Mari Jungstedt - The Dead Of Summer

Katarina Bovide was still holding on to her husband’s arm as he glared fiercely at Knutas without saying another word. He was breathing hard and seemed to be having trouble regaining his composure. Knutas fled the stuffy room, grabbed his jacket and dashed out.

All the grief and despair in the flat seemed to follow him.

JOHAN WAS HAVING a hard time concentrating at work. Pia asked him what was wrong, but he didn’t feel like telling her what had happened. Not at the moment. Although she probably had her suspicions. Last night he and Madeleine had lingered on the street after the restaurant had closed, and she hadn’t gone with her colleague, Peter, back to their hotel. Who the fuck cares , he thought. Let Pia think whatever she likes . He was neither married nor engaged. Emma had broken off their engagement, and since they hadn’t been together in months, there was really no reason for him to feel guilty. She had pushed him away, yet he still felt miserable and didn’t understand how he could have behaved so despicably. He needed to talk to Maddie as soon as she arrived at the office.

Grenfors, editor-in-chief of Regional News, rang from Stockholm. During the summertime he had to step in and actually get involved in the editing, which made no one happy, least of all himself. He discussed with Johan what had to be done for the day’s report.

‘I have a feeling that the police have no idea where to look,’ said Johan. ‘The murder seems to be a total mystery. On the surface at least, Peter Bovide appears to be a completely ordinary conscientious family man who loved his wife, worked hard and never drew much attention to himself.’

‘Have you talked to his parents?’

‘No,’ said Johan sharply, annoyed by the question. ‘Do you really think that’s acceptable? It’s only been two days since their son was found murdered. They must still be in a state of shock.’

‘Give it a try, anyway,’ Grenfors insisted. ‘There’s been nothing from them in the papers or on TV. We could be the first, and the national news-’

‘Enough with the national news,’ Johan interrupted him, tired of constantly sucking up to the national news big shots. ‘If they want something from the parents, let them do the interview. Maddie can pester the parents – I won’t.’

He’d hardly finished his sentence before Madeleine came into the office. She cast an inquisitive glance at Johan.

‘I’ll ring you later,’ he snapped and put down the phone.

‘Hi,’ said Maddie. Her expression was both amused and not amused.

‘Hi.’

For several seconds Johan considered what he should do, before deciding it was best to take the bull by the horns. He got up from his chair and was just about to ask Madeleine to step outside with him to have a talk when the phone rang. Pia picked it up. Judging by her expression and tone of voice, they could tell that she was listening to something important. She motioned for Johan to toss her a pen. Quickly she wrote down what the person on the other end of the line was saying. Pia looked so tense that Johan completely forgot what he’d been planning to say to Maddie. When the conversation was over, Pia slowly put down the phone.

‘Hold on a minute. This tip might be a good one.’

Johan sat back down.

‘That was a girl I know, Anna, who works at Sofia’s Nails and Beauty here in town. A beauty salon. Anna is a manicurist, and she knows Vendela Bovide, in fact they’re best friends. Vendela works in the same place, on Saturdays.’

‘And?’

‘Anna said that the two of them went out for dinner together just a week before the murder. Sort of a little farewell dinner before the summer holiday, because Vendela was going to be gone for a month.’

‘OK,’ said Johan impatiently.

He cast a quick glance at Madeleine, who had dropped on to the chair next to him.

‘Vendela was nervous during the dinner because Peter had received some sort of threat. And now Anna doesn’t know what to do. She’s afraid Vendela might be in danger too.’

‘She should start by talking to us,’ suggested Johan.

‘That’s just what I was thinking.’

WITH VENDELA BOVIDE’S permission, the police had searched the family home and the company office, but they hadn’t found anything of interest. The company computers had been confiscated and were being examined. On Wednesday afternoon, Wittberg and Jacobsson went to see the widow and interview her more extensively. She was now home from hospital, and they’d made an appointment to see her at three o’clock.

The Bovides’ house was located north of town, on the road to Othem. A red-painted wooden house with white trim and a neatly raked gravel courtyard in front. On the lawn stood a blue trampoline; a short distance away was a playhouse, and a striped hammock hung between two apple trees. A low wooden fence surrounded the property. It looked freshly painted and the lawn had been recently mown.

They rang the bell and listened to the hollow clang.

They waited a while, then rang the bell again.

Jacobsson tried the door. It wasn’t locked. She pushed it open and cautiously called out, ‘Hello.’ No answer.

They stepped into the front hall, which was hot and stuffy.

‘I’ll check upstairs, while you have a look around down here,’ said Wittberg and then headed for the stairs.

The kitchen was off to the left; Jacobsson peeked inside. Light-coloured shutters on the windows, curtains with a floral pattern and windowsills crowded with flower pots. The flowers were wilting, as if they hadn’t been watered in a while. Everything was shiny clean, but the house felt deserted. She went into the living room. The floor creaked under her feet. The room was quite large, with a hardwood floor, leather sofa, two armchairs, a TV and a bookshelf. Photographs of the two children adorned the walls.

One by one, Jacobsson picked up the framed photos that stood on a shelf. Traditional wedding pictures taken by Hemlin’s photo studio in Visby, and a picture of Peter Bovide receiving a trophy. There was something about his expression and his crooked smile that Jacobsson didn’t like. Especially the look in his eyes, which was strangely vacant.

‘Find anything?’

Wittberg had come back downstairs and was giving her an inquisitive look.

‘No. How about you?’

‘Not really.’

Jacobsson cast a glance at the Mora grandfather clock in the room. It was 3.15.

‘I wonder where she is. It seems strange to leave the door unlocked. Although I suppose they do that out here in the country.’

Wittberg gave a start. ‘What was that?’

‘What?’

‘I thought I heard a car.’

They both stood still to listen. There was no doubt about it. They could hear a car engine outside.

Quickly, they slipped out through the patio door and made their way to the back of the house. They had no desire to get caught sneaking about inside. Jacobsson peered round the corner and saw Vendela being dropped off by somebody she recognized. It was Johnny Ekwall, her husband’s business partner.

After the car had driven off, Jacobsson and Wittberg went round to the front and rang the bell.

It was a few moments before Vendela Bovide opened the door.

She stared in surprise at the two police officers.

‘Hi,’ said Jacobsson and then introduced Wittberg. ‘We had agreed to meet today at three o’clock, but maybe you forgot?’

The widow’s face flushed bright red.

‘Was that today? I thought it was tomorrow.’

‘I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Would this be a good time? It shouldn’t take very long.’

Vendela Bovide hesitated.

‘Where are the children?’ asked Jacobsson, to break the stalemate.