’s the only word for it. I was so shocked when I heard what had happened.’

As if to illustrate his words, he clasped his hands and opened his eyes wide. Then he shook his head, took off his glasses, and wiped the corners of his eyes with a tissue which he took from a holder on the table. ‘We’re all hoping that he’ll recover, and as quickly as possible.’

‘Where were you on the night that Markus was attacked?’

Ek raised his neatly shaped eyebrows. Jacobsson wondered whether he might have dyed and enhanced his eyelashes. They were unusually long and dark.

‘On Monday night, a week ago? I was at home with my family. Probably asleep in bed.’

‘You’re married and have four children. Is that right?’

‘Precisely. I’m married to Erna Linton. You may remember her. She was once a very celebrated model. Although that’s a long time ago now. The years pass so quickly.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘In Saltsjö-Duvnäs, right outside Stockholm, in Nacka. We live in my parents’ house.’

‘What sort of professional relationship do you have with Markus?’

‘We don’t really see a lot of each other. He’s always dashing off on various photo shoots, while I mostly stay here and take care of the administrative work, when I’m not away travelling myself.’

‘Do you know whether Markus has any connection to Flemingsberg?’

‘Out in Huddinge? No, I wouldn’t think so. He has always spent most of his time in the city. Unless a woman is involved, of course.’

‘Does Markus have any enemies? Is there anyone who might want to harm him?’ asked Wittberg, jumping into the conversation for the first time.

Robert Ek’s gaze took in Wittberg’s toned and well-dressed figure. He hesitated a moment before answering.

‘Not that I know of. He’s always been popular here at the agency – sometimes a bit too popular, if you know what I mean. And that has led to a number of problems over the years. I don’t know how many models have left in the middle of a job because Markus had just dumped them and started an affair with someone else. It was a big problem, until I finally decided to have a talk with him, six months ago. It’s really none of my business, but when I see my models looking unhappy, I have to step in. I tried to explain things and asked him to try to restrain himself. We can’t afford to have jobs delayed or adversely affected or, in the worst case, cancelled because he can’t control his cock – excuse my French, but that’s really what this is about.’