Dark Angel

murder.

They needed to find out more. Above all, they had to locate Veronika Hammar.

THE SHORELINE NEAR Holmhallar at the southernmost point on Gotland was covered with limestone. The kilometre-long rauk area had a very distinctive look to it. The stone formations were massive and strangely shaped, with the tallest nearly 5 metres high. Here the rauks were not isolated stone pillars; instead they stood in clusters. They clung to each other as if seeking shelter from the wind, the fossil-seekers and the ever-encroaching hordes of tourists. A short distance out to sea the little island of Heligholmen was visible – a nature reserve that was now off-limits to visitors. Out there the seabirds bred by the thousands.

Close to the water, at the very edge of the shore, stood the fishing village, a group of boathouses made of stone with slate roofs. They were several hundred years old, remnants of the era when the island’s farmers were forced to supplement their livelihood by fishing. Back then they would arrive from their inland farms to fish for several days, staying in the cramped boathouses, which had only small slots for windows facing the sea. The quarters stank of tar and kelp.

She walked along the rocky shore, taking care not to stumble on roots or loose stones. The sea was grey, and a strong wind was blowing. Above the rauk area stretched an expansive plateau with a meadow of billowing grasses filled with the bright yellow flowers of pheasant’s eye, which looked like little suns, and dark violet pasque flowers. A few juniper bushes and gnarled trees stunted by the harsh storms continued to defy the wind, stubbornly holding on to the stony ground. The landscape was barren and desolate at this time of year, with not a soul in sight. The gusts brought tears to her eyes. She turned her face away from the sea and looked up towards the plateau and the woods beyond.

When she reached the other side of the rauk area, she saw the sandy beach spreading out before her. This was where she usually spent the summers. Now the water was icy cold after the long winter. It looked dark and inhospitable, with the waves restlessly rolling in and then retreating. She turned round and headed up towards the summer houses at the edge of the woods. There were about ten cottages scattered over quite a large tract and set at a discreet distance from one another. The bed and breakfast, which stood a bit further away, was closed for the season, and the other buildings were all empty as well.

Suddenly she jumped, startled by a rustling sound in the grass right behind her. For a moment ice-cold fear raced through her veins, until she realized that it was just a rabbit darting past. She watched it run off until it disappeared into a burrow in the ground. Her nerves were wound tight. The air was hazy and damp, and dusk had begun to close in around her. A flock of swans, flying in formation, streaked past in the dark sky. Echoing shrieks issued from their long necks. She found the sound sinister. Like death cries.

She didn’t notice the man standing up on the plateau right above her, watching every move she made.

The man lowered his binoculars and started walking towards her summer house.

THE MEMBERS OF the investigative team were giving top priority to finding Veronika Hammar, but that didn’t mean that they had dropped all other avenues that might still be of interest. Knutas didn’t want to focus on her as the only possible suspect. Even though it seemed unlikely, there might be an explanation for why she was at the crime scene but hadn’t alerted the authorities. After nearly thirty years on the police force, he had learned that people were capable of behaving in the strangest, most irrational ways. Anything was possible.

For that reason, the police were working on other potential leads. One of them was Viktor Algard’s former competitor Sten Bergstrom. Because he suffered from painful lumbago, he was unable to come to the police station, so Knutas and Jacobsson had decided to visit him at his home on Tuesday afternoon.

For the second day in a row they drove south towards Sudret and Holmhallar. Granted, several years had passed since Algard’s biggest competitor had gone bankrupt, but old grudges might have resurfaced.

Bergstrom lived alone on a farm out in the country, close to the Holmhallar rauk area. After they passed Hamra, the houses became sparser as the landscape grew more rugged. The distance between farms increased. Most of the homes were used only during the summer holidays, so the area seemed even more desolate in the off-season. They’d been instructed to turn right at the exit for Holmhallar and head for Austre. The rain had stopped, but heavy clouds filled the sky, and it looked as if the downpour might start up again at any moment.

‘Nothing but shuttered summer houses,’ Jacobsson sighed wearily as they passed one empty cottage after another. They didn’t see a living soul.

‘I’m starting to wonder if we’re going the right way,’ muttered Knutas.

Jacobsson peered at the map.

‘This is the only turn-off. We have to take another right when we come to a row of letter boxes, right across from the road leading down to the shore. There’s supposed to be a sign.’

She had barely uttered these words before they reached their destination. Sten Bergstrom had sounded surprised when Jacobsson phoned him on the previous day, but he was cooperative and willing to meet with them. He lived in a two-storey, whitewashed wooden house that had definitely seen better days. There were also several ramshackle outbuildings on the property, along with a garage that had no door and seemed to hold nothing but junk, including a rusty old car. On the bonnet sat a black cat, watching them.

They rang the bell, but it didn’t seem to be in working order. Knutas pounded his fist on the door. Nothing happened. They stood there, waiting. Knutas knocked again, while Jacobsson walked around the side of the house. Clearly no one was at home. Suddenly they heard a dog barking from the road. They turned to see a tall, lanky man walking towards them, his shoulders stooped and his back bowed. He seemed to be in pain. He wore a windbreaker, a cap and rubber boots. Trotting along beside him was a stately Afghan with beautiful golden hair. The man raised his hand in greeting.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d get here so soon. Have you been waiting long?’

He shook their hands. The dog kept a wary eye on the officers, showing no sign of wanting to make friends.

‘It’s no problem,’ said Knutas. ‘We just arrived.’

Sten Bergstrom led the way into the house, ushering them into a living room with a huge bay window facing the garden. The wood floor was worn and bare of any rugs. The window had no curtains. The furniture was sparse but solidly built, the type that might have been bought at one of the countless farm auctions held at intervals on the island. Bergstrom offered his visitors coffee and homemade sponge cake. Knutas and Jacobsson sat down on the kitchen bench, but Bergstrom remained standing. He explained apologetically that his bad back prevented him from sitting.

Knutas was having a hard time forming a coherent impression of Sten Bergstrom. On the one hand, the man seemed to live a rather shabby and simple existence; on the other hand, he personally emanated style and elegance. His striped shirt and light cotton trousers were clean and freshly pressed, and his home was neat and tidy. His dog could have been photographed for the cover of Castles and Manor Houses, with a duke or baron holding the Afghan’s lead.

‘We’re here with regard to the murder of Viktor Algard,’ Knutas began after the coffee was served and a slice of sponge cake was sitting on the plate before him. ‘It may seem strange that we’re interested in talking to you, but we’re looking into the victim’s past and checking everything that might give us a lead in the investigation. Even though it might seem like a long shot.’

‘I see.’ Bergstrom smiled as he leaned against the door frame. ‘I understand.’

‘When did you last have contact with Viktor?’ asked Knutas.

‘That was years ago.’

‘What sort of relationship did the two of you have?’

‘It’s no secret that we were bitter enemies. He ruined me and forced me into bankruptcy.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘I began arranging parties on a small scale about five or six years ago. They were very successful, so I started my own company. The first conflict we had was over the name. I called my firm “Goal Gotland”, since I was planning not only to arrange events for local clients, but also to entice customers from the mainland to hold their weddings here, as well as birthday parties and so on. There are an awful lot of mainlanders who spend the summer here. Viktor thought the name was too close to his own company name, so he decided to sue me. But that was one battle he lost. There was nothing he could do about the name. At any rate, I continued doing event planning and gradually took over a significant number of his clients.’