by Sten, Viveca
Margit shrugged.
“The central station had no way to know the connection. They’re not mind readers. The operator followed procedure.”
Margit’s logic didn’t soothe Thomas.
“Persson says we have jurisdiction because of the obvious similarities.”
Thomas started the car.
“It won’t take long to get there if we take the Solna Bridge.”
Five minutes later, Thomas parked on a cross street of Rörstrandsgatan, a few hundred yards from where Martin Nyrén had died.
He stepped out of the car and took in the calm atmosphere of the neighborhood. There were few cars on the street and many small shops and cafés on the ground floors of the buildings. It felt like a small town in the midst of a big city.
As they walked up to Birkalidsgatan 22B, they saw traces of blood on the steps. Someone had tried to clean one of the glass panes on the front door, but there were still noticeable smears.
Thomas held up Malmsten’s photograph from the crime scene. Despite the darkness of night, it was surprisingly sharp. Nyrén’s face was clear. He looked as peaceful as he had in the autopsy room.
“Stand by the door,” Thomas said. “Let’s try to reconstruct what happened. We know he was on the way home. He stood at the entrance, probably opening the front door. But he couldn’t have done much more than that.”
Margit took her place in front of the keypad and bent forward.
“Like this? If he was entering his code and was shot in the temple, he was probably standing here, right?”
Thomas watched her and nodded.
“The doctor said he’d been shot from a distance of at least sixty-five feet. And from slightly above.”
Thomas crossed the street until he stood at the right distance, about twenty yards away, but he remained at the same height as Margit.
Thomas turned to look at a slightly shabby building behind him.
Margit joined him across the street.
“Are we thinking the same thing?” She looked back at the entrance to the apartment building. “That the killer was here? For instance, aiming from that window?”
She shaded her eyes with her hand and pointed to the first row of windows a half floor up. Then she leaned forward to read the business names embossed on the plate by the entrance.
“No individuals, only businesses. Nothing else.”
Thomas read the names over her shoulder. Then his eyes stopped.
“Strandvägen Art Gallery” was listed neatly on one of the metal plates beside the entrance.
Thomas remembered the elegant script on the entrance to Ingmar von Hahne’s art gallery. Ingmar von Hahne: RSYC board member and the boss of Oscar Juliander’s mistress.
It could not be a coincidence.
Someone must have shot Martin Nyrén from this rented space. Was it Ingmar himself? And, if so, why?
“Come on,” he said to Margit. “Let’s go look at Nyrén’s apartment. Meanwhile, I’ll call for a warrant to search this place.”
Thomas opened a solid oak door and stepped over the morning paper lying on the hallway rug. The apartment smelled freshly cleaned. He nodded at one of the technicians securing evidence.
“How’s it going?” Thomas asked.
The man glanced up.
“Not bad. But unfortunately this place is clean as clean can be.”
“Any fingerprints?”
“Not yet, but I’m still working.”
The spacious three-room apartment showed that the owner cared about his home. The interior design was expensive but not ostentatious, and the apartment was well ordered. Everything had a place. Colorful art hung on the walls, and white orchids in matching pots lined the living room window. Everything looked almost obsessively neat.
This is not your average bachelor’s apartment, Thomas thought. He pictured his own sparsely furnished two-bedroom place, a space to sleep and not much more.
They took their time wandering around the apartment, trying to build a picture in their minds of its dead owner.
Thomas used the telephone to check Martin’s answering service. No messages had been saved.
The bedroom was as orderly as the rest of the apartment, though the colors were more somber. A stack of books sat on the nightstand. Thomas didn’t recognize any of the authors.
They noticed unplugged computer cables on the desk. The technicians had already taken Nyrén’s computer. With a little luck, they might access its contents.
They walked into the kitchen, the room as tidy as the rest. A large gas stove dominated the space. Margit opened the refrigerator.
“Not a starving bachelor,” she said.
Thomas leaned forward to see.
The shelves were filled. He saw various kinds of French cheese, a number of chocolate bars, and a large chunk of Parmesan beside a package of kalamata olives. Two bottles of champagne were chilling in the wine compartment.
“Was he expecting company?” Margit asked. “Or was this standard for him?”
“Yes, I wonder who was supposed to drink all that champagne.”
They went into a bathroom with gray mosaics on the walls.
“Thomas, he was single, wasn’t he?” Margit asked.
“Yes.”
“Then why are there two toothbrushes in the mug?”
CHAPTER 66
“We need to know where you were last Tuesday evening,” Thomas said.
Ingmar von Hahne looked terrified. Dark circles hung under his eyes. The confident, well-tanned appearance from last month at Sandhamn was long gone.
“I was home. At home, in my apartment.”
“Anyone there who can back up your story?”
“No.” His voice was low. “I was home. Alone. At least until midnight when my wife returned, and shortly after that, my daughter, Emma. Marcus, my son, is still out in the country.”
“So you knew Martin Nyrén,” stated Thomas.
Ingmar von Hahne nodded without speaking. Thomas pointed to the tape recorder and asked him to speak up so his words could be recorded.
“Yes, yes, I did.”
“Can you describe how you came to know him?”
A moment of silence.
“We knew each other from the RSYC,” Ingmar von Hahne said. “He was the chair of the Facilities Committee. I’m the secretary of the board.”
“How did you find out he was dead?”
“Hans Rosensjöö called me this morning. He said Martin had been murdered!” Ingmar gave them a forlorn look. “What kind of crazy killer is on the loose?”
“Martin Nyrén was found outside his front door in the Birkastan District. We believe he was shot from the building across the street,” Margit said. Until that moment, she’d let Thomas ask all the questions. “You know the area, don’t you?”
Ingmar von Hahne’s eyes darted around the room. A vein pulsed in his throat.
“Did you understand my question?” Margit asked.
The tormented man nodded silently, and Thomas reminded him to speak aloud for the recording.
“Yes. Yes, I know exactly where it is. I have storage space there.”
“Storage space?”
Thomas waited for an answer.
“When there’s not enough room in the gallery, I keep the overflow artwork there.”
“It’s close to Martin’s apartment?”
“It’s across the street.”
“Actually, we already know that,” Thomas said. “We’ve already been in your storage space. We received a search warrant this afternoon.”
Thomas’s comment made Ingmar pale.
“Would you like to know what we found there?” asked Thomas.
“Yes.” The reply was a whisper.
“We found traces of gunpowder residue on the windowsill, the one that gave a perfect view of the entrance to Martin Nyrén’s building. Is this a coincidence? What do you think?”
“I don’t think anything,” Ingmar von Hahne said. He choked on the w
ords and put his face in his hands.
“So, I’ll ask you again. Where were you Tuesday night?”
“I was at home, as I told you!”
Margit broke in. “Any explanation about why we’d find gunpowder marks in your storage space?”
“Somebody must have broken in.”
“The outer door was undamaged.”
“But what other explanation could there be?”
The man on the other side of the table looked ready to faint. All he wanted was to wake up from this nightmare.
“You can’t think I had anything to do with Martin’s murder!”
“Who has keys to the room?” asked Margit.
Ingmar von Hahne looked uncertain.
“Well, I do, of course. And Diana, who is employed at the gallery. And we have a student intern, a young woman studying art history. She helps out sometimes. I know her parents.”
Thomas peered at Ingmar von Hahne without expression for a few seconds before asking the next question.
“By Diana, you mean Diana Söder?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
Thomas ignored that and went right to his next question.
“How long did you know that Diana Söder had a relationship with Oscar Juliander?”
“I read it in the paper.”
“They met at your Christmas party last year,” Margit said. “It seems their relationship lasted almost eighteen months. Didn’t you know before it came out in the papers?”
Ingmar von Hahne sank into his chair.
“Oscar had a weakness for women. That’s not a secret. But it was only recently I knew that Diana was seeing him.”
His hand shook as he took a drink of water.
Thomas studied him during the silence.
Ingmar von Hahne did not look well at all. It appeared as if he’d just thrown on whatever clothes were on hand. The dapper gallery owner he’d met earlier had vanished.
“Do you think Diana would be capable of murdering Oscar out of jealousy?”
“Absolutely not.” The answer was abrupt and without hesitation. “I can’t imagine Diana capable of killing anybody. She’s the sweetest person you could ever imagine. Mother to a little boy. I don’t believe she even knows how to hold a gun.”
“Do you know if she knew Martin Nyrén?”
“I have no idea. She might have met him at one of our gallery parties, like she met Oscar.”
Thomas changed direction.
“Do you know of any connection between Juliander and Nyrén?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Any business together? Often together socially?” Thomas clarified. “Do you know anything at all which could explain why both of them are dead?”
“I can’t think of anything they had in common besides the RSYC. It’s the only place I know of where their worlds met.”
“Do you have anything against Martin Nyrén personally?”
Ingmar von Hahne’s face twisted, as if he were close to tears.
“Me?” he said, his voice trembling. “Martin was my friend! I liked Oscar, too, for that matter.”
Thomas considered something else. Ingmar von Hahne had been adamant that he’d really not wanted the post of RSYC chairman. Perhaps the truth was just the opposite? Perhaps he presented those feelings as a smoke screen? The lust for honor and power could be a strong motive, especially for those in the upper tier of society, like Ingmar von Hahne.
He might be telling the truth, but what if all this shock was just an act? Thomas knew from experience how easily some people could lie, so he decided to press harder.
“So, how long have you wanted the chairmanship of the RSYC?”
Ingmar von Hahne seemed surprised.
“What are you talking about?”
“Please answer the question. We want to find any possible motives behind the two murders. Lust for power could be one of them.” Thomas kept his eyes fastened on him. “Would you kill someone for it?”
Ingmar von Hahne sat straight up, collecting himself as he stared at Thomas in disgust.
“Are you out of your mind?” His indignation was clear. “I have never wanted that position! My nomination should have no bearing on these deaths. It is bizarre to even imagine such a thing. Bizarre!” Ingmar von Hahne’s lips pressed together in a thin line, his earlier indecisiveness now completely blown away.
“The chairmanship was the last thing I ever wanted.” He sounded sad. “All my life I have tried to live up to others’ expectations of me. If you think I would shoot Oscar over that position, you’re not right in the head.”
He looked around the room as if searching for strength; then he focused on Margit. It was obvious he thought her the more sympathetic of the two.
“Everyone who knows me knows I could not hurt a fly. I need to go home now.”
They compared their impressions of all the interviews conducted that day. Somehow it was already six thirty in the evening. Through the window they heard the song of a blackbird perched on a branch outside.
Margit rested in the visitor’s chair in Thomas’s office, her tired eyes a reflection of his own.
They’d arranged all possible security precautions for each member of the RSYC. They’d given out personal alarms and an emergency number. They’d also told the board members not to go out after dark, to stay away from unknown areas, and to keep an eye on their surroundings.
Persson had fielded calls from upset citizens, all with the same complaint. What were the police doing to protect the public?
Didn’t he understand that people feared for their lives?
Finally his summer cold knocked him out. He would have to stay home for a few days to recuperate. It was hard to tell if the virus or the phone calls had brought him down. At any rate, Persson finally realized he was too sick to work.
Thomas knew they didn’t have enough officers to guard every RSYC member around the clock. That was impossible. But the public couldn’t understand that.
The media was having a field day, and Thomas feared the National Bureau might take over the investigation soon.
Some more prominent RSYC board members got their companies to provide private security. Although Thomas was, in principle, against such action, he also realized it would take some pressure off them. Another murder would be indefensible. The situation was dire enough already.
Diana Söder came to the police station a few hours after Ingmar von Hahne left. It surprised her to be called in again. When Thomas questioned her about the key to the storage area, she hadn’t been much help.
Thomas clasped his hands behind his head and stretched.
“We’ve just seen two people who insist they had nothing to do with these killings. Diana Söder says she’s never held a gun in her life, plus she’d never even met Martin Nyrén. And Ingmar von Hahne swears he’s innocent.”
“She became really upset when you insinuated she might have killed Juliander.” Margit furrowed her brow. “Do you think she’s putting on a show?”
“Hard to say. I’m sure that she loved Oscar. She also has an unshakable alibi for the day of his death. So does von Hahne for that matter. And Diana Söder came to us voluntarily with those anonymous e-mails.”
“A smoke screen?”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Could jealousy drive her to hire a hit man? That does happen.”
“Yes,” Margit said. “But not very often. And the question remains, what did she have to gain?”
“Maybe he wanted to end it. Maybe he wanted to leave her for someone else . . .”
“Perhaps, but is that believable? And why would she kill Nyrén?”
Margit crossed her arms and leaned back.
“The only person who had anything to gain from Juliander’s death is von Hahne,” Thomas said.
“For the chairmanship? Do you really believe that?”
Thomas shrugged.
“Don’t forget. The shot that killed Nyrén came from his storage space.”
“Just a coincidence? Was it simply a good spot to make the shot? But why get rid of Nyrén? As long as we’re considering von Hahne as the killer.”
“I have no idea. Maybe Nyrén found something on him and threatened to reveal it to the authorities.”
Margit looked skeptical. “We have guesses and nothing more.”
“Yes,” Thomas said. “By the way, what did Sylvia Juliander say?”
“She knew nothing about any connection between Nyrén and her husband outside of the RSYC. Nothing at all.”
“So we have nothing, too.” Thomas tried to stifle a sigh.
When did he lose his children?
When they were born, a feeling he’d never experienced before overcame him. Those tiny, tiny fingers grabbing his. The downy hair barely visible. Eyes peering at him, struggling to focus.
His joy had surprised him. All during his wife’s first pregnancy, he’d been distant, as if the whole business didn’t concern him. It was one more thing that happened because it was expected, not because he wanted it. He felt as if no one ever asked what he wanted, so he would not participate.
Children were expected, nothing more, nothing less.
But as he stood there in the hospital and looked into the tiny crib where his son lay, he couldn’t imagine life without him.
After their births, he’d spent as much time as possible in the nursery. He could play for hours on the floor with building blocks and teddy bears. Tickle tummies until the kids screamed with laughter. Read stories until their eyes shut and the arm hugging the teddy bear fell away.
Things changed so quickly. The children’s voices began to echo his wife’s thoughts. Their opinions became foreign to him, and their values veered far away from his own.
His daughter no longer sought out his company. She preferred to go shopping with her mother. She stopped chatting with him and became preoccupied with her appearance.
His son, his firstborn, turned snobbish, throwing hackneyed phrases around and surrounding himself with friends he could barely understand.
The siblings formed a united front where he was barely welcome or desired.