by Viveca Sten
He reached for the phone and called the police authority in Västermanland.
“Hasse Rollén,” came the response after a few rings.
Thomas introduced himself and outlined the situation. He asked Rollén to check if there was anything more on Erneskog in their database.
“No problem.”
Thomas waited, and after a few minutes Rollén was back.
“The guy is dead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“When did he die?”
“A week and a half ago.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“He died on September 16.”
Thomas realized he was breathing more rapidly.
“How did he die?”
“Let me see . . . He was found dead in his own home.”
“Can you give me any details?”
“You’ll have to speak to the officer in charge of the case—Detective Maria Mörk.”
“Do you have a number where I can reach her?”
Rollén gave him the number, and Thomas thanked him for his help and ended the call. He sat there holding the phone; another person in the photograph was dead, and he’d died the same weekend as Marcus Nielsen.
There was no way that could be a coincidence.
He tried Maria Mörk, but there was no reply. It was almost eight o’clock in the evening; she had probably gone home.
He stood up, yawning. He had been working for over twelve hours; no wonder he felt exhausted. Mörk could wait until tomorrow.
He left a note for Karin, asking her to check out the thirteen men named Stefan Eklund. All of a sudden, he felt it was urgent to track down everyone from that old photograph.
CHAPTER 29
It was seventeen minutes past eight by the time Thomas got in the car to drive home. He couldn’t get the photograph of the Coastal Rangers on the shore out of his mind. He had been on the island of Korsö many times, because the maritime police had an overnight cabin there, but he knew nothing about its history.
Impulsively he pressed Nora’s number on speed dial before pulling out of the parking lot.
“Hi, it’s Thomas.”
“Hi—you’re very crackly!”
“I’m in the car. I wanted to ask you something, since you have such a strong connection to Sandhamn. What do you know about the Coastal Rangers’ operations on Korsö?”
“Korsö? Why?”
“We’re involved in an investigation that might have links to the island.”
“I’ve just walked through the door. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll call you back.”
Nora went into the living room and sat down on the sofa with the phone in her hand. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs beneath her.
What did she know about Korsö?
She pictured the tower, the dark, brooding structure by Sandhamn’s eastern inlet. Korsö was a fortified island that had always been a no-go area when she was growing up. As a child, she sometimes saw soldiers in camouflage gear paddling by with serious expressions on their faces.
She had never been ashore.
She called Thomas back.
“Hi. I don’t know much, but I think most of the military activity was wound down in the nineties. What’s this about? You sound so mysterious!”
“You haven’t heard any stories?” Thomas asked. “Any strange rumors?”
“I remember some TV reporters trying to get ashore in the nineties; there was a hell of a fight.”
A TV news program had decided to try and prove that the military surveillance on the island was lax. They had anchored a sailboat offshore with the aim of filming some activity; before they knew what was happening, the boat had been boarded by the Coastal Rangers.
Instead of pictures of top-secret military facilities, the press coverage featured the journalists themselves, lying on the beach with their hands bound behind them, guarded by grim-faced soldiers holding automatic weapons. Needless to say, the rival TV stations were only too happy to carry the story.
“I remember that, but I’m looking for old injustices or scandals—does that ring any bells?”
“What do you mean?” Nora asked.
Thomas sounded hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure what he wanted.
“I can’t be any more precise, but sometimes there’s old gossip, something that stands out.”
Nora discovered a small run in her tights, and she couldn’t help picking at it. Needless to say, it immediately ripped up her leg, becoming at least twice as long as it had been when she’d found it. She sighed; she was going to have to throw the tights away.
“Actually, forget it,” Thomas went on. “I don’t really know what I’m looking for. I just thought I’d ask, since your family has lived on Sandhamn for such a long time.”
Nora recalled the conversation with Olle Granlund down by the jetty.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much, but I have a neighbor on Sandhamn who did his military service on Korsö many years ago. I could ask him if you like.”
“OK. Don’t go to any trouble, but if you’re going over there this weekend, maybe you could speak to him.”
Nora pictured the inlet: the eighteenth-century customs house behind the Falu-red homes, white buoys bobbing off the jetties. Jonas, smiling as he raised his glass in the Divers Bar.
Should she go over on Friday? Why not?
“I think I will,” she said. “The boys are with Henrik this week, so I’m on my own. I’ll talk to Olle.”
“Call me if you find out anything interesting.”
“Absolutely, or maybe we can meet there? Aren’t you and Pernilla going to Harö?”
“Probably, unless I have to work.”
“In that case, why don’t you come over for dinner?”
“That would be good. I’ll call you on Saturday.”
Nora remembered the news report from the other evening.
“By the way, I saw you on TV—there was a story about the murder of one of my old teachers, Jan-Erik Fredell. Are you involved in the case?”
“Something like that.” All of a sudden, Thomas didn’t have much to say.
Nora had once bumped into her teacher on the subway. He had been in uniform, with a green beret on his head. He had told her he was on his way to a refresher course.
“He was a Coastal Ranger, wasn’t he?” she said. “Is that why you’re asking questions about Korsö?”
Nora remained sitting in the dark when the conversation was over.
Thomas had completely clammed up when she’d asked about Fredell and Korsö. She was a little irritated, to be honest—first of all, he was the one who’d called her. And he had asked the questions, then refused to explain when she wondered why. She hadn’t managed to get anything out of him.
It was almost as dark inside as outside, but she couldn’t be bothered to switch on the lights. Instead she sank back against the cushions.
Tomorrow it would be Friday, the end of the week. The weekends were always hard when she didn’t have the boys with her. She could fill the weekdays with work, and occasionally she would go to the gym or meet up with a friend for a glass of wine or to see a chick flick.
But weekends were family time; no one was interested in getting together with a lone divorcée. Perhaps it was just as well; Nora had been invited over for dinner by her married friends a few times, and the experience had proved less than pleasant.
People didn’t know how to react to the divorce, which meant the atmosphere around the table was pretty strained. Some assured her that they didn’t want to take sides, then launched into long explanations about how difficult it was to invite Henrik and Nora to the same party. Others wanted her to open up and were quite persistent with their questions about Henrik’s new partner. What did Nora think of Marie? How did she feel about the fact that Marie had moved into Nora’s former home? How were the boys coping?
The questions kept on coming, in spite of Nora’s efforts to change the
subject. Afterward, she’d tell herself that she wasn’t prepared to go through that again.
So she had stopped seeing some of their mutual friends. She had completely lost contact with the sailing gang, whom Henrik had known since he was a child. Not that she was losing any sleep over them . . .
Wearily, she got to her feet and switched on the light, then she picked up the remote control; it was time for the news.
She really ought to make herself something to eat, but she didn’t feel like anything in particular. She had also forgotten to go shopping, so all she had in the house was cereal and yogurt. However, signs of a dip in her blood sugar levels meant that she had to eat very soon.
All at once, she felt a deep longing for Sandhamn and the calm she always found on the island. If she packed a bag tonight, she could go straight from work tomorrow. She might even leave an hour or so earlier than usual to avoid the traffic.
The loneliness was easier to bear on Sandhamn, despite the fact that the Brand villa was more than twice as big as her apartment. If she felt lonely, she could always pop over to see her parents or acquaintances she had known all her life, or simply exchange a few words with a neighbor over the fence.
On Sandhamn it didn’t matter whether she was married or single. No one cared about her recent separation. When she was there, she was simply herself, simply Nora.
DIARY: JANUARY 1977
It’s time for ice training. We are going to march all day, with a full pack, of course, then we have to get ourselves across the channel to Vaxholm in the pitch dark. The temperature has been around minus ten for several weeks, so they have to open the shipping lane with an icebreaker every other day.
The channel looks like a black gash in the ice, a wide, gaping mouth filled with gray ice floes aimlessly drifting along.
The ice is slippery, even though it is rough, and the floes tip over if you put your foot in the wrong place. You have to keep moving, otherwise you’ll fall in.
The sergeant has explained how to get across to the other side by jumping from one floe to the next.
Last year, a guy fell in. According to the sergeant, he developed pneumonia and had to be sent home. He smiled, and the scorn in his eyes was unmistakable.
Then he fixed his gaze on Andersson. He stared at him for a long time without saying another word, as if he already knew that Andersson was doomed to fail.
The message was clear: “Tomorrow is going to be hell, and I will be watching.”
“Are you asleep?”
I had almost dropped off when Andersson’s voice reached me through the darkness. Everything was quiet, apart from the sound of someone snoring over by the door. A strip of white light from the full moon shone in through the nearest window.
“Are you asleep?” he said again.
“Almost,” I mumbled.
“I don’t know if I’ve got the nerve to jump on the ice floes tomorrow.”
His voice was muffled, strained, as if he were on the verge of tears. I pushed the thought aside; Coastal Rangers don’t cry.
“I nearly drowned in a hole in the ice when I was little. My dad managed to pull me out at the last minute.”
I turned over; it was hard to make out his features in the gloom, but I could tell he was facing me.
“It’ll be fine.”
“What if it isn’t?” The words were little more than a whisper.
I could hear faint noises now, sighs and exhalations from the others in the room. The silhouettes of sleeping bodies under gray blankets were just visible. Kaufman was lying on his back, snuffling like a big baby.
“They’re not trying to kill us,” I attempted to reassure Andersson, “even if it sometimes feels that way. It’s all part of the game, you know that.”
I was hoping for a casual tone, but all I achieved was clumsiness. “They will only let us out onto the ice if everything is OK. It’ll be fine.”
I heard something like a cross between a cough and a sob.
“Are you sure?” His voice a little steadier now. “Is that what you really think?”
“Absolutely.”
I injected a confidence I didn’t feel into my voice.
“If you do fall in, we’ll pull you out. That’s all there is to it; you won’t be the first. They probably intend for some of us to fall in so we can use our ice claws and practice our rescue technique.”
I turned over.
“We need to get some sleep; they’ll be waking us up very early. You heard what the sergeant said.”
Andersson didn’t say anything. Sigurd coughed and tugged at his blanket in his sleep.
Once again, I was struck by how much Andersson reminds me of my kid brother. The same puppyish movements, the same eagerness to belong. What are you doing here if you’re scared of a channel in the ice? I thought. What the hell are you doing here?
By the time we reached the channel, we were already exhausted from the march. I could see my breath in front of my face, and the ice-cold air seared my lungs. I sank to my knees panting, desperate for a few seconds’ rest before it was my turn.
Somehow, I got across. Andersson was behind me. He was the last man in our group; everyone else had already made it. When I looked around, he was out there among the floes.
He was bobbing up and down, trying to jump from floe to floe. The beam of the lighthouse swept across the ice, illuminating his face. It was as gray as the ice. He was terrified, scared of going on, even more scared of staying put. His eyes were wide open, total panic just seconds away.
The ice was creaking all around us.
Suddenly he seemed to lose his balance. He wobbled, and I inhaled sharply. I moved forward; if he fell, I had to try and pull him out, even though I knew I wouldn’t get there in time.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the sergeant. He was standing perfectly still, his face expressionless.
Andersson’s arms flailed as he tried to regain his balance; I didn’t think he was going to do it. But then, suddenly, he somehow managed to leap onto another floe and then another, and all at once he was by my side.
He sank to the ground, utterly spent. The only sound was his deep, labored breathing. I saw that his brow shone with sweat as the beam of the lighthouse swept by once more. I reached out to help him up.
“Come on, we need to get going—we don’t want to lose the others.”
The sergeant had already given the rest of the group the signal to move on. Kihlberg was lingering at the edge of the forest, waiting for us.
“I’m coming,” Andersson mumbled. “I’m coming.”
Then he bent forward and threw up all over his boots.
CHAPTER 30
Friday (The Second Week)
The morning briefing had already begun when Thomas arrived, bringing with him the report from the National Forensics Laboratory.
“Sorry,” he said, holding up the bundle of papers. “The printer was acting up.”
“What have you got there?” the Old Man wanted to know.
“The analysis of the rope Marcus Nielsen used to hang himself. They must have a night owl working at the lab—the e-mail arrived at midnight.”
He had everyone’s attention.
“So?” Margit said impatiently, leaning back and folding her arms.
“They’ve found fibers on the rope that don’t match anything Marcus Nielsen was wearing,” Thomas said, looking around at his colleagues. “And someone else’s DNA.”
“What does that mean?” Erik Blom said, clicking his pen.
“It means we can match the DNA to a possible perpetrator.”
“Or we can identify a store assistant who sells rope,” the Old Man said dryly.
Of course he is right, Thomas thought. DNA in itself wasn’t particularly useful at this stage, but it could eventually provide evidence linking the killer to Marcus’s death and might be a key factor when the prosecutor had to decide whether or not to charge someone with the crime.
If it was a crime, and not a
suicide.
“Better than nothing,” Margit said. “And it came through more quickly than usual. How long will it take to run the results against the DNA register?”
“A while, I should think,” Erik said.
Thomas nodded.
“Unless we have a suspect and we’re looking for a match,” Margit added.
“It’s the same as with fingerprints,” the Old Man muttered. “These results can only help us if we’re dealing with a perp who’s already in the database.” He scratched the back of his neck. “But at least it’s a start,” he conceded.
He turned to Kalle Lidwall, who hadn’t said a word so far. He seemed to be in a world of his own, but he straightened up when he realized the Old Man was looking at him. Kalle was the youngest member of the team, but he was a wizard when it came to computers.
“Kalle, can you monitor this development?”
“Sure.”
Kalle picked up his pen and opened his notebook. Thomas was interested to see that it wasn’t standard issue; instead it looked like an old-fashioned hardback book with a gilded leather cover. Thomas knew they were being sold in trendy bookstores; Pernilla had bought one. He found it amusing that his quiet colleague was suddenly showing signs of good taste.
“What about their phones?” the Old Man asked. “Any luck there?”
Kalle found the relevant page in his expensive notebook.
“Jan-Erik Fredell didn’t have a cell phone, but we’ve gone through his landline records. We also checked out Marcus Nielsen’s cell.”
“Did you find anything interesting?”
“Marcus called both Cronwall and Fredell; the dates match the information they gave us, and Fredell’s incoming calls. However, we didn’t find any attempt to contact the last person on his list.”