Free The Dead of Summer by Mari Jungstedt Page A

of annoyance. She wasn’t sure why. But it was gone as abruptly as it had appeared.
    ‘When will he be back?’
    ‘In a week.’
    ‘Uh-huh.’
    Kihlgård ran his eyes over the table. Presumably in search of a treat, thought Jacobsson. He was the most voracious glutton and had the biggest sweet tooth of anybody she’d ever met.
    She asked each of her colleagues to introduce themselves briefly before she turned to Wittberg.
    ‘You’ve compiled all the interviews, Thomas. What do they tell us?’
    ‘The murder took place just after six yesterday morning. We can pin that down with some certainty because a couple living in a cabin near the crime scene heard the shots while they were listening to the news broadcast on the radio. They both heard at least five or six shots. They didn’t call the police because they were convinced somebody was just out shooting rabbits. A lot of that goes on in the area – poachers hunting rabbits, that is,’ he said, turning to his colleagues from Stockholm. ‘In the peaceful terrain of Fårö we would hardly expect somebody to be murdered.’
    ‘They still could have called the police,’ objected Kihlgård. ‘It’s illegal to shoot rabbits!’
    ‘I know,’ admitted Wittberg. ‘But the people who live on Fårö are so used to it that nobody pays any attention any more.’
    ‘At any rate, there’s nothing to contradict the witnesses’ statement as to the time of the murder,’ said Sohlman. ‘Peter Bovide probably died instantly from the first shot, the one that struck his forehead. And he’d been dead for three and a half hours before he was found.’
    Sohlman got up and pulled down the white screen at the front of the room. He turned off the lights and switched on his computer. A detailed map of the bay and the campsite at Sudersand appeared on the screen.
    ‘If he left the caravan just after five thirty, he should have reached this point no later than five or ten minutes before six o’clock. It takes about fifteen or twenty minutes to run to the other end of the beach.’
    Sohlman pointed with his pen to indicate the route that Bovide must have taken. Nobody said a word.
    ‘Somewhere along here on the beach, at the water’s edge, he encountered his killer. His footprints were still in the sand when we searched the area. Judging by the bloodstains on the sand and the way the body had fallen, it seems that the victim was first shot in the forehead. He toppled over on to the sand, then the perpetrator took a few steps forward and continued to fire – we’re talking about no fewer than seven shots to the abdomen. After that the body was dragged into the water, where it drifted out quite a distance, at least twenty to thirty yards. That’s not so strange, considering the offshore wind that we had yesterday morning.’
    Sohlman tugged at a lock of his hair, a habit of his, and then went on.
    ‘We’ve found two empty shell casings on the beach, but no bullets. They’re probably all still in the body. The post mortem is being done right now, so we’ll have to wait for the preliminary report.’
    ‘Yes, I’m hoping to get it some time this evening,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Now I think we should discuss what the motive might be for the murder. What sort of options do you see? I’d like all of us to do some brainstorming on the subject. Feel free to voice your opinions.’
    Her colleagues, who had worked with Knutas for aeons, now looked at her in astonishment. They weren’t used to anything like this, being asked to speculate about possible scenarios with so few facts on the table. Knutas detested speculation. Wittberg was the first to respond.
    ‘If he was shot just after six o’clock but arrived at the site five or ten minutes before six, then the question is: what did Peter Bovide do during the last minutes of his life?’
    ‘Maybe he injured himself while he was running and had to stop. Or maybe he was simply tired and needed to take a break,’ suggested