but I’m afraid it’s probably just footage of the detectives’ backs.’
‘Maybe that’s just as well,’ said Johan dryly.
Pia was a highly professional cameraperson, but sometimes she lacked a sense of what was ethically acceptable to show on TV.
The minutes were ticking by and they needed to get back to their office soon if they were going to get the story edited before the evening broadcast. The editor in Stockholm had already called to say that the national news programme also wanted to include a report about the murder. So they needed to be quick about it. None of the police officers was willing to say anything, and Knutas had not made himself available to talk to the press.
At that moment the detective superintendent happened to come out of the building. He was immediately showered with questions by the assembled reporters. He briefly answered a few of them before climbing into a police car.
Johan finished the report by doing a stand-up in front of the conference centre, presenting the meagre information that they’d been able to gather so far.
‘The dedication of the new conference centre here in Visby was a lavish affair with more than five hundred guests. But the festive celebration had a tragic end. Just after four o’clock this afternoon, a man was found dead inside the centre. He attended the party last night but apparently never left the building. The cleaning staff found his body in the area directly behind me, inside an employee lift on the ground floor of the centre. That part of the building was not used during yesterday’s festivities. Evidence found at the scene, including traces of blood on the floor, indicate that a crime was committed. The police have confirmed to Regional News that the case is being treated as a possible homicide. The conference centre and surrounding streets have been cordoned off, and this evening the police are going door-to-door to interview anyone who might have seen anything. The police dogs have also been brought in. As of now, no arrests have been made, and so far there is no known motive for the crime.’
IT WAS LATE by the time Knutas finally had a moment to himself. He had called Lina to tell her what had happened, and to let her know that the family should go ahead and eat dinner without him. He had no idea when he’d be home.
The body had been transported to the morgue, and from there it would be taken to Stockholm and the Forensics Division in Solna.
Knutas had already had a long conversation with the medical examiner. She told him that it was very possible that the cause of death was cyanide poisoning, but she wouldn’t be able to say for sure until she’d done the post- mortem. She was hoping to have time for it on Tuesday. At this point she couldn’t say much about the blow to the victim’s head. Knutas had known the ME for a long time. She was utterly meticulous and never made any statements until she was absolutely sure of the facts.
Knutas took out his old curved pipe from the top desk drawer. This evening the investigative team had held its first meeting in order to parcel out the necessary tasks. The top priority was to focus on those friends and family members who were closest to Algard.
Knutas was sorry that Karin Jacobsson wasn’t able to attend the meeting. She was both his deputy and best friend at work. She had gone to Stockholm for the weekend to celebrate her fortieth birthday. He’d tried to ring her in the morning to wish her a happy birthday, and again this evening to tell her about the murder, but she hadn’t answered either call, which worried him a bit. It wasn’t like Karin to switch off her mobile.
Something had been going on with her over the past six months. She was more reserved and taciturn than usual, if that was even possible. She’d always been reticent about her personal life – that was something Knutas had been forced to accept. On the other hand, when it came to her job, she was alert, outgoing and assertive, always ready and willing to participate. But lately he’d noticed a significant change. Karin seemed to be constantly slipping into her own thoughts and daydreaming at their meetings. She also seemed to be having trouble concentrating on her work. It was as if some sort of veil had come down between them. Something was getting in the way, but he had no idea what it was. It was frustrating, because he needed her as much as ever – maybe even more now.
He pushed these worries aside and went back to thinking about the murder case. What about the motive? he thought. What could it be? There was no indication that Viktor Algard had been killed during an attempted robbery. He still had his wallet and Rolex watch.
So far they hadn’t been able to interview his wife, Elisabeth. When the police went to the family home in Hamra to deliver the news of Viktor’s death, she had been suffering from a severe migraine, which made it impossible for her to answer any questions. She had asked them to come back another time. The police decided to postpone the interview until later. The two Algard children were grown up and lived on the mainland. They had been informed about their father’s death and would be flying to Gotland the next day.
Did the wife have any motive for killing her husband? Or could the murder have anything to do with the terrible assault on the teenager outside the Solo Club a few weeks ago? Algard had been very much involved in the case, giving statements both to the police and to the press, because he was the owner of the club. A sixteen-year-old boy had been beaten so badly that he’d had to be transported by helicopter to Stockholm. He ended up in a coma and was still unconscious, a patient in the intensive care ward of the neurosurgery division of Karolinska Hospital.
It had proved nearly impossible to find out exactly what happened that night. There were many witnesses, but they gave conflicting accounts. Most of them were very young and exceedingly drunk. It had been dark and difficult to see what was going on or who was doing what. Three teenage boys had been arrested. Viktor Algard landed in real hot water afterwards. Ever since the club opened, plenty of people had questioned his decision to hold parties for underage kids at the club. He was subjected to harsh criticism because alcohol was sometimes sold to minors in connection with the parties, resulting in frequent drunkenness and brawls. On the night in question, things got seriously out of hand. The bouncers stationed at the club entrance were accused of failing to intervene effectively when the fight broke out. It later turned out that both men also lacked the necessary training. One was an old jailbird; the other was a member of a motorcycle gang which had a dubious reputation on the island. Several demonstrations had been held to protest about the increasingly brutal incidents of youth violence. The newspapers had been filled with outraged letters to the editor ranting about the ineptitude of politicians, the failure of parents to take responsibility and the ever-growing exposure of teenagers to violence via the Internet, computer games and TV.
It seemed plausible that Algard’s murder might be somehow connected. The whole episode had certainly made him plenty of enemies.
Knutas couldn’t resist lighting his pipe. Then he opened the window and stared out into the darkness. He wasn’t in charge of the case dealing with the assault on the teenager. He’d assigned it to another colleague. He’d had to, because he happened to be personally and emotionally involved: he knew the victim quite well. For many years Alexander Almlov had been in the same class as his own son Nils, and the boy’s father used to be one of Knutas’s best friends. Both families had spent a good deal of time together. But a few years ago, the friendship had ended abruptly. And then Alexander’s father had died.
It was all a very sad story.
FIVE HOURS AFTER Knutas left his office, he was back again. His eyes were stinging with fatigue as he opened the door to the police station and said hello to the sergeant on duty.
He had barely settled himself at his desk before someone knocked on the door. Karin Jacobsson poked her head inside. Knutas felt a wave of relief when he saw her. It was almost ridiculous how much he missed her whenever she wasn’t at work.
‘Hi. What the hell is going on here? I was shocked when the sergeant told me about it. Viktor Algard, of all people! And nobody told me anything!’
She plopped down on the visitors’ sofa in front of Knutas’s desk and fixed her intense gaze on his face. She flung one jeans-clad leg over the other and straightened her black shirt, which looked like something his daughter Petra would wear. In terms of her appearance, Jacobsson tended to look like a teenager. She was unusually slender for a police officer and only five foot three, a tomboy with dark hair cut short and brown eyes that she rarely accentuated with any make-up other than a trace of mascara.
‘Nobody told you anything?’ Knutas repeated dryly. ‘I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to reach you on your mobile.’
She threw out her hands.
‘My phone ran out of juice yesterday afternoon and, like a bloody idiot, I’d left the charger at home. On the
