by Viveca Sten
Margit inhaled sharply. Martinger noticed her reaction but continued without changing his tone of voice.
“Blood poured from his nose. Surprise, surprise—we had no problem staying awake after that.”
“Did no one report Cronwall?”
Martinger shook his head and looked at Margit with a sympathetic expression, as if she hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
“You have to understand that things were different in those days. There were no limits to the officers’ power; we feared them more than we feared the enemy. No one would have dared to report anyone or anything. Kaufman was a big guy, but he was terrified of Cronwall. We all were. No one would have dreamed of standing up to him,” he said, sounding utterly resigned. “Good God, we didn’t even have the nerve to report ourselves sick. To do that, we had to fill in a special form and hand it to Cronwall. What do you think he did with those forms?”
Margit and Thomas exchanged glances.
“He tore them up, of course. Weakness was met with contempt; toughness was the only thing that mattered.”
Thomas felt very strongly that Martinger was no killer, and neither was Kihlberg. He trusted his first impression of the firefighter.
“Can you tell us what happened to Pär Andersson?” Margit said.
The response was a heartfelt sigh. “Poor bastard. He killed himself out on Korsö; it was the last night before we left the island.”
“Do you know why he did it?”
Martinger slowly stroked his chin. Eventually he said, “Andersson messed up in the final exercise—I mean, really messed up, so that it affected the whole group. Cronwall bawled us out; I’ve never experienced anything like it. He was furious. When we got back, we were all tired and pissed off; we turned our backs on Andersson that night. I can’t describe it any other way.”
His voice grew quieter, and he looked down at the table as he continued. “On top of everything else, he was sick and felt like crap . . . But I could never have imagined that he would take it so hard; no one could. It was such a shock. I felt terrible—we all did.”
“Were there any signs that he had suicidal tendencies?” Margit asked. “Had he ever talked about taking his own life, or showed any signs of having mental health issues?”
Martinger licked his lips.
“Andersson was a bit of a whipping boy. Cronwall often picked on him. He was given the worst tasks, the most extreme punishments. Sometimes it was sheer hell, but I never heard him talk about killing himself.”
He was slumped in the chair now, his shoulders sagging.
“It never crossed my mind that he might do that, but I’ve been haunted by his death ever since. It’s still hard to talk about it.”
The expression on Martinger’s face was painful to see; Thomas could feel his pain, even though so many years had passed.
“I believe it was Cronwall who found him that morning,” Thomas said. “Were you with him?”
“No, we were due to go back to Rindö that day. As I said, we’d just come back from the final exercise—fourteen intensive days out in the archipelago, with the whole unit taking part. We were completely exhausted, and I fell asleep as soon as we’d eaten; I think most people did. I was woken early in the morning by Kihlberg, who told me Andersson had been found dead in the shower.”
Martinger closed his eyes, as if he were reliving the moment.
“So you have no idea what happened that night?”
“No. We’d had so little sleep; I had nothing left.” Martinger’s face was gray. “Could I have some water? I’ve been flying all night, and I’m pretty tired.”
Thomas went out into the corridor and found a small staff room containing a water dispenser. He filled a cup and took it back to the office.
“Thanks,” Martinger said. He drank the water in one go and put down the cup.
“We’ve been trying to track down your former comrades,” Thomas explained. “There’s one person we can’t locate: Stefan Eklund. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve mainly kept in touch with Leif Kihlberg over the years. Andersson’s suicide affected us deeply; we all saw one another at first, but then our get-togethers grew less and less frequent . . . I guess we all felt guilty.”
“Can you think of any reason why Eklund might decide to take revenge on the rest of the group?” Thomas asked.
Martinger looked genuinely surprised.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“I hoped you might be able to tell me. There are only three of you left alive, and he’s the only one we can’t get ahold of. I’m sure you can see why we’re interested in him.”
“Tell me something,” Margit said; her tone was matter-of-fact, but the look in her eyes was intense. “Was Cronwall alone when he discovered the body that morning? Could Eklund have been with him?”
Thomas suspected he knew where she was going with this.
“No.” Martinger shook his head. “He was asleep in the same room as me; Kihlberg woke both of us.”
“So Eklund couldn’t have seen something related to Andersson’s death?” Margit persisted.
“It seems unlikely.”
Margit frowned, as if she was trying to pin down a fleeting thought. She leaned forward.
“I’m just wondering if something happened on that final evening, something that might have contributed to Pär Andersson’s suicide. All of a sudden, there’s a danger that it might come to light—maybe Eklund was involved?”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I really don’t know how I can help you. As I said, I was fast asleep all night.”
“So Cronwall was alone when he found Andersson,” Thomas said.
Martinger shook his head again.
“No, Eklund wasn’t there, but some of the others were—the ones who shared a room with Andersson.”
Thomas looked up. “And who were they?”
“Kaufman, Fredell, and Erneskog. The rest of us slept in a four-bed room upstairs.”
The color drained from Martinger’s face. “It can’t be true,” he whispered.
Margit was staring at Thomas.
“Shit,” she said. Thomas saw his own thoughts mirrored in her eyes. They were on the wrong track. Martinger and Kihlberg were neither killers nor victims. It was Robert Cronwall who was in danger—the sergeant they’d all hated.
Karin Ek had been right. The perpetrator had been practicing, and now he was ready for his real quarry. It was Cronwall’s turn.
But who was after him?
CHAPTER 66
“We need to get ahold of Cronwall right away,” Margit said as they left the airport and joined the E4 heading for Stockholm. It had started to drizzle, and Thomas switched on the windshield wipers.
“I’ll give Lidingö council a call, see if he’s at work,” Margit went on. “Then I’ll text Karin and tell her we’re going straight there.”
“OK.”
Thomas couldn’t stop thinking about what Martinger had told them. Thirty years ago, a boy had hanged himself and died alone in a shower room. Now everyone associated with his death was being picked off. One by one.
Margit ended her call. “Cronwall didn’t turn up to work today. He hasn’t called in sick either.”
Thomas’s stomach contracted. “Try him at home.”
Margit contacted information, and Thomas heard her ask about a Robert Cronwall, with a postal address in Lidingö. The call was put through, but then she lowered the phone.
“The line’s busy.”
“Try again in a few minutes.”
Thomas put his foot down on the gas and pulled into the passing lane.
“I’m still wondering where the detergent fits in,” he said.
He had mentioned it to Martinger, but he’d been unable to help.
“Sorry?”
“The detergent in the victims’ lungs. No one we’ve spoken to has any ide
a why they’ve all ingested detergent.”
“Pär Andersson was found in the shower,” Margit said slowly.
“But you use soap in the shower, not detergent. I’m sure it has a particular meaning; I just can’t figure out what it is.”
Thomas banged the wheel in frustration as Margit tried Cronwall’s number again.
“Still busy.”
It was impossible to tell if anyone was at home in the red house. The old apple trees that had been laden with fruit on their previous visit were now almost bare, with only the odd apple still clinging to the gnarled branches.
Thomas screeched to a halt and leaped out of the car. He glanced up at the kitchen window, but there was no sign of anyone. A black Volvo was parked in the driveway. Was it Cronwall’s car? The one that should have been parked at his workplace at this time of day? He was pretty sure it had been there last time, too.
As they ran up the steps, the door opened and Birgitta Cronwall appeared, clutching the phone.
“At last,” she said shakily. “I’ve been waiting all morning. Come in.”
Margit and Thomas looked inquiringly at each other, then followed Birgitta into the kitchen. She was clearly upset. Her hair was bound in a messy bun, and there was no trace of the discreet makeup she’d had on the previous time.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not really following,” Margit began. “I don’t think we arranged to meet today.”
Birgitta Cronwall looked as if she thought she was dealing with an idiot.
“But I spoke to the police several hours ago.”
“Not to us, I’m afraid,” Thomas said.
Birgitta’s voice grew shrill. “I called the police this morning and reported Robert missing! He didn’t sleep here last night, and he hasn’t been in touch. I’ve contacted all our friends, but no one’s seen him. I’m so worried!”
She sank down on a chair and started to cry.
“OK, let’s go back to the beginning,” Margit said quietly, tearing off a piece of paper towel from a roll on the counter and handing it her. “Tell us what’s happened.”
Birgitta blew her nose and managed a wan smile. Thomas sat down beside her.
“When I got home yesterday evening, Robert wasn’t here, even though his car was in the driveway. I started making dinner, but by eight o’clock, there was still no sign of him. He wasn’t answering either his direct line at work or his cell.”
“So what did you do then?”
“I waited a few more hours, and then I began calling around, but no one had seen him.”
She gave a little sob and swallowed hard.
“This isn’t like Robert at all; he’s always so punctual. Eventually I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep; I just lay there listening for the sound of the front door opening. At around seven this morning, I called the police. Over the past few hours, I’ve spoken to everyone we know.”
“So he hasn’t been home for something like twenty-four hours,” Thomas said. “When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“And was everything normal then? You hadn’t quarreled?” Margit asked.
Birgitta shook her head. “No—I can’t think of anything different, except I was home a little late; I have a Spanish class on Tuesdays, so I don’t get back until seven.”
“What time does Robert usually arrive home?”
“Around six.”
Thomas thought about the other victims. Two had been drowned in their own bathtub, and now Cronwall had disappeared, according to his wife.
Or had he?
“Birgitta,” he said gently, “have you searched the house?”
She looked horrified. “What do you mean?”
“You’re sure he’s not here?”
That didn’t go down well.
“Of course I’m sure!”
“Do you mind if I take a look around?” Thomas stood up and pushed his chair under the table. “How many bathrooms do you have?”
It was obvious that Robert Cronwall’s wife had no idea where Thomas was going with this line of questioning, but she answered obediently. “There’s one upstairs and one in the attic, next to the guest room.”
“Have you checked up there?”
An uncertain expression came over her face.
“No, I just shouted his name—I didn’t go up.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “Should I have?”
“It’s fine—I’ll just take a look to be on the safe side.”
Thomas left the kitchen and headed up the wide staircase that led to a spacious landing with bedrooms on either side. He caught sight of a neatly made double bed in one of them.
Behind a closed door, he found the bathroom, tiled in beige with a gold border halfway up the walls. A large corner bath dominated the space, and a shelf above the sink was crowded with toiletries and a half-full bottle of perfume.
He left the bathroom and quickly searched the rest of the second floor, but nothing caught his attention.
Which left the top floor.
He made his way slowly up the narrow dark pine staircase, the wood creaking beneath his feet. There was a slightly musty smell, as if it had been a long time since anyone had ventured up there.
He took the last two steps in one stride and found himself in a corridor with two doors. The first was ajar, and when he pushed it open, he saw two beds with a bedside table between them. This must be the guest room. There was a folded green towel at the foot of each bed.
He backed out of the room; the next door was just a few feet away.
It was unnervingly quiet. The only sound was the rain hammering on the roof and water gushing through the drainpipes. Despite the fact that it was cooler on this floor, Thomas could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
A faint grayish light seeped in through a square skylight overhead.
He moved toward the bathroom.
CHAPTER 67
“How could you? How could you bring Marie with you?”
Nora was finding it difficult to keep her voice steady. Once again, all the bitterness she felt at Henrik’s betrayal was coming to the surface: those long months when she had struggled to keep the family together while he was deceiving her, all the times he had lied about having to work an extra shift when in fact he was with Marie.
How he must have laughed at how easy it was to fool his gullible wife.
“What were you expecting? Did you think we were going to fall into each other’s arms and become one great big happy family? It’s bad enough that she’s living in the house we used to share—am I supposed to let her take over my new home as well?”
Nora had to pause to catch her breath. It was fortunate that her office door was closed, she thought, otherwise her colleagues would have seen a very different side to her; under normal circumstances, she was totally in control. She couldn’t remember ever having lost it at work, but right now her upper lip was beaded with sweat.
She had intended to broach the subject calmly and matter-of-factly, but when she realized how much it had upset Adam, she just couldn’t do it. The more she thought about Marie standing in the hallway, the more furious she became.
Her ex-husband’s voice was subdued when he finally managed to get a word in.
“Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea? Really? Couldn’t she see the problem, by the way?”
“She noticed—neither you nor your parents were exactly welcoming.”
Henrik sounded stiff and formal, but he wasn’t biting back, as he had done so many times in the past.
“I thought I’d made it perfectly clear that she isn’t welcome in my home.”
“Nora, I’m sorry things turned out as they did.” His tone was surprisingly conciliatory, Nora noticed, but it didn’t make her any less angry. “I should have realized it wasn’t going to work,” he went on.
“Plus, you forgot Simon’s book,” Nora snapped. “He needs it for English tomorrow.”
“You do that.”
“Nora . . . I don’t want us to keep on arguing, especially in front of the children.”
“You should have thought of that before.”
She had no sympathy for him; he had made his bed, and now he could lie in it.
Henrik cleared his throat.
“The reflection period for the divorce is up in a week.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
Nora knew to the day when their marriage could be dissolved. She had submitted all the documentation on April 10, just over a month after she had found out about Henrik and Marie. She had rarely been more sure of anything when she sent off that big brown envelope to the court.
She sank down on her chair. Six months earlier, they had met to discuss the situation. She had still been living in the house in Saltsjöbaden at that point, while Henrik had temporarily moved in with his parents. He had come over at ten o’clock one night, when the boys were asleep. Nora had already laid out all the relevant paperwork on the kitchen table, everything that was necessary to put an end to their marriage. The color had left Henrik’s face when he realized she had made up her mind. Nora refused to budge; she had simply pointed to the table.
“You need to sign there,” she had said firmly. “But if you don’t, I’m going to file for divorce anyway.”
All she had wanted was for him to sign and leave, but Henrik had made one final attempt. His eyes had been suspiciously shiny. He had opened his mouth, presumably to say something that would make her reconsider.
“It was a mistake,” he had said eventually. “Marie means nothing, you and the kids are the most important thing in my life. I know I have no right to ask, but can’t you forgive me—for Adam and Simon’s sake?”
The pleading expression in his eyes had almost done her in. They’d sat down at the table, and he had reached out his hand and covered hers. His gentle touch, the warmth of his fingers, had brought back a thousand memories.
“Please, Nora. I love you, I really do. I can’t live without you and the boys.”