Mari Jungstedt - The Dead Of Summer

‘That sounds a bit odd, but I’ve heard that pregnant women can come up with all sorts of weird ideas. What about the third car, with the horse trailer?’

‘It belongs to a farmer on Fårö. His son had gone over to the mainland to buy a horse, and he arrived by the night boat from Nynäshamn. The family has run their farm on Fårö for many years.’

‘Darn it.’ Jacobsson spun her chair around. ‘I had high hopes the perp would turn out to be someone on the ferry. But I suppose that would have been too easy. How often do we run into someone who’s as observant and has such a good memory as that captain?’

‘But we don’t have to give up hope yet. We still have to interview the passengers.’

‘Sure, but the most likely scenario is that Peter Bovide’s killer was already on Fårö on the morning of the murder, meaning that he had slept there overnight. And we can’t rule out the possibility that he’s still on the island. Let’s keep checking everyone leaving on the ferries for a few more days.’

JACOBSSON HAD JUST finished a phone conversation with the fraud division, asking them to look into the finances of Peter Bovide’s company, when she heard voices out in the hall. Her colleagues from the NCP had arrived. She smiled to herself when she recognized Martin Kihlgård’s bellowing voice mixed with the laughter and happy shouts of the others. As soon as the inspector made his appearance in the corridors of police headquarters, the mood always improved considerably. The mere sight of him brought smiles to the faces of his co-workers. Martin Kihlgård was close to 6 foot 3 inches tall and he weighed well over 220 pounds. He never bothered to comb his hair, which stuck out in all directions in the strangest way. His eyes were big and round, giving the impression that he was staring attentively at whoever he happened to be talking to.

‘Hi, Karin,’ he exclaimed heartily when he caught sight of his significantly smaller colleague. A foot shorter and weighing only half as much as Kihlgård, she practically drowned in his embrace.

‘Hi, it’s great you’re here.’

Jacobsson returned his bear hug as best she could, glimpsing several more colleagues from Stockholm standing behind the huge inspector.

The entire investigative team immediately gathered in the meeting room. A tray of coffee and cold drinks was brought in, along with a platter of fresh fruit. Jacobsson had specifically requested a more healthy alternative for refreshments at their meetings, instead of the usual cinnamon rolls and Wienerbröd pastries. She noted with amusement the look of disappointment on Martin Kihlgård’s face.

‘I heard that Knutie is on holiday,’ said Kihlgård as they all sat down.

‘Yes,’ said Jacobsson. ‘He’s in Denmark with his family. His wife is Danish, you know.’

‘Lina, yes. Terribly attractive woman. And what a sense of humour. They’re a lot of fun, those Danes.’

‘Right.’

Jacobsson felt a sudden stab of annoyance. She wasn’t sure why. But it was gone as abruptly as it had appeared.

‘When will he be back?’

‘In a week.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Kihlgård ran his eyes over the table. Presumably in search of a treat, thought Jacobsson. He was the most voracious glutton and had the biggest sweet tooth of anybody she’d ever met.

She asked each of her colleagues to introduce themselves briefly before she turned to Wittberg.

‘You’ve compiled all the interviews, Thomas. What do they tell us?’

‘The murder took place just after six yesterday morning. We can pin that down with some certainty because a couple living in a cabin near the crime scene heard the shots while they were listening to the news broadcast on the radio. They both heard at least five or six shots. They didn’t call the police because they were convinced somebody was just out shooting rabbits. A lot of that goes on in the area – poachers hunting rabbits, that is,’ he said, turning to his colleagues from Stockholm. ‘In the peaceful terrain of Fårö we would hardly expect somebody to be murdered.’

‘They still could have called the police,’ objected Kihlgård. ‘It’s illegal to shoot rabbits!’

‘I know,’ admitted Wittberg. ‘But the people who live on Fårö are so used to it that nobody pays any attention any more.’

‘At any rate, there’s nothing to contradict the witnesses’ statement as to the time of the murder,’ said Sohlman. ‘Peter Bovide probably died instantly from the first shot, the one that struck his forehead. And he’d been dead for three and a half hours before he was found.’

Sohlman got up and pulled down the white screen at the front of the room. He turned off the lights and switched on his computer. A detailed map of the bay and the campsite at Sudersand appeared on the screen.

‘If he left the caravan just after five thirty, he should have reached this point no later than five or ten minutes before six o’clock. It takes about fifteen or twenty minutes to run to the other end of the beach.’

Sohlman pointed with his pen to indicate the route that Bovide must have taken. Nobody said a word.

‘Somewhere along here on the beach, at the water’s edge, he encountered his killer. His footprints were still in the sand when we searched the area. Judging by the bloodstains on the sand and the way the body had fallen, it seems that the victim was first shot in the forehead. He toppled over on to the sand, then the perpetrator took a few steps forward and continued to fire – we’re talking about no fewer than seven shots to the abdomen. After that the body was dragged into the water, where it drifted out quite a distance, at least twenty to thirty yards. That’s not so strange, considering the offshore wind that we had yesterday morning.’

Sohlman tugged at a lock of his hair, a habit of his, and then went on.

‘We’ve found two empty shell casings on the beach, but no bullets. They’re probably all still in the body. The post mortem is being done right now, so we’ll have to wait for the preliminary report.’

‘Yes, I’m hoping to get it some time this evening,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Now I think we should discuss what the motive might be for the murder. What sort of options do you see? I’d like all of us to do some brainstorming on the subject. Feel free to voice your opinions.’

Her colleagues, who had worked with Knutas for aeons, now looked at her in astonishment. They weren’t used to anything like this, being asked to speculate about possible scenarios with so few facts on the table. Knutas detested speculation. Wittberg was the first to respond.

‘If he was shot just after six o’clock but arrived at the site five or ten minutes before six, then the question is: what did Peter Bovide do during the last minutes of his life?’

‘Maybe he injured himself while he was running and had to stop. Or maybe he was simply tired and needed to take a break,’ suggested Jacobsson.

‘Why would he be tired after only a few kilometres?’ objected Wittberg. ‘He’d been going out to run every day for years. Maybe he stopped to talk to the perp before he was shot to death.’

‘That sounds to me like a more plausible explanation,’ interjected Kihlgård. ‘The victim and the perp might have known each other.’

‘Another possibility is that he happened upon an armed madman who was bent on killing somebody,’ Jacobsson went on. ‘Any random victim.’

‘The question we need to ask,’ said Kihlgård, ‘is why would a carpenter and the father of two young children from Slite be shot in cold blood at a campsite while out for his usual morning jog? It sounds completely unbelievable when put into words. Especially since it all takes place on peaceful little Fårö.’