by Sten, Viveca
ALSO BY VIVECA STEN IN THE SANDHAMN MURDERS SERIES
Still Waters
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2009 Viveca Sten
Translation copyright © 2016 Laura A. Wideburg
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as I den innersta kretsen in Sweden in 2009. Translated from Swedish by Laura A. Wideburg. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2016.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503953888
ISBN-10: 1503953882
Cover design by Kimberly Glyder
To the kindest Alexander in the world
CONTENTS
SUNDAY
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
He was seven…
MONDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
TUESDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
Their loud voices…
WEDNESDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
THURSDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
His white graduation…
FRIDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
SATURDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 31
SUNDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 32
MONDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
“A toast for…
TUESDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 35
WEDNESDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
THURSDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 38
FRIDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
SATURDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 41
SUNDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 42
MONDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 43
TUESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 44
WEDNESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 45
The music was…
THURSDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
FRIDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
SATURDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
SUNDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
“I love you,”…
MONDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
TUESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
WEDNESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
When did he…
THURSDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
FRIDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
SATURDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 71
SUNDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 72
MONDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
TUESDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
WEDNESDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
Why did he…
THURSDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
FRIDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
SUNDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
He sat on…
CHAPTER 91
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
SUNDAY
CHAPTER 1
The woman’s voice slowly counted down over Channel 16 on the marine radio: “Ten, nine, eight . . .”
The water churned with boats. Several large racing sailboats, meant for the open sea with their enormous sails and shining hulls, crowded the starting line a few nautical miles from Sandhamn. Beyond the starting area, observers maneuvered their boats to get the best view, prepared to follow the spectacle with binoculars.
The starting vessel, a minesweeper on loan from the navy, was positioned to the starboard of the starting line. Everywhere, large sails ballooned to capture the slight breeze.
The scene was perfectly set for an exciting race.
The voice continued: “Seven, six . . .”
It was a miracle that the competing boats didn’t collide as they navigated into position. At times, they were only a few inches apart as they jockeyed for the closest position to the orange windward flag.
“Five, four . . .”
The start pistol would go off with three seconds to spare to account for the time it would take for the sound to reach the boats.
The first vice chairman of the Royal Swedish Yacht Club (RSYC), well-known business lawyer Oscar Juliander, stood confidently, his knees slightly bent, behind the wheel of his beautiful Swan, an elegant beauty called Emerald Gin. She measured sixty-one feet and had a crew of fifteen. She’d cost a small fortune—over ten million kronor—when he’d purchased her from the Nautor yard in Finland.
But she’s worth it, Oscar Juliander thought. She’ll definitely be the first across the starting line today. This was the summer when he’d finally be victorious in the Round Gotland Race, no matter what the cost.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins. Dear Lord, how I love sailing! he thought.
He glanced out over the water and noticed with satisfaction that there was a TV helicopter circling overhead. There’d be great pictures of the Emerald Gin as she headed across the starting line in the lead.
As usual, he didn’t mind being in the media, and the media didn’t mind turning their cameras on him. All he had to do was make sure he maintained his coveted position high on the windward side, the position everyone was jockeying for right now.
He clenched his fists. Soon, very soon, they’d be off on their way to Gotland.
The water churned as they clo
sed in on the last few feet from the starting line. They were not allowed to cross the line ahead of time, or they’d be forced to turn around and start over—a shame that would not only cost them in terms of lost minutes but might also determine the outcome of the entire race.
He held his breath as the last seconds were counted down. They were so close now he could almost reach out and touch the start buoy.
Then smoke from the starting pistol could be seen in the sky. A moment later, the sound of the shot reached them across the water.
First vice chairman of the board Oscar Juliander slumped forward. His hands released the wheel, and blood streamed from a wound in his chest. His unseeing eyes never even had a chance to register that the race had begun. He was unconscious before his body landed heavily on the deck.
The shot that killed Oscar Juliander was timed perfectly to coincide with the one signaling the start of the race.
The Emerald Gin was the first boat in her class to cross the starting line.
CHAPTER 2
“What are they doing?” asked Detective Inspector Thomas Andreasson.
Thomas was on board one of the finest police boats in the flotilla, a fifty-two-foot Stridsbåt 90 that could reach speeds of forty knots.
Thomas had been her captain during the years he’d worked with the maritime police, but his best friend, Peter Lagerlöf, commanded her now that Thomas had joined the crime unit at the Nacka police station.
When Peter had asked him if he wanted to come watch the start of the Round Gotland Race, he hadn’t hesitated. One never said no to a day on the water, especially when it included Sweden’s largest offshore race.
Now his trained policeman’s eyes noticed that something was going on at the starting line. A magnificent Swan 601, the first in its class, rounded up in the wind and headed away from the starting area. It was a strange and unexpected maneuver when she should be on a straight course toward Almagrundet on her way to Gotland.
“Hand me the binoculars,” he said, his hand already outstretched to receive them. He lifted the black Zeiss binoculars to his eyes and rose to his full height for a better view.
The Swan was now headed into the wind just beyond the starting line. She’d lost the lead and was already last in the field, the others sailing swiftly ahead.
One of the crewmembers on deck was waving both arms high over his head.
A classic emergency signal on the water.
Thomas could see the crewmember’s desperate face through his binoculars. His stomach churned. Something was seriously wrong on board.
“What do you see?” Peter asked, squinting into the sharp sunlight.
“Something’s happened in the cockpit. There’s a crowd standing by the wheel.” Thomas focused the binoculars. “Someone seems to be lying on the deck and not moving, but it’s hard to tell.”
Peter turned to his subordinate at the wheel.
“Head over to the Swan.”
His colleague swiftly changed their course and sheered toward the sailboat.
As they approached, the young man on the foredeck yelled to them, “Our skipper has been shot!” He gestured wildly. “Some damned idiot is shooting at us!”
He stopped yelling as he realized they could still be in danger. He crouched down and pressed himself as close to the mast as he could, his eyes filled with fear and confusion.
Thomas looked around without knowing what he might find. It was impossible to spot a threat in the throng of boats.
The spectators on nearby boats didn’t seem to understand what had just happened. They were busy watching the sailboats head off into the distance. Sunshine danced on the surface of the water, and behind them the huge starting vessel loomed. The outline of Sandhamn and Korsö Tower could barely be seen.
Thomas realized how serious this was.
He had just witnessed a murder, along with hundreds of competitors and audience members, during one of the most important sailing races in the world.
This was going to become a media circus of giant proportions.
An enormous yacht approached. She was a Storebro 500, fifty feet long with many stories. The finely polished mahogany glistened. Through the bright sunlight, Thomas could make out a group of men and women looking down on them from the flybridge, an outdoor space with a set of controls from which the boat could be maneuvered.
A middle-aged man with a captain’s cap and a sweater with the Royal Swedish Yacht Club emblem stood at the wheel. When they were just ten yards from the police vessel, he leaned down to speak to Peter.
“What’s the matter?” he yelled.
“Keep your distance!” Peter answered.
It was not easy to maneuver so that neither the Swan nor the yacht came too close. A collision was the last thing they needed.
“We have Juliander’s wife on board. How is her husband?”
In the cockpit of the Emerald Gin, a man in his fifties with silver hair and glasses stood up. His sweater was flecked with red, and he appeared dazed and shocked by what he’d just seen.
“Someone shot Oscar!” he yelled to the man in the captain’s hat. “Oscar’s dead.”
Thomas noticed a woman with light-brown hair lift her hands to her face before she moved out of sight. Then the thunder of a helicopter overhead cut off all communication.
CHAPTER 3
Nora Linde grabbed the iron handle of the old-fashioned white gate and pushed it open to the beautiful but already overgrown garden.
She stood at the bottom of the stairs to the entrance to the Brand house, perhaps the most beautiful house in all of Sandhamn. Situated high up on Kvarnberg Hill, right before the inlet, the house had views in all directions. Near the sound, one of the Waxholmsbolaget ferries sailed toward the steamboat landing. It was tourist season, and the ferry was packed. Nora could see passengers leaning against the railing and staring at Sandhamn, their eyes filled with expectation.
A breeze blew through Nora’s light hair, which had grown during the winter and now reached her shoulders. In one swift and habitual movement, she pulled it into a ponytail.
From a distance, Nora could be mistaken for a teenager, with her boyish figure and long brown legs. Only from close-up could someone tell she was a grown woman—a mother of two children, in fact. Still, her light-blue linen shirt hung loosely around her stomach.
She’d just turned thirty-eight. She had some new crow’s-feet around her eyes and a few gray strands in her strawberry-blond hair. Freckles from the summer sun dappled her nose.
Her gray eyes were dark with anguish.
She’d dreaded this moment all day. Earlier, she’d screamed at her two boys and been short with Henrik. Her son Simon, just seven, had asked if she was so angry because someone had been mean to her. Her other son, Adam, had stood next to him nodding in agreement.
It’d hurt.
She’d taken a deep breath and promised not to let the situation influence her so much. At the very least, she would not take it out on her family.
Nora’s surprise over her neighbor Signe Brand leaving the Brand house to her had already diminished. Yet her grief over what Aunt Signe had done was still fresh and raw.
Last summer, Signe had killed both her nephew and his cousin when they’d demanded their share of the great mansion. Nora had almost died of insulin shock when Signe, not understanding the danger, had locked her inside Grönskär’s lighthouse. If Henrik and her best friend, Thomas, had not found her, she would have lost her life.
Nora shivered.
She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. The knot in her stomach wouldn’t go away, but it was time to go inside. She would have to decide what she was going to do with the house. Today was as good a day as any.
She walked slowly up the few stairs and put the key in the lock. It stuck slightly, which was not unusual for such an old house. Then the door opened, and Nora saw the familiar sights she had enjoyed since she was a girl.
The roomy entryway led to a large dining room that
overlooked the sea, which was so close one could almost smell it. Beautiful old lace curtains framed the high windows. A dark-green Swedish tile oven rested at one end of the dining room. Gold curlicues adorned the tiles.
Past the dining room was a large living space with an old-fashioned sofa set, as well as a veranda with transom windows. This was where Aunt Signe had been found unconscious before she’d died from taking a mixture of morphine and painkillers.
The house was completely quiet. Too quiet.
Nora realized what was missing: the ticking of the old clock in the dining room. Signe had always been careful to wind this clock. Her grandfather Alarik Brand had had it sent to the house at the end of the nineteenth century.
Nora walked over to the gray cabinet in the corner and took out the key. She knew quite well where Signe kept it—the top left drawer. She carefully opened the glass door and wound the clock. Its familiar ticking brought a smile to her face and tears to her eyes.
She blinked them away quickly. She had to get through this.
The night before, she and Henrik had been close to quarreling. Henrik thought they should sell the Brand house as soon as possible. Then they could get on with their lives.
They were lying in bed talking after the boys had gone to sleep. She rested her chin on her elbow as she listened to him. Only one of the nightstand lamps was on, and it cast long shadows on the patterned blue wallpaper. The heat was oppressive despite the open windows.
A serious expression came over Henrik’s handsome face, and his brown eyes filled with concern. As she watched him, she noticed how good-looking he still was. His thick dark-brown hair held a touch of gray, but it hadn’t thinned out the way it had with most of the men they knew. His hair parted in the center, complementing his chiseled features.
It still often surprised Nora that such an attractive and extroverted man had fallen for a girl like her.
She was introverted—shy, even. She had little social confidence, and she admired Henrik’s ease in all situations. He was the center of attention, while she just listened in on his lively discussions. Still, she loved standing next to him and watching their friends as they laughed at his jokes and comments.
While he spoke, she let her fingers glide along his arm. She breathed in his familiar scent—one she’d known for fifteen years.
“You almost died, Nora,” he said. “If we hadn’t broken into the lighthouse, it would have been the end of you. Perhaps you would have suffered permanent brain damage. How could you even think of living in her house after that?”