Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2)

by Sten, Viveca

  “I should see what the boys are up to. We’ve been talking for a while.”

  Her voice sounded stronger now, shedding the last trace of her melancholy.

  “I’ll sort this whole thing out. Everything can be handled, right?”

  CHAPTER 56

  As usual, Henrik found the gate to his childhood home unlocked. He drove up the familiar gravel road. After the first hundred yards, the landscape opened up and the pine forest gave way to a large lawn dotted with apple trees.

  His parents’ summerhouse sat slightly to one side, near the water. Henrik had spent every summer here since he was small. His paternal grandfather had bought the property in the forties. He’d wanted a summer place to share with children, grandchildren, and guests. In those days, summerhouses on Ingarö were unusual. The spot became popular later on.

  The building burned down in the late seventies when some people broke in to spend the night and fell asleep with candles burning. They’d probably been trying to keep warm. Henrik was only a boy then, but he remembered how distressed his grandparents had been. His grandfather mourned the house as if it were a living thing.

  They soon built a new house with modern facilities, including an indoor bathroom. They also enlarged the kitchen and added a dishwasher, to his grandmother’s delight.

  Within a few years, however, his grandparents passed away and left the summerhouse to Henrik’s father. When his father was stationed abroad, Monica and Henrik spent their summers on Ingarö. Henrik had made Swedish friends, including Johan Wrede, who still raced in sailing competitions with him.

  He’d been given his first boat here. A little daysailer. It was later replaced by a Laser, which was replaced by a larger Flying Dutchman with a dark-blue hull.

  Near the end of his teenage years, he took part in a competition with a friend and the friend’s father, who sailed a six-meter. The race hooked him, and he convinced his father to buy him a six-meter, too. He and Johan, with other friends crewing, kept sailing. Sixth place in the European Masters was their all-time best.

  Sailing remained his favorite occupation. Nothing could top the feeling of the bow striking through water. That was why he kept on sailing, even as an adult with a demanding job and family.

  The thought of Nora darkened his mood. He sighed deeply as he parked next to his parents’ Audi.

  She’d been impossible last night. First, she sulked for hours. Then, once the boys were in bed, she accused him of being money hungry and inconsiderate.

  Henrik had tried his best to stay calm. He hated it when Nora got so emotional. It always ended in tears and bitter words between them. But he couldn’t keep quiet, and finally he’d let it all out.

  Why in the world did she feel any loyalty toward Signe, and why would she put that above her own family’s well-being? If they sold the Brand house, the boys could grow up in a proper home. They’d have a leg up in life.

  Nora always underestimated the importance of raising children in the right environment. You met people in your childhood who became lifelong friends.

  He, for one, knew how important that was. He’d seen his father move in diplomatic circles where success revolved around personal relationships. You have to know the right people, or you get left behind. In this big, bad world, social connections counted.

  One of his father’s friends, a professor at Danderyd Hospital, had put in a good word for Henrik. Without that help, he would have had to wait much longer for a permanent position. His boys shouldn’t miss out on opportunities because they lived in that pathetic little town house.

  But when he tried to explain all this to Nora, his words fell on deaf ears.

  “How selfish can you be?” he’d yelled at her. “Can’t you think about someone besides yourself for once? What kind of a mother are you?”

  They’d stood at either end of the kitchen table, like roosters in a cockfight, as vicious words flew through the air.

  When she began crying, he didn’t care.

  “I can’t believe how you behaved in front of the real-estate agent! I’m ashamed of you! Standing there sighing and carrying on. You could have at least acted like a reasonable human being!”

  He was exhausted by the time they finally went to bed. He fell into an immediate but restless sleep. When he woke six hours later, he decided to leave. He couldn’t deal with her outbursts. Perhaps if he left for a few days, she’d come to her senses.

  He took the overnight case he’d quickly packed out of the trunk.

  His mother appeared before he’d reached the front door.

  “Henrik, my dear boy!” She kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  He stepped inside, carrying his suitcase.

  “I have coffee ready. Sit down and I’ll bring everything. Have you eaten? Do you want a sandwich?”

  Her mouth didn’t stop moving, and her hands fluttered in small, well-meaning gestures, fast as a hummingbird as she circled her son.

  “How are you, my sweet boy? I’m so glad you came so I can spoil you for a while. I really can’t understand Nora. She’s so . . . so . . .” She tried to find the word. “She’s so irrational. Yes, that’s it. And selfish. She only thinks of herself.”

  Henrik had phoned his mother earlier to tell her he was coming. He’d given her a brief explanation about what had happened between him and Nora. As always, she took his side without reservation. Of course he’d be welcome to spend a few days at Ingarö to rest up.

  Henrik walked into the living room and relaxed on the striped sofa. He’d always found this room pleasant. It faced southwest and was often filled with light and sun. In addition to the oversize sofa, the room held two comfortable armchairs with matching footstools.

  As his mother puttered around the kitchen, he turned on the TV. His mother carried a tray into the room.

  “You don’t need that on, Henrik,” she said. “Your father leaves the TV on constantly these days. On and on without a break.”

  “Where is Dad, by the way?” Henrik asked. He kept his eyes on the screen.

  “He’s at the neighbors’. He’ll be back soon. In the meantime, let’s have a little chat.”

  His mother set two cups on the table and handed him a plate with several liver pâté and cheese sandwiches.

  “Help yourself,” she said. “I’ll get the sugar and be right back.”

  She returned to the kitchen and Henrik took a bite of a sandwich while surfing through channels. When his mother came back, he turned the TV off to please her.

  “Now tell me all about it, my son,” Monica Linde said. She looked at him tenderly and held out a plate of cookies. “Tell me how things are really going.”

  “I love you,” he whispered in wonder.

  Those words came so easily.

  He hadn’t even believed himself capable of love after all the years and all the lies.

  But there the words were, perfectly clear, as if they had lives of their own.

  Gratitude washed over him.

  This is how it feels to love and be loved. How had he ever forgotten?

  He longingly gazed into the face before him. With the back of his hand, he traced the line of his beloved’s chin, throat, and chest.

  How could skin feel so soft and smell so good?

  “Thank God you exist,” he whispered. “I love you so much. What would I ever do without you?”

  “I love you, too.”

  The voice sounded gentle as a caress. They kissed and desire filled his body, making him dizzy.

  “I will never let you go,” he said. “Never, ever.”

  MONDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 57

  “Hello, is this Thomas Andreasson?”

  The high-pitched voice on the other end of the line gave Thomas pause before he realized who it was: Diana Söder, Oscar Juliander’s lover and Ingmar von Hahne’s coworker at Strandvägen Art Gallery.

  It was about nine thirty in the morning. Thomas sat at his desk as gray clouds f
illed the sky outside.

  “How can I help you? You sound upset.”

  “There’s something I have to tell you . . . I think . . .”

  A pause on the other end of the line.

  “What do you want to tell me?” Thomas asked. He took a sip of water and waited patiently for her to answer.

  “I’ve gotten some terrible e-mail messages. Messages with horrible accusations.”

  Thomas heard her sniffling.

  “What do they say?” Thomas asked.

  “They say . . .” She paused to gather strength. “They say I killed Oscar.”

  “Can you explain a little more?” Thomas asked. He kept his voice mild to avoid alarming her.

  “They call me a whore!” She began sobbing so hard she could barely speak. “They say I did terrible things to Oscar. I don’t know what to do!”

  “We’ll need to look at those messages,” Thomas said. “Could you forward them to me, do you think?”

  “I’ll send what I have. I deleted the first one immediately, but they kept coming. They’re all so vicious!”

  He could hear her blowing her nose.

  “That’s all right. Just send the ones you have as soon as you can, and we’ll look at them right away. If any new ones come, send them to us immediately. Will you be all right?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”

  Margit read the first message from Diana Söder.

  I know you murdered Oscar. You shot him because he didn’t leave his wife. You’re a whore, a disgusting whore. You’re going to pay for this. Don’t imagine you’ll get away with it. You’ll see what I mean. Go to the police and confess.

  Margit opened the next one, which wasn’t much different from the first.

  You disgusting harlot, confess your crime to the police. You have to pay for his death. You damned whore, you lying adulteress.

  The third held more of the same.

  “Somebody believes Diana Söder killed him,” Margit said once they’d studied every message.

  “The question is, who?”

  “The wife?”

  “Sylvia Juliander?” Thomas thought about it. It seemed a long shot that the grieving widow would send these messages. But who knew what a deceived wife might do after hearing such hurtful news.

  “We’ll have to question her.”

  “Do you think there’s anything to the accusations?”

  “Hard to say,” Thomas said. “But if she were guilty, why would she send them to us?”

  “Good point. And she does have a watertight alibi. She was with her brother’s family that entire day.”

  Margit stared at the screen.

  “Harlot is a rather old-fashioned word. And so is adulteress. Nobody talks like that anymore. What does that tell us?”

  “I have no idea. Do you think this is some kind of biblical retribution?”

  “If so, Diana Söder may be in danger,” Margit said.

  Thomas nodded. “We should warn her. Too bad we don’t have enough evidence to warrant police protection—even if we had the resources.”

  Thomas reread the fourth message open on the computer screen.

  “We need to find out who sent these as soon as possible.”

  “Give them to Carina,” Margit said. “She’s good with computers.”

  Thomas agreed. “Should I interview Sylvia Juliander, or would you rather do it?”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Margit said.

  CHAPTER 58

  Martin Nyrén sailed his Omega 36 to Stora Nassa, a small collection of islands in the outer archipelago northeast of Sandhamn. Before he left, he’d washed away the black graffiti as best he could. The damage to the hull could be repaired when the boat was in dry dock for the winter.

  He planned to stay out until the next morning, when he’d have to be back for an urgent meeting with the Facilities Committee. The owner of a large motorboat had had trouble with reverse as he was docking at Lökholmen. He’d seriously damaged the dock. Now the RSYC had to deal with insurance and repairs. The organization was not wealthy. They brought in enough to finance the operations, but not much more. And they couldn’t raise the already high membership fee.

  What could they do? The dock had to be repaired.

  He adjusted the sheet that regulated the main sail so he wouldn’t lose speed. It was time to find anchorage for the night. This part of the archipelago could be difficult to navigate. Stora Nassa was full of sunken rocks, and one could easily strike bottom. He checked the echo sounder regularly to be safe.

  After a while he found an isolated bay where he could be alone. Once anchored he sat down and opened a beer. He enjoyed the silence, broken only by the distant call of a gull. Before him the gray archipelago skerries spread as far as the eye could see, filed to perfection by water and wind. The sun had become a reddish-orange ball just above the horizon, reflected in the water as a flaming mass. It was unbelievably beautiful and still.

  The only thing he missed was Indi.

  It had been a wonderful night. Martin remembered yesterday evening as tender and loving. They’d been completely happy.

  Afterward he’d tried to persuade Indi to sail with him out to Stora Nassa. He’d stopped just short of begging. He hardly knew why he thought it so important, but he longed for a few more days together. They would wake up on board, eat breakfast together, and take the day as it came.

  But all he got were the same old arguments. Someone would see them. It was too risky. Leaving for a few days would be impossible without planning. They had to think about the children.

  Finally he could take no more arguing. He said good-bye the way he always did.

  He hated secrets and sneaking around. How humiliating. Teenagers did such things, not adults.

  Still, he felt hopeful. For the first time they’d discussed a future together, even if their daydream had been careful and oblique.

  But it gave him hope.

  He’d sneak around for a long time if there were hope that one day they could be together.

  He decided to send a message to say good night. With a smile, he picked up his phone.

  CHAPTER 59

  One should not read another person’s text messages. Everyone has a right to privacy. That must be respected, even within a marriage.

  Usually the cell phone on the hall table would be left alone. Any incoming text messages would be left unread until the owner returned.

  If only there hadn’t been that electronic ping. The sound in the silent hallway made the temptation much too great.

  One click and the message appeared on the screen.

  Blood boiled, rage ensued, but when the wave of anger subsided, the text could not be unread. The truth could not be deleted.

  You’ve been cheated on. Cheated on and humiliated. There’s someone more loved than you. You’re going to be abandoned. Everyone will laugh at you. Your life will be ruined.

  No doubt what the message meant. Just a few words, but enough, enough. It forced a decision.

  Thanks for a wonderful night. I can’t wait until we can spend every night together. -Martin.

  This was unacceptable. It had to be stopped.

  TUESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 60

  A drizzling, almost pleasant summer rain fell. July was giving way to August, the evenings already growing shorter. As darkness fell, the temperature dropped.

  The building on Birkalidsgatan sat empty and abandoned.

  Built in the thirties, its light façade was darkened from pollution and exhaust. Cleaning would have helped, but it was one of the few commercial buildings on the street. There were no apartment owners trying to increase the value of their property through costly renovations.

  At this hour, those who hadn’t already left for vacation would have stopped working long ago, left the building, and gone home. Not a single window was lit.

  Perfect for the purpose.

  The key slipped easily into the lock. A quick tu
rn, and the entrance door opened. The spot selected was a half floor up with a window facing the street. It offered a perfect view of Birkalidsgatan 22B. It would not be hard to make the shot from this distance.

  The keys to the individual doors worked as easily as the one to the entrance. Even the black iron security gate slid up without a sound. The dark single-room studio had a toilet and a small kitchen area with a round table and four chairs. It was stuffy and smelled vaguely of turpentine. Paintings leaned against the walls.

  It was too risky to turn on the ceiling lights, but the streetlights cast enough of a glow. The small flashlight also helped, even aimed at the floor to avoid being seen from the street. A large lamp hung over the entrance to Birkalidsgatan 22B. That would help. The person who would soon punch in the entrance code and unlock the front door would have plenty of light.

  Enough to aim well, in other words. Enough to kill.

  The parts of the rifle rested in a gray sailor’s bag. It weighed next to nothing—a couple pounds. It took only a few minutes to load the ammunition and the rifle parts into the bag, and only a few minutes to reassemble the weapon. At the bottom of the bag was a little box marked .22 WMR; the bronze bullets gleamed under the flashlight.

  There was something appealing about the bright metal and the oval form so perfect for its purposes. Remarkable that something so small could do so much damage to the human body.

  The rifle’s magazine held eleven bullets, every bullet slipped smoothly into place.

  The only thing left to do was wait.

  This time there was no hurry. Before, everything had to be timed to the second. There’d been no leeway, since the risk of discovery had been much, much greater.

  Now only patience was needed.

  Martin Nyrén would soon come home to his apartment. If not today, then tomorrow.

  There was all the time in the world to wait for Martin Nyrén.

  CHAPTER 61