Mari Jungstedt - The Dead Of Summer

On the map, she’d seen where the chapel was located, and she caught sight of it after only a few minutes. The door stood open, and she went inside, sat down in one of the back rows, and let her eyes scan the blue-painted wooden pews. The furnishings were simple, and a lovely light came in through the windows. She wondered if there was some special reason Morgan Larsson had always come here.

She lit one of the candles that were affixed to the pews, studying it for a moment before she blew it out, and then left the chapel.

The hike through the woods took longer than she’d thought. On the other side, the beach called Las Palmas opened up before her. She’d read that the name came from a Spanish ship which had capsized long ago.

The shore was rocky and uneven, which made it difficult to walk. When she reached Säludden, she fought an inner battle with herself. Either she could choose to follow the instructions on the little sign and turn right so as not to disturb the seals, or she could ignore what it said and continue along the water. The decision was easy to make. If for once in her life she was going to see seals in their natural habitat, then she wanted to see them up close.

As she approached, she saw big, ungainly shapes moving slowly back and forth, way out in the sun-glinting water. She raised her binoculars to her eyes and was amazed when she counted fifteen chubby grey seals frolicking in the morning sun. Soon she could see them with the naked eye.

She sat down cautiously at the very end of the promontory, took out the sandwiches she’d brought along, and then poured herself some coffee. The seals were swimming, playing and drying themselves off in the sun. Even though she was breaking the law, she didn’t regret for a moment coming this way. She sat there for half an hour, fascinated by the spectacle. Just her and the seals.

After walking for three hours, Franska Bukten opened out before her. It was hard to imagine that a young woman had been raped and murdered in this peaceful spot.

In the middle of the beach, Karin stopped, stripped off her clothes and walked naked into the water. She knew she was alone. Presumably, she’d left long before all the others, and it was at least a three-hour walk from the campsite. Nobody was going to turn up for at least an hour.

After her swim, she lay down on the beach to dry off. She drank a bottle of water and looked at the map. So it was here that she’d find the Russian cannons from the sunken ship. She looked around, but couldn’t see anything. According to the map, they were a bit higher up on the shore, near the Russian cemetery.

She pulled on her shirt and shorts and walked up towards the woods. There it was. Slowly, an idea was taking shape in her mind. She stopped short. The Russian cemetery. Of course. The murders had nothing at all to do with illegal workers or Russian coal transports. The key was here, on Gotska Sandön. Right in front of her eyes. How could she have been so stupid? She ran down to the beach and grabbed her things.

She thought about Morgan Larsson’s visits to Gotska Sandön. When was it he’d come here? Always on the same date, over the past fifteen years. She got her notebook out of the rucksack. He was usually here between 21 and 23 July. When was Tanya murdered? It was in the summer, but she couldn’t remember the exact date. She cursed herself for not writing it down. She pulled out her mobile to ring the head ranger. It was dead. No coverage. Shit. That meant she couldn’t ring Knutas either.

She checked the map to find the quickest route back to camp.

BY THE TIME Jacobsson finally reached the campsite, she was parched and drenched with sweat. She was dying for a drink of water, but there was no time for that. First she had to do two things: get in touch with Knutas, and then find out the date that Tanya was murdered. She also wanted to get home as fast as possible. Her mobile still wasn’t working. Near the rows of outhouses, she ran into a couple of young guys who were emptying the latrines. They told her that the next boat to Gotland was leaving in fifteen minutes.

She dashed into the cabin and threw all her things into the rucksack, then raced over to the museum. Luckily, it was open. Not a soul was in sight. She bounded up the stairs and grabbed the folder she was looking for. Five minutes until the boat left.

On her way down to the beach, she saw that the mobile phone signal was back, and she rang Knutas. He answered immediately.

‘Hi,’ she panted. ‘I’ve worked out how everything fits together. The murders have to do with an old case. A German girl who came here to Gotska Sandön on holiday with her family, an unsolved homicide from 1985.’

Her mobile beeped, warning her that the battery was almost used up.

‘Damn it. If we get cut off, I’ll ring from the boat. I’m going on board right now; it leaves in a few minutes. I think the father is the killer. He’s Russian.’

‘OK, start over. I’m not following you.’

‘You remember the case, don’t you? It was in the middle of the summer, a German family whose daughter was murdered, in 1985.’

‘Oh right, I do now. Although I was working in uniform back then, so I don’t recall much about it. But good God, that was twenty years ago, and the case was never solved.’

‘Exactly, but now I’ve…’

The connection was broken. The battery was dead. Karin swore as she ran down towards the boat, where the gangway was being pulled on board.

‘Wait!’ she shouted, waving her arms.

A boy standing on shore, who was tossing the last bag on to the ship’s deck, signalled to the captain.

Jacobsson thanked him as she stumbled on board, gasping for breath.

It was with relief that she recognized the captain, Stefan Norrström, from before, and she quickly went up to the wheelhouse.

‘Hi again. Could I borrow your phone?’

‘Absolutely. Has something happened?’

‘Yes, you might say that,’ replied Jacobsson as she opened the folder containing the old newspaper clippings.

She wanted to find out the date that the German woman was murdered before she talked to Knutas. The captain cast a curious glance at the folder over her shoulder.

‘I have to ring the police. My crappy mobile isn’t working.’

‘Sometimes there are problems with coverage out here.’

‘The battery’s dead, and I left the charger back home in Visby,’ she said, with a gesture of resignation.

She had reached the pages with the clippings about the murder of Tanya Petrov. In her mind, she went over what she knew. Morgan Larsson always travelled to Gotska Sandön on the same date. He’d visited the island every few years over the past fifteen years. And each time he’d been here from 21 July until 23 July.

Her eyes fell on the date of the murder. Tanya had been killed in the early hours of 22 July 1985. Her body had been found on the twenty-third. Jacobsson took a deep breath. The connection was crystal clear.

‘What do you have there?’ asked the captain as he handed her the phone. ‘Is that about the girl who was murdered out here?’

‘Yes,’ said Jacobsson curtly as she took the phone. She had neither the time nor the desire to tell an outsider about what she’d discovered.

She began punching in Knutas’s number.

‘Do you have any water?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’

Stefan Norrström got up from his chair and turned away to get a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. Jacobsson happened to catch a glimpse of his expression. It had changed completely.

AT POLICE HEADQUARTERS in Visby, Knutas contacted the German police and asked them to find out what had happened to the family from Hamburg that had spent a holiday on Gotska Sandön in July 1985. A holiday that had ended in tragedy. Could it be the father, Oleg Petrov, who had finally decided to avenge his daughter’s death?