Mari Jungstedt - The Dead Of Summer

Vendela began sobbing. She took a tissue from a box on the bedside table and loudly blew her nose.

‘Why did you happen to choose the Sudersand campsite?’

‘We’ve gone there for several years, every holiday. Peter loved that campsite. He knew the owner. He reserved the same spot for us every year.’

‘Did you also socialize with the owner?’

‘No, almost never. Mats – that’s the owner’s name – works at the campsite all summer long, and as soon as the holidays are over, he and his wife go somewhere on the Black Sea. She’s from that area.’

Jacobsson’s pen raced to keep up as she took notes. For a moment she pondered what Vendela had just told her. The woman’s answers to her questions were quite lucid, considering her condition only a few minutes ago.

‘When Peter left the caravan yesterday morning, was that the last time you saw him?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do after he left?’

‘I couldn’t sleep any more, so I got up and made coffee. I decided to stay inside the caravan because it had rained all night. I drank my coffee and did a crossword puzzle.’

‘And after that?’

‘A couple of hours must have passed, and then the kids woke up.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Maybe around eight.’

‘Didn’t you wonder why Peter hadn’t come back?’

‘Yes, I did, but sometimes he stayed down at the beach and did callisthenics and then took a swim. I didn’t think it was so strange. The sun had come out rather quickly, you know.’

‘When did you start getting worried about his absence?’

‘I ate breakfast with the kids. They were watching a children’s programme on TV. By the time I’d cleaned up and made the beds it was eight thirty. That’s when I started to wonder where he was.’

‘Were you worried?’

‘Not really. But around ten o’clock the kids and I walked down to the beach, and there we saw that a big crowd had gathered. Later the police rang.’

In a matter of seconds the controlled façade had shattered, and Vendela Bovide again started sobbing loudly.

Jacobsson put her hand on the woman’s arm. Vendela yanked her arm away as if she’d been burned.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she snarled so vehemently that saliva sprayed from her lips. ‘He’s the only one who’s allowed to touch me. Do you understand?’

Jacobsson gave a start. She had been completely unprepared for such an outburst. She shoved her chair back as far as it would go, and for a while she didn’t say a word. There were still some questions that she wanted to ask. She sincerely hoped that Vendela wasn’t about to lose all control.

The woman’s sobs gradually diminished enough that Jacobsson dared continue the conversation.

‘Do you know whether your husband had any enemies? I mean, did he ever receive any threats, or was there anybody who was particularly hostile towards him?’

A shadow passed over Vendela’s face.

‘No. I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I don’t think so. Peter was a very generous man, and everybody liked him. He was kind and helpful and hardly ever disagreed with anyone. He hated any sort of conflict. It was the same in our relationship. We hardly ever argued.’

Vendela Bovide’s voice was fading, and Jacobsson could tell that it was time to stop. The woman’s thin body slumped lower on the bed.

‘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.