by Viveca Sten
He couldn’t get the sight of Ebba rushing off in tears out of his mind. He tried to defend himself against his guilty conscience and get mad at her instead. Fucking bitch, trying to tell him what to do, like she was his mom or something.
And yet he couldn’t let it go.
They walked past the outdoor stage and continued toward the pontoons at the far end. Several families with children were lining up for the Royal Swedish Yacht Club ferry to Lökholmen, the island opposite. A little girl was licking her ice cream, which was dripping onto her shorts.
Tessan was gabbing beside him; she tried to take his hand, but he pulled away.
When they reached the Via Mare jetty, Christoffer keyed in the code and opened the gate. His friend’s boat was over to the right. It looked incredibly expensive, a forty-eight-footer with a shiny white hull and mahogany fittings. Dance music was booming from two outdoor speakers, and there were already lots of people on board.
Christoffer nodded to Dante Bianchi and shouted hi to a tall, pretty girl aged about twenty. Her thick brown hair was parted in the middle, and she was wearing a blue top and white cutoff jeans. Christoffer kind of lit up when she came over to them. He introduced her as Sara and explained that they were in the same program, but Tobbe knew right away that wasn’t the whole story. He also realized that they wanted to be left in peace.
“Over here, Tobbe!” Tessan shouted, gesturing to the seat next to her. He really didn’t want to join her, but she hadn’t left him much choice. It just felt wrong. He looked over at Christoffer, who was smiling and holding Sara’s hand; he clearly wasn’t interested in anybody else.
Tobbe remembered when everything had been so good between him and Ebba. She used to wait for him outside the school; he was always late, so they had to run to get to first period in time. Last winter, she’d worn a dumb woolen hat with a fur bobble that bounced up and down when she ran. He’d teased her and told her she looked like his grandmother on a hiking vacation in the mountains.
When it snowed for the first time, in December, they’d built a snowman in her yard. He’d pulled off her hat and pushed her down into the snow. She’d held out her arms and pulled him close. In spite of the cold, her mouth had been warm on his. They had lain there side by side until their teeth started chattering.
“Tobbe?”
Tessan’s voice dragged him back to reality. The corners of her mouth turned down as she complained that she was thirsty. “Is there nothing to drink in this place?”
Tobbe dug the bottle of vodka out of his rucksack and found some glasses and Fanta. Tessan took a swig and leaned forward, pressing her breasts against his chest and parting her lips.
He couldn’t deal with that. He lurched to his feet and muttered something about going to find the toilets in the harbor.
“Back in a minute,” he lied as he hurried away. Tessan shouted something after him, but he pretended not to hear.
As he headed for the toilet block behind the promenade, he wondered what the hell he was doing. He went inside and joined the line. When he’d finished and went to wash his hands, he saw his own unhappy face in the mirror. Two guys came in, laughing and shouting; there were no paper towels left in the dispenser, so he wiped his hands on his jeans and went back outside.
He didn’t know where to go; he certainly had no desire to return to the boat. It was a quarter to nine; he took out his phone and sent a text to Victor, asking where he was. It had been quite some time since he and Felicia had disappeared.
He stared at the phone. Ebba had looked so upset when she ran off. Should he give her a call, to check that she was OK? But why would she want to talk to him? He was the one who’d behaved like an asshole.
Deep down, he knew exactly why they’d broken up. The drug use had gone too far, way too far.
It had started as a bit of fun. He’d never been afraid of new experiences, and when he got the chance to try cocaine, he couldn’t say no. He was curious more than anything; a friend had told him you could party all night. Victor wanted to try it, too, and before Tobbe knew what had happened, they were doing it almost every weekend. Victor paid, and why would Tobbe pass up the opportunity? He liked the feeling, even if it was never quite as powerful as the very first time.
Victor found a new source, and he began buying all kinds of stuff. When he couldn’t get coke, he tried just about anything, and before long, he was supplying coke to other members of their gang. The volume increased, and Tobbe realized that Victor couldn’t possibly afford the amount he was using unless he’d started dealing on the side.
Sometimes Victor was uncommunicative and miserable; sometimes he was irritable and bad-tempered. Tobbe thought about stopping, but it was impossible to talk to Victor about it. And anyway, he didn’t want to give Ebba the satisfaction. She’d been getting on his nerves all spring; he’d hate to admit that she’d been right.
But Victor’s behavior was starting to worry him.
Dad had rented a house in Majorca; both Christoffer and Tobbe would be spending a few weeks there. That seemed like a good opportunity to come off the drugs.
Midsummer would be the last time he would snort a line of coke, he promised himself.
Tobbe slipped his cell phone into his back pocket and set off behind the Sailors Restaurant and up a steep hill. Part of him was hoping he’d bump into Ebba. They could sit down and talk.
After a while, he reached a viewing point. Next to an old iron anchor embedded in the rock, he saw a couple in their thirties with their arms around each other.
Tobbe wished it had been him and Ebba sitting there. He ambled aimlessly along until he reached an area of flat rocks by the water’s edge. He continued to the shore, where a group of friends were sitting around a fire. He heard laughter but didn’t recognize any of them.
Ebba wasn’t there.
After a while, he went back to the smooth rocks and lay down. He stared up at the sky. He really didn’t want to return to Bianchi’s boat; no doubt Tessan would still be there.
Eventually he must have fallen asleep. When he woke up, the sun had gone down, and in the distance, he could hear the music pounding in the harbor. He slipped in the darkness and banged his face. It really hurt and he almost started crying, but somehow he managed to find his way back to their own boat. He lay down on the sofa and went back to sleep.
CHAPTER 69
Tobbe’s voice thickened and he broke off.
Thomas exchanged a glance with Margit. Tobbe Hökström couldn’t prove where he’d been at the relevant time, and despite the fact that there was an eyewitness, he refused to admit that he’d been anywhere near Victor.
The suspicions remained; the question was how to proceed.
“So you still insist you had nothing to do with Victor’s death?” Thomas said.
Tobbe looked at him unhappily. “I had no idea what had happened until the police told me. I swear.” The words were rapid, jerky. “I’ve told you everything.”
What you’ve told us proves nothing, Thomas thought as he contemplated the sixteen-year-old. But there’s a lot of evidence stacking up against you.
“As we’ve already told you, we know you were in Skärkarlshamn around the time your friend was killed,” he said. “Felicia saw you. Now do you understand why we suspect you were involved?”
Tobbe glanced at his father, who had gone a shade paler. Neither of them spoke.
“Do you admit you were on the shore when Victor was killed?” Margit said.
“But he wasn’t there when I arrived!” Tobbe’s voice was almost a falsetto. “Neither him nor Felicia! Why don’t you believe me?”
Thomas kept his eyes fixed on the boy’s face. “We think the two of you got into a fight. When Victor died, you ran away to a sheltered spot where no one could see you. The crevices in the rock face below Dansberget would be perfect. Maybe you did fall asleep, maybe the strain was too much for you. When you eventually woke up, you didn’t know where to go, so you went back to the boat, for want of
a better idea.”
Arthur Hökström had gotten to his feet once more while Thomas was speaking. His jaws were working as if he had something to say but couldn’t get it out. He sat down, his hands shaking as he placed them on the table.
“Am I right?” Thomas said. Tobbe silently shook his head. His face was blotchy, and the bruise on his cheek was even more noticeable than before.
“That mark on your cheek,” Thomas went on. “We talked about it before, but you didn’t seem to have a convincing explanation. So I’m asking you again: Where did it come from?”
“I told you! I slipped on the rocks in the dark!”
“You hadn’t been fighting with anyone?”
“No! No, I hadn’t!”
“You didn’t get into a fight with Victor? It looks as if it could have been inflicted by a fist.”
“Stop! I told you, I fell!”
Margit placed a hand on his arm once more. “Do you realize how serious this is, Tobbe? You’ve just admitted that you lied when we spoke to you for the first time on Sandhamn. You didn’t tell us that both you and Victor were using cocaine. Can you give me one single reason why we should believe you now?”
The teenager stared at Thomas and Margit, wide-eyed with horror. “I didn’t mean to lie when you asked me before. I just didn’t want to say that”—his cheeks flushed red—“I was trying to find Ebba.”
“Why not?”
“It was my fault she ran off. That’s why I said I was on Bianchi’s boat with the others.” The flush deepened. “I felt terrible when I found out she’d gone to the police because she didn’t know where we were . . . because she was so scared.” His voice died away, and he started chewing what remained of his thumbnail. “I was ashamed of myself,” he mumbled.
His father leaned forward and gently removed Tobbe’s hand from his mouth. “Leave that now.”
Thomas observed the interaction between father and son. Things didn’t look good for Tobbe. He’d lied to them, he didn’t have an alibi, and he didn’t have a convincing explanation for the bruise on his cheek. On the other hand, there was no forensic evidence.
Not yet.
They would need to examine the clothes he’d been wearing during the weekend, but in order to do that, they would have to contact the prosecutor. He could tell that Margit was thinking along the same lines. He made a decision.
“OK, let’s take a break. I’d like to speak to the prosecutor before we proceed.”
Tobbe’s face was ashen when Thomas and Margit returned ten minutes later. They sat down, and Thomas switched on the tape recorder.
“We’ve spoken to the prosecutor,” he began, then paused as he tried to find the right words.
There was only one way to say what he had to say.
“Tobias Hökström, you are hereby informed that you are suspected of homicide or manslaughter. You have the right to representation by a public defender, who will be provided by the state.”
“Dad!” Tobbe called out. “Do something, please!”
Arthur put his arm around his son and pulled him close. At first it seemed as if Tobbe wasn’t used to physical contact with his father, but then he hid his face against Arthur’s chest, his red hair resting on the fabric of that smart suit.
“It’ll be fine,” Arthur said quietly, ignoring Thomas and Margit. “It’ll all work out, you’ll see.” As if he were trying to convince both himself and Tobbe, he repeated in a louder voice, “It’ll all work out.”
“The prosecutor has issued a warrant permitting us to search your home and to bring in the clothing you were wearing last weekend,” Thomas explained. “You will also be required to give a DNA sample before you leave here.”
“But I haven’t done anything!”
“It’s in your best interest to cooperate with us,” Margit said. “The sooner we can clear this up, the better.” She leaned forward. “We don’t believe you did it on purpose,” she went on gently. “Can’t you tell us what happened when you got into the fight with Victor? We know the two of you have fallen out before—your brother told us.”
“Christoffer,” Tobbe breathed.
Arthur Hökström’s eyes had taken on a glassy appearance. Thomas had half expected him to stop the interview and demand the presence of a public defender immediately, but he was clearly too shaken to think that way.
“Victor was my friend,” Tobbe stammered. “Why would I kill him?”
“As I said, we don’t believe it was intentional,” Margit said encouragingly. “How much did you have to drink on Saturday?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try. Was it three vodkas mixed with Fanta, or more? How much did you get through that day?”
“Maybe four or five drinks, no more.”
“And did you take cocaine, too?”
A feeble nod. “Yes.”
“When?”
“In the afternoon.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know—four o’clock?”
“So you were both drunk and under the influence of narcotics that evening.”
“But I didn’t kill him! I didn’t do it!” Tobbe’s voice was almost a scream.
“Are you sure you’re remembering correctly?” Margit’s tone was serious now. “If I’d put away half a bottle of vodka and snorted God knows how much coke, I doubt if I’d remember anything at all. Why do you keep lying to us?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Tobbe sniveled, a string of snot hanging from his nose.
Thomas touched Margit’s arm. The boy was broken; it was time to stop.
“I don’t think we’re going to get much further today,” he said. “As I’ve already said, we’ll be collecting your clothes, and we also need your cell phone.”
The air was thick in the small room.
“I’ll speak to the prosecutor again, find out whether you’re going to be arrested or not,” Thomas said. “In the meantime, you and your father will remain here.”
“Can’t I go home?” Tobbe whispered.
CHAPTER 70
“So what do we do now?” Margit said to Thomas. They were sitting in his office, trying to analyze the morning’s interview.
“You heard what the prosecutor said. We don’t have enough for him to be arrested.”
The prosecutor, Charlotte Ståhlgren, had refused permission; she didn’t think they had sufficient evidence. If Tobbe was arrested, he would immediately be handed over to social services anyway because he was a minor, so it was better to wait.
“At least we have his clothes and his cell phone,” Margit said. She looked at her watch and stood up. “Lunch? Shall we see if Harry wants to join us?”
They chose a restaurant just a few minutes’ walk from the station, down toward the Nacka shore.
Thomas decided on cod with egg sauce—decent everyday food, not exactly sophisticated but perfectly fine. Margit chose a large portion of lasagna that was probably overcooked but smelled delicious. Anjou also went for the pasta.
Margit led the way to an outdoor table. Though the sky was overcast, the day was pleasantly warm. Tables covered in red-checked cloths were set out on a deck area, and they were almost all occupied; the summer vacation period hadn’t really started yet.
Thomas put down his tray next to Anjou’s. “Are you cold?” he said jokingly to his younger colleague, who was wearing a thick dark-brown leather jacket. Thomas himself was in shirtsleeves.
“I’m not feeling well,” Anjou said.
Thomas had to admit that he didn’t look great. He had bags under his bloodshot eyes. Maybe he still hadn’t recovered from the Midsummer weekend?
“I hope you’re not getting sick,” Margit said. “We need all the help we can get.”
The conversation naturally turned to the case, as it so often did during an ongoing investigation. It was hard to switch off from the job.
“We need to get ahold of more witnesses,” Margit went on. “Kalle and Erik haven’t found a single person who saw or
heard anything apart from the neighbor, and she wasn’t much help.”
“Are you surprised?” Thomas said.
The other kids on the shore had probably bought their supplies of booze illegally, plus many of them were there without their parents’ permission. Under the circumstances, they weren’t likely to come forward voluntarily.
Margit picked up her fork; Thomas could see her mind working as she ate.
“I actually thought we had enough for an arrest,” she said. “With Felicia’s statement and what Tobbe himself said, surely we can prove he was at the scene of the crime around the time of Victor’s death? We also know the boys had fallen out before and that they’d both been drinking and taking drugs.”
“But Felicia doesn’t know exactly what happened,” Thomas pointed out. “She’d also taken drugs, and Tobbe denies any involvement.”
“OK, but you have to admit things don’t look good for him. I suspect he was so high, he doesn’t remember what he did.”
Harry Anjou had been concentrating on his food, but now he joined in. “Then there’s the bruise on his cheek.”
“I find it difficult to believe it was caused by a fall,” Margit said.
“It does sound like a misguided attempt to explain it away,” Thomas conceded.
Margit went into the restaurant to order coffee and soon returned with three cups.
“I’m going to ring Nilsson for a chat after lunch,” Thomas said. “Let’s see if he’s come up with anything else.”
“I’ll be interested to see what forensics gets from Tobbe’s clothing,” Margit said. “But I guess that will take at least a week.”
“Unless the kid breaks down and confesses,” Anjou said, taking a tin of snuff out of his pocket. “I think we should push him harder. I’d bet a month’s salary that he’s our killer.”
CHAPTER 71
It was a relief to get out of the house for a few hours, Johan Ekengreen thought as he merged onto the freeway. When Madeleine wasn’t knocked out by her pills and sleeping like the dead, she wandered around like a ghost.