He hated all these different ‘days’ that had been invented over the past few years. First there were Children’s Day and Book Day and Women’s Day, which were OK — but lately there had been a plethora of days that had to be celebrated. Days officially designated to honour cinnamon rolls, the suburbs, go-karts, and so on. This Sunday was apparently Mitten Day. What could that possibly mean? Was everybody supposed to go around wearing home-made mittens, waving their hands around and looking happy? What purpose could that possibly serve? Were they going to sell pastries shaped like mittens and exchange knitting patterns? He almost felt like doing a report on the topic just because it sounded so dumb.
The rest of the press releases were either from groups dissatisfied with the public-transportation system, or from obscure groups of activists protesting about everything imaginable: a dangerous road outside a school in Gimo, a day-care centre in Vaxholm that was about to be closed, or the long queue at the welfare office in Salem. Johan shook his head as he tossed one press release after another into the wastebasket.
The cameraman for the day showed up and joined him with a cup of coffee. They sat and commiserated about the fact that there were no worthwhile stories to report. Now and then Johan could feel the editor glancing at them, but he chose to ignore her. For just a little while longer.
He tried to ring Emma several times, but the line was always busy. Should she really be spending so much time on the phone when she’s taking care of Elin? he thought with annoyance. Yet he also felt the familiar stab of yearning. His daughter was now eight months old, but he saw her only sporadically.
He put down the phone and looked over at the editor’s desk; she was putting in calls to all the small police stations in their area to find out if anything was going on that might be newsworthy.
He suddenly felt guilty and realized that he needed to pull himself together. It wasn’t her fault that he was tired and out of sorts. Or that Sundays were always hopeless news days. Maybe he could use his police contacts to fish out some tiny morsel that with a little effort could be turned into a story. Good enough for a Sunday, at least.
He was just about to pick up the phone on his cluttered desk when his mobile rang.
He recognized Pia Lilja’s voice at once. She was the cameraperson he most often worked with whenever he went over to Gotland. ‘Did you hear the news?’ she gasped.
‘No, what is it?’
‘They found a dead man hanging from one of the gates in the ring wall this morning.’
‘Are you joking?’
‘No, damn it. It’s true.’
‘Was it suicide?’
‘No idea, but I’m going to find out. I can’t talk any more. I’ve got to go and see what’s happening.’
‘OK. Ring me again as soon as you know anything.’
‘Sure. Ciao.’
Johan punched in the mobile number for Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas. When he answered, he sounded out of breath.
‘Hello, Johan Berg here.’
‘It’s been a long time. Are you back on the job again?’
‘Hey, don’t you ever watch Regional News? I’ve been at it for weeks.’
‘Good to hear that you’re back on your feet again. That’s what I meant.’
Johan chuckled. He’d been off sick for several months after having been stabbed in connection with a homicide case that he’d been involved with the previous summer. His wounds had been quite serious. Knutas had come to see him in the hospital several times, but that was a while ago, and they hadn’t spoken since. ‘So what’s going on over there?’
‘We found a dead man hanging from Dalman Gate this morning.’
‘Was it murder?’
‘Don’t know yet. That’s something the ME’s examination will determine.’
‘So there’s nothing to indicate that it might be murder?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Come on, Knutas. You know my situation. I’m sitting over here in Stockholm. I need to know whether it’s worth me coming to Gotland or not. What does it look like? Murder or suicide?’
‘Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to answer that question.’ Knutas’s tone was a bit less stern.
‘Do you know who the victim is?’
A brief pause.
‘Yes, but he hasn’t been formally identified. And as you very well know, we can’t give out the name just yet. Not until the family’s been notified.’
Knutas was breathing hard. Johan could hear that he was walking as he talked.
‘How old is the victim?’
‘He’s middle-aged. That’s as much as I can tell you. I’ve got to go now. We’ll be sending out a press release later on. There are lots of journalists here, asking questions.’
‘When will you know more?’
‘We’ll probably have a preliminary report by lunchtime, at the earliest.’
‘I’ll get back to you then.’
‘Do that.’
7
Johan frowned as he put down the phone. It was incredibly frustrating not being able to determine whether he should go over to Gotland. He was also acutely aware of how late he’d be in reporting the story if it did turn out to be murder. His Gotland colleagues would obviously have a big head start.
For several years he’d been fighting to establish a permanent reporting team on Gotland, but so far he’d had no success. He thought it was unbelievable that his bosses couldn’t see that a permanent team was needed over there. The island encompassed a relatively large area. And there were almost sixty thousand residents. At the same time, life on the island was changing; the college there was flourishing, as were its cultural life and art community. Gotland was no longer just a place that came alive in the summertime when it was invaded by hundreds of thousands of tourists.
A few minutes later a news bulletin from the TT news service appeared on his screen. TT (Stockholm) A man was found dead just before seven o’clock Sunday morning on Gotland. The man was found hanging from Dalman Gate in the Visby ring wall. His identity has not yet been established. The police are not ruling out foul play.
Just to be on the safe side, Johan booked a seat on the next flight to Visby. Time was of the essence. If it was confirmed that this was a homicide, he needed to get there quickly. The fatigue he had felt was gone and the adrenaline was flowing, as it always did when there was something major happening. If this was murder, he was convinced it would be a big story on all the Swedish TV news programmes. A corpse found hanging from the historic ring wall in idyllic Visby. Bloody hell.
He couldn’t help thinking that if he did end up flying to Gotland, he’d be able to see Emma and Elin sooner than expected. And he found himself in the absurd situation of hoping that the man at the gate had been murdered.
It didn’t take long before the national news editor came rushing into the office to ask them what Regional News was planning to do about the story.
Johan didn’t get a chance to answer before his phone rang again. It was Pia Lilja.
‘I’m almost certain it’s a homicide, Johan. I think you’d better come over here.’
‘What makes you think it’s murder?’
‘My God, I’ve been at the scene! He’s hanging from a noose attached to the portcullis above the gate — and Dalman Gate is really high. The opening itself is over fifteen feet. It would have been impossible to get up there on his own. Plus the police have cordoned off a big area. Why would they do that if there was no crime involved?’
‘OK,’ he said excitedly. ‘Did you get any material? Have you interviewed anyone?’
‘No. The police aren’t saying a word. Not to anybody, if that’s any consolation. But I did get some good footage. I managed to make my way round to the other side of the wall before they put up the police tape, so I got some fucking great angles of the body itself before they took it down. Talk about a macabre sight! I think we’re the only ones on the story at the moment.’