Mari Jungstedt - The Dead Of Summer

She pretended to wave to somebody over by the door and strode off. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Johan’s expression, but when she cast a glance at the bar before she stepped out on to the street, he had rejoined the others and was chatting easily with the brunette. Emma felt a pang of bitterness. Without knowing why, she felt humiliated. She couldn’t understand why she was reacting so strongly.

It felt as if her relationship with Johan had definitely come to an end. For good.

KNUTAS WAS WELCOMED with open arms the following morning when the entire investigative team gathered for a meeting. The only person he wondered about was Karin. He hoped that she wouldn’t interpret his return as a sign that he didn’t have confidence in her abilities. She hadn’t been quite as warm as she usually was.

Coffee and cinnamon rolls from Konditori Siesta were on the table. Knutas cast a glance at Kihlgård, who had put two rolls on a plate in front of him. Of course he was the one who had replaced the fruit with pastries.

They had just started when Erik Sohlman came in, waving a piece of paper in his hand. His red hair was dishevelled, and his eyes were shining. Knutas recognized the expression; it was exactly the way Sohlman looked when he was watching a soccer match and the AIK team was winning.

‘Hi, sorry I’m late, but I’ve been talking to SCL and the ME this morning. They’ve been unusually quick this time round.’

The air of anticipation in the room rose perceptibly, and everyone looked at Sohlman with interest.

‘We’ve received an answer from SCL regarding the type of ammunition that was used. It’s Russian.’

‘Russian?’ repeated Knutas with surprise.

‘You heard right. And it’s such a special kind that the lab can even say what sort of gun the bullets came from. A Russian army pistol, a Tulski brand, and the model is called Korovin. It’s a fully automatic gun in an odd calibre of 6.35 millimetres. It’s quite old, manufactured in 1926.’

‘Who would use an eighty-year-old Russian army pistol?’ exclaimed Wittberg. ‘That doesn’t really sound like the work of a pro.’

‘We need to check out everybody who has a gun permit on Gotland, in fact in all of Sweden,’ said Knutas. ‘Find out if anybody has a permit for that particular type of weapon. What does it look like? Do you have a photo, Erik?’

‘No, but I’ll find one ASAP. If I’m not mistaken, it’s a very small gun, like a Browning.’

‘We need to investigate what sort of Russian contacts Bovide had,’ Knutas went on. ‘Who could have imported an old Russian army gun, and above all: what sort of person would use this type of weapon to murder somebody?’

‘The best-case scenario would be if we could find the gun, but the chance of that happening diminishes with each day that passes,’ said Sohlman. ‘The coast-guard divers are searching the waters today too, but that will be the end of it. And I don’t think the gun is anywhere on shore, or else the police dogs would have found it.’

‘What sort of part-time workers were hired by Bovide’s company, aside from the full-time employees?’ asked Wittberg. ‘Do you know whether Bovide used illegal workers?’

‘I’ve turned over that part of the investigation to the fraud division,’ said Jacobsson. ‘They’re going over everything with a fine-tooth comb: financial statements, book-keeping practices, employees, what sort of projects the company was involved in – the works.’

‘Every contractor probably uses the occasional illegal, and there are plenty of workers from the Baltic countries and from Poland in the construction business,’ Wittberg went on. ‘Maybe from Russia too.’

‘Of course, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that the perp has to be Russian, just because the gun came from there,’ Jacobsson objected. ‘There are plenty of Russian weapons in circulation on the black market.’

Knutas turned to Kihlgård, who had his mouth full. ‘How’s it going with mapping out Peter Bovide’s life?’

Kihlgård carefully finished chewing before he replied.

‘If we first look at his family, friends and circle of acquaintances, a large number of interviews have been done, and in summary I can say that so far nothing out of the ordinary has turned up. The neighbours didn’t notice anything particular about the family, and the Bovides don’t seem to have fought or argued. Not a single person could confirm that Peter Bovide thought he was being watched or that he’d ever received anonymous phone calls at the office. So far, that information has come only from his business partner, Johnny Ekwall.’

‘What about the others who work at the company? The office secretary, Linda?’ asked Jacobsson.

Kihlgård shook his head.

‘Her answers were inconclusive. She says that somebody might have called, but she thought it was just a wrong number. She says she had no idea that Bovide felt he was being watched.’ Kihlgård took a gulp of coffee and continued: ‘According to their relatives, the Bovides were a perfect couple; they had a nice home, the children were well looked after and they always behaved politely. Everyone we talked to seemed genuinely shocked by the murder.’

‘There’s something else that comes to mind when I hear that a Russian gun was used, and that’s the traffic related to the Russian coal transports in Slite harbour,’ Wittberg interjected. ‘I mean, the barges arrive several times a month, and everybody knows they’re selling illegal booze over there.’

Jacobsson thought about the article she’d seen in the newspaper. The same idea had occurred to her.

Knutas agreed that Wittberg had a plausible argument. The coal barges were a problem. The police were well aware that the sale of illegal liquor was going on, but they didn’t have the resources to check every shipment. They were able to make only random checks.

‘That sounds reasonable,’ said Kihlgård. ‘We should follow up on that lead.’

‘Does anybody know when the next transport is due to arrive?’ asked Knutas. ‘And on the Swedish side, who’s responsible for the unloading?’

‘The harbour master at the Cementa company,’ said Wittberg. ‘That’s where the coal is headed. They use it as fuel in the furnaces.’

‘OK,’ said Knutas. ‘I’ll ring him after the meeting.’

‘Wait a sec,’ Kihlgård interjected. ‘One of the neighbours mentioned something about Cementa.’

He quickly flicked through his notebook.

‘Right. Here it is. An Arne Nilsson who lives next door to the Bovides said that Peter had a big fortieth birthday celebration not long ago. And quite a lot of booze was served. He said something about vodka… oh, that’s right, he said that the vodka flowed and it wasn’t the usual kind you can buy at the state liquor store. It was a stronger type that was imported directly from Russia. Apparently it was from one of the Russian barges that deliver coal to Cementa.’

‘But plenty of people buy illegal booze,’ Sohlman objected. ‘Why should this have anything to do with the murder?’

‘It’s at least worth looking into,’ said Knutas. ‘I’ll find out when the next shipment is due.’

WHEN JOHAN WOKE up, he didn’t know at first where he was. He peered at the ceiling, which had a yellowish tint he didn’t recognize. Cautiously, he turned over; the bed was much softer and wider than his own. For a split second he thought he was lying in Emma’s bedroom out in Roma. He felt a rush of euphoric joy shoot through his body until he realized that he hadn’t spent the previous evening with her and the sounds outside the window were much louder and more diverse than in the peaceful residential neighbourhood in Roma. Then images from the previous day came flooding in. Oh shit. They’d gone to Donner’s Bar and from there to the outdoor tavern Vinäger, where they’d run into a bunch of people from the local radio station. They’d partied all night and got very drunk. The night had ended outside the Saint Karin church ruins, with him and Madeleine getting together instead of going their separate ways. After that he’d accompanied her back to the hotel. No, he thought. No, no .