Tonight You’re Dead (Sandhamn Murders Book 4)

by Viveca Sten

  His voice had broken. He had turned away, his head drooping. And then he had begun to cry.

  Like Adam, Nora had thought. Just like Adam when he’s upset. They’re alike, those two. My husband and my son.

  The doubts had come flooding back; was she really doing the right thing?

  At that moment, his cell phone had rung.

  Henrik had ignored it, but after thirty seconds, it had rung again. He’d let go of Nora’s hand, taken the phone out of his pocket, and rejected the call.

  But by then it was too late. Nora had already seen the name on the display.

  Marie.

  That had been enough to bring her back to her senses. The rage that had carried her through the previous month had returned with full force. She had pulled her hand away and leaped to her feet.

  “Just sign it. You can cry all over Marie when we’re done. We have nothing more to say to each other.”

  A few weeks later, Nora had moved to the new apartment, and just seven days after that, Marie had taken up residence in the house. Nora had happened to come by to pick up a toy Simon had left behind, and she had seen the boxes being carried in.

  Every time she mourned the collapse of her marriage, she conjured up the image of Marie’s boxes.

  “Six months will have passed on October 10,” Nora said now. “The court should make its decision next Thursday. It’s no more than a formality.”

  Henrik didn’t say a word.

  “We’ll be divorced in a week,” Nora said.

  “Do you have to rush things like this?” Henrik said plaintively. “Is divorcing me really so important that you’re counting down the days?”

  Nora went over to the window. It was raining. She could hear the dull roar of traffic from the street below. A few yellowing leaves drifted by outside.

  She rested her forehead on the cool glass.

  “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

  CHAPTER 68

  Thomas yanked open the bathroom door, all his senses on full alert. He stared at the bathtub for several seconds before he grasped the fact that there was no one there; he had been so sure he would find Robert Cronwall lying under the water.

  His chest hurt; he was still holding his breath. With a huge effort, he exhaled and looked around.

  The unprepossessing bathroom was pretty old-fashioned, the walls covered in square white tiles. The enamel bathtub was chipped and stained. Thomas took a step closer and ran his hand over the surface. It was completely dry—not a hint of dampness. Just to be sure, he checked the drain, but there were no traces of water there either. In fact, the room carried a faint smell of drains, as if the trap had dried up. No one had used the bath or shower for a long time.

  Thomas sat down on the toilet seat and put his head in his hands. If Robert Cronwall wasn’t in the house, then where the hell was he?

  When Thomas came downstairs, Birgitta and Margit were still in the kitchen. He caught Margit’s eye and shook his head.

  “Nothing,” he said quietly as he sat down.

  Birgitta shuffled uncomfortably on her chair.

  “Robert lied to you,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “He said he hadn’t met that student, Marcus Nielsen, but he was lying.”

  Thomas swore silently. He should have pushed Cronwall harder.

  “Oh?” he said.

  “He came here one evening and talked to Robert. They spent quite a long time together in the library.”

  “When was this?”

  Instead of replying, Birgitta got up and went over to a calendar hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator. She ran her forefinger down the page until she found the date she was looking for. Without turning around, she said, “It was September 14—a Friday evening.”

  Two days before Marcus Nielsen died, Thomas thought.

  “Are you sure?” Margit said.

  “Yes. We usually watch a quiz show on Fridays, and Marcus rang the doorbell just before it started,” Birgitta said as she came back to the table. “To be honest, I was quite annoyed. I thought it was rude of him to disturb us on a Friday, but apparently Robert had arranged to see him then.”

  “You’re absolutely sure of the date?”

  Birgitta nodded. “Yes, it was the season premiere. The following weekend we were in Gävle visiting friends, so we missed the next episode. It was definitely September 14.”

  “Do you know what they talked about?” Margit asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “You didn’t overhear any of their conversation?”

  Birgitta looked troubled, as if she didn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping. “I knocked on the door to let Robert know that the show had started, and he told me to leave them in peace. He was quite sharp with me, actually. When I opened the door, I heard Marcus asking about something that seemed to be related to Robert’s time with the Coastal Rangers.”

  “What was it exactly? Please try to remember—this could be very important,” Margit said.

  “I think he mentioned someone called Pär or Peter.”

  Pär Andersson, Thomas thought. He asked about Pär Andersson, who was under your husband’s command in the military. The same Pär Andersson who took his own life on the island of Korsö after your husband had punished him.

  “Have you any idea why Robert didn’t tell us this?” Margit asked.

  Birgitta bit her lip and didn’t answer.

  “You do know that Marcus Nielsen was found dead in his apartment two days later?” Margit went on.

  “We think he died on Saturday night/Sunday morning,” Thomas added.

  Birgitta started crying again, but this time she made no attempt to dry her tears.

  “Robert was away that Saturday night,” she said, her voice trembling.

  Thomas exchanged a glance with Margit.

  “He left at around eleven and didn’t get back until two in the morning. He probably thought I was asleep; I often take a pill because I sleep badly, but I hadn’t taken one that night. So I heard him start up the car and drive off.”

  Red blotches had appeared on Birgitta’s throat, and she was nervously wringing her hands.

  “I heard him come home, too; he sat in the library for quite some time, drinking whisky. I must have nodded off eventually, but I woke up when he came to bed. The clock was showing quarter past four.”

  “How do you know he’d been drinking whisky?” Thomas asked; he couldn’t quite keep the tension out of his voice.

  “Because he snored; he only does that when he’s been at the single malt. Plus, there was a glass and an empty bottle on the table when I got up in the morning.”

  Margit looked Birgitta in the eye until the other woman lowered her gaze.

  “Do you realize how serious it is that we weren’t told this earlier? You have deliberately withheld important information from the police.”

  “I know,” Birgitta whispered, her eyes again filling with tears. “But Robert told me to stay out of it. He said we’d get dragged into the police investigation for no reason if we mentioned Marcus Nielsen’s visit. He said it was irrelevant.”

  Her voice gave way; her expression begged the two detectives for understanding.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know . . . I’m so worried about Robert. Where can he be?”

  Thomas was just about to say something reassuring when Birgitta’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “What if he’s dead?” she exclaimed. “What if he’s been murdered, too?”

  DIARY: JULY 1977

  We had been paddling for several hours when huge storm clouds loomed up in the west. We had passed Kapellskär and were about to cross Svartlöga Bay when the rain started and the wind picked up.

  Without warning, a wave struck us from the side, pushing our canoe off course. I was sitting in the prow, with Andersson behind. My paddle got stuck under the hull, and we lurched over.

  “Drop the paddle!” Andersson yelled. “Drop the fucking paddle before we
capsize!”

  As if in slow motion, the canoe began to tip. I could almost feel the waters closing in over my head. I was already half-blinded by the pouring rain, and my clothes were soaked through. I tore at the paddle, trying to free it.

  Just as the canoe was about to capsize, Andersson hurled his upper body over to the side to balance the weight. Miraculously, I managed to free the paddle, and the boat righted itself. We tipped in the opposite direction, then settled.

  “Fucking hell!” Andersson bellowed in my ear. “Fucking hell, that was close!”

  Up ahead, I could see other canoes that had turned over; one was being smashed against the rocks by the waves, just outside the inlet we were heading for. Kihlberg and Martinger were in the water, their heads bobbing up and down, until they were able to grab their canoe.

  The waves carried us toward the inlet, and we managed to get through without coming to any harm.

  We are far out at sea, in the Nassa archipelago. The canoes have been dragged into the reeds along the shoreline, and the rocks we sat on this evening are still warm from the afternoon sun.

  We didn’t go hungry. We caught enough fish to get by, and on the skerry we found cloudberries that stained our fingers yellow as we ate them.

  Andersson had the most success when it came to fishing; he’s good at laying out his line exactly where the herring hang out, then whipping out one shimmering silver fish after another. It’s as if he instinctively knows when they are nibbling at the hook. He tenses his body like a cat about to pounce and flicks his wrist at precisely the right moment.

  “What would we have done without you, Andersson?” Martinger exclaimed after we’d eaten.

  We had made a fire in a crevice down by the water, and we hadn’t wasted a scrap of the piping-hot fish.

  Andersson straightened up, and the faint flush on his cheeks showed that he valued the appreciation of his comrades. He looked happy in the fading evening light.

  Thanks to him, we were all sated.

  The horizon was on fire over in the northwest, the sun a burning red ball low in the sky. The sea was as smooth and shiny as if a satin cloth had been carefully spread over its surface.

  Tomorrow we return to Korsö, two in each canoe. Kihlberg and Martinger, Sigurd and Eklund, Kaufman and Erneskog, me and Andersson.

  We are filthy and exhausted but incredibly pleased with ourselves.

  CHAPTER 69

  Thomas and Margit left the parking lot and dashed toward the door of the police station through the pouring rain. When they reached the conference room, most of the team was already there. The Old Man was at the head of the table, flanked by Karin Ek and Erik Blom.

  “We’ve put out a nationwide search for Robert Cronwall,” he said as soon as they appeared in the doorway. “The search warrant for his home is on its way.”

  “We took some strands of hair from a jacket so that we can compare Cronwall’s DNA with the DNA found on the rope in Marcus Nielsen’s apartment,” Thomas informed his colleagues.

  “And the pillow,” Margit reminded him.

  “So you think you’ve found our killer?” the Old Man asked.

  Thomas nodded as the door opened and Kalle Lidwall came in.

  “I’ve checked all the phone records,” he said, turning to Thomas and Margit. “Leif Kihlberg contacted Anders Martinger the day you spoke to him.”

  “We already know that.”

  “OK.” Kalle looked exhausted.

  “What about Nielsen’s parents’ phone?” Margit asked.

  Kalle’s expression brightened. “I found some calls to numbers his parents don’t recognize. They were made during the day in the weeks leading up to Marcus’s death.”

  “Which suggests it was Marcus who used their phone,” Erik said. “Both parents are at work during the day.”

  “According to his mom, he sometimes spent time at the house between lectures,” Kalle went on. “Täby isn’t far from the university.” He flicked through his papers, then added, “Marcus called two cell phone numbers that are of interest—one is Leif Kihlberg’s, the other is registered to SAS.”

  “Martinger, of course,” Thomas said immediately. “He tried to get ahold of him, too.”

  “The calls are very short, no more than twenty, twenty-five seconds,” Kalle said. “Presumably he just left a message.” His eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had been reading small print for many hours. “I don’t think he actually spoke to either of them.”

  “Well, at least we know he tried,” Thomas said. “Do you have the dates?”

  Kalle checked his notes.

  “Both September 13, Kihlberg at 15:23 and Martinger one minute later.”

  Thomas opened his notebook to remind himself of the date when Marcus Nielsen had met Jan-Erik Fredell. He went over to the whiteboard and drew a black horizontal line—a time line.

  “OK,” he began. “Marcus meets Fredell on Wednesday, September 12, and is given the diaries, which presumably contain key information about the Coastal Rangers’ time on Korsö.”

  He marked the date with an X.

  “On Thursday, September 13, he calls Martinger and Kihlberg. He can’t get ahold of them, so he leaves a message.”

  Another X.

  “One day later, on Friday evening, he goes to Cronwall’s house and stays for around an hour. The following day, Saturday, he spends some time with his parents, then goes back to his apartment.”

  A third X.

  “That night, he puts a noose around his neck, climbs up on the desk, steps out into thin air, and dies.”

  He put down the pen, folded his arms, and turned around.

  “At the same time that Robert Cronwall is away from his home for about three hours with no explanation. His wife also informed us that he was away for several hours on the afternoon when Erneskog died.” He leaned back against the wall. “Have I missed anything?”

  Kalle cleared his throat. “Just one more thing: Marcus Nielsen made another call on that Thursday.”

  “Who to?”

  “A guy named Urban Melin. He’s forty-three years old, and he works as a dental technician at a practice in Tyresö.”

  “Why did he call a dental technician?” Karin wondered. “Did he have problems with his teeth?”

  Margit picked up her folder and started looking for Sachsen’s autopsy report.

  “No. At least there’s nothing to suggest that in the report, but I suppose that doesn’t necessarily mean he didn’t need some kind of treatment.”

  “Hang on,” Karin said. “Kalle, didn’t you say Marcus called Melin’s home number?”

  “Yes—he lives in Farsta, Måndagsvägen 23.”

  “So why call him at home rather than at work?” Karin said.

  Melin, Thomas thought. Why did he recognize that name? Suddenly he pictured the woman from the pharmacy—wasn’t her name Melin? Marcus had made a note on his phone about an appointment at the pharmacy in the Farsta Centrum mall.

  “Is that phone line registered only to Urban Melin?” he asked.

  “I don’t have any further details,” Kalle said.

  “I can check right now,” Karin offered. She left the room and was back in minutes. The look on her face said it all, and she didn’t even bother to sit down before she started talking.

  “Listen to this. Urban Melin lives with his wife, Annika. There’s a call out for her, too—her husband reported her missing this morning.”

  Thomas felt his heart rate increase. Another person linked to the investigation had disappeared.

  Margit spoke first.

  “Do you think Cronwall has abducted her?”

  CHAPTER 70

  Nora was about to leave the office when her phone rang. She dug it out of her purse just before the voice mail kicked in.

  “Nora Linde.”

  “Hi, Nora, it’s Olle, Olle Granlund. Am I disturbing you?”

  “Not at all—I was just finishing up for the day.”

  “I’ve been thinking
about the conversation we had the other day, after our trip to Korsö.”

  “OK . . .”

  Nora pulled on her coat and switched off the light. With her purse over her shoulder and her briefcase in hand, she closed the door behind her and set off toward the elevators.

  “Do you remember I mentioned a sergeant who had a really bad reputation?”

  “I do.”

  Nora pressed the green call button.

  “If you’re still interested, I’ve found out a bit more, including his name.”

  Nora froze. The button was flashing to show that the elevator had arrived, but she ignored it; the reception was better here.

  “Go on.”

  “His name is Robert Cronwall, and he served with the Coastal Artillery for a short period. It was easier to track him down than I expected; there are still plenty of people who have very bad memories of that guy.”

  Nora listened carefully. On Simon’s birthday, she had exchanged a few words with Thomas about the case, and he had mentioned that they were looking into links with the Coastal Rangers in the 1970s.

  “Anyway, I had a chat with a couple of old friends, and they thought he’d been using anabolic steroids back then.”

  “Drugs?”

  “In those days, steroids weren’t classified as drugs. Plenty of guys took them to build muscle.”

  “But surely they’re banned?”

  “Today, yes, but in the seventies, you could take all kinds of stuff. We had no idea about the side effects. In Cronwall’s case, it seems they affected both his mood and his judgment, unfortunately. As I said before, he was a complete bastard. He really made his men suffer.”

  “I still don’t understand why he was allowed to carry on.”

  Nora put down her heavy briefcase. As usual, it was stuffed with documents that had to be read by the next day.

  “Different times . . . But what I really want to tell you about is a terrible incident that happened just before he left Korsö. One of the men under his command took his own life.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  Nora leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Imagine sending your son off to do his military service and getting him back in a coffin.