The Dangerous Game (6 page)

The dog was his only companion. She never nagged him or interrupted, and she didn’t care when he ate or slept. She simply adapted to whatever he did. When he sat down in front of the computer for yet another writing session, she would obediently curl up under the desk, heave a big sigh and fall asleep. She was a quiet and undemanding companion who gave him constant and unconditional love. Thanks to her, he went out every day for long walks that helped him to clear his head while also getting some fresh air and exercise without needing to sweat. At night she lay at his feet, which he found comforting on those occasions when he felt too alone in this isolated setting. The dog was definitely an author’s best friend.

By now, Olof Hellström had been living in the house for six months. And his book was practically finished. At Christmastime, he would go back to Stockholm.

He was spending this particular night writing. That was often the case. There’s no one else I need to consider, he thought, rather bitterly. He was sitting at the kitchen table, with only a candle for light as he worked on the last chapter. He was astonished that, once again, he’d actually managed to write a whole book. The months in this house had done him good. His publisher would be pleased and he was ready to face the big city again.

Every once in a while he would look out at the darkness. The house stood close to the sea, its black and endless expanse visible outside the window. Now and then, the moon would peek out from the clouds and cast a white glow over the lawn leading down to the water.

He heard a sound outside. A faint clattering, like the sound of a boat motor. He gave a start. Who the hell could that be? Hardly anybody came out here in the winter.

The dog growled from under the table. She sensed that something wasn’t right. Olof hushed her, then decided to leave her in the house. On his way out, he put on his jacket and grabbed a pocket torch.

The night air was cold and fresh, with almost no wind. The boat motor was now clearly audible. He walked briskly across the grass, soft with night-time dew.

The clattering sound had slowed, sounding intermittent, as if the motor might be shut down at any second. That meant the boat was about to dock. And even if it was an ordinary fishing boat, that would be odd. Those boats always left from the small-boat marina, which was further away. Here the shore was rocky, and there was only a private dock that belonged to the house. Olof Hellström suddenly felt uneasy. He didn’t want to get involved in anything.

A two-metre-high stone wall ran along the shore on this side, hiding him from view. He turned off his torch well before he came to the wall. The fact that a boat had arrived here in the middle of the night was so unexpected that he didn’t want to make his presence known. When he reached the end of the wall, he cautiously peered around it.

Down by the water a beacon emitted a red light towards the sea to guide boats into the harbour. In the glow from the beacon he saw a man pull up next to the dock and climb out of a small fibreglass vessel that was hardly bigger than a rowboat. Surprised, Olof watched as the stranger shoved the boat back out to sea instead of tying it to a mooring post. The man wore dark clothing and seemed in a hurry. He dashed across the wooden planks and headed for the road. Olof Hellström was puzzled and didn’t know what to do. Should he shout, or not? He decided not to. Then the man stopped and turned around.

Olof stood there as if paralysed, and waited. He now regretted not bringing the dog.

DREAD WRIGGLES ITS
way like a poisonous snake through her stomach as time for the next meal approaches. A voice screams inside her that she won’t. But no one hears. No one is listening. No one cares. What she feels or wants is no longer taken into consideration. She has become dehumanized, degraded into some sort of living doll that must get fatter at all costs. Just so that the staff on the ward can improve their statistics and boast of the results. As a human being, she is worth nothing.

She and her personal nurse, Per, trudge down the corridor towards the dining room. There they will pick up their lunch and carry it on trays to the food lab, which is a room that is used by those who can’t handle eating with the rest of the patients in the dining room. Agnes has brought along a device that tells her how much she should put on her plate and how fast she should eat. It’s like a little computer attached to a plate that functions as a scale. Everyone on the ward has their own device. Agnes calls hers the Widget. Each food portion weighs 250 grams and has to be eaten in twenty-five minutes, in accordance with the guidelines that have been individually designed for her. If she eats too slowly, the voice of the actor Mikael Nyqvist issues from the device, telling her that she has to speed up. Usually, it takes her an hour to finish the food. Mikael Nyqvist gets to speak several times.

The patients had been allowed to vote on which voice would speak from the Widget. The choice was Rikard Wolff or Mikael Nyqvist. And Nyqvist won. She doesn’t know why. Maybe he was asked first. At any rate, he agreed to be the human voice for seriously ill patients suffering from anorexia. Maybe it was his way of doing a good deed. Sometimes Agnes turns off the sound when she can’t stand listening to his admonishments any more. But usually she appreciates his company. It’s almost as if Nyqvist is right next to her in the room and she doesn’t have to be alone with the nurse, who is always sitting across from her like some sort of prison guard.

The room is small, windowless and claustrophobic. A pine table and two chairs, one on each side, are the only furniture. A clock on the wall ticks relentlessly, demonstrating with the utmost clarity what a wretchedly long time it takes for her to eat the food. The colourful runner on the table jeers at her. The chairs scrape on the floor as they sit down. Per sits across from her. He’s the nurse she likes best in the clinic. She guesses he must be about twenty-five, but she has never asked. Sometimes she can’t bear his presence either. On certain days he seems preoccupied, like today. Then it’s easier to fool him.

Agnes stares at her tray. A glass contains 8.25 millilitres of milk, and she has to drink every drop. Milk is difficult, as are all dairy products. It feels so fatty and thick. As if the milk settles in a layer inside her guts and stays there. Making her heavy.

The lunch is in an aluminium container. She lifts the lid and stares at the fish. It’s in a creamy sauce. Dread seizes hold of her. How in the world is she going to eat that? She turns on the Widget, taps in her password, and instantly hears Nyqvist saying, ‘Set the plate on the scale.’ She does as he says. ‘Serve the food.’ She begins spooning out the contents of the aluminium box until the digits on the display reach one hundred and turn green – a hundred per cent. No more, no less. If she puts only ninety per cent on the scale, the Widget goes on strike and won’t continue. There’s no use trying to cheat.

As always, she’s amazed at the huge amount of food in front of her. It rises up like an unconquerable mountain. A heap of mashed potatoes, a piece of cod with egg sauce, two wedges of tomato, several slices of cucumber and a couple of lettuce leaves. She also has to get down a glass of milk and a piece of white bread with Bregott cream cheese. All this food in twenty-five minutes.

Unconcerned, Per starts eating while, inside Agnes, a war commences in which obsessive thoughts wrestle with each other. The battle is right in front of her. What matters now is to eat as little as possible without drawing Per’s attention.

Agnes has become an expert at finding topics to talk about. She is able to distract a nurse by starting up a conversation that becomes so lively that he or she forgets to stay on alert every second. She’s very good at chatting when she’s in the right mood.

And all she needs is a second to get rid of at least part of the serving of food. At first, when the nurse is paying closest attention, she proceeds cautiously. She starts by cutting up the fish into tiny pieces. She stirs the mashed potatoes with her fork, dabbing at them and moulding little bits into various shapes. If she divides up the food as much as possible, maybe it won’t stay inside her body as long. Maybe it will burn off more quickly. Everything depends on getting the horrible stuff out of her body as fast as possible.

Carefully and discreetly, she moves the glass of milk, making drops spill down the outside. She clanks her fork and knife on the plate for extended intervals before putting a tiny little piece of food in her mouth. She chews for a long time, frequently pushing out a dab of mashed potato and sauce on to her lips. Quick as lightning, she wipes it off with her napkin. Agnes wipes her lips many times during the meal. Every bit she avoids eating is a victory. The spilled sauce is a triumph.

But Nyqvist protests when she eats too slowly. ‘Eat a little faster.’

Agnes chats eagerly about all sorts of things in order to distract Per. Breadcrumbs land on the floor as she urgently makes a point about something. When Per looks down at his plate to take another bite of food, a piece of fish swiftly disappears into the pocket of Agnes’s hoodie. She leans forward a bit as she talks, managing at the same time to poke her finger into the mashed potatoes, which she then wipes on the underside of the table. She pretends to scratch her head, but what Per doesn’t notice is that at the same time she sticks the rest of the bread and cream cheese on to the back of her neck, underneath her hair. And she keeps on in that way. By the time they leave the room an hour later, Agnes has managed to sneak away almost a third of the designated portion of food. It has gone better than expected. Per must be tired today, preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Her anxiety has diminished. At least for now.

THE PHONE WAS
ringing and it was only five thirty in the morning. Fear gripped Johan as he rushed to take the call. In a matter of seconds he managed to remind himself that all the children were staying with them so, no matter who was ringing, it couldn’t be about his kids. He felt a flash of relief before he picked up. It was one of Emma’s closest friends.

‘Hi. It’s Tina,’ said an agitated voice. ‘I’m sorry to wake you, but something terrible has happened.’

‘What is it?’

A moment of hesitation before she said apologetically, ‘I think I should talk to Emma first. It’s about my daughter, Jenny.’

‘Sure. Let me get her.’

Johan hurried to the bedroom to wake Emma. For once, she came wide awake immediately, as if she could hear in his voice that something serious had happened.

Johan went out to the kitchen to make coffee as he waited. When Emma had finished talking on the phone, she came into the room and sank down on a chair.

‘Tina is at the hospital with Jenny. She was doing a photo shoot on Furillen, and very early this morning she found that the photographer, Markus Sandberg, was lying injured in his cabin. He’d been assaulted.’

‘Good Lord. Was he badly hurt?’

‘He’s alive, but his injuries are life-threatening. They took him by helicopter to the hospital in Stockholm.’

‘How’s Jenny?’

‘In a state of shock, of course. But she’s not hurt. By the time she turned up, whoever attacked Sandberg had disappeared.’

‘Did some sort of quarrel lead to the attack?’

‘No, everything was normal at the photo session yesterday. But Markus didn’t make it to dinner, so Jenny went looking for him and found him lying on the floor, beaten to a pulp. Nobody knows who did it.’

‘Where did she find him?’

‘In a cabin on Furillen. One of those little remote cabins that belong to the hotel. The police want to interview Jenny when she feels up to it. Apparently, the doctors have given her a sedative.’

The next second, Johan was on his way back to the bedroom to get dressed. The fact that Markus Sandberg was the one who’d been assaulted made the news a much hotter story than if the victim had been unknown to the general public. Sandberg had an odd career behind him. He was one of the few photographers in Sweden who was a household name, largely because of his reputation as a scandalous porn photographer, and because he’d been the host of a controversial TV programme on a commercial channel. The programme was accused of being sexist and demeaning to women, and it didn’t last long. But enough episodes were broadcast that the name Markus Sandberg became etched into the public’s consciousness. There was no mistaking his personal appeal: with his warmth, humour and charisma, he was a big hit among viewers. And even though the programme was cancelled, he continued to turn up on various game and quiz shows on TV. He always acquitted himself well, and gradually people forgot about his dubious past. He then shifted gear to become a full-time fashion photographer, and suddenly he was appearing in all sorts of contexts. He was a judge for various fashion and beauty contests, and he published a photography book that catalogued Swedish fashion through the ages. Markus Sandberg had certainly succeeded in building a new brand for himself, and that had been irrefutably confirmed in the summer when he became a regular interviewer on the radio station P1.

Johan eagerly tapped in Pia Lilja’s phone number. Since she answered at once, he assumed that she’d already heard what had happened. He quickly told her what he knew.

‘I was just about to ring you,’ said Pia. ‘Julia, a girl that I know, called to tell me about it. Her mother is a cleaner at the hotel. Are you going to contact the police?’

‘Yup, although I thought we might as well head for Furillen first. We can always interview the police later, but we need to get pictures.’

‘Definitely. I’ll gather up my equipment and we can leave as soon as you get here.’

BY 7 A.M.
, after Sandberg had been discovered out on Furillen, the investigative team was already gathered at police headquarters in Visby. Knutas noted that his colleagues looked tired and pale in the merciless white glare from the fluorescent ceiling light. November certainly was a gloomy month.

The most important team members were all present: Assistant Superintendent Karin Jacobsson; Detective Inspector Thomas Wittberg, who was a real charmer; and the somewhat reserved spokesperson, Lars Norrby. Technician Erik Sohlman would stay for part of the meeting, but then he had to return to the crime scene on Furillen. The forensic work would get started as soon as there was enough daylight. Chief Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg had also been called in. Knutas had great confidence in the prosecutor and liked to have him participate from the very outset.