Tonight You’re Dead (Sandhamn Murders Book 4)

by Viveca Sten

  “You mean Bo Kaufman,” Margit supplied.

  “That’s right.”

  “Kaufman said he hadn’t been in touch.”

  “Which is probably true,” Kalle said. “But he did call another person of interest.”

  “Who?” Thomas asked.

  “Sven Erneskog—the name you gave us after you’d spoken to Kaufman.”

  Thomas sat up a little straighter.

  “Sven Erneskog,” Margit repeated slowly. “One of the soldiers in the photograph Kaufman showed us.”

  “He’s dead,” Thomas informed them quietly.

  “What did you say?” the Old Man snapped.

  “Sven Erneskog is dead. I spoke to the Västerås police late last night. He died less than two weeks ago.”

  Kalle let out a low whistle, and Margit gave Thomas a reproachful look. He realized it had been a mistake not to mention this right away, but he had wanted to wait until he had gotten ahold of Maria Mörk and found out the details.

  “How did he die?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know; I was only told that he’s dead.”

  He glanced at his watch to see how long it had been since he’d tried to contact Maria Mörk.

  “I left a message for the officer in charge of the case, but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet. I’ll try her again if she doesn’t call soon.”

  The Old Man leaned back, and his chair creaked alarmingly. He weighed at least forty pounds too much, and there was no doubt that he was on the verge of obesity. He ignored every well-meaning attempt to get him to lose weight; in fact, he was the first one to reach for the buns and cookies that sometimes appeared at their morning briefings. His wedding ring was so deeply embedded in his swollen finger that it was barely visible.

  Regardless, his ability to lead an investigation was impressive, and he was very good at handling prosecutors and his superiors, leaving his team to work in peace, even though he found the budget constraints that rained down from above more than a little wearing.

  He turned to Thomas.

  “There’s something strange about this whole thing. You were right all along; it can’t possibly be a series of suicides.”

  Thomas hadn’t expected a pat on the back; it wasn’t the Old Man’s style.

  Margit got up and went over to the whiteboard and the photos of Marcus Nielsen and Jan-Erik Fredell. She picked up a marker and added Sven Erneskog’s name in big letters.

  “Kalle, I want you to find out as much as you can about this guy,” the Old Man said. Kalle nodded.

  “We also need to find the other men who were in Bo Kaufman’s photograph,” Thomas said. “Karin, did you get my message? Could you get on that as quickly as possible?”

  “Absolutely—as soon as we’re done here.”

  “Margit, how about a trip to Berga?”

  “Berga?”

  “Good idea,” said the Old Man, who knew what Thomas was getting at. “That’s where the Coastal Rangers headquarters is based these days. It’s time you spoke to someone about their activities on Korsö in the seventies.”

  CHAPTER 31

  As if someone had been eavesdropping on the morning briefing, there was a note on Thomas’s desk when he got back to his office.

  Maria Mörk from the Västerås police called, it said. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, but they had a temporary receptionist at the moment, so presumably it had come from her.

  He sat down and returned the call. When his colleague answered, Thomas briefly introduced himself.

  “I tried to get ahold of you this morning, but you were in a meeting,” Maria said.

  Thomas opened the drawer and took out the relevant folder, then reached for his notepad and pen.

  “I have some questions about a man named Sven Erneskog, who died just over a week ago. I believe you’re handling the case.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Let me check my notes . . . The message just asked me to call you; it didn’t say why.”

  She put down the phone, and while Thomas was waiting, he studied the photograph Bo Kaufman had lent him. He was even more certain now that tracking down Stefan Eklund and the others was a matter of urgency.

  Maria was back. “OK, let’s see . . . It was the neighbor who found Erneskog. They always used to take a walk on Sunday mornings, but on this particular day, Erneskog didn’t show up.”

  Marcus Nielsen had also been found dead on Sunday morning, and the pathologist had established that he must have died between ten on Saturday night, and two a.m. the following day.

  It was hard to believe that this could be a coincidence.

  “The neighbor waited a while, then went and rang the doorbell. He also tried phoning, and when no one answered, he got worried. According to him, Erneskog was always on time.”

  Old military habits, Thomas thought. Military precision that had never left him, even though over thirty years had passed?

  “The neighbor had a spare key, so he let himself in. He discovered Erneskog’s body inside.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He drowned.”

  Thomas stiffened.

  “Can you repeat that?”

  “He drowned. He was found in his bathtub.”

  So two men who had been Coastal Rangers in the same platoon had died in exactly the same way.

  “Was there an autopsy?”

  “Of course; it’s standard practice when someone dies at home, but I don’t know if we’ve received the results yet. Hold on.” She put down the phone again. After a minute, she picked it up again. “No, we haven’t had the report yet, but it wasn’t prioritized.”

  “Could you give me the name of the person who’s doing the autopsy?”

  “Sure, but I’ll have to get back to you—I’ll find out the details and e-mail you later.”

  “Did CSI check out the apartment?”

  “Do you think we’re just plain old country folk here in Västerås?” Maria said. She still sounded pleasant, but her tone was a little sharper.

  “I’m sorry.” Thomas backed off right away. “It wasn’t a criticism, I was just wondering.”

  “Of course CSI was involved, even if we have no reason to suspect that a crime has been committed at this stage.”

  “So what are you thinking?”

  “It seems to have been an accident. We found an empty whisky bottle in the bathroom. Getting in the bathtub when you’ve had too much to drink really isn’t a good idea.”

  So Erneskog had been drunk when he died, just like Fredell.

  “I understand.”

  “Presumably he fell asleep because of the booze and slipped under the surface without waking up.”

  “What did the apartment look like?”

  “There was no indication that anyone else had been there, no signs of forced entry, no damage, and nothing was missing. Erneskog’s wallet was in his pocket, and neither the TV nor the computer had been touched.”

  “Did he live alone?”

  “Yes. He had a partner who had her own place, but she was away with a friend when he died.”

  “So she has an alibi.”

  “Yes. We’ve spoken to her, and she also confirmed that everything looks just the same as usual, and that nothing is missing.” Maria paused. “As I said, there’s absolutely no indication that a crime has been committed.”

  Thomas thought for a moment. Should he tell her about Fredell? He decided to leave it for the time being, at least until he had spoken to the pathologist.

  “By the way, was there a smell of soap in the bathroom?”

  “I don’t remember, but if so, it would hardly be unexpected.”

  “This might sound strange, but I have to ask you one last question. Was Erneskog dressed when he was found in the bathtub?”

  Maria laughed.

  “No, of course not. Do you know anyone who takes a bath with their clothes on? He was naked, of course.”

&nbs
p; CHAPTER 32

  There wasn’t much traffic when they set off for Berga. Thomas took the freeway to Slussen, then stayed to the left so that he could take the exit onto the E73 to Nynäshamn.

  Several ships were waiting patiently to pass through the lock from Lake Mälaren and out into the Baltic Sea. It still worked, but only just; the other day, the local newspaper had carried an article about the urgent need for repairs.

  Thomas glanced at the dashboard clock. They had an appointment at thirteen hundred hours with a Captain Harning, who was apparently the information officer at the base.

  Thomas had spent his naval training at the Muskö base not far away, so he knew the way to Berga. They passed the Globe Arena on the right, and, as always, he was amazed at the sheer size of the place. It looked like a close-up of an enormous white golf ball.

  A tall woman greeted them with a firm handshake. Her blond hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail, and she was wearing a dark-blue uniform with gold epaulettes. In spite of the severity of her attire, Thomas thought she looked surprisingly feminine. Maybe it was partly due to her sheer tights.

  “Captain Elsa Harning,” she said before showing them where to sign in. She led them down a long corridor to a conference room with a wonderful view of the harbor. In the foreground, gray vessels lay moored at a pontoon, with white letters and numbers painted on their hulls, while red brick buildings were just visible on the right.

  “This is the best view we can offer,” she said. “There’s coffee, too.”

  She pointed to the table, where coffee cups and a thermos awaited them. The chairs made Thomas think of old-fashioned English furniture.

  “So how can I help you?” Elsa Harning asked.

  “We’d like to ask you about a group of Coastal Rangers who trained back in the seventies,” Margit began.

  “The seventies? I’m afraid that’s long before my time.”

  “We realize that,” Thomas said. “I’m sure a great deal has changed since then.”

  “The Rangers are our elite force. They’ve existed in Sweden for over fifty years. As you may know, they used to be based outside Vaxholm; they moved to Berga relatively recently.”

  Thomas met her gaze.

  “I have a summer cottage on Harö, not far from Korsö,” he said.

  “In that case, you know that operations on Korsö have been reduced.”

  “So I heard—why is that?”

  “Why is that?” Elsa Harning repeated. “I guess you’d have to ask the government. They’re the ones who make decisions about cuts in the defense budget. Fewer resources inevitably bring changes, not all of which are popular. One result of the latest review was the decision that it was necessary to relocate all activity to Berga.”

  “Can you tell us something about the Coastal Rangers?” Margit asked.

  “What do you already know? Do you know how they operate?”

  “It’s probably better if you explain.”

  “The Coastal Rangers’ role is primarily to gather intelligence for the other amphibious units. Their secondary function is combat, either in groups or in platoons. These are elite soldiers who undergo a demanding training program.”

  Margit listened with interest.

  “Anyone who applies to become a ranger must be extremely fit,” Captain Harning went on. “The selection process is rigorous and requires physical stability, a good physique, a wide range of abilities, and, of course, excellent eyesight, hearing, and general health.”

  Thomas thought back to when he had signed up for his own military service: young men standing in line, the embarrassment over the medical examination.

  “Before they’re accepted, they are subjected to a series of both physically and mentally taxing exercises; the aim is to test their willpower, strength, and attitude.”

  “Could you give us some examples?” Margit asked.

  “They have to run six miles; they have to complete a route march carrying a full pack. They are also assessed by psychologists, doctors, and physiotherapists.”

  “Then what?” Thomas said.

  “Those who are accepted follow an eleven-month training course based in the archipelago. The program is divided into blocks that include reconnaissance, nocturnal combat, interrogation techniques, weapons training, and specialist modules.”

  “Sounds tough,” Margit commented, her narrowed eyes fixed on Elsa Harning.

  “It’s meant to test their boundaries, but within strict guidelines for peacetime versus critical combat situations. That training happens later, for when we’re involved in peacekeeping operations overseas.”

  Margit frowned.

  “You send Coastal Rangers overseas?”

  “It has been known to happen.”

  “Do you ever make a mistake, take in someone who shouldn’t be there?”

  “You mean gun-crazy kids who just want to kill something?”

  Margit was taken aback by Elsa’s choice of words. Thomas noted how skillfully the captain had turned the question around. She was utterly professional in every way.

  “Kind of,” Margit said feebly.

  “It does happen, but it’s very rare. We use highly sophisticated evaluation models in order to avoid such an occurrence.”

  “Has that always been the case?”

  “I’d like to think so, but of course everything improves over time.”

  “What was it like in the seventies?” Thomas asked.

  “I can’t answer that, but it wasn’t so very long ago. There were more applicants back then, and they all went through the selection process.”

  Thomas took out the copy of Bo Kaufman’s photograph and placed it on the table.

  “We’re trying to find out as much as we can about the recruits in this photograph. They were all in the same group as the man who gave it to us. This is him, in the middle of the picture. Bo Kaufman.”

  Elsa Harning picked it up and spent some considerable time examining it.

  “When was it taken?”

  “July 1977.”

  “Are they on Korsö?”

  “Yes.”

  She gave him a sharp look.

  “May I ask why you’re looking for these men? We’re happy to help the police in any way we can, of course, but it would be helpful to know what this is about.”

  “We’re investigating a series of deaths over the past couple of weeks.” Thomas leaned forward. “This is Jan-Erik Fredell,” he said, pointing to the picture. “He was drowned in his own home last Saturday, even though he was already terminally ill with MS. Then we have Sven Erneskog, who died just under two weeks ago. Like Fredell, he drowned in his bathtub, although at the moment we can’t say for sure whether he died from natural causes or not. Another person linked to Fredell and Erneskog has also died under suspicious circumstances.”

  A change in Elsa Harning’s expression told him that she understood the gravity of their request.

  Thomas went on: “Next to Erneskog is Stefan Eklund, then we have a man called Kihlberg—we don’t know his first name, and it’s a fairly common surname. He was the group leader.” He paused to take a sip of his coffee. “We know nothing about the other two—we don’t have their names or any information about where they live.”

  “We need details about the members of this group so that we can access their ID numbers and track them down,” Margit clarified, gazing steadily at Elsa Harning.

  Thomas took over once more.

  “Just to summarize: We are dealing with a number of deaths, of which at least one was definitely homicide. The only link we have been able to establish so far is that two of the three victims did their military service together in the seventies, and the third victim had shown an interest in their military background. That’s all we have, I’m afraid.”

  If Elsa Harning was worried about the information Thomas had just passed on, she showed little sign of it. However, her expression was alert, and she was listening carefully. She started to twist her elegant ladies’ watc
h back and forth around her wrist—maybe she wasn’t quite so calm after all.

  “So that’s why we need to get ahold of everyone in the group,” Thomas concluded. “We’d like to speak to them all.”

  “I understand. I’ll do my best to find the details you need, but that means asking someone to go through archive material that’s thirty years old. Unfortunately not everything is computerized yet, so we may have to go through the documentation on microfiche, which takes time.”

  She glanced at her watch.

  “It’s already Friday afternoon, so I can’t promise anything until after the weekend.”

  “The sooner the better,” Margit said.

  “I’ll do what I can, but this kind of thing is dealt with by civilian staff, and they have fixed hours. Plus, they don’t answer directly to me,” Elsa said as she got up to show the visitors out. She stopped in the doorway and turned to Margit.

  “Do you have a hypothesis about what’s going on?”

  “Not that we can discuss at this stage, I’m afraid.”

  The truth is that we don’t have a hypothesis at all, Thomas thought. Every new development brought new questions.

  Like a mirror that had been shattered in the middle, with the cracks shooting off in all directions.

  CHAPTER 33

  Thomas’s cell phone rang as they were passing Skarpnäck on the way back to Nacke.

  “Grönstedt here.”

  It took a couple of seconds for Thomas to realize that it was the forensic pathologist from Västerås. He must have picked up the message Thomas had left before they set off for Berga.

  “I believe you have some questions about the autopsy on Sven Erneskog?”

  The voice was deep, with a marked Skåne accent. Thomas wondered what a native of Skåne was doing in Västerås, but of course there could be any number of explanations.

  “That’s right. Have you carried out the autopsy?”

  “No. We’re behind. Staff shortage. It’ll probably have to be Monday; I don’t think we’ll get around to him today.”

  “So you haven’t looked at him?”

  “Just a quick visual examination, that’s all.”

  Thomas hesitated, then said, “We think Erneskog’s death could be linked to one or more deaths in the Stockholm area.”