‘Thanks, Anders. I know that. Maybe we could talk some other time. Not now.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Knutas changed the subject in order to break the oppressive mood that had settled over them.
‘What do you think about the case? Any ideas about a motive?’
‘It’s impossible to say. There are several likely motives, but I don’t think it’s any coincidence that Algard was murdered just a couple of weeks after Alexander Almlov was assaulted. Especially considering all the criticisms that have been hurled at Algard lately.’
‘Who do you think is a likely candidate?’
‘Either someone who is close to Alexander, or someone connected to the bouncers, who both happen to be involved in criminal activities. Or maybe some fanatic who’s tired of all the youth violence and wants to take matters into his own hands. There are all sorts of variations to consider. Nine times out of ten the perp is a member of the immediate family. So it could also be someone like that.’
‘Maybe it’s no coincidence either that Algard was in the process of getting a divorce.’
‘Sure. And it’s a strange thing about this mistress of his,’ said Jacobsson pensively. ‘We need to find out who she is. And does Mrs Algard know that her husband was playing around on the side? Maybe not, if the love affair is relatively recent, but somebody in their circle of friends must know something. Do you think the mistress was at the party?’
‘Maybe. We’ll have to wait and see what the interviews can tell us. She may have been out of town. Maybe she doesn’t even know about the murder yet.’
WHEN JACOBSSON AND Knutas reached the Hamra Inn, they pulled over and stopped in the deserted car park. The inn was incredibly popular in the summertime, but now it looked practically abandoned. Several signs indicated that the Coconut Bar was to the left, while Pepe’s Tex-Mex was on the right. The rustic wooden tables were stacked against one wall and the restaurant was glaringly empty. A few messages had been tacked up on a decrepit-looking bulletin board near the car park. ‘Flea market in Burgsvik’, ‘Weaving class in Havdhem’, ‘Alcoholics Anonymous meets every Tuesday in the Hablingbo community centre’, ‘Sheep shearing – cheap’, and ‘Lost cat’.
‘We need to go left here and head down towards the sea,’ said Jacobsson, turning the car on to a gravel road. The flat landscape was mostly cultivated fields. This was farm country, with one farmstead right next to another. Healthy-looking cattle grazed in the pastures and flocks of sheep stared at the car as they drove past. The sea glittered up ahead. They were almost at the southernmost tip of Gotland, far from their own familiar stomping grounds.
They drove along a narrow road that followed the shoreline. The farm at the end of the road belonged to the Algard family. As they pulled into the gravel-covered yard in front of the house, two greyhounds appeared, barking loudly. Knutas, who was afraid of dogs, hesitantly climbed out of the car, never taking his eyes off the two animals. Jacobsson called out to them and they instantly loped over to her, barking happily. The front door of the house opened and a shrill whistle rang out across the yard. The dogs immediately stopped their romping and raced to join their owner.
Elisabeth Algard showed Knutas and Jacobsson into the house. They sat down in a big country kitchen replete with all the farmhouse charms: blue-and-white-checked cotton curtains, exposed ceiling beams, a big brick fireplace, a scoured wood floor and a gate-legged table, which was the biggest and most rustic Knutas had ever seen. The tall windows offered an expansive view of the fields and, off in the distance, the sea. The widow served them coffee and almond buns without first asking if they’d like any. She shooed the dogs out of the kitchen and closed the door. With a heavy sigh she sat down on a chair across from the two officers. Her thin, sinewy figure was clad in jeans and a short-sleeved cotton blouse. Her wispy, smoky-coloured hair was pulled back and fastened with a clasp at the nape of her neck. She wore no make-up. Her lips were thin, making a narrow streak of her mouth. She couldn’t be described as a beauty, but she had pleasing, distinctive features. As she poured the coffee, Elisabeth Algard looked Knutas right in the eye.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘First of all, we want to offer our condolences. Unfortunately, we do need to ask you quite a few questions. When was the last time you saw Viktor?’
‘Saturday afternoon, before he left for the party.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘He was in a great mood, even though he tried to hide it.’
Knutas looked at her enquiringly.
‘Viktor wanted a divorce,’ she said tonelessly.
‘We know about that. Can you tell us why?’ said Jacobsson as she bit into a bun.
‘It was a bolt out of the blue. I can’t understand it. Good Lord, we’ve been married for thirty-two years. We have two grown children, this farm with all the animals and my studio. Viktor had his own company. Our life was good. It was calm and pleasant and the days passed enjoyably. All of a sudden he wanted to destroy everything we’d built together.’
‘When did he tell you that he wanted a divorce?’
‘A couple of weeks ago. Right after that boy was assaulted. At first I thought that was the reason – because Viktor was so upset by all the uproar and criticism. But he said it had nothing to do with that.’
‘So what did he give as his reason?’
‘Reason? He didn’t have a reason. He just said that he wanted to lead his own life. Have you ever heard anything like it? He said he was longing to focus on himself, on his own happiness. “You only live once,” he said, “and I don’t want to end up a bitter man.”’
The widow shook her head.
‘Bitter! How could he even utter such a word, considering everything we’ve accomplished during all these years together? Two well-brought-up children who have become independent and successful individuals with their own lives. An entire farm that we renovated from the ground up. It’s frequently included on lists of the most beautiful farms on all of Gotland. We live here in this marvellous natural setting and close to the sea, which we both love. We have dogs, and we raise chickens that give us the best eggs for breakfast every day. I have my weaving, which actually now provides me with a full-time income. He has his company and the club, both of which were doing amazingly well – at least up until that awful beating incident occurred. We can afford to travel and do all the fun things we want to do. We eat well every day. So how can he talk about being bitter and wanting to finally put himself at the top of his priorities? I’m sorry, but I just don’t understand it.’
Elisabeth Algard’s voice had risen in volume. She leaned across the table, shifting her gaze between Jacobsson and Knutas, as if trying to convince them of her own bewilderment. Jacobsson sat motionless, her hands cradling her coffee cup. Elisabeth continued her diatribe, as if a dam had burst.
‘And he wanted to destroy everything, tear it all down. He cared nothing about me, or the fact that he was about to shatter my whole life. And he had no consideration for the children. No, he was thinking only about himself. It was a week before my birthday when he told me that he wanted a divorce. Just like that. And this summer we were supposed to spend a month in Italy, the whole family, and rent a villa in Tuscany. That might have been the last summer the four of us spent together, since the children will probably have their own families soon. Our friends couldn’t understand it either. They couldn’t fathom why he’d want to leave me and everything we had together. They thought it was just a whim, a mid-life crisis. But I’m not so sure… And then what happens? He goes and dies only weeks later. So much for focusing on his own life. If it wasn’t so sad, I’d probably laugh myself silly. Yes, I would. The whole situation is utterly absurd.’
At last she fell silent and paused to drink her coffee. Elisabeth Algard was not behaving at all the way Knutas had expected. He’d pictured a grieving widow overcome by despair. Instead she mostly seemed filled with rage. He realized that she must have spent the past two weeks brooding about the collapse of her marriage.
‘Did he have any enemies that you know of?’ Knutas asked. ‘Anyone who might have wanted to harm him?’
‘Of course he did. After that sixteen-year-old boy was beaten up outside the club, half of Gotland was angry at Viktor. Plenty of people even thought that he was to blame for the boy nearly getting killed. And then there’s the divorce. All of our relatives and friends were surprised by his decision. Nobody understood why he was doing this. But of course it’s ridiculous to think that someone would murder him for that reason.’
