In Bad Company (Sandhamn Murders)

by Viveca Sten

  He stared at his notes without enthusiasm. He ought to call Staffan Nilsson, find out if forensics had come up with anything new. He also had to contact Pernilla, which he wasn’t looking forward to at all. He’d already spoken to his mother and asked her to pick up Elin.

  When his phone rang, he felt as if he’d been let off the hook.

  “This is Ulrika Grönstedt.”

  Thomas had encountered Grönstedt’s type before, lawyers who regarded the legal process as a competition, and took every case personally. Their tone was always supercilious and critical; it was all about winning. She would do her best to complicate matters by querying every detail in the police investigation.

  “I hear you’re looking for my client,” she went on.

  How did she know that?

  “Unfortunately he’s sick. He’s in bed with the flu.”

  “We have sickbeds in the custody suite,” Thomas informed her.

  “He’s very ill. He has a high temperature.”

  Thomas was under no illusions about Kovač’s health. Presumably Grönstedt had told him to make himself inaccessible for as long as possible so that she could formulate a suitable strategy before he was questioned by the police. He hadn’t been home when officers went to the house, but someone must have seen the patrol car.

  “I can provide a doctor’s note if you wish.” Grönstedt’s attitude was matter-of-fact. She was good at her job and 100 percent on the side of her client, whatever he’d done. She cleared her throat. “The question is why you want to speak to my client. It would be simpler if you could tell me why he’s under suspicion.”

  So that was why she’d called. She didn’t know about the homicide investigation, but sensed that there was a problem. Of course it would be simpler for Grönstedt if she found out that Kovač was the main suspect in another inquiry; how else would she be able to fabricate a suitable story for her client to reel off like a parrot when he was interviewed?

  She wasn’t the only one who could make life difficult.

  “You’ll find out when we bring him in,” Thomas said and put down the phone.

  CHAPTER 93

  The clock on the wall at Freya’s Haven struck the hour. It was time to round off the conversation with Mina and head back to the mainland, but Nora had one more key issue to raise.

  The murder of Dino Herco.

  “There’s something else we need to talk about,” she said. “It’s about a man called Dino Herco, who works with your husband.”

  Mina leaned forward. “Dino? Why?”

  “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  Mina’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no!”

  If Herco had been close to Andreis, she must have met him on a regular basis. That didn’t necessarily mean they were friends, but judging by her reaction, she’d liked him.

  “His body was discovered this morning, deep in the forest at the Nacka Nature Reserve,” Leila said. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Was it an accident?”

  Leila shook her head. “He’d been shot in the head; death would have been instantaneous. We’re pretty sure he was murdered.”

  Mina took several deep breaths. How much bad news could one person deal with?

  Leila was about to ask another question, when Nora stopped her with a discreet gesture. Mina needed a few seconds.

  “Dino was kind to me,” she murmured.

  Nora patted Mina’s arm in an attempt to express her sympathy and support.

  “Unfortunately we believe he was killed by your husband,” Leila continued.

  “Andreis?”

  Leila nodded. “We know that it was Dino who intervened when you were assaulted last week. He called the emergency number, which is why the ambulance and the police arrived.”

  “It was Dino who saved me?” Mina bit her lip. “I don’t understand . . .”

  Nora poured her a glass of water from the carafe on the tray. Mina took a few sips.

  “We spoke to him a few days ago,” Leila explained. “He wasn’t prepared to admit that he’d made the call, but it came from his cell phone, and his voice was recorded.”

  “He was terrified that your husband would find out,” Nora said.

  “Andreis would never have forgiven him . . .”

  “We think he did find out, and . . .” Leila broke off and gave a little shrug, which said it all. “As I’m sure you understand, this means there’s now another ongoing police investigation in which your husband features.”

  “I had no idea it was Dino,” Mina whispered. “I thought it was one of the neighbors.”

  “Did you know each other well?” Nora asked.

  “He was always with Andreis. I’ve seen him almost every day since I first met Andreis.”

  “We’re looking into every possibility, even though most of the evidence points to your husband,” Leila said. “Do you think he’s capable of doing that to an old friend?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “I just want your spontaneous reaction. What’s your gut feeling when I ask that question?”

  Mina couldn’t speak.

  “OK,” Leila said after a moment. “That’s fine—let’s move on. Do you know if Dino had any enemies? Someone who didn’t like him, maybe wanted him out of the way?”

  Mina tightened her grip on the glass. “Have you spoken to Andreis’s younger brother, Emir?”

  Nora glanced at Leila. Emir’s name hadn’t really come up so far. On the other hand, they hadn’t known about Herco either; the focus had been on Kovač and his financial transactions.

  “Emir spent a lot of time at our house,” Mina went on, “just like Dino did. But he’s different.”

  “In what way?”

  “They’re half brothers, as I assume you know. Same mother, different fathers. Emir’s not as hot-tempered as Andreis; he plays the long game.” Mina drank more water. “Andreis can be cruel because his anger gets the better of him, but he’s not nasty, if you know what I mean.” She noticed Nora’s reaction to her choice of words. “OK, it sounds weird. But Emir—”

  She broke off.

  “Deep down I’m sure that Andreis never planned to beat me. It just kind of happened when he lost control. He always apologized afterward—well, in the beginning anyway. He was ashamed of himself, he regretted what he’d done.”

  Nora knew that Mina was being honest, that she believed what she was saying, even though everything her husband had done to her proved the opposite. She wasn’t sure whether to despair at such loyalty, or be moved by it.

  “But Emir . . . he’s not like that. He does things on purpose.”

  “You mean he deliberately hurts people?” Leila asked.

  “Not only that—he enjoys it.”

  CHAPTER 94

  A fine drizzle was falling by the time Herman Wibom locked his office for the day and headed home.

  The apartment on Roslagsgatan wasn’t far from the practice, and he enjoyed the daily walks to and from work. Stockholm was a beautiful city, and he’d lived in Vasastan, with Vanadislunden Park just around the corner, all his life. He put up his black umbrella and set off along Döbelnsgatan in the direction of Sveaplan.

  He’d spent all afternoon on the application for a no-contact order against Andreis Kovač. He’d called Mina to explain why he couldn’t come over to Runmarö for the meeting with the prosecutor and the police, and she’d assured him that was fine.

  Now everything was ready to file. He hadn’t stayed at work so late for years; it was after eight o’clock, but he felt unusually satisfied with the day’s efforts.

  He hadn’t just applied for the standard order, where the husband (in this case) was not allowed to visit, contact, or follow his wife. Instead he had argued at length for an extended ban, which would place even greater restrictions on Andreis Kovač. Not only would all communication between him and Mina be forbidden, the order would also prevent him from going near her place of work or other locations where she normally spent time.

&nb
sp; Mina would be fully protected.

  Herman had considered including the house on Trastvägen, but suspected that Mina wouldn’t feel safe there, at least for the foreseeable future. They could always discuss the possibility further down the line, if she wanted to move back home. With the documentation she had, it shouldn’t be difficult to achieve.

  Herman was particularly pleased with his assessment of how dangerous the husband was. Kovač had played straight into his hands by producing a gun and threatening Mina and Lukas in broad daylight. There was no better argument from a legal point of view; that alone should be enough to warrant granting the order, even if Mina’s photographs didn’t live up to expectations.

  The young police officer Leila Kacim had informed him that they were looking for anyone who’d witnessed the incident. She was hopeful that someone would come forward very soon.

  Herman stopped at the crossing on Odengatan and waited for the light to change to green.

  Gunilla had made an appointment for him to see Nora Linde at the Economic Crimes Authority tomorrow at one o’clock so that a decision could be made on the no-contact order as quickly as possible. He doubted whether Ulrika Grönstedt would raise any objections or appeal once the order had been granted. She’d sounded much less feisty than usual the last time they’d spoken.

  Herman smiled at the thought.

  He’d made an important decision during the course of the day. He would fight for Mina, do his very best. When the case was over, he would leave the legal profession and close down the practice. It was time to step back, but if he could make a real difference for Mina and her son, he would be leaving with his head held high.

  The rain was heavier now, but his big English umbrella was a godsend. In a few weeks it would be May, and spring would finally arrive. He’d always found March and April to be quite miserable months, just waiting for that real feeling of spring.

  As he turned the corner onto Roslagsgatan, a large black BMW sped past him, splashing water all over Herman’s pants.

  “Have some consideration!” Herman muttered, but the driver didn’t slow down. People were so thoughtless these days. Herman glared after the car, then continued toward his apartment building. He was looking forward to a peaceful evening with a small brandy. He’d earned it after all his hard work today.

  CHAPTER 95

  The dinner Ulrika Grönstedt had agreed to attend was taking place at Sällskapet, the long-established gentlemen’s club by Kungsträdgården. The club described itself as a meeting place for networking and socializing. In reality it was yet another illustration of the fact that company directors like to hang out with other company directors, preferably without women around. Only men were allowed to be members, according to the club’s old-fashioned rules.

  Ulrika felt irritated every time she walked through the door. It was incomprehensible that associations where women weren’t welcome still existed in Sweden, but Sällskapet endured. Women were admitted only as invited guests at specific times.

  Like tonight.

  She loathed the patronizing attitude embedded in the richly decorated walls, but she also knew that networking could be very useful. This evening’s charity dinner aimed to raise money for some kind of research, although she couldn’t remember what it was—presumably cancer or diabetes. As far as she was concerned, the guest list was a lot more important than the goal. She had already exchanged a few words with several colleagues and key decision makers who regularly appeared on Industry Today, the country’s leading business website, and in various financial journals.

  The guest speaker, a professor from the Karolinska Institute, stepped up to the podium, which was surrounded by impressive flower arrangements. The main course had just been served; the food would grow cold. No doubt the speech would be long and tedious, as was so often the case when academic gentlemen of a certain age were given the opportunity to hold forth.

  Ulrika had no appetite anyway. She cut a small piece of the tender fillet of lamb, but found it difficult to force the meat down. She couldn’t shake off the events of the afternoon. It wasn’t like her to allow a client to get under her skin; she prided herself on her ability to be professional at all times.

  She put down her knife and fork and discreetly took out her cell phone to see if Kovač had been in touch. She’d tried to call him before she left the office, just to make sure that everything was OK—she was seriously worried. Surely he wouldn’t be dumb enough to go and see Herman Wibom to ask for Mina’s address?

  The screen was blank; he hadn’t returned her call.

  Ulrika had resolutely trained herself to leave her work at the office. Her clients had full access to her intellect and expertise during the day, but she didn’t take their troubles home with her. And yet . . . she couldn’t forget Kovač’s final words.

  What was he capable of?

  Anxiety had settled in her stomach like a hard lump, and she couldn’t shift it. She was under no illusions about Kovač. He was no stranger to violence, but surely even he must realize the folly of seeking out a lawyer and trying to force him to reveal the location of the shelter where his wife was staying.

  She tore off a small corner of her napkin, spat out the piece of meat, and hid it under a lettuce leaf on her plate. Then she checked her phone again.

  Everyone’s attention was focused on the speaker, who was droning on about his distinguished research and his constant need for funds. A major breakthrough was just around the corner.

  Blah blah blah.

  She should have sent her apologies, but now she was here, and she couldn’t simply stand up and walk out in the middle of the speech. Her dinner companion, Per-Johan Aller, was a lawyer with one of Stockholm’s major business-law practices. He was listening with interest. If he knew what was on her mind, he would be horrified.

  She glanced at him in his perfectly tailored suit. He’d never sat across the table from criminals with a record as long as his arm, never pleaded for a lenient sentence following a conviction for a brutally violent crime. Presumably he’d never felt the same surge of adrenaline as she had when the jury delivered a not-guilty verdict against all odds, because she’d managed to convince them that there was reasonable doubt.

  In his world robberies were carried out through elegantly worded business contracts, where companies were bought and sold regardless of the consequences for employees and suppliers. Per-Johan had never consorted with clients from the underworld; he soiled his hands in different ways.

  The professor was still talking. Would he never stop so that she could get out of here?

  She couldn’t eat another thing. She placed her knife and fork neatly side by side, then took a large gulp of red wine, quickly followed by another. There was nothing she could do, she told herself for the hundredth time. She’d already tried to contact Kovač on the phone, but he wasn’t answering. She couldn’t text him—what would she say? That he mustn’t go anywhere near Herman Wibom?

  If anything happened, her message could be used in evidence, and she wasn’t prepared to take that risk. Calling Wibom herself was also out of the question. She would have to admit that she was afraid her client might be on the way to see him, that there was a risk he would use violence to get the information he wanted.

  She would be thrown out of the Bar Association if it emerged that she’d portrayed her own client as a violent man—Herman Wibom would make sure of it. After her threat of a custody battle, he wasn’t exactly kindly disposed toward her; he’d made that clear during their last conversation.

  And yet she couldn’t clear her head. She’d repeatedly told herself to forget about Kovač, but one disastrous scenario after another played out in her mind.

  She couldn’t be held responsible for the actions of her client, but . . .

  She emptied her wineglass. There is nothing I can do. She took out her phone one last time, just in case Kovač had been in touch. Nothing. She felt as if the casing were burning her fingers.

  Should she ca
ll Wibom and warn him?

  Bosnia, May 1993

  Selma was lying in bed wide awake, waiting for Zlatko to fall asleep beside her. For once he’d come home sober, which made things more difficult. She’d hoped he would be so drunk that he’d pass out immediately.

  As usual.

  Blanka and her family were leaving at first light, at about five o’clock. They wanted to get away as early as possible to avoid attracting attention.

  Selma had made the most difficult decision of her life.

  She was going to take the children and go with them. Deep down she knew that Blanka was right. Their homeland was lost. They would all go under if they stayed in Bosnia. She couldn’t let Zlatko’s stubbornness condemn them all to death. By the time he woke up, they would be far away.

  She had packed a small case with things for the boys, plus just one change of clothes for herself, her jewelry, and a handful of photographs. As much as she could carry with Emir in her arms.

  An entire life reduced to a few bits and pieces.

  At long last she heard Zlatko’s slow, even breathing.

  She slid out of bed as quietly as possible. She reached into the pocket of his pants, which were draped over a chair, searching for his wallet. She had almost no money of her own, and had to take whatever was in the house.

  Zlatko grunted and turned over. Selma froze; he mustn’t wake up.

  The seconds passed, stretched into minutes. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but he sounded as if he was fast asleep. Selma hesitated, then took out the wallet, opened it, and removed the notes it contained.

  Her forehead was damp with perspiration. She was about to replace the wallet, when she felt dizzy and had to lean on the chest of drawers for support. Her hand caught the lamp on the end, and it fell to the floor with a crash.

  “What the . . . ?” Zlatko reached out and switched on the bedside light. He stared at Selma; she was still holding the wallet.