and then he rocked back and forth as he lay there. The pillowcase was wet with tears and snot. It was four in the afternoon. His sister was out in the barn, and his parents wouldn’t be home until six. It had turned out to be a terrible day. They grabbed him on the way home from school. He had actually been feeling happy. That hadn’t happened in such a long time that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like-a tingle of joy in his stomach, mixed with a touch of hope that his situation might be about to change. He hadn’t been subjected to any teasing or malicious remarks all day long, and at recess a boy from another class had even talked to him. They had agreed to bring their hockey pictures on the following day. When he hurried off, as usual, after the last class and ran across the playground, they were al-ready there, the hated demons. They blocked his way. He tried to escape, but they were faster. They grabbed hold of him and dragged him down the stairs outside the gym. Between the entrance to the gym and the stairwell, there was a broom closet that was never used. That’s where they took him. Panic flung him into a fog. Hard, dry, unrelenting hands were clamped over his mouth. He tasted the salt of his own tears as they ran between the fingers and onto his lips. Two of them were holding his arms and covering his mouth while the others punched him. They beat him all over his body, clawing and biting him. It got worse and worse. When one of them started unbuttoning his pants, he thought he was going to die. Strong arms took hold of him and forced him down on the floor. They whipped his backside with a jumprope. Stinging, persistent lashes. They took turns, one after the other. Everyone wanted a chance. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think about something else. Sunshine, a bath, an ice cream cone. The fishing trips with his grandfather. The beating continued without stopping as they hurled insults at him. Their voices were filled with contempt. You disgusting piece of blubber. You pig. After a while he started having trouble breathing. The hands were pressed so hard over his mouth that he couldn’t get any air. He screamed, but not a sound came out. The scream would sit inside his body for the rest of his life. He felt something warm running between his legs. “Shit, how disgusting. He’s pissed himself,” said a voice. “Let’s get out of here,” said someone else. The beating stopped, the grip loosened, and they were gone from the broom closet. He collapsed onto the cement floor. He didn’t know how long he lay there. Finally he managed to get to his feet, straighten his clothes, and leave. When he reached home, he went up to his room, closed the door, and alternated between crying and screaming. He curled up on his bed. His backside stung and had started to bleed. They never hit him in the face. He thought it was because they didn’t want any marks to show. In the midst of his despair, he felt ashamed. What a loser he was, to be subjected to such abuse. He didn’t dare tell anyone. “Mamma!” he shrieked into the pillow. “Mamma!” At the same time, he knew that when she came home he would act perfectly normal. By then he would have dried his tears and washed his face. He would also drink several glasses of water to calm himself down. Like so many times before, she wouldn’t notice a thing. And he hated her for that.
For the press conference the Visby police had chosen the largest hall available at headquarters. Every last seat in the room was taken. Now the media from the rest of Scandinavia had become interested in this case of the mysterious serial killer who was eluding the Swedish police.
Knutas expressly asked the journalists not to disclose the identity of the victim. All members of her family had not yet been notified. The police had not been able to contact her brother, who was out sailing along the Swedish west coast.
No mention was made of the asthma inhaler.
Knutas had never felt under such great pressure before. He was dead tired, and furious at being cheated out of his Midsummer party. Furious that a new murder had been committed. Furious that they weren’t any closer to solving the case. Several times he looked to his colleagues for assistance in answering the journalists’ questions-in particular to Karin Jacobsson, but also to Martin Kihlgard, who turned out to be a rock in this kind of situation.
In spite of their failure to catch the murderer, which had proved deadly once again, Knutas was forced to defend the enormous amount of work that had already been accomplished. His words sounded hollow, even to his own ears. The image of the dead Gunilla Olsson had become permanently etched onto his retina, and there it remained during the entire press conference.
All the reporters in attendance did everything they could to refute the police argument and attack the work that had been done so far. Sometimes Knutas wondered how journalists could stand to do their job: their endlessly critical attitude, their eternal search for some type of conflict, and their constant focus on the negative. How could they live with themselves? What did they talk about at the dinner table at home? The war in the Middle East? The situation in Northern Ireland? The monetary union? Prime Minister Persson’s tax policies?
He was suddenly overwhelmed by an enormous sense of fatigue. The questions were buzzing through the air like angry hornets. He was losing his concentration. He downed a whole glass of water and managed to pull himself together.
Afterward, the reporters buttonholed him for individual interviews.
Two hours later it was finally over. He told his colleagues that he didn’t want to be disturbed, and he shut himself up in his office. When he sank down on the chair at his desk, he felt close to tears. Good Lord, he was a grown man-but he was dead tired and starving, and he realized that he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast except for a sandwich, since his Midsummer dinner had been so cruelly interrupted. No wonder hunger was gnawing at his stomach. He called his wife at their summer house in Lickershamn.
“Come home, sweetheart. The guests left a long time ago. The party never really got going. There’s lots of food left over. I’m going to put together a real Midsummer plate for you, and we have cold beer. Doesn’t that sound good? Why don’t you leave right now?”
Her soft voice made him feel warm and vulnerable.
Johan honored the request from the police not to make public the name or photo of the latest murder victim. He didn’t even say that she was a potter.
When Johan and Peter were finally done with their work, they decided to go out, even though it was past midnight and they were dog tired. It was still Midsummer Eve, as Peter pointed out.
Johan agreed. For several days he had called and sent text messages to Emma’s cell phone without getting any reply. She was undoubtedly out in some summer meadow celebrating Midsummer with her entire dear family. It was no use to keep yearning for her. It would never work out. Still, he ached with longing, and the only thing that helped was to drown it in alcohol. He wanted to forget about Emma, about the murders, about his depressed mother, about the whole fucking lot of it.
They went to an inn down by the harbor. Everyone there was having a good time and seemed not to know about the latest homicide. Most people probably have other things to do on Midsummer Eve than watch the news, thought Johan. For the time being they were blissfully ignorant.
They both ordered beer.
“How’s it going with Emma?” asked Peter.
“Oh, I think it’s hopeless. It’ll never work out.”
“But how do you feel about her?”
“I feel too much. That’s the trouble. I just don’t know. We’ve known each other such a short time, but I’ve never met anyone like her. She’s a real pain in the neck,” said Johan, and then he grinned.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I guess the only thing to do is to say to hell with her, pure and simple. I don’t feel like talking about it right now. This day has just been too much to take.”
“Okay. Happy Midsummer,” said Peter. “Cheers.” He drank the rest of his beer in one gulp.
A couple of giggling young girls with long hair, dressed in tight tops with bare midriffs, elbowed their way toward the men to try to order something at the bar. Glossy lips and laughing eyes. Peter seized the opportunity at once.
“It’s on me, girls. What’ll you have?”
The girls exchanged knowing glances. They looked up at Johan and Peter, blinking thick lashes that had been carefully curled.
“A glass of wine, thanks,” they said in unison.
For Peter the night turned out to be more fun than he had expected. Johan made an effort to be drawn into the party mood, but without success. He made the mistake of drinking too much. As Midsummer Day dawned, he was bent over the toilet in his hotel room, throwing up over and over.
SATURDAY, JUNE 23
