by Viveca Sten
Thomas flashed his ID.
“Thomas Andreasson, Nacka police. We’d like to ask the manager a few questions.”
The smile was replaced by a wary expression. Thomas always tried to sound reassuring in order to counteract the effect of his police ID; Annika’s reaction was far from unusual.
“What’s it about?” she said.
“I’d rather speak to the manager.”
“That’s me.”
Margit stepped forward.
“We just want to ask you a couple of questions; it won’t take long.”
Annika still looked dubious.
“Could we go somewhere a little more private for a few minutes?” Thomas suggested.
Annika Melin waved her hand. “We can talk in the break room.”
Thomas noticed that she was wearing a loose maternity top under her white coat, which was unbuttoned. She must be around five or six months along, he thought.
Last night he had lain in bed with his hand on Pernilla’s belly for a long time, trying to imagine the little life that was growing inside her. It was a miracle; there was no other word for it.
“When are you due?” he asked.
“Not for a while—after Christmas.”
Annika let them in through a locked door and led the way to the break room. A coffeemaker was on, and there was an inviting sofa with green upholstery, the same color as the pharmacy’s logo. A pile of medical magazines lay on the table.
“Coffee?”
Thomas shook his head, but Margit nodded. “Please.”
As Annika poured two cups, Thomas sat down on the sofa. He waited until she had joined him.
“We’re investigating a death, and we’d like to know whether a man named Marcus Nielsen has visited this pharmacy over the past couple of weeks.”
“Marcus Nielsen?”
“This is a photograph of him,” Margit said, handing over a picture. “He was twenty-two years old, and he was a psychology student. He’d made a note of an appointment here before he died.”
“I don’t . . . I mean, dozens and dozens of people come in here every day.” Annika sipped her coffee, then put down the cup.
“I realize it’s very busy, but he did look a little bit different from the norm, with his dyed black hair,” Margit said encouragingly.
Annika pushed back her bangs and gently touched a bandage on her forehead.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know how I can help you.”
“We’re trying to work out why the name of this pharmacy was in his phone,” Thomas persisted.
Annika took another sip of her coffee.
“When I was pregnant, I couldn’t even stand the smell of coffee,” Margit said. “It’s the only time in my life I’ve ever given it up.”
Thomas, who had witnessed the countless cups of coffee Margit usually knocked back, could only agree. She was the epitome of all those clichéd cops who consumed undrinkable swill night and day.
“I haven’t had any problems so far.”
“Lucky you,” Margit said with a smile.
Annika glanced at her watch. “Is this going to take long?”
Thomas shook his head. “We’d just like to show you some more photographs.”
Margit spread out the pictures of Jan-Erik Fredell, Robert Cronwall, and Bo Kaufman.
“Do you know if any of these men have been here? They were also in contact with Marcus Nielsen shortly before he died.”
Thomas noticed how different the three men looked when their photographs were placed side by side.
Fredell was marked by his illness, white-haired and gaunt. Bo Kaufman looked haggard, his face puffy. He was staring straight into the camera, and his expression reminded Thomas of an American “Wanted” poster.
Robert Cronwall, however, looked fit and well.
Margit pointed to Fredell.
“This man died last Saturday, not long after he’d spoken to Marcus Nielsen, and we’re trying to find out if there’s any connection between them.”
Annika studied the photographs; she seemed confused more than anything.
“So you think this Marcus Nielsen came here?” she said eventually. “But why?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Margit said.
“I realize it’s not easy to recall one specific person,” Thomas broke in. “But maybe you could show your colleagues these pictures, ask them to contact us if anyone remembers anything?”
Annika looked at her watch again. She sounded slightly irritated as she picked up the photograph of Marcus Nielsen.
“I’ll ask around. I’m sorry, but I really have to get back to work now.”
“OK,” Margit said. “We won’t keep you any longer, but please get in touch if anyone recognizes Nielsen.”
Annika got to her feet. She ran a hand over her belly, then nodded.
DIARY: DECEMBER 1976
Early tomorrow morning, we will be catching the ferry across Oxdjupet Sound and on to the island of Värmdö.
It is time for the Rangers’ March, the fourth and final test before we are given the much-longed-for beret. Our training has just one purpose: to separate the wheat from the chaff. Those recruits who are not up to scratch will be dismissed.
It will be five days of hell, with insufficient food and sleep. The beret with its golden trident shimmers before us, along with those magic words: “Cap off—beret on!”
We are due to set off in a little while. It is pouring; the heavy rain started during the night. It has been hammering on the windows for hours.
I have checked my equipment three times to make sure I have everything I need.
Andersson has bound his feet in the hope that he will be able to cope. His soles are red and swollen after all these months of marching, but if he is to become a ranger, they will have to hold up.
We marched in nonstop rain. Fifty minutes’ marching, ten minutes’ rest. Every six hours, we took a food break, but more than once we didn’t manage to eat anything, because the whistle blew to signal an ambush or something else, and we had to pack up immediately and move on.
Kaufman was in front of me, and I clung on to a strap on his pack, while behind me Andersson clutched the strap on my pack. Kihlberg led the way, with Sigurd bringing up the rear.
We kind of dragged one another along.
When we reached an embankment, the sergeant was waiting for us, legs apart.
“Listen to me, you pissheads. The quickest way to get across is to put one foot right in the middle.”
Those who followed his advice got their feet soaking wet, then had to continue the march with sodden socks and boots.
He was just messing with us.
Day turned to night, night turned to day, and we carried on marching.
We all had blisters; the ones on the soles of our feet were the worst. When they burst, the skin became shredded; with every step I took, I was walking in my own blood and pus.
A sudden jerk on the strap stopped me in my tracks.
Andersson wasn’t moving. He was standing there with his mouth open, staring straight ahead. Then he started babbling.
“Would you like some manure? That will be seventy-five kronor,” he mumbled politely.
Utter nonsense was coming out of his mouth.
“Horse manure or cow dung?” he went on, looking past me to someone who wasn’t there. “It’s very good for the flower beds, particularly if you grow roses. Which would you prefer?”
He had fallen victim to what is known as a “field coma”; it happens to a lot of men, due to a combination of too little food and sleep, low blood sugar, and dehydration.
Andersson carried on talking about manure, and I looked around, wondering what to do.
Kihlberg came to the rescue. He produced a bar of chocolate that he had hidden in his pack and pushed a couple of squares into Andersson’s mouth. That brought him back to us; his eyes were still wide open, but at least he was able to focus.
“Come on, we need to
keep going,” Kihlberg said. He placed the strap of my pack in Andersson’s hand and wrapped his fingers around it, then gave him a push to get him moving.
After a while, it happened again. This time, it was Erneskog who lost the plot. He lay down on the ground and curled up, howling like a small child.
The sergeant came over and gave him a kick. “Are you a man or a mouse?” he yelled as Erneskog groaned. Eventually he whispered, “Mouse. Mouse, mouse.”
Martinger managed to get him to his feet and half dragged, half carried him until we reached Myttingeviken.
Using a rope, we had to cross the inlet from the south to the north side where we were to pitch our tents and rest.
When we arrived, no one dared take off their boots; we knew it would be impossible to get them back on.
That’s when I started to hallucinate.
I could smell food, and I saw a roast chicken right there in front of me. I reached out, convinced I was holding a leg and chewing on it. My jaws moved rhythmically as I devoured the food that wasn’t there.
We are back in the barracks now, but I am still frozen. By the glow of a bonfire last night, we received our berets. All of us.
I have been awake for over ninety hours.
But we made it.
CHAPTER 27
Thursday (The Second Week)
Thomas had just gotten back to his office after the morning briefing when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number on the display.
“Andreasson.”
“Hi—my name is Susanna Albäck. I’m Marcus Nielsen’s supervisor.”
She doesn’t sound very old—thirty at the most, Thomas thought.
“Thanks for calling.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch earlier; I was at a conference in Paris, and I had problems with my voice mail. I wasn’t able to access my messages until today. What’s this about?”
Thomas explained the situation, and the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line made it clear that Susanna Albäck had had no idea that one of her students was dead.
“Oh my God,” she said, unable to suppress a sob. “Excuse me a minute.”
Thomas heard the sound of a tissue being pulled from a box; he waited for her to blow her nose and compose herself.
“How can I help you?” she said eventually.
“We’re trying to get a picture of the last few days of Marcus’s life, but we can’t find his laptop. I’m wondering if there’s anything you might know about his studies that could help us move forward.”
“That’s odd—Marcus always had his laptop with him.”
Susanna’s comment strengthened Thomas’s suspicions that someone had stolen Marcus’s computer.
“We’ve searched everywhere—in and around his apartment and at his parents’ house—but there’s no sign of it, so we were hoping you might be able to help us instead. What was Marcus working on before his death? Are there any e-mails from him or any assignments he handed in that we could take a look at?”
There was a brief silence, and Susanna’s voice was thick with tears when she spoke.
“I’m at home right now, but I can go over to the university and pick up everything I have from Marcus.”
“That would be great. I’d appreciate it if you’d call me back as soon as you can,” Thomas said.
Susanna Albäck called back within the hour. Thomas was talking to Margit when her number appeared on the display screen.
“I’ve gathered together all of Marcus’s work,” she said.
“Excellent—can you scan it and e-mail it to me?”
Susanna sounded hesitant.
“Unfortunately we don’t have the technology to do that; is it OK if I photocopy everything and mail it to you instead? It should get to you by tomorrow.”
“That’s fine.”
Margit nudged him. “Ask her what she’s found,” she whispered.
“What kind of material will you be sending over?”
There was a rustling sound, as if Susanna was leafing through a pile of papers.
“I’ve got the outline of the assignment he was working on, plus a list of his sources. The title of the assignment is ‘Group Dynamics in a Closed Environment.’”
“What does that mean?” Thomas switched to speakerphone so that Margit could hear.
“Marcus was in his third semester of the psychology program, and this fall he was taking an elective on the structures and processes that affect the interplay between individuals in a variety of group situations.”
“Hmm.” That was the best response Thomas could come up with; high-flown academic language wasn’t exactly his thing.
“The emphasis is on norms, leadership, decision-making, and conflict within and between groups.”
Susanna Albäck had adopted a slightly pedagogical tone, as if she were in a lecture room, and Thomas wondered if all university tutors were equally long-winded. Maybe she had fallen back on a familiar pattern in order to handle her own insecurity.
“The course also deals with verbal and nonverbal communication, together with relevant research methods.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but could you maybe explain what Marcus was working on in more concrete terms?”
“Of course—forgive me. Students in that class have to describe and analyze the structures and processes within a particular group. They were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, four weeks ago.”
“OK.”
“They have to write an essay of around thirty pages, analyzing a real situation within a theoretical and historical context. They’re studying the theory of group dynamics, and that’s their starting point.”
“Which group did Marcus choose?”
“He wanted to look at how groups in a military environment function under extreme pressure.”
Thomas and Margit exchanged a look.
“The way external pressures affect group dynamics and group loyalties,” Susanna went on. “What happens to internal norms as a consequence of external factors.”
“Could you translate that into layman’s terms?” Margit asked.
“My colleague Margit Grankvist is listening in,” Thomas explained.
“Marcus had decided to write about a military unit,” Susanna went on. “He did some research and interviewed several people, then opted for a corps that makes a point of exposing its recruits to difficult ordeals.”
“What do you mean by that?” Thomas asked.
“Certain military organizations carry out exercises that could be regarded as both cruel and inhumane; their aim is to weed out those who aren’t up to the mark.” Susanna paused. “The theory is that those who succeed form an unbreakable bond, while at the same time building up a strong self-image, both individually and collectively, which, in turn, is reinforced by the group. Their loyalty is unquestionable, and gradually a so-called elite force is created.”
“And this was Marcus’s focus?” Margit asked.
“Yes. The idea was that he would study how such a group functioned in difficult physical and mental circumstances, and how this affected the internal dynamics. He also wanted to investigate whether there was any long-term effect on the members of the group many years later.”
“Do you know which branch of the military he went for?” Thomas asked.
A telephone rang in the background, and Susanna excused herself. They heard her telling someone she would call them back in ten minutes.
“Sorry, can you repeat the question?
“Which branch of the military did Marcus choose?”
There was a pause as Susanna flicked through the papers again.
“The Coastal Artillery,” she said. “He was going to write about a unit from 1976.”
“Why so long ago?” Margit wanted to know.
“Apparently things were really tough back then. I think several incidents were recorded in the seventies, which would make the case study more interesting.”
“Which unit was he
looking at?”
“The Coastal Rangers.”
CHAPTER 28
Karin Ek came into Thomas’s office carrying a blue plastic envelope.
“This is the copy of that photograph you wanted. Shall I send back the original?”
“Please. Thanks for your help.”
Karin placed the copy of Bo Kaufman’s photograph on the desk and left the room. Thomas heard her cell phone ring in the corridor, then her voice telling someone, presumably her youngest son, not to forget his kit before he went to judo.
He slid the picture out of the envelope to take a closer look. It must have been taken on a summer’s day; there were wildflowers in the grass in front of the young men on the shore. There were six of them apart from Kaufman, and they knew the names of four: Jan-Erik Fredell, Sven Erneskog, Stefan Eklund, and the guy whose surname was Kihlberg. The other two were still unidentified.
A group of Coastal Rangers who had served together well over thirty years ago. One of them was dead. Marcus Nielsen, who had been interested in this unit, was also dead.
What had happened to the rest of them?
Thomas logged on to his computer and decided to start with the men whose first and last names he knew. He typed in “Sven Erneskog.” The search results showed only one person in the whole country by that name. He lived in Västerås, and his address was Graningevägen 7. No one else was registered with the same phone number.
He tried Stefan Eklund and found thirteen people by that name, in several different locations throughout the country. It was impossible to work out which of them had done his military service on Korsö in the midseventies.
Next he typed in Kihlberg. There were over fifteen hundred people with that surname in Sweden; without a first name, it would be impossible to find him. He would have to ask Karin Ek to look into Kihlberg and Stefan Eklund, but, meanwhile, he could try to dig up more information on Erneskog.
He found the relevant ID number and checked for both criminal records and those suspected of crime.
Nothing.
Thomas thought for a moment. If Erneskog had featured in any kind of investigation, the details would be recorded in the systems linked to the relevant local police authorities. Right now, the nationwide database they had been wanting for so long would have been invaluable; he could simply have looked up Sven Erneskog, and all available information would have appeared on his screen. As it was, he was going to have to speak to someone in the district where Erneskog was a resident.