‘Thanks, that will be sufficient. I don’t need to know any more at the moment.’
Knutas had grown more sensitive over the years. He could no longer tolerate hearing detailed descriptions of a victim’s injuries.
‘Of course.’
The ME cleared his throat and then let a slight hint of disappointment enter his voice as he went on. ‘As far as the rest of the injuries go, he has several cuts on his face, a bruise over one eyebrow and a scratch on his cheek. He probably sustained these injuries in connection with the assault and when his body was dragged along the ground.’
‘Can you say anything more about the time of death?’
‘I can’t fix the time any closer than to say he was most likely killed between midnight and five or six in the morning. That’s all I have right now. I’ll fax over a copy of the results right away.’
Knutas thanked the ME for his call and put down the phone. Then he rang the main number for the National Criminal Police office and asked to be connected to Inspector Martin Kihlgard. The relationship between the two of them was complicated, but right now Knutas needed help from the National Police. Since Kihlgard was enormously popular with his Gotland colleagues, it would be foolish to ask for anyone else. Knutas listened to the phone ringing for a long time before Kihlgard answered. It was obvious that he was eating something.
‘Hello?’ he said, his voice muffled.
‘Hi, it’s Anders Knutas. How are things?’
‘Knutie!’ exclaimed his colleague with delight. ‘I was wondering when you were going to ring. Wait just a minute, I need to finish what I’m eating.’
A frantic chewing could be heard on the other end of the line, followed by a couple of gulps of some sort of liquid. That was finished off by a quick belch. Knutas grimaced. Kihlgard’s insatiable appetite always got on his nerves, along with the fact that his Stockholm colleague insisted on calling him Knutie, even though Knutas had repeatedly asked him not to use that nickname.
‘All right, I guess I’ll live now. But I’m glad you rang, because I was starting to think that nothing much was happening over here.’
‘You’re lucky,’ said Knutas drily. ‘We need your assistance.’
Briefly he explained the facts of the case as Kihlgard listened, murmuring his agreement now and then. Knutas could picture him sitting in his cluttered office in the NCP building in Stockholm, his huge body weighing down his chair, his long legs propped up on another chair. Kihlgard was six foot three and must have weighed well over 220 pounds.
‘There’s certainly a lot of action over in your neck of the woods. Sounds like the wild West.’
‘Yes, I keep wondering where this is all heading,’ said Knutas with a sigh.
‘I’ll gather up a few colleagues, and we’ll probably catch the first flight over tomorrow morning.’
‘Fine,’ said Knutas. ‘See you soon.’
24
He’d gone past the place several times. At first he wanted to go inside, but decided to wait. Each time he went there, he put on a slight disguise. Just to be on the safe side. There was always a risk that he might run into somebody he knew. He’d decided to do everything in the proper order and take his time. Slowly but surely he would make his approach, so that when the time was right he could ruthlessly launch his attack. First he wanted to get to know his victim. Afterwards it would be too late.
Right now he stood watching the man on the other side of the windowpane, trying to gather his courage to go inside. Not because he was afraid of the man; rather, he was afraid of himself. That he might not be able to stop himself from assaulting him. He took several deep breaths. Self-control was usually his strong point; at the moment he wasn’t so sure.
He noticed that he was breathing hard and knew that wouldn’t do. He took a walk around the block to calm his nerves. When he came back, the man was on his way out, carrying a big bag in his hand. He headed for the subway.
He followed the man. After three stops the man got off and took the escalator up to the street level, crossed the street and disappeared into the premises of one of the city’s largest and most exclusive gyms. He followed, paying the fee at the check-in counter. It was shockingly expensive. They wanted 150 kronor for one visit.
The gym was almost deserted at this time of day. A few machines clattered, and music was thumping. A girl in leggings and a tight-fitting leotard was using a step machine while reading a book. After a while the man he was following came out of the locker room. He began running on a treadmill; it looked pathetic.
Since he hadn’t brought any workout clothes, he couldn’t join in, which was a shame. It would have been great to run right next to the man and provoke him in some way.
Even though he’d made the decision to proceed slowly in order to prolong the suffering as much as possible, he was seized by a strong desire to think up something right now, just to give the man a scare. He went into the toilet to make sure that his disguise was still in place.
When he came out, the man had moved over to the weight-training equipment. He was lying on a bench and lifting the weights overhead. From a distance he watched the man add more and more weight. Finally he lay there, gasping loudly with the effort. Each end of the barbell had 88 pounds on it.
Cautiously he glanced around before approaching. The man was lying on his back and didn’t notice him. No one was near; the girl on the step machine was in a different room and had her back to them. The other guy who had been in the weight-training room had now left. But he needed to be careful.
At the last second he stopped himself. Something made him pause and then retreat a couple of paces. It wouldn’t be good to get too eager right now. That would wreck everything. He had to restrain himself, not try any mischief that might ruin it all. What if he was arrested by the police before he was ready? That would be disastrous.
He went up the half flight of stairs to the gym’s cafe, sank down on a chair and tried to concentrate on breathing calmly.
After a while he stood up to get a glass of water, but was suddenly overcome by nausea. He had to rush to the nearest gents’, which happened to be in the weight-training room.
Strong convulsions surged through his body and he vomited into the toilet. He was mortified to discover tears running down his face. For a long time he sat on the floor, trying to gather his wits. Would he really be able to carry out the plan he had devised?
All of a sudden somebody knocked on the door. He froze, and his heart began pounding fast.
He swiftly got to his feet, moved to the sink and splashed water on his face. Then he flushed the toilet several times. When he opened the door he almost had a heart attack. There stood the man, asking him with a worried look whether everything was all right.
For what seemed like an eternity but was actually only a few seconds, he stared into those grey-green eyes that showed both worry and sympathy. Then he muttered that he was OK and pushed his way past.
25
At the meeting later in the day, Knutas informed the investigative team of Martin Kihlgard’s imminent arrival. His announcement was met with scattered applause.
The cheerful, boisterous inspector from the NCP was not only a skilled officer but also a clown who had lightened the mood at many a dismal morning meeting when an investigation had seemed at its most hopeless. One person who was particularly fond of him was Karin Jacobsson, and right now she was beaming. Knutas hadn’t seen her look so happy in a long time. Occasionally he thought the two of them might be sweethearts. At the same time, the very idea of those two as a couple seemed ridiculous. Karin weighed only half as much as Kihlgard and she hardly reached up to his chest. He was also fifteen years older; not that the age difference would in itself be a hindrance. But Kihlgard seemed much older, as if he belonged to a different generation. Knutas thought he actually bore a strong resemblance to the old slapstick film star Thor Modeen from the forties. Sometimes they seemed ludicrously alike. But Kihlgard’s jovial exterior was deceptive. He was an incisive police detective: tough, analytical and completely fearless.