by Viveca Sten
Everyone seems nervous, but I’ve read all the material available, and I know that the training program to become a Coastal Ranger demands a strong mind and tip-top physical condition. Only the best will make it.
I’m ready.
I have slept no more than a few hours per night over the past week or so. We have ten minutes to shovel down our food and then run to wherever we’re supposed to be. We move everywhere at the double. We are constantly being woken up, and in the end, we don’t know whether it’s night or day. It’s like living in a constant fog due to the lack of sleep.
We do push-ups on our knuckles, and when someone collapses, we all have to start over. Everyone suffers when one person can’t hack it. As soon as we do something wrong, we are punished, and everything we do is wrong.
I’m not sure if I can go on.
Everything is searched, over and over again.
Before I got here, I thought it was only the police or customs officials who do this kind of thing, but to me the word search has acquired a whole new meaning. They go through our possessions over and over again, because we have to learn to put every item away in perfect order.
We have to fold our clothes ten times so that they fit properly in the closet. Then the sergeant throws the whole lot on the floor, and so it begins again.
Yesterday we were just about to go to bed when he appeared in the doorway. That meant half the night would be spent checking our unit—again. I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt a lump in my throat, and I squeezed my eyes tight shut so that no one would see the tears welling up in them.
My feet moved of their own accord, and I took my place in the lineup without saying a word.
“Order is key!” the sergeant yelled in my ear before cursing our collective incompetence. “This place is a fucking disgrace! Absolute discipline is expected, nothing less—do you understand?”
The sergeant joined only a year or so before us, but he has stayed on as a permanent member of staff. That means he’s in charge. Whatever orders he gives, we must obey.
His word is law.
CHAPTER 8
Friday (The First Week)
Once again, Maria Nielsen was sitting in reception when Thomas arrived. She raised her hand in a hesitant greeting, as if she were embarrassed to be bothering him again. Without saying anything, she held up a small black cell phone.
Thomas went over to her.
“Hi, Maria. What have you got there?”
“It’s Marcus’s cell. After you left, I searched everywhere for his laptop; I turned the whole house upside down. I couldn’t find it, but I found his phone in the gap between the bed and the wall. It must have fallen out of his pocket on Saturday when he was lying on the bed playing computer games.”
“You’re sure it belonged to Marcus?”
“Yes, I recognize it. It’s definitely his.”
Thomas weighed the phone in his hand; this was good news.
“Let’s go upstairs and have a chat.”
He led her to the elevators just as he had the first time, and they traveled up to the second floor. When they reached his office, he pressed the button to unlock the phone.
“The battery had almost run out, but I recharged it,” Maria said.
Thomas brought up the list of recent calls. Marcus had made two calls on the last day of his life: one to “Home” and one to “Amanda.” Thomas continued to scroll through the various functions and found an entry in the notebook app: Dissociative behavior, repressed emotions, memories of traumatic events.
He held out the phone so that Maria could see the screen.
“Any idea what this means?”
“I’m afraid not, but they sound like psychological terms. Maybe they had something to do with his studies?”
Thomas moved on to the calendar and scrolled through the final weeks of Marcus’s life. He grabbed a notepad and jotted down a few details.
Marcus had entered his psychology lectures; there were also names listed under various dates. First came Jan-Erik Fredell, then Robert Cronwall, then Bo Kaufman. There was also a visit to a branch of the pharmacy Apotek Beckasinen at eleven o’clock on the Thursday before he died.
“Do these names mean anything to you?” he asked, showing Maria the notepad.
“No.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yes, but I can ask my husband and David. Do you think they could be important?”
Her eyes were begging him for a positive response, wanting him to tell her that he had found something vital.
Should he be honest?
The names probably meant nothing; they could be friends, or tutors at the university. There was still nothing to cast doubt on suicide as Marcus’s cause of death.
“I don’t know, Maria. But I’ll look into them, I promise.”
She opened her mouth as if she wanted to continue the discussion, but then apparently she changed her mind. She got to her feet, and Thomas showed her out.
On the way back to his office, he called in to see Karin Ek.
As always, her desk was perfectly neat and tidy; even the pencils were freshly sharpened. Family photos were lined up in identical silver frames. She seemed very busy; her eyes were fixed on her computer screen, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
Thomas coughed discreetly to attract her attention, then held out the piece of paper with the list of names from Marcus’s phone.
“Could you run a check on these people? See what you can find, and look for any possible connections to Marcus Nielsen.”
He looked at the names once more, but he was none the wiser. There was still no explanation as to why Marcus’s laptop was missing, and he couldn’t get David Nielsen’s words out of his head: Marcus took his laptop with him everywhere.
CHAPTER 9
Thomas had just finished writing a report when Pernilla called. It was after eleven in the morning, and he almost knocked over his mug of tea as he reached for the phone.
“When will you be home?” she asked.
Her voice sounded strange, and anxiety flooded his body.
“I won’t be late—is something wrong?”
Silence.
“Pernilla?” Was that a sob he heard? “Has something happened?”
“I just want to know when you’ll be home.”
“Around six, I guess. Do you want me to do some shopping on the way back? Is there anything you’re in the mood for?”
“Pick up something you like. It doesn’t really matter.”
Thomas ended the call and sat back.
Pernilla hadn’t left his side during the months following February’s events. He’d almost died when the ice gave way beneath him. The paramedics had had to use a defibrillator to get his heart going again when it stopped as a result of hypothermia.
He had spent almost a month in a rehab facility, and Pernilla had visited him every single day.
He could still recall the panic when two toes on his left foot had begun to shrivel and turn black from frostbite, but Pernilla had consoled him, reassuring him when he wondered if he would be able to continue working as a police officer.
The toes had to be amputated, and it was weeks before he could bring himself to look at his foot. He closed his eyes whenever he pulled on his sock.
Late one night, when the soft semidarkness made things seem more bearable, and he had had quite a lot to drink, he forced himself to look. He sat on the edge of the bed and slowly lifted his foot.
It wasn’t as bad as he had expected.
An insert was fitted for his shoe, and he’d had to learn to walk in a different way. By now the only sign of the injury was a slight limp.
“You’ll be able to run marathons if you want,” the doctor had said, ignoring his skeptical expression. “It’s just a question of training and determination. If you’d lost the big toe, it would have had a much greater effect on your gait and balance. And you should be glad that it was only your foot.”
Thomas knew ex
actly what she meant. He had suffered severe frostbite in several of his fingers, too, particularly on his right hand, because he hadn’t been wearing gloves.
During those early days after he regained consciousness, he had experienced night terrors. How would he survive without the fingers of his right hand? How would he cope with being disabled?
By some miracle, the hand had recovered. He couldn’t even begin to deal with the thought that he might have suffered brain damage because of his heart stopping.
When he was discharged from the hospital, it was decided that he would take sick leave until the end of the summer. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Pernilla was waiting in reception. With the same calm assurance, she collected his things from his new place in Gustavsberg and installed him in their old apartment, which she had kept after the divorce.
They spent the summer in the house on Harö, where he had slowly recovered. It was as if the years they had spent apart, each mourning the loss of Emily, had never existed. He hardly dared believe that they had found their way back to one another, or that their relationship could possibly last.
What if something was seriously wrong? He’d have to wait until he got home to find out. His mouth was dry, and the little toe on his left foot had started itching furiously, even though he knew it was no longer there. The itch was so intense that it bordered on pain. He was about to bend down and scratch the phantom toe when someone knocked on his door.
“Thomas.”
He gave such a start that Karin Ek couldn’t help noticing.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He waved her into his office and gestured toward the visitor’s chair.
“It’s OK, I was in a world of my own.”
Karin pulled the chair closer to the desk and held up a number of printouts.
“I ran a search on the names you gave me.”
She put on her glasses, which were on a cord around her neck.
“I had no problems with the first two, then the computer began acting up as usual. Do you know how many times I’ve asked for a new one?” She frowned. “I’ll try again in a while, but you can have this to get you started.”
“What did you find?”
He took the papers and flicked through them.
“Jan-Erik Fredell has just turned fifty; he lives with his wife on Oxelvägen in Älta.”
“Any kids?”
“A grown-up daughter at the University of Gothenburg.”
“Where does he work?”
“Nowhere. He retired a few years ago.”
“That seems pretty early, if he’s just turned fifty.”
“He retired due to ill health,” Karin explained. “Before that he was a PE teacher.”
“And Robert Cronwall?”
“He’s the same age as Fredell, and lives in Lidingö with his wife. They have a son who lives nearby, and a younger daughter in Uppsala.”
“What does Cronwall do?”
“He’s a big shot on the council in Lidingö—director of finances. And he’s well paid, judging by the annual income he declares on his tax return.”
Thomas tried in vain to find any information that could move the investigation forward.
“Did you find any kind of link to Marcus Nielsen?” he asked.
“Nope. These two men live in different parts of Stockholm, they work or worked in completely different fields, and neither of them appears to be involved with anything related to Nielsen’s studies.”
“A dead end, in other words,” Thomas said, almost to himself. But it had been worth a shot. He put down the papers. “Thanks anyway.”
It was almost two o’clock by the time Margit got back to the station. Thomas had been waiting for her. His lunch had consisted of two hot dogs from the kiosk outside, and the taste of mustard still lingered in his mouth.
As soon as Margit had taken off her coat, he showed her Nielsen’s phone and the pages Karin Ek had printed out. Margit studied the material for a few minutes, then sat back.
“Not much to go on,” she said.
“I think we should go and see Jan-Erik Fredell and Robert Cronwall,” Thomas said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not quite done with Marcus Nielsen’s death yet.”
There was no mistaking the doubt in Margit’s eyes. Outside the open window, the birds were singing at the tops of their lungs. For a moment, it was hard to believe it was the middle of September.
“We’ve got plenty of other cases waiting to be cleared up,” she objected. “We’re not exactly overstaffed right now.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Thomas had no logical reason behind his decision, but Marcus Nielsen deserved more before his death was rubber-stamped as a suicide and set aside.
“I’m happy to go on my own; you don’t need to come with me if you’re busy.”
“OK.”
Margit raised a hand and turned to her computer.
The expression on Maria Nielsen’s face came into Thomas’s mind, and once more he remembered the body hanging from the ceiling in the bright sunlight.
His little toe started itching again.
CHAPTER 10
As soon as she stepped on board the Vaxholm ferry, her stress began to disappear. The familiar feeling of being on the way to Sandhamn always made Nora feel better.
“I’ll go and grab some seats!” Simon shouted, dashing past all the passengers alighting from the bus that connected with the ferry. He liked to sit upstairs near the cafeteria for the panoramic view of the rocks and skerries.
Nora stowed their luggage and bags of groceries and followed her younger son at a more leisurely pace. Adam and Wille trailed behind, listening to their iPods.
The weather forecast was good. The meteorologists had promised something of an Indian summer; the temperature might even reach seventy degrees, and Nora was looking forward to spending a few lazy hours in the sun the next day. She really ought to take the opportunity to replace the putty around one of the windows—there was a lot that needed doing around the house—but the effort she had put in over the summer had taken its toll, and she was tired after an intense week at work.
Simon had claimed a table, and as the boys settled down, Nora joined the line in the cafeteria. It was Friday evening; she deserved a beer, and the boys could each have a soda.
She greeted the girl behind the counter and ordered their drinks. She picked up the tray and turned around to find that there was someone in her way, and the collision was unavoidable. The tray landed on the floor, and the bottles flew off in all directions.
“Watch out!” she snapped.
The glass had landed upside down, and the beer had gone everywhere. Any sense of calm she’d had disappeared in a second.
“Take it easy,” said the brown-haired man she had cannoned into. “You weren’t exactly looking where you were going.”
Nora stared at him and realized she knew him.
She had bumped into her new tenant, Jonas Sköld. He was renting their old family home on Sandhamn, which she had inherited from her grandparents. They had only met in passing; her parents had dealt with all the practicalities, and she had been relieved to find a tenant through a personal recommendation rather than having to advertise and end up with a stranger.
She took a deep breath, feeling embarrassed more than anything. Jonas Sköld looked tanned and relaxed. Nora suddenly became aware of her tousled hair, and the fact that her face was still bright red thanks to the spurt of anger.
She knelt down and started gathering up the mess.
“It was probably my fault,” she muttered. “Sorry.”
Jonas gave her a disarming smile. “I should have been more careful, too.”
He picked up the empty glass and gave it to her, then held out his hand.
“Jonas Sköld. I’m your tenant.”
He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved polo shirt; his expression was open and friendly.
“I know who you are,” Nora said, getting to her feet. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that; it’s been a difficult week.”
“No problem.” He pointed to the unopened soda bottles. “Those seem to have survived.” He nodded to the girl behind the counter and said, “Can I get another Carlsberg, please?” He gave her a hundred-kronor note, then placed the fresh bottle on Nora’s tray. “There you go, order is restored.”
“Thank you.”
Nora was about to turn away when she realized she didn’t want to end the conversation so abruptly. She stopped in midmovement.
“I’m sorry, I’m being very rude. Is everything OK with the house?”
“Fine, thanks.” He tucked his wallet in his back pocket before continuing. “To be honest, I’ve hardly been there, but that’s all about to change. I got an overseas posting I wasn’t expecting, so I haven’t spent any time on the island over the summer.”
Nora tried to look encouraging in order to smooth over her earlier outburst.
“You’re a pilot with SAS, aren’t you?”
Jonas nodded. “I had to step in for a colleague, and ended up in France for most of the summer, but at least I’ve managed to paint the front door as promised.”
“That’s great—it really needed doing!”
The rental agreement stated that the tenant was responsible for minor maintenance; Nora had enough to do with taking care of the Brand villa. She was pleased to hear that Jonas was fulfilling his side of the deal.
“By the way,” he said, “I was wondering if I could put away a few things and bring in my own stuff? If I’m going to live there for the next three years, it would be nice to make the place feel like home.”
“Of course—as long as you don’t throw out anything I care about.”
“I was just going to stow it all at the back of the wardrobe,” he reassured her with a wink.
The wink made Nora feel ancient. He was probably ten years younger than her, or at least six or seven, and she suddenly wished they had met under different circumstances.
“What are you doing, Mom?”
Adam’s voice cut through the hum of conversation, and Nora gestured toward their table.