Tonight You’re Dead (Sandhamn Murders Book 4)

by Viveca Sten

  The familiar feeling of failure came over her, and tears sprang to her eyes. She got up and went into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. Maybe that would help.

  She looked out and saw her old house. Jonas had said he was alone this weekend, too; perhaps she could return the invitation? Having dinner with him was a lot more appealing than an evening in front of the TV.

  As if he had read her mind, the front door opened, and Jonas appeared. Nora waved through the window; before she had the chance to change her mind, she went outside and across to his gate. Jonas came to meet her.

  Nora hesitated; now that she was here, she didn’t quite know how to ask him to dinner.

  “Hi—lovely day,” she said instead.

  Not very original, but Jonas didn’t seem to mind.

  “It sure is.”

  “We often have good weather out here, even when it’s raining in town. Sometimes you can actually see the clouds above the mainland, but the sun is shining here.”

  Now she was babbling. Nervously she pushed her hands in her pockets and wondered how to broach the subject.

  Jonas’s hair was damp, as if he had just had a shower, and there was a small patch of shaving foam under one ear.

  “I was thinking of going out for something to eat,” he said.

  Nora couldn’t make up her mind. Could she bring herself to suggest they go together? Her courage failed.

  “Sounds like a good idea. Enjoy.”

  She turned to go back to the house, silently berating herself. Why hadn’t she said something? Now she would definitely be spending the evening alone.

  She heard his voice behind her.

  “Would you like to come with me? I was just on my way over to knock on your door.”

  She stopped and turned back. Suddenly everything felt so much better.

  “Yes. Absolutely. Yes, please.” A deep breath. “Actually, I was going to ask if I could invite you to dinner, to say thank-you for last weekend.”

  Jonas smiled; he didn’t seem to have any objection to her suggestion.

  “I’ll just go fetch my purse,” Nora said.

  “No need—I’ve got my wallet.”

  Nora moved so that she was standing directly in front of him. She was equally surprised each time she looked into his eyes.

  “I wanted to invite you.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, this time it’s my turn. I won’t be a minute.”

  She ran back to the house before he could say anything. She raced upstairs, changed into a nicer top, and dragged a comb through her hair. The trip to Korsö had put some color in her cheeks; a slick of lip gloss, and she was done.

  She decided the result wasn’t too bad; she smiled at her reflection in the mirror.

  CHAPTER 43

  It had taken hours to clear the road. Long traffic jams had built up in both directions, and when Thomas was finally able to leave, it took him an eternity to get away.

  He looked at his watch.

  He had called Pernilla around two and now it was almost six o’clock. He had considered asking Margit to take over, but he hadn’t expected the salvage operation to go on for quite so long, and it seemed unnecessary to ask her to drive all the way through the city when he was already halfway there.

  However, as he reached the area where Bo Kaufman’s apartment block was located, he was beginning to regret his decision. He was exhausted; all he wanted to do was go home and sleep. He was still in shock from the accident, and no doubt there would be some kind of delayed reaction in due course. His chest hurt where the seat belt had dug into it.

  Anyway, he was here now.

  Kaufman still hadn’t answered his phone.

  A woman with a stroller was passing as Thomas got out of the car. He smiled at her, but she simply averted her eyes. He was surprised, but then what did he know about the atmosphere around here?

  He made his way over to the main door of the building. Hopefully there was a simple explanation for Kaufman’s failure to pick up; he was probably out cold after a drinking session and hadn’t even heard the phone. If Thomas kept his finger on the doorbell for long enough, maybe Kaufman would come around.

  Then he could go home and rest.

  This time the elevator wasn’t working, and Thomas had to take the stairs to the fourth floor. When he reached the landing, he paused and looked around. He could hear the theme song of a popular TV program through a neighbor’s door; not a sound from the other apartments. The faint smell of fried food reached his nostrils.

  He rang the bell, but nothing happened. He tried the handle; the door wasn’t locked. His tiredness was swept away by the sudden rush of adrenaline that surged through his body.

  He drew his gun and pushed the door wide open. There was no sign of anyone, just a pile of junk mail spread across the brown rug and a jacket hanging on a hook.

  Thomas edged forward. He could see straight into the dirty kitchen, which actually looked worse than before. The air was thick with stale cigarette smoke and the smell of rancid beer. The sink was piled high with empty cans.

  Slowly he made his way into the small living room. There was very little furniture—just a stained sofa and a coffee table covered in rings left by beer cans, plus a large old-style TV in the corner.

  Kaufman wasn’t there.

  Thomas turned his attention to the bathroom door; could he hear something from inside? Silently he grasped the dark-gray handle and pushed it down.

  There was nothing to see apart from a filthy toilet. The sudden draft made the shower curtain flutter, and the stench of urine came toward him. Instinctively he took a step back; the smell was revolting. How could Kaufman live like this?

  And where the hell was he?

  There wasn’t a sound to be heard in the apartment, and Thomas paused to take stock. There was only one place he hadn’t been.

  The bedroom.

  The door was closed. Thomas flung it open and saw Bo Kaufman lying on his back on the grubby sheets, his mouth open.

  There was no doubt that he was dead.

  DIARY: APRIL 1977

  Tomorrow we are being transferred to Korsö, the Coastal Rangers’ very own island just off Sandhamn.

  We will be there until the end of August, almost five months, staying in what is known as Korsö base, a collection of barracks to the east of the main quay.

  We will be sleeping in two- or four-bed rooms, narrow cabins with bunk beds and barely enough space to turn around. But it will be good to escape from the dormitory with all that mumbling and snoring during the night; I’m so sick of it.

  Not far from the quayside where the boats are moored, there’s a big rock with the Coastal Rangers’ oath of allegiance carved into the surface:

  “I [ranger’s name] swear before our patron Torleif to be a role model for other soldiers by always doing my best in every situation, being a good comrade, and never giving up.

  I will bear the Coastal Rangers’ symbols, the beret and the trident, with honor and respect.”

  It is that oath that drives us on.

  CHAPTER 44

  Several hours had passed without Nora even noticing. She and Jonas had ordered a beer, and then another and another . . . She was a little giggly by this point.

  The sadness of the afternoon was long gone. Jonas was easy to talk to, there was no shortage of topics of conversation, and his tales of crazy passengers made her laugh. He was a born storyteller.

  Quite a lot of people had arrived during the course of the evening, and a pleasant hum of conversation filled the room. Some of the locals were chatting at the bar, and the beer taps were being kept busy.

  Nora and Jonas had some privacy, because they were sitting slightly to one side at a table for two.

  “Are you ready to eat?” Nora asked. Her stomach had started rumbling. “Do you want to stay down here, or shall we go upstairs?”

  “Which would you prefer?”

  “I think we should try the à la carte restaurant
on the second floor,” she said with a smile. “It’s still early; we should be able to get a table on the veranda overlooking the harbor.”

  She got to her feet and picked up her jacket. Jonas followed; he seemed amused at her decisiveness. The heavy oak door of the restaurant creaked as Jonas opened it. Nora pointed to a wood-paneled room with old-fashioned decor straight ahead.

  “This is the oldest part of the building, one of the island’s original schnapps bars from the eighteenth century. It was the only consolation for agricultural workers from Eknö when they were conscripted to Sandhamn to pilot sailing ships into Stockholm, over three hundred years ago.”

  Jonas took a quick look as Nora kept walking up the stairs to the restaurant.

  Only half the tables were occupied, so they had no problem securing a view of the water. Dusk was falling, and the lights of the Sailors Restaurant on the other side of the harbor shone brightly against the deep-blue sky. The silhouette with the little red tower on the top was a classic symbol of Sandhamn.

  Nora ordered the fish stew, which was always delicious, and a glass of white wine, while Jonas opted for steak with a glass of red. The waitress brought their drinks right away.

  “Tell me more about your daughter,” Nora said.

  “Wilma, the most stubborn teenager in the world.” Jonas leaned back and continued in a gentler tone. “She’s thirteen, and she can’t live without her computer and her cell phone.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  Nora pictured Adam, her proud, precocious son who took after his father. He was just as talented, just as stubborn. A warm feeling filled her heart.

  “She scatters her clothes all over the floor and has a complete breakdown if she’s left her favorite top at Margot’s—her mother’s—place.” Jonas ran his fingers over the tablecloth, his expression a little melancholy. “Now and again, she curls up beside me on the sofa to watch TV, but that’s happening less and less often these days. She’s growing up.”

  “Does she find it difficult, spending one week with you and the next with your ex?” Nora had to ask. She worried about the situation every time she had to pack the boys’ bags.

  Jonas thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “She was only little when we split up, so it’s kind of always been this way. We live pretty close to one another, and so far it’s worked well.”

  “She’s never mentioned it?”

  “No.”

  Nora felt a great sense of relief. Maybe she was fretting unnecessarily.

  “Has Margot remarried?”

  “Yes, many years ago. Our relationship broke down soon after Wilma was born.”

  Nora realized the conversation was turning into an interrogation, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  “And did she have more children?”

  “A son, plus her husband has a boy from a previous relationship. It takes a bit of juggling at Midsummer and Christmas and so on, but we’ve always managed to sort things out.”

  Jonas raised his glass as if to celebrate the success of the arrangement.

  “Do you get on OK?”

  “You could say that. It’s been well over ten years since we separated, and we both thought it was the best solution. We were far too young and immature to make it work. Wilma wasn’t exactly planned; we were completely taken by surprise. Now we help each other out; if I have a flight, she steps in, if something comes up on her side, I do the same.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “So far, so good. What do you and your ex do?”

  “What do we do?” Nora hesitated. Sometimes she couldn’t imagine getting along with Henrik ever again. Every conversation seemed to end up in a heated argument.

  “I guess we haven’t really gotten into a pattern yet. It’s only been six months since we separated.”

  She spread her hands in a weary gesture.

  “Are you finding it difficult?” Jonas asked.

  Nora looked away. She had to swallow hard before she could speak.

  “Yes.”

  “It does get better, I promise. After a while, you build up a life of your own, which gives you some distance. The early days are the worst, but then things settle down. Believe me.”

  Jonas gave her an encouraging smile, and Nora relaxed. To her surprise, she noticed that her glass was empty. She stole a glance at Jonas’s glass, which was virtually untouched.

  “The wine was delicious,” she said, as if to excuse herself. Jonas waved the waitress over and ordered another glass. The chivalrous gesture appealed to Nora. She buttered a piece of bread and took a bite, enjoying the sourdough taste on her tongue.

  “What grade is Wilma in?”

  “She’s just started seventh grade, but she looks older. It happened over the summer; she suddenly shot up and started wearing makeup. She used to talk to me about her friends and boyfriends, but now she doesn’t say much at all. I’m not even allowed to go into her room without knocking. The door is always closed.”

  Nora knew exactly how he was feeling. It was good to hear that other kids were hard to understand, not just her son.

  “These are the trickiest years,” she said.

  “So they say. In my innocence, I thought it would get easier as she grew up. I guess it’s a phase that will pass.” He pulled a face. “Is it just as tricky with boys?”

  “What can I say?” Nora smiled. “I have no experience with raising girls, but Adam is well on the way into puberty, and he has mood swings like you wouldn’t believe.

  “We have quite a bit of trouble with Adam,” she went on. “Simon is still a little boy, thank goodness. You know what they say: small children, small problems.”

  The waitress arrived with their food. The aroma of the fish stew was seductive, and Nora could hardly wait. Jonas was served an enormous portion of fries and Béarnaise sauce with his steak; Nora’s fish looked like a healthy meal in comparison.

  As Jonas bent over his plate, his necklace glinted in the light. Nora saw that his daughter’s name was engraved on it, which she found touching.

  “Have you never wanted more children?” she asked.

  Jonas put down his knife and fork and picked up his glass. He turned it slowly around and around, the red liquid shimmering with the movement.

  “I’ve thought about it, of course. But it’s never worked out . . .”

  He sipped the wine, an unreadable expression on his face.

  CHAPTER 45

  “Go home and get some rest, Thomas. You look like a ghost,” Margit said.

  It was as if a swarm of insects had invaded the small apartment. The unnatural silence in Bo Kaufman’s home had been replaced by the voices of those investigating the scene of the crime.

  Staffan Nilsson, the forensic technician who had dealt with Fredell’s body, had been called in and was busy in the bedroom.

  A colleague walked into the kitchen and made a face.

  “This place is disgusting.”

  It’s as if she finds the mess in the sink worse than the dead body in the bedroom, Thomas thought. Then again, the body probably constituted a normal day’s work for her, while the kitchen offended her views on personal hygiene. What did he know?

  He was rapidly running out of energy. He was slumped on a chair, elbow on the table, his cheek resting on his hand.

  “When did you last eat?” Margit asked.

  Thomas had to think about it. It was quite some time; he had bought a hot dog before he got in the car. That was all he’d had since breakfast.

  “Here.” Without waiting for an answer, she produced a Toblerone from her purse. “Eat.”

  He gratefully broke off a large chunk and put it in his mouth. It definitely helped.

  “I heard about the accident. You’re taking on a lot at the moment.” Margit’s tone was concerned rather than reproachful. “You ought to stay home and take it easy, at least for tomorrow.”

  Thomas shook his head, but Margit wasn’t giving up.

  “You’v
e only just come back to work after your sick leave. You have to take care of yourself; you don’t want to relapse.”

  She was right; he knew that. But there was too much going on right now. He would rest some other time. He waved a dismissive hand, then got up and joined Nilsson in the bedroom.

  “How’s it going?”

  Nilsson straightened up. He moved with surprising suppleness, given his corpulent frame. He was wearing latex gloves on his plump hands and holding a pair of tweezers.

  “As I’m sure you’ve already noticed, there is no obvious cause of death. He hasn’t been shot or stabbed—no sign whatsoever of external force.”

  Kaufman’s body was exactly as it had been when Thomas had found him—on his back, with his eyes closed. He was wearing jeans and a surprisingly clean T-shirt; had he been planning to go somewhere?

  “Are we looking at natural causes? Are you telling me Kaufman wasn’t murdered?”

  It was possible but seemed unlikely: three members of the same Coastal Rangers’ platoon who just happened to die within a couple of weeks?

  Not a chance.

  Nilsson shook his head, then gestured toward the bed. “There’s your murder weapon.”

  Thomas saw a pillow in a faded-red pillowcase next to the body. Nilsson carefully picked it up by one corner with the tweezers. Thomas leaned forward and examined the fabric; he could just make out a faint round impression in the center, with several paler marks beside it.

  “The perpetrator smothered him,” he said, half talking to himself, “while he was sleeping. He might not even have woken up if he’d been drinking. A couple of minutes of pressing the pillow down on his face, and it was all over.”

  “The pathologist will find out for certain whether he was drunk, but you’re probably right.”

  Thomas sniffed the air: whisky. The other victims had consumed whisky before they were killed, but when he had visited Kaufman a few days ago, there had been only empty beer bottles on the kitchen counter.