Mari Jungstedt - The Dead Of Summer

‘Hi, this is Eva Dahlberg, the reception manager for Destination Gotland. We met earlier when you were over here searching the ship.’

‘Yes?’

‘I apologize for ringing in the middle of the night like this, but you gave me your card, and I think I may have something important to tell you. Weren’t you looking for a pregnant woman?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

‘Well, the cleaners have found something that looks like a placenta in a waste basket near one of the exits on the ship. It was wrapped in a plastic bag.’

Knutas felt his blood turn cold.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, I’ve had seven children, and I really think it does look like a placenta.’

‘OK.’

Knutas quickly considered what to do next. He had to come up with a new plan.

‘The ship needs to be evacuated, and it will have to stay docked in Nynäshamn.’

‘But…’

‘Don’t argue!’ he shouted. ‘And for God’s sake, don’t throw away the placenta. Put it in a plastic bag in the refrigerator for the time being.’

Shit, he thought as he put down the phone. They were on the ship after all.

The search shifted immediately to Nynäshamn and the Stockholm area. The couple now had a newborn child, but presumably no car, so they were going to have a hard time fleeing.

All fatigue was gone. Disappointment had now changed to hope.

Erik Sohlman rang from the house in Kyllaj, which had been cordoned off and vacuum-cleaned for evidence. He reported that they’d found a gun in a hatch under the basement floor. Just as they’d suspected, it was a Russian army pistol, a Korovin from the 1920s, and they could confirm that the gun had been used recently.

After that, only silence. Nothing new was heard for several hours regarding the couple wanted by the police. At five o’clock, Knutas gave up and went home. His head felt completely empty. He went straight to bed, slipping under the covers next to his slumbering wife and putting his arm around her.

It was a while before he finally fell asleep.

KYRKVIKEN IN THE middle of Fårö was bathed in reddish-yellow afternoon light. The meadows and pastures shimmered. Johan arrived at the church along with his best friend, Andreas Eklund, who was also a journalist for Swedish TV.

He was going to be Johan’s best man, and they had spent the past hour having a few beers in the garden of Fåröhus restaurant, philosophizing about the fact that Johan’s bachelor days had now definitely come to an end. Emma hadn’t wanted him to see her before the wedding. If they were going to get married in a church, she said, they might as well do it properly.

Previously when they’d talked about getting married, Emma had completely rejected the idea of a big church wedding, as she’d already done that once before. But this time she hadn’t offered the slightest objection. They were going to be married in Fårö church and then have the celebration at Fåröhus. There would be wine and grilled lamb and dancing all night long. The next day, they would leave for a honeymoon on the Italian Riviera.

When they arrived at the church, Johan saw all the guests dressed in their finest, and he was suddenly seized by a feeling of unreality. There stood his mother in a dove-blue silk dress, laughing with Emma’s parents. His brothers, decked out in morning suits, were conversing with Emma’s Gotland relatives. Pia Lilja’s coal-black hair was sticking up, as usual, and she was wearing a bright-red, tight-fitting dress and patent-leather shoes with stiletto heels. She was talking to Peter Bylund, and Johan wondered with amusement whether something was going on between the two. Elin, wearing a pink dress with a silk ribbon, and Emma’s daughter, Sara, in a matching dress, were the bridesmaids.

Filip was running around, getting into mischief with some other boys, throwing pebbles that they’d picked up from the ground. Johan let his gaze rest on Sara and Filip for a moment. His ‘bonus children’, or whatever he should call them. He reflected that his relationship with them had been good so far, especially with Sara; everything was going to be all right. Or rather, he would make sure that it was all right. He refused to let anything get in the way.

Together with Andreas, he slipped past the guests standing in front of the church and went into the sacristy. He said hello to the pastor, a pleasant woman in her fifties. The sexton patted him on the shoulder.

‘By the way, there’s a cameraman here.’

‘What? From where?’

‘From Swedish TV. He wants to know whether it’s OK for him to videotape the ceremony.’

Johan went into the church to have a look. There stood Peter Bylund, holding a camera on his shoulder.

‘Is this OK?’ he asked. ‘It was Grenfors who thought we should document such a major event. It’ll be a great souvenir, right?’

‘I’ll take care of the camera, so it’s done properly.’ Pia was standing next to Peter, grinning.

Johan was touched by their thoughtfulness. Now he regretted not inviting the editor-in-chief to the wedding.

‘Sure, that’s great. Of course.’

The guests had started streaming in, taking their places in the pews. Anders Knutas came walking up the aisle, arm in arm with his wife Lina. Johan went over to say hello.

‘Hi, how nice of you to come.’

‘We’re glad to be here.’

Knutas didn’t look entirely comfortable. The last time they’d met, they had stood on the dock at Slite yelling at each other. Johan was glad the superintendent had decided to come. He wondered how Knutas, as the head of the investigation, was feeling about the fact that they hadn’t caught the Norrströms. Maybe they would eventually. There was a hunt on for both Stefan and Vera Norrström through Interpol, but so far they seemed to have vanished without a trace.

Ten minutes remained before the bells would chime four o’clock, the time for Johan and Emma to enter the church. He started to feel nervous. Andreas steered him outside and handed over a pocket flask of whisky.

‘Here, have some.’

‘Thanks. I’m feeling really shaky.’

‘That’s not so strange. You’re about to get married. That’s major.’

For the hundredth time in the past hour, Johan glanced at his watch. Five minutes left. She should be here by now.

No car in sight.

‘Where the hell are they?’

Johan took out a cigarette and lit it. The area in front of the church was now deserted. Only a few minutes left.

Now even Andreas was looking worried.

‘Should you try and ring her? Maybe something happened.’

He punched in Emma’s mobile number. No answer.

The church bells began ringing. It was four o’clock. Why wasn’t she here?

The pastor came outside and smiled with satisfaction.

‘It’s time.’

At that moment a car came driving along Fårövägen.

Johan breathed a sigh of relief.

KARIN JACOBSSON WALKED along the deserted beach alone. The tourist season was over. She was wearing jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a light shirt. A sweater was draped over her shoulders. She walked barefoot, carrying her sandals in one hand, feeling the lukewarm water between her toes. The long hot summer had warmed up the sea to an unbelievable 79 degrees. The temperature was posted on a solitary sign in the middle of the beach. Who’s measuring the temperature now? she thought. And who would bother to post it on that sign? There’s nobody here to read it .

The air was warm, even though clouds were gathering over the sea. The little turquoise ice-cream stand was closed, shut down for the season, and it wouldn’t open again until next year. She paused with her back to the water and studied the sand dunes and the woods higher up. Peter Bovide’s caravan had been parked at the edge of the campsite. He’d jogged along this beach on that fateful morning barely two months earlier. And this was where he had met his killer.