Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2)

by Sten, Viveca

  “I assume you’d like a cup of tea,” Nora said. She pulled down two mugs from the shelf without waiting for an answer. “The usual Earl Grey or vanilla flavored?”

  She took milk from the refrigerator and opened the cupboard to get the honey.

  “Earl Grey is fine,” Thomas said. He opened a drawer and took out two spoons. Nora’s kitchen felt like home after all their years of friendship.

  “Would you like something with it?” Nora asked. She looked at the breadbox. Thomas shook his head.

  “I’m fine. I’ve had several cinnamon buns already.” He patted his stomach, and Nora raised her eyebrows. She didn’t think Thomas had changed at all since his days as a handball player fifteen years ago.

  They sat down at the kitchen table, and Nora served the piping hot tea.

  “How are things going for you?” Thomas asked.

  Nora had already opened her laptop.

  “Look,” she said and pointed at the material she’d put together along with her conclusions. “You can read it for yourself.”

  Thomas leaned forward to see better.

  In her write-up, Nora thoroughly explained the concept of bank secrecy and what it meant. Thomas could see that it had been around as long as there had been banks and that it essentially meant that banks were not required to reveal any information about their customers. In many countries, this was set in stone.

  But increased financial crimes over the past few years, especially those connected to international terrorism, had put pressure on the tax havens. Both the United States and the European Union wanted these countries to release information to criminal investigators.

  “Where did you get all this?”

  “Judicial databases. Some of them specialize in international law, especially in these types of cases.”

  “Amazing.”

  “I take it that Juliander must have stashed some kind of fortune abroad?” Nora asked.

  He nodded. “This is totally confidential. We don’t want any of this made public.”

  “Thanks for trusting me,” Nora said. “I do understand. But if you want me to research further about bank secrecy, I should know a little something about why.”

  She took a sip of tea and looked at him.

  Thomas had to agree.

  Nora scrolled to another page and continued. “It appears that Liechtenstein is a really secure tax haven. No access is granted to any authority in any other country.”

  “Which must create some international tensions . . . ?”

  “Yes, indeed. The EU has been leaning on Switzerland, who is more than willing to help them in cases concerning drug money and secret bank accounts.”

  Thomas studied the text on the screen.

  “How can we shake loose information on Juliander’s accounts?”

  “That’s pretty hard. Only in cases of terrorism and drugs has anyone broken through the secrecy.” She paused and turned to him. “Now you really have to explain what this is all about, or I won’t be much help.”

  Thomas felt uncomfortable about sharing information gathered by his team.

  On the other hand, Nora’s knowledge could speed up the investigation. Other channels would cost them time. And he had to consider the lack of financial competence in the Nacka Police Department.

  “Well?” asked Nora. A wrinkle of irritation appeared on her forehead. “If I don’t understand the question, I can’t give you a reasonable answer.”

  She reached for the teapot, half filled her mug, and then held the teapot toward Thomas, who nodded for more.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Let me explain.”

  He told her about Juliander’s foreign credit card.

  Nora listened with concentration. When he got to the theory that Juliander had stashed wealth abroad to back up the card, she looked worried.

  “You’ve got a problem, then,” she said.

  “Explain it to me.”

  “See for yourself.” Nora scrolled down the screen. “You must have a strong suspicion of a crime before the bank officers will even consider working with you.”

  “But we have it!” Thomas said.

  “In their eyes, having a foreign credit card and a secret bank account is not criminal. They don’t even think tax evasion is serious. A conviction would be a misdemeanor that carries a punishment of six months in jail, at the most. That’s not enough to waive bank secrecy.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  Nora’s words made Thomas feel anxious.

  “It will be very, very difficult for you to get information about Juliander’s financial situation abroad.”

  “So what should I do?”

  Nora took a sip of tea as she thought.

  “Perhaps someone in your Financial Crimes unit has experience dealing with Liechtenstein?”

  Thomas grimaced as Nora studied her screen, searching for an answer.

  “There’s another thing to consider,” Nora said. “The amount of time it will take to get information from Liechtenstein.”

  “How long do you think?”

  “Years. It goes like this. First, someone in our justice department contacts his or her equivalent in Liechtenstein to make a formal plea.”

  “And then?”

  “Then the Liechtenstein judicial department contacts the appropriate authorities in their country. After that, you need a decision from their Landgericht, which is the equivalent of our district court, to access the material. Any ruling can be appealed three times.”

  Thomas whistled.

  “Then they need a specific ruling in order to seize the material. Unfortunately, this decision can also be appealed three times.”

  “That sounds crazy.”

  Nora smiled at him. “It gets even better. Even if the right to confiscate the material is approved, another separate decision must be made to transfer the material to Swedish authorities.”

  Thomas groaned. “You don’t have to tell me. Appeals can be made three times.”

  Nora nodded. “Precisely. So the request can be appealed nine times in total before anything can reach Sweden.”

  “How long do you think that would all take?”

  “I’d guess three to four years.”

  Thomas was starting to lose faith in the judicial process.

  “Anything else?” he asked, discouraged.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  He nodded.

  “After all that, the information comes with some strings attached. The material handed over to Sweden cannot be used for tax purposes. It can be used only for your murder investigation. Without a secure promise to follow this rule, you won’t receive it at all.”

  Thomas had difficulty digesting all this information.

  Finally he could say only, “I see.” He stood up slowly and leaned against the kitchen counter while he tried to think. “So you’re saying this is impossible—”

  Nora interrupted him.

  “What credit card did you say he had?”

  “A MasterCard or a Visa . . . why?”

  “You can contact their branch here in Sweden. The card might be issued abroad, but the Swedish office may still be able to help you. At least they can help you track the flow of money.”

  “Of course. Follow the money.”

  “Something else to consider: Where did the money come from before he put it in the secret bank account?” Nora was thinking out loud.

  “Keep going,” Thomas said. It was one of the questions he and his team were trying to answer.

  “The whole purpose of a foreign credit card is to hold deposited capital as a form of liquid assets, right?”

  “I assume so.”

  “Money from the law firm couldn’t have been used. Not in a tax haven. A bankruptcy lawyer must keep his accounts open to the court. They’d have shut him down in two seconds if his accounts were connected to Liechtenstein.”

  “And it would be impossible to transfer the money legally.” Thomas tried to f
ollow her train of thought.

  “No, the authorities would have been alerted. And he would have been forced to pay taxes on it before it left the country.”

  “Of course, there are people who carry money out of the country in a suitcase.”

  “Too great a risk. He would have been disbarred if he got caught.”

  “So the million-dollar question is, where did the money come from to back up that foreign credit card?”

  Thomas sat back down and drank the last of the tea. It was cold.

  “The card had no limit,” he said.

  Nora whistled.

  “Then it must have been a tremendous amount Juliander kept over there.”

  On his way back to Harö, Thomas wondered about the mysterious Oscar Juliander. The image of an exceptionally successful business lawyer with a perfect career and a perfect family was now falling apart.

  Why would he risk losing all that?

  Evading tax by holding secret bank accounts abroad was, after all, a serious crime. If he’d been discovered, his career would have been finished.

  Had Juliander become so successful that he felt above the law? Or did he want the Swan so desperately that he was willing to break the law he’d worked his whole life to uphold?

  Perhaps Juliander had angered or cheated someone. Someone who then killed him in revenge. In that case, who?

  And where did all that money come from?

  MONDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

  CHAPTER 43

  “Did you get anything from the credit card company?” Thomas asked Margit as he took a bite of hamburger steak, one of two lunch specials.

  They ate at one of the Nacka Strand restaurants, a few minutes’ walk from the police station. They’d chosen an outdoor table to get some fresh air and escape the smell of fried food.

  “Our dear prosecutor Öhman has arranged it all,” Margit said. She looked up from her fried cod. “I spoke with the administrative head of the credit card company before we left. I’ve sent our questions to him.”

  “Did he seem willing to cooperate?”

  “So-so. Their computer guy was on vacation, and they’d had to call him back in. But I’d guess this probably isn’t the first time they’ve needed to look up data for a criminal investigation.”

  She took a bite of fish and continued. “The boss warned me that things won’t move very quickly. Unfortunately.”

  “OK,” Thomas said. “We can only hope for the best. It’ll be interesting to find out what’s hiding there.”

  He took a piece of bread, buttered it, and ate it before he speared the last bite of hamburger steak.

  “Would you like some coffee?” He stood up even before Margit answered, knowing she never declined coffee.

  He walked through the dim restaurant to where coffee pots sat on warmers. He took two white mugs, filled them with the strong brew, and carried them back to Margit.

  “Here you go.” He took a sip. The coffee was good.

  “The boat identification is moving forward,” Margit said.

  Kalle and his assistants had succeeded in identifying fifteen of the boats by patiently making one phone call after the other. Then Kalle had the inspiration to ask Axel Bjärring if he recognized any, and he’d given them another three.

  After yet another perusal of the picture, Thomas found he recognized one as well. It belonged to a seventy-five-year-old neighbor on Harö who’d known his parents. Now the question remained, did his neighbor know Oscar Juliander?

  The owners of the nineteen identified craft would be brought in for questioning.

  The wheels of the investigation were moving, however slowly.

  TUESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

  CHAPTER 44

  Thomas left early that afternoon for Harö. His thoughts had frozen, and he felt like giving up. He abandoned all the printouts and reports on his desk.

  He needed to clear his mind.

  His breathing relaxed as soon as he got on the ferry. When he made it to his house, he prepared a simple meal, filled a thermos with coffee, packed it all into a watertight cooler, and walked down to the dock. He lifted his kayak from its wooden rack and set it gently into the water.

  He stowed the food at the front of the kayak, put on his life vest, and took a deep breath as he sat down.

  He lifted the paddle.

  At first he thought he’d go past Sandhamn and then, in a wide curve, toward Stora Hästskär, an island a little south of Sandhamn. For years it had been used as a radar installation by the military. All landings on the island had been forbidden, so no one could visit. Though the military had abandoned the station a few years ago, people were in the habit of avoiding the island. It would probably be vacant.

  Which is exactly what Thomas wanted. Room to breathe.

  With skillful strokes, he paddled toward the southeast. The paddle was over eight feet long, and he made good speed in the calm water. There was hardly any wind. It felt like moving through silk.

  He enjoyed the stillness. Finding himself in the middle of the Baltic Sea in such a small vessel humbled him, in a good way. He could see nature close up, almost eye level with the surface. Kayaking offered a completely different view than a regular boat.

  As he neared the channel that led to Sandhamn, he looked at the Linde family’s dock out of habit. It was just about seven in the evening, and Nora and her family were probably still eating dinner.

  He smiled as he thought about Simon; he always enjoyed talking to his godson. Simon reasoned about this and that, revealing the many deep thoughts he carried around in that little head. For the sake of the boys, Thomas hoped that Nora and Henrik would come to an agreement about the Brand house. Bitter arguments like that weren’t good for anyone.

  Thomas did not know Henrik well enough to understand his reasoning, but the man’s ideas were far from his own. Nora’s husband measured success through others’ eyes. Who you knew and who your friends were mattered most to him. Thomas still found it surprising that Nora had fallen for a man so different from her. An inward sense of right and wrong had always motivated his childhood friend. She would never imagine resting her self-esteem on wealth or social connections.

  A gap was obviously opening between Nora and Henrik, exacerbated by the conservative values of Henrik’s parents. His upbringing and family traditions were overtaking him, while Nora was becoming more and more unhappy.

  But Thomas also knew Nora to be amazingly stubborn. She would fight to save her marriage, even if only for the boys. Nora was one of the most loyal people Thomas knew, and she never made a promise she did not intend to keep. It was obvious that the conflict between Signe’s last will and Henrik’s demands was torturing her.

  In the middle of a paddle stroke, Thomas caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. He saw a school of fish just below the surface of the water. What a beautiful sight—all the shimmering silver fish swimming to the side of his prow.

  When he reached Hästskär, he pulled his kayak into a tiny bay edged by clumps of reeds. He got out his food and ate it quickly. Then he unrolled his towel and stretched out. He closed his eyes and fell instantly asleep, bathed in the evening sun.

  An hour later he woke up. His right arm, propped behind his head, had fallen asleep. He massaged it to get the blood moving again. Still sleepy, he reached for his bottle of water and took a few large swallows.

  He’d dreamed about the start of the Round Gotland Race.

  Thomas drew his hand through his hair and tried to recall the dream. He’d been at sea in a small boat, surrounded by other spectators. Everyone was deeply concentrating on the start, looking at the gray starting vessel towering over the horizon.

  In his dream, he stood on the foredeck, legs firmly planted, holding a rifle. The Emerald Gin sailed past him. He was about fifty yards from the beautiful Swan. Its hull shone in the sun. With icy calculation, he aimed directly at Oscar Juliander standing behind the steering wheel. He could clearly see Juliander’s wide smile and Fred
rik Winbergh behind him.

  Just as Thomas aimed, a large wave lifted the hull of his boat and it swayed. He lost his balance. He fired the shot but missed the target by several yards.

  With one hand on the railing, he watched Juliander disappear against the horizon.

  It had been an unpleasant dream with strangely realistic details. He could still feel how the swaying deck threw off his aim.

  He realized something else.

  The shooter must have been on a large, stable boat.

  They’d paid attention to the wrong thing. Because the water was unusually calm and the breeze light on the day of the murder, they’d reasoned that the shot could have come from any boat at all.

  He remembered discussing the movements of the waves with Dr. Sachsen at the autopsy, but they hadn’t considered that so many boats in a small area could create localized chop even without much wind. It would have affected a smaller boat much more. A smaller craft, in fact, could not have been the platform for a successful shot. There was no guarantee of accuracy.

  But on a large yacht with a deep keel, chop wouldn’t matter. The killer could have aimed and fired without losing balance.

  Thomas felt a wave of excitement.

  How many yachts had been in the golden triangle, as Margit called it? Probably not many. Certainly not twenty-seven.

  If he were right, they could eliminate many of the boats in the photograph.

  As soon as he was back at the station, he’d take another look. Tomorrow morning, he’d take the first ferry from Harö.

  WEDNESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

  CHAPTER 45

  The investigators filed into the large conference room at the police station. The room was sparsely furnished: one oblong table and eight chairs, a flip chart on an easel, and, on one of the short walls, a whiteboard.

  The only beautiful thing about the room was the view of the water. In the daylight, they could see large ferryboats bringing tourists to the Venice of the North.