Tonight You’re Dead (Sandhamn Murders Book 4)

by Viveca Sten

  “She’s taken him to the island; I’m sure of it.”

  Margit swerved to avoid a pool of water in the road. Through the rain Thomas could see the driver of an oncoming car. He let out a silent scream as their vehicles came way too close for a second. Then Margit straightened out their car, and the man disappeared from view.

  “I can be on Djurö in an hour.”

  The Old Man said nothing.

  “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  The Old Man gave in. “I just hope you know what you’re getting into.”

  “I do.”

  Margit turned to Thomas as he ended the call.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said.

  “It’s going to be pretty rough.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  CHAPTER 77

  The waves were topped with white foam as they drove across Djurö Bridge. The water itself was a deep leaden gray, blending with the color of the sky.

  Thomas leaped out of the car as soon as they pulled up outside the locked gates to the harbor. Hunched against the rain, he ran over and keyed in the four-digit code, then continued down the short slope as Margit followed in the car.

  As she parked outside the building that also housed the coast guard, Thomas hurried over to the farthest jetty. The police boat was moored at the very end. A few isolated streetlamps spread their glow across the damp asphalt. The ground was treacherous with fallen leaves; Margit slipped in her sneakers but managed to stay on her feet.

  Within minutes, both Thomas and Margit were soaked through from the lashing rain. Neither of them was wearing protective clothing; Thomas hoped there would be something on board they could put on.

  He could see the boat straining at its moorings; the strength of the wind had increased since he’d spoken to the Old Man.

  They clambered down into the boat, and Thomas got out the key.

  It fit.

  With a practiced hand, he switched on the engines, the lights, the radar, and the GPS. The rain messed up the radar, producing echoes that distorted the image, but on a night like this, he was grateful for whatever was available, even though he knew the shipping lanes like the back of his hand.

  Quickly he untied the mooring rope at the stern and called out to Margit to do the same with the rope at the prow. He automatically glanced over his shoulder before reversing away from the jetty, but there was no one else in sight in the marina.

  Kanholm Bay was waiting off the island of Djurö. The unusually wide and deep stretch of water was notorious among the sailing community. In bad weather, there was no protection from strong gusts of wind, and the waves were high. The sea quickly became choppy and battered the hull, which made the crossing difficult even for a seasoned sailor.

  When the wind reached storm force, it was even worse.

  However, there was no alternative if they wanted to reach Korsö quickly. The other options would take up more valuable time. Time they couldn’t afford to lose.

  They had to cross the southern part of the bay. The wind was a northeasterly from Södermöja Bay. It was the worst possible direction, but they were going to have to face it anyway. If they could just get through, they would make it to the island in spite of the weather.

  Thomas peered through the windshield. Visibility was poor due to the rain, and against his better judgment, he switched on the searchlight on the roof. That made things worse, and he switched it off again immediately.

  Margit stood beside him, trying to see where they were heading.

  “Go below and fetch the life jackets,” Thomas said. “There should be some sailing jackets down there, too.”

  After a couple of minutes, she was back with two life jackets and two heavy waterproofs. Thomas let go of the wheel with his left hand and pulled on a life jacket.

  “Make sure you fasten it properly,” he said to Margit. “Don’t forget the safety harness between your legs.”

  Margit put everything on without saying a word.

  Far out to starboard, they could just make out a red flashing light—the radio mast at Stavsnäs. Otherwise the mainland was nothing more than a dark mass.

  Time and again, Thomas checked the speedometer. He was traveling as fast as he dared without being reckless. He swore at his own failure to spot the connections earlier.

  Why hadn’t he checked what Robert Cronwall had said more carefully? He should have realized the role Cronwall had played. Instead he had been unforgivably credulous. If he had been more critical of Cronwall’s attempt to play down his contact with Marcus Nielsen, the case might have been solved by now. He hadn’t been sufficiently alert; there was no other explanation. The fact that he had just returned from a lengthy period of sick leave was no consolation. It wasn’t even much of an excuse.

  They were doing almost twenty-seven knots. Thomas kept the boat in the lee of the smaller islands surrounding Långholmen lighthouse; as soon as they reached open water, he would have to drop his speed. Anything else would be foolhardy, not to mention dangerous. He glanced at his watch; the crossing was taking far too long. They still had around twelve nautical miles to go. Would they get there in time?

  “How are you feeling?” he asked Margit. She hadn’t said much since they cast off.

  “Not so good.”

  In the faint light, he could see that her face had taken on a greenish tinge.

  “Do you feel sick?”

  “Yes,” she almost whimpered. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “Try to lean outside; otherwise the smell will make both of us sick.”

  Margit pushed open the door and just managed to turn her head so that the contents of her stomach landed on the deck.

  As she straightened up, the boat emerged from the protection of Gökskär, and the wind immediately seized the door and tore it from Margit’s grip. She tumbled backward as a cascade of water crashed over the rail and gushed into the cockpit.

  “Shut the door!” Thomas bellowed. “You have to shut the door!

  “I’m trying!” Margit yelled back.

  Thomas didn’t dare let go of the wheel to help her; if he did that, anything could happen. He needed all his concentration to negotiate a route between the huge waves crashing over the bow.

  So much water was pouring down Margit’s face that there was no way she could see properly. She clung to the doorframe with one hand, fumbling for the door with the other. Another huge wave came at them with terrifying speed. The force of the ice-cold water made her lose her grip on the frame, and she hit the table with a bang. When the boat lurched sideways, she slid across the floor and thudded into the wall.

  “Margit! Are you okay?” Thomas called out, trying to reach her with his free hand.

  Groggily, she grabbed it and pulled herself to her feet. The door was still banging in the wind, and there was so much noise in the cockpit that it was almost impossible to communicate.

  Thomas pulled her toward the instrument panel.

  “Take the wheel!” he shouted. “Don’t let go, whatever you do. You have to hold the course—do you understand?”

  He leaned forward and reduced their speed to fifteen knots. He knew that was still too fast, but the thought of Annika Melin drove him on.

  “Don’t touch anything else!” he roared. “Concentrate on keeping the boat steady.”

  Margit seized the wheel as Thomas moved toward the doorway. As the boat dropped down between the waves, the door came flying toward him, but he managed to slam it shut. As if by magic, the roaring stopped, to be replaced by a calm that felt unreal.

  He bent down to catch his breath, the rain dripping from his forehead. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. The whole cockpit was drenched.

  Suddenly Margit let out a yell, and Thomas looked up. An enormous wave towered up in front of the windshield. It was coming at an angle of forty-five degrees, the worst possible scenario under the circumstances. If it hit the bow, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

  It seemed as
if the massive wall of water was just yards away. Margit was still clutching the wheel, frozen to the spot. Thomas pushed her out of the way, took the wheel, and adjusted the speed. He had to steer into the wave and climb over it; if it hit them side-on, the boat would capsize.

  The engines roared as he tried to change course so that they would meet the wave head-on.

  All at once, the boat lurched. They were halfway across the huge breaker, and it felt as if the bow was hovering in midair.

  They were about to turn over in the storm-tossed bay.

  DIARY: AUGUST 1977

  Tomorrow morning the final exercise begins. Two weeks of attacks, carrying out landings under fire, close combat, and live ammunition.

  We are to cram into 200-boats, standing tightly packed together so that we don’t fall over when the boat beaches, then we will storm ashore like a single body. We will then be expected to use all the knowledge we have acquired during our eleven months in the service of the Coastal Rangers.

  And then it’s over. Then we leave Korsö.

  Only two more weeks until we leave this artificial world and return to our normal lives, an existence where we no longer have to torture our muscles until they scream with exhaustion, where we don’t stink of shit and sweat, our nerves always strained to the breaking point with the fear of doing something wrong.

  Soon we will escape the sergeant’s clutches.

  It’s as if he understands that he’s reached the final chorus. He hits the bottle almost every night. His eyes are often bloodshot in the mornings, and his behavior is worse than ever. He wants to maintain control, but he is losing his grip, slowly but surely.

  Soon Andersson will be able to tell his father to go to hell.

  It all went wrong. Just as we were about to return to Korsö. It was late in the evening, and we were all lined up, standing to attention. The visiting Finnish commander in chief was to inspect the troops before the exercise came to an end.

  Everything had gone well; we had taken our bridgeheads and secured the required areas. We had carried out our missions with great success.

  I looked around and felt proud to belong to this group. We were comrades for life, and we were prepared to die for one another.

  Kihlberg stood with his legs apart, waiting for the inspection. He saw me glance at him and gave me an encouraging wink that said, We did it! For fuck’s sake, we did it!

  I nodded back with immense satisfaction.

  Then I noticed Andersson. He didn’t look good. His stomach had been playing up all week, and he was worn out. Now I could see that his face was greenish white, and he was swaying.

  Kaufman was standing next to him, and I gave him a nudge, hoping that he would do something. Andersson mustn’t faint during the inspection; he had to hang on for a few more minutes.

  The Finnish delegation was approaching, escorted by Swedish officers. The chief of the Coastal Rangers training academy was with the Finnish commander in chief, with the sergeant bringing up the rear.

  Just as they were passing Andersson, it happened. It was as if a wave passed through his body; he made a gurgling sound, and out came a cascade of vomit.

  Right at the Finnish admiral’s feet.

  The admiral tried to take a step back, but it was too late; evil-smelling sludge had splashed all over his polished leather boots and the legs of his pants, leaving pale-pink stains.

  There was an icy second when no one moved, then the admiral kept walking along the line without a word, followed by his entourage.

  Kaufman and Erneskog caught Andersson just as he collapsed. No one dared speak; fear was coursing through our veins. The sergeant stopped in front of Andersson. I swallowed hard when I saw the look on his face.

  “Tonight you’re dead,” he hissed. “Just you wait. Tonight you’re dead.”

  CHAPTER 78

  Margit’s face was chalk white.

  “We made it,” she whispered.

  Salty water was running down Thomas’s forehead and back, and he realized he was soaking wet thanks to a mixture of cold sweat and rain.

  “I thought we were going down,” Margit breathed behind him.

  “Me, too.”

  The wave had broken at the last second. Without really understanding how it had happened, they had found themselves on the other side of the wall of water instead of being swallowed up by it.

  They had survived by a hair’s breadth.

  Thomas increased his speed. They were protected by Hasselkobben now, and Korsö wasn’t far away. They were approaching the Sandhamn inlet, and Thomas ignored the five-knot limit as he passed through the Sound. There were few lights showing along the shoreline, but the Sailors Hotel was lit up as usual. Somehow the familiar sight made him feel better. The wider world, which for a little while had consisted of only dark, ice-cold water, still existed.

  The gas station flashed by, and then he was aware of Kroksö on the port side. A small green-and-white lighthouse stood at the eastern inlet for Sandhamn, and as soon as he had passed it, he turned the wheel and set his course for Korsö Sound.

  Now he could make out the faint glow of the streetlamps on the quayside. They helped, but not much. The rain streaming down the windshield made it hard to see properly, and his eyes ached from the effort of trying to distinguish the land from the sea.

  With only fifteen yards to go, he braked hard. Before the waves had time to seize the hull, he steered toward the inside of the long concrete jetty in order to reduce the impact of the wind.

  A Bayliner was already moored there—the same make as the Melins’ boat.

  Annika was on the island.

  It was almost seven o’clock in the evening, and dusk was falling as they stepped ashore. Thomas stopped and said, “Look at this.”

  Faint marks were just visible in the white sand. Footprints.

  “It must be Cronwall and Melin,” Margit panted.

  Thomas moved closer; it definitely seemed as if two people had walked along the shore, one in front of the other.

  The wind was howling in the treetops, and Thomas had to shout to make himself heard. He tried to assess the situation. It was impossible to see through the dense pine forest that formed a dark wall behind the wide shore, and visibility was even poorer due to the rain. He had visited the island many times, but right now it felt like a totally unfamiliar location.

  Annika Melin could be anywhere.

  “Let’s keep going,” he yelled, “but be careful!”

  After a few hundred yards, they reached the small open square in the former military community. Thomas paused by a sturdy iron anchor that was embedded in the ground. Everywhere was in darkness, all the doors firmly closed. They could hear the water gushing down the drainpipes on the nearest buildings, and the tall maples above their heads creaked and swayed.

  “Follow me.” He set off along a narrow track leading to the cabin used by the maritime police as an overnight lodging. Thomas had often slept there over the years.

  Suddenly it came to him. The detergent. The washing.

  He beckoned to Margit and shouted in her ear, “I think I know where they are. In the sauna down by the shore. We need to turn back.”

  Rainwater was dripping down Margit’s face.

  “Come on!” Thomas began to make his way back without wasting any more time, and in minutes, they were there. Margit touched his shoulder and pointed.

  “I think I can see a light.”

  A faint glow seeped through one of the windows. The waves crashed angrily against the rocks, and the treetops whined in the gale.

  Thomas checked his gun.

  “Let’s go!” Hunched against the storm, he ran toward the light. Margit followed close behind, drawing her own gun at the same time.

  They stopped when they reached the door. Nothing was moving; only the crack of light suggested that someone must have been there.

  Margit removed the safety catch from her gun, and Thomas pushed open the door. They were met by a surge of damp air.
Thomas swept the beam of his flashlight around the room: wooden benches fixed to the walls, clothes hooks, duckboards on the floor. The place was eerily silent.

  “Can you see anyone?” Margit whispered.

  “No.”

  Thomas put his finger to his lips and walked over to the door leading to the showers. That was where the light was coming from.

  He tried the handle.

  “On three,” he mimed to Margit, who nodded.

  He opened the door.

  Several of the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling were broken, hence the dim light.

  A body was lying in the middle of the floor. A naked man in his fifties.

  CHAPTER 79

  The phone rang just as Nora was unlocking the front door.

  Simon was at his tennis lesson and due to be picked up in an hour.

  “Adam, are you home?” she called out. “Can you get that please?”

  She fumbled with the key, then remembered that Adam wasn’t there either. He was having dinner with Wille’s family tonight, so she was home alone for the time being.

  Finally she managed to get in, and ran to grab the phone in the living room.

  “Hello?” she gasped.

  “Is that Nora?”

  The line was crackling, as if the person on the other end was far, far away. She immediately knew who it was, and her stomach flipped over.

  “Yes.”

  “Hi—it’s Jonas, Jonas Sköld.”

  It seemed odd for him to say his surname. A few days ago, they had been as intimate as it was possible for two people to be, and now he was introducing himself as if they were no more than fleeting acquaintances.

  “Hi, Jonas.”

  “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  She sounded fake, stiff and formal. Why couldn’t she just be natural? Adopt a casual tone, as if she hadn’t been waiting for this call for three whole days?

  She wanted to make him think she had lots of other things going on in her head.

  Hi, Jonas, she should have said cheerfully. Good to hear from you, but I’m kind of busy right now. Can I call you back when I have time?