The Double Silence (13 page)

A meeting of the investigative team was postponed until 11 p.m. Jacobsson and Wittberg were expected to be back by then.

Knutas cast a glance at his watch as he hurried to the hospital entrance. He had a little less than an hour.

Jakob Ekström was in a private room on the third floor.

Knutas grabbed a chair and brought it over to the bed.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Not so good. My leg hurts like hell. I broke it when I tried to go ashore.’

‘Can you tell me what happened? Start from the very beginning.’

Knutas took out his notebook and a ballpoint pen. He gave a nod of encouragement to Ekström, who grimaced with pain when he tried to sit up straighter.

‘I went out early this morning. It was only nine or nine thirty. I’d been surfing for about an hour when I saw what happened … up there on the bird mountain.’ He fidgeted and looked away. ‘It was … it was horrible.’

‘I understand,’ said Knutas, patting his arm sympathetically. ‘Take your time. Just tell me as many details as you can. The smallest thing might be important.’

The young man reached for the glass of water on the table next to his bed. He took several sips. Then he looked out of the window for a moment before going on.

‘Well, first I saw two people way up there on top of the cliff.’

Knutas studied his face.

‘Try to remember exactly what you saw.’

‘They were standing at the very edge and quite close to each other. I was holding on to the boom and had to keep my eye on the waves because the wind had started to gust, and right about then it began to rain. I couldn’t have been watching those people up there for more than a few seconds when suddenly one of them took a couple of steps forward and gave the other person a big shove so that he was thrown off the cliff. It was terrible … He fell straight down. His body ricocheted off several rocks before it hit the ground. And the birds were flying in all directions.’

‘Are you positive that it was a deliberate push? Could it have been an accident? Or could he have jumped on purpose?’

‘I’m a hundred per cent sure. There’s no doubt in my mind. The other person ruthlessly pushed him over the edge.’

‘Could you tell that it was a man who fell?’

Ekström shuddered, as if to get rid of the image that appeared in his mind.

‘No, I couldn’t tell from so far away. But now I know that it was a man. The director, Sam Dahlberg. At the time I had no idea. I couldn’t tell whether the people on top of the slope were men or women.’

‘Could you make out any details? Their height? Body shape? Clothing? Did you notice anything else?’

Ekström slowly shook his head.

‘No. It all happened so fast.’

‘So when the person fell, what did you do then?’

‘I looked up at the top again, and I shouldn’t have done that. Because that’s when I rammed into a boulder and broke my leg.’ He grimaced again and looked at his right leg, which was elevated in a metal contraption attached to the bed.

‘What happened then?’

‘I guess I passed out for a while because all I remember is an awful bang and then everything went black. When I came to, I was lying in the water and my leg hurt like hell. My board was next to me. The mast had come off, but I managed to make my way to shore. It was touch and go. I had to fight like crazy out there. For a while I really didn’t think I was going to make it …’ His voice broke, and he stared blankly into space.

‘All right,’ said Knutas. ‘That’s enough for now. We can talk more in the morning.’

There was a knock on the door, and a nurse stuck her head in.

‘Your mother and father are here, Jakob.’

Knutas stood up.

‘Thank you. Your testimony is very important. Good luck with your leg. We’ll be in touch later on.’

Jakob Ekström nodded but didn’t say a word.

THAT EVENING A
strained atmosphere reigned on board the extra ferry that had been brought in to take everyone back to Klintehamn. They had all been looking forward to this holiday with such anticipation, but now it had ended in tragedy. And the police had told them very little, refusing to say whether they thought Sam had died as the result of an accident or because of foul play. The coastguard vessel had taken Andrea back to Gotland where she was transported to Visby hospital. After she’d been asked to identify Sam on the beach, she had collapsed completely.

Håkan was sitting inside the ferry with Beata and John. Beata had been crying for hours, but now she seemed to have used up all her tears. John was silent and withdrawn. Håkan was nervously fidgeting with his mobile. He hadn’t been able to tell Stina about the terrible thing that had happened. There was still no connection. His mobile had been dead the entire time they were on Stora Karlsö. He’d been able to phone the children from the ranger station, but he hadn’t managed to reach Stina. They had sent text messages back and forth across the ocean as long as his mobile was functioning. But they kept missing each other, and there was never an opportunity to talk on the phone. And now he was getting no answer at all. He was terrified that she’d find out about Sam’s death from someone else. It won’t be long before the press reveals his identity, he thought.

As soon as Håkan disembarked in Klintehamn and his mobile had coverage, he tried again to get through to his wife, but without success.
Frustrated, he tapped in the number for her boss. Luckily, he had her home phone number.

‘Elisabeth Ljungdahl.’

‘Hi, Elisabeth. This is Håkan Ek, Stina’s husband. I’m sorry to be phoning so late, but I really need to get hold of Stina.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘Something terrible has happened, and I’m trying to reach her, but I can’t get through. She’s in Bangkok, and I’m wondering whether you have the number of her hotel or for one of her colleagues. It’s really urgent.’

‘Now you’re worrying me. Has something happened to you or the children?’

‘No, but a good friend of ours has died. Unfortunately.’

‘You said she’s in Bangkok? Are you sure?’

‘Yes, she was called in on short notice on Saturday and had to rush off. Apparently some sort of emergency.’

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then Elisabeth spoke again, this time sounding hesitant.

‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’

‘Yes, of course I am. She left on Saturday night. We were out on Fårö, and she sent me a text message saying that she had to step in at the last minute for someone who was sick. She flew to Bangkok. I think the plane left Stockholm at five past eleven that night.’

‘Could I call you back? I need to check on something.’

‘Sure.’

He ended the call and then waited, his concern growing.

A few minutes later Elisabeth rang him back.

‘Håkan …’ she began, seeming at a loss for words. ‘There must be some sort of misunderstanding. Stina wasn’t called in and she didn’t fly to Bangkok. She’s expected back on the job tomorrow at five a.m. I don’t understand …’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Well, I’ve checked the schedule and talked to my colleagues, and it seems that …’

Her voice faded into nothingness. The words formed a jumble of
incomprehensible syllables: echoes of a melody that he couldn’t be bothered to listen to. He stood there in bewilderment, holding the mobile pressed to his ear, and his mind was completely blank. The sound of Elisabeth’s nervous voice disappeared.

Without thinking, he flung his mobile as hard as he could into the water. Slowly he sank on to the asphalt. He tried to gather all the disparate thoughts as images raced before his eyes. Sam dead. Stina missing.

At the very back of his mind a warning began to sound, ringing monotonously, reverberating louder and louder.

KNUTAS GOT BACK
to police headquarters just in time for the meeting of the investigative team. It’s been a while since we’ve all had occasion to gather, he thought as he took his customary place at the head of the table and looked at his colleagues.

Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg sat on one side of the table. Crime technician Erik Sohlman and Chief Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg were seated on the other side, along with the police spokesperson, Lars Norrby.

Knutas began by telling them about the events that had occurred on Stora Karlsö over the past twenty-four hours, which had subsequently led to the discovery of the dead man and the injured windsurfer.

‘So it’s almost certain that what we’re dealing with is the murder of Sam Dahlberg. And by the way, his body was identified this evening by his wife Andrea. In this case, we have an unusual circumstance since there was an eyewitness to the murder: the windsurfer saw someone push Dahlberg off the cliff. I met with him at the hospital a short time ago, and he seems completely reliable.’

Knutas summarized what he’d learned from his interview with Jakob Ekström.

‘Good Lord,’ exclaimed Smittenberg. ‘You mean he actually saw it? The very second it happened? That’s amazing.’

‘Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to tell whether it was a woman or a man who pushed Dahlberg. Nor can he say anything about the person’s appearance, but that’s understandable. He was so far away, and it happened
so fast. At any rate, he described watching the body bounce down the mountainside. Bloody awful.’ Knutas shook his head. ‘The preliminary post-mortem report will take a few days. The body will be transported to the pathology lab tomorrow, although we already know the cause of death. And what happened. The question is: Who could be so damned cold-blooded?’

‘Have you done any other interviews yet?’ asked Smittenberg.

‘So far we’ve only had time to speak briefly with a few people who work on the island and the group of friends that Sam Dahlberg was travelling with,’ said Jacobsson. ‘All of them will come in for official interviews tomorrow. Dahlberg was on the island with these friends, neighbours of his in Terra Nova – several couples who spend a lot of time together and usually take a trip every summer. They left on Friday and spent the first two days on Fårö before continuing on to Stora Karlsö.’

‘What have they said so far?’

‘Not much. They all gave more or less the same story about what happened. When they left Fårö everything was hunky-dory. Sam was his usual self, although maybe a bit more cheerful than normal. They arrived at Stora Karlsö on the nine-thirty ferry yesterday morning. During the day they took the sightseeing tour around the island, then went swimming and relaxed. All without incident. They were together the whole time. In the evening they helped catch baby birds until close to midnight. Then they sat on the dock at Hienviken near their cabins and drank wine until late – between two and three a.m.’

‘OK. Then what?’ asked Smittenberg. ‘Who was the last to see Dahlberg?’

Jacobsson looked down at her notes.

‘His wife said that she’s a very sound sleeper. When she woke up, Sam was gone. She assumed that he was somewhere outside, close by. A couple of their friends were out swimming, but he wasn’t with them. Since his painting gear was missing, she thought that he must have gone off to paint. She joined the others in the group for a late breakfast.’

‘Paint?’ asked Norrby in confusion.

‘Sam Dahlberg was quite a respected artist. Don’t you know that?’ said
Jacobsson a bit snidely. She couldn’t stand Norrby, and the feeling was mutual. Their relationship had been strained ever since she was promoted a few years back – overtaking him to become Knutas’s deputy. ‘He’d had several exhibitions of his work, including one here in Visby,’ she went on. ‘He painted landscapes. Watercolours. That’s why it took a while before his wife started to worry. But when the storm moved in and he still hadn’t returned a few hours later, she and a friend went out to look for him.’ Jacobsson again glanced at her notes. ‘Beata Dunmar, married to an American named John Dunmar. She was the one who went along with Andrea, but they didn’t find him, of course. Though they did find his backpack up on the bird mountain. The same one where someone pushed him off.’

‘What time was that?’ asked Knutas.

‘It must have been about five p.m., because shortly after that they rang the police. The officer on duty took the call at five seventeen.’

Knutas rubbed the tip of his nose.

‘OK. They found his belongings at five o’clock. According to the windsurfer, Jakob, he saw Sam Dahlberg get pushed off the cliff around ten or ten thirty in the morning. That’s just an estimate, because he wasn’t wearing a watch. When was Dahlberg last seen? And by whom? What did he do on Sunday morning? His wife said that she didn’t wake up in the night. Is she positive that he slept in their bed at all?’

‘Yes. At least that’s what I gathered when we talked to her,’ said Jacobsson. She cast a glance at Wittberg, who nodded agreement.

‘OK. That means we have no idea what Dahlberg was doing during the night or in the morning up until ten or eleven o’clock,’ Knutas concluded. He turned to crime tech Erik Sohlman. ‘What sort of evidence do we have?’

‘Not much,’ Sohlman admitted, ruffling his red hair, which looked even more dishevelled than usual. ‘But we still have several techs out there, working on site. The crime scene itself is very rocky, and it’s unlikely that we’ll find many traces. Plus that damn rainstorm swept in at just the wrong time and presumably erased any potential evidence. But we did find a few things.’

He stood up and switched off the light. Then he clicked on a picture of Stora Karlsö that appeared on the screen at the front of the room.

‘Here’s the bird mountain,’ said Sohlman, pointing his ballpoint pen at the image. ‘This is the spot where the backpack was found on the slope, just below the crest. We found three cigarette butts there. Gold Blend. And guess who smoked that brand? I’ll give you three guesses.’

‘Sam Dahlberg,’ said Jacobsson.

‘Gold Blend?’ Wittberg frowned. ‘Does that brand still exist? I haven’t seen it for ages.’

‘Yes, it does. So we can assume that he was on the mountain and stayed for a while. Otherwise, we haven’t found a thing at the crime scene. Any footprints or other marks on the ground were washed away by the rain. Since it started to rain before the murder occurred, there weren’t many people out and about. Plus the bird mountain is off the beaten path. And the beach below can only be reached from the water – it’s completely cut off from any land access. Ideal for a murder, in other words. The body was in bad shape when we found it. The birds had been there, having a feast. Feel free not to look,’ Sohlman warned his colleagues, specifically looking at Jacobsson. ‘These photos require a strong stomach.’