Today his sister had decided not to come along. She had a cold and a bad cough and wanted to stay indoors.
Erik had his mind set on a walk. Together they ate a lunch of fish soup and lingonberry bread, which he had baked himself. Afterward he climbed into his rubber boots, pulled on his parka, and went out.
The morning’s blanket of fog had lifted. Above the fields and meadows on both sides of the narrow gravel path, it was quite clear. The air felt cold and damp. He straightened his cap and decided to walk down to the water. The gravel made a familiar crunching sound under his feet. The black sheep he passed looked up from their grazing as he walked by. Three crows sat in a row on the old half-rotten gate down by the last patch of woods before the beach. They lifted off in unison with an offended cawing as he approached.
Just as he was about to refasten the rusty latch after him, his eye was caught by something odd at the edge of the ditch. It looked like part of an animal. He went closer to the ditch and bent down to look. It was a paw, and it was bloody. Too big to be from a rabbit. Could it be a fox? No, it was black underneath the blood.
Erik moved his gaze along the bloody trail. A little farther off he saw a big black dog. It was lying on its side with its eyes wide open. Its head was twisted at a funny angle, and its fur was completely drenched in blood. The tail looked strangely thick and shiny in the midst of the butchery. When he got closer he could see that its throat had been cut and the head was almost severed from the rest of the dog’s body.
He felt sick and had to sit down on a rock. He was breathing hard, holding his hand to his mouth. His heart was pounding. It was horribly quiet. After a while he got up with an effort and looked around. What had happened here? Erik Andersson had scarcely finished the thought when he caught sight of her. The dead woman lay half covered by pine boughs and branches. She was naked. Her body was covered by big bloody wounds, like stab wounds. Dark locks of hair fell over her forehead, and her lips had lost all color. Her mouth was half open, and when he ventured closer he discovered that a piece of cloth had been stuffed between her lips.
The call came into Visby police headquarters at 1:02 p.m. Thirty-five minutes later, two police cars with sirens screaming pulled into Svea Johansson’s yard in Frojel. It took another five minutes before the medics arrived to take care of the old man, who was rocking back and forth on a chair in the kitchen. His older sister pointed out the wooded area where her brother had made the discovery.
Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas and his colleague Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson hurried on foot toward the patch of woods. They were followed closely by crime scene technician Erik Sohlman and four other officers with dogs.
On the path, before it reached the beach, lay the slaughtered dog in a ditch. Its throat had been cut, and one front paw was missing. The ground all around was spattered with blood.
Sohlman bent over the dog. “Hacked to death,” he observed. “The injuries seem to have been caused by a sharp-edged weapon, presumably an axe.”
Karin Jacobsson shuddered. She was a big animal lover.
A short distance away they found the mutilated body of the woman. They studied the corpse in silence. The only sound came from the waves breaking on the beach.
She lay there naked under a tree in the grove. The body was covered with blood, through which patches of skin could be seen, shining white. Deep stab wounds were visible on her neck, breast, and stomach. Her eyes were wide open, her lips dry and cracked. It looked as if she were yawning. A tight feeling of nausea settled in Knutas’s stomach. He bent over to look more closely.
The perpetrator had shoved a piece of striped cloth between her lips. It looked like a pair of panties.
Without a word Knutas pulled his cell phone from his inside pocket and called the forensic medicine division in Solna. He needed a medical examiner to fly over from the mainland as quickly as possible.
The first report on the wire service was typed in at 4:07 p.m. Information was scanty. VISBY (TT) A woman was found dead on a beach on the west coast of Gotland. According to a statement from the police, she was murdered. The police will not yet say how she was killed. All roads in the vicinity have been blocked off. A man is being interviewed by the police.
It took two minutes before Max Grenfors noticed the message on his screen.
He picked up the telephone and called the duty officer at the Gotland police department. He didn’t learn much more, except that the police could confirm that a woman, born in 1966, had been found murdered on the beach near Gustavs, the Baptist summer camp, in Frojel Parish on the west coast of Gotland. The woman had been identified as a resident of Stockholm. Her boyfriend was being interviewed by the police. The area was being searched with dogs, while the police were busy going door to door in the vicinity, looking for possible witnesses.
At the same moment, the direct line belonging to reporter Johan Berg rang. He was among those who had worked the longest in the newsroom. He had started in television ten years ago, and it was by chance that he became a crime reporter right from the start. On his first day on the job, a prostitute was found murdered at Hammarby Harbor. Johan was the only reporter in the newsroom at the time, so he was given the assignment, and that night it was the top story. Because of that, he had continued as a crime reporter. He still thought it was the most exciting area of journalism.
When the phone rang, he was engrossed in his story about the strike at Osteraker Prison, polishing up the wording on his computer screen. The piece was due to be edited soon, and everything had to be ready before he and the editor could start working to put together video footage, the script for the anchorman, and sound bites. Preoccupied, he picked up the phone.
“Johan Berg, Regional News.”
“They’ve found a woman murdered on Gotland,” rasped a voice in his ear. “She was butchered, apparently with an axe, and she had a pair of panties stuffed in her mouth. A real lunatic is on the loose.”
The man on the phone was one of Johan’s best sources, a retired police officer who lived in Nynashamn. After an operation for throat cancer, he had to breathe through a tube sticking out of his throat.
“What the hell did you say?”
“She was found today on a beach in Frojel, on the west coast.”
“How sure are you about this?” asked Johan, feeling his pulse quicken.
“A hundred percent sure.”
“What else do you know?”
“She was originally from Gotland but moved to the mainland a long time ago. To Stockholm. She was just over on the island to spend a few days with her boyfriend. He’s being interrogated right now.”
“Who found her?”
“Someone who happened to come past. An old fellow they’ve taken to the hospital. He’s probably suffering from shock. That’s all I know. You’ll have to check it out yourself.”
“Thanks. I owe you a couple of beers,” said Johan as he got up from his chair and then put down the receiver.
The relaxed mood in the newsroom was replaced by feverish activity. Johan reported what he knew to the editor, who quickly decided that Johan and a cameraman should take the first plane to Gotland. Someone else could put together the Osteraker story. Right now it was a matter of getting out there and being first on the scene.
Actually Max Grenfors was obligated to inform the managing editor at the big central desk, who was in charge of the news reports for the whole TV station, but that could wait. We’ll just get a little head start, he thought as he barked out orders. He moved down the top story on the priority list for the broadcast. Who cared about the finances of the Academic Hospital now?
Johan outlined what he knew to a female colleague, who hastily put together a script for the anchorman based on the existing information. She also prepared a telephone interview with the duty officer at the Visby police department, who was able to confirm that a woman had been found dead and that the police suspected murder.