Tonight You’re Dead (Sandhamn Murders Book 4)

by Viveca Sten

  He was just as cowed today as he had been back then. The booze was the only thing that made the fear loosen its grip, kept the blackness that scratched and tore at him at bay.

  For many years, he had managed to hold down his job as an electrician. He pulled himself together during the day and drank only in the evenings and on weekends. He needed his car to get around, so he didn’t take any risks; he didn’t want to get caught out in a police check.

  Things had been pretty good when the boy was little. He had put his son first, tried not to give in. They had been happy for a while.

  But gradually the nightmares came back, and the only thing that made life bearable was the vodka trickling down his throat.

  How many times had he told himself that he would stop? Before everything went to rack and ruin.

  Empty promises.

  When the boy became a teenager, that was the end of it. He was ashamed of his father and went off with his friends instead of doing his schoolwork. Eva got sick of nagging. For years, she had begged him to seek help. She’d threatened to leave him if he didn’t quit drinking, and in the end that was exactly what she did.

  Deep down, he had always known that he would end up like this. He had expected to be abandoned; he didn’t deserve any better.

  Not after what he had done.

  There was no help out there. It was too late.

  The shrill sound of the telephone sliced through the silence, and Bo Kaufman gave a start. He rarely got a call, so rarely that he almost appreciated it when some young telemarketer tried to sell him something he didn’t need. At least it was a human voice; he particularly liked the young girls who wanted him to sign some kind of contract.

  He got up and went to the phone in the hallway. Just as he was about to pick up, it stopped ringing. He stood there staring foolishly at the receiver, which was covered in grubby fingerprints.

  It rang again.

  “Kaufman,” he said hoarsely.

  He didn’t recognize the voice but answered the question anyway.

  “Yes, I’m home.”

  DIARY: MARCH 1977

  I panicked when we were doing our gas mask test this morning. Worse than that—I collapsed completely.

  They lined us up and pushed us into a gas-filled room, two at a time. There was so much smoke that we couldn’t see a thing; the officers had to use flashlights to show the way to the exit, otherwise we would never have found our way out.

  Our instructions were crystal clear. We were to enter the room, take off the mask, and take a deep breath before putting it back on again. Then we had to ask permission to leave the room, using the correct form of address, in order to be let out.

  During the briefing, we learned that mustard gas smells of garlic, while nitrogen mustard has a distinct fishy odor. Nerve gas kills in minutes.

  I grew more and more anxious as we stood in line. My fellow recruits returned one after the other, sounding as if they were coughing up their lungs.

  Kaufman came hurtling out; he fell to his knees and threw up, retching until there was nothing left but bile. He stayed there for quite some time, his whole body shaking.

  By the time it was my turn, I was already having difficulty breathing, and my head was pounding. I put on my mask but remained standing in the doorway. A hard shove from the sergeant, and I stumbled into the dark room.

  “Go!” he mumbled behind his mask.

  I took a few more steps. Beside me, I saw two members of our group gasping for air, a glassy look in their eyes.

  With trembling hands, I took off the mask and inhaled.

  The effect was instantaneous.

  I wanted to throw up, I wanted to spit, I wanted to cough. My neck and hands, which were unprotected, felt as if they were on fire, and I immediately put the mask back on. It didn’t help. I thought I was going to die right there.

  Martinger grabbed ahold of me. He seemed to be immune to the gas in some strange way. Afterward, I found out that some people don’t have a reaction; the gas doesn’t affect them.

  He dragged me out of the room and held on to me when I tried to pull off the mask to get some fresh air.

  “Calm down!” he yelled. “Breathe into the mask, you have to breathe into the mask.”

  I spewed phlegm and mucus everywhere as I screamed uncontrollably. I struck out at him, desperate to free myself and rip off the black rubber mask.

  Martinger held on tight.

  Later, he explained that the gas remains on the clothes. If I had removed the mask, the fumes in my clothing would have gotten into my eyes and nose, making everything much worse.

  My eyes are still sore. I will never forget the panic I felt.

  CHAPTER 36

  It was after one, and Nora was feeling restless. She had slept well and hadn’t woken until nine—almost a personal record.

  After a leisurely breakfast, she had decided to take things easy. She had brought some paperwork from the bank, but that could be her Sunday evening reading. She had no desire to think about her job this weekend; instead she had settled on the veranda with a book.

  She went into the kitchen to make a hot drink—equal parts coffee and milk. She had drunk it that way ever since she was a teenager.

  Nora still hadn’t quite gotten used to the idea that Aunt Signe’s kitchen was now hers, even though she had brought in a lot of her own possessions. Signe’s net curtains were still there, freshly washed but unchanged.

  She sat down at the old folding table. The white wooden chairs were battered and worn, but Nora liked them. Not everything had to be shiny and new.

  Through the window, she could see the rowan tree, laden with berries. According to folklore, that meant a hard winter to come. The leaves had begun to change color, turning red and gold.

  Olle Granlund was busy down by the boathouses, and Nora remembered her promise to Thomas; she was supposed to ask her neighbor about Korsö. She pulled on her jacket and stuck her feet in a pair of deck shoes that had seen better days. She closed the door behind her and went down to the jetty.

  “Hi, there,” she called out. “How are you?”

  Olle turned around.

  “Hi, Nora—are you coming over here every weekend?”

  “It looks that way at the moment.”

  She sat down on the bench, which was set on the rocks. Pale-brown seaweed had washed up and was floating at the water’s edge in front of her. The air was fresh and clear.

  “It’s a lovely place to be this time of year,” she added.

  “And no tourists.”

  “True, but it’s nearly always quiet at the north end of the island, even in July when most of the visitors come.”

  “I remember when there was hardly anyone around,” Olle said wistfully.

  The influx of tourists was a frequent topic of conversation on the island, almost as reliable as the weather. If there was nothing else to talk about, you could always complain about the summer invasion, when the harbor was crammed with people, and you had to push your bicycle through the village because that was the only way to get through.

  “But we do need the tourists in order for the island to survive,” Nora said, as she had so many times in the past. “How would the local traders make a living otherwise? On what you and I spend?”

  Olle snorted, but it was a good-natured snort. He was wearing blue dungarees, and Nora could see a well-used folding ruler sticking out of his pocket. She ran her hand along the smooth wood of the rustic bench. It was warm from the sun, and she wondered how many times she had sat here watching the sun set over the sea.

  She thought about how to broach the subject of Korsö. If she mentioned that the police were involved, Olle might clam up. She opted for a half-truth.

  “I wanted to ask you something. Last weekend you told me you did your military service over on Korsö. I have a friend who’s interested in the island’s history; do you remember anything else about your time there?”

  Olle nodded. “Indeed I do. Was there anyt
hing in particular you wanted to know?”

  There was a brief silence; Thomas hadn’t been very specific.

  “Did you know that Russian prisoners of war built the lighthouse in 1747?” Olle asked.

  Nora shook her head. “When did the Coastal Rangers arrive there?”

  “Let me see.” Olle sat back. “It was between the wars, when Europe was still very unstable. They wanted to be able to block the shipping lanes so they could defend the route into Stockholm if there was an invasion. I think they started building the heavy battery in the midthirties, and power cables were installed in the tower.”

  Nora knew that Korsö lighthouse had been replaced by the Sandhamn lighthouse in 1869; Korsö had been decommissioned and designated a watchtower instead.

  “So the whole island was fortified?”

  “It happened over time, as they added new defenses. By the time I was there, many of the tunnels had already been dug. They continued to build until the midnineties. That was when the bell tolled for Korsö. The battery was emptied of ammunition; most of the buildings were torn down, and the tunnels were filled in. It’s still used in the summer, but to nowhere near the same extent.”

  As Olle was talking, he sat up a little straighter and gestured with his hands. Nora could see the young ranger he had once been.

  “How do you know all this? You’re like a living encyclopedia!”

  “Once a Coastal Ranger, always a Coastal Ranger.”

  There was a new tone in Olle’s voice. “There’s an organization for old soldiers like me, so I get to hear what’s going on. We meet up on the island from time to time, and the new recruits enjoy showing off their skills to the old guys.”

  “It’s so close,” Nora said, turning her head in the direction of Korsö, which was just visible across the Sound. “And yet I know very little about it.”

  “Have you never been ashore?”

  “Of course not—it’s not allowed.”

  Olle gave her a long look.

  “I promise,” Nora said quickly. “I’m a lawyer, I do as I’m told.”

  “Shall we take a little trip?”

  He pointed to his old motorboat, moored by the jetty.

  “But surely it’s still forbidden?”

  The smile on Olle’s weather-beaten face was cunning, to say the least.

  “Do you think anyone is going to come along and arrest us if we step ashore?”

  Nora shook her head.

  “There you go, then.”

  Olle stood up and headed for the jetty without waiting for a response.

  CHAPTER 37

  It was almost two o’clock, and Thomas knew he ought to go home. He had spent all morning at the station going over the material he hadn’t managed to get around to during the week, but he was still none the wiser. His back ached, and he was sick of piles of paper.

  He called Pernilla.

  “I’m leaving shortly; shall I pick up something for dinner?”

  “I don’t know, I’m not that hungry.” Pernilla laughed. “You know why . . .”

  “I’ll stop off at the grocery store, see what I can find.”

  “So we’re not going to Harö? Is it too late?”

  Thomas had been longing to get out to the archipelago; even when he only had twenty-four hours or so, he preferred it to staying in the city. But Pernilla was tired, and there were fewer ferries at this time of year; had the last one of the day already gone?

  “I guess it is. Listen, Nora asked if we wanted to come over for dinner if we were at the cottage; could you call her and tell her that we’re not going to make it?”

  “Won’t she be disappointed?”

  “It’s fine, it wasn’t a definite plan.”

  “OK, see you later. Drive carefully.”

  Less than a minute later, the phone rang again. Thomas assumed that Pernilla had decided she did want him to pick up something special for dinner, after all, but instead an unmistakable Skåne accent filled his ear.

  “Thomas Andreasson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Grönstedt from Västerås. I’m pleased to find that the Stockholm police are working over the weekend.”

  “So are you, I gather.”

  “You roused my curiosity, Andreasson, so we took a look at Sven Erneskog this morning.”

  Thomas’s grip on the receiver tightened.

  “And what did you find?”

  “The cause of death was drowning. He had water in his lungs and had been drinking heavily when he died. His blood alcohol level was one and a half percent. He must have knocked back the entire contents of that whisky bottle you found.”

  Thomas grabbed a notepad.

  “Anything else?”

  “You were right to mention the possibility of finger marks. I didn’t find any, but there was a round mark on his chest, a distinct contusion beneath the skin that must have been made immediately before death.”

  “Could there be a natural cause?”

  “Hardly. It must have been made by an object that someone else was holding. It looks as if it was pressed into the flesh, from above and at an angle.”

  “Any idea what it might be?”

  “Definitely not a finger or part of a hand.”

  “Can you describe it to me?”

  “It’s perfectly round, two inches in diameter. Think of the tip of a baseball bat.”

  Thomas pictured Sven Erneskog lying in the bathtub, very drunk, his face just above the surface of the water. It wouldn’t have taken a great deal of strength to push him down with a long, solid object. Three to four minutes; presumably he would have struggled only at first.

  “Could he have slipped?” Thomas asked, even though he knew the answer.

  “The body would have looked completely different; there would have been other marks; plus, the bruise would have had ragged edges.”

  “I understand.”

  “I would say that Sven Erneskog was probably murdered,” the pathologist said. “I’m assuming that’s what you thought?”

  “Yes.”

  So they were dealing with a serial killer. The situation was as bad as Thomas had feared.

  “Oh, and by the way,” Grönstedt went on, “you were right about something else. There was detergent in both the bathwater and the lungs.”

  CHAPTER 38

  As they traveled across the water, Nora saw several yachts moored by the jetty, even though it was so late in the year. However, the area in front of the Royal Swedish Yacht Club was deserted, and the tables outside were unoccupied.

  The air was fresh, and the wind blew back her hair as they sped along. The sun was low, and she shaded her eyes to see better. They passed Lökholmen and the shallow waters the sailing school used in the summer, although all the skiffs and dinghies had long since been transported to Saltsjöbaden, where the yacht club had a new clubhouse.

  The sea was a little choppy when they reached the mouth of the inlet. Olle made a wide turn, and they headed into Korsö Sound, bordered to the west by Kroksö. Nora could see the wide concrete quayside now, running parallel with the wooden jetty on the shoreline. She had often seen fast combat craft around the island when she was out with the family in their own launch.

  Olle cut the engine and hove to with a practiced hand. Nora made fast the forward rope and jumped ashore. She stood there, feeling a little nervous. However, no soldiers materialized, just a few gulls hovering high above the water as they searched for food.

  “Come on, it’s fine,” Olle said with a wave of his hand.

  Nora followed him. A well-maintained asphalt road that couldn’t be seen from the sea led to an open square, surrounded by Falu-red two-story buildings with black doors and dormer windows.

  “These are the barracks,” Olle explained.

  “I didn’t realize the place was so big.”

  “There’s plenty more to it—there’s another road with identical blocks up to the left.”

  Nora stopped in front of an impressive buildi
ng with barred windows. The façade was dark brown, and steps led up to imposing double doors.

  “This was the store, where you could buy cigarettes and other bits and pieces.”

  Nora looked around. It was like a ghost town. Everything was here—except the people.

  “Let’s go to the tower,” Olle said.

  It was taller and steeper than Nora had imagined. She was out of breath by the time they reached the tower, but the view was worth every painful step.

  The Baltic was spread before them in a seemingly endless panorama. The Almagrundet lighthouse was just visible where sea and sky melted together in a blue haze, the rocks and skerries standing out against the water like small gray and brown flowers.

  The sea was so flat that Nora could understand why people in medieval times had been absolutely convinced that the earth couldn’t possibly be round.

  “I didn’t know Korsö was so hilly,” she said.

  “That’s why it’s the perfect location for both surveillance and defense. It has strategic military importance, that’s what they used to say.”

  Olle pointed to a modest white house a short distance away.

  “That was the old lighthouse keeper’s home. Have you heard of Avén?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He was the lighthouse keeper, and a legendary rose grower. The poet Elias Sehlstedt wrote a poem dedicated to him one Midsummer’s Eve.”

  “Wow.”

  Nora gazed up at the tower. There were narrow openings in the stone façade, and at the top, she could see an octagonal lantern room with windows all around. It reminded her of an air-traffic-control tower with a 365-degree view.

  “Have you been up there?” she asked.

  “Many times. There’s a kitchen and a bedroom about halfway up; they’re pretty small but adequate.”

  Olle patted the rough wall as if it were a dear old friend. “The tower was also used by the military for various exercises.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like climbing down the outside with a rope, all the way from the top.”