by Sten, Viveca
“Henrik wants to sell Aunt Signe’s house. He’s already found a buyer.”
CHAPTER 25
Silence overwhelmed the office. It had become an empty space that could be filled only by one familiar voice.
Eva Timell put her face in her hands and wondered what she would do with herself. Her head ached. It felt like glowing steel had been bent into a crescent moon and pressed along the brow of her eye socket. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see it.
She didn’t want to take her migraine medicine, though it usually reduced the pain enough to get her back on her feet. The throbbing over her eye was still better than the pain she felt over Oscar’s death.
She looked at Oscar’s office door again and again. After so many years, she couldn’t help it. Her head would simply turn in that direction out of habit. Beyond that door was his desk, an elegant antique piece from the nineteenth century that he’d found at a Bukowskis auction house. He’d held on to it even when the firm had brought in an expensive interior design company that suggested modern, streamlined furniture. Now it looked as lonely as an abandoned dog.
In the first days after his death, she’d cried more than she’d thought humanly possible. A furious flood of tears ran past her red, swollen eyelids. At night, she pressed her pillow to her face so her neighbors wouldn’t hear her sobs. Her Persian cat, beautiful white Blofeld, had hidden under her bed, frightened by her weeping.
She wondered how Sylvia felt now. Sylvia had all the right in the world to cry in public. The grieving widow, comforted by relatives and friends. At least she still had her children to live for.
Eva Timell’s mouth formed a bitter grimace. Sylvia had everything and Eva nothing. But Eva was the one who’d known Oscar better than anyone else. Eva had planned every moment of his waking life. She’d kept track of his meetings and engagements.
Eva had chosen every single Christmas present Oscar had given Sylvia for the past fifteen years, every bottle of perfume in its luxury packaging. Eva had even kept a list so that there would never be any duplicates.
And what thanks did she get? A life as a single woman, middle aged, without children.
When Eva started as Oscar’s assistant, they’d had a passionate affair. She’d never felt as loved as she had back then. She’d wake up early, wanting only to see Oscar at the office.
She’d often lie in bed and remember their intimate moments together. Sometimes she’d think of small surprises for him. Sometimes she’d buy a card, write a sweet message, and tuck it into his morning mail. Then she’d wait for him to discover it. He’d come out to see her with that special smile.
She waited years for Oscar to get a divorce. Little by little, as the children grew and Oscar’s attention turned elsewhere, she’d realized he would never divorce. His life was far too comfortable.
Sylvia filled the role of wife and mother perfectly. She took care of their home and family and was a major asset to a successful, ambitious man like Oscar. She came from a good family and was part of the social circle in Saltsjöbaden. She didn’t protest when his personal needs came before family life. Instead, she took care of parent-teacher conferences, arranged dinners and spring parties, and turned a blind eye to Oscar’s romantic conquests.
She never questioned him, rarely complained, and was always there.
As time went on, Eva and Sylvia reached an understanding. They divided Oscar between themselves. Sylvia took charge of his family time, and Eva managed everything else. They orbited Oscar like two moons around a single sun.
It pained Eva deeply when their romantic relationship died out, but something new replaced that passion. Eva held his attention in other ways.
She made herself irreplaceable.
While he became one of Sweden’s most famous lawyers, she became an indispensable part of his success. She took care of the stream of incoming clients. At receptions, she made sure he always had a glass in hand. If his shirt became wrinkled, she had a fresh one at hand. If he double-booked himself, she tactfully resolved the issue so that both parties were placated.
At times, she’d played with the idea of starting over, finding another position. She realized working for Oscar would lead only to loneliness. She turned forty and saw her chances of starting her own family shrinking. Still, she never found the will to leave him.
Now, with a sigh, she stood up. She needed to find some water for the little pink pill she would take after all. Her migraine was pounding, and the pain was becoming unbearable.
Eva Timell walked to the kitchen ten yards down the hall to get a mineral water from the refrigerator. She then turned on her computer to address the flow of messages that had come in as the news of Oscar’s murder had spread. She hadn’t had the energy to go to work those first few days, but it was time to pull herself together and sort through the mail.
Going through her personal in-box took some time. Many people who had known Oscar also knew her, and they’d sent their condolences directly to her, perhaps to avoid disturbing Sylvia.
Next she started on Oscar’s in-box. After thirty messages, she came across one different from the rest. The address was a collection of letters and numbers that did not reveal the sender’s identity: [email protected]. No subject. She clicked on it. The text came up on the screen and she scanned the few lines.
Oscar,
You promised the money would be deposited today at the latest. I can’t wait any longer.
Benny
Eva Timell stared at the message. The tone was unusual for communication between lawyers. If it had come from another firm, it would have had the firm’s logo and address.
Of course, it could be from someone involved in Oscar’s latest bankruptcy case. But something was still odd about the message. The last sentence felt like a threat.
She checked when it had been sent. Last Friday, the same day Oscar left for Sandhamn. Two days before he was shot.
She reached for the water bottle. It was empty, so she walked back to the kitchen for another. She considered contacting the police about this message. Could it be harmful to Oscar’s reputation in any way?
She weighed the alternatives and decided to show it to the police. What if the message had come from Oscar’s killer?
His white graduation cap, now a symbol of hope and freedom, flew through the air as he sang wholeheartedly with all the other graduates of Östra Real School.
“We’ve graduated! We’ve graduated! God damn, how great we are!”
The relief of not flunking out made him euphoric, and his body felt bubbly as a bottle of champagne. The future is mine! he thought.
He would never have overcome a failure. Being one of those miserable, sad students who had to slink out the back door behind the janitor, while his family and friends waited in vain in the schoolyard by the entrance.
I’d rather die, he had thought while the examiner deliberated.
It had taken forever. He had stood ramrod straight, fists clenched at his sides, on fire with impatience and agony.
The examiner had shuffled through his papers and made a note. Then he’d taken off his glasses, polished them with a small cloth, and replaced them before opening his mouth.
“I believe the candidate has passed,” he said.
Now here he was, diploma in his hand, freshly graduated as he saw his parents approach.
His father wore a hat and an elegant dark-blue topcoat, even though it was almost seventy degrees out. His mother looked elegant in a light linen dress and matching hat decorated with a pink cloth rose. His mother’s personal seamstress had created the ensemble.
“Darling!” she exclaimed. She threw her arms around him. “How handsome you look! You’ve done so well!”
Her eyes shone. When she kissed him on the cheek, he caught a whiff of sherry. She couldn’t leave it alone, he thought. Not even today.
“Congratulations, my son,” his father said. “You’ve succeeded after all. I’m pleased.”
“Thank you, Father.
” He gave a slight, automatic bow.
“Here you are, then,” said his father, handing him an envelope. “Have some fun. You’re only young once.”
He winked.
He took the envelope, but his father’s attempt at manly camaraderie only made him uncomfortable.
Farther away, his younger brother shot a peashooter at an older lady in a lilac silk dress. She gave out a short shriek and looked around, but she couldn’t determine where the pea had come from.
His brother was grinning.
He looked for Elsa, their housekeeper. She should have been here. She was the one who had helped him get through school.
He could not have survived without her unconditional love.
“Where’s Elsa?” he asked.
“At home, of course,” his mother said. “She’s getting the buffet ready. Who do you think would set the places and prepare the food if she was here?”
She laughed a bit too loud and shrill.
Well, who else would it be? Not you, Mother, drinking your sherry all day long, he thought.
One of his schoolmates took him by the arm.
“Come on, you have to meet my parents. And my little sister. She’s eager to meet you.”
FRIDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 26
On his way to the station, Thomas decided to see if the bullet analysis was finished. The forensic medical examiner had sent it to Stockholm’s technical department, and they’d forwarded it to the National Forensic Laboratory in Linköping.
It should have arrived on Wednesday, or at least yesterday. So it was reasonable to expect results by today from Linköping. It wouldn’t take long to run the data through the computer once they’d received the bullet.
Thomas punched the number into his phone with one hand. Someone answered on the first ring. Thomas didn’t know the woman’s name, so he explained who he was and what he wanted.
“Well, you’re in luck,” the woman said. Gunilla Bäcklund was her name. “If you’d called ten minutes later, you’d have had to wait until Monday. I’m on my way out the door for an all-day meeting. Thank God it’s Friday, right?” She laughed at her own joke.
Her casual demeanor irritated him, but he decided to ignore it. The analysis was part of a murder investigation, and every bit of information should be reported as soon as possible. He turned off the car fan so he could hear her better—it was just blowing hot air anyway. When he’d bought the car, he couldn’t afford adding air-conditioning. Now he wished he had. The morning sun turned his car into a sauna. He asked what she’d discovered.
“We’ve done a thorough analysis,” Gunilla said. She spoke brightly, not at all put out by his short tone. “You’re in luck here, too. We know it’s a rifle, and not just any kind either.”
“Oh? How’s that?” Thomas switched the phone to his other hand and rested his elbow on the edge of the rolled-down window. It was as hot outside as inside the car, and he felt sweat starting to slide down his back. He squinted against the bright light and wished he hadn’t left his sunglasses at the station.
“As you probably know, the grooves and lands in the barrel of a weapon imprint every bullet,” she said. “You can scan the number and direction of the lands depending on whether the gun barrel has left- or right-twisting grooves.”
She reminded Thomas of one of the lecturers at the police academy who was enthusiastic even though her listeners were bored out of their minds. He realized this conversation would take a great deal of patience.
“I understand,” he said.
Gunilla Bäcklund would not let herself be rushed.
“Most weapons, even handguns, have five to eight grooves of varying widths. They can be used to identify a weapon, since they are specific to the weapon and its maker.”
“Yes, I see,” said Thomas.
“In addition, the FBI has created a huge database of land and groove data from almost all the rifles in the world. They call it the General Rifling Characteristics file, though everyone just says the GRC. That’s much easier.”
She paused to take a breath and continued before Thomas could respond.
“It’s a wonderful tool. All the police forces in the EU use it. Between that and the German database, we have all types of guns covered.”
“All right,” Thomas said. “So what have you found out about this exact bullet?”
He tried to stay calm, but he couldn’t help honking at the car in front of him that was lingering despite the green light. The driver flipped him the bird.
“If a bullet comes from a weapon with a common groove system, it’s almost impossible to identify the exact type of rifle,” she said. She paused to increase the effect of what she was about to say. “But this bullet, you see, comes from a special rifle.”
“You wouldn’t mind telling me what kind, would you?”
“Not at all!” Gunilla Bäcklund said happily. “This bullet wasn’t shot from a rifle with five to six right-twisted grooves. It comes from one with twenty!”
It was clear to Thomas that Gunilla Bäcklund expected him to respond with surprise. She waited in silence.
Thomas worked up as much enthusiasm as he could. “That’s very exciting,” he said. “But what does it mean?”
Bäcklund giggled.
“It means we know both the exact kind of rifle and its manufacturer.”
Thomas couldn’t help smiling. This was good news, really good news.
“And what is it, if I may ask?”
“It’s a Marlin.”
“A Marlin,” Thomas repeated. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“Oh, it’s a very popular American rifle,” Gunilla Bäcklund continued. “It’s cheap and dependable. It uses Micro-Groove landing for its .22. Excellent for us as an identification mark. You ought to thank your lucky stars that your suspect didn’t use a common Winchester.”
Thomas gave it some thought.
“Could you put a telescopic sight on a Marlin?” he asked.
“Sure. Easily. Theirs is specially made for quick shots, kind of like the express sight on a British gun.”
“What about a silencer? Can you use one?”
“Definitely.”
That’s why nobody had heard a second shot. Dr. Sachsen’s theory was most likely correct.
“Thanks, Gunilla. That was very helpful,” Thomas said before hanging up on the long-winded Ms. Bäcklund.
He tried to imagine how many registered Marlin owners there were in Sweden.
Five hundred? One thousand? They could probably find out through the central gun registry.
This had to be checked out as soon as possible.
CHAPTER 27
Henrik whistled as he cleaned the nets from the morning’s fishing trip. He’d gotten four perch, one fine turbot, and five flounder.
He stood at the edge of the water, where he’d hung the nets on four tall spikes down by the dock. He folded them carefully to avoid tangles. Tangled nets were the worst, especially if you discovered your mistake when you were already out to sea.
He opened the door to the Falu-red boathouse at the base of the dock. It was barely two yards long by one and a half yards wide, but it was tall with enough room for the nets and the tools. Everything hung neatly from black iron hooks.
Henrik walked back to the dock and opened the fish keep. You could store caught fish there for a few days so they were fresh when you wanted to eat them.
He picked up the perch and tossed three of them into a bucket of water. He set the fourth fish on the makeshift cleaning table he’d put together himself. The sun was already hot, and he felt sweat on his back. He’d enjoy a dip once this was through.
Adam and Simon were busy jumping off the end of the dock. They’d helped him bring in the nets that morning.
“Cannonball!” yelled Adam as he leaped off the dock. Water splashed in all directions, and his brother choked with laughter.
Henrik cut deeply into the perch’s neck so
that the head was almost detached. Then he stuck his knife into the anal opening and split the belly all the way to the orange fins. With a sure hand, he cut along the spine on both sides until the fillets loosened. He removed the sharp rib bones and pulled the meat from the skin and then took the small, upright bones from the middle of the fillet. This last bit was called “taking the pants off” by the inhabitants of the archipelago.
“Well, then,” he said. He contemplated the results of his work. “Not even the royal palace serves such fine food.”
He whistled an ABBA tune as he picked up the next perch. He’d scraped the fish guts to the side. The seagulls would have a feast later. It was a spectacle the boys loved to watch.
As he continued to clean the fish, he began to dream about spending the millions they would make by selling the Brand house. It was incredible, better than winning the lottery.
Not that he didn’t have a good salary. As a radiologist at one of Stockholm’s major hospitals he earned more than the average Swede. He actually earned more than an average household with two incomes. But he didn’t want to be an average person.
He compared himself to his classmates, the ones who’d gone on to study at Sweden’s Harvard, the Stockholm School of Economics. Most of them had become bankers or ran venture capitalist companies. They earned millions in bonuses, which was as clear as day when they’d meet for a beer or go sailing together. Many of them were enthusiastic sailors just like he was, but there’d be plenty of chatter about fine cars and fast boats. They would gossip about who’d bought what exclusive mansion or who’d earned what tidy sum on an IPO.
His own employer, a state-run hospital, could not even spell the word bonus, that much was clear. If he wanted to earn as much as his friends, he’d have to change professions. But Henrik had not become a doctor just for the income. He’d dreamed of being a doctor since he was in secondary school. He didn’t really know why. No one in the family worked in the medical field. He was an only child, so no sibling inspired him. His father had always been in the diplomatic corps and finished his career as an ambassador. His mother had put aside her own ambitions to help her husband achieve his goals.
