Mari Jungstedt - The Dead Of Summer

‘Who the hell would use such an old gun?’ asked Kihlgård. ‘It’s practically an antique.’

‘It doesn’t sound like a professional, but it does seem to fit the MO,’ said Wittberg. ‘And by the way, this means we can forget about the Estonians as murder suspects, since they’re sitting in jail.’

‘Let’s take a look at the facts,’ said Knutas abruptly. ‘We do have a witness. One of the foremen who was present at the blasting saw the perpetrator with his own eyes. Granted, from quite a distance, since he was on the other side of the quarry and looking through binoculars, but still. He says the perp was wearing dark clothing. He was about 5 foot 8 and apparently had a slight limp.’

‘5 foot 8,’ said Wittberg. ‘Then it’s no surprise that he wears only size 7½ shoes.’

‘It’s a good description, and let’s just hope it helps us catch him soon,’ Knutas went on. ‘We’ve put out an all-points bulletin, also on the radio. In the meantime, we need to find out what links there might be between Morgan Larsson and Peter Bovide. Did they know each other? Did they have the same circle of friends?’

‘Does Morgan Larsson have a police record?’ asked the prosecutor.

‘No,’ replied Knutas. ‘We’ve already checked on that.’

The door opened, and Erik Sohlman came in.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Kihlgård sympathetically, patting Sohlman’s arm as he sat down next to him.

‘I’m fine,’ said Sohlman. ‘Just fine.’ He turned to look at the others. It was obvious that the situation had upset him. ‘We’re positive that it’s the same perp who killed Peter Bovide. Morgan took one bullet to the forehead and seven to the abdomen – exactly like before.’

‘What sort of technical evidence have you found?’ asked Knutas.

‘Footprints that are identical to the ones found on the beach at Norsta Auren. Also size 7½, and the same type of shoe, an ordinary, cheap brand of trainer you can buy just about anywhere. The bloodstains on the ground show that Morgan was shot where he was found. Most likely first in the head, then in the abdomen. Several casings were lying on the floor, and they match those we found in connection with Peter Bovide’s murder. Of course, they’ll be sent over to the SCL, but I can tell you right now that the same gun was probably used.’

‘How sure are you about that?’ asked Wittberg.

‘Quite sure, since the gun is so unique. A Russian army pistol from 1926, a special-calibre Korovin. And once again, the perp emptied the clip.’

‘How well did you know Morgan Larsson?’ asked Kihlgård.

‘Not very well, actually. We were classmates in primary school, and we lived fairly close to each other in Slite. But we were never close friends.’

‘He was unmarried with no children and, according to his workmates, had no girlfriend. Do you know if he was dating anyone?’

‘I don’t think so. He lived in a flat in Slite. Alone, as far as I know.’

‘Do you have any idea whether he had contacts in the construction industry, or whether he knew Peter Bovide?’

Erik Sohlman shrugged.

‘No clue.’

‘We’ll start by mapping out any links to Peter Bovide,’ Knutas decided. ‘Right now, finding a connection between the two victims has to take priority. Plus, finding out what Morgan Larsson was doing on Gotska Sandön, and why he was in such a hurry to go there.’

JOHAN WAS INCLINED to believe that Pia was right when she predicted what her future would be. The images from the stone quarry were sharp and revealing. A good photographer also had to be lucky, and in this case good fortune had definitely been on Pia’s side. Just as she’d started shooting, the body was carried out of the little hut, which they later learned was the shed where the explosives expert always stood when the blasting took place. Pia had also filmed Knutas, Jacobsson and crime-scene tech Sohlman as they inspected the site.

They’d found out the victim’s identity by talking to Pia’s good friend who worked at Cementa. Everybody knew who he was: Morgan – the explosives guy. Forty-one years old and a bachelor. The killer had chosen to strike at the precise moment of the detonation.

‘Maybe he wanted to make use of the explosion to drown out the sound of the gunshots,’ Johan suggested as they sat in the office, splicing and editing the images.

‘Wouldn’t it be simpler just to use a silencer on the gun?’ said Pia. ‘By the way, what’s going on with you? Seems like you’re in an especially good mood today. It’s not just because we’ve got ourselves a scoop on this story, is it?’

‘That should be enough. But here’s another scoop for you.’

‘What is it?’

Johan stood up to fetch an envelope, which he handed to Pia.

‘Take a look.’

‘But isn’t this a personal letter?’ asked Pia hesitantly when she saw that it said ‘To Johan’ on the envelope.

‘Yes, but it’s OK. I want you to read it.’

Pia opened the envelope and frowned.

A card fell out with a picture of a potato patch on the front. Underneath were only a few handwritten words: ‘Yes, I will. Again.’

‘I don’t get it. From somebody who grows potatoes?’

‘A bit more than that, Pia.’

‘Huh?’ Pia gave her colleague a quizzical look. ‘What do you mean?’

Then she noticed the ring on his left hand.

‘What? Don’t tell me you’re engaged again? You and Emma? Oh, Johan, that’s great! Congratulations!’

‘Thanks,’ said Johan, laughing. ‘Thanks.’

THE WHARF AT Fårösund was crowded with people wearing shorts and sensible shoes and carrying rucksacks, heading out on nature expeditions to the island of Gotska Sandön. When Jacobsson boarded the boat, she noticed the captain looking pleased as he waved and motioned for her to come into the wheelhouse. She couldn’t remember having seen him before, but apparently he recognized her.

‘I know you’re from the police because I’ve seen you on TV,’ he explained when she came in and shook hands with him. He introduced himself as Stefan Norrström.

The first thing that struck Karin was that she and the captain were actually rather similar. He was about her height and age. He also had dark hair, and when he smiled, she saw the gap between his middle teeth. The one difference was that he was short and stocky while she was fine-boned.

Stefan Norrström turned out to be easy to talk to, and he gave a lively account of Gotska Sandön during the two-hour crossing. He told vivid stories about how ships often sank in the fierce storms that raged over the island, about accidents and the hardships of the lighthouse-keepers. In the past, several lighthouses had been manned, but in the 1970s they were automated. Four rangers still worked at the national park year round, and during the tourist season, which was from May to September, there were campsite supervisors available to help visitors. In the winter the island was mostly deserted. Its lonely location in the middle of the sea meant that Gotska Sandön was subject to harsh weather conditions, which made it difficult for anyone to live there permanently.

While the captain talked, Jacobsson admired the view. They had left Fårö and Gotland behind and were making their way through open waters. Nothing but sun-glinting water as far as the eye could see.

‘It won’t be long now,’ said the captain after little more than an hour, and Jacobsson caught a glimpse of a solitary strip of land in the middle of the sea. It grew into a green ribbon without any discernible hills or significant elevation. As they got closer, she could make out the sandy beach that emerged from a long, light-coloured border around the remote island. She was surprised to see so much forested land.