on Vendela Bovide. Then they each accused the others. The court proceedings for the issue of a detention order had been held the previous day, and all three had been arraigned, charged with working illegally, assaulting Vendela Bovide, burgling the house on Furillen and depriving Anders Knutas of his liberty. It remained to be seen whether they were involved in the murder of Peter Bovide. No matter what, the sentence was bound to be harsh.
Knutas’s feeling that the murder had to do with something other than illegal workers had grown stronger. From the very beginning, he’d actually been sceptical that any of the three Estonian construction workers would turn out to be the perpetrator the police were looking for, especially after his own encounter with them on Furillen. Their behaviour didn’t mesh with the image of a brutal killer. On the other hand, they had definitely assaulted Vendela Bovide. Maybe they’d been more cautious with Knutas because they knew he was a police officer.
One lead that the police were now following, and which had made him wrack his brain all night, concerned the Russian coal transports that regularly docked at Slite harbour. They’d been waiting for the arrival of the next boat, and now it was finally going to happen. Over the past week the investigative team had been working on how to make its move, which would take place late this evening. Knutas was hoping that things would become much clearer after talking to the crew on board.
He stood in the shower for a long time, letting the water course over him. Then he studied his body in the mirror. It was impossible to tell that, so far, the summer had been one of the hottest in years. The slight tan that he’d acquired in Denmark was nearly gone. When he looked at himself in profile and sucked in his stomach, he looked OK; it was another matter when he viewed himself from the front. He needed to be exercising more regularly, which was made apparent by the flab that had started forming around his waist whenever he was too lazy to go swimming. Knutas was actually very athletic, but the indoor hockey season was over, and he hadn’t yet found time to play golf.
When he came out on to the street again, he was blinded by the sunlight. The heatwave was continuing, which explained why the swimming pool was almost empty, since most people naturally preferred to go to the beach. The algae blooms that often struck Gotland at the height of the summer had not yet appeared. In the evenings, all the outdoor restaurants lining Visby’s streets were packed. He and Lina were supposed to go out to dinner tonight and then enjoy a classical concert in the ruins of Saint Nicolai church. He’d finally made an effort, and ordered the tickets and reserved a table. Lina was so surprised and happy that he felt guilty.
After the morning meeting he and Jacobsson got in the car to drive up to Slite. They’d made an appointment with the harbour master who was responsible for the coal transports, who was going to show them around before the police raid, planned for that evening.
As soon as they parked the car near the front entrance of Cementa in Slite, a stout man came forward to greet them. He wore a blue overall and a cap. He gave them a friendly smile and introduced himself as harbour master Roger Nilsson.
They followed him in their car down to the harbour and then went into the office, where they all sat down to drink coffee.
Knutas got right to the point.
‘We know that illegal alcohol is being sold in connection with the coal transports, and we’ve also had it confirmed that Peter Bovide occasionally made purchases down here. What do you know about this?’
The harbour master fidgeted nervously.
‘That’s a big concern of ours. We depend on receiving coal from Russia, but at the same time, it brings other problems. The sale of illegal alcohol seems constantly on the increase. As soon as a boat docks, all sorts of people come down to the harbour to buy vodka. We’ve also noticed that more and more young people have started making purchases from the boats. We’ve contacted the police numerous times and asked them to do something about it, but so far it hasn’t done any good. Every once in a while the police come down here to check things out, but that’s about it. I can’t understand what they are waiting for. How many teenagers have to drink themselves to death before they take action?’
The harbour master shook his head. Jacobsson shifted uneasily in her chair. She had no desire to enter into a debate about how the police force made use of its limited resources.
‘Unfortunately, we can’t do anything about the matter at the moment,’ she said, ‘but I can have a talk with our county police chief later on. How are the sales conducted?’
‘People have figured out when the boats are due, and the schedule is made known through word of mouth. It’s not as if we announce it in the newspapers or put up a sign on some bulletin board. People start gathering as soon as the boat docks, and then they fall into conversation with the crew members, who also come ashore. We can’t very well forbid them from moving about freely in Slite. They usually go to the restaurants and pizzerias and to the local pub. That’s where they meet their customers, if they don’t at the harbour. We’ve also had problems with certain people who go on board the boats, so it’s been hard to keep track of what goes on.’
That caught Jacobsson’s attention.
‘People go on board? Why?’
‘The Russian crew members normally stay here for two days, and they come here so often that it’s not unusual for them to make friends with residents in the area.’
‘And some find lovers here too, perhaps?’
‘I’m sure that happens.’
‘Have you noticed any signs of prostitution?’ asked Jacobsson.
‘No, we haven’t seen any of that.’
‘Narcotics?’
‘We’re not sure, but of course it can’t be ruled out. Although I think we would have noticed if that sort of trafficking was occurring on a large scale. But we think the sale of illegal alcohol is serious enough.’
‘Did you know that Peter Bovide had been here to buy booze?’
‘No, not until people started talking about him after the murder.’
‘Do you know whether he had any contact with the Russian crew members?’
‘I don’t know if he did.’
‘Is there anyone else who works here who might have known him?’
‘It’s very possible, but I can’t think of anyone in particular.’
‘But he was from Slite, and people must be talking about the murder,’ Jacobsson insisted. ‘Do you seriously mean to say that you haven’t heard about anyone who knew Peter Bovide?’
‘No, like I said, I haven’t.’
Harbour master Roger Nilsson was obviously annoyed.
Knutas changed tack.
‘How often do the boats come here?’
‘Previously it was every other week, but as of 1 August, they’re arriving twice as often. The demand for cement is increasing all the time, and since we’re not yet making full use of the factory’s capacity, we’ve been able to increase production, and that means we need more fuel to stoke the furnaces. That’s how the limestone is melted down and transformed.’
‘And what’s your opinion of this development, in your position as harbour master?’
‘It’s double-sided. On the one hand, it’s a positive thing, of course, that the demand for cement is on the rise and that we can increase production. On the other hand, we can probably expect more problems in connection with the sale of illegal alcohol.’
When they said goodbye to the harbour master, thoughts were whirling through Knutas’s head. Who was to say that drug deals weren’t taking place in connection with the boat transports? Was it possible that Peter Bovide was a drug addict? Maybe amphetamines. Was that the reason he could run ten kilometres or so each day, keep his company going, take care of his young children and get up early every morning? He’d suffered from regular bouts of depression and he was epileptic. That sort of thing could lead to drug abuse. It was also possible that he could have been dealing drugs without taking any himself. Did he owe some ugly customers money? The MO seemed to indicate this might be a possibility. The murder was committed with a Russian gun, and the victim was shot at very close range, which testified to a brutal ruthlessness. Maybe the perp was a professional hitman.
Yet there were two circumstances that didn’t fit the picture: the fact that the perp chose to shoot Bovide in the head first and then several times in the stomach; and the fact that the gun was so old. What hitman or hard-boiled drug lord would use a gun that was eighty years old?
