Dark Angel (2 page)

Most of the faces in the crowd of people were well known to the island residents. Local politicians, the top business people, the county governor and the bishop, the cultural élite as well as famous summer guests who had flown over from the mainland to take part in the festivities. The number
of
celebrities and bigwigs who bought summer houses on Gotland seemed to increase every year.

In the lobby of the conference centre stood the evening’s host, the event planner Viktor Algård. Along with the governor and the chair of the county administrative board he had formed a receiving line to greet the guests. There was the steady sound of people kissing each other on the cheek as polite words were exchanged.

The foyer quickly filled, accompanied by the cheerful buzz of voices. It was at least 10 metres to the ceiling, and the décor was done in an authentic Gotland style, with pastel colours. Young waitresses moved deftly among the assembled guests, offering hors d’oeuvres and chilled Moët et Chandon. White lilies had been meticulously arranged in slender crystal vases, and candles were burning in lanterns placed on cocktail tables scattered about the lobby. The view from the enormous picture windows was magnificent: Visby seen at its very best. Almedalen, with its green lawns, the pond with the ducks and the rippling fountain. The ring wall, partially covered with ivy, surrounding a hotchpotch of medieval buildings. The thirteenth-century ruins of St Drotten and St Lars churches, and crowning everything the cathedral’s three black spires reaching up to the heavens. Beyond it, the endless sea. The site chosen for the conference centre was perfect.

When all the guests had arrived, the county governor ascended a podium that had been positioned in a corner of the lobby. She was an elegant woman in late middle age, wearing a black floor-length skirt and silk blouse. Her blond hair had been stylishly cut.

‘I would like to welcome all of you,’ she began, letting her gaze sweep over the festively clad audience. ‘It’s a great honour for me to dedicate, at last, our new conference centre here in Visby. The project has taken five years and so many of us have been longing to see the final result. And what a result it is.’

She made a grand gesture to indicate the setting. Then she paused for dramatic effect, as if wanting to give everyone time to truly take in the atmosphere and savour the tasteful furnishings. The light grey floor was
made
of Gotland limestone from Slite, the walls were adorned with guild banners, and the long reception counter was decorated with knotted wool from Gotland sheep. A wide, illuminated staircase made from American cherrywood led up to the next floor, which was to be the setting for the banquet and after-dinner dancing.

‘Of course there have been sceptics,’ the governor went on. ‘Anyone who wants to change things will always face opposition. But I think that most people realize what an asset the conference centre is going to be for Gotland.’

She cleared her throat. What she had just said was a vast understatement. The protests against construction had been both numerous and loud. She had been surprised at the force of the opposition. A never-ending flow of complaints had been lodged with the municipality and the county administrative board ever since the plans had been made public. The debate had raged in the local newspapers. Many feared that the scanty tax revenues from Gotland residents would be eaten up by an unnecessary luxury building at the expense of childcare and services for the elderly. Islanders still had fresh memories of other ventures that had ended in disaster. They were apprehensive of another Snäck, the plan to build a hotel and condos just north of the city. The project had gone to pot and cost the district millions. When the construction project went bankrupt, the municipality was forced to sell the whole kit and caboodle to a local entrepreneur for a paltry sum. No one wanted to see that sort of fiasco repeated.

And that didn’t even take into account the opposition that arose because of the location of the conference centre. The monstrosity stood smack in the line of sight from the Gotlanders’ beloved park, Almedalen. To top it all off, the structure blocked the view of the sea.

Environmental activists had staged demonstrations during the entire construction process, chaining themselves to fences surrounding the site. Their protests had caused delays, which in turn had led to cost overruns. Yet in spite of everything, the building was now complete. The governor was relieved that the project had finally been brought to a successful conclusion.

‘At the moment it may be hard to see what the significance of the conference centre will be, but one thing is certain: this is a step in the right direction so that Gotland will be able to grow. And it’s totally in keeping with the favourable development that has taken place on the island over the past few years.’

A delighted murmur and nods of approval from members of the audience.

‘The community college has been growing year by year, and we’re managing to entice more and more students to attend,’ she went on. ‘Our young people no longer need to leave the island to study on the mainland. Many respected teachers have moved here and, in my view, the future looks bright for Gotlanders. Businesses have put their faith in our future and the tourist industry is enjoying an upswing. Last year there were forty thousand more nights spent at our tourist facilities, compared to the previous year. Let’s all rejoice at this development and celebrate our important new asset, which will help to promote Gotland. Let’s all drink a toast! Cheers for the conference centre!’

The governor’s voice wavered and her eyes were shining. There was no mistaking her emotion.

All of the assembled guests raised their glasses.

VIKTOR ALGÅRD OPENED A
bottle of Ramlösa mineral water and looked around. So far the dedication celebration had proceeded largely as planned. There really hadn’t been any reason for him to be nervous. He’d organized so many events over the years that by now it was mostly routine. He was Gotland’s very own Bindefeld, the party king. Slightly older, a bit thicker around the middle and without the same network of contacts, but still a local celebrity. Viktor Algård was elegantly attired in a black suit tailored in a fashionably modern style. His lavender silk shirt was handsomely cut, giving him a touch of the dandy. He was past fifty but clearly in excellent shape. Hardly any wrinkles were evident on his open, friendly face except when he laughed, which he did frequently. His hair was still dark and thick. In honour of the occasion, he had combed his long hair back so it reached almost to his shoulders. He had an olive complexion, which he’d inherited from his Tunisian-born father, along with his dark eyes and full lips. In general, he was quite satisfied both with himself and with his appearance.

Now he gazed with pleasure at the building’s hyper-modern banquet hall, which could hold up to a thousand guests.

He took a certain pride in being allowed to arrange a dedication, in being the very first on the scene. He’d spent the past few months meticulously planning this event, fine-tuning all the details down to the very last minute.

He raised his hand to give a wave to the governor, who smiled at him. He could understand why she was so happy. The only disappointment was
the
blustery wind, which had forced them to hold the welcome ceremony indoors. But what did that matter when the champagne was expensive and the glasses gleaming?

He went upstairs to the kitchen to make sure everything was going as it should. He found the place in a frenzy, with eight chefs working to create the perfect meal. The appetizer was being plated. On the menu were: salmon and lemon parfait with feta and arugula creme, followed by mustard-marinated roast lamb with root-vegetable gratin. And dessert was a nougat panna cotta with raspberries marinated in elderberry juice. All typical Gotland fare, elevated to a sophisticated level. He shouted encouragement to the chefs, who were sweating over the stoves, before he returned to the bar. He noted with satisfaction that the glasses were being rapidly refilled. It was important not to be stingy with the booze; the guests needed to be warmed up as quickly as possible. Linen tablecloths had been placed on the tables and the waitresses, all dressed in white, were lighting the candles in the silver candelabras. It looked as though it was going to be a perfect evening.

The lobby was crowded with guests and, judging by the laughter and chatter, they were already in a festive mood.

A short distance away stood his lover, carrying on an intense conversation with two of the island’s foremost artists. Her fiery red dress and platinum-blond hair made her stand out among the other guests. Almost queenlike, if it weren’t for her exuberant spirit. She laughed loudly and waved her arms about to underscore her words as she apparently regaled the artists with one of her countless anecdotes. Both men stood very close to her, their expressions rapturous.

Algård chuckled and gave her an amorous glance as he hurried past.

Their relationship had begun two months ago. It happened at a gallery opening that he had arranged in town. She was strolling about, looking at the paintings, and they had struck up a conversation. They got on so well that they left the event together. They took a walk along the seafront and ended the evening by having dinner. By the time they parted, late that night, he was in love.

So far no one knew of their relationship. They had chosen to wait
to
make their love public. Visby was such a small town that gossip was rampant, and his divorce from Elisabeth was not yet final. He didn’t want to hurt her any more than necessary. Elisabeth was so weak. Fragile, both physically and psychologically.

Nothing like his lover.

DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT KNUTAS
didn’t particularly care for this type of event. The small talk and overblown friendliness felt horribly insincere and rarely involved a single sensible conversation at any point in the evening. His wife Lina had persuaded him to attend. Knutas had been head of the Gotland criminal police for close to twenty years and his position carried certain obligations. There were some events that he simply couldn’t avoid, and the dedication of the new conference centre was an important occasion for the island. Besides, Lina thought it was fun to mix with the crowds. In Knutas’s eyes, his wife was a social genius. She knew how to chat easily with anyone she happened to meet, always giving them her full attention. She could start up a meaningful conversation with everyone, from the lowly civil servant who worked in the municipal administration offices to the country’s most famous pop singer. Knutas had no idea how she did it.

This evening Lina wore a loose-fitting grass-green dress with embroidered silk flowers. Her red, waist-length tresses hung loose over her shoulders, giving her the look of a wood nymph. She was energetically gesticulating, waving her pale, freckled arms about as she sat across from him at the long banquet table. He couldn’t help smiling.

For once he’d been lucky with the seating arrangements. On his right sat Erika Smittenberg, the charming wife of the chief prosecutor. She was a ballad singer from Ljugarn who wrote her own songs, which she often performed at rural community centres and small pubs all over the island. Knutas had always been intrigued by the Smittenbergs; they
were
so different from each other that it was almost comical. Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg was tall, lanky and pleasant in an unobtrusive way, but bone-dry and proper in all situations. His wife was petite and plump with a boisterous laugh that made the glasses on the table vibrate and caused people to turn their heads in surprise to stare in her direction. Knutas thoroughly enjoyed her company and they talked about all sorts of subjects – but not about his job. He appreciated her discretion. One topic to which they devoted a good deal of attention was golf, since it was one of Knutas’s chief interests. Gotland, with its wide-open spaces and mild climate, was perfectly suited to the game. Erika told him hilarious stories about her struggles when she first took up the sport the previous year.

Spring had arrived and the lawns had turned green. The sun was putting in an appearance more and more often, warming both the ground and their frozen winter souls. He really should go out to Kronholmen, his favourite golf course, one of these days. It had been a long time since he last played. Maybe I’ll go there tomorrow, he thought. If only the wind would stop blowing. He was hoping to take the kids along. As they got older, he felt that he was losing contact with them. The twins would soon be seventeen and they were in secondary school. It was alarming how time was rushing past. He couldn’t keep up.

Suddenly he felt Erika give him a playful poke in the side.

‘What kind of dinner companion are you, anyway?’ she pouted, feigning indignation, but the next second she broke into a smile. ‘What are you daydreaming about?’

‘Sorry,’ he said. He gave her a smile and then raised his glass. ‘All that talk about golf made me yearn for Kronholmen.
Skål!
’

THE DANCE FLOOR
quickly filled as the band began playing a ‘slow’ tune. Everyone had finished their coffee and the bar was open. The party was going well, Viktor Algård decided, now that they’d made it through the most difficult part of the evening. Serving dinner for over five hundred people was always a juggling act, but it had gone off without a hitch. Now the guests were leaving their assigned seats at the tables to seek out other company. Some headed for the dance floor; others settled themselves on the sectional sofas arranged along the walls.

Algård exchanged a few words with the waiters, making sure that everything would continue to run smoothly. After that, it was time for him to take a well-deserved break. He tried to catch a glimpse of his lover in the crowd, but he couldn’t see her anywhere. He would have liked to share a private moment with her. Provided they could do so without drawing attention, that is. But she’d probably been invited to dance by the man seated next to her at the table. Viktor glanced at his watch. Eleven forty-five. The dinner had lasted longer than expected, which was actually a good sign. Everyone at the banquet tables had seemed in high spirits right from the beginning, with plenty to talk about. The surprise event of the evening was scheduled for midnight, so he might as well wait until the show began. He took a sip of his mineral water, allowing his thoughts to drift. His wife’s face popped up in his mind. She wore an accusatory expression, as if she knew. Not that it would really be a surprise. Their marriage had lost its spark long ago. They continued to live side by side, but their paths seldom crossed any more. They lived in a large, isolated manor
house
out in the country near Hamra in Sudret, the southern part of the island. Elisabeth spent all her time at her loom out in the barn, which had been turned into a weaving studio. It was as if she didn’t really need him any more. He in turn devoted himself to his job and his extensive social network. He’d acquired many friends over the years, but Elisabeth didn’t like most of them. She was a loner who detested events such as this. The migraine that she’d developed in the afternoon was probably just a pretext to get out of attending the dedication celebration. It was an effective way of avoiding anything she didn’t want to deal with, although no one could question her motives when she lay in bed in a darkened room with a towel over her face. To be honest, he was actually grateful for her absence. It meant that he could slip away with his mistress after the event and stay overnight at his flat in town.