In Harm's Way

by Viveca Sten

  “You know she was a journalist?”

  “I do. That looks like a computer cable to me,” he said, nodding in the direction of a white cord snaking from a socket.

  Thomas went over to the desk, trying to picture Jeanette tapping away on her laptop. There should be notes, something to show what she’d been working on.

  He opened a drawer: pens, paper clips, tape, stamps. In the next one, he found cards and envelopes, Post-it notes in a range of colors, old postcards of Stockholm. No notepad.

  “Let’s take a look at the bathroom,” he said.

  The recently refurbished room had a black-and-white color scheme: black tiles on the floor, shiny white ones on the walls. There was a generous bath, with bottles of expensive shampoo and bubble bath arranged on a glass shelf above it. Jeanette obviously hadn’t cut corners in here; everything was new and exclusive. It was something of a mismatch with the impersonal starkness of the rest of the apartment, the clothes dropped on the bedroom floor.

  Maybe this had been her way of switching off? Relaxing in a hot bath, clearing her mind after a long day?

  Thomas opened the cabinet above the sink and found an array of cosmetics, but significantly fewer products than Pernilla had. A night cream, a small bottle of French perfume, mascara, unopened, in the back.

  The top two shelves were filled with bottles of medication, some bearing red warning triangles. There were also nose drops, and several boxes of Alvedon and Magnecyl.

  “Look at this,” he said to Margit, stepping aside so that she could see. She started picking up the bottles.

  “Zofran,” she read aloud. “What’s that? And folic acid?”

  “No idea.” Thomas turned to Nilsson, who was waiting outside the bathroom. “How about you?”

  “Haven’t a clue, but we’ll take the whole lot with us. I’ll make a list and email it to Sachsen; he should be able to help.”

  “Send us a copy, too,” Margit said.

  They were interrupted by a tentative knock on the front door. A woman in her fifties was standing there; she was wearing a black padded jacket and sturdy winter boots with salt marks on the leather. Her long black hair was gathered up in a bun.

  “Excuse me,” she began. “Who are you, and why are you in Jeanette’s apartment?”

  “Police,” Margit replied. “And who are you?”

  The woman looked horrified. “Anne-Marie—I live in the apartment above.”

  She quickly extended her hand to Thomas, who was nearest. Her palm was cold and damp.

  “Has something happened? Jeanette and I are good friends; we’ve been neighbors for almost ten years. I usually take care of her mail when she’s away. She was supposed to come and see me today, but she didn’t turn up. I’m a little worried, to be honest.”

  The words came cascading out.

  “Could we come upstairs and have a little chat?” Thomas asked. “It’s kind of busy down here.” He gestured toward Nilsson’s colleagues, who were finishing off their work.

  A shadow passed across Anne-Marie’s face when she saw the forensic technicians in their protective overalls.

  “Something bad has happened, hasn’t it? I knew it, I just knew it.”

  CHAPTER 24

  “Here we are,” said Anne-Marie, pointing to the middle door. The nameplate above the letter box said “Hansen.”

  As she led them inside, Thomas could see that her apartment was virtually identical to Jeanette’s. However, this one was cozy and beautifully decorated for Christmas, with Advent candles in the windows and a festive centerpiece on the coffee table.

  “Come on in,” she said, taking off her jacket. Underneath it she was wearing a gray cardigan over a black T-shirt. “Can I get you a coffee?”

  Thomas was about to refuse, but Margit got in first.

  “Please—if it’s no trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  Anne-Marie sounded stressed, in spite of what she’d said. Maybe the offer of coffee was a way of pretending everything was fine. It was polite to offer visitors a drink, even if those visitors were two police officers bringing news she didn’t want to hear.

  “I only have to press a button,” she assured them. “I have a machine that does everything.”

  They followed her into a kitchen that was like Jeanette’s, yet quite different. Anne-Marie had removed the old larder, and the extra space made the room look much bigger. She took two mugs out of a cupboard, then went over to the coffee machine.

  “Black?” she said, without turning around.

  “Please,” Margit said again.

  “A drop of milk in mine, if you have some,” Thomas said.

  Anne-Marie pressed a button; the machine made a grinding noise, and the wonderful aroma of coffee spread through the air.

  “Maybe you’d like to sit down,” Margit suggested.

  Anne-Marie took a seat at the table, inhaling deeply as if she was gathering herself. “Why are you here?”

  Margit’s expression was full of sympathy. “I’m afraid Jeanette is dead. Her body was discovered this morning.”

  Anne-Marie buried her face in her hands. “When did it happen?”

  “We’re not sure,” Thomas said. “She was found outdoors, which means we’re not able to pinpoint the exact time—not yet anyway. Unfortunately we suspect that her death was not due to natural causes.”

  He gave Anne-Marie a minute or two, then he put down his cup and fixed his gaze on her ashen face.

  “Why did you say, ‘I knew it’ before we left her apartment?”

  Anne-Marie rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “She always put herself in such danger. I was just waiting for something terrible to happen to her, but I always thought it would be when she was working overseas—not here in Sweden.”

  The tears spilled over.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, grabbing a piece of paper towel and dabbing at her eyes.

  “We realize this is a shock,” Margit said gently.

  “When did you last see her?” Thomas asked.

  “Three days ago—the evening of the twenty-third. We had a glass of wine together—we’re both on our own.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Christmas isn’t much of a celebration when you don’t have a husband or children.”

  “And where did you spend Christmas?”

  “At my brother’s in Uppsala. I went on the morning of Christmas Eve, and got back a few hours ago.”

  “You said that you and Jeanette were planning to meet up today?” Margit said.

  Anne-Marie nodded. “We’d arranged to have dinner together at six thirty. When she didn’t turn up, I got worried; Jeanette was always so punctual. I rang the bell several times, but no one answered. I tried her cell phone, but it was switched off. Now I understand why she didn’t pick up . . .”

  “Do you know what she was working on?” Thomas asked. “We heard she’d been away a lot lately.”

  “She was overseas for most of the fall.”

  “Any idea where?”

  “I think she was traveling. I had a postcard from Morocco, but I know she spent some time in Eastern Europe. She was in Bosnia at the beginning of December.”

  “Bosnia?” Margit repeated. “What was she doing there?”

  “I’ve no idea. She said it was a secret project, and nobody could know anything about it until she completed it. But I think it was nearly done; she was planning on finishing it off between Christmas and New Year’s.”

  “Was it a series of articles for a newspaper?”

  “She didn’t say.” Anne-Marie paused and ran a hand over her hair. “But she did say she’d been editing for hours on end.”

  “It would be useful to know what it was about.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “By the way, we can’t find her computer,” Thomas said, changing tack. “You don’t happen to know if it was broken, if she might have taken it somewhere to be repaired?”

  “Not th
at I’m aware.” Anne-Marie frowned. “She definitely had it on the twenty-third, when I joined her for a glass of wine. If something went wrong, it must have happened after that.”

  “Did she usually back up her work?” Margit asked. “On a USB stick, for example, or online? Did she have an external hard disk?”

  “I think she used a USB stick,” Anne-Marie said, twisting up the piece of paper towel. “She didn’t really trust online storage methods, because she often visited countries with poor Internet access. She was very meticulous with her work; she would never risk losing anything.”

  “Can I ask how she seemed the last time you saw her?” Thomas said. “Did you get the impression she was afraid, or maybe worried?”

  Anne-Marie wiped away a few tears.

  “Not afraid, but stressed—kind of restless. She found it hard to sit still on the sofa; she kept on getting up and walking around. She was coughing a lot, but she asked if I had any cigarettes, because she’d run out. I don’t know what was wrong with her.”

  Anne-Marie took a sip of coffee. “I can’t explain it; I just got a feeling that something wasn’t right.”

  Thomas cleared his throat. “One theory is that she had too much to drink, then went out into the cold and for some reason couldn’t get back indoors.”

  “But why would she do that?”

  “There’s also the possibility that Jeanette made the decision to stay outside,” Margit added.

  A sharp intake of breath from Anne-Marie gave them their answer. “Are you suggesting she took her own life?”

  “That’s not what we meant,” Thomas said quickly. “However, it’s important for us to understand how Jeanette was feeling before she died. Sometimes people do strange things, and those around them have no idea what’s going on in their heads.”

  Anne-Marie folded her arms, then said slowly: “Jeanette would never, ever do something like that.”

  “Did you know her well enough to be sure?” Margit said gently.

  “Yes, I did. We’ve been friends for a long time; we were very close, even though she was away so much. Believe me, she wouldn’t do that to Alice.”

  “But she didn’t see Alice very often, did she? According to her ex-husband anyway.”

  “You’ve met Michael, have you?” Anne-Marie pushed away her coffee cup. “In that case I don’t need to say any more.”

  “I thought they got along pretty well after the divorce?”

  “I guess that depends on who you ask.” There was a firmer tone in Anne-Marie’s voice now. “Jeanette didn’t want to give Alice up when they separated, but Michael threatened her with a long, drawn-out court battle if she didn’t give him sole custody.”

  “Would he really have done that?” Margit sounded skeptical.

  “You don’t know Michael.” The riposte was so swift that Margit was taken aback. Anne-Marie was staring straight ahead.

  “Tell us about him,” Thomas suggested.

  “He’s a man who needs to be in control.” A quiver came into her voice this time. “Michael made it look as if Jeanette abandoned her daughter when she was little. He said she’d forfeited the right to her child, and that it was her duty to let him take care of Alice. He really pushed Jeanette, and she didn’t want to subject Alice to a damaging custody dispute. So she gave in.” Anne-Marie pursed her lips. “I couldn’t believe it.”

  Michael Thiels was obviously capable of ruthless behavior when necessary. Thomas tried to weigh the different impressions of Jeanette’s ex.

  “But she did see Alice regularly?”

  “It wasn’t always easy.” Anne-Marie’s expression said it all. “Jeanette’s work meant she had to travel a great deal. When she got back there was always some excuse—Alice was busy, she couldn’t get away to see her mother. There was soccer practice, school trips, all kinds of stuff. Jeanette tried, but Michael wasn’t prepared to cooperate, and she couldn’t force him—not when she’d agreed to give him sole custody.”

  Anne-Marie sounded sad rather than angry now. “I told her she ought to go to court and ask for joint custody, but she wouldn’t do it. She was so courageous when it came to her work, but she wouldn’t fight for her daughter. I just couldn’t understand it.”

  “What did Alice think?” Thomas asked.

  “I don’t know. Presumably Michael fed her his version of the divorce—she lived with him, after all. Children aren’t that difficult to influence . . .”

  Anne-Marie fell silent, her gaze turned inward. “Jeanette never forgave Michael for that,” she said after a while.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” Margit said. “Anything at all that you think might be significant? Even minor details can help.”

  Anne-Marie twisted her empty coffee cup around and said quietly: “I don’t know if this is important, but Jeanette didn’t seem very well when I saw her on the twenty-third. It was as if she’d aged; she’d lost weight, too, and her clothes were kind of hanging off her.”

  Outside the window the snow was falling once more, big flakes drifting slowly toward the ground. The lights were switched on in a window opposite, revealing how close together the apartment blocks were.

  “I mean, Jeanette didn’t pay much attention to her appearance, but I thought she looked ill. Exhausted,” Anne-Marie added.

  Or she feared for her life, Thomas thought.

  CHAPTER 25

  “What happens now?” Anne-Marie Hansen said hesitantly.

  They were standing in the doorway of her apartment, with the sound of Christmas music floating down from the floor above.

  “The investigation will continue,” Thomas replied. “We might need to come back to you with one or two more questions, and if you think of anything else, please get in touch.”

  He gave her his card. “My cell phone number’s there—call me anytime, day or night.”

  Anne-Marie took the card, looking even more pale and strained.

  “What a terrible couple of days,” she said. “Jeanette’s gone, and poor Bertil’s in the hospital. This apartment block is cursed!”

  Margit frowned. “Who’s Bertil?”

  Anne-Marie wrapped her arms around her body as if she was freezing cold, in spite of her thick cardigan.

  “Bertil lives in the corner apartment, next door to Jeanette. When I got back from Uppsala, I heard he’d been found unconscious outside his door yesterday.”

  “What happened?”

  “No one really knows, but he’d banged his head. It was his home health aid who discovered him; he was lying there on the landing in his pajamas with a wound on his forehead. He’s pretty old—eighty-five at least. They think he must have gotten confused and gone out in the middle of the night. He’s in St. Göran’s Hospital. Poor guy—but I guess it could have been worse.”

  “Are they sure it was an accident?” Thomas said.

  “Oh my God—do you think there could be a connection with Jeanette’s death?”

  “Probably not, but I’d like to check it out, just to be on the safe side. Any idea who we should speak to?”

  “I’ll give you Henry Davidsson’s number—he’s the chair of the residents’ association. I’m sure he’ll know how Bertil is.”

  Anne-Marie remained in the doorway after the two police officers had left, remembering that last evening with Jeanette. They had sat in the living room and opened a bottle of wine, as so many times in the past. As usual Jeanette had had plenty to say, gesticulating enthusiastically. She always had so many stories from her travels, and had a tendency to dominate the conversation.

  But she’d been pale; she had complained that she couldn’t get warm, and thought she was getting a cold.

  Anne-Marie shuddered.

  Another memory came into her mind, an evening in Jeanette’s apartment. It was October, and her friend was due to go away the following day, so Anne-Marie had popped down to say good-bye. This time it was Morocco—Marrakesh, in fact. Anne-Marie had been secretly envious; the idea of escaping from
the cold and darkness of Sweden was very appealing.

  They had sat down on the sofa with a glass of wine, and Jeanette had pointed to a white orchid on the windowsill.

  “You might as well take that upstairs; it won’t survive till I get back.”

  Suddenly Jeanette’s cell phone rang. She looked at the display and grimaced.

  “It’s Michael,” she mouthed, accepting the call.

  He must have started shouting as soon as she answered; Anne-Marie couldn’t help hearing his angry voice.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Jeanette quickly got to her feet and disappeared into the kitchen. Even though she closed the door, Anne-Marie still picked up fragments of the unpleasant conversation: Jeanette’s growing agitation, followed by silence when Michael was talking. Anne-Marie couldn’t hear what he said, but Jeanette seemed to be reasoning with him, trying to get him to calm down.

  Anne-Marie felt uncomfortable, as if she were eavesdropping. Should she go back upstairs and wait until they were done?

  Suddenly Jeanette yelled: “Just try and stop me!”

  Then silence, followed by the sound of running water. After a few minutes, Jeanette came back, her cheeks flushed.

  “He’s sick in the head,” she muttered. Without looking at Anne-Marie, she reached for her wineglass, emptied it in one swig, and immediately refilled it.

  “What did he want?” Anne-Marie ventured.

  Jeanette didn’t reply. Instead she cupped the glass in both hands and took another long drink. From outside they could hear ambulance sirens slicing through the air as they drew closer, then faded away.

  The sounds of the city.

  “Has something happened?”

  Jeanette shook herself. “It’s nothing to worry about,” she said eventually, still without looking at Anne-Marie. “There’s something wrong with him.”

  The slamming of the main door downstairs brought Anne-Marie back to the present moment. She was still holding Thomas Andreasson’s card; now she clutched it so tightly that it crumpled in her hand.

  CHAPTER 26