directions. She’d had both her nose and her navel pierced and adorned with gemstones in various colours. And it was no exaggeration to say that her choice of eye shadow was vibrant. Right now her lids were painted a bright turquoise.
Johan was glad that she’d never tried to put the moves on him; he wouldn’t have been interested anyway. Just after they started working together, he had met Emma Winarve, who became the great love of his life. And they were now married.
‘Anyone I know?’ he asked.
‘I doubt it. He’s a sheep farmer from Sudret. A real hermit. But cute and sexy. Big muscles and tons of energy.’ A dreamy look came into her eyes.
‘How’d you meet him?’
‘I drove past his farm early one morning, and in the haze I saw hundreds of lambs in one of the pastures. It was an irresistible scene. I just had to stop and take a picture. And there he was, appearing out of the mist like some character in a fucking fairy tale. But what about you? Are you hung-over from the party last night? Was it fun hobnobbing with all the society bigwigs?’
Pia hadn’t stopped mocking him ever since he’d agreed to go to the dedication festivities at the new conference centre.
‘Sure. It was actually OK. Free champagne and great food. Those of us who are parents to little kids don’t get out very often, so we have to accept any invitation we can get.’
‘Oh, right. You’re a journalist, for God’s sake. You need to preserve your impartial status,’ said Pia, throwing out her long arms in exasperation. ‘What happens if the owners of that bloody consortium, or whoever is behind that building, have been embezzling taxpayers’ money? What if some of the construction work was done by illegal workers? Or if the guy who organized the celebration, that mafia type – Algard – starts selling booze under the table to teenagers at his club or turns out to be pushing drugs?’
‘I would hope I know how to keep my work and my social life separate,’ said Johan with a faint smile.
Of course he’d had his doubts. A handful of reporters had been invited to the celebration, and he was one of them. He’d felt flattered, but at the same time he was ashamed that he’d allowed himself to be so easily taken in by the very people he was supposed to scrutinize. Yet he couldn’t very well turn down all invitations just because he was a reporter. That had been Emma’s argument when he discussed the invitation with her. Was his attendance at one party really going to influence how he did his job? If it came out next week that the chairman of the municipal board had fiddled the bill for the booze, wouldn’t he report the story as usual, even though he had attended the party? Of course he would. And besides, Emma had said, wasn’t it a good idea for a journalist to get out in society by going to this sort of event? Gather impressions of people in the community and make contacts? Just because he occasionally socialized with certain people, that didn’t mean they had to be his best friends.
Johan had decided to go, although it went against his gut feeling. Was it really possible to keep his distance? Once a reporter started socializing with people privately, sooner or later sympathetic feelings were liable to arise and muddy his judgement. To minimize the risk, he probably ought to refrain from that sort of fraternizing. Pia was undoubtedly right, but since she’d spoken to him in such an annoying tone of voice, he wasn’t about to admit that he actually agreed with her. Instead he changed the subject.
‘Speaking of our work, I think we should plan on doing more segments about violence among young people. And if, contrary to all expectations, we need to put together a report for the late news broadcast, we could always do something on the Alexander case. His condition hasn’t changed, but we could talk to kids about what happened. According to the desk sergeant, things have been relatively calm in town, apparently as a result of the assault. And by the way, Alexander is just the latest in a long series of victims, although he ended up suffering worse injuries than most.’
Johan rummaged through the pile of folders on his desk until he found the one he wanted, which he handed to Pia.
‘I’ve found forty-five assault cases involving teenagers during the past year here on Gotland. No one has been seriously hurt before, but it looks like it’s just a matter of time before somebody dies – if Alexander manages to pull through, that is.’
‘Yeah. What a bloody mess,’ sighed Pia. ‘Some of my cousins were present when a fight took place last summer and a kid was badly beaten. He’s probably included in your statistics. The boy over at the Ostercentrum mall, if you remember the case.’
‘Remind me.’
‘He was attacked with iron pipes and clubs, but I think they mostly aimed at his body, not at his head. My cousins weren’t involved in the fight itself, but they saw the whole thing. I just can’t believe that anyone would stand around and watch something like that without intervening.’
‘It’s strange all right. But it’s hard to predict how you yourself would react in a similar situation. That’s another aspect of the whole thing. And something else that I think people forget, both in general discussions and with regard to youth violence, is the role of the parents. Where are the parents? What are they doing? What do they think? How do they feel? How much responsibility do they have for the fact that things have gone so far? What are they doing to stop the violence? As in the case of Alexander, for instance. No parents have made any sort of statement to the media – neither the parents of the victim nor of the perpetrators. There were five boys involved, according to the police. You’d think that someone would say something.’
‘I don’t think it’s strange at all. They’re obviously ashamed about what happened. Just think what it’s like here on this little island, where everyone knows everyone else, more or less. Or at least knows someone who knows someone. It’s not that easy to make a public statement, saying that your son is a brutal bully. Especially if he might be charged as an accessory to murder, if things go badly. They’ve been detained, haven’t they?’
‘Three of them have. The other two were released pending trial because they’re so young. Only fifteen.’
They were interrupted by the phone ringing. The editor in Stockholm was calling to say that they could go home. The evening news programmes already had more than enough material.
But they were told to keep their mobile phones switched on, just in case.
EVERYTHING WAS CALM outside the conference centre when Knutas arrived. A couple of police vehicles had been parked haphazardly in front of the main entrance; otherwise there was no sign of activity. Inside he found crime-scene technician Erik Sohlman, who had also just arrived. One of the uniformed officers showed them to the area where the body had been discovered. Several members of the cleaning staff, looking upset, stood next to their carts as they talked to police. A woman with Asian features sat on a sofa, sobbing loudly.
Knutas had a strangely surreal feeling as he passed through the foyer. This was the same place where less than twenty-four hours ago he had been drinking champagne toasts and mingling with hundreds of other festively clad guests. Now the scene was completely different. They walked through the deserted and littered salon on the ground floor until they came to a smaller lounge furnished with a few sofas and a bar. This part of the centre had been closed off during the Saturday-night celebration.
Tucked away in a far corner of the room was a small lift used by employees. Inside on the floor lay the body, with the legs partially sticking out of the lift door. The dead man was wearing a silk shirt and black trousers. His hair was dark and combed back. On his feet he wore shiny black shoes with soles that looked almost untouched.
‘Do you see who that is?’ asked Knutas tensely.
‘No, I don’t recognize him,’ said Sohlman.
‘Viktor Algard. The man in charge of organizing the whole celebration yesterday.’
Images of the previous evening flashed through his mind. The event planner had been elegantly dressed, as always. Brimming with enthusiasm, he had greeted all the guests and then dashed about, talking to people right and left, attending to everything. Making sure that everything ran smoothly. Now here he lay, dead as a doornail. It was an alarming sight, and Knutas felt sick to his stomach.
‘Look at his complexion. How strange,’ murmured Sohlman. He squatted down to inspect the body.
The colour of the dead man’s face surprised Knutas too. He couldn’t recall ever seeing anything like it. The skin was a bright pink, almost the hue of a newborn piglet. The same was true of the skin on his hands and arms.
The crime tech leaned closer and began sniffing at the victim’s face. Cautiously he opened the pale lips, stuck a finger between the man’s teeth and prised open his jaws. Then he started back, grimacing.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Knutas indignantly.
Sohlman gave him a knowing look.
