In Harm's Way

by Viveca Sten

  “Can I get you some water?” Margit asked.

  After a few seconds, Michael stood up. “I’ll get it myself.” He disappeared into the kitchen, and they heard the sound of the faucet being turned on. A minute or so later, he was back with three glasses and a pitcher. He sat down and took his time carefully pouring the water.

  “Could you tell us something about Jeanette?” Margit said. She was taking it gently, Thomas thought. It was never easy asking questions in a situation like this, but the more they could find out early on, the better.

  “Jeanette,” Michael said slowly.

  He picked up his glass and took a few sips, then studied the remaining water.

  “We’ve been divorced for a long time, since the late nineties.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “We met in ’88 and married pretty soon after; we weren’t exactly kids.”

  “And you have a daughter?” Thomas prompted.

  “Yes, Alice. She was only four when we split up.” Michael fell silent and ran a hand over his shaved head. “Jeanette stayed home for the first few years, but then she wanted to get back out there. I guess she did try to change the way she worked, but being at home just kept eating away at her.” He shrugged. “In the end we couldn’t carry on. She was away more and more on different assignments.”

  “I understand Alice lives with you?” Margit said.

  “That’s right. In the beginning we tried alternate weeks, but it was too disruptive for Alice. Jeanette lived in the city center, and I wanted to stay out here. When it was time to choose a school, we decided on Vaxholm, because Jeanette could be away for weeks on end.”

  He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and his tone became a little defensive.

  “This is the house I grew up in; I didn’t want to move away. Plus it’s a fantastic environment for children, quiet and safe.” He put down his glass and added: “Jeanette was always off traveling anyway.”

  “How often did Alice see her mother?” Margit wondered.

  “Not often enough. Jeanette was very . . . committed to her work. She’d do anything for a real scoop or a good article. She took enormous risks, went to trouble spots where even the Red Cross weren’t welcome.”

  He licked his lips. “She had a great sense of empathy when it came to the injustices of war. Unfortunately she didn’t have the same awareness of those who needed her at home.”

  “Are you saying she neglected her daughter?”

  Michael twisted a broad silver ring on the third finger of his right hand.

  “Alice suffered due to her mother’s absences. Jeanette has hardly been home over the past few years, if you ask me. It’s not always easy for a young teenager to see her mom on TV, when she really misses her.”

  “Where has Jeanette been?” Thomas asked.

  “Where hasn’t she been? The Balkans, of course, when the former Yugoslavia collapsed. She spent a lot of time in the Middle East, but she was also in Africa—Ethiopia, the Sudan, the Congo. She nearly died out there, in fact.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was involved in a car accident—she was in a jeep that came off the road and fell into a ravine. It was hours before they were found; she was in the hospital in Nairobi for a week before she was well enough to be flown home.”

  “That must have been difficult for Alice.”

  “She was so upset—it almost took longer for her to recover than Jeanette. It was a huge shock.”

  “When was this?” Thomas asked.

  “Let’s see, I guess it was about four years ago—2004, I think.”

  Michael leaned forward, as if he were desperate to make them understand.

  “I don’t know how many times I asked her to cut back, to think of Alice. She needed her mom, not just me. But Jeanette wouldn’t listen. Alice and I simply went out of her head as soon as she got a new assignment; nothing else mattered. It was like talking to a wall.”

  It wasn’t hard to see why the relationship had foundered.

  They heard the sound of the front door opening. A cold gust of wind, then a voice calling from the hallway: “I’m home, Dad.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Michael Thiels stiffened when he heard his daughter’s voice. He looked at Thomas as if the impact of what had happened had just hit him.

  “What am I going to say to her?” he whispered. His eyes pleaded with Thomas and Margit, but there was no time to think. Alice appeared in the doorway, her dark hair gathered up in a messy ponytail. She dropped a scruffy sports bag on the floor, with one sneaker sticking out. She was wearing earbuds.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Then she noticed the two strangers sitting on the sofa, and stopped dead.

  “Alice,” Michael said, his voice thick with emotion. “Come and sit here.”

  The girl was very slim, with delicate skin. She wasn’t tall, no more than five two; her face was small, with narrow eyes.

  “What happened?” Her voice was almost inaudible. She grabbed the doorframe, almost clinging to it. Her black nail polish was badly chipped.

  Michael stood up and went over to his daughter. He led her to the armchair, then knelt beside her, taking her hand. Alice began to cry, even though her father had told her nothing.

  “Sweetheart,” he began, struggling to speak. “These police officers are here because they have some bad news. There’s been a terrible accident over on Sandhamn.”

  He directed a silent plea to Thomas and Margit: Please don’t tell her the whole story.

  “I’m sorry to say that Mom is no longer with us. She’s passed away.”

  Alice stared at him, then her hand flew to her mouth as if to suppress a cry of pain.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, Alice? Mom is dead.”

  Alice shot out of the chair.

  “It’s all your fault!” she yelled as she ran out of the room and up the stairs.

  Michael remained where he was. For a moment Thomas thought he was going to burst into tears, but then he got to his feet, making no attempt to follow his daughter. From upstairs they heard the sound of a door slamming.

  Slowly Michael lowered himself into the armchair. Margit placed a hand on his arm.

  “Drink some water,” she said, refilling his glass and handing it to him. He looked at her blankly, but accepted it and took a couple of sips.

  “Why do you think Alice reacted that way?” Thomas said. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask.” The girl’s outburst had taken him by surprise, as had the expression in her eyes.

  Michael shook his head.

  “I don’t know.” He looked down at his hands and clasped them together on his lap before continuing: “But I think she blames me for the divorce—for giving Jeanette an ultimatum when Alice was little.”

  “Is that what you did?”

  He nodded. “I was the one who pushed for a divorce, and Alice knows that. Plus her mother was kind enough to clarify the situation at an early stage.”

  An enormous ferry passed by, the light seeping out of its small square windows. The snow on the quarterdeck sparkled in its glow, and beyond the ship Thomas could see the dark stone walls of the fortress.

  “I just couldn’t live like that anymore,” Michael said gruffly. “The worry when she was away, the arguments when she was home. I couldn’t handle it; I wanted a normal life for myself and for Alice.”

  He sank back with a weary sigh, rubbing his chin with one hand. “I know Alice is angry; she blames me for driving her mom away. The fact that I met Petra four years ago hasn’t exactly helped.”

  “Who’s Petra?” Margit asked.

  “Petra Lundvall—she’s an economist and works for the town council in Solna. We met by chance at a dinner with mutual friends.”

  “And Alice doesn’t like her?”

  A vague gesture.

  “It’s not easy,” Michael said quietly. “Petra wants us to move in together, maybe start a family of our own; she doesn’t have kids, and she�
�s almost forty. But I know Alice would go crazy if that happened.”

  The man in front of them seemed honest, but Thomas was still wondering about the accusation Alice had hurled at him. Was it simply the expression of an anger that had been simmering away for a long time, a shocked teenager’s reaction to terrible news? Or was there something else behind those harsh words?

  They needed to speak to Alice again, without her father.

  Margit’s focus remained on Michael Thiels.

  “Could you tell us where you were over Christmas?”

  The question had to be asked. Thomas knew Margit was making every effort to keep her tone neutral, but inevitably Michael reacted.

  “Here, of course—with Alice,” he said, lifting his chin.

  “Can she confirm that? Were you together the whole time?”

  “We celebrated with my parents; they arrived here at around two o’clock on Christmas Eve and stayed until midnight. They have an apartment in a seniors’ complex not far away. I’ll give you their phone number.”

  Margit made a note. “And what about Christmas Day? Did the two of you stay here in Vaxholm?”

  “No, we were invited over to Petra’s place. She lives in Sundbyberg.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “A few hours; we arrived at four and were home by eight. We didn’t stay too long because of Alice.”

  “Your relationship with Jeanette wasn’t amicable enough for you to spend Christmas together?” Thomas said, thinking of Nora and Henrik, who had made the effort this year.

  “Not really, but Alice wanted Jeanette to come here so she wouldn’t be alone on Christmas Eve.”

  Michael was interrupted by the ringtone of his cell phone. He tried to ignore it, but eventually took it out of his pocket, glanced at the display, and rejected the call.

  Thomas thought he could see “Petra.”

  “Alice met up with Jeanette on the twenty-third, and she said she didn’t have any plans. Alice invited her to be with us, but she said no.”

  “Was that the last time they saw each other?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Margit leaned forward. “Where did they meet?”

  “Alice went over to Jeanette’s for coffee and cake in the afternoon. She’d already asked me if her mom could spend Christmas Eve with us, and of course I’d said yes, but when Alice got back she just said Jeanette couldn’t make it.”

  “How did Alice react?”

  “She was disappointed, but then that was nothing new. Jeanette had been away a lot during the fall; she was overseas on Alice’s birthday back in October.” One hand clenched into a fist. “And not for the first time,” he added.

  “Do you know if they had any contact after the twenty-third?” Thomas asked. “Did Alice speak to her mom on Christmas Eve?”

  “I don’t think Jeanette got in touch at all; Alice would have told me. But that was typical of my ex-wife.”

  He gazed out the window, a tiny muscle twitching next to one eye. Another ferry was passing by, its lights shining out into the gathering darkness.

  “By the way, do you happen to know whether Jeanette had any particular connection with Sandhamn? Have you any idea why she might have gone over there alone the day before yesterday?”

  “I think her mother still owns a house on the island. Jeanette grew up in Tierp, but the family had a summer cottage on Sandhamn. That’s where her mother’s from.”

  “So her mother is alive?” Margit said.

  “Yes, but she suffers from severe dementia; she’s in a home. The house belonged to her maternal grandmother, so it probably hasn’t been sold. We used to go there when Alice was little. It’s on the south side of the island.”

  Margit slipped her notebook into her pocket.

  “We’d like to speak to Alice again, if you don’t have any objection.”

  Michael seemed surprised.

  “Not today, surely?”

  Margit glanced at Thomas.

  “We’ll come back another time,” Thomas said, getting to his feet. Margit followed suit.

  Michael accompanied them to the front door. As he opened it, the light caught his shaved head, shining with sweat.

  CHAPTER 23

  Jeanette Thiels’s apartment was in one of the old turn-of-the century blocks in the Söder district of Stockholm, between Mariatorget and Slussen.

  When Thomas and Margit walked into the entrance hall, they could hear the sound of murmuring from above; there was no doubt that their colleagues had already set to work. Hopefully they had gotten far enough to allow Thomas and Margit in. He thought he recognized Staffan Nilsson’s voice; Nilsson was good, a highly skilled forensic technician, and Thomas valued his work immensely.

  He turned to Margit. “Third floor, wasn’t it?”

  The old stone staircase was worn, with faint indentations from decades of footsteps. It took only a minute or so for them to reach the apartment.

  “Afternoon,” Nilsson greeted them. “And a merry Christmas to you both—or is it wrong to say that under the circumstances?”

  Margit simply nodded back.

  “How’s it going?” Thomas asked.

  Nilsson was dressed in blue protective clothing and white plastic gloves. He took two more pairs of gloves out of a pack and gave them to Thomas and Margit.

  “Shoe protectors,” he said, pointing to a small pile. “Come on in and see for yourselves.”

  The apartment was light and airy, with high ceilings, white walls, and pale pine floorboards. Two more forensic technicians were busy going through Jeanette’s possessions. Thomas looked around, trying to take in her home, to understand the woman who’d lived there. The bedroom lay straight ahead, with a living room and a study to the left. The kitchen was at the far end.

  The décor was somewhat sparse, to say the least. Very few rugs, no curtains framing the windows. However, there were a number of brightly colored paintings with African motifs hanging above a brown leather couch—red and green, with a brilliant yellow sun. Cheerful colors.

  There was no sign of any Christmas decorations.

  “A lamp has been knocked over in the bedroom,” Nilsson said from behind them. “And the chest of drawers appears to have been searched; the contents are all in a heap, and the bottom drawer was left partly open. There are papers all over the place in the study.”

  “Someone’s been here,” Margit said. “Can we take a look at the bedroom?”

  “No problem.”

  Thomas saw a broken lamp next to the bed; it had clearly fallen off the bedside table. An elbow at the wrong height would have been enough to send it flying.

  “Any sign of a struggle?” Margit asked.

  “Not at all—quite the reverse. Come into the kitchen.”

  Nilsson led the way; the kitchen was small, but there was enough space for a square table with three chairs and a stool. Two empty coffee cups stood on the table, plus a plate with a dried-up, half-eaten Lucia bun and several chocolate truffles.

  “We found this when we arrived.”

  “She seems to have left in a hurry,” Margit commented. “Otherwise surely she’d have cleared the table?”

  “The Sailors Hotel was booked for two nights,” Thomas said, “so she knew she wouldn’t be back for a couple of days.”

  He inspected the contents of the two cups; there was a thin layer of grayish flakes where the milk in the coffee had gone sour.

  “The question is, who else was here?”

  “We should be able to secure both fingerprints and DNA from the cups,” Nilsson said.

  “The visitor must have been here on the morning of Christmas Eve at the latest. Jeanette caught the ferry to Sandhamn at two forty-five in the afternoon. According to her ex-husband, her daughter met up with her on the afternoon of the twenty-third.”

  “It doesn’t take very long to tidy up,” Margit said, turning to Nilsson. “Can you tell how long these cups have been here?”

  He shrugged. �
�Not with any precision.”

  “We need to speak to the neighbors,” Thomas said. “Someone might have noticed a visitor on the morning of the twenty-fourth.”

  “Why was she in such a hurry?” Margit mused. “Do you think she met a source who told her something urgent? I mean, she was a journalist.”

  “And she had a coffee in her home with this source on Christmas Eve?” Nilsson said with a more than a hint of sarcasm. Margit chose to ignore him.

  “Maybe she was threatened in some way?” she went on. “And that made her rush off to Sandhamn—to hide?”

  Thomas opened the refrigerator. An open carton of milk, a selection of cheeses, and a bunch of grapes lay on the middle shelf along with a pack of meatballs, some smoked salmon, and a jar of dill sauce. There was also white wine and beer. It certainly looked as if Jeanette had bought traditional Christmas food for herself. Yet another sign that she hadn’t planned to spend the day on Sandhamn.

  “The study’s over there,” Nilsson said, pointing to an open door.

  Thomas stopped dead in the doorway. There were piles of paper strewn across the floor. The walls were lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, but the books had been pulled out and also lay on the floor. In one corner, someone had tipped over a box of paperbacks with Jeanette’s name on the cover. The large black desk was also a complete mess, but among the chaos he noticed a framed photo of Alice, with chubby cheeks and a missing front tooth.

  There was a gray sofa bed along one wall; that, too, was littered with books and papers. Was that where Alice slept when she came to stay with her mom? Thomas wondered. There was only one bedroom; had she had to make do with the study?

  Margit went over to one of the piles.

  “Jeanette could obviously read several languages,” she said, holding up a book with a German title and the word Sarajevo in the middle. “This one’s in French,” she said, pointing to a nearby paperback.

  Thomas turned to Nilsson.

  “Did you find a computer in the apartment?”

  “No—there’s nothing here.”

  Nilsson pointed to a large printer in the corner next to the desk. “But she could print anything she wanted. That’s an advanced model, and it would have been far from cheap. I checked out a similar one not long ago, but I decided it was too expensive for home use.”