by Sten, Viveca
The evening meeting of the Facilities Committee was unusually fruitless, Martin Nyrén thought. He sighed over colleagues who sometimes seemed incapable of making a decision. The discussions moved in circles, resulting in an agreement to meet again in a few weeks for a final decision on repairing the Lökholmen docks.
He’d gotten a ride from Saltsjöbaden to Slussen, where he took the subway to Sankt Eriksplan. No one else got off at that stop. He was alone on the platform at almost eleven at night.
Even though he usually walked up the escalator for the exercise, he stood still this time.
His relationship with Indi nagged at him. While at sea, he’d thought a great deal about their situation. Should he demand more, even make an ultimatum?
His love was so strong that everything seemed perfect when they were together. But he hated the loneliness that overcame him the minute they parted.
He wanted to spend every day together. They’d argue sometimes about whose turn it was to do laundry or who should do the grocery shopping. But he’d always find a light on in the apartment when he came home.
Patience, he told himself. You must have patience.
When he walked out of the station, he took a deep breath of night air. The city could be stifling during the summer, and he already longed to put out to sea again. He shivered a bit at the thought of the vandalized Omega. It must have been kids. Who else would have done it?
He still needed to report the damage to the police. His insurance company demanded it. But what would he say about the other odd things? That he thought someone had been in his apartment? He had no proof. That he felt followed when he was walking down the street? That he suspected it wasn’t a few kids who had damaged his boat?
He could imagine how the police would grin behind his back if he brought up these concerns. And what could they do about it? They couldn’t watch over him and his boat twenty-four hours a day.
He looked around a little more than usual in the night darkness. He picked up his pace and pulled his trench coat tighter. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees since sunset.
He took his phone from his pocket and fingered its metal case. Should he send a text to Indi? Just to say good night?
The thought was tempting. Why not?
Just that possibility put him in a better mood. Somehow everything would work out for them. He could sense it.
The solitary figure in the light trench coat was visible from far away.
The street was silent and empty with many open parking spaces.
It made everything so much easier.
It wouldn’t necessarily stop things if someone were with him. Not even the most observant witness could register the bullet before it was too late. But it was one less thing to worry about.
It was time to focus. Every move must be executed perfectly: flip up the small sight, push the barrel a few centimeters out the window, check the angle. Wait for the right moment.
Through the sight, Martin Nyrén came into focus.
He walked slowly, lost in thought. He didn’t even look up.
He held his cell phone in one hand, but he wasn’t speaking into it. When he got to the entrance, he stopped a moment to look at his watch. Then he leaned forward to punch in the entrance code.
That small movement was key.
The body was perfectly aligned, as if he had voluntarily placed himself at the center of the sight. Light pressure on the trigger, and the rifle fired. The silencer muffled the report as effectively as it had the first time.
Martin Nyrén was hit in the temple.
A perfect shot, a nice entrance hole. Flying brain matter. And it was over.
Martin Nyrén stood completely still for a few seconds, as if his fingers were able to punch in the code by themselves to escape his attacker. Then his legs crumpled, unable to support his weight, and he fell against the entrance door. He slid down the glass and collapsed on the ground. It looked like a single graceful movement that he’d trained for his entire life.
Someone might even think he was asleep.
How easy it was to kill another human being. So simple.
The first time it had been absolutely necessary. When everything had been weighed, only one solution had remained: Oscar Juliander had to die.
And now Martin, too, had to go. Before things got out of hand.
It seemed much easier to breathe now. A feeling of peace settled in. This was much more satisfying than rifling through his apartment, better than following him through the city, better than trying to deaden the feeling of humiliation by vandalizing his boat.
Balance was restored. Martin Nyrén had only himself to blame. His death was a result of behavior that could not be tolerated.
Not for one more day. Not for one more minute.
CHAPTER 62
The call came in at 11:55 p.m., just five minutes before Tuesday turned into Wednesday.
The woman who called in was hysterical. The operator had trouble understanding and used many soothing words to calm her down. The woman could then describe what she’d seen.
A man lay in front of the entrance with blood coming from his head. She’d found him when she’d returned home from Stockholm Arlanda Airport—she was a flight attendant.
The alarm went through the provincial central communication system, and, as luck would have it, a patrol car was on the other side of Sankt Erik Bridge at Fleminggatan, not far from the scene. It would arrive in just a few minutes.
They sent an ambulance as well. Although the woman said the man was dead, the operator did not want to take any chances by sending only a hearse, the usual for transporting dead bodies.
And, last of all, a team of crime scene investigators was dispatched from the Stockholm police station.
The policemen saw immediately that the flight attendant was correct.
The man on the stairs in front of Birkalidsgatan 22B was really, truly dead. The cause of death was most likely the hole in his temple. In addition, there was a great deal of blood and brain spatter on the frosted glass door.
Clearly in shock, the flight attendant sat beside the corpse. She had some blood on her uniform.
When an officer in his thirties tried to speak with her, she began to weep. He helped her up and accompanied her to her apartment. He hoped there she might calm down enough that he could question her.
Conny Malmsten, the forensic technician on call that evening, arrived right before the ambulance. The police had already cordoned off the area to minimize access to the crime scene and secure the evidence.
Conny needed little time to figure out the cause of death.
“I’m assuming he was shot right here,” one of the uniformed officers commented when Conny arrived.
“That appears to be the case,” Conny agreed.
He studied the scene in front of him.
The blood pooled on the ground under the man’s chin, and the spatter of other bodily fluids indicated that this was the primary crime scene.
Conny pulled out his digital camera. His photographs would serve as the basis for the investigation, both in reconstructing the chain of events as well as pinning down any material evidence. As he snapped the photos, he constructed a mental picture of what had happened.
There was no powder mark on the skin, as far as he could see. This indicated the shot had come from a distance. This also indicated there was little likelihood of finding any evidence here about the killer.
When he finished, he put his camera back in its heavy black case. He was meticulous about his equipment. Nothing made him more irritated than finding something out of place—it could ruin his whole day.
Conny Malmsten stepped past the corpse and opened the front door. Luckily it swung inward, so he did not have to disturb the body.
He didn’t see anything unusual in the stairway, so he stepped back outside and moved around the corpse with care.
There were pieces of a cell phone on the steps outside. The bottom plate hung open, and part
s had fallen out. He put the pieces inside an evidence bag. If they could reassemble the phone, they might discover who the deceased had been calling.
He put on plastic gloves and carefully inspected the victim’s skull. He could see more closely where the bullet had penetrated. Then he began to swab for biological evidence.
All bodily fluids at the scene would have to be secured.
It was going to be a long night.
WEDNESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 63
It was seven thirty in the morning, and the atmosphere in the conference room was gloomy.
“So what do we know?” asked Persson. He looked ill as he blew his nose into pieces of toilet paper from a roll on the table.
“So what do we know about all this?” he asked again.
He took a sip of coffee and looked around the room.
Last night’s death had taken much of the fight out of the team. They’d now have to double up on their workload with no solutions in sight.
The news outlets were already calling often enough to keep the police spokesperson busy, to say the least. The murder of Martin Nyrén dominated both the TV and radio news broadcasts.
“Another Board Member of the Royal Swedish Yacht Club Murdered!”
Thomas blinked and tried to focus. He’d been up since five that morning, when a shaken Hans Rosensjöö had phoned to inform him that Martin Nyrén had been shot to death in front of his Birkastan apartment building.
The police had contacted Nyrén’s brother, who had immediately phoned Rosensjöö. They both connected his death with Juliander’s murder.
Thomas had thrown on his clothes and hurried to the station. There he’d spent an hour trying to find out what had happened. He’d talked to the forensic unit for a description of the crime scene. Conny Malmsten, the technician first on the scene, shared his conclusions.
Thomas repeated the facts to his coworkers. “The victim is Martin Nyrén. He was fifty-three and single. Lived in a three-room apartment in the Birkastan District. Worked at the Legal, Financial and Administrative Services Agency as a manager. He finished law school and was head of the RSYC Facilities Committee.”
“What’s that?” asked Erik.
“It’s the committee in charge of the property and grounds. They care for all the RSYC’s buildings, docks, and the like.”
“So what happened?” asked Margit.
Thomas held up one of Malmsten’s photographs. The position of the body was clear. The curved back, the sprawled legs, the head below a blood-flecked glass panel.
“He almost looks like he’s asleep,” Kalle said.
“He was on the board with Juliander, and he was also a lawyer,” Persson said. He blew his nose again. “Any other connections?”
“We don’t know,” Thomas said. “We need to find out.”
“And the murder weapon?”
“He was shot. In the head. The bullet went right through the brain. He died instantly.”
“So perhaps another long-range shooting.” Persson sighed as he said this.
“Have they started the autopsy yet?” asked Margit.
“They’ll do it this morning. Dr. Sachsen has moved him to the top of the list. He said by lunchtime we could stop by for the results.”
“Anything else?” asked Persson.
“Conny Malmsten confirmed that Nyrén was shot from a distance,” Thomas said. “There were no powder burns, and the entry wound was small.”
“So a rifle?” asked Margit.
“Most likely. We’ll have to wait for ballistics to know for sure if it was the same one used to kill Juliander.”
“Anything else at the crime scene? Another bullet lodged somewhere, perhaps?”
“No, nothing.”
Juliander had been shot with a half metal jacket bullet that had remained in the body. A full metal jacket bullet probably would have gone right through Nyrén’s head and out the other side. A moment of silence came over the room. The similarities between the two killings were clear.
“What are the chances that two different killers use the same method to gun down two members of the same club?” Margit asked. She propped her chin on her hand.
“Very small, I’d assume,” Persson said.
“So what’s it all mean?”
“We have a crazy person at large who does not like this yacht club,” Thomas said. “Or, at the very least, does not like the members of its board.”
“The RSYC is the natural link,” Margit said. “We have to begin with them.”
“Members of the board must have police protection,” Persson stated. He turned to Margit. “You and Thomas see to that.”
Margit noticed Persson’s runny nose and swollen eyes.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” she asked.
Persson gave a dismissive wave.
“We’ll have to speak with Juliander’s widow again,” Thomas said. “She might give us some connection between the two. And we need to track Nyrén and see what he’s been up to the past few weeks.”
“This sheds new light on our theory about Holger Alsing,” Margit said. “Is he still on Mallorca? If so, we can eliminate him as a suspect, especially if the same rifle was used.”
“So, we find ourselves back to square one,” Persson stated. He blew his nose again to clear it before attending a hastily called press conference.
“You should really go home and lie down,” said Margit.
CHAPTER 64
Ingmar von Hahne slowly hung up the phone on his nightstand.
His wife returned from the bathroom and gave him a curious look.
“Who called so early in the morning?” she asked.
“Martin Nyrén has been shot,” Ingmar von Hahne said. His eyes widened with shock, and his face turned white.
“What did you say?” Isabelle stood still in the doorway.
“Martin Nyrén has been murdered.”
“What? He’s dead?”
“Yes,” Ingmar von Hahne said. “Hans called. Someone shot Martin last night in front of his building. He died immediately, they said. Good God.”
He stared at the telephone as if he didn’t believe the news it had delivered. He felt like he might faint.
Isabelle stood speechless for once. Silence descended on the room. Ingmar sat upright on the edge of the bed as if paralyzed. He took short, quick breaths.
“We have to call the police,” Isabelle said. She pulled the belt of her robe tighter.
“What do you mean?”
“You need police protection,” she said. “If there’s some kind of crazy person out there shooting the members of the board, you might be next . . .”
Ingmar could not reply.
“Soon you’ll be chairman. Have you forgotten?” she said.
He buried his face in his hands. Then he slowly lay back on the bed.
Isabelle left the room to give Ingmar some space.
What good would it do to call the police? What good would anything do?
CHAPTER 65
Back to square one, Persson had said.
Those words echoed in Thomas’s mind as they parked behind the redbrick building that housed the Forensic Medicine department.
Like before, it took a while until Dr. Sachsen appeared behind the ribbed glass door. He looked tired and worn out. He had been awake since the crack of dawn, same as them.
They followed him through the long corridors to the autopsy room. He opened the door and entered first.
A body lay under a sheet on a steel examination table. Dr. Sachsen showed them the body of Martin Nyrén, already sewn up after the autopsy. It was hard to believe that his chest cavity had been pried wide open that same morning.
He looks younger than fifty-three, Thomas thought.
Despite the flecks of gray, Martin Nyrén was not losing any hair, unlike many men his age. His face looked peaceful. He probably hadn’t even had a chance to realize his life was ending.
Thomas walked around the t
able to examine the body more closely.
There were no unusual marks. He’d been in good shape. Perhaps a tad overweight, but nothing serious. He had a faded scar from an appendectomy.
“What can you tell us?” asked Margit.
Dr. Sachsen took his glasses from his breast pocket and skimmed the autopsy report to refresh his memory.
“Let’s see what we have here,” he said, leafing through his papers. “His death was instantaneous. The bullet entered the left temple and continued through the right half of the brain, destroying enough tissue to quickly end his life.”
“Can you tell us anything about the trajectory?” asked Margit. She leaned forward to examine the entry wound. Barely a centimeter long, it was neat and clean, like a surgical incision.
“The angle seems to be slightly from above. The bullet traveled in a downward trajectory, which indicates that the shooter was higher up than the victim.”
“How much higher?” asked Thomas.
“Hard to say. Slightly, perhaps.”
“And the distance between them? What do you think?”
Thomas remembered that the shot in Juliander’s murder had come from somewhere between fifty and one hundred yards away.
“A fair distance. I found no powder residue, so we’re talking several dozen yards. I’d say between twenty and eighty. I can’t give you a more exact number.”
“And the bullet?”
Dr. Sachsen picked up something small from a steel bowl. He held it up so they could get a good look.
“It’s very similar to the previous one,” Margit said. “Suspiciously so.”
“Yes. The same mushroom shape, the same metal.”
“When will you send it out for further analysis?”
“This afternoon.”
“How long until we hear back?”
“You’ll have to ask Linköping. Perhaps you can persuade them to bump you to the top of the list.” Dr. Sachsen continued before Margit could open her mouth again. “Because that’s what you’ll do anyway. Right?”
“Should we drive out to Birkalidsgatan?” Thomas asked when they were back in the car. “I’d like to take a look at the crime scene, even if it’s already been cleaned up. It’s a damned shame they didn’t call us last night.”