by Viveca Sten
Whisky was expensive for someone who needed to drink themselves into oblivion every day.
“Any sign of a whisky bottle?” he asked.
“Yes, there was an empty one under the bed.”
“Be especially careful with it, please.”
The next question was difficult, but he had to ask.
“When do you think he died?”
“He hasn’t been dead very long.” Nilsson looked at his watch. “A few hours, maybe. Rigor mortis has barely set in.”
A few hours.
Thomas gritted his teeth.
Could he have saved Kaufman’s life, if a few square inches of galvanized rubber had held for just another half mile?
“Thomas.”
Margit was standing by the front door.
“I think I know why the door was unlocked. Look.”
She pointed to the lock; it was the kind that needed a key to lock it.
“If the killer didn’t have the key, he wouldn’t have been able to lock up from the outside.”
“So it must have been someone who didn’t have a key to the apartment. An unknown individual . . .”
“Yes and no. Kaufman knew him well enough to let him in; there’s no sign of forced entry. But he wasn’t close enough to have his own key.”
Thomas nodded.
“The question is whether we’re dealing with the same perpetrator,” Margit went on, running a hand over her short hair with its startling red highlights. Her cell phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen.
“Bertil’s wondering if I’m going to be late. His cousin is coming over for dinner.”
She entered three letters, then pressed “Send.” It wasn’t difficult to work out the answer.
“Two drowned, one suffocated, and possibly one hanged,” she said pensively.
“Different methods,” Thomas said. “And we still don’t know for sure whether Marcus Nielsen died by his own hand.”
He turned around.
“Wait—I just want to check something.”
He went back to the bedroom, with Margit close behind. Nilsson looked up inquiringly as they appeared in the doorway.
“I bet he has detergent in his lungs,” Thomas said.
“I’m sorry?” Nilsson looked bewildered.
“The others had soapy water in their lungs—detergent. Can you see any traces?”
Nilsson picked up a sealed evidence bag.
“I can’t tell you right now, but this glass was next to the whisky bottle. I’ll check it out when I get back.”
Margit leaned against the wall and folded her arms.
“So what’s the significance of the soapy water? What do you think?”
“Good question—I just wish I had the answer.” Thomas turned back to Nilsson. “Let me know as soon as you find anything.”
“Of course.”
They left him to work in peace and went back to the living room. Margit picked up a pile of newspapers and sat down on the grubby sofa, while Thomas took the armchair.
“Why do the murders always take place right before the weekend?” Margit said. “There has to be a reason.”
“The same thought crossed my mind.” Thomas was starting to have trouble concentrating; his head felt heavy, and there was a tightening band of tension across his temples. He sat back and closed his eyes.
“It’s as if our perp is following some kind of weekly schedule, however weird that sounds,” Margit mused. “But why?”
Thomas forced himself to open his eyes. Margit was leafing through her diary.
“Maybe he has very strict working hours,” she suggested. “Someone who’s tied to their workplace, like a teacher, for example. They can’t just sneak off any old time to commit a crime.”
An ironic smile.
Thomas made a huge effort to stay focused. His rib cage was aching.
“What about a person who commutes?” he said.
“Good call! Someone who’s only in Stockholm on Saturdays and Sundays. That would explain it; our perp isn’t in town during the week. So what kind of job might he have?”
Thomas couldn’t suppress an enormous yawn. It was no longer possible to hide his exhaustion.
Margit put away her diary.
“Enough,” she said. “Go home and sleep; I’ll find someone to drive you. You’re in no state to get behind the wheel. I’ll stay awhile.”
Thomas didn’t have the strength to argue.
“I’ll call the Old Man, bring him up to speed,” Margit said.
Thomas hauled himself to his feet. He was starting to feel slightly nauseated, and he swallowed hard a couple of times.
He stopped in the doorway as a thought took shape in his weary brain. They were looking for someone who either lived or worked outside Stockholm and therefore could only get here in his free time.
“What about a soldier serving in a different town?”
As soon as he uttered the words, Thomas realized their significance.
Another Coastal Ranger. Still on active duty.
CHAPTER 46
Darkness had fallen, but a pale half-moon hovered over the horizon.
Nora stirred her coffee, even though the cup was almost empty. She wondered where the time had gone. The wine was all gone, too, but she didn’t feel drunk—just happy and relaxed.
Jonas hadn’t objected to her interrogation, but he had asked a few questions of his own. He hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend, and she hadn’t asked. He didn’t seem that much younger than her now; in fact, he could easily have been a contemporary. After all, Adam and Wilma were the same age—surely there couldn’t be too many years between them?
His hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck; he would need a haircut in a few days, otherwise it would look too long. Now it was just tousled.
Nora carried on moving her spoon around.
“I don’t think there can be much left in there,” Jonas said, brushing his hand against hers.
Nora dropped the spoon. Had he done that by accident, or was it deliberate? It was so long since anyone had touched her as a woman, and even longer since she had wanted them to. She pushed back a strand of hair, trying to hide her confusion.
“You’re probably right,” she said with a smile.
The other tables were empty. The waitress had passed by several times, probably trying to hurry them along without making it too obvious. And now she was back.
“I’m sorry, but the kitchen is about to close. Would you like to order anything else?”
“No, we’re fine,” Jonas assured her. “Unless you’d like something?” he said to Nora.
“I’m good—that was delicious. Could we have the check, please?”
She reached for her wallet, ignoring Jonas’s protests.
“My turn to pay—that’s what we agreed.”
Thomas had gone to bed as soon as he got home. His body ached with exhaustion, and the foot with the missing toe was throbbing.
He woke around eleven with a raging thirst. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he could hardly swallow. It was as if every drop of saliva had dried up.
The bedroom was in darkness, and the only sound he could hear was Pernilla’s steady breathing. He hadn’t told her what had happened; he had simply said it had been a hard day. There was no point in burdening her with the knowledge that he had been close to death once again. It might be part of the territory for a cop, but he knew how badly she would take it. That was the last thing she needed in her condition.
Without switching on the bedside lamp, he got up and went into the bathroom. He drank two big glasses of water to quench his thirst. He leaned on the sink and contemplated his reflection. His eyes were swollen, and he felt worn out, as if all his energy had drained away. He had no idea how he was going to get up, get dressed, and go to work in the morning. Right now that seemed like an impossible task.
He could see the truck swerving across the highway, feel the panic as the car refused to obey him. He c
lutched the edge of the sink so hard that his fingers ached. His heart was pounding, and he realized he was breathing in short, shallow gasps.
With a huge effort, he forced himself to let go. He bent down and sluiced his face with cold water until his pulse slowed. Clumsily, he refilled the glass; this time he drank slowly.
As he put down the glass, he bumped into the side of the bathtub. He remembered the sight of Jan-Erik Fredell lying in his bathtub, his lifeless face beneath the surface of the water.
Grönstedt had sent over photographs of Sven Erneskog lying in almost exactly the same position: on his back in a bathtub filled to the brim, with his head underwater.
Suddenly Thomas knew why Bo Kaufman had been smothered with a pillow.
He thought back to the tiny bathroom in Kaufman’s apartment: toilet, sink, and a cramped shower.
The killer had been forced to use a different method.
Kaufman didn’t have a bathtub.
CHAPTER 47
Sunday (The Third Week)
Nora and Jonas strolled back from the restaurant, arm in arm. It was well after midnight. They passed the hill that the kids liked to slide down until the backsides of their pants were completely ruined, and the old marina, its windbreaks at the end of the jetties providing a reminder of bygone days.
Most houses were dark, and they didn’t meet anyone along the way. All too soon, they reached the gate of the Brand villa.
Nora turned to Jonas. He was standing very close to her, their faces just inches apart. She felt her body respond to his proximity. The collar of his sailing jacket brushed against Nora’s chin, and she didn’t pull away.
It would be OK if she gave him a little hug just to say good night. That wouldn’t send any kind of weird signal. She raised her hands, slowly, so that he wouldn’t get the wrong idea. He smelled so good.
And instead of stepping back, he put his arms around her as if it was the most natural thing in the world, making Nora’s heart race. They stood there for a long time without moving.
The warmth of Jonas’s body enveloped her. She had forgotten what it was like to be so close to another person. Her face burned as if she were sitting in front of an open fire. The wine was also making its presence felt. Her skin tingled, but she made an effort to keep still, afraid the moment would be lost if she moved.
Then she raised her head and looked straight into Jonas’s eyes. She couldn’t read his expression, but it didn’t matter. Their lips brushed against one another, and suddenly nothing was more important than his mouth, his tongue, his body against hers.
It was wonderful to give in, to let go; she was always so calm and in control. She was taking a risk, and it filled her with joy.
After a little while, she started to become aware of the cold. The temperature had plummeted, her toes were numb, and she couldn’t suppress a shiver.
“Come inside,” she said. “We can’t stand out here all night.”
She took his hand and led him indoors. Without switching on the light, they continued up the stairs and into the bedroom.
My bedroom, she thought just before he slid his hands under her sweater. It’s my bedroom, and I can bring home whomever I like.
Impatiently, she tried to pull off both her clothes and his. She fumbled with the waistband of his jeans as she unzipped her own. His fingers met hers with the same aim, and she shivered as he touched her bare skin.
She turned back the covers and drew him onto the bed. Jonas gently shifted her onto her back. She wrapped her legs around his, once again feeling the heat of his body. She ran her thumb and forefinger down his spine and over the curve of his bottom.
Tenderly, he cupped her face in his hand, his palm warm and dry against her cheek, and once again she looked straight into his eyes.
The only light in the room came from the half-moon in the dark autumn sky casting long shadows over the bed where they lay.
“Come to me,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
“You’re so lovely,” he whispered in her ear. “You’re so beautiful, Nora.”
DIARY: MAY 1977
Jesus, what a fucking day. What a horrific day.
They woke us early in the morning. We were to undertake the Tarzan Run, an obstacle course that involves crawling and wriggling over virtually the whole island.
We were given no breakfast, we were simply ordered to put on our overalls and line up.
I gobbled a chocolate cookie that was in my pocket, and I could see that several others had had something hidden away. Sigurd and Kaufman were munching furiously as we got ready.
It was drizzling when I opened the door, and the sky was gray and overcast. The fog had lifted, but I could still see it lingering on the horizon.
After an hour’s running and climbing, we reached a long underground tunnel. The entrance was pitch black, and we eyed it with suspicion.
The sergeant produced a knife and a flashlight in order to scare away any snakes that might be lying curled up just inside.
“In you go!” he yelled.
Kihlberg went in first, and I was second in line. I got down and crawled a few yards, using my elbows to wriggle forward. It was so dark and narrow that I could hardly get through. Before long it was impossible to crawl, and I was just dragging myself along. Suddenly I felt something scuttle over my back, and I let out a gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Kihlberg hissed.
“Nothing,” I mumbled and kept going.
Soon I bumped into a pair of boots and realized that Kihlberg had stopped. A second later, Andersson collided with the soles of my boots.
It felt as if we were stuck there for an eternity. If they blocked the entrance, we would never get out, we would be caught like rats in a trap.
I wondered if this was yet another task designed to test our resilience.
Probably. So how long were they going to leave us in here?
In order to try to stay in control, I forced myself to breathe evenly, and I also scratched my hand. The physical pain made it easier not to think about the fact that we were trapped.
Eventually I would have done anything to get back to the daylight.
After what seemed like an eternity, Kihlberg managed to move forward. I felt a surge of relief as I followed him out onto the rocks and into the open air.
Where the shit trench was waiting for us.
An old tradition on Korsö.
The final part of the exercise is to get through a water-filled trench, a filthy ditch that is only three feet wide but thirty feet long. It is full of rotting vegetation and shit.
Literally.
Rumor has it that, before the exercise, the latrines are emptied into the trench. The officers grinned as they told us about it over dinner yesterday.
“You’ve got the shit trench to look forward to tomorrow,” they said, gleefully studying the looks on our faces.
“It stinks to high heaven,” the sergeant said. “Guess where every intake goes for their last shit before they leave the island?”
There was a wooden grille three inches over the water, which left very little room for the swimmer to keep his nose and mouth above the surface. At the end of the trench, the grille was underwater, so there would be no choice but to dive down beneath it then through a narrow opening before emerging on the other side.
“Try to avoid swallowing the water,” the sergeant warned us. “It’s not good for your health.”
I stared at the filthy ditch and couldn’t help retching. The stench was indescribable. Then I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and got in. It was harder than I had expected; I sank to my shoulders, but I still had to lower myself further to get under the grille.
The disgusting slop was touching my chin, and I forced myself to keep going. When it reached my ears, I wanted to throw up. The feeling of powerlessness was even worse than the smell.
I kept my eyes fixed on the sky, breathed through my nose, and pulled myself along with the help of the grille until it came to
an end, and I realized I was going to have to dive.
I took another deep breath and went under, desperately searching for the gap that would enable me to escape. I was concentrating so hard I was no longer thinking about what was all around me.
When I came out on the other side, I lay down flat on my belly so that as much of the foul liquid as possible could run back into the trench.
Martinger emerged next, then Andersson. As his head popped up above the brown sludge, the sergeant was waiting, legs apart, uniform perfectly pressed as if he were about to set off for an afternoon stroll around the gardens of a royal palace.
“I’m not impressed, Andersson,” he said with a cold smile. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to do it again. Be a good boy and swim back, so we can be sure you know how it works.”
I almost thought Andersson was going to lose it. His jaw stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. For a moment, I was convinced he was going to leap out and punch the sergeant.
Kihlberg made a movement as if he wanted to come to Andersson’s rescue, but Andersson sank down once more.
What a fucking day.
CHAPTER 48
The room was light when Nora woke. She tried to look at the clock, but her left arm was trapped under Jonas’s back, and she didn’t want to disturb him. Around five, five thirty, she guessed. She felt as if she hadn’t had much sleep, so it must’ve been pretty early.
She remembered drinking quite a lot of wine with dinner, but she didn’t have a hangover. Maybe it would catch up with her later.
Neither of them had thought of drawing the blinds, so she could see Jonas clearly in the soft dawn. He was lying on his back, his steady breathing occasionally interrupted by a faint hissing sound. Not a snore, more like a little snuffle. She decided it suited him.
She studied his face for a long time. Dark stubble, just like his hair, but flecked with white. Good—maybe he wasn’t so young after all. She still hadn’t dared to ask him his age.
He had an irregular birthmark by his hairline; it was usually covered by his fringe, but now it was clearly visible. She reached out to touch it but stopped herself.
She was excited and terrified at the same time.