by Viveca Sten
Maria stepped aside to let Thomas through. She pointed to the narrow strip of sand, no more than twelve feet wide, which separated them from the water.
“There.”
Something resembling the back of a person lying down could be seen on the ground in front of them. It looked as if the face was buried in the snow. The gloved right hand was extended above the head, pointing in the direction of Lökholmen.
Thomas tried to work out what he was looking at. Had the deceased fallen over? Or was the outstretched hand a sign that the woman had somehow tried to defend herself?
Someone had started to brush the snow off the body, but had stopped. The upper part of the torso was almost uncovered, while the legs were still buried under a thick white blanket. He could just make out the shape of a low heel.
Presumably it was either the cleaner or the guy from the gas station who’d tried to remove the snow, but then realized it was too late—and that nothing should be touched until the police arrived.
How long had the body been lying there? It had stopped snowing during the early hours of Christmas Day; judging by the amount of snow covering the legs, the deceased must have been on the shore for over twenty-four hours.
The pale woolen hat was almost impossible to pick out if you didn’t know what you were looking for. Together with the gray jacket, it made the body blend in perfectly with its surroundings; it was pure chance that someone had spotted it. Otherwise it could have lain undiscovered until the thaw set in.
Thomas stepped down from the decking and dropped to his knees to take a closer look. As always it was strange to see a corpse that was frozen stiff. He always had the weirdest feeling that it might shatter at any moment if he touched it, as if it were made of glass.
He hesitated, even though he knew perfectly well that it didn’t matter.
Gently he brushed away a little snow with his gloved hand so that he could see something of the face.
The woman’s eyes were closed, the dark eyebrows white with rime frost. Her hair was sticking out from beneath her hat, brown with the odd strand of gray.
In the cold, washed-out winter light, he noticed a few dark hairs on the upper lip, where a series of fine lines suggested a long-term smoking habit. Deep furrows ran from the mouth to the nostrils.
He tried to assess her age—around fifty, maybe a little older. The skin was slightly coarse, as if it had often been exposed to the sun. There was something familiar about this woman, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.
Her eyes were closed, her face without makeup, apart from a little mascara smudged beneath one eye. No lipstick. Wouldn’t she have made more of an effort if she were a guest in the hotel, about to enjoy Christmas dinner in the restaurant? Not if she was a local, he thought. Could she be an islander?
The skin was grayish-white, but something black had trickled from one corner of her mouth and down her neck. Thomas sniffed. Vomit? It was impossible to be sure in this cold, but he wondered if she’d been intoxicated when she died. A hotel guest who’d gotten drunk and gone outside for some reason, in spite of the weather.
Too early to say. He straightened up.
“We did our best to cordon off the area as soon as possible,” Maria said quickly.
“Do you know if she’s one of your guests?” Thomas asked.
Only now did he notice that the assistant manager was younger than he’d thought, maybe thirty, thirty-two. She seemed bewildered, on the verge of tears. Nothing in her training would have prepared her for a situation like this.
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you think you could find out?”
She still looked at a loss.
“Check with reception or the cleaning staff; see if anyone noticed anything,” Thomas went on. “Find out if a guest has gone missing.”
Maria nodded mechanically and took out her cell phone. She moved a short distance away, speaking quietly.
Thomas tried to work out what needed to be done. The forensic technicians were on their way, along with officers who would secure the scene. It would take several hours to process the body.
It was too soon to know if they were dealing with a crime; it could just as easily be a nocturnal walk that had ended badly. However, the scene had to be carefully examined and documented, then the woman would be taken to the forensic lab in Solna, where the autopsy would take place.
Maria was back. “I’ve spoken to both reception and housekeeping. There’s one guest who didn’t sleep in her bed.”
“How do they know?”
“Apparently the room hasn’t been cleaned for two days; there was some kind of mix-up between the different shifts, and nobody went in yesterday.” Maria’s expression was apologetic. “Today one of the cleaners discovered that the bed was untouched, but all the guest’s possessions appeared to be there, so she contacted the head of housekeeping just to be on the safe side.” A heavy sigh. “That’s it—no one else has contacted reception to report anyone missing.”
“Did you get the name of this guest?”
“Jeanette Thiels. Apparently she checked in the day before yesterday, on Christmas Eve.”
Jeanette Thiels. Thomas turned the name over in his mind; it sounded familiar.
“Where was she staying?”
“In one of the smaller apartments behind the pool area—number twelve.”
“Can we go and take a look?”
“Sure—I just need to pick up the master key from reception.”
“I’ll wait here.”
Thomas turned to the security guard; he seemed unaffected by the cold, even though he must have been out here for quite some time.
“Would you mind staying here until my colleagues arrive? They shouldn’t be too long.”
The guard shrugged. “No problem.”
He was well-built, and Thomas sensed that his bulk was due to muscle, not fat. His neck was thick inside the collar of his black jacket.
Thomas glanced at his watch: eleven fifteen. The sun was beginning to find its way through the thinning gray clouds. He positioned himself next to the body with his back to the sea and scanned the area.
A faint indentation was visible in the snow, a track leading from the clump of pine trees to the spot where he was standing. It was too wide to have been made by a person simply walking along.
You must have crawled here, he thought. You started off over there, and you crawled here. Presumably you collapsed and tried to keep going, but you didn’t make it. Were you trying to hide?
CHAPTER 17
“How many apartments do you have?” Thomas asked when Maria Syrén returned from reception with a bunch of keys.
“Twenty. They were built at the end of the nineties, and they’re very popular with our guests. There are different sizes, from those with two beds to Sjövillan, which accommodates ten.”
She sounded better now; maybe it was easier to talk about everyday matters.
They headed toward the pool, past the minigolf course, almost indistinguishable beneath the snow. After a minute or so, they reached a group of red wooden buildings behind a fence. Thomas stopped and looked around. The distance from the location where the body had been found was no more than seventy or eighty yards.
A single lamppost over by the pine trees caught his attention.
“Is that the only lighting in the area?” he asked.
Maria nodded. “I’m afraid so—it’s very dark in the winter. We’ve talked about installing more lights, but we haven’t gotten around to it.”
She turned and set off along a narrow path inside the fence, past a row of chalet-style apartments on the left-hand side. There was a number above each door, and she stopped when they reached twelve.
“This is it—I’ll just knock to be on the safe side.” She banged on the door and called out: “Hello—anyone there?”
After a few seconds, she inserted the key and turned it.
“Do you want to go first?” she said, stepping aside befo
re Thomas had the chance to answer.
He looked into the compact, white-painted hallway. The bathroom lay straight ahead, and on the right a small bedroom was almost completely filled by a double bed. The living room was on the left. The place was both pleasant and functional.
He took a couple of steps into the bedroom. There was an indentation in the middle of the bed, suggesting that someone had been lying on top of the covers. On the floor over by the wall, he saw a black purse with a shoulder strap. It appeared to be well used; the leather was worn around the edges, and the clasp had lost any semblance of sheen.
He bent down and picked up the purse, keeping his gloves on, then opened it very carefully.
He found a wallet with the edge of a driver’s license just visible. Thomas took it out and read the name: Jeanette Thiels.
The photograph showed a woman with short hair, staring at him with blank eyes. The ID number at the bottom revealed her age: she was born in 1955. In spite of the unflattering image, there could be no doubt—this was the woman in the snow. Now he remembered why he’d recognized her: Jeannette Thiels was a well-known reporter, a war correspondent who sometimes appeared on TV.
He slipped the license back in the wallet and put down the purse exactly where he’d found it. Then he went to the bathroom and opened the door.
White tiles, a shower with a white plastic curtain, a sink to the left. Everything was clean and fresh, and smelled of lemon and detergent.
He moved on to the living room. It wasn’t spacious, but it did feel cramped. Beneath the window stood a beige two-seater sofa next to a dark leather armchair. A rectangular coffee table completed the furnishings.
“Have you found anything?” Maria asked, the strain evident in her voice. She was standing in the doorway, as if she was afraid to touch anything. Clumps of snow had fallen from her boots and were melting into the dark wall-to-wall carpet. Thomas noticed that she was staring at an open suitcase lying on the armchair. It was surrounded by discarded items of clothing. There was a top draped over the arm and a messy pile of underwear on the floor. Several bottles of pills had fallen out onto the chair.
Someone appeared to have been searching for something. Searching frantically.
Thomas walked over to the case; the remaining contents were in a heap.
He had no difficulty in reaching a decision.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said to Maria, taking her by the arm. “This apartment is now a crime scene and will be cordoned off and examined by our forensics team. No one is allowed in until they’re done.”
CHAPTER 18
Henrik turned around before heading up the gangway to the Vaxholm ferry, and Nora raised her hand to wave good-bye.
“See you soon, Dad!” Simon called out, while Adam stood in silence beside his brother.
Nora didn’t know if she was sad or relieved at Henrik’s departure. The previous evening she’d gone to bed early, straight after dinner, making the excuse that she was tired after getting up so early for the morning service. In fact she wanted to avoid being alone with Henrik, but wasn’t prepared to admit that even to herself.
She pulled Simon close.
“Shall we go home and have a hot chocolate? I’m frozen!”
Simon nodded. Adam was already heading back to the Brand villa, shoulders hunched. Was he upset because Henrik had left, or was it something else? It wasn’t always easy to tell these days.
Nora missed the close relationship they used to have, the conversations at the kitchen table with her eldest son. Now it was mostly monosyllabic responses or truculent comments when he thought Simon was getting away with something. According to Adam, the boys should be expected to do exactly the same amount of household chores, even though Simon was four years younger. However hard Nora tried, one of them almost always ended up feeling as if they’d been treated unfairly.
She sighed. Thank goodness for Simon, who was still her little boy. But he was growing up fast—next year he would be going to junior high.
Sometimes she wished she and Henrik had had another child, maybe a little girl who would still want to sit on her knee and cuddle. Her hand found its way to her stomach, instinctively stroking it outside her jacket. She was forty-one and divorced. There would be no more babies.
“Can we watch a movie?” Simon asked cheerfully, oblivious to her gloomy thoughts. The tip of his nose was red with the cold.
“What do you feel like?”
“Donald Duck—no, The Lion King!”
They caught up with Adam by the grocery store, and Nora tucked her arm under his.
“Are you hungry?” she said, trying to shake off her melancholy mood. “How about hot chocolate and pastries?”
“Hmm.”
He wasn’t even listening; he was plugged into his iPod, which had been a Christmas present from Henrik, and the only thing Adam had asked for.
A movement over by the customs jetty caught Nora’s attention. Two police officers were coming toward them carrying something that looked like a stretcher, but the air ambulance helicopter wasn’t on the helipad.
What had happened now?
Nora tried to see what was on the stretcher, but she could only make out a pile of blankets. The officers seemed to be on their way to the police launch, which was moored at the quayside down below the Customs House.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Simon wanted to know, tugging at her jacket.
Nora pointed. “You see those police officers over there? I’m just wondering what’s going on.”
Simon turned to look, then suddenly said: “There’s Thomas!”
Nora saw a familiar figure approaching from the direction of the grocery store. Thomas was moving fast and speaking on his cell phone, an expression of intense concentration on his face. His frozen breath was visible with every word.
“Thomas!” Simon called out, racing toward his godfather.
Nora could see how taken aback Thomas was, but he stopped and squeezed the boy’s shoulder as he continued to talk.
Nora waited for him to finish his conversation.
“Hi there,” she said when Thomas came over. Adam had already disappeared around the corner. “What are you doing here?”
Thomas grimaced. “There’s been an incident at the Sailors Hotel. A police matter.”
“But it’s still the Christmas holiday,” Nora said.
Thomas managed a faint smile. “Bad things happen at Christmastime, too, believe it or not.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“We’re going to have pastries and hot chocolate when we get home,” Simon announced. “Do you want to come?”
Thomas shook his head. “Sorry, Simon—I’ve got a few things to take care of right now.”
He glanced toward the police launch; Nora could see that he was stressed and was trying to be polite.
“Stop by if you have time later on,” she said. “Henrik’s gone back to the mainland, so it’s just the three of us.” She was well aware that Thomas preferred to avoid her ex-husband; he had almost been angrier with Henrik than she was when the divorce became inevitable.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to make it, but thanks anyway.”
“But you’re all still coming over on New Year’s Eve?”
Before Thomas had time to respond, his cell phone rang again. He turned away, but Nora heard every word he said: “I’m on my way to the station; we need to inform the family as soon as possible.” He listened attentively, then added: “The launch is taking the body to the lab.”
CHAPTER 19
Thomas was sitting in the passenger seat trying to see out as the police launch swung into the narrow inlet leading to its home harbor on the island of Djurö. The only sound inside the cockpit was the regular swish of the windshield wipers.
The sea was still choppy; they had had to slow down as they crossed Kanholm Bay and met the long, sucking waves remaining from the previous day’s storm.
He spotted his colleague, Margit Grankvis
t, standing beneath one of the streetlamps on the quayside, next to the black body-transport vehicle that would take Jeanette Thiels to the forensic lab in Solna. He didn’t see the driver, who no doubt was sitting in the cab for as long as possible to stay warm. Even the windows of the large building normally used for police and coastguard operations were completely dark in the deserted harbor.
The launch rounded the end of the jetty and hove to with a dull rumble. As soon as it stopped, Thomas nodded to his uniformed colleagues and stepped ashore. He hurried over to Margit, who had both arms wrapped around her body. Her padded jacket was zipped right up to her chin, with a thick scarf tucked inside.
“Finally,” she said. “I thought you’d never get here. The Old Man wants a meeting in half an hour, so we need to get going. Until we know different, we’re treating this as a homicide. Thiels is so well known that we don’t have a choice. He’s already spoken to the prosecutor.”
Without waiting for an answer, Margit set off toward her car. “As soon as we go public with the fact that we suspect it’s murder, the media will go crazy,” she said over her shoulder as she unlocked the Volvo and opened the driver’s door. “Jeanette Thiels was one of this country’s leading foreign correspondents. She’s reported from more war zones than any other female journalist in Sweden.”
Margit fastened her seat belt. “If she has been murdered, I’m guessing there’s a connection with her profession. What’s your take on it?”
Thomas had already been thinking along those lines. He remembered the series of articles Jeanette had written about the war in Kosovo, in the former Yugoslavia. They had caught Pernilla’s attention, and she had shown them to him. They had been unusually well written, and Jeanette had given a voice to many women in the depths of despair. Pernilla had bought the evening paper every day for as long as the series lasted.
That must have been in 1999, he thought. Nine years ago. He had just turned thirty-two back then; Jeanette had been forty-four, just a few years older than he was now.
In his peripheral vision, he could see the stretcher being carried ashore.
