Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2)

by Sten, Viveca

  “What beautiful roses! I love roses! Thank you so much.”

  She led them to the living room, where bowls of snacks and a tray with eight cocktail glasses waited. Silver toothpicks with three green olives balanced on the edge of each glass. Beside them a large crystal pitcher held ice-cold martinis. Ingmar von Hahne bent over the tray preparing the drinks but smiled at his guests as they entered. He kissed Britta on both cheeks and then shook her husband’s hand.

  “Arvid and Kristina are on their way,” Isabelle said. “And Anders and Ann-Sofie, as well.”

  She poured them each a drink.

  “Ingmar,” she said, looking impatiently at her husband. “Could you check outside? It sounds like our other guests have arrived.”

  It was a command, not a request.

  “Yes, dear,” her husband said. He disappeared from the room.

  There was an awkward silence.

  Hans Rosensjöö stared into his glass. He had tried his best to get out of this dinner. It was too soon after Oscar’s funeral for a party. How efficient, he thought, with everyone already in the area. A small, elegant dinner to pave the way for Ingmar’s election. So typical of Isabelle.

  Hans had accepted the idea that Ingmar would be his successor. But he had a hard time dealing with Ingmar’s wife. She would surely be an asset to Ingmar in his new role, but he preferred to avoid Isabelle’s company. Though many admired her ambition, it made him shy away. Her motives were too obvious for his taste.

  Tonight Isabelle’s voice and gestures were over the top, not that this was unusual. She enjoyed the social life, and there was no limit to her enthusiasm for organizing charity events.

  But that was the problem in a nutshell, Hans Rosensjöö thought. That, that . . . he tried to find the right word . . . that obsession. She measured her life by her social successes in a way he found completely foreign. Foreign to Britta, too, for that matter.

  Not for a moment would he have agreed to accept the chairmanship of RSYC for social prestige. It was his duty if asked, and he understood the responsibilities.

  He had no doubt that Isabelle would enjoy standing beside her husband as an unofficial representative—something Britta never wanted.

  But all of this would not be his concern much longer. Ingmar had chosen Isabelle. Now he’d have to endure her constant social climbing.

  Hans looked at his own wife with appreciation. Britta had filled out over the years and was now mostly interested in the grandchildren, but she would never treat him the way Isabelle treated Ingmar. She’d sent him out like a dog to fetch the other guests. What nerve. He would never tolerate such bad manners.

  He sipped his martini. It was dry, as he preferred. At least Ingmar mixed a good martini, even if he was not master in his own home.

  Ingmar von Hahne escorted the other guests in.

  The RSYC committee chair for facilities, Arvid Welin, and his wife, Kristina, walked in. Next came the man in charge of the nomination committee, Anders Bergenkrantz, and his wife, Ann-Sofie.

  All the guests had arrived.

  Oscar Juliander’s ghost hovered over the dinner.

  Everyone at the table had attended the funeral, and the ladies commented on the tasteful service, the beautiful flower arrangements, and the moving eulogy.

  Then Hans Rosensjöö cut to the chase.

  “Has anyone heard about the police investigation? I don’t understand why they haven’t found the killer yet. It’s been weeks. What are they doing!”

  He looked around the dining room. The table was set with old family china, silver candleholders, and a flower arrangement. Ingmar sat next to Britta, and Hans had been placed between Isabelle and Kristina. That meant that he would give the thank-you speech at the end of the dinner, which didn’t trouble him. He’d done it fairly often in recent years.

  Arvid Welin cleared his throat.

  He was a well-spoken man with an active intellect. As a young student, he’d written a number of radical articles for his university’s student newspaper. Though he’d grown more conservative as the years rolled by, after a few drinks he’d sometimes spout ideas from the wild sixties.

  “They don’t seem to have much to go on yet,” he said. “But what can you expect these days? Budget cuts affect everything. You never see patrol cars around anymore.”

  “I wonder if they’ll ever find out who killed poor Oscar,” Kristina Welin said.

  “It’s a scandal that they haven’t gotten anywhere,” said Anders Bergenkrantz.

  “Don’t say that,” said Britta. She put her hand on his arm. “Of course they’ll catch Oscar’s murderer. I’m sure they will. I think it was someone from the underworld. Oscar was a lawyer. So many criminals want revenge.”

  She shivered.

  “Dearest,” her husband said. “Oscar was a bankruptcy lawyer, not a defense lawyer. He didn’t handle criminals.”

  “But who else would do such a thing?” his wife said. “Oscar had no other enemies. And think about dear Sylvia. My heart breaks for her. What a tragedy.”

  “What if it was all a mistake?” Ann-Sofie Bergenkrantz said. Her slight double chin quivered. She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her dress. “I read about a man who was shot to death moose hunting,” she continued. “Perhaps someone was shooting seabirds and aimed badly?”

  “My dear,” Isabelle von Hahne said, “you can’t be serious. Who would try to pot a seabird in the middle of the Round Gotland Race?”

  Isabelle chuckled and refilled everyone’s drinks.

  Ann-Sofie Bergenkrantz understood that everyone thought her suggestion ridiculous. She looked at her plate. Isabelle was so adamant about everything. No one could change her mind. Ann-Sofie felt even more embarrassed when she felt herself blushing. Then she mustered up some courage. Isabelle would not have the last word this time.

  “Maybe he engaged in some shady business. I’ve always wondered how he maintained that standard of living. Oscar didn’t inherit wealth, did he?”

  Ann-Sofie looked awkwardly at the others. It was impolite to talk about money. She knew that, but wasn’t there something odd about Oscar’s finances?

  Although Ann-Sofie would never admit that she kept tabs on her friends’ financial standings, she did follow the tabloid lists of wealthy Swedes. They never named Oscar, though many of his friends were included. It was unusual that a person with his lifestyle did not have a noticeable fortune. The Swan, for example, must have cost an incredible amount of money.

  Isabelle’s mouth closed tightly. Isabelle, born wealthy and too well bred to discuss money.

  How come Isabelle always feels superior? Ann-Sofie wondered. Why does she need to cut others down? Everyone acknowledges how elegant and worldly she is. And thin, of course. Unlike Ann-Sofie, who struggled with her weight.

  Ann-Sofie felt suddenly fat and awkward.

  Ingmar von Hahne, always more pleasant than his wife, came to her aid.

  “Perhaps someone was jealous of Oscar’s success,” he said. He gave her an encouraging look. “He led a privileged life. Am I right?”

  Ann-Sofie smiled in gratitude. She never understood how such a sympathetic person put up with such an exhausting wife. She’d never heard him say an unpleasant word to Isabelle. In fact, he would often soften her interactions with an ironic observation or a witty comment.

  Ingmar was a true gentleman. And he was nobility to boot.

  “What if someone thought Oscar let his success go to his head?” Ingmar continued. “The Greek gods would often punish someone who had such hubris—a person who believed he could do no wrong. Oscar seemed to have everything. Perhaps someone felt it was too much for one man?”

  “How can you even suggest a thing like that?” his wife said. She looked annoyed. “It must have been a criminal, just like Britta said. A killer from the underworld. Probably an immigrant.”

  She turned to Hans Rosensjöö.

  “Would you like more lamb fillet?”

  Ingmar von Hahne shrugg
ed and sipped his wine. It glittered deep red in his crystal glass.

  Almost like blood. Oscar’s blood.

  CHAPTER 54

  Diana Söder looked around her apartment and shivered. Though nothing appeared out of place, it had felt soiled since the mysterious e-mails had started, as if someone had sneaked into her sanctuary and left muddy footprints all over her fine, bright rug.

  The text on the screen flickered. She pulled her robe closer around her body. She was freezing, though the room wasn’t cold. She felt unprotected, exposed, even in her own home with the door bolted and chained.

  She went into the kitchen for another glass of wine, and her hand shook as she unscrewed the bottle. She spilled a few drops.

  She tried her best not to give in to panic, but her eyes began to tear up.

  Four e-mail messages in the past few days, all full of hateful words describing how she’d gotten a rifle, gone to sea, and shot Oscar. You’ll regret it if you don’t confess.

  What should she do? Go to the police? Show them e-mail messages accusing her of killing Oscar? Maybe they’d take her son away. They couldn’t take Fabian! Ever!

  She drank half the contents of her glass and went back to her bedroom. She left the computer on. She didn’t even want to touch the thing. Cold blue light cast a spooky glow across the room.

  Who could be so cruel? So hateful?

  What if someone wanted to hurt her or her boy?

  She crept under the blanket with her robe still on, cold, her teeth chattering as if she were a little child.

  “Oscar,” she said. She cried into her pillow. “Oscar, you can’t be dead! You can’t leave me like this! Come back!”

  SUNDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

  CHAPTER 55

  Thomas woke to an insistent knocking. He’d finally arrived at Harö late Saturday evening after spending all day at the police station reading interrogation reports. It was six in the evening when he’d given up.

  Once he arrived, he had two sandwiches and a beer and then fell asleep so quickly it felt like someone had pressed an “Off” button. The glass of whisky on his nightstand sat untouched.

  It was almost ten in the morning now, which meant he’d been out for over eleven hours.

  The knocking continued, and someone called his name. It was a child’s voice. He pulled on some underwear and climbed down from the sleeping loft. When he opened the front door, he found Nora with Simon and Adam. Thomas looked at them in surprise.

  “Hi, Thomas!” Simon said. He gave his godfather a big hug. Simon’s head barely reached Thomas’s waist.

  Adam, four years older, considered himself too big to hug anyone. He nodded a greeting.

  “What’s going on?” Thomas asked. He opened the door to let them in.

  Nora’s face made it clear this was more than a friendly visit.

  She gave an unhappy smile as she held out a bag from the Sandhamn bakery. It smelled like freshly baked bread.

  “Mom said we should surprise you!” Simon scurried inside, underneath Thomas’s outstretched arm. “Do you have any juice? Especially orange juice? I don’t like that red stuff we get at day camp.”

  Simon opened the refrigerator to see what he could find.

  Thomas moved aside so Nora and Adam could come in.

  “I’m sorry, Simon,” he said. “No juice. But how about a glass of milk? If you want to grow big and strong like me, you’ll have to drink a lot of milk.” He winked at the boys as he flexed his muscles. “Just let me get some clothes on,” he said. “You two can find something to drink while your mother and I have coffee.” He turned to Nora. “How did you get here from Sandhamn? Did you take the Snurran?”

  He meant the fifteen-foot-long motorboat the Linde family used to get to beaches for swimming.

  She nodded.

  “I tied it up next to your Buster. I’ll start the coffee while you get dressed. I thought you would already be up. It’s not like you to sleep in.”

  Thomas disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for the day.

  He wondered what had happened. Nora’s red eyes made it obvious she’d been crying. It probably had something to do with that house. Maybe it would have been better if she’d never inherited it. Too late for that now.

  Thomas could imagine how Henrik and his witch of a mother were leaning on Nora. He thought Henrik’s father, Harald, was a pretty decent guy. At the wedding so many years ago, they’d shared a bottle of whisky, and the alcohol had loosened him up. By the time dawn had begun to arrive, Harald had revealed a more human side. They’d shared interesting conversation about the Swedish national hockey team’s chances of becoming world champions again.

  But Henrik’s mother was a real devil, and her son seemed blind to her faults.

  Nora and Henrik had been married for over thirteen years now, and Thomas suspected Henrik always took his mother’s side over Nora’s. Henrik grew up an only child, extremely sheltered. He didn’t see how overbearing Monica could be, not to mention how she treated her daughter-in-law.

  Thomas liked his own mother, but he would have said something if she’d ever treated Pernilla the way Monica treated Nora.

  Thomas came out of the bathroom to find Nora had set the rolls on a plate on the table. The boys sat waiting to eat. The moment Thomas nodded, they launched into action.

  Nora poured two cups of coffee.

  “Boys,” Thomas said, “you can take your plates outside and sit in the sunshine if you’d like. Then you don’t have to hear our boring talk. OK?”

  They ran outside at once. Thomas looked at Nora with compassion. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

  Nora’s eyes filled with tears the moment he asked the question. She looked more distraught than she had in a long time.

  What’s the deal? Thomas thought to himself. Wherever I go, women start crying.

  He walked around the table and gave her a hug. Once she’d had a good cry, he offered her a paper towel to dry her eyes and blow her nose.

  “What happened?” Thomas asked. “It’s Henrik, right? Did you have a fight?”

  Nora nodded and blew her nose again.

  “It was awful, the worst fight we’ve ever had. Henrik insists we sell Signe’s house. He said I was egotistical and thought only about myself.”

  She paused to catch her breath.

  “He said my sentimental streak shouldn’t keep him and the boys from living in a real house in the city. And then . . . he said . . .” She stopped for a minute and looked like a scolded puppy. “He said my behavior made him ashamed.”

  “Why?”

  “That couple from Switzerland came to look at the house yesterday. They acted like they’d already bought it. They showed no respect at all.”

  Nora described the walk-through and what had happened afterward: how angry Henrik had looked as he stood in the kitchen and pounded the counter in absolute rage. Hurtful words had flown from his mouth, a stream of viciousness that seemed endless.

  “How could he say such things to me? He’s never said anything like that before. I can’t understand why he demands we sell the house, even after we discussed renting it.”

  Tears ran down her flushed face again.

  “There, there,” Thomas said. He patted her shoulder in a vain attempt to comfort her. It didn’t seem to help much.

  Nora tried to smile but failed. “I’m so sorry I woke you. I really needed someone to talk to. Henrik went into the city on the first morning ferry.”

  “Do the boys know about it all?”

  “No. I told them he got called in to the hospital. I had to tell them something.”

  Thomas fought an irrational impulse to call Henrik and give him an earful. Nora had suffered so much this past year. He knew they’d had troubles in their relationship, but Thomas thought they’d worked things out after what had happened on Grönskär. Why Henrik pressed her so hard now he didn’t understand. But he said nothing. He needed to help Nora calm down. It wouldn’t help to get angry, especia
lly not with the boys around.

  He handed Nora another paper towel.

  “You won’t have anything left to clean up messes if I keep going like this.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about. You know, Nora, maybe it’s good that Henrik left for the day. When he’s had the chance to calm down, he’ll see he overreacted.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “He can’t force a sale if you refuse. You know that. And he loves you. In the heat of the moment, people sometimes say things they don’t mean.”

  “I hope so.” Nora’s voice trembled.

  She pushed the reddish-blond strands of hair from her face and wiped her eyes again. They were swollen, but she looked more hopeful than when she’d come.

  She rolled up the sleeves of her pale-blue sweater and blew her nose one last time.

  “We both know how Henrik is,” Thomas said. “He can be hotheaded, but he would never want to hurt you.”

  Thomas wasn’t certain those words were true. Henrik had an egotistical side Thomas also saw in Monica Linde. But now wasn’t the time to add another stone to Nora’s burden.

  “Take your mind off things, Nora. Get a little perspective. Things will work out. Henrik will come to his senses.” Thomas hugged her again.

  Nora did her best to pull herself together.

  “So I’m not a selfish monster? It’s not all my fault? One day the boys might like a house in Sandhamn. I’m thinking of their future, too.”

  She took another sip of coffee before she continued.

  “Just thinking of those pretentious Swiss people makes my blood boil. I can’t imagine seeing them through my kitchen window every day!”

  “Are they really that bad?”

  “They are! There’s not enough money in the world to make me deal with them!”

  Nora was a fighter, no doubt about that. She’d get through this, too, Thomas thought.

  “You’ve been incredibly kind,” Nora said. “I woke up so unhappy this morning, but I knew I could talk to you.”

  She looked down at the kitchen table, noticing she’d been tracing figure eights with her finger. Then she glanced at the clock and stood up.