Mari Jungstedt - The Dead Of Summer

‘Getting back to the investigation, I went to see Peter Bovide’s parents yesterday.’

‘Oh, that’s right. How did it go?’

‘Good. They gave me a lot of valuable information.’

He quickly told her about Bovide’s epilepsy and depression.

‘If he was taking anti-depressants, he must have had a doctor who prescribed them.’

‘That’s right. His name is Torsten Ahlberg, but he’s out of town at the moment, on holiday in Italy. He’ll be back next week. I’ll go and talk to him myself.’

‘How were his parents, by the way?’

‘The father seemed really out of control. In the end he got so riled up that he kicked me out.’

‘Wow. What exactly did he do?’

Knutas waved his hand dismissively.

‘It was nothing really. A typical reaction from someone who’s in shock.’

The phone began ringing in Jacobsson’s office. Before she left the room, she put her hand on Knutas’s shoulder and said in a low voice, ‘I really am glad you’re back, Anders. At the same time, it makes me furious.’

Knutas got up and went to stand at the window. He looked out at the idyllic summer scene, or at least as much of it as was visible on either side of the big customer car park at Östercentrum outside the Co-op Forum.

His thoughts were focused on Peter Bovide’s construction company. He hadn’t personally been out to the victim’s place of business, or to his house either. Others had handled that part of the investigation. Maybe a visit would be productive, give him some new ideas. It was unlikely that anyone would be working on a Saturday, but he could at least take a peek at the office. Knutas looked at his watch. Nine fifteen. Would it be all right to ring a woman who had just lost her husband so early? Probably. She had young children, after all. Vendela Bovide should be up by now. He punched in the phone number. It rang and rang, and he was just thinking about giving up when someone picked up. At first he heard only silence, then a boy’s high-pitched voice.

‘Hello?’

‘Yes, hello, this is Anders Knutas from the police. Who am I talking to?’

‘William.’

‘Is your mother there?’

‘No. Mamma can’t talk right now. She’s sleeping.’

‘Sleeping? Are you the only one awake?’

‘No. Mikaela is here too. We’re hungry. But Mamma just keeps sleeping. She won’t wake up.’

‘Has she moved at all?’

‘No. She’s not moving. And her face looks really strange.’

KNUTAS IMMEDIATELY PUNCHED in the emergency number, 112.

‘Send an ambulance over there fast. A woman is lying unconscious, and her two young children are home alone with her.’

After ordering a vehicle from the city police force, which was used to responding swiftly, he slammed down the phone, grabbed his service revolver and called for Jacobsson. Two minutes later they were in a car on their way toward Slite, sirens wailing. If only we can get there in time , thought Knutas as they drove north-east. If only she’s not dead .

‘What’s going on?’ muttered Jacobsson through clenched teeth. ‘What’s happening with this family?’

‘If Vendela Bovide is still alive, maybe we’ll have an answer to that question very soon.’

Jacobsson said a silent prayer that Vendela would still be alive. She rang Peter Bovide’s parents and asked them to drive over to the house. The children needed to be taken care of by someone they trusted.

When they turned on to the drive in front of the Bovide family home, police cars and an ambulance were already there. The door was wide open, and they rushed inside. Shocked, they came to an abrupt halt. The whole house had been turned upside down. Drawers had been pulled out, cupboards stood open, papers, dishes and pillows had been tossed to the floor. In the bedroom, two medics were lifting Vendela on to a gurney. The children were sitting on a sofa in the living room, staring wide-eyed at all the police officers. They had a packet of biscuits between them. The TV was on, showing a cartoon programme.

‘We didn’t make the mess,’ said William.

‘No, of course you didn’t,’ said Knutas. He stood in the doorway between the bedroom and living room, looking with dismay at Vendela. Her face was bruised, and one eye was badly swollen. She seemed to be in a deep sleep.

THE INVESTIGATIVE TEAM met on Saturday afternoon to discuss the assault on Vendela Bovide. Knutas had called the meeting, and he started as soon as everyone was seated around the table. He briefly explained what had happened.

‘Vendela Bovide was assaulted, subjected to kicks and punches, both to her face and the rest of her body. She has bruises and contusions, but the injuries appear to be superficial. According to the doctors, her life is not in danger, and she has no internal injuries other than a broken rib. She was probably given some sort of sedative or other drug, since she was sleeping so soundly. They had a tough time at the hospital getting her to wake up. Somebody obviously searched the house, maybe looking for money – who knows? The place was in utter chaos when we arrived. Right now, the techs are gathering evidence.’

‘When do the doctors think the assault occurred?’ asked Wittberg.

‘Presumably late last night or in the early morning hours. It’s a miracle that the kids didn’t wake up, but they do sleep at the other end of the house. This morning they found their mother in bed, but she didn’t respond when they tried to wake her. They knew their grandparents were supposed to come over later, so they decided to watch TV and wait. It was pure luck that I happened to ring so early.’

‘When was that?’

‘Just after nine o’clock.’

‘What the hell does this mean?’ Kihlgård tossed out the question.

‘As we all know, threats and assaults are not uncommon in the construction business,’ said Knutas. ‘Especially if illegal workers are involved.’

‘Russians,’ retorted Kihlgård. ‘The gun was Russian.’

‘I know. Although that doesn’t necessarily mean that Bovide was killed by a Russian. Anybody could have bought a Russian gun.’

‘Maybe the murder of Peter Bovide was not well planned, after all,’ interjected Jacobsson. ‘Suppose that he owed money to some illegal workers, and for some reason he wasn’t paying them. It’s possible that they hadn’t planned to kill him; maybe they just wanted to scare him. But something went wrong, and one of them may have lost control and shot him without thinking. And later, after killing him, they come and demand money from his widow instead. The question is why they didn’t approach his business partner, Johnny Ekwall. That would have been easier.’

‘You may think so, but if we’re to believe what he said, he had nothing to do with the company finances or paying out wages,’ interjected Wittberg. ‘They probably assumed that Bovide had a safe or something like that at home. Many CEOs do, especially abroad.’

‘We need to talk to Vendela Bovide as soon as possible,’ said Knutas. ‘I’m hoping she’ll have a lot to tell us.’

BOTH KNUTAS AND Jacobsson flinched at the sight of Vendela Bovide when they arrived at Visby hospital an hour later. She was barely recognizable. Her face was swollen and badly bruised, her upper lip deformed. They had to make a real effort to act normally.

Vendela lay in the bed with her eyes closed and her hands resting limply on top of the covers.

‘Hi, Vendela. We’re here again, from the police,’ said Jacobsson softly. ‘It’s me, Karin Jacobsson. I came to see you before. And this is Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas. He’s in charge of the investigation.’

No reaction. The woman in the bed didn’t move, and her eyes remained closed.