by Sten, Viveca
“Quite a few of the magnificent racing boats, actually. It’s always such a wonderful sight. It was this year, too . . . until we realized Oscar was dead.”
She fell silent and sighed deeply.
“I can’t stop thinking of poor Sylvia. What is she going to do now?”
Tears returned as she looked down at her lap, her handkerchief now completely damp.
“I know Oscar had his faults, but I’ve known him and Sylvia for thirty years.”
“How was their marriage?” Margit asked.
“They’ve been married a long time. They have three children.”
Britta’s voice died away as she looked out the window.
“I believe Oscar neglected Sylvia sometimes.”
“Neglected her how?” Margit asked.
“He was gone a lot. And he wasn’t the kind to stay within the bonds of marriage, if you know what I mean.”
Britta smiled at Margit, embarrassed.
“I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but Oscar had a roving eye. It was no secret. He’d probably visited greener pastures many times.”
“Did Sylvia know?”
Britta looked away.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I assume she did.”
So jealousy could be a motive, Thomas thought. How angry does a woman need to be to kill the man she loves? And how common would it be to shoot him? Especially with a gun across the open sea.
Thomas knew that on average about one hundred fifty murders occurred in Sweden each year, and women usually committed no more than ten of those. The most common weapons were handguns or knives. These crimes were often impulsive or acts of self-defense.
Most of the murders women committed were rooted in abusive situations that continued for years before they became unbearable. Such cases were seldom premeditated. They were desperate last resorts.
The known details about this murder did not point to a spurned lover or a betrayed spouse.
This looks like a well-thought-out operation, Thomas thought. The killer would need a great deal of experience in marksmanship, familiarity with the sea, and access to a boat and a gun.
Only a damned good motive would drive someone to go to so much trouble.
CHAPTER 9
Thomas vanished for ten minutes after they’d finished with Britta Rosensjöö, and returned with a long roll of paper.
“Where did you go?” Margit asked. She looked at the roll of paper. “And what’s that?”
“It’s a nautical chart.”
Thomas unrolled the blue-and-yellow chart on the conference table. He took four bottles of mineral water and placed one on each corner to keep it from rolling back up.
Margit leaned forward for a better look. She wasn’t much of a boat person and certainly wasn’t familiar with navigational charts.
“What are we looking at?”
“This is the area where the Round Gotland Race began. I got it from the woman down at the harbor. Look here.” Thomas pointed to a spot on the upper half of the chart. “Here is Sandhamn. Southeast of Sandhamn we have the lighthouse that marks the shallows on Revengegrundet. Outside of that, we have the starting line.”
“In the middle of the open sea?”
“That’s right.”
Thomas picked up a pen and drew two small crosses. “Between these positions we have the starting line the day Juliander was killed. This left cross is the windward flag, and the right one is the leeward flag. The sailboats try to keep as close as possible to the windward flag at the moment the starting gun goes off.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there they will have the best wind.”
Margit nodded, although she still seemed a little confused.
There was a knock at the door, and a gray-haired man looked in.
“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
He remained in the doorway waiting for a reply.
Thomas shook his head and waved him in.
“Come in,” he said. “We were just going over the chart for the starting area, and you’re exactly the man we need right now.”
Fredrik Winbergh stepped inside. He wore jeans and a light-blue polo shirt with a blue sweater draped over his shoulders. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes were sharp and intelligent.
He greeted them both and then looked down at the chart.
“So, how can I help you?” he asked. Though he didn’t look as shocked as he had the day before, he still seemed shaken from his loss. His eyes were slightly swollen.
Thomas gave him a reassuring smile.
“I’d like you to mark where you were at the starting line. Can you estimate the distance?”
Fredrik Winbergh nodded. Without a word, he took the pen from Thomas and drew a small dot just a few millimeters from the cross marking the windward flag. His hand was sure and deliberate. Then he smiled sadly at Thomas and Margit.
“I’ve been reading nautical charts my entire life. I was the navigator on board the Emerald Gin. That’s how we usually worked it—Oscar was the skipper and I was the navigator. I can pin down angles and courses in my sleep if I have to.”
“Excellent,” Thomas said. “Now I need your help with a more difficult task. Where did you stand in relation to Juliander at the moment he was shot?”
Fredrik Winbergh nodded again. His eyes darkened as if replaying the scene of his close friend getting shot to death in front of him.
“I stood a few feet to his right, slightly behind.”
“How sure are you of where you stood?”
“I clearly remember resting my right knee on the starboard bench. I have an old meniscus injury that hurts my knee sometimes, like when I have to maintain my balance at sea. So I try to rest it whenever I can.”
“All right,” said Margit.
“Oscar was turned toward the leeward buoy,” Winbergh continued. “He was concentrating on the start, and both of us were watching the other boats to make sure we didn’t collide with anyone.”
“Do you have any idea where the shot came from?” Thomas asked. “Take your time and think. Can you remember the angle between the starting flag and your own position?”
“That’s not so simple,” Fredrik Winbergh muttered as he studied the chart. “I’ll do my best, but keep in mind it’s just a guess.”
“Anything you can remember will help us,” Thomas reassured him. “We’ll compare your information with the forensic analysis of the direction of the bullet. What you say might help us catch the person who did this.”
Thomas looked directly into Fredrik Winbergh’s eyes and then pointed to the chart.
“We’re trying to determine if the shot was fired from another boat. We haven’t found anything yet to indicate another possibility. We need to figure out where such a boat might have been in relation to the Emerald Gin.”
Fredrik Winbergh closed his eyes to recreate in his mind those fateful moments between life and death. When he opened his eyes, he studied the chart carefully. Finally he picked up the pen.
With a steady hand he drew an upside-down pyramid with the point meeting at the dot indicating the position of the Emerald Gin. The base of the pyramid spread to the right, into the area reserved for the spectators.
He put down the pen and looked back up at Thomas and Margit.
“I’m afraid I can’t do any better than that,” he said. “Still, the shot must have come from somewhere to the right.”
“What makes you say that?” Thomas asked.
“I believe I felt the draft of it passing. To port—that is, to the left of us—there were only the other participants. I find it hard to believe that the shot came from one of them.”
“Because . . . ,” Margit encouraged him.
“How could he have managed it during the start?” Winbergh countered. “In front of his crew?”
Thomas nodded at Winbergh in appreciation. “Thanks. If this agrees with what we get from forensics, we can definitely rule
out any other participant, along with your own crew. That would reduce the number of suspects considerably.”
“Do you have any other leads?” Fredrik Winbergh asked. He seemed to relax a bit.
“We’re working as hard as we can,” Margit said.
“By the way,” Thomas asked. “Why did he name his sailboat the Emerald Gin?”
Fredrik gave a half smile.
“That was Oscar in a nutshell,” he said. “He loved dry martinis. No matter what the season, that’s what he drank. Do you know the best gin for a martini?”
Thomas shook his head. He preferred beer.
“Tanqueray. British. In a green bottle.”
“And . . . ,” Thomas said.
“Tanqueray sponsored us. They paid for our sails—green, of course—and gave us unlimited bottles of gin. We christened the boat the Emerald Gin and painted the hull green. As a matter of fact, green is Oscar’s favorite color.”
“I see,” Thomas remarked.
“Everyone was happy,” Winbergh said.
“We must ask you one more question,” Margit said. “Do you know if Oscar had any enemies?”
Winbergh shook his head.
“Not that I know of. Still, in his field, you could make a number of enemies. And, of course, he had extramarital affairs. That’s bound to come out. You’ll have to look into it all, I suppose.”
“Was his wife aware of his infidelity?” asked Thomas.
“Hard to know. Oscar tried to be discreet, but it was common knowledge among his group of friends.”
“Is there anything else you think we should know?” Thomas asked. “Again, think carefully. Every bit of information is important at this stage in our investigation.”
Fredrik Winbergh had been leaning over the table, but now he sank slowly into a chair. His shoulders drooped slightly and he frowned.
Thomas and Margit exchanged a glance.
“Please tell us everything you can,” Margit encouraged him. “We need to know as much as possible about Oscar in order to find the killer.”
Winbergh hesitated, then seemed to reach a decision.
“I believe Oscar was involved in something shady.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Margit.
“He seemed nervous lately. Wound up. Oscar always had a thousand irons in the fire, but there was something . . . something haunted . . . about him that I didn’t recognize. I was starting to wonder whether he took . . .”
“Took . . . ?” asked Thomas. He didn’t want to say the words for Winbergh.
“I’m not sure. Maybe drugs.” Fredrik Winbergh seemed troubled.
“What kind of drugs?”
Winbergh shrugged. “Oscar didn’t hit the bottle every day, exactly, but I’ve seen him drunk often enough to know how booze affected him. And alcohol wasn’t the problem in the situations I’m thinking of now.”
“How can you be sure?” asked Margit.
“Something in his personality changed. It was different from when he drank.” Fredrik Winbergh nervously ran his hand through his hair. “He became even more Oscar-like. It’s hard to explain. Extremely talkative. More dominant than usual. Almost manic. And in addition . . .”
“In addition?” Margit leaned forward to catch his gaze.
“I don’t know . . . perhaps I’m only imagining this. Something he said one night when we were sitting in the cockpit on Emerald Gin bothered me.” He fell silent for a minute. “Something about how it cost a fortune to keep a vessel like that going. All his expenses . . . He said he’d have to find more ways to afford his lifestyle—more than those permitted by the government.”
“And that stuck in your mind?” Margit asked.
Fredrik Winbergh nodded reluctantly, as though he hated every word he’d just uttered.
“It was so out of character for Oscar.”
“In what way?” Margit asked.
“He was a lawyer. He’d witnessed people trying to bend the law to suit their own purposes. He told all kinds of stories about people avoiding the taxman or creditors. So it felt strange to learn he was thinking along those lines himself. He didn’t sound like the Oscar I knew.”
“And then what happened?” asked Thomas.
“Nothing,” Fredrik Winbergh said. “It was late. We’d been drinking. The next day he didn’t mention it. But now . . .” He made a frustrated gesture.
“Now you can’t stop thinking about it,” Margit said.
“Yes. It kept tumbling around in my head last night. Maybe he’d been serious. Maybe he’d gotten involved in something criminal that made someone want to kill him.”
He looked at Margit and Thomas, torn between loyalty to his friend and a desire to help the police find the killer.
“I’ve sailed with Oscar for almost thirty-five years. Ever since we went to college together. He actually died in my arms.”
He choked up for a moment and tightly laced his fingers together to regain his composure.
“He was standing at the wheel, full of life, with a huge smile. Invincible. And then he fell down right in front of me. Do you have any idea how that feels?”
He looked fiercely at Thomas. Then he slammed his fist against the table.
“I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. Can you understand that?”
Thomas met his eyes.
He’d once held the lifeless body of his three-month-old daughter in his arms, unable to do a damned thing.
He knew exactly how it felt.
CHAPTER 10
Thomas and Margit took a break before interviewing the von Hahne couple. In the meantime, someone came into the room to clear the bottles and water glasses. The window had been opened to air out the room, but it remained hot and humid. Thomas felt his shirt starting to stick to his back.
Ingmar von Hahne, however, appeared comfortable when he entered the room for the interview. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of khaki shorts with seams down the front. He began the conversation by describing his work as a dealer specializing in early twentieth-century art. He chose his words carefully. He pushed aside a lock of blond hair that kept falling over his forehead.
“How well did you know Oscar Juliander?” Thomas asked.
“Fairly well. We moved in the same circles. We celebrated Midsummer together. We were both on the board of the Royal Swedish Yacht Club for many years.” He had a slight accent typical of the Swedish upper class.
“Do you know if he’d had a quarrel with anyone?”
“Not that I’m aware. Oscar was well liked. He was outgoing and involved in many things. But you never know about lawyers. He could have stepped on someone’s toes.”
“Tell us about your work on the RSYC Board,” Margit said.
“Oh, that’s a long story,” Ingmar said. He flashed a winning smile. “My father was vice chairman back in the day and extremely involved in the club. That’s back when they wore sailing uniforms and called each other ‘dear old chap.’”
He winked at Margit.
“My family always owned sailboats, and I’ve competed in races since I was a child. It didn’t matter how much I threw up in rough waters. I had to keep on going. My father was not the kind of man to let anyone give up.”
He paused over this memory and shook his head.
“I was asked to join a committee—the club committee, I believe—and I moved up from there. We all have our cross to bear.”
The last words he said with a disrespectful tone, as if trying to get a rise out of them.
“And now you’re the secretary and second vice chairman,” Margit said.
“Oscar was the first vice chairman.”
“So perhaps now you’ll be Hans Rosensjöö’s successor?” Thomas asked.
Ingmar von Hahne shrugged.
“Our annual meeting happens soon. Hans cannot be reelected as chairman since he’s been on the board for as long as they allow. I’m not jockeying for the position, but I won’t say no if I’m asked. In this situation, e
veryone has to pull his weight, right?”
He brushed an invisible piece of fluff from his shirt and leaned back in the chair.
Isabelle von Hahne smiled as she entered the conference room. A pair of black sunglasses held her blond hair back from her face, and a few gold bracelets dangled from her right arm.
She likes expensive things, Thomas thought.
“How can I help you?” Isabelle asked. She sat in the chair across from them.
“Would you like something to drink?” Margit asked.
Isabelle von Hahne nodded, and Margit poured her a glass of water.
“Can you tell us about yesterday? You were a spectator on one of the boats closest to Juliander’s when the shot was fired,” Margit said.
“Yes, what a terrible day. Because Oscar was killed, of course. My husband and I—he’s the RSYC secretary—accompanied the Bjärring family on their boat. We’ve done this for so many years that it’s tradition. We eat well, drink some wine, and watch the start of the race.”
She shut her eyes as she realized her description was disrespectful under the circumstances. She’d made a tragic day sound like a charming outing.
“And then that horrible thing happened,” she added.
“What do you remember about the actual start?” Margit asked.
Isabelle von Hahne took a sip from her glass and paused to think.
“What I remember from the start? Everyone was focused on the sailboats as they jockeyed for position. I know we hadn’t eaten yet, since we planned to begin once the large-class vessels had started. Some of our company used binoculars to see better, and Lena brought out a good Italian wine that we barely had a chance to taste.”
She fell silent and twisted her wedding ring.
“We were excited to see if Oscar would be the first across the starting line. That new Swan is a fine boat,” she continued. “He’s—he was—an extremely competitive person. This year he believed he’d bring home the trophy. It was all he talked about these past few months.”
She smiled at the thought of Oscar winning.
“Where were you when the starting gun went off?”
“With all the others on the flybridge. There’s a lot of room, enough for a table in the middle. Even though there were quite a few of us, we all fit comfortably and enjoyed the wonderful view. We were having so much fun. Everyone was in a good mood, telling jokes and laughing.”