other hand, I was off duty, you know. I had a good time in town, went out to eat, and then caught the night ferry home. I slept like a rock in my cabin and didn’t wake up until we arrived. I just had time to stop by my flat before coming here.’
‘And you didn’t listen to your voicemail?’
‘No. How was I supposed to know that Viktor Algard would get himself murdered and, to cap it all, at the dedication festivities for the conference centre? Thanks for the flowers, by the way. They were left outside my door. That was a nice surprise.’
‘You’re welcome. As I said, I did try to call you.’
‘So tell me all about it.’
‘Algard’s body was found inside an employee lift on the floor below the banquet hall. That part had been closed off for the evening. Presumably he never left the building after the dedication ceremony and celebration. At four o’clock yesterday afternoon the cleaning staff found his body. He probably died from cyanide poisoning.’
‘Cyanide?’ said Jacobsson, raising her eyebrows. ‘That sounds rather unlikely. Are you sure?’
‘We won’t be sure until we get the report from the post-mortem, but everything points in that direction. The victim’s complexion was bright pink, and he actually smelled of bitter almonds.’
‘Bitter almonds?’
‘Yes. Apparently cyanide has the same smell.’
‘I’ve heard that bitter almonds can be poisonous if you eat too many of them – but you’d have to scoff fifty or so. As if anyone would ever do such a stupid thing. Who in the world even uses them nowadays?’
‘I assume they’re used as ingredients in Swedish curd cake and almond buns. Aren’t they?’
‘I’m always surprised by the range of your knowledge, Anders.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘You don’t really do much baking, do you?’
‘You’re forgetting my upbringing.’
Knutas’s parents had run a bakery on their farm in Kappelshamn in the north of Gotland. Even though their speciality was unleavened flatbread, Knutas had grown up surrounded by all sorts of baked goods.
‘But it wasn’t bitter almonds that caused his death. It was cyanide,’ he said.
‘Is there anything to indicate that the murder is connected to all that uproar about Algard’s club – and the latest assault case?’
‘Not so far. But it’s certainly an interesting theory.’
‘Is Alexander’s condition still unchanged?’
Knutas nodded gloomily.
‘Did you know Algard?’ asked Jacobsson.
‘I wouldn’t say that I knew him exactly. But we’d always exchange a few words whenever we met. I’ve attended a number of parties that he arranged. He was a nice guy, cheerful and easy-going and very sociable, of course. He had to be, in order to do that kind of job.’
‘Was he married?’
‘Yes, although we haven’t been able to interview his wife yet.’
‘Any children?’
‘Two. Both grown. They live on the mainland, but they’ll be here today.’
‘What about the guests?’
‘We’re going to bring in every one of them to be interviewed. It’ll be a big job, since there were five hundred and twenty-three invited guests.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘We need to get help from the National Criminal Police. I talked to them last night. Kihlgard is apparently out on sick leave. Did you know that?’
Jacobsson’s face clouded over.
‘What? No, I had no idea.’
Martin Kihlgard was the NCP inspector they’d had the most contact with. He almost always came over to Gotland if they needed help. He loved the island and was very popular with his colleagues in Visby. He and Jacobsson were especially close. Occasionally their fondness for each other had been so blatant that Knutas felt annoyed. Embarrassed, he had reluctantly admitted to himself that this was an entirely selfish reaction because he didn’t want to share Karin. For a while he almost thought that a romantic relationship was starting to develop between Martin and Karin. But then at one of the daily morning meetings, Kihlgard just happened to mention that he had a boyfriend.
Now Knutas saw the concern in Jacobsson’s eyes and he tried to smooth over what he’d just said.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Maybe he’s just home with the flu.’
They were interrupted by Thomas Wittberg, who appeared in the doorway.
‘Hi. I just heard something interesting.’
He stopped what he was going to say and grinned when he saw Jacobsson sitting on the visitors’ sofa.
‘Happy birthday, by the way. Or are we not supposed to congratulate you on joining the ranks of middle-aged women? You’re already looking more worn out.’
Jacobsson glared at him and frowned. Wittberg was always taunting her about being ten years older than he was.
‘Get to the point,’ said Knutas impatiently. ‘We’ve got a meeting in five minutes.’
‘Viktor Algard was in the middle of divorce proceedings. They filed the documents with the district court a week ago.’
EVER SINCE LAST night, I’ve been preparing myself. It started at eight o’clock, after the
I see only one other person, and today it’s once again time to do that. It means that I have to venture outside. And that requires preparation.
Last night I rummaged about until I found some clothes that were presentable, clean and without any holes. I never think about such things when I’m alone. I placed them on a chair: underwear, socks, a shirt, jeans. Before I went to bed, I set three alarm clocks, each fifteen minutes apart, so that I’d be sure to wake up. Since I take sleeping tablets, I tend to sleep very soundly and I’m out for a long time.
I put one alarm clock on the bedside table, one on the window ledge so I’d be forced to get up, and the third, which rings the loudest, I put in the kitchen so I wouldn’t be tempted to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head.
All three were set to give me plenty of time to wake up and carry out the obligatory morning ablutions required of normal people who do normal things. Such as venturing outside.
This morning I took a shower and washed my hair, which was quite a feat, considering my condition. It takes an enormous effort for me to slip out of my sleep-warmed pyjamas and get into the shower. It never gets any easier. Yes, I wear pyjamas to bed, just as I did as a child. They’re my armour: against fear, evil spirits, and any malicious, sinister creature that might happen to enter my bedroom. Sometimes I lie there in the dark imagining that someone is inside the flat. There are plenty of nooks and cupboards and wardrobes to hide in. I live in the only occupied flat in the entire building. The rest are all offices. No, that’s wrong. There is one other residential flat on the same floor. But it belongs to a family who live abroad, somewhere in Saudi Arabia, I think. I don’t know when they’re coming back.
That’s why the building is so quiet at night. Very quiet. Outside these walls, it’s a whole different matter. That’s where life in the city goes on.
I’ve had my coffee and forced myself to eat two open cheese sandwiches on rye bread. Energy is required if I’m to manage the walk I have ahead of me. I always read while I eat. Right now I’m reading
A few days ago when I got out this book, which had been packed away for so long, a photograph fell from
