by Viveca Sten
Why should she have to go and pick up the book, when it was Henrik’s fault that it had been left behind? She had no desire to go anywhere near their old house; she certainly didn’t want to catch a glimpse of Marie through the kitchen window.
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“I realize that, but I’ve got a lot going on this week. I work full-time as well, just like you.”
“I have patients I can’t leave.”
And there it was, that patronizing tone.
As a doctor, Henrik was used to being obeyed. He was a respected radiologist, and it was rare for anyone to question his decisions.
“Oh, come on,” he continued. “Surely you can drag yourself away from your credit agreements for a while? Simon’s schoolwork is the most important thing, after all.”
Typical. His job had always come before hers, but for once, Nora wasn’t upset or angry. Instead she felt unexpectedly calm.
“In that case, I suggest you drop the book off first thing in the morning, before you go to work. Perhaps you could get up a few minutes earlier than usual. Good-bye.”
Nora ended the call before he could protest. She stuck out her tongue at her reflection in the rearview mirror with a childish surge of triumph. She hadn’t lost her temper, and she hadn’t allowed him to get his way. She had simply told him what she wanted, like a grown woman.
It was a new experience.
Things were a lot quieter outside Adam’s school. There were small groups of children sitting around, and there was nowhere near as much activity as in the Igelboda school yard.
Nora checked her watch; Adam should have finished ten minutes ago. He usually met her outside the gate, but there was no sign of him. She asked Simon to wait in the car, then got out to look for his brother.
Adam was standing under a large oak tree in the middle of the yard with a group of his peers. There was a girl with long dark hair by his side; she was wearing a short cutoff denim skirt with pink embroidery, and something about the way she was leaning toward Adam stopped Nora in her tracks.
Were they holding hands? She moved forward, trying to see, but just then Adam glanced up and saw her. He picked up his backpack and said something to the girl, who whispered in his ear. Then he set off toward Nora.
She tried to give him a hug, but he jerked away. She had to make do with ruffling his hair.
“Don’t, Mom!”
He opened the car door and threw his bag on the backseat, then climbed in the front beside her. Nora tried to find the right words.
“I’m just glad to see you—you’ve been away for a whole week.” She kept her tone light. “I’ve missed you so much—moms are allowed to do that, you know.”
He softened slightly.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
He allowed her to pat his cheek.
“So who was that?” Nora said, trying to seem only vaguely interested.
“Who was who?”
“That girl you were talking to.”
“Lisa.”
“Is she in your class?”
Adam shrugged, which Nora interpreted as a yes.
“What’s her last name?”
Another shrug. He turned away and stared out the window. Nora said nothing but wondered if Lisa might be his first girlfriend. He was definitely growing up.
She started the car, made sure there was nothing behind her, then reversed out of the parking space.
She always felt better when the boys were back with her.
CHAPTER 56
It didn’t take Karin Ek long to track down Anders Martinger. When she walked into Thomas’s office, her short hair was slightly ruffled, as if she had gotten a little stressed and run her hands through it.
“I’ve spoken to human resources at SAS,” she began.
“How did it go?”
“OK. Anders Martinger is on his way to New York; he won’t be back until Wednesday morning. He’s due into Arlanda at ten thirty.”
“Well, at least he’s safe until then,” Thomas said.
“Or the other way around.”
“Exactly.”
Thomas knew what Karin meant. If Martinger was the killer, then Leif Kihlberg was out of his reach for the next two days. That gave them some breathing room.
“I asked them to send over his flight schedule for September.” She came farther into the room, waving a piece of paper. “Martinger has been in Sweden over the last three weekends.”
Thomas nodded toward the visitor’s chair.
“Tell me more.”
Karin sat down and crossed her legs.
“On the Sunday when Marcus Nielsen and Sven Erneskog were found, Anders Martinger wasn’t on duty until the evening. He then flew to”—she paused and checked the schedule—“Copenhagen, because he was flying from Copenhagen to Chicago the following day. The next weekend was almost the same: he was on the Copenhagen to New York route; he started work on the Sunday evening when he traveled down to Kastrup.”
“And last weekend?”
There was a hint of satisfaction in Karin’s voice: “He was free—four days in a row. Pilots work on a rolling schedule, so that was his long weekend.”
So Martinger had been home when the three men were murdered. Thomas considered the information.
“Well done,” he said. “By the way, did you get a phone number for him?”
Karin handed over a piece of paper. “That’s his cell, but you probably won’t be able to contact him before eight o’clock this evening, Swedish time. I’ve written down the address of his hotel as well.”
“Great—thanks for your help, Karin.”
It had taken over an hour to shop for groceries and unpack the boys’ things when they got home, and now the washing machine was humming away.
Nora took out her cell phone and checked her messages again, even though she had promised herself earlier in the afternoon that she wouldn’t.
Nothing.
It must’ve been at least the fifteenth time she had looked to see if there might be a text message, but she just couldn’t help it.
She knew perfectly well that Jonas was in Bangkok, and that he would be there for most of the week. Still, he could have shown some sign of life . . .
Had their night together been a distraction, an opportunity he had taken because it was offered? She just hoped she hadn’t come across as a desperate divorcée who would jump into bed with anybody. The very thought was upsetting.
She slipped her cell back in her purse and went to get a start on dinner.
One thing she knew for sure: if he didn’t get in touch, that was that. No way was she going to risk rejection. It was bad enough that Henrik had moved another woman into their home so quickly, as if all those years together had meant nothing.
Did she even want to see Jonas again?
The more she thought about it, the more uncertain she felt. One minute she was longing to see him; they had had a wonderful evening and night. After the lengthy torpor of the spring, those hours with Jonas had seemed like a gift.
But she refused to be hurt and abandoned all over again. And she would never, ever put up with a relationship like the one she had had with Henrik.
That’s the last time I give in to another person, she thought bitterly.
Her ears burned as she remembered how she had meekly gone along with Henrik’s routines and wishes. While he worked or went off sailing, she had taken care of the family and run the household. Time after time, she had done exactly what he wanted.
Never again.
She pulled herself together and took out a saucepan for the tortellini Simon had requested. She filled it with cold water, added a spoonful of salt, slammed on the lid, and put the pan on to boil.
One night, and he was already occupying her every waking thought.
It had cost her so much to regain control over her own life. She had no intention of relinquishing it now.
Time to stop thinking about Jonas Sköld.
; DIARY: JUNE 1977
I’m the only one who’s awake. It’s past midnight. The images keep passing through my mind, the feeling when it was my turn up there, the line slipping through my sweaty fingers.
My ankle is throbbing like crazy.
We had to climb down the outside of Korsö Tower, with a lifeline attached to our waist. The decommissioned lighthouse is around eighty-four feet high, and there are no natural footholds on its stone surface. The exercise was supposed to improve our coordination and muscle control, and the goal was to bounce off the façade as few times as possible.
“The record is zero,” the sergeant bellowed. “Something to think about!”
The view from the top of the tower is astonishing. That’s what most people say, anyhow. I just felt terrible when I looked down. It’s a long, long way to the ground, and there is nothing at the bottom but solid rock and granite. Nothing to break a fall, no soft landing if you lose your grip.
I have never liked heights, I never wanted to go on roller-coaster rides when I was a kid. My stomach turns over at the mere thought of going up there.
We were to do the climb one at a time, and we waited in line on the narrow stone staircase inside. The atmosphere was tense; nobody said a word. The silence was broken only by rapid, nervous drags as some of us smoked, and the only thing we could see in the semidarkness was the glow of those cigarettes. Whenever a match was struck, I saw rigid, introspective faces.
I was fourth.
The sergeant was at the top with Captain Westerberg. They checked that the lines were secure. Safety was important. It was one thing if we fell because of our own clumsiness or incompetence, but they were responsible for ensuring that we had the right equipment and that it was correctly fastened.
When it was my turn, my mouth was filled with the taste of bile. I watched as Kihlberg let go and disappeared from view, and I knew it was time to step out onto the platform.
I wanted to throw up.
The sergeant clipped the lines to my body and took a step back. Cold sweat was trickling down the back of my neck.
There hadn’t been much wind at ground level, but up here, the gusts made the cable swish around as if it had a life of its own. It hurled itself at the tower like an unruly puppy tugging at the leash.
I felt myself wobble; my legs didn’t want to carry me. The sergeant yelled, “Get a move on!”
It was only sheer terror in the face of his rage that made me take a step forward to the very edge of the platform. I looked down and saw a blurred image of rock and heather. A second passed, then another. With hands that were slippery with sweat, I grabbed the rope and parted company with the tower.
I was convinced I was going to plunge to my death, but somehow I managed to work my way down. The whole time, a voice in my head was screaming that I could fall at any second.
I heard voices at the foot of the tower.
“Well done, Erneskog.”
“Nice work, Kihlberg.”
“Jeez, Andersson—you only bounced off the tower three times. Good work.”
Those who had already succeeded were buzzing with a sense of achievement, and they shouted encouraging words to the rest of us.
You can do this, I whispered to myself. You can do this.
I was only yards from the ground when my sweaty fingers slipped, and I fell. A second later, I could feel nothing but an agonizing pain in my calf. When Andersson rushed over to ask if I was OK, I could do nothing but groan.
He dropped to his knees and gently felt my foot, at which point I let out a scream. The foot had already started to swell, and Andersson undid my boot so that it wouldn’t have to be cut off.
“What an idiot,” I managed to say as Andersson fumbled with my laces.
“You need to see a medic,” he said, helping me to stand.
The sergeant was still at the top of the tower, but Kihlberg came over to help. Together they managed to get me down the hill and into the sick bay, which is in one of the smaller barracks beyond the mess. It’s a Falu-red building like all the rest, equipped with a number of beds.
The medical provision on Korsö is a joke. The doctor, whose name is Tallén, is notorious. He does exactly as he’s told, and his orders are to keep the men going. Whatever’s wrong, his solution is cortisone—an injection instead of rest. Unless you’re dying, all you can do is grit your teeth and carry on.
Tallén’s favorite prescription is butazolidin; I’d never heard of it until I joined up. It eases the pain, but it makes you tired and nauseous, and the body is never given a chance to recover.
It took Tallén only fifteen minutes to “cure” me.
Andersson was waiting outside; the sun was shining, and he was sweating in his thick uniform by the time I emerged.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, getting to his feet.
I gave him a wry smile. “OK at the moment, but the pain will come back when the injection wears off. I’ve got some pills for tonight.”
I held out my hand and showed him the clear bottle containing pink pills.
“Do you want a cigarette?” he said. He reached into his pocket for a packet of Princes and lit one for me. I took it and sank down on a flat rock by the side of the building. I was exhausted. After a few deep drags, I tried to stand up but quickly sat back down, grimacing with the pain.
“Jeez, that hurts!” I said.
“Take it easy. You can’t use your foot. Didn’t Tallén give you sick leave for a few days?”
I shook my head. “He told me to come back tomorrow for another injection so I don’t miss any training.”
He had bandaged my foot, and it looked twice as big as the other one. It looked grotesque, to be honest.
“How the hell are you going to get your boot on?”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The sergeant isn’t going to let me rest anyway.”
There was no point in complaining. Andersson knew I was right.
He carried my pack for the rest of that week.
CHAPTER 57
Tuesday (The Third Week)
Leif Kihlberg’s hotel was on Nybrogatan, just north of Östermalmstorg in central Stockholm. When Thomas and Margit walked into the foyer, they were met by a sign informing them that the fire service was holding their conference in the Saturn suite on the third floor.
The reception desk was next to a dining room styled to look like a library. Shelves packed with a wide variety of books ran from floor to ceiling, and there were yet more books, magazines, and newspapers on round tables.
It’s like walking into someone’s living room, Thomas thought.
Margit went over and asked the receptionist to call Leif Kihlberg, but before she had time to pick up the phone, Thomas saw a tall, broad-shouldered man get to his feet and come toward them.
“Margit Grankvist?” the man said.
“That’s right.”
“Leif Kihlberg.”
Margit held out her hand. “How did you recognize us?” she asked with a frown.
Kihlberg shrugged. “A cop isn’t that hard to spot, even without a uniform.”
“So I’ve heard,” Thomas said, then introduced himself.
“We can sit down over here,” Kihlberg said, pointing to the table where he had been sitting. “Would you like coffee from the buffet?”
“We’re fine, thanks,” Thomas said.
He studied the firefighter as they got settled. Leif Kihlberg looked good; his hair wasn’t thinning, and he hadn’t put on weight. He was wearing a dark tweed jacket with an open-necked shirt and dark-gray pants. His eyes were surrounded by fine lines, suggesting that he was a man who liked to spend a lot of time outdoors.
It wasn’t hard to imagine the young Coastal Ranger Kihlberg had once been. Are you an honest man, or just someone who’s used to getting along by making a positive impression? Thomas wondered. He decided to reserve judgment.
“How can I help you?” Kihlberg asked.
Margit quickly summarized the even
ts of the past few weeks. Thomas said nothing; they had spent an hour the previous afternoon planning their strategy. If Kihlberg was the killer, they mustn’t reveal any hint of suspicion; they had to lull him into a false sense of security until they had sufficient proof. However, if he was the next potential victim, they had to find out as much as possible in order to protect him.
It was a delicate balancing act, to say the least.
“So that’s the situation,” Margit concluded. “Three of your former comrades have been murdered, and we’re still looking for a motive and a killer.”
A chill passed through the room.
Kihlberg’s neck muscles had grown increasingly taut during Margit’s account, and by the end, both hands were clenched into fists, resting on his knees.
If he was pretending to be surprised, he was doing it very well.
“You had no idea about any of this?” Thomas asked.
Kihlberg shook his head. “I haven’t had any contact with the old gang for a long time.”
He opened his hands so slowly that it looked as if he was having to force himself to do it. When he picked up his coffee, it was shaking so much that he had to put the cup down again without taking a sip.
“I live in Gothenburg, and most of them stayed in Stockholm or the surrounding area. You know how it is—you get together now and then during the first few years, then the meetings grow less and less frequent. Everyone gets on with their own life, has a family, and suddenly there are other things to think about.”
His face was a little paler than it had been when they’d met him a few minutes earlier.
“I knew Björn Sigurd died in Bosnia,” he went on, “and I’d heard that Kaufman was in a bad way with the booze. But I had no idea Fredell was so sick . . .” He shuddered. “Poor guy. I’d like to go to the funeral.”
He reached for his coffee once more and managed to drink it this time. Then he looked up, as if he had reached a decision.
“Not all my memories of that time are entirely positive; I guess I kind of withdrew.”
“You didn’t keep in touch with anyone?” Margit asked.
“There was one guy.” Kihlberg’s expression was serious. “Anders Martinger. We were on a combat placement together. He stayed in the military for a while, but now he works as a pilot for SAS. We meet up from time to time.”