by Viveca Sten
The top of Urban Melin’s head, where the hair follicles had given up long ago, was shining, and his forehead was beaded with sweat.
“He was here. The day she crashed the car. He was leaving just as I got home from work; we met by the garden gate.”
“Do you know why he came here?”
“No, but Annika was terribly upset afterward—she was in pieces. She shut herself in her study and refused to eat any dinner. At about ten o’clock that night, she came downstairs and grabbed the car keys without telling me where she was going.”
Melin looked as if he was about to burst into tears.
“At midnight, I got a call from the Southern District Hospital to say she’d been in an accident.” He turned to Margit. “What the hell is going on?”
Margit walked over to him. “I wish I knew, but we’ll do everything we can to find out.”
DIARY: JULY 1977
When we got back to Korsö, the sergeant was waiting on the jetty—legs apart, arms folded, as if he knew exactly when we would appear, although that was impossible.
Several canoes were already lying on the shore; that meant we were the last to arrive, but so what? What did it matter if everyone else had gotten there before us? We had completed our mission: we had managed to survive for five days without food or the other necessities of life. Now we belonged to the elite.
The sergeant’s glance swept over us and the canoes. His lips were pressed together; it was obvious that he wasn’t happy. When he spotted Andersson, his expression changed. He kind of stiffened.
I tried to understand. Was he blaming Andersson for our late arrival? We had fulfilled the task within the allotted time, we just weren’t the first to reach Korsö. He couldn’t criticize anyone for that.
Or could he?
As the sunlight danced on the surface of the water, we paddled the last fifty yards to the jetty.
I have known for a long time that the sergeant has a problem with Andersson, but I interpreted it as a bully’s need to take out his anger on someone. In every group, there is a pecking order, and it just so happened that Andersson was at the bottom of that pecking order.
But at close quarters, I could see malice in the sergeant’s eyes that went far beyond the aim of transforming callow nineteen-year-olds into true Coastal Rangers.
I clutched the paddle so hard that it hurt, as fear flooded my body.
The sergeant is a dangerous man.
CHAPTER 73
Thomas’s cell phone rang; it was Erik Blom.
“We’ve found Nielsen’s laptop; it was hidden in Cronwall’s attic. Kalle’s started to go through it.”
Thomas had had the feeling that Cronwall had taken it.
“But there’s something else,” Erik went on. “We’ve checked Cronwall’s alibi, and several independent witnesses have confirmed that both Birgitta and Robert were in Gävle the weekend Fredell was killed.”
“And the following weekend, when Kaufman died?”
“They were both in the country with close friends, at their summer cottage on an island in Roslagen.”
Erik sounded exhausted, almost resigned.
“I understand,” Thomas said.
This didn’t make sense. He loosened his grip on the phone and switched hands. He could feel Erik’s disappointment coming down the line.
Where was the missing link?
“So Cronwall can’t have murdered Fredell and Kaufman,” Erik said, as if to underline his own frustration. “He must have been working with someone else.”
In his peripheral vision, Thomas could see Urban Melin watching him anxiously. Margit was still busy going through Fredell’s diaries. Thomas had another question for Erik.
“Have you seen any record of an autopsy report on Pär Andersson?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Any idea why not? Is there an explanation?”
“Do you think an autopsy was necessary? I mean, he left a suicide note, so there was no doubt about the cause of death.”
“Exactly,” Thomas said, mainly to himself. “A quick burial, and that was the end of the matter. I wouldn’t be surprised if a military medic discreetly supplied the death certificate.” He was becoming increasingly convinced that Andersson’s death had been staged to look like suicide. Just like Nielsen’s.
“Thanks for the information,” he said. “Talk to you later.”
Thomas ended the call and shook himself to try and get his brain working. It had been an intense day. He asked to use the bathroom, and he splashed his face with cold water to chase away the tiredness. It would be hours before he could go home to Pernilla. He longed to hold her, feel the slight bulge of her belly.
He reached for a towel and saw his reflection in the mirror. His face was gray, his eyes bloodshot. As he hung up the towel, he felt a stab of pain in his bruised chest.
Meanwhile, his mind was racing.
Robert Cronwall was a murderer, but he had an alibi for the deaths of Fredell and Kaufman. Therefore, he must have had an associate.
But who?
Who had killed those men, if not Cronwall?
The maritime charts on Annika Melin’s desk came back to him. Suddenly he saw the full picture. They had been right all along—but wrong at the same time.
The realization made him sink down onto the toilet seat.
It wasn’t Robert Cronwall who had taken the lives of the former Coastal Rangers.
CHAPTER 74
Thomas slowly made his way back to the study. He had to tell Margit everything without alarming Urban Melin, who was already starting to lose his grip.
He found her with one of the diaries in her hand. Before he could speak, she burst out, “You have to read this! It was Cronwall who murdered Andersson. He decided to punish him by pushing his face into a mop bucket full of water, but somehow it went too far, and Andersson died.”
Margit broke off to catch her breath.
“This explains everything, including the detergent. It was in the water.” Margit’s face reflected the disgust she was feeling. “It was pure torture.”
Thomas glanced in Melin’s direction.
“Could you give us a few minutes? We need to have a word in private.” Melin left them without saying anything.
Thomas tried to gather his thoughts; where to begin?
Birgitta Cronwall had pointed them in Marcus Nielsen’s direction. She was afraid that her husband had murdered the young student, and Cronwall had indeed silenced him in the same way he had dealt with Pär Andersson: by making it look as if he had killed himself, and leaving a fake suicide note.
Jan-Erik Fredell must have revealed the secret to Nielsen through his diaries, and before Nielsen died, he had passed them on to Andersson’s sister.
The team had discussed various possible perpetrators, and their main suspects had been Kihlberg and Martinger. Now Thomas knew they should have been looking at two completely different individuals.
Robert Cronwall. And Annika Melin.
She must have decided to avenge her brother’s death.
“It’s not Cronwall who’s abducted Annika,” he said. “It’s the other way around.”
“What?” Margit’s eyes narrowed. “Read this.”
She held out the diary.
“Fredell was there; he saw what happened the night Andersson died. He describes it in detail. It’s Cronwall we should be looking for; Annika is his next victim.”
Thomas clenched his fists. Time was of the essence.
“No, we got it all wrong, Margit. Annika Melin is our killer.”
He forced himself to speak quietly; he didn’t want Urban Melin to overhear. Margit put down the diary.
“Annika Melin is both strong and aggressive,” Thomas went on. “We know she’s capable of violence—you heard what her husband said. She’s the one who killed the Coastal Rangers, not Cronwall. Erik just called—Cronwall has an alibi for all the murders except Nielsen’s.”
Margit folded her arms, but
Thomas knew her well enough to see that she was no longer quite so convinced of Cronwall’s guilt.
“Why would she do that?” she said dubiously.
“For the sake of her brother. And her ruined childhood. Don’t forget that she lost her baby when she found out the truth. At some point, it all became too much for her.”
Thomas placed a hand on Margit’s shoulder to add emphasis to his words.
“Annika Melin is a killer. We have to find her before Cronwall dies, too.”
He gave her a moment to allow the truth to sink in. He could see it all so clearly now. They had been thinking along traditional lines: a male suspect abducting an innocent woman.
But Annika Melin was neither traditional nor innocent. She was a raging fury, hell-bent on revenge. For many different reasons.
They were dealing with two separate perpetrators, and now one had abducted the other.
Robert Cronwall had switched from hunter to prey.
“How would she have gotten him to go with her? Could she really do that?”
Margit sounded less skeptical; her doubts were fading.
“With a gun. And some kind of sedative. She’s physically strong, and, as a pharmacist, she has access to drugs.”
“What about Nielsen?”
“I think that was Cronwall trying to prevent the truth from coming out. He couldn’t have known that Nielsen had already told Annika everything.”
Margit sat down.
“I think you’re right . . . But I don’t understand why she took him, instead of killing him at home.”
She linked her hands behind her head, the simple gesture expressing her frustration. “What do we do now? We have to find them as soon as possible. It might already be too late . . .”
Thomas’s gaze fell on the maritime chart on the desk. The answer was right there in front of them.
“I think I know where she is,” he said. “She wants to avenge her brother’s death in the place where he died. She’s taken him to Korsö.”
“How would she do that? There are no transport links to the island.”
“In our boat,” Urban Melin whispered.
He had come back into the room without their noticing. He was standing in the doorway, fear and anxiety etched on his face.
“We own a Bayliner 265,” he said hoarsely. “Annika often pilots it—she’s very experienced.”
“Are the keys missing?” Thomas asked.
“I’ll go and check.”
Melin went into the bedroom, and they heard the sound of a drawer being opened.
“They’re gone!” he shouted, his voice shaking.
Thomas strode across the landing.
“Where’s the boat moored?”
“Bullandö Marina.”
Right next to Djurö and the maritime police launch. It would take no more than thirty minutes to get to Korsö from there.
“That’s where she is, I’m sure of it,” Thomas said. “We need to head out to Korsö right now. I’ll call for the police helicopter.”
CHAPTER 75
The rain was hammering on the car roof as they set off; big fat raindrops hit the windshield and were quickly swept aside by the wipers. Margit drove as Thomas scrolled through the contacts in his cell phone to find the number for Mats Larsson, the psychologist from the National Crime Unit’s Perpetrator Profiling Group who had helped them the previous winter, when they had been trying to understand the mind of an embittered killer who had abducted a young girl on Sandhamn.
This time he needed help with Annika Melin.
He found the number, and a familiar voice answered almost right away.
“Mats Larsson.”
“Thomas Andreasson. I want to ask you something, and we don’t have much time.”
Thomas was aware that his brusque tone was bordering on rudeness, but he couldn’t afford the luxury of a lengthy explanation. He had to try to understand Annika Melin, so that they could find her and Cronwall.
Larsson picked up on the gravity of the situation.
“How can I help?”
“We’re dealing with a perpetrator who’s already killed three people and has abducted a fourth.”
“I understand. Go on.”
“I’m trying to understand the perp’s behavior, work out what we can expect.”
“Can you describe this person?”
“Her husband says she’s aggressive and has violent mood swings. She’s also threatened to kill herself and has assaulted her husband—on one occasion, she attacked him with a knife. A less common form of domestic abuse . . .”
“So we’re dealing with a woman?”
“Yes—does that mean anything?”
“Not really; violent behavior is more common in men, but women are also capable of it. Is she unstable or suffering from anxiety?”
What else had Melin said about his wife? Thomas tried to remember.
“Her husband said he’s afraid she might do herself harm. And she often blames others, or thinks the world is against her.”
Larsson didn’t say anything for a moment.
“We could be looking at a so-called borderline personality,” he said eventually. “That’s the diagnosis of those who are somewhere between the psychotic and the neurotic. They’re often prone to outbursts of rage, and they can be self-destructive.”
He cleared his throat.
“This is just to give you a general idea, of course. I can’t make a judgment on a specific case without having met the individual concerned.”
“I’m aware of that,” Thomas said, “but can you help me understand who we’re dealing with? How does this kind of personality manifest itself?”
“For the most part, they harm themselves, but sometimes their aggression is turned outward. You could say they ‘lock on to’ another person.”
“Could you give me an example?”
“Men who stalk their ex-wives are frequently diagnosed as borderline. It becomes their mission in life to punish the one who abandoned them. At the same time, they can behave perfectly normal, which makes it more difficult for the ex-partner to be believed. Nobody understands how bad it can get.”
This was much worse than Thomas had imagined.
“They can also become paranoid, often due to stress,” Larsson went on.
“A persecution complex?”
“You could say that. In serious cases, if a trauma occurs, they can verge on the psychotic, with outbreaks of aggression and violence.”
“Could a dramatic miscarriage trigger that kind of behavior?”
“Absolutely.”
Thomas closed his eyes. Mats Larsson had just described a police officer’s worst nightmare.
The windshield wipers squeaked across the glass. The wind had picked up, and he could see the tops of the trees alongside the freeway swaying in the storm as the last of the leaves were torn from their branches.
He had to ask one more question, even though he already knew the answer.
“Is she a danger to other people, apart from the one she’s ‘locked on to’?”
“If she believes she’s being pursued or is under attack . . .” Larsson fell silent. “You did say she had violent tendencies . . .”
“So the answer is yes?”
“One hundred percent.”
CHAPTER 76
It was almost five o’clock, and the dark clouds covering the sky made it feel as if dusk had already begun to fall. The headlights illuminated the torrential rain.
Thomas was trying to work out how long it would take to reach Korsö. The helicopter could fly them across in twenty-five minutes; there was no time to wait for backup. They had to get there as fast as possible; he could feel it in his bones.
At that moment, his phone rang, just as Margit was about to take the turn for the helipad at Slussen. It was the Old Man; he didn’t mince his words.
“We have a problem. The wind speed has increased considerably, and the Swedish Met Office has issued a storm warning for th
e northern Baltic. There’s no way the helicopter can take off in this weather.”
Thomas rested his head on the side window and tried to think.
“What about the police launches?”
“I’ve checked—they’re all in the northern area of the archipelago.”
Thomas did a quick calculation. The maritime police had three CB90s, three RIBs, and two smaller Skerfe boats. They were designed to cover the whole of the Stockholm archipelago, but the RIBs couldn’t cope with the swell in this weather.
“Isn’t there a Skerfe boat in town?” he asked.
“No. One’s in Berga and the other is on Djurö, and the crew have reached the limit of the hours they’re allowed to work and left for the day. We’ll have to bring in a fresh team.”
“That will take hours.”
“I know, but there’s no alternative.”
“Yes, there is,” Thomas said, instinctively reaching into his pocket. He still had a master key for the police launches; no one had asked him to return it when he left the maritime police some years earlier.
“I’ll take the boat myself,” he said.
There was a long silence at the other end of the phone; the only sound was the rain hammering on the windshield and the swish of the wipers.
“Is that a good idea?” the Old Man said at last.
“I was a maritime officer for eight years.” Thomas raised his voice. “You know I can handle a boat even if the sea is a little rough.”
“The forecast is storm-force winds, Thomas. It’s bad enough already, and worse is coming in over the whole of the east coast.”
The Old Man sounded stressed. The situation had slipped out of their control, but Thomas could hear something else in his voice.
Deep anxiety.
He realized that Margit was looking at him. He clenched his fist. Pull yourself together, he thought. Don’t lose your temper. We have to get over there, and this is the only way.
“Do you think I can’t handle it? After . . .” He hesitated. “After what happened last winter?”
“I know you’re an experienced sailor, Thomas, but you can’t even be certain they’re on Korsö. I don’t want you to risk your life on a hunch.”