In the Heat of the Moment (Sandhamn Murders Book 5)

by Viveca Sten

  CHAPTER 89

  A dozen or so identical apartment blocks were lined up in front of Thomas. Harry Anjou lived on the second floor of the third one down. Thomas parked the car and locked the doors.

  As he walked toward the entrance, he realized how little he knew about his new colleague. Who was Harry Anjou? They had exchanged very few words of a personal nature since meeting for the first time on Sandhamn during the weekend.

  The main door was protected by an entry code, but just as Thomas was wondering how to get in, a guy in his thirties came out.

  Thomas covered the stairs in a few swift strides. There was a handwritten label stuck over the nameplate on one of the apartments: Harry Anjou.

  Thomas rang the bell. He had to ring twice more before the lock clicked, the handle was pushed down, and Anjou’s face appeared. He didn’t look at all well.

  Thomas was about to ask how he was feeling when the strong smell of alcohol reached his nostrils. He couldn’t believe it.

  “Are you sitting at home, drinking?”

  Anjou pushed the door open a little farther. He was a mess; his chin was covered in an even darker layer of stubble than usual.

  “Why aren’t you answering your phone? I’ve been trying to call you all day. We’re in the middle of an investigation, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Come in,” Anjou said. Without waiting for Thomas, he turned and walked away into a bright kitchen with black-and-white cork matting on the floor and a round table with two chairs. There was a half-full bottle of Smirnoff on the drainboard.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Thomas said, gesturing toward the vodka.

  Anjou pulled out a chair and pointed to the other. “Sit down,” he said with a weary sigh. “I’ve done something really stupid.”

  “Go on.”

  Anjou remained standing, irresolute; then he turned and opened a cupboard. He took out a glass and poured himself a generous measure of Smirnoff.

  Thomas didn’t say a word. Drinking wasn’t going to improve anything, but pointing that out would be a waste of time. He tried to sound encouraging. “Harry, you didn’t hand in your own high-visibility vest. Karlsson’s is torn, but he insists it wasn’t damaged when he gave it to you. What’s going on?”

  Anjou’s glass was almost empty. He put it down and looked at Thomas, his expression inscrutable.

  “The vests,” he said with a bitter laugh. “You asked me to collect the vests.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I panicked.” He fell silent and ran a hand over his hair, which was flat against his sweaty forehead.

  “So the scrap of material found at the scene came from your vest?” Thomas said.

  Anjou nodded.

  “And you cut a piece out of Adrian Karlsson’s vest to make it look as if it had come from his?”

  Anjou’s silence was enough of an answer.

  “But why?”

  “It was such a dumb idea.” Anjou shook his head. “But I just wanted it all to go away. Karlsson was first on the scene, he could easily have caught his vest on a branch and torn it. Nobody would give it another thought.”

  Thomas realized what had happened.

  Everyone thought Anjou had arrived at the scene of the crime after Nilsson had finished his examination; while the forensic technicians were carrying out their work in Skärkarlshamn, he had been in the motor home the police were using as a temporary base. There was no logical explanation for why a piece of fabric from Anjou’s vest had been found beside Victor Ekengreen’s dead body.

  “Harry,” he said, seriously concerned now. “What happened that evening? Why was a piece of your vest next to Victor’s body? What have you done?”

  HARRY ANJOU

  Harry Anjou could never have imagined how demanding his stint on Sandhamn would be. Late on Midsummer’s Day, he began to regret volunteering for duty this weekend.

  By that time, he had worked almost nonstop since Midsummer’s Eve and had hardly eaten or slept. There was always something needing his attention, and by nine o’clock, he was exhausted.

  Jens Sturup took over from him in the motor home. Anjou used the opportunity to take a walk around; after several hours in front of the computer, he felt the need to get some fresh air. He decided to head for Skärkarlshamn, away from the noise and crowds in the harbor.

  Officers normally worked in pairs, but because he’d spent so long indoors, he had no one to go with. It didn’t matter; it was nice to be alone for a while.

  He strode past Dansberget and the tennis courts. He soon reached the road to Trouville, and after a while, he turned onto the track leading down to Skärkarlshamn. It was covered in pine needles, with gnarled roots sticking up; he followed it all the way through the forest to the shore, where it stopped at a picket fence.

  A figure was moving up ahead—a boy, staggering around by a large alder not far from the water’s edge. As Anjou came closer, he saw a girl lying motionless on the ground. Had she fainted?

  The boy looked to be in his late teens, tall, with blond hair. He seemed to be heavily under the influence of something or other.

  Anjou knew he should have had a colleague with him, but there wasn’t time to call for backup. He hurried over to see if the girl was OK; he had a feeling something was seriously wrong. He stopped a few yards away from the boy, who was clutching a bottle of vodka and looked hostile, even aggressive.

  Later Anjou would learn that this was Victor Ekengreen.

  “What’s going on here?” Anjou said, nodding in the direction of the girl. She was lying on her back and hadn’t reacted to his arrival. She was wearing a thin top and a short skirt that had ridden up over her thighs.

  Had she been attacked? Was the boy about to rape her? Anjou’s mind was racing; he could feel adrenaline flooding his body.

  Victor didn’t reply, and Anjou moved closer until there was no more than a couple of feet between them.

  “What’s going on?” he said again, sharpening his tone. “What’s happened to this girl? Have you done something to her?”

  His radio was clipped to his belt; should he call his colleagues?

  He could see that Victor was trying to focus his gaze. His pupils were dilated, his breathing labored. His nostrils, which were red and flaky, were twitching. There was more than just alcohol in his body.

  You’re high, Anjou thought. He gripped his baton. He knew from experience that drugs made people unpredictable. What had this kid done?

  “Get away from me, you fucking pig!” Victor yelled, raising a clenched fist. “This has nothing to do with you!”

  Anjou managed to control himself, despite being so worn-out. “OK, let’s calm down. What’s happened?”

  He hoped there would be other cops nearby, but it was as if he and the boy were on their own private beach; the tree blocked them from view.

  Without warning, Victor attacked him, hurling himself at Anjou with his full weight, arms flailing. Anjou wasn’t prepared for the onslaught; he wobbled and took a step backward. They were roughly the same height, but Victor had the advantage of surprise.

  The boy was stronger than he looked, and Anjou had his work cut out for him in defending himself. Just as Victor was about to force him to the ground, Anjou managed to land a telling blow on Victor’s chest.

  Victor lost his balance. There was a stone sticking up out of the ground behind him, hidden from Anjou’s view. As he fell, he half turned, and his temple struck the stone.

  There was a horrible crunching sound, and Victor simply collapsed. He rolled onto his side with his eyes closed.

  Anjou stared at the unconscious teenager. Blood was trickling down the boy’s cheek.

  Shit.

  He immediately realized what would happen if he was caught. He glanced around anxiously, but there was no sign of anyone. The girl was still completely out of it; she wouldn’t be able to identify him.

  Without having made a conscious decision about what to do, Anjou dropped to his knees
next to Victor and assessed the damage. It didn’t look too bad at close quarters; the wound was probably just superficial.

  Victor was breathing evenly.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Anjou muttered to himself. “He’s just knocked himself out. He’ll soon come around.”

  Nervously he glanced over his shoulder, but there was still no sign of anyone nearby. Suddenly he heard distant laughter from the other side of the shore, and the fear of being caught overwhelmed him.

  Harry Anjou got to his feet and hurried back the way he’d come, keeping his head down.

  CHAPTER 90

  “He was still alive when I left,” Anjou insisted. “You have to believe me, Thomas. I would never have left him if I’d thought he was seriously injured.”

  He reached for the bottle and poured himself another slug of vodka. “He was the one who attacked me. It was pure bad luck that he fell onto that stone. I was only trying to defend myself.”

  “So you just walked away,” Thomas said, making no attempt to hide his revulsion. “Victor could have been badly hurt. And what about Felicia?”

  Outside the window, the sun slipped behind a cloud; the light in the room grew dimmer, emphasizing the dark circles beneath Anjou’s eyes.

  “Why didn’t you report it?” Thomas said. “You must realize how bad this looks. Apart from what you did, you’ve withheld information relevant to the investigation.”

  Anjou put down his glass; the marks left by his sweaty fingers were clearly visible.

  “A couple of things happened up in Ånge,” he said, sitting down. “That’s why I applied to Nacka.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “A couple of complaints were filed against me.” He broke off, coughed. “One was a long time ago, it was completely groundless, some crazy junkie. But about a year ago, I got mixed up in something much worse.”

  “Which was?”

  “I lost control.” Anjou’s voice grew quieter, more strained. Thomas could see that the experience was still raw.

  “A group of teenagers had been throwing stones at a colleague, and he almost lost the sight in one eye. I recognized them in town the next day, and I was so fucking furious. My girlfriend and I were in the process of breaking up at the time, I couldn’t sleep, I was drinking too much. I . . . I went in way too hard, particularly when it came to one of them. He was only in ninth grade, but he was tall. I had no idea he was so young, or I might have been able to stop myself.”

  “And there was an investigation into your conduct?”

  “Of course. I was cleared. My colleague stepped up and said he hadn’t seen a thing, the kid must have slipped and hurt himself. They had to drop the case due to lack of evidence.”

  He rubbed his temple, and Thomas could feel the bitterness in him.

  “After that, nobody wanted to work with me. Even the union didn’t stand up for me.”

  “And this is still in your file,” Thomas said.

  “Yes. It doesn’t come up if you apply for a post in a different district, but if I’d reported this business with Victor Ekengreen, and it came out that I’d previously been involved in an altercation with a teenager who ended up with serious injuries . . . plus the crazy junkie . . .”

  Thomas knew exactly what he meant. A third internal investigation into the excessive use of force would probably have ended Anjou’s career.

  “I’m not a bad cop,” Anjou said hoarsely. “There are plenty of rotten apples on the force—much worse than me—you know that.” His eyes burned with passion. “Give me a chance to sort this out. You don’t have to tell anyone. You can just say I was sick when you got here, that’s why I wasn’t answering my phone. The others don’t need to know the truth. Victor Ekengreen is dead anyway. What difference does it make? The important thing is to find the evidence to put Hökström away.” He grabbed hold of Thomas’s arm. “If you stick by me, I’ll work day and night on the case, I swear.”

  Thomas pulled away.

  The initial injury was superficial, he thought. That’s what the forensic pathologist had said. It was the subsequent blows that had killed Victor.

  Where did Tobbe come into the picture? Was Anjou telling the truth when he claimed that Victor had simply knocked himself out when he walked away? Or was he still lying?

  “You tampered with Adrian Karlsson’s vest,” Thomas said. “You tried to frame a colleague.”

  Anjou couldn’t look him in the eye. “That was dumb. I panicked. I didn’t think anyone could possibly believe he had anything to do with Victor’s death. I was playing for time until we could find the real perpetrator.”

  “The theory you came up with about Victor getting into a fight with a dealer, was that also an attempt to divert suspicion from you?”

  Anjou nodded, eyes downcast.

  Thomas’s flesh was crawling. He could hardly bear to be in the same room as Anjou. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

  “What I did hasn’t influenced the investigation,” Anjou insisted. He, too, stood up, blocking Thomas’s path.

  “It wasn’t me who killed Victor Ekengreen. It was his friend, the red-haired kid. Tobbe Hökström was there, he’s admitted it. He must have arrived after I left. Victor was already crazy when I saw him. Everyone knows Hökström did it.” The aggressive expression in Anjou’s eyes changed to pleading. “We’re colleagues, for fuck’s sake!”

  Thomas pushed him aside and headed for the door. “I’m sorry, but I have to report this. All of it.” He pushed down the handle, then turned and looked back at Anjou. “What were you thinking?”

  CHAPTER 91

  Thomas had just finished talking to the Old Man when his phone rang again. He could see from the display that it was a police number, but Internal Affairs couldn’t possibly be in touch so quickly.

  He took the call.

  “Torbjörn Landin here. Are you at the station?”

  “No, I’m in the car.”

  “OK, we can do this over the phone. I’ve heard something that relates to your investigation.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s a guy we’ve had under surveillance for a while now; he’s part of the Yugoslav mafia. He’s a real multitasker. He’s involved in everything from drugs to protection rackets and executions. The National Crime Squad is also monitoring him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Wolfgang Ivkovac.”

  Thomas slowed down. The evening sun was still high in the sky and was dazzling him.

  “Yesterday evening, he met up with someone you know,” Landin went on.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Johan Ekengreen, the father of the murdered teenager, had a meeting with Ivkovac in a restaurant in Huddinge. He arrived about ten and sat at his table for around twenty minutes.”

  “Ekengreen?” Thomas said. “What the hell was he doing with a guy like that?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re wondering. I’ve checked our records, and there’s nothing on him in this kind of context. I can’t find any connection between him and Ivkovac.”

  “Do you think he’s playing private investigator?” Thomas asked.

  “I don’t know, but I thought you ought to be aware of the situation.”

  “Might he be accusing Ivkovac of having supplied his son with drugs? Seeking revenge?”

  “If he is, that would be disastrous. I don’t think Ekengreen has any idea of the caliber of someone like Ivkovac.”

  “Do you know what they discussed?”

  “I haven’t a clue. Our guys couldn’t hear anything.”

  Thomas was almost home; he stopped at the last red light before his street. “What did he do after the meeting?”

  “I don’t know. We were watching Ivkovac. All I know is that Ekengreen headed off toward the train station.” Landin paused for a moment, then went on: “These are dangerous people. You don’t mess around with them. Ekengreen could get himself in real trouble if he tries to take down Ivkovac. You need to keep
an eye on him.”

  Thomas ended the call and put his phone down on the passenger seat. The light changed to green, and he drove on. Much to his surprise, he found a parking space close to his apartment. When he switched off the engine, he realized how tired he was.

  Anjou’s confession had shaken him; Thomas couldn’t possibly have imagined how bad things were. Trying to frame Adrian Karlsson was shocking. Anjou was facing both prosecution and dismissal.

  Landin’s words were also weighing on his mind. What the hell was Victor’s father up to? Surely there was enough misery in that family; the last thing they needed was a private vendetta against a drug dealer.

  Should he have a word with him?

  It would have to wait until after the funeral, in any case; he could hardly disturb them tomorrow.

  Tobbe was lying on his bed on top of the crumpled covers, staring up at the ceiling. The blind was pulled down; the room was in semidarkness. He hadn’t eaten anything all evening but didn’t have the energy to go into the kitchen to find something.

  Every time the phone rang, he expected the police to say they were coming to pick him up. It was only a matter of time.

  He had secretly packed a little bag with a toothbrush and a clean T-shirt and underpants so he’d be ready when they came. He’d hidden it under his bed so that his mom wouldn’t see it and get upset.

  Tobbe let out a half sob. If only they hadn’t gone to Sandhamn for Midsummer, if only he hadn’t started taking drugs, if only he’d gone to the shore a little earlier . . .

  It was pointless, he couldn’t change anything, and yet he couldn’t stop going over it again and again, the images scrolling past in his mind’s eye.

  What had he done?

  The suit he would be wearing to the funeral tomorrow was hanging on the door of his closet. His father had bought it for him a few weeks earlier to wear to the spring prom. It made him look older, as if he were already at college. He had felt fantastic.

  It all seemed so meaningless now.

  Mom had ironed a white shirt for him and hung it next to the suit. He would be going to the church with her and Christoffer. They planned to leave at noon in order to give themselves plenty of time.