It seemed Jakob didn’t quite know where to go from there.
“But what?”
“Sorry. We, Alice and me, were out shopping this evening. Then—um, I don’t quite know how to say this.”
Jakob’s voice sounded strange. Sander pressed the phone tight to his ear.
“What?”
“Are you still home, or did you leave already?” Jakob asked, as though he hadn’t heard Sander’s question. “There’s something I have to show you.”
60
Brothers,Vidar Jörgensson thought as he stood next to a field in Skavböke and gazed out at a region that was just settling down for the night after another hot day.Two dead brothers.
It was past nine. Behind him, men and women with cameras and notepads in hand milled around gravely. They methodically noted what they found, took photographs, and spoke in subdued voices. Vidar took out his phone, dialed a number, and waited as it rang on the other end.
“Okay,” Markus Danielsson said, his mouth full of food. He swallowed. The tinkle of silverware. In the background was the soothing hum of a restaurant’s patio seating. “Let’s hear it.”
“So,” said Vidar. “Blunt trauma to the head. Two or three blows.”
Vidar heard his former colleague and current boss let out a deep sigh as he stood up and wandered away from his table to continue this conversation in private. Vidar remained at the edge of the field, waiting.
“What are you eating?”
“A ribeye.”
“That would hit the spot right about now.”
“Has it been confirmed that it’s him?” Markus said, his voice lower.
“Yes, it’s Filip Söderström. According to the ME, it happened a few hours ago. Toward late afternoon, early evening.”
Seconds of silence.
“Well, listen,” Markus said then, sounding apologetic. “I had hoped you’d get to enjoy a nice, calm summer, but this is going to be yours, I fear.”
“Right,” Vidar said. “Fair enough. I’m going to get back to it here, but I just wanted to let you know. Phones are going to start ringing.”
“How does it look on the scene?”
“I don’t know yet. Too early to say.”
“Well, how does it feel?”
Vidar turned his head. Filip was lying on his back in the grass, well hidden. Only one shoe was visible. The teens who’d found him, a couple who had been sneaking off to canoodle in the summer night, had thought someone was sleeping there. Maybe a drunk. At first they shouted at the shoe, expecting its wearer to wake up and move. When nothing happened, they approached.
“Skinny,” Vidar said. “We’ll have our work cut out for us.”
“I’ll see if I can free up some people for you,” Markus said.
Vidar observed the surroundings a little while longer, as if something he was looking at wasn’t quite as it should be. Only the crime-scene techs and a coordinator were inside the police tape; the officers stayed outside the blue-and-white barrier.
“Does anyone here know this area?” he asked, glancing around. “Anyone live nearby?”
A young officer with long, dark hair tucked under his cap raised a hand and approached Vidar at the edge of the cordoned area.
“I’m from Åled,” he said. “I’m Adrian. Adrian al-Hadid.”
