Still Waters (Sandhamn Murders Book 1)
Page 1
FORTHCOMING IN THE SANDHAMN MURDERS SERIES
Closed Circles
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2008 Viveca Sten
Translation copyright © 2015 Marlaine Delargy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as I de lugnaste vatten by Forum in Sweden in 2008. Translated from Swedish by Marlaine Delargy. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2015.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503945708
ISBN-10: 1503945707
Cover design by Kimberly Glyder
For my brave mother
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
MONDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
THURSDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 7
TUESDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 8
WEDNESDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
THURSDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 11
FRIDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
SATURDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
SUNDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
MONDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
TUESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 27
WEDNESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
THURSDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
FRIDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
SATURDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
SUNDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
MONDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
TUESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
WEDNESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
THURSDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
FRIDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
SATURDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
SUNDAY, THE SIXTH WEEK
CHAPTER 80
AFTERWORD
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
PROLOGUE
Everything was completely still and peaceful as only winter can be, when the archipelago belongs to those who live there, and the raucous summer visitors have not yet taken over the islands.
The water was dark and shining, the cold of winter lying heavily on the surface. Odd patches of snow rested on the rocks. A few mergansers stood out like dots against the sky, and the sun was low on the horizon.
“Help me,” he yelled. “Help me, for God’s sake!”
Someone threw a tangle of rope out to him, and he rushed to loop it around his body in the ice-cold water.
“Pull me up,” he said, panting as he grasped the side of the boat with fingers that had already begun to stiffen from the cold.
When the anchor attached to the rope was thrown over the rail, he seemed more confused than anything, as if he didn’t understand that its weight would soon drag him to the bottom.
That he only had a few seconds left to live before his body followed the heavy lump of iron.
His hand breaking the surface of the water, tangled in the abandoned fishing net, was the last visible thing. The waters closed over it with an almost imperceptible sigh.
Then there was only the sound of the engine, as the boat turned to make its way back to the harbor.
MONDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 1
“Here, Pixie! Come here!”
The man gazed irritably at the dachshund as she ran down the beach; she had been cooped up on the boat for several days. He really should have kept her on the leash. Dogs were not allowed to run loose in the summer on Sandhamn, a small island in the Stockholm archipelago, but he didn’t have the heart to observe the rule when the little dog was so happy to run free.
Besides, there was hardly anybody in sight so early in the morning. Those living in the few houses along the shoreline had hardly woken up. The only sound came from the screaming gulls. The air was fresh and clear, the overnight rain had given everything a newly washed feel, and the sun was already warm, promising another glorious day.
The sand was tightly packed and pleasant to walk on. The low-growing pines gave way to ryegrass and wormwood, mixed with clusters of yellow flowers. Tangled heaps of seaweed had washed up at the water’s edge, and over toward Falkenskär a single yacht could be seen traveling east.
Where had that damn dog gone?
He followed her barking. Pixie was yapping, her little tail wagging from side to side. She was standing by a rock sniffing at something, but he couldn’t see what it was. He went over to have a look, noticing an unpleasant smell. As he got closer it turned into a sour, suffocating miasma.
On the ground lay something that looked like a bundle of old rags.
He bent down to shoo the dog away and realized it was an old fishing net full of seaweed. Suddenly he understood what he was seeing.
The fishing net ended in two bare feet, both of which were missing several toes. Only bones protruded from what was left of the shriveled, greenish skin.
Before he could stop himself, his stomach turned inside out. A surge of pink vomit poured out and splashed his shoes.
When he was able to stand upright again, he used a little seawater to sluice out his mouth. Then he got out his cell phone and called the police.
CHAPTER 2
Inspector Thomas Andreasson was really looking for
ward to his vacation—four weeks in his summer cottage on the island of Harö in the Stockholm archipelago. Morning dips in the sea. Paddling his kayak. Barbecues. Trips to Sandhamn to visit his godson.
Thomas liked to take his vacations late in the year; the water was warmer, and the weather was usually better. But right now, just after midsummer, it was difficult not to long for an escape from the city, to be out among the islands.
Ever since he had started working with the violent crime unit in Nacka Municipality the previous year, he’d had his hands full. There was an enormous amount to learn, despite the fact that he had been on the police force for fourteen years, the last eight with the maritime police.
During that time, he had sailed most of the boats used by the maritime police, from the CB90 to Skerfe boats and RIBs. He knew the archipelago like the back of his hand. He knew exactly where the unmarked reefs were and which shallows were particularly dangerous at low tide.
As a maritime police officer he had seen a great deal and heard many fantastic explanations as to why certain individuals sailed their boats as they did, especially when it came to owners who’d had too much to drink.
He’d handled everything from stolen boats and vandalism to lost foreigners and runaway teenagers. The local population used to complain that people were fishing illegally in private waters. There wasn’t much the maritime police could do about that, other than turn a blind eye when the owner of the waters took the intruders’ nets and kept them as compensation.
On the whole he had been very happy with his job, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that little Emily was on the way, he would have probably never considered applying for a post in the city.
Afterward, when it had all been for nothing, he hadn’t had the strength to move. He had barely managed to live through each day.
But life on the police force in Nacka was intense and fast-paced, and he found himself surprisingly at home, even if he sometimes—particularly during the summer—found himself longing for the freedom of island life.
Margit Grankvist, his colleague and a considerably more experienced officer, peeked her head into the office and interrupted his thoughts.
“Thomas, come and see the old man with me. They’ve found a body on Sandhamn.”
Thomas looked up.
The old man was the head of criminal investigation in Nacka, Detective Chief Inspector Göran Persson. He shared the prime minister’s name, a fact he didn’t appreciate in the slightest. He was quick to point out that his political views did not correspond with those of the prime minister. He was not, however, prepared to expound on those views. He had a somewhat portly figure, similar to that of the prime minister, and displayed a distinct lack of enthusiasm for all the comparisons.
He was an old-school officer, a man of few words, but he created a good atmosphere and was valued by his colleagues. He was conscientious and knowledgeable, and had a great deal of experience.
When Thomas walked into Persson’s office, Margit was already sitting there with her ever-present cup of coffee. The department’s coffeemaker produced a liquid that was positively toxic. How Margit could knock it back in such quantities was a mystery. Thomas had switched to drinking tea for the first time in his life because of it.
“The dead body of a male has been found on the northwest beach on Sandhamn,” said Persson. “Evidently the body is in bad shape; it’s been in the water for quite some time.”
Margit made a note on her pad before looking up. “Who found it?”
“Some poor sailor. Apparently he’s really shaken up. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He contacted us about an hour ago, just before seven this morning. He was out walking his dog when he stumbled across the body.”
“Any suspicion of murder?” asked Thomas, taking out his own notebook. “Any signs of abuse or violence?”
“Too early to say. Apparently the body was entangled in some kind of fishing net. Anyway, the maritime police are on their way to investigate, and they’ve organized transport to bring the body in.”
Persson looked at Thomas. “I seem to remember. Do you still have that house on Harö? That’s next to Sandhamn, isn’t it?”
Thomas nodded. “It takes about ten to fifteen minutes to travel between the islands.”
“Excellent. Local knowledge. I’d like you to go over to Sandhamn and take a look, maybe say hello to your old colleagues.”
A cunning smile played on the DCI’s lips.
“Is there any indication we should be opening a murder investigation?” asked Thomas, glancing at his boss.
“For the time being it’s being treated as an unexplained death. If it turns into a murder investigation, Margit will lead it, but for now I think you can take care of it.”
“Suits me,” said Margit. “I’m up to here with all the reports that have to be in before my vacation. You carry on!” She nodded for emphasis. It was obvious that the countdown to the holidays had begun. Just a few more days of paperwork, then freedom beckoned in the form of a rented cottage on the west coast and four weeks with her family.
Persson looked at the clock. “I’ve been in touch with the police helicopter. They’re still in town, so they can pick you and the technicians up in twenty minutes. You just need to get to the helipad at Slussen. You can get a lift back with the maritime police. Or take the Waxholmsbolaget ferry,” he said with a grin.
“Fine by me,” said Thomas. “You’re welcome to talk me into a helicopter ride any day.”
Persson got to his feet, indicating the briefing was over. “That’s settled, then. Come and see me when you get back so I can get a status report.” He stopped in the doorway, scratching his chin. “Play things down a bit out there, Thomas. It’s the height of tourist season. We don’t want a load of hysterical visitors and journalists getting ideas. You know what the tabloids are like. They’d love to swap their tired old summer standby of sex tips for speculation about a murder in the archipelago.”
Margit gave Thomas an encouraging smile.
“You’ll do a great job. Give me a call if you have any questions. And remember not to come to any conclusions until forensics have had their say.”
Thomas pulled on the leather jacket he always wore, irrespective of the weather.
“Do you think the helicopter could drop me off on Harö when we’re done?” he asked in passing on his way out.
“Of course. If the official government plane could fly Thomas Bodström to Greece for his summer holiday, I’m sure the Stockholm Police can fly Thomas Andreasson out to his summer cottage.”
The DCI grinned at his own wit.
Margit shook her head but couldn’t help smiling. “Talk later. Say hello to the islands for me.”
She waved good-bye.
CHAPTER 3
“Hello.”
Nora Linde automatically answered her cell phone before realizing it was the phone alarm sounding, not the phone ringing. Nora stretched. She turned over and looked at her husband lying in bed next to her.
Henrik was breathing peacefully, like a child. Nora envied his ability to sleep undisturbed through absolutely anything. The only thing that woke him was his hospital pager—when it went off, he was wide awake in a second.
He still looked almost the same as when they’d gotten married nearly ten years ago. Dark-brown hair, muscular abs and biceps from years of competitive sailing, sensitive doctor’s hands with long, beautiful fingers. Nora didn’t begrudge Henrik his stylish profile with its elegant, almost classical Greek nose. On the other hand, she thought it was wasted on a man. At least that’s what she used to say to cheer herself up, because her own nose was far too short and stubby for her taste. A few strands of gray were visible in Henrik’s dark hair, a reminder that he had recently turned thirty-seven, just as she had.
Her cell phone buzzed again.
Nora sighed. Getting up at a quarter to eig
ht Monday through Friday wasn’t her idea of a vacation, but if you had children on an island like Sandhamn, those children attended swimming lessons at the times available.
With a yawn she pulled on her robe and walked into the children’s room. Simon, who was six, was lying with his bottom in the air and his head buried deep in the pillow. It was hard to believe he could actually breathe in that position.
Adam, who had just turned ten, had kicked off the covers and was sprawled diagonally across the bed. His white-blond hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the back of his neck.
Both were fast asleep.
Simon’s swimming lesson began at nine o’clock, Adam’s at ten thirty, so she just had time to get home with Simon and make sure Adam had some breakfast before he set off on his bike.
Perfect timing, in other words.
In spite of everything, she would probably miss the contact with the other mothers and fathers when Simon was also old enough to cycle there on his own. It was pleasant, sitting by the edge of the pool chatting as the children practiced their strokes.
She had attended swimming lessons as a child with many of the parents, so she knew most of them. At that time there had been no question of using a heated pool and warming up in the sauna afterward. They had shivered their way into the water at Fläskberget, the beach on the north side of the island where the swimming school had been until the pool area was built.
She could still remember how incredibly cold it was. But she had gained her swimming badges in water with a temperature of sixty-one degrees; those badges were still around somewhere. Presumably at her parents’ house, just a few hundred yards away.
Nora went into the bathroom to get ready. As she brushed her teeth, she sleepily examined her reflection in the mirror. Tousled reddish-blond hair cut into a bob. Snub nose. Gray eyes. A body shaped by plenty of exercise; some might even call it boyish.
She was quite happy with her appearance, for the most part. Above all she liked her long, shapely legs, the result of many years of jogging. She found it so easy to think while she jogged. Her breasts weren’t exactly something to shout about, particularly after two children, but then again, you could get push-up bras these days. That helped a bit.