by Sten, Viveca
He’d had trouble resisting Carina’s desire at first. The fact that she so clearly wanted him was intoxicating. Right from the start they’d enjoyed good sex. Really good sex. Something he’d been missing since his separation. The sex was so good that he thought it might be enough to make the relationship fulfilling.
But once the novelty wore off, he could see how much they differed. Carina was a sweet, smart girl, but she couldn’t share his sorrow over Emily. The only person who could understand that was Pernilla. Sometimes it was difficult not to talk about his daughter with Carina, which created a bigger gulf between them. When she wanted to go out on the town during the weekends, he’d make excuses.
More and more, he escaped to Harö to be in peace. He felt ashamed that he’d used Carina that way. He’d enjoyed what she offered without any consideration for her feelings.
It was simply easier that way. He had longed to be with someone, anyone, but lacked the energy to search for a partner. And then she came along, offering him everything. He couldn’t resist.
And now it had to end. He felt guilty, and she was unhappy.
Again, he swore to settle the matter. As soon as they found the person who’d killed Juliander and Nyrén. After that, he would talk to her.
CHAPTER 82
“Have you lost your mind?” Henrik said. He stared at Nora with dismay and disgust in his eyes. “You really told Severin we aren’t going to sell without even talking to me first?”
They sat on the dock with their coffee.
Henrik had come on the six o’clock ferry from Stavsnäs. After a number of days on call, he now had three days off. Nora had dinner ready when he arrived, so they’d eaten right away.
She hadn’t put much thought into dinner. She served grilled steak with baked potatoes and carrots. Then she gave the boys ice cream pops while she made coffee for Henrik and herself.
Now Simon was at a friend’s house playing a new computer game, while Adam had left to play soccer with some older boys.
It was the perfect time for a married couple who hadn’t seen each other for the past two weeks to sit down and talk.
As usual Nora had butterflies in her stomach before they began. She hoped he could understand her decision and why she had come to it.
Did he truly love her enough to listen? It was just a house, after all, a material object, nothing as serious as an illness or a hurt child.
She fumbled her words, trying to explain once again how she felt. How Signe’s gift should be preserved for future generations. How the responsibility of Signe’s will was both a burden and a blessing.
Finally she told him she’d called Severin and given him her decision. Then she waited for his reaction.
It didn’t take long. Henrik turned red with rage.
“How could you? We could have gotten millions for that house! Millions! Don’t you get it?” he yelled at her. “We could have gotten out of the town house! Bought a real house! How stupid can you be? Call Severin at once and tell him we’ve changed our minds. Perhaps he can still persuade those Swiss people to buy, in spite of everything!”
He banged his fist on the table. The coffee cups jumped in their saucers.
Nora looked at him in dismay. Again, he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. The father of her children cared only about money and possessions. What had happened to him?
The next thing she felt surprised her: she didn’t really care. As this calm detachment came over her, she wondered how to respond. To buy time, she brought the cup to her lips and took a few sips.
“Are you listening to me?” Henrik screamed. He leaned over the table, leaving only a few inches between their faces.
It felt like looking at a stranger, a stranger who moved and spoke like the Henrik she’d fallen in love with. But he’d become someone far from the kind of man she wanted to live with anymore.
“I heard you.” She remained calm and looked him in the eye. “I will not change my mind. My decision is final. It was Aunt Signe’s wish that I have the house, and I intend to keep it.”
“You’re a complete idiot!” Henrik said.
“No, I think you are!” Now she grew angry, too. “I’ve had enough!” she yelled. “I am done walking on eggshells trying to keep you happy! And your damned mother, too. I know where you got all this. From Monica! She’s the one who wants us to move, isn’t she?”
Henrik jumped as if she’d stabbed him with a needle.
“Keep my mother out of this! She has nothing to do with it!”
“She’s always got her nose in our business! I am sick to death of her snide comments. Nothing I ever do is good enough for her. No matter what, she wants things her way! And all these dire warnings about how the boys are raised . . . if I never see her again, it will be too soon!”
Suddenly Nora felt her face growing hot.
“I have no idea what you’re going on about. My mother has always supported us. You have to listen to me!”
A laugh escaped Nora. Supported them? Monica Linde?
When it came to his mother, Henrik was so blind she saw no way to reach him. Her mother-in-law was a nightmare, and everyone except her own son knew it.
Nora took a deep breath to regain her composure. Then she looked her husband in the eye and slowly said, “I do not intend to sell Aunt Signe’s house. No matter what you say. Are you listening to me?”
The blow surprised them both.
Henrik’s hand flew up and smacked her left cheek. She remained totally still, her eyes wide open, staring at him. The shock kept her from feeling the pain at first. After a moment, her cheek began to hurt, and she tasted blood in her mouth.
Henrik sat paralyzed before her.
A wave of sorrow came over her. What were they doing? Thank God the boys weren’t here.
“I had no idea you were the kind of man who would beat his wife over money,” she said.
Her steady voice and her self-control surprised her.
Henrik said nothing at all.
She used a napkin to blot the corner of her mouth. It wasn’t much, but the red stood out on the white paper. She folded the napkin so the spots of blood were not visible and put it back down.
Henrik still hadn’t said a word.
Nora felt heavy as lead.
“I’m going to pick up the boys and get them ready for bed,” she said. It took a great effort to speak.
The petrified statue that had been her husband came to life. He seemed totally confused, as if he had no idea what to do.
“I’m sorry, Nora,” he said. “Please forgive me . . . I don’t know what came over me.” Henrik touched her arm.
Nora remembered how last summer they’d argued about her job offer from Malmö. He’d gotten angry and walked out, leaving her standing there with tears in her eyes, begging him to stay.
Now their roles were reversed, a thought that did not make her feel any better.
With a last glance at the ferry glistening in the sunset, Nora got up.
“You can do whatever you want,” she said. “I’ll sleep on the guest bed in the boys’ room tonight. Go home to your mother if you don’t want to stay here.”
She hadn’t intended to say that last bitter sentence, but it slipped out anyway. Years of resentment paved the way.
“Actually I think it would be better if you left Sandhamn,” she added. “I think we need to be apart for now.”
She picked up the coffee tray and headed back to the house.
CHAPTER 83
It was almost nine p.m. Thomas yawned, happy to find he’d finished nearly all the forms and the reports hanging over his head. He’d gone through that stack of mail as well. Only one thick envelope remained.
The address was handwritten in neat printing. He turned it over. The return address read B. Rosensjöö.
Thomas frowned, checked the envelope again, and then picked up the scissors to cut it open. A pile of photographs spilled out along with a letter from Britta Rosensjöö. She’d found her cam
era at the harbor office in Sandhamn, at the lost and found. She’d probably set it down somewhere when they came back to port the day Juliander was killed. In all the excitement, she’d forgotten where she’d left it. Some kind person had turned it in to the lost and found, and she’d eventually thought to check there.
She included all her photographs from the start of the Round Gotland Race.
Thomas tried to recall Britta’s words in that Sandhamn interview right after the killing. She told him she’d taken photos that day but also that she’d misplaced her camera. They’d agreed she should keep searching and that she’d let him know if she found it. He’d forgotten.
Bad police work on my part, he thought. He should have remembered to follow up. Luckily Britta was not as forgetful.
He rubbed his eyes and shuffled through the photos: thirty-six in all. He recalled that thirty-six used to be standard on an old-fashioned roll of film.
The photos could be divided into two categories: one showing the boats on the starting line from different angles and the other of the people aboard her boat.
A number of pictures captured the von Hahne couple, the Bjärring family, Sylvia Juliander, and, of course, Hans Rosensjöö. In one of the photos, Britta stood beside her husband, but otherwise she was absent from the pictures. Not strange, considering she was the photographer.
Thomas looked for other views of the vessels carrying spectators, but he found nothing special in any of them. The TV coverage had served the same purpose.
Typical vacation pictures. Beautiful scenery and smiling people. They revealed nothing new.
He shoved the photos back into the envelope and set them aside. He was worn out, ready for home and bed.
FRIDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK
CHAPTER 84
The sun shining through a gap between the window shade and the sill woke Thomas up at six a.m. His two-room Gustavsberg apartment had one obvious advantage—it was light and sunny.
He hadn’t gotten to bed until midnight. On the way home he bought a calzone at Gustavsberg Center’s pizzeria. At home he drank a cold beer and ate the calzone while watching TV.
An old Clint Eastwood movie on Channel 2 caught his attention. Once it was over, he turned in. But he had trouble falling asleep and then had strange dreams about the investigation—Britta Rosensjöö’s photos flickered like flames in his mind.
His guilt about Carina troubled him, too.
Now his eyes blinked open and he realized he would get no more sleep. He might as well get up and go into work.
Thomas was at his desk by seven thirty. His office felt pleasantly cool, and he took his time spreading out the contents of Britta Rosensjöö’s envelope.
His subconscious nagged at him. He had missed something.
He focused on the photographs again. Yesterday evening he’d been too tired to note the time stamp on the corners. Now he could see exactly when they were taken. He sorted them by time.
The photographs started at eleven thirty in the morning, about an hour before the race began. The last was at thirteen minutes past twelve, just before Bjärring moved his boat next to Thomas’s police boat.
He kept studying them, searching for a clue.
And then he saw it, clear as day.
Now he understood why Britta Rosensjöö’s hotel room had been broken into—for the camera.
Britta had taken pictures at regular intervals during the half hour before the start of the race. Everyone on board was photographed. Even Britta was in one photo. But between 11:57 and 12:03, one passenger went missing. One person they could now prove had not been with the others the moment Juliander had been shot.
Six minutes.
Long enough to go to the forepeak, assemble the rifle, open the hatch, and fire off the killing shot. From a perfect position, too, thanks to an experienced skipper who wanted to give his friends the best view of the starting line.
Thomas felt his pulse speed up.
He now had the evidence they needed in his hand.
He picked up his phone to call Margit. He hoped she was already on her way into the station.
CHAPTER 85
“Do you think they’ll be up this early in the morning in August?” Margit asked.
Thomas concentrated on navigating the crisscross of one-way streets through Östermalm.
“Whoever designed this street layout was a complete idiot,” he muttered as he circled Karlaplan the third time in search of the right street.
“Do you think they’re even in town?” Margit asked. “They might be out in the country.”
“What?” Thomas ignored a “Do Not Enter” sign and turned down the street where the von Hahne couple lived.
He parked the car, and they walked quickly up the stairs. They rang the bell several times, and a young girl in a light-green robe finally answered. She looked like she’d just gotten out of bed, and stared at Margit and Thomas in confusion as they introduced themselves.
“Mom and Dad aren’t home,” she said in answer to their question. “They’re out of town.” She smiled in a friendly way.
This must be Emma, Margit thought. She resembled her father with her blond hair and clean features. Elegant and self-confident. But innocent, at least for now.
“Do you know where they are?” asked Margit.
“They’re hunting on the Bjärring estate, not far from Katrineholm.”
“Hunting?” Margit asked. “At this time of year? I thought hunting season didn’t begin until September.”
Emma let out a light laugh.
“They’re hunting wild boar. That season is year-round. It’s their tradition to hunt during the day and hold a crayfish party at night.”
“When did they leave?” Thomas asked.
“Yesterday. They’ll be home on Sunday.”
“Are there any other RSYC board members there?”
“Sure. They always hang out together.”
Thomas frowned, and Margit understood his concern.
A killer with a rifle in the forest. Not good. Who was next on the list?
“Do you have an address or a telephone number for the Bjärring estate?” Margit asked.
Emma shook her head, but then her face lit up.
“Wait. I can check Mama’s address book in the study if you want. I’ve been out there myself lots of times, but I can’t remember exactly where it is.”
“Please. We’d be grateful.”
Emma went back into the apartment while Thomas and Margit waited in the large entryway. It was a typical apartment for the area. High ceilings, beautiful mirrored doors, elegant sconces on the walls along with a number of framed paintings. A reminder this was the home of an art dealer.
To the right, they could see a room with bookshelves covering the walls and oxblood leather armchairs arranged before them. An oriental rug in warm red tones covered the floor.
Margit took it all in: the fireplace nearby, invitations with gold lettering set on a silver plate on the mantle.
A few minutes later, Emma came back with a handwritten note. She held it out to Thomas.
“Here’s the address.”
“Thanks very much,” Thomas said. Without wasting another moment, he turned to go.
“Wait,” Emma said. “Sorry for asking, but has something happened?” She watched them nervously. “I mean, there’s been so much going on lately . . .”
Margit tried to give a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry,” she said, hearing the false notes in her voice. She didn’t want to worry the girl. “We’ve got some more questions for your parents, that’s all.”
She must have sounded convincing, because the girl smiled politely and explained she just wanted to make sure. As they went down the steps, she said good-bye and closed the door behind them.
Thomas glanced anxiously at his watch. It would take at least an hour and a half to drive to Katrineholm, even longer if they got stuck in rush-hour traffic.
Enough time for another RSYC board
member to die.
Enough time to make all their work fruitless.
“Should we call ahead to alert the local police?” asked Margit.
Thomas shook his head, though it went against his instincts.
“We’ll put a stop to this ourselves.”
Thomas couldn’t drive them there quickly enough. He grew more frustrated with every passing minute. He took Essinge highway, past Kungens Kurva, Huddinge, Södertälje, Nyköping—speeding all the way in the left lane.
Margit popped one stick of gum after another, chewing furiously, watching the clock on the instrument panel. They couldn’t allow another shooting. They had to get there first this time.
Finally they turned off the highway and continued until they saw a sign marking a private drive lined by oak trees. The road led up to a manor house.
Bjärringsgård was an old estate from the eighteenth century, with two wings on either side, painted yellow with white trim.
Thomas stopped on a circular driveway in front of the house. They jogged up and pushed the doorbell. The old-fashioned chime rang through the house.
Nothing happened.
Thomas rang the bell again. After a long interval, a gray-haired middle-aged woman wearing a white apron opened the door.
She looked at them quizzically.
“We’re from the police. We’re looking for the von Hahnes,” Thomas said. He held up his ID.
The woman shook her head.
“I’m sorry. I’m the only one in the house right now. They’re all in the forest and won’t be back until five.”
Thomas shifted his weight impatiently.
“We must find them as soon as we can,” he explained. “Do you have any idea where they are right now?”
“The hunting party will break for lunch at eleven thirty,” she said. “You can go along to the meadow there and wait for them.”
