Tonight You’re Dead (Sandhamn Murders Book 4)

by Viveca Sten

  Margit took over. “The autopsy is tomorrow, and it should tell us whether he was murdered or if he drowned himself. He was seriously ill, and his wife swears that he had no enemies.”

  “If we speculate that Marcus Nielsen didn’t take his own life,” the Old Man said slowly, “what does the pathologist have to say about him? For example, do we know that he died at the scene?”

  Thomas leafed through his notes. “He definitely died as a result of the hanging; there were subconjunctival hemorrhages in the eyes, which wouldn’t have been there if he’d been dead before the noose was placed around his neck.”

  “Postmortem lividity or hypostasis was also visible on the legs; if the hanging had been staged to hide the fact that he was killed elsewhere, the pattern would have been different,” Margit added.

  “Yes, yes, I know all about hypostasis,” the Old Man said impatiently. “But have we found any actual evidence to suggest that he didn’t kill himself?”

  “The suicide note wasn’t signed,” Thomas said, “and we can’t find his laptop. His parents are certain that he had it with him the day before he died. The missing laptop bothers me more than anything.”

  “So in other words, no clear evidence.” The Old Man leaned back and took a deep breath. “What about other leads? Enemies, debts, problems in his past?”

  “I can look into that,” Erik offered right away. “Maybe Karin could help?” He gave her an inquiring look, and she responded with a nod and a warm smile. There was no doubt that their assistant had a soft spot for Erik Blom.

  “Good,” Margit said. “See what you can come up with; there could be a link between Fredell and Nielsen that we’re not aware of. Thomas and I will talk to the people Marcus Nielsen saw in the last few days before his death.”

  “I also think we ought to request a more detailed autopsy on both Fredell and Nielsen,” Thomas said. “Fredell was fully dressed when he was found, which is weird. Forensics might find something on his clothing.”

  The Old Man nodded; he had been paying closer attention than Thomas had thought.

  “Anything else?”

  “Just one more thing that might count against the theory that Nielsen took his own life. He had no history of illness.”

  “No history of illness?” Karin echoed.

  Thomas turned to her. “Most people who kill themselves have had some kind of medical issue. Psychiatric care, anxiety attacks, frequent visits to the doctor—but Nielsen is completely clean. There’s nothing.”

  Erik finished his coffee and tossed the paper cup in the direction of the bin. It hit the edge and landed on the floor; he got to his feet and picked it up.

  “Thomas is right,” he said, dropping the cup in the bin. “Marcus should have been on the radar of health services if he had suicidal tendencies.”

  Thomas added, “His mother swears he had never even mentioned the word suicide.”

  The Vaxholm ferry was due to leave in fifteen minutes, and Nora was trying to hurry the boys along. They didn’t have much to carry, just one bag each, but still it would take a few minutes to get down to the jetty.

  She locked the front door, checked that the kitchen windows were closed and locked, and looped the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

  On the way, they passed their old home, and she glanced over to see if there was any sign of Jonas. The house looked deserted; maybe he had already left. He was probably working the next day.

  As they approached the quayside, she saw small groups of people waiting for the ferry. The autumn schedule meant fewer boats on the weekends, and the next one wouldn’t be until the evening. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the white ferry plowing through the Sound.

  “Keep it moving, guys,” she said to the boys, who were just ahead of her. “We mustn’t miss the boat.”

  As they made their way up the gangplank a little while later, she couldn’t help turning her head one last time to look for Jonas. A man was walking away from the kiosk with a newspaper in his hand; for a moment she thought it was him, and then she realized it was a stranger.

  She rolled her eyes at her foolishness and went on board.

  CHAPTER 19

  Robert Cronwall had a single-story home in the northwestern part of the island of Lidingö, which was connected to Stockholm only by an arch bridge.

  There were very few cars on the road, and Thomas admired in passing the houses clinging to the steep slopes on either side of the bridge. To the right was Millesgården, the open-air studio and museum founded by the famous artist and sculptor Carl Milles.

  “The view from up there must be fantastic,” Margit said, as if she had read his thoughts.

  “Yes, but not cheap.”

  “Nothing in Stockholm is cheap.”

  Thomas took a right; the road continued under the bridge, and before long a sign informed them that they had reached Islinge.

  “What was the address again?”

  “Constantiavägen—it’s the next right.”

  Margit pointed. The house was made of red brick, and looked as if it dated from the 1930s. The garden contained several gnarled apple trees, their branches weighed down with fruit. The number of windfalls suggested that the owner couldn’t be bothered to pick the crop. Steps from a walled terrace the same color as the house led up to the front door.

  Thomas rang the doorbell, and a woman in her fifties opened the door. She was wearing a pink knit sweater and pearl earrings.

  “Can I help you?”

  Thomas explained why they were there.

  “Come in; my husband is in the living room.”

  They followed her into a large room with a wide brick fireplace. Through an archway, they could see a beautiful dining room with an impressive chandelier hanging above the table. A cabinet embellished with gilt stood against the far wall, with a collection of family photographs on top. One of them showed a young man in his student cap, another a young man and an older man both in uniform. In a third, a couple in 1950s clothes had been captured by the camera.

  A man in reading glasses was sitting in an armchair. Classical music was playing softly in the background. Thomas vaguely recognized the piece but couldn’t quite place it: a piano sonata, but which one?

  The man looked up.

  “Police—Thomas Andreasson.” Thomas held up his ID. “We’d like to ask you one or two questions about a young man we believe you met a few days ago.”

  Robert Cronwall took off his glasses and stood up. His hair was turning silver, but he seemed to be in pretty good shape. Thomas thought the bag of golf clubs in the hallway might have something to do with that.

  “Please take a seat.”

  He gestured toward the sofa, and Thomas and Margit sat down on the soft, deep cushions. Margit leaned forward.

  “We were wondering if you’ve met a student named Marcus Nielsen.”

  Robert looked puzzled. “Marcus Nielsen? I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  Thomas produced a photograph from his inside pocket.

  “He was twenty-two years old and lived in Jarlaberg.”

  “What’s this about?” Robert said as he stared at the picture.

  “I’m afraid he’s dead,” Margit said. “We’re investigating his death.”

  “Oh dear.” The response was spontaneous. “What happened?”

  “He took his own life a week ago,” Thomas explained.

  Robert looked from Thomas to Margit, clearly at a loss.

  “We found your name in his phone, so we were wondering if you’d met, and if so, what you talked about,” Thomas went on. “He was studying psychology at Stockholm University.”

  Robert’s face relaxed. “Oh, I see. Someone called me a while ago and said he was a psychology student—could that be him?”

  “More than likely.”

  “In that case, you’re right, we have spoken.”

  “When did you meet up with him?” Margit asked.

  “We only spoke on the phone. That’s why I
didn’t recognize him. Let me think, when was it? It must have been around a week ago—I can’t remember exactly.”

  “Why did he call you?”

  “He wanted to interview me.”

  “What about?” Thomas said.

  “About my time at the Royal Swedish Naval Academy—I was a cadet there.” Robert nodded in the direction of the framed photographs. “He said he was working on an assignment and wanted to know about my experiences, but I suggested he call the navy instead.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t think there was a great deal I could tell him. I’m pretty busy; I don’t really have time to sit through an interview for some university student’s assignment.”

  There was a hint of regret in Robert’s eyes.

  “How long was the conversation with Marcus Nielsen?” Thomas asked.

  “Very brief—he introduced himself, said he’d like to ask me some questions. I turned him down, and that was the end of that. A couple of minutes, no more.”

  Robert Cronwall glanced at his watch.

  “If you’ll excuse me, we have a Rotary dinner this evening, and there’s a lot to be done. I’m the chair of the Lidingö Rotary Club, which comes with a number of obligations.”

  The way he spoke made Thomas wonder if he was expected to stand to attention. The silver-haired man rose to indicate that the conversation was over.

  “I’m sorry the young man is dead, but there’s really nothing more to say.”

  “One final question—do you know a Jan-Erik Fredell?”

  Robert stroked his chin.

  “I don’t think so; it doesn’t ring any bells. Unfortunately I’m better with faces than names.” He shrugged apologetically. “Who is he?”

  “He was a PE teacher, but he’d retired several years ago due to ill health,” Thomas said. “He’s dead, too. We think there could be a link between him and Marcus Nielsen.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know him.”

  Margit handed Robert her card.

  “Please contact us if you think of anything.”

  “Just out of curiosity,” Thomas said, “what was the name of the piece of music that was playing when we arrived?”

  “Franz Liszt, Liebestraum no. 3. It’s said that he wrote one for each mistress; it’s well known that he had several.”

  From the hallway, Thomas could see Birgitta Cronwall in the kitchen. He raised his hand, but she didn’t come to say good-bye. The last thing he saw before he left the house was her back, bent over something that looked like a leg of lamb.

  DIARY: NOVEMBER 1976

  This morning we were out in the southern field. Suddenly the sergeant told us to line up. He held a rope in front of us and told us to skip over it, one by one. When we had all clumsily lumbered over, he laughed in our faces.

  “You just skipped lunch!” he said.

  We were given nothing to eat until dinner.

  That evening, we sat playing cards.

  “Come on, Andersson,” Eklund said as he was dealing. “You’re the only one who’s never talked about girls.” Eklund loves giving Andersson a hard time. “But maybe you’ve never been with a girl?”

  Eklund has a dirty mouth. His father is a butcher, and Eklund has helped out in the slaughterhouse ever since he was a teenager. He boasts that he already knows how to survive in the wilderness: just catch a rabbit, hold it by the ears, and club it to death. When the eyes drop out, it’s dead. Then all you have to do is skin it and chop it up. Don’t forget to remove the intestines, otherwise it tastes like crap.

  He enjoys making comments like that.

  Andersson’s ears went dark red. I pictured my brother, who is five years younger than me, when I tease him about something or other. The same inability to deal with it, the same frustration when he can’t come up with a response quickly enough.

  I have never heard Andersson mention a girl. The only photograph he’s brought with him is of his mother; she is sitting on the grass hugging his little sister. I saw it inside his locker once when he’d forgotten to close it properly.

  “Have you never done it?” Eklund went on, with a filthy laugh. “Come on, tell us!”

  Suddenly the sergeant was standing in the doorway. The laughter stopped immediately, but he had heard enough.

  “Do we have a little virgin among us?” he said, seeming to relish every word.

  Nobody spoke. Andersson desperately tried to think of something to say; his ears were positively glowing.

  “Maybe he hasn’t reached puberty yet.”

  That was all the sergeant said, but Andersson turned his head away, his face flushed. I felt so sorry for him, but just as I was about to speak up, Kihlberg came rushing in.

  “Captain Westerberg is on his way!” he gasped.

  In a second, we were all standing to attention, including the sergeant. There is no ambiguity when it comes to rank, and the sergeant was with the rest of us when the renowned captain walked in.

  “At ease, men. Tomorrow we will be receiving a visitor. The company commander is coming here, and I am assuming that you will all do your best.”

  “Yes, Captain,” we answered with one voice.

  Andersson had edged backward toward the wall, and he was now standing beside Martinger, who is a head taller than him. I saw Martinger take a step forward, as if to shield Andersson from any further comments from the sergeant. Kihlberg moved beside Martinger, hiding their fellow cadet completely.

  Andersson was staring down at the floor.

  CHAPTER 20

  Monday (The Second Week)

  “Sachsen here.”

  He didn’t really need to introduce himself. Thomas was familiar with the forensic pathologist’s voice; plus, they had worked together often enough for him to recognize the number.

  Sachsen had become something of a celebrity lately. He had taken the stand at a trial that had attracted a huge amount of attention: a rapist had attacked a series of young girls. The pathologist had established that the perpetrator had caused strikingly similar injuries to his victims because of the weapon he had used; this, in turn, provided links to a further series of brutal rapes. Sachsen had been interviewed by just about every media outlet.

  “It’s a bit early for you—shouldn’t you be on a daytime TV talk show somewhere?”

  It was only seven thirty, and Thomas had just arrived at the station and sat down at his desk.

  “Ha-ha.” Sachsen was not amused. “I worked late last night so you wouldn’t have to wait. You and Margit need to get over here.”

  “We’ll be there before lunch.”

  “I wonder what he’s found?” Margit mused as they walked from the parking lot to the low building at Karolinska University Hospital that housed the forensic pathology unit.

  Fallen leaves were strewn across the lawn, and the air was noticeably chillier.

  “We’ll soon see.”

  Thomas didn’t have much to say for himself; he was thinking about the conversation he had had with Marcus Nielsen’s mother just before they left the station.

  Maria had called to ask how things were going, and as they talked, he began to realize how badly affected the family had been. David, Marcus’s younger brother, was refusing to go to school, and Maria was signed off work. Her husband was also devastated.

  She had begged Thomas to find her son’s killer, but he had been unable to offer any words of consolation. The truth was that they still didn’t know whether they were dealing with a suicide or not.

  Thomas pushed open the door of the autopsy suite where Oscar-Henrik Sachsen held court. He came to greet them, and behind him they could see a body laid out on a metal table.

  The unmistakable smell of human organs reached Thomas’s nostrils. It was quite different from the stench of a corpse; it was more like a meat counter, where trays of liver, kidneys, and heart had been set out without sufficient refrigeration. The odor was kind of sweet and not particularly pleasant.

  “Welcome,” Sachsen said w
ithout offering either of his gloved hands.

  Margit didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

  “What have you found?”

  Sachsen turned and drew back the sheet covering Jan-Erik Fredell’s emaciated body, then picked up a pair of forceps and pointed.

  “The cause of death is drowning, there’s no doubt about that. There’s water in his lungs, but”—he paused to let the words sink in—“it looks as though someone gripped him firmly by the shoulders just before he died.”

  He put down the forceps and moved to stand behind Margit; they were almost the same height.

  “Bend your knees.”

  She gave him an inscrutable glance but did as she was told and crouched so that she was around six inches shorter than the doctor.

  He placed both hands on her shoulders, with his fingers over the collarbone and his thumbs at the back. Then he squeezed.

  “Ouch—what the hell are you doing?”

  The sudden pressure almost made Margit collapse.

  “Showing you what happened.”

  Sachsen released his grip and went on: “The skin covering the collarbone shows a clear imprint of outspread fingers that have squeezed hard. On the back are marks that could only have been made by thumbnails. If someone applies a grip like that from above, it’s relatively easy to force the victim under the water until he stops breathing.”

  Margit rubbed her collarbone and rotated her shoulders as she tried to restore her circulation.

  “Oh, come on,” Sachsen said. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  Margit’s expression left him in no doubt that she would punch him if he tried any more demonstrations.

  “So someone drowned him?” Thomas said.

  “It looks that way, unless Fredell was made of rubber and could reach all the way around his body with his arms. There’s no other way he could have made those marks himself.”

  “He could hardly move. He suffered from MS; I met him the day before he died,” Thomas said.

  “In that case, someone else pushed him down and held him there until he died.”

  “So we’re looking at murder,” Margit said quietly. “Where does that leave us in relation to Marcus Nielsen’s death?”