The Dead of Summer (7 page)

‘So what was Peter like? Was he happy?’

Vendela hesitated before answering. She looked as if she were seriously mulling over the question. As if it were something new to consider, and unexpected.

‘I think he was happy, at least as happy as he could be.’

‘I realize this is difficult for you,’ said Jacobsson sympathetically. ‘But I’m afraid I have to ask these questions so that we can catch the person who did this as soon as possible. Has anything unusual happened lately?’

‘No.’

‘Did the two of you, or maybe just Peter, happen to meet anybody new?’

Vendela Bovide seemed to be considering what to say. Again she answered in the negative.

‘Do you have a job too?’

‘Yes, I work part-time at a beauty salon in Visby, every other Saturday.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘Sofia’s Nails and Beauty.’

Jacobsson wrote down the name in her notepad.

‘Is there anything else?’

Jacobsson noticed a momentary hesitation before Vendela replied.

‘Sometimes I work as a croupier at the Casino Cosmopol in Stockholm.’

‘I see. How often?’

‘Once a month. I go over on Friday afternoon, work all weekend and then come back home on Sunday afternoon. My sister and mother live in Stockholm, so I usually stay with my sister in Söder.’

‘OK.’

‘And my mother-in-law helps out with the children while I’m away.’

‘I understand.’

It was time to stop. She thanked the woman for her help and left the room.

By then Vendela Bovide had slipped down until she was lying flat on the bed, gazing vacantly out of the window. She already seemed to have forgotten all about Karin Jacobsson.

AFTER JOHAN HAD handed Elin back to Emma when she returned from her dentist’s appointment, he walked up the hill from the harbour and through the town’s winding lanes, then out of the gate on the other side. The Swedish TV and Radio building, which also housed the editorial office of Regional News, was located on the south-east side of town, a short distance beyond the ring wall.

He paid no attention to any of the passers-by; he was still seeing Emma in his mind. He passed the Café Vinäger on Hästgatan, where he had kissed her for the first time. A fleeting kiss, but the memory was etched into his body. Back then neither of them had any idea what was in store for them. Would he have subjected himself to all this trouble if he’d known ahead of time? Yes, of course. If nothing else, because of Elin.

He took the road past Söderport and bought an ice-cream cone at the kiosk. Standing in front of him in the queue were two kids about the same age as Sara and Filip, Emma’s other children. He’d managed to build a relationship with them over the past two years. Were all his efforts now going to be in vain? And most important of all: Elin. He loved his daughter. Was she going to grow up seeing him only every other weekend? The thought was unbearable.

Why did it have to be so difficult? Emma was still holding back, and the situation with her seemed deadlocked. He found it impossible to talk to her. He could make no headway, even though he’d tried every imaginable tactic. Everything from being gentle, positive, sweet and undemanding to behaving like a shrill martyr who complained that she didn’t care about him at all. Finally he’d tried to be as distant and indifferent as she was. Nothing worked. Did she have no feelings for him any more? In the spring, when she broke off the engagement, she had gone to stay with her parents on Fårö, taking Elin with her and refusing to see him. Johan’s life had fallen apart. For the first time, he sank into what felt like a depression, and he lost all interest in life. He sought help from a counsellor at the corporate health service who had steered him through the crisis. Now he didn’t know whether he even had the energy to try again.

When he arrived at the TV and Radio building he paused to smoke a cigarette. He had to push all of these thoughts aside. Maybe he should just stay away from Emma for a while and focus on his work. The murder investigation should keep him busy, at least for the next few days.

He went in through the front door, said hello to the receptionist and went up the stairs to the Regional News office.

Pia Lilja was already there. Her eyes were fixed on her computer screen.

‘Hi,’ she said, taking a pinch of snuff without shifting her gaze.

Her hair was pinned up in a sort of straggly knot that strongly resembled a bird’s nest. Her eyes were heavily made up, as usual, and a fiery red gemstone glittered on one nostril. Her lips were painted as red as the gemstone.

‘Hi, how’s it going? Nice hair-do.’ To tease her, Johan tugged on one of the wisps of hair sticking straight up. ‘Now what could we use this for? A pen holder?’

‘Ha, ha. Very funny,’ she muttered, although she couldn’t help smiling a bit.

‘It looks cool. I mean it.’

Pia had her own style and attitude, which he liked.

‘Anything new turn up yet?’ He looked over her shoulder.

‘No, not really. But check this out. These pictures were on the front page.’

Photos of the police helicopter on the beach were spread all over the evening newspapers.

‘You should get paid for those.’

‘Fat chance. But I’m happy to get the photo credit. Oh, by the way, Grenfors rang. He wants to talk to you.’

‘So why doesn’t he ring my mobile?’ scoffed Johan. The editor-in-chief was not his favourite person.

Pia took her eyes off her computer and turned to face him.

‘Because it’s switched off. I tried ringing you too.’

‘Shit.’

He dug out his mobile from the pocket of his jeans and plugged it in to recharge.

‘OK, what’s on the schedule for today?’

‘Hopefully we’ll find out more about who the murder victim is and how he was killed. The police have announced a press conference for three o’clock this afternoon. Before then, I think it would be a good idea for us to drive up to Sudersand. Find out what the mood’s like on the day after, you know. Talk to people, and not just those staying at the campsite, but people who work there too. Apparently the victim had been there several days with his family. Maybe they’d made friends with somebody; I’m sure plenty of people will have something to say. But ring Max first and find out what he wants.’

‘Sure.’

The editor-in-chief sounded stressed.

‘Good you rang. So what do we know now?’

‘No more than we did yesterday. I just got to the office. Haven’t even had a chance to check the TT wire yet.’

‘I’ve had a meeting with the national news guys, and everybody wants to use your report again today. Preferably before lunch.’

‘Excuse me for laughing. Not a chance in hell.’

‘Couldn’t the two of you put together a quick interview with the police? So we have something to give them?’

Johan could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. It always upset him that Regional News had to kowtow to the more important national news division, supplying them with all sorts of material at the expense of their own broadcasts.

‘If we do that, how do you think we’ll have time to drive up to Fårö? To take day-after pictures and do interviews and try to ferret out some of our own information? Besides, the police have announced a press conference for three o’clock. How are we going to attend that if we have to put together some shitty report to keep the national news guys happy? They should send over their own reporter.’

‘Take it easy. It was just a thought. I’ll talk to them. They’ve already mentioned sending somebody over. So I suppose they might as well do it sooner than later. With a camera person. I realize it’s too much for you to handle. I’ll get back to you.’

Johan ended the conversation and glared at Pia, who patted him on the shoulder.

‘Come on,’ she said, trying to console him. ‘Let’s get going.’

AT SUDERSAND CAMPSITE on Fårö, there was hardly any sign of the murder drama from the previous day. At least not at first glance. Tourists were picking up brochures from the check-in desk, taking the path down to the beach and going to the cafeteria. No police officers or police tape in sight.

An elderly grey-haired woman sat behind the front desk.

‘Hello,’ she greeted them automatically. ‘How can I help you?’

Johan introduced himself and Pia, causing the woman to raise her eyebrows with interest.

‘We’d like to know more about the man who was shot yesterday,’ Johan began. ‘Who was he? And how long had he been here?’

‘The police told me not to say a word to any reporters.’

The woman pressed her lips together as if to demonstrate and gave them a suspicious look.

‘Of course, and we respect that. But maybe you could tell us something about the sort of reactions you’ve witnessed here today. When we arrived, Pia and I were surprised to see that nobody seems the least bit upset. Everybody here seems very calm and collected. If nothing else, surely it can’t hurt to do a report for TV on what the day after the murder is like. To show that the campsite is functioning normally, I mean. Have you had any cancellations?’

‘Not very many, actually.’

‘Would you mind talking about that while we film? I’d think it would be in your interest to show the viewers that everything is OK here, right?’

Johan was ashamed of stooping to this sort of veiled threat, but he felt no sympathy for the stern-looking woman sitting behind the counter.

He watched as she debated with herself for a few seconds.

‘No,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Not interested. And I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. And take that camera with you.’

The same instant she made her decision, a man came inside. He was tall and lanky, with tousled hair. He was carrying a stack of cigarette cartons. He introduced himself as Mats Nilsson, owner of the campsite.

‘Hi,’ said Johan, ignoring the scowling elderly woman. ‘We’re from Regional News. Have you got a minute?’

‘All right, sure.’

‘Could we go outside to talk?’

‘OK. I need a smoke anyway.’

Outside, they explained what they’d like to film, and after they had talked to the campsite owner for a few minutes, his face lit up.

‘Now I know who you are,’ he exclaimed, jabbing Johan in the stomach. ‘I recognize you from TV.’

‘Oh, really?’

Mats Nilsson let out a bellow of laughter, displaying his nicotine-stained teeth. Johan stared at him, uncomprehending.

‘You and Emma are an item, right? Emma Winarve?’

‘Well …’ Johan said, hesitating.

‘You even have a kid together. I read all about it in the newspaper. I dated Emma in the ninth grade; she was in the other class. She was damned cute back then, a lot prettier than she is now. Even though she had rather small … well, you know what I mean.’

He pointed at his chest.

Johan wondered if he’d heard this guy correctly. He felt Pia looking at him, and sensed how close she was to delivering a crushing remark to the unpleasant campsite owner. Even Johan had to make the utmost effort not to punch the guy in the face. He made a lightning-quick decision about which tactic would be best in this situation, and he chose to focus on their report, which meant assuming an ingratiating attitude. Even at his own expense.

‘Right. How cool. So I guess we have something in common.’

He managed a strained smile. Nilsson didn’t seem to notice his sarcastic tone of voice, and Johan quickly changed the subject.

‘How are things going here after that young man was shot yesterday?’

The campsite owner’s face clouded over.

‘I wouldn’t call him young. Peter was over forty. Bloody awful, the whole thing.’

Johan was all ears. The police hadn’t yet revealed the victim’s identity. It was important to tread lightly.

‘Did you know him?’

‘Yes I did, quite well in fact. He and his wife have come here several years in a row, and after a while I get to know all the regular campers. It’s a bleeding shame he had to go and get himself shot. Makes me wonder what was behind it.’

‘Is it OK if I film you while we’re talking?’ asked Pia.

‘Sure, go ahead.’

‘What’s Peter’s last name?’

‘Bovide.’

‘How long had he and his family been here before this happened?’

‘Just over the weekend. They arrived Friday night and were supposed to stay two weeks. They do that every year. And they like to have the same camping spot each time. Before they left, he would always reserve it for the following year.’

‘Where is it located?’

He nodded towards the campsite.

‘It’s number fifty-three, the very last space, you know, and the one closest to the beach. There’s a sign, but right now the area is blocked off so you won’t be able to see it. It’s the space they had the first summer they were here, and since then they’ve never wanted to park their caravan anywhere else. Even though there’s no electrical hook-up over there; they have to run everything on liquefied natural gas, but that works fine.’

‘So he was married and had kids?’

‘Of course. His wife’s name is Vendela, and they have two children, a little girl and a boy.’

‘How old are they?’

‘Not very old. Maybe three and five, something like that. But how the hell would I know? I haven’t got any kids myself.’

‘Where are they from?’

‘Slite, so they didn’t have far to drive, you might say.’

‘Do you know what kind of work he did?’

‘Sure, he was a carpenter, and he had his own construction company. He was really good at his job. And always willing to lend a hand. He did quite a bit of carpentry work for me, so I gave him a good discount on the camping fee and made sure he got the spot he wanted. I felt like I needed to pay him back in some way. I know that he also helped out other people here at the campsite if they were having trouble with something. He could fix almost anything.’

‘What’s the name of the company?’

‘Slite Construction.’

‘What was Peter like as a person?’

‘A real decent guy. There’s no doubt about that. But he did have some odd habits.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, he went out running every single morning, for example. And it was always so damn early. I used to see him sometimes if I had to be here extra early for the bread delivery or something like that. You’d always see him out running before six.’