Mari Jungstedt - The Dead Of Summer

First they passed Fyrbyn, a cluster of red-painted wooden houses with white trim and splendid gardens. They belonged to the local folklore society. Members of the society and the head ranger lived in the houses during the summer and on a few weekends during the rest of the year.

Karin Jacobsson drew a deep breath into her lungs. The air was fresher than any place she’d ever been. From the woods came the scent of pine needles with a touch of moss, and mixed with sea air.

In the middle of the open square, which was surrounded by the cottages, stood a small museum that also housed a library and archives. That was where the rangers had their office. The ranger currently on duty was on his way back from the other side of the island, and it would take about an hour before he returned.

The path continued up to the campsite where the tourists would be staying. Tents and small cabins were arranged around an open clearing. In the centre were the public buildings, with laundry and kitchen facilities as well as showers. A short distance away were the toilets, which were actually outhouses, set up in a long row. The only thing to drink on the island was well water; all the food and anything else to drink had to be transported over. No kiosks, no shops, nothing. That was another sort of experience, in addition to everything else exotic about the island.

Jacobsson realized that she’d be forced to spend the night, since she’d arrived so late in the afternoon, so she asked for help in finding a cabin, food and clothing.

She was soon installed in her cabin, where she changed into a swimsuit, and then walked past the campsite towards the west side of the island. She wondered where Morgan Larsson had stayed and whether he’d been alone. She hoped that the people who worked on the island would remember the visitors who had stayed here, at least for the past few days.

The path to the beach wound its way through a wooded section. She couldn’t recall ever having experienced such silence. She stopped to listen. No car engines or voices, not even a rustling from the trees. And no sounds from the sea. Karin was filled with a sense of calm and almost forgot about the tragic events that had brought her here. The beach was at least 50 yards wide, and the sand glittered in the afternoon sun. A few sailboats were anchored a short distance away, and here and there she could see several sunbathers on the shore, but not many.

Yet people travel halfway around the world to find beaches that aren’t even half as beautiful , thought Karin. She dropped her towel on the sand and ran into the water.

AS SOON AS Johan returned to the editorial office, and in spite of being in a rush to file his report about the new murder, he rang up the pastor. The Fårö church was free for a wedding one Saturday in August at four in the afternoon. Someone had cancelled. Was that a bad omen? He pushed the thought aside.

Ever since he’d first seen the church, he’d wanted to get married there. To Emma. This time they were going to do it.

That evening he drove out to Roma. As he walked up the gravel path to Emma’s house, he was in good spirits. He’d bought twenty red roses, which he was holding behind his back, along with a bottle of champagne.

He rang the bell and listened to the chiming inside. No one was visible in the kitchen window. If only she was at home. He hadn’t wanted to ring ahead to say he was coming over. He wanted to surprise her, just as she had surprised him with her card.

Then the door opened, and there she stood. Wearing a grey hoodie and sweatpants, her hair wet. She looked exactly the same as when they had first met. He would never forget that day. He and the photographer Peter Bylund had come to the house in Roma to interview Emma, who was best friends with a woman who had been brutally murdered with an axe on the beach. The two men had both left feeling slightly infatuated with Emma.

He felt quite moved when he saw her. She almost seemed unreal.

‘Hi.’ She looked pleased.

‘Emma,’ was all he said.

He pulled her soft, lean body into his arms and buried his face in her long, wet hair. Then he stepped back and looked deep into her eyes.

‘I’ll leave at once if you can’t answer my question.’

‘OK,’ she said, sounding puzzled, although she didn’t look at all nervous. Just full of anticipation.

‘Will you marry me on 19 August in Fårö church, in the presence of our families, relatives, friends and all the children? And I’m talking about a big church wedding with a huge party afterwards.’

Emma replied without hesitation.

‘Yes, Johan. I will.’

He put down the bouquet of roses and champagne bottle and lifted her up in his arms. How light she was. She’d lost a lot of weight since the spring. He carried her upstairs, put her down on the bed. Pulled off her sweatpants and the grey hoodie as he caressed her silky skin. Then he held her head in his hands and kissed her soft lips. His mouth pressed against hers. The kiss went on and on. She unbuttoned his shirt and straddled him.

How long it had been – an eternity since they’d last made love. The kiss didn’t stop. She never wanted to let go. And neither did he.

JACOBSSON ENTERED THE museum building, where she was to meet with head ranger Mattias Bergström. He was in his thirties, with a beard and ice-blue eyes. On the phone she had explained why she wanted to see him. He suggested they should sit in his office, where they could talk undisturbed. The office was small and crowded with shelves; books and papers were everywhere. They sat down on either side of his cluttered desk, and he gave her a cup of coffee, though without offering milk or sugar.

‘So it has to do with the murder of that man at the stone quarry in Slite,’ he said. It was more of a statement than a question.

‘Yes, exactly. Apparently he was over here at the weekend. The next day, he was fatally shot while he was at work. We want to find out whether he met anyone here, or whether something happened that might have caused the murder.’

‘How horrible. I talked to him just yesterday. He’d been to the island on numerous occasions.’

‘I see. Did he come out here alone, or was someone with him?’

‘I think he was alone, actually.’

‘Do you have any idea when he was here the first time?’

‘Sure, I can check.’ Bergström got up and opened a filing cabinet.

‘We keep a handwritten list of everybody who has stayed here, and the dates. I guess we’re a little old-fashioned that way.’

He carefully flicked through the file.

‘Now let me see… L… for Larsson. We keep a file on everybody, arranged by last names, nothing else. We need only the last name to see when each visitor has been here, how long they stayed, and where; also whether they came alone or with somebody else.’

‘Yes, I see.’ Jacobsson could feel her impatience growing.

‘Larsson, yes, here it is,’ he said, sounding pleased when he finally found the name. ‘Morgan. The first time he was here was 1990. He’s been back quite a few times since then.’

‘How many times?’

Bergström counted them up.

‘Five. Approximately every third year. And always on the same date.’

Jacobsson raised her eyebrows and leaned forward.

‘The same date, you said? When?’

‘He came over on 21 July and left on the twenty-third. Every single time.’

‘Strange. That could hardly be a coincidence. Do you know why he chose those dates?’

‘No, I have no idea. And now we’ll never know. Unfortunately, it’s too late to ask him.’

‘Has a man named Peter Bovide ever spent the night here?’

The head ranger picked up a different file and looked for the name.

‘We have an Anette Bovide, and Stig and Katarina Bovide, but no Peter.’