‘How sure are you about that?’ asked Wittberg.
‘Quite sure, since the gun is so unique. A Russian army pistol from 1926, a special-calibre Korovin. And once again, the perp emptied the clip.’
‘How well did you know Morgan Larsson?’ asked Kihlgard.
‘Not very well, actually. We were classmates in primary school, and we lived fairly close to each other in Slite. But we were never close friends.’
‘He was unmarried with no children and, according to his workmates, had no girlfriend. Do you know if he was dating anyone?’
‘I don’t think so. He lived in a flat in Slite. Alone, as far as I know.’
‘Do you have any idea whether he had contacts in the construction industry, or whether he knew Peter Bovide?’
Erik Sohlman shrugged.
‘No clue.’
‘We’ll start by mapping out any links to Peter Bovide,’ Knutas decided. ‘Right now, finding a connection between the two victims has to take priority. Plus, finding out what Morgan Larsson was doing on Gotska Sandon, and why he was in such a hurry to go there.’
JOHAN WAS INCLINED to believe that Pia was right when she predicted what her future would be. The images from the stone quarry were sharp and revealing. A good photographer also had to be lucky, and in this case good fortune had definitely been on Pia’s side. Just as she’d started shooting, the body was carried out of the little hut, which they later learned was the shed where the explosives expert always stood when the blasting took place. Pia had also filmed Knutas, Jacobsson and crime-scene tech Sohlman as they inspected the site.
They’d found out the victim’s identity by talking to Pia’s good friend who worked at Cementa. Everybody knew who he was: Morgan – the explosives guy. Forty-one years old and a bachelor. The killer had chosen to strike at the precise moment of the detonation.
‘Maybe he wanted to make use of the explosion to drown out the sound of the gunshots,’ Johan suggested as they sat in the office, splicing and editing the images.
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler just to use a silencer on the gun?’ said Pia. ‘By the way, what’s going on with you? Seems like you’re in an especially good mood today. It’s not just because we’ve got ourselves a scoop on this story, is it?’
‘That should be enough. But here’s another scoop for you.’
‘What is it?’
Johan stood up to fetch an envelope, which he handed to Pia.
‘Take a look.’
‘But isn’t this a personal letter?’ asked Pia hesitantly when she saw that it said ‘To Johan’ on the envelope.
‘Yes, but it’s OK. I want you to read it.’
Pia opened the envelope and frowned.
A card fell out with a picture of a potato patch on the front. Underneath were only a few handwritten words: ‘Yes, I will. Again.’
‘I don’t get it. From somebody who grows potatoes?’
‘A bit more than that, Pia.’
‘Huh?’ Pia gave her colleague a quizzical look. ‘What do you mean?’
Then she noticed the ring on his left hand.
‘What? Don’t tell me you’re engaged again? You and Emma? Oh, Johan, that’s great! Congratulations!’
‘Thanks,’ said Johan, laughing. ‘Thanks.’
THE WHARF AT Farosund was crowded with people wearing shorts and sensible shoes and carrying rucksacks, heading out on nature expeditions to the island of Gotska Sandon. When Jacobsson boarded the boat, she noticed the captain looking pleased as he waved and motioned for her to come into the wheelhouse. She couldn’t remember having seen him before, but apparently he recognized her.
‘I know you’re from the police because I’ve seen you on TV,’ he explained when she came in and shook hands with him. He introduced himself as Stefan Norrstrom.
The first thing that struck Karin was that she and the captain were actually rather similar. He was about her height and age. He also had dark hair, and when he smiled, she saw the gap between his middle teeth. The one difference was that he was short and stocky while she was fine-boned.
Stefan Norrstrom turned out to be easy to talk to, and he gave a lively account of Gotska Sandon during the two-hour crossing. He told vivid stories about how ships often sank in the fierce storms that raged over the island, about accidents and the hardships of the lighthouse-keepers. In the past, several lighthouses had been manned, but in the 1970s they were automated. Four rangers still worked at the national park year round, and during the tourist season, which was from May to September, there were campsite supervisors available to help visitors. In the winter the island was mostly deserted. Its lonely location in the middle of the sea meant that Gotska Sandon was subject to harsh weather conditions, which made it difficult for anyone to live there permanently.
While the captain talked, Jacobsson admired the view. They had left Faro and Gotland behind and were making their way through open waters. Nothing but sun-glinting water as far as the eye could see.
‘It won’t be long now,’ said the captain after little more than an hour, and Jacobsson caught a glimpse of a solitary strip of land in the middle of the sea. It grew into a green ribbon without any discernible hills or significant elevation. As they got closer, she could make out the sandy beach that emerged from a long, light-coloured border around the remote island. She was surprised to see so much forested land.
Jacobsson had never set foot on Gotska Sandon before, and she’d always imagined it to be nothing more than a flat, sandy strip of land. As they approached, her image of the place changed.
The boat rounded the last promontory before reaching the area where they would go ashore, and Stefan Norrstrom handed her his binoculars.
‘Take a look. Out there is Bredsand promontory. See the birds? There are eider ducks, goosanders, black- throated divers, and of course black-backed gulls, common terns and herring gulls.’
Jacobsson raised the binoculars to her eyes. It took a moment before she found the correct focus, but when she did, she was astounded.
She was looking at thousands and thousands of seabirds flying around each other at different elevations and sailing back and forth over the promontory. It was an impressive sight.
‘You have to go out there and watch at sunset. It’s really something worth seeing. And it’s not far from the campsite, just a five-minute walk. The beach is so white and wide you’ll think you’re in Bali or somewhere like that.’
‘How often do you get to leave the boat and spend time on the island?’
‘Rarely. This boat shuttles between Nynashamn, Gotska Sandon and Farosund. But I once worked as an assistant to the head ranger. That’s why I know my way around the island.’
Jacobsson took out the photo of Morgan Larsson.
‘Do you recognize this man? His name is Morgan Larsson, and he used to come out to Gotska Sandon every once in a while.’
Stefan Norrstrom took the picture and studied it carefully.
‘No, I’ve never seen him before. And the name doesn’t sound familiar. But I see so many people. It’s impossible to remember them all.’
GOTSKA SANDON, 22 JULY 1985
