The Dangerous Game (26 page)

At the end of the fashion spread there was an article about Sandberg. Quite a handsome fellow, thought Knutas. No wonder women were attracted to him. His face nicely suntanned and slightly weather-beaten. Clear blue eyes, his teeth as white as in a Colgate advert. The article was about Sandberg’s career and how he’d gone from being a porn photographer with a tarnished reputation to a popular national celebrity and one of Sweden’s hottest and most respected fashion photographers. Now it seemed unlikely that Markus Sandberg would ever be able to work again.

Knutas had spoken to Dr Vincent Palmstierna earlier in the day. If anything, Sandberg’s condition was worse than before. He’d undergone yet more surgery, but that had resulted in further complications, and the doctors were still uncertain about the prognosis. The patient was still in a coma. It was tragic. Knutas put down the magazine and leaned back in his chair. He filled his pipe as he ruminated. Had the fashion spread from Furillen and the tribute to Markus Sandberg prompted the threatening letter sent to the magazine? He tapped in the phone number for the editor-in-chief and asked her when the Christmas issue had been published.

‘We put that one together very quickly,’ explained Signe Rudin. ‘Usually, we require three months to do the layout, but after the horrible attack on Markus, we wanted to include the fashion spread as soon as possible. We didn’t know how things would go for him. At first, it seemed very unlikely that he would survive. And since he’d done so much work for us over so many years, well—’

‘You wanted to be the first to print his story?’ Knutas finished her sentence.

‘That’s not at all how I’d express it,’ said the editor-in-chief indignantly. ‘We thought it was important to pay tribute to a photographer who’d been such a big part of the magazine. And it felt right to publish the photos from Furillen.’

‘I was struck by the way a certain line was phrased in the article.’ Knutas read it aloud: ‘“The last photographs taken by Markus Sandberg – this is how a master photographer worked.” It sounds like he’s already dead.’

‘Considering the injuries that Markus has sustained, I think we can all agree that he’s not going to do any more photography work. And you could also interpret that sentence to mean the last photographs he took before he was attacked. You’d understand that if you read the whole article.’

Signe Rudin was starting to sound cross.

‘Right,’ said Knutas curtly. ‘But what I really want to know is how soon the public had access to this fashion spread. When did this issue go on sale?’

‘The twelfth of December. The day before the Lucia Day celebration.’

‘A week before Robert Ek was murdered,’ said Knutas.

‘That’s right,’ said the editor-in-chief.

He could now hear a slight nervousness in her voice.

‘Do you think we received that threatening letter because of the article?’

‘At this stage, it’s mere speculation,’ replied Knutas. ‘But the fashion spread and the lengthy tribute to Sandberg might have provoked our perpetrator.’

‘But how does Fanny fit into the picture? Why was the letter addressed to her? She had nothing to do with that fashion spread or the article. A different stylist was assigned to the Furillen photo shoot. And I wrote the article about Markus myself.’

‘That’s exactly what we need to work out.’

THE GLITTERING LIGHTS
from Gannarve farm could be seen from far away. Torches burned on both sides of the lane of old, gnarled oaks that led up to the buildings. Lanterns had been hung on the outside of the old barn and the sheep barn, casting a soft glow in the winter darkness. The snowfall over the past week had added to the drifts already covering the fields, giving the residents of Gotland a white Christmas, which was highly unusual. On Christmas Eve, the farmhouse was full. Close family members and other relatives had come from far and wide to celebrate the holiday together. Candles were everywhere, fires blazed in all the fireplaces, and the whole house was fragrant with the smell of Christmas cooking,
glögg
and the special
pepparkakor
biscuits.

A cheerful hum of conversation filled the room as everyone sat down at the long dining table to enjoy the meal. Both Jenny’s siblings were there, along with several cousins and other relatives, including her maternal grandparents. The dinner was so pleasant that, for long periods, Jenny managed to forget about all the awful things that had happened recently. It was great to be home.

She had been shocked to discover that she had spent Friday night in Robert Ek’s bed. The very night that he was murdered. She started to wonder if she was the target of some sort of conspiracy. Why was it on that particular night that she’d ended up being drugged, when that had never happened to her before? And why was Markus assaulted when he was on a photo shoot working with her? Why had the killer pretended to be her in the text that he sent to Robert, in an attempt to lure him to the agency? Was it just a coincidence that she had found herself nearby when both victims were attacked? Or was there some premeditated plot behind it all? Time after time, she thought about the man she’d seen outside the building on Kungsholmen.

She still hadn’t told anyone about that incident. She didn’t want to worry her parents. Yet the murder of Robert Ek had shaken her badly. Maybe she should talk to someone. Maybe even the police. Superintendent Knutas seemed very nice. Although that seemed a fairly drastic measure. He might even laugh at her. After all, the man hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t threatened her or even come close enough to speak to her. She was probably just imagining things.

She felt the warmth of everyone around her as she listened to them talking and laughing. All those horrible events couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her. She was just a model who worked for the agency. One of many. She could even switch agencies if she liked. Although she wasn’t yet prepared to go that far.

She needed a cigarette, but she didn’t want to go out into the cold to have a smoke right now. Instead she accepted another glass of wine and decided not to think any more about all the craziness at the agency. She had a couple of minor jobs in Stockholm during the coming week, and then she’d be going to New York for a prestigious show for Diane von Furstenberg. And after that, Paris. The whole world lay at her feet, and she had no intention of letting what had happened at the agency stop her. On Christmas Day she would go into Visby with all her old friends. She was longing to see them again and to be plain old Jenny. At least for a while.

ARE YOU ALL
right, sweetie?’ Agnes’s pappa bends down and cautiously kisses her on the cheek as she lies on the sofa. He straightens the blanket that is wrapped around her.

‘You’re not cold, are you? I’ll be back in plenty of time to watch
Donald Duck and His Friends Celebrate Christmas
, and then we’ll have coffee. Are you sure you don’t want anything?’

‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’

It’s Christmas Eve, and he’s going to drive over to his parents’ house to deliver their gifts. They wanted Agnes to come, too, but she doesn’t have the energy. They live over in Klintehamn, and Pappa has explained to them that Agnes is too weak. She talked to her grandmother on the phone, and they agreed to see each other on Christmas Day instead. She hasn’t seen them in several months.

The front door closes as her father leaves the house, and the only sound is from the TV. He has rented several films for her, since she doesn’t feel up to doing much else. She is watching an American comedy that seems very stupid. She can’t really concentrate. Pappa has piled pillows and blankets on the sofa. But she’s feeling restless. Her gaze shifts, and she looks at the walls in the room. Her father has brought out the old Christmas star they always put up in the living room. It’s a bit fancier than the others. He has even bought a Christmas tree, a sweet but rather lopsided tree, which they decorated last night as they both shed a few tears. The holiday always brings back memories of Mamma and Martin. This is the third Christmas without them. It feels strange to be lying here on the sofa, home alone. It’s like going back in time. The sofa, the wallpaper and the coffee table are all the same. Mamma embroidered the cloth on the table. Agnes leans forward and sniffs at it. As if it might still hold her mother’s scent. On the bookcase there is a photograph of Mamma and Martin. Next to it, Pappa has set a family photo from Greece, taken the summer before the accident. The whole family, sunburned and laughing, with Naxos harbour in the background. They had rented a house on the Greek island with another family for two weeks. That holiday was the best they’d ever had. Agnes remembers how they would sit in the shade on the terrace in the late afternoon, playing cards after a long day at the beach. They had talked about going back there. But life had made other plans.

She feels tears welling up, but she doesn’t want to cry any more. She sits up straighter, takes a sip of water from her glass, and tries to focus on the film. But she can’t. She breaks out into a cold sweat and the prickling sensation in her hands and feet is getting worse. She’s hungry. They’ve just had lunch, but when Pappa’s mobile started ringing in his jacket pocket in the front hall and he left the room to take the call, she dumped half of her food in the rubbish bin. Afterwards, she felt guilty. She did want to get well. Deep in her heart, she really did. Maybe it was dumb to throw out her food. Maybe that’s why she is feeling so weak right now. She ought to eat something. Just a little. Then she’ll feel better.

She goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge. Hunger is screaming inside her. She’s just going to look at the food. Just look. And maybe choose a small piece of something so she won’t keep feeling so ill. The refrigerator light casts a gentle glow in the dim kitchen, and she hears its faint, familiar droning sound. She holds on to the door for support as she inspects what’s inside. Everything looks so good. She sees cheese, ham, beetroot salad, Christmas sausages. Her eyes stop on a bowl of homemade meatballs, big and dark and slightly irregular in shape. Just like they’re supposed to be. Just like the ones Mamma made, which Agnes always loved. Pappa said that he had made them according to Mamma’s recipe. And they look just as good. But she can’t eat them. If she does, she will be utterly lost. If she eats one, she won’t be able to stop herself from eating the whole bowl. She wishes someone would come in and force her to eat them all. Then she wouldn’t have to decide for herself. On the shelf underneath is a carton of cherry tomatoes. They seem less dangerous than anything else. She takes a few.

Then she discovers a dish of red Christmas apples on the worktop next to the fridge. Those crisp, shiny apples that are a dazzling white inside and taste so sweet. She chooses the smallest apple, takes out a plastic cutting board and a knife, and then sits down at the kitchen table. She cuts the apple into two pieces. It should be okay for her to eat half an apple; it doesn’t have many calories, and she’s really feeling awful. She eats half. It tastes better than she imagined. The moment she swallows the last bite, she realizes she has upset the entire day’s routine. So she might as well continue. She eats the other half of the apple, too. It tastes amazing. She has to have another one. She gets up and brings over the entire dish, setting it on the table. She takes another apple, not bothering to slice it in half this time. Sweet apple juice runs out of her mouth. Greedily, she eats the whole apple. It tastes so good, yet she is filled with feelings of shame and disgust. She starts to cry. Now she has lost all control. She eats fast, finishing off two more apples as tears run down her face.

A suffocating sensation abruptly sets in. She feels stuffed. Her stomach is heavy. What on earth has she done? Quickly, she clears away all traces. She puts the dish back on the worktop with the few apples that are left. She wipes down the chopping board and washes the knife. She has to try to throw up. She doesn’t usually do that, but it now seems the fastest solution. She goes to the bathroom, raises the toilet lid and kneels on the floor, sticking two fingers down her throat. She tries several times without success. Then she stuffs all the fingers of one hand as far down as they’ll go, but she still can’t vomit. Why is it so damn hard? She is sobbing in despair. She has to get rid of those apples. It’s absolutely essential. Good Lord, she has eaten four of them.

She dashes out to the kitchen and pulls open the drawers, looking for some sort of tool. She takes a spoon back to the bathroom and sticks it down her throat. That should activate the gag reflex. But, after several attempts, the only thing that happens is that she feels nauseated and a tiny little piece of apple comes up. Nothing more.

Desperate and distraught, she finally stands up and catches sight of her face in the mirror. What she sees is frightening. Her face is bright red from the strain, her eyes are swollen and bloodshot. She realizes there is only one thing to do. Her mind is working frantically. How many calories are in an apple? She did throw out half of her lunch, so that means the situation isn’t really so dire. She checks her watch. Quarter to one. At best, she has at least two hours before her father comes home. She does a quick calculation in her head, figuring out how many jumps and sit-ups she needs to do to burn off all the fruit. Then she’ll be back where she started.

She knows she can do it.

She takes up position on the soft rug in front of the TV and starts jumping.

THE TEMPERATURE HAD
plummeted in Stockholm, and it had snowed all night. Karin Jacobsson had booked a room at the same hotel in Gamla Stan where she usually stayed. She’d been given an address in Södermalm and the name of a café; that was all. She was supposed to turn up there at eleven o’clock on the morning of Christmas Eve.

For the first time, she was going to celebrate Christmas with Hanna, but not at home in her flat on Mariatorget. That much, Karin understood. The door slammed behind her as she stepped out of the hotel and into the quiet lane glittering with snow. Christmas decorations hung between the beautiful old buildings in Gamla Stan, and the windows of the small shops gleamed. The narrow streets were covered with snow, which creaked under her boots in the cold. A few other people were walking along the main street of Västerlånggatan. Almost everyone she met gave her a friendly look and nodded a Christmas greeting. That hadn’t happened to her before in Stockholm – strangers saying hello. In a plastic carrier bag was her present for Hanna, the first she’d ever bought for her daughter. It hadn’t been easy to choose what to give her, since she hardly knew Hanna. But the old enamel signs in her kitchen had given Karin an idea.