Mari Jungstedt - Dark Angel

It was all a very sad story.

FIVE HOURS AFTER Knutas left his office, he was back again. His eyes were stinging with fatigue as he opened the door to the police station and said hello to the sergeant on duty.

He had barely settled himself at his desk before someone knocked on the door. Karin Jacobsson poked her head inside. Knutas felt a wave of relief when he saw her. It was almost ridiculous how much he missed her whenever she wasn’t at work.

‘Hi. What the hell is going on here? I was shocked when the sergeant told me about it. Viktor Algård, of all people! And nobody told me anything!’

She plopped down on the visitors’ sofa in front of Knutas’s desk and fixed her intense gaze on his face. She flung one jeans-clad leg over the other and straightened her black shirt, which looked like something his daughter Petra would wear. In terms of her appearance, Jacobsson tended to look like a teenager. She was unusually slender for a police officer and only five foot three, a tomboy with dark hair cut short and brown eyes that she rarely accentuated with any make-up other than a trace of mascara.

‘Nobody told you anything?’ Knutas repeated dryly. ‘I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to reach you on your mobile.’

She threw out her hands.

‘My phone ran out of juice yesterday afternoon and, like a bloody idiot, I’d left the charger at home. On the other hand, I was off duty, you know. I had a good time in town, went out to eat, and then caught the night ferry home. I slept like a rock in my cabin and didn’t wake up until we arrived. I just had time to stop by my flat before coming here.’

‘And you didn’t listen to your voicemail?’

‘No. How was I supposed to know that Viktor Algård would get himself murdered and, to cap it all, at the dedication festivities for the conference centre? Thanks for the flowers, by the way. They were left outside my door. That was a nice surprise.’

‘You’re welcome. As I said, I did try to call you.’

‘So tell me all about it.’

‘Algård’s body was found inside an employee lift on the floor below the banquet hall. That part had been closed off for the evening. Presumably he never left the building after the dedication ceremony and celebration. At four o’clock yesterday afternoon the cleaning staff found his body. He probably died from cyanide poisoning.’

‘Cyanide?’ said Jacobsson, raising her eyebrows. ‘That sounds rather unlikely. Are you sure?’

‘We won’t be sure until we get the report from the post-mortem, but everything points in that direction. The victim’s complexion was bright pink, and he actually smelled of bitter almonds.’

‘Bitter almonds?’

‘Yes. Apparently cyanide has the same smell.’

‘I’ve heard that bitter almonds can be poisonous if you eat too many of them – but you’d have to scoff fifty or so. As if anyone would ever do such a stupid thing. Who in the world even uses them nowadays?’

‘I assume they’re used as ingredients in Swedish curd cake and almond buns. Aren’t they?’

‘I’m always surprised by the range of your knowledge, Anders.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘You don’t really do much baking, do you?’

‘You’re forgetting my upbringing.’

Knutas’s parents had run a bakery on their farm in Kappelshamn in the north of Gotland. Even though their speciality was unleavened flatbread, Knutas had grown up surrounded by all sorts of baked goods.

‘But it wasn’t bitter almonds that caused his death. It was cyanide,’ he said.

‘Is there anything to indicate that the murder is connected to all that uproar about Algård’s club – and the latest assault case?’

‘Not so far. But it’s certainly an interesting theory.’

‘Is Alexander’s condition still unchanged?’

Knutas nodded gloomily.

‘Did you know Algård?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘I wouldn’t say that I knew him exactly. But we’d always exchange a few words whenever we met. I’ve attended a number of parties that he arranged. He was a nice guy, cheerful and easy-going and very sociable, of course. He had to be, in order to do that kind of job.’

‘Was he married?’

‘Yes, although we haven’t been able to interview his wife yet.’

‘Any children?’

‘Two. Both grown. They live on the mainland, but they’ll be here today.’

‘What about the guests?’

‘We’re going to bring in every one of them to be interviewed. It’ll be a big job, since there were five hundred and twenty-three invited guests.’

‘Good Lord.’

‘We need to get help from the National Criminal Police. I talked to them last night. Kihlgård is apparently out on sick leave. Did you know that?’

Jacobsson’s face clouded over.

‘What? No, I had no idea.’

Martin Kihlgård was the NCP inspector they’d had the most contact with. He almost always came over to Gotland if they needed help. He loved the island and was very popular with his colleagues in Visby. He and Jacobsson were especially close. Occasionally their fondness for each other had been so blatant that Knutas felt annoyed. Embarrassed, he had reluctantly admitted to himself that this was an entirely selfish reaction because he didn’t want to share Karin. For a while he almost thought that a romantic relationship was starting to develop between Martin and Karin. But then at one of the daily morning meetings, Kihlgård just happened to mention that he had a boyfriend.

Now Knutas saw the concern in Jacobsson’s eyes and he tried to smooth over what he’d just said.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Maybe he’s just home with the flu.’

They were interrupted by Thomas Wittberg, who appeared in the doorway.

‘Hi. I just heard something interesting.’

He stopped what he was going to say and grinned when he saw Jacobsson sitting on the visitors’ sofa.

‘Happy birthday, by the way. Or are we not supposed to congratulate you on joining the ranks of middle-aged women? You’re already looking more worn out.’

Jacobsson glared at him and frowned. Wittberg was always taunting her about being ten years older than he was.

‘Get to the point,’ said Knutas impatiently. ‘We’ve got a meeting in five minutes.’

‘Viktor Algård was in the middle of divorce proceedings. They filed the documents with the district court a week ago.’

EVER SINCE LAST night, I’ve been preparing myself. It started at eight o’clock, after the Rapport programme was over. I watch the TV news every evening, even though I don’t care a wit about what happens in the world. But it’s the only thing I have left that gives me some sort of anchor in reality. Otherwise my life is nothing more than a pseudo-existence. One day follows the next in a steady stream; all of them look very much alike. I sit here in my self-imposed prison, and the furthest I have to walk is from the kitchen to the bathroom.

I see only one other person, and today it’s once again time to do that. It means that I have to venture outside. And that requires preparation.

Last night I rummaged about until I found some clothes that were presentable, clean and without any holes. I never think about such things when I’m alone. I placed them on a chair: underwear, socks, a shirt, jeans. Before I went to bed, I set three alarm clocks, each fifteen minutes apart, so that I’d be sure to wake up. Since I take sleeping tablets, I tend to sleep very soundly and I’m out for a long time.

I put one alarm clock on the bedside table, one on the window ledge so I’d be forced to get up, and the third, which rings the loudest, I put in the kitchen so I wouldn’t be tempted to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head.

All three were set to give me plenty of time to wake up and carry out the obligatory morning ablutions required of normal people who do normal things. Such as venturing outside.