The Dangerous Game (21 page)

She would have given anything to avoid seeing the scene that now confronted her.

WHEN THE PHONE
rang late on Sunday evening, Knutas was at home, having fallen asleep on the sofa while watching a film on TV. Lina was working the night shift at the hospital, and the children had, for once, gone to bed early.

Still feeling groggy, Knutas recognized the voice of Martin Kihlgård, his colleague from the NCP, the National Criminal Police, in Stockholm. Kihlgård had worked with the Visby police many times.

‘Hi, Knutie. Sorry to disturb you so late, but there’s been a major development here.’

Knutas chose to ignore the fact that he hated being called Knutie. Fortunately, Kihlgård was the only person who ever used that nickname.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Well, you know that modelling agency – I think it’s called Fashion for Life? Tonight, the boss, Robert Ek, was found murdered in his office there. It was his wife who found him.’

Knutas stood up abruptly. He was suddenly wide awake.

‘You’re kidding me. How was he killed?’

‘With an axe. Apparently, he received blows to his head as well as to his body. Kurt’s the one who asked me to ring you, because he’s got his hands full at the moment. Over here at the NCP we’re already working on the case.’

‘Okay. What have you found out so far?’

‘Not much. According to the preliminary assessment the medical examiner did at the crime scene, the victim has been dead at least twenty-four hours. The agency had a party on Friday night and, as far as we know, nobody has seen him since then. His death is probably connected to the party.’

‘Where was the party held?’

‘In a rented flat on Stureplan, only a few minutes’ walk from the agency. The body is being taken to the pathology lab. The whole area is already crawling with journalists, of course, and they’ll probably be ringing you up as well. Do you want to send someone from your team to Stockholm?’

‘Definitely. Jacobsson and Wittberg will catch the first plane tomorrow morning.’

Knutas pictured Kihlgård’s face lighting up. He was very fond of Karin Jacobsson.

‘Great. Tell them to give me a call. I’ve got to go. But at least now you know what’s going on. Talk to you later.’

Knutas informed his colleagues on the investigative team about what had happened. Then he checked the news reports to see what the media were saying about this development. All the reports were largely the same. A man had been found dead in an office in central Stockholm, and the police suspected that it was a homicide. At this stage, that was really all the journalists were saying, and Knutas was grateful for that. Robert Ek’s children and parents might not yet have been told what had happened to him.

An hour later, Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg were sitting in Knutas’s office. He made a pot of strong coffee and offered them some ginger biscuits. There wasn’t anything else available at this time of night. The vending machine with sandwiches had been emptied before the weekend started.

‘This puts a whole new light on the Markus Sandberg case,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt that it’s the same perpetrator. Or at least we have to assume that the two cases are connected.’

‘Right,’ Wittberg agreed. ‘My first thought is that the motive has something to do with their profession and the agency.’

‘The only difference is that, this time, the assailant succeeded in killing his victim,’ said Knutas grimly.

‘I’m sure he intended to do the same in the cabin on Furillen,’ said Jacobsson. ‘When the perpetrator left, he probably thought that Sandberg was dead.’

‘But who would have a motive to kill these two individuals?’ Knutas rubbed his chin. ‘Someone in the fashion world? Or could the motive have roots further back in the past?’

‘That’s certainly possible,’ said Wittberg. ‘For instance, both men seem to have had an extremely active sex life. Robert Ek was apparently notoriously unfaithful to his wife. And Sandberg has had plenty of affairs.’

‘Have you heard that either of them was ever mixed up in anything irregular? I mean, did they have any ties to criminal elements, for example?’

Jacobsson shook her head.

‘No. You can say what you like about Sandberg’s career with all those porn photos and tits-and-bum shows on TV, but there’s nothing illegal about any of it.’

‘At least so far,’ muttered Wittberg. ‘But it wouldn’t surprise me if—’

‘Did you say something?’ Jacobsson said sternly.

‘No, no. Nothing.’

Wittberg held up both hands as if to ward off any criticism and then took a few more biscuits from the plate on the table. He was too tired to do any of the usual sparring with Karin. He’d met a girl on Friday night, and they’d spent all yesterday in bed. Which had proved far from restful.

‘Who phoned from Stockholm?’ asked Jacobsson, to change the subject.

‘Kihlgård. And he sends his regards to both of you.’

Jacobsson’s face lit up.

‘Martin? How nice. But why did he make the call? Is the NCP already involved in the case?’

‘Apparently. He’d like you to contact him as soon as you get to the city. The two of you will be leaving first thing tomorrow morning.’

Jacobsson and Wittberg exchanged glances. It was three days before Christmas Eve.

‘That’s fine with me,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I was thinking of going to Stockholm anyway. Hanna has invited me over for Christmas Eve.’

A big smile appeared on her face.

‘That’s wonderful,’ said Knutas warmly.

‘Yeah, that’s great,’ Wittberg agreed. ‘But I can’t say that a visit to Stockholm was part of
my
holiday plans. Of course, this means I won’t have to eat any of the brawn that my grandmother always serves, and that’s a positive thing. Plus, there’s a bird or two in the city I could always ring up.’

‘It’s not certain that either of you will have to stay there over Christmas,’ said Knutas. ‘But I think it’s important for you to be on the scene as soon as possible so you can get your own impression of the situation. The perpetrator might be from Gotland. At this point, we just don’t know.’

JENNY SAT ON
the sofa in the flat on Kungsholmen and stared into the dark. It would soon be daylight, but she hadn’t slept at all. A sense of unease had kept her awake. She still didn’t have a clear idea of what had happened after the Christmas party. The scattered images that she’d had upon waking up in the waterbed in the stranger’s bedroom kept coming back, but that was all she could remember, no matter how hard she tried. The ache in her pelvic region had gone, but an unpleasant feeling remained because she had only a fragmentary idea of how the evening had ended. What had she got herself mixed up in? And where had she been?

The house stood in a secluded spot, with no neighbours close by. Without her mobile, she couldn’t even ring for a taxi. After walking several kilometres along the road, she’d finally entered a residential area with more houses.

She stopped at an intersection, pausing to consider which way to go. Apparently, she had looked bewildered enough that a female driver pulled over and rolled down her window. When Jenny asked where she might find the nearest bus stop, the woman had offered her a lift. Jenny found the whole situation so embarrassing that she gratefully accepted the offer without asking where she was. The woman was driving into town and was kind enough to drop Jenny at the front door of her building.

As luck would have it, the other models who had spent the night in the flat had already left. She bought a take-away pizza and rented a film on Saturday evening, trying to shake off all thoughts of the unwelcome experience of the night before.

On Sunday she slept until one in the afternoon and didn’t leave the flat for the rest of the day. She hardly had the energy to move at all. She was glad she didn’t have her phone, so she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. She was just waiting for Monday to arrive so she could go back home. She was going to spend the Christmas holiday with her parents on Gotland and didn’t have to return to Stockholm until the 26th. She was longing to be with her parents and feel safe on the farm.

She had gone to bed early but couldn’t fall asleep. Finally, she gave up and went into the living room to sit on the sofa. She could sleep when she got to Gotland. Her plane was due to depart at ten thirty in the morning. She had already packed her bag and cleaned up the flat. She looked out of the window, catching a glimpse of the canal below. The water glittered in the light from a solitary street lamp but, otherwise, everything was wrapped in darkness. No people were visible on the narrow pathway. With a shiver she recalled the last time she’d walked along that path. And the man who had appeared out of the dark. But he hadn’t spoken or done anything, so she had decided not to tell anyone about it. She didn’t want to alarm her mother for no reason; she was neurotic enough as it was. But Jenny had definitely found the incident unsettling.

Overcome with restlessness, she decided to go out to Bromma Airport as soon as possible. She couldn’t bear to sit here waiting, drinking coffee and reading the morning papers. She wanted to get out of this flat. Away from all this shit. She looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was four fifteen. She really couldn’t see herself getting there before six.

So she took a shower and washed her hair. Then she spent time rubbing lotion on her skin and putting on some make-up, which made her feel more alert. In the kitchen she turned on the radio and hummed along with the tune that was playing. At five o’clock the music was interrupted by the
Eko
news report. By that time she had sat down at the table with a bowl of yoghurt. As she listened to the news, she lost her appetite.

On Sunday evening a man in his forties was found dead in an office in central Stockholm. The police suspect foul play. The office belongs to one of Sweden’s biggest modelling agencies, Fashion for Life. This is the same agency which employed Markus Sandberg, the well-known fashion photographer. In late November he was the victim of a brutal act of violence on Gotland when he was assaulted and seriously injured. The police refuse to say whether they’ve found any direct links between the two cases, but they won’t rule out a possible connection
.

Then a police spokesman was interviewed, giving a terse and unrevealing account of the investigation.

Jenny jumped to her feet. This couldn’t be true. She refused to believe it. She dashed into the living room to turn on the TV. The early-morning news bulletin was longer on television than on the radio, so the report about the murder at the agency was still on. A reporter was shown standing in front of the agency building. He said that it was the wife who had discovered her husband’s body inside. The victim could be only one person. Robert Ek.

The footage then shifted to another scene, and Jenny could hardly believe her eyes. She was looking at a luxury home with police vehicles parked outside it. In spite of the darkness, sections of the façade were visible, along with the front entrance, which had a lion sculpture on either side of the door. The disembodied voice of the reporter echoed hollowly:

The victim lived in this house in Nacka outside Stockholm. The police have searched the premises and apparently found evidence that an unknown number of people spent the weekend here while the victim’s family was out of town. The police would be grateful for any information from the public regarding any individuals who were seen in the vicinity of the home over the past few days
.

Jenny recognized at once the house where she’d found herself on Saturday morning. And she felt her throat slowly closing up.

‘HI, SWEETIE.’

Her father looks happy, as usual, but she notices concern in his eyes as he swiftly appraises her thin figure to see if she has put on even a tiny bit of weight. He gives her a cautious hug. Katarina makes no attempt to hug her. She knows that Agnes would not welcome such a gesture. Instead, she gives her a quick, uncertain smile and whispers hello. Katarina is so pathetic.

Agnes takes her father by the arm and turns to head back to the ward. She has been longing to see him. Last night, she hardly slept. She lay in bed thinking about the murder of Robert Ek, who was head of the modelling agency she once worked for. She’d heard about it on the evening news. She had met Ek several times. Now she wants to talk to her father and find out what he knows. Probably more than she does.

She expects Katarina to trudge off to the day room, as she always does. But she sees that something is up with her father. His feet seem to be glued to the floor.

‘Well, er, you see, Agnes,’ he says, ‘I was thinking that, uh …’ He casts a quick glance at Katarina. ‘… we were thinking that Katarina would come with us today. With you and me. Is that okay?’

Agnes is completely unprepared for this request. Why would she want to spend time with that woman? She isn’t the least bit interested in the idea and can hardly bear to look at her. For a moment, no one speaks. Agnes stares at her father as she struggles with herself. The two adults wait for her to answer, exchanging looks with each other. She can sense their nervousness seeping through their coats.

But she doesn’t want to behave like a stubborn child. That would merely confirm Katarina’s preconceptions about her. Before she manages to say anything, Per appears, like a guardian angel.

‘Hi. Come on in.’

As if he understands the difficulty of the situation, he leads the way down the corridor, and the others follow. Agnes’s cheeks are burning with shame. So far, she has simply ignored Katarina, pretending not to see her at all. That’s going to be harder to do now. She’s also disappointed because today she won’t have any private time with her father.

They take seats in the common room. Per goes to the kitchen to get coffee for all of them. Agnes’s father sits next to her on the sofa while Katarina sits in an easy chair.

‘It’s very nice in here,’ she says appreciatively, looking around the room.

Agnes gives her an icy glare but doesn’t say anything. Her father nervously shifts position.