Guiltless

by Sten, Viveca

  ALSO BY VIVECA STEN IN THE SANDHAMN MURDERS SERIES

  Still Waters

  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. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2010 Viveca Sten

  Translation copyright © 2017 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 grunden utan skuld by Forum in Sweden in 2010. Translated from Swedish by Marlaine DeLargy

  First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2017.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477848654

  ISBN-10: 1477848657

  Cover design by Kimberly Glyder

  To Leo, the family’s very own one-man show!

  CONTENTS

  MAP

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  Sandhamn 1899

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  Sandhamn 1911

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  Sandhamn 1912

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  Sandhamn 1914

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  Sandhamn 1919

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  Sandhamn 1919

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  Sandhamn 1922

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  Sandhamn 1923

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  Sandhamn 1924

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  Sandhamn 1924

  CHAPTER 24

  Sandhamn 1925

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  Sandhamn 1925

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  Sandhamn 1926

  CHAPTER 29

  Sandhamn 1926

  CHAPTER 30

  Sandhamn 1927

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  Sandhamn 1927

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  Sandhamn 1928

  CHAPTER 36

  Sandhamn 1928

  CHAPTER 37

  Sandhamn 1928

  CHAPTER 38

  Sandhamn 1928

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  Sandhamn 1928

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  Sandhamn 1928

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  Sandhamn 1928

  CHAPTER 45

  Sandhamn 1928

  CHAPTER 46

  Sandhamn 1928

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  Sandhamn 1928

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  Sandhamn 1928

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  Sandhamn 1962

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ADDITIONAL READING ABOUT LIFE IN THE ARCHIPELAGO IN TIMES GONE BY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Saturday, November 4, 2006

  Marianne Rosén stood motionless in the hallway. The shoes were all in a heap. She automatically bent down and lined them up neatly. Then she realized Lina’s pale Timberland boots were missing.

  The realization terrified her. Why hadn’t Lina come home last night?

  She retrieved a hat from the corner. Her daughter was irredeemably messy. She could at least have called if she was intending to stay out.

  What if something had happened?

  The thought dug its claws into Marianne, and she took a deep breath.

  What if she’d fallen off her bicycle? The narrow dirt tracks turned treacherous in the fall and winter. She had told Lina to be careful when she set off for the Hammarstens’ place in Trouville.

  Marianne couldn’t stop the anxiety filling her chest. Her heart was galloping like a bolting horse, and the room began to spin.

  Calm down, she told herself. Breathe.

  On trembling legs she got herself into the cozy country kitchen and sank down on a chair. Last summer she had taken the wooden chairs down to the jetty and painted them in the sunshine. Lina had helped; she had gotten paint on her bikini, and they’d both laughed.

  Marianne stood up and took a glass out of the cupboard above the sink; she needed a drink of water. Her breathing slowed. Of course Lina was still at the Hammarstens. She must be. Where else would she be?

  The familiar puttering of the coffee machine on the counter provided some consolation. She would have a cup of coffee, take her time over it. By then it should be around eight o’clock; she would call Hanna Hammarsten, who would confirm that Lina had stayed over.

  Without letting her parents know.

  Typical teenager.

  Then they would laugh in mutual understanding, as two moms did when the kids behaved in a way that confirmed all their prejudices.

  She would smile, embarrassed at her fears, and afterward, Lina would tease her for being such a mother hen.

  “Quit worrying, Mom,” she would say. “I’m old enough to take care of myself now—you have to understand that.”

  Hanna would know exactly how she felt. All mothers were anxious, especially mothers of daughters. It was part of the job description.

  She had thought the sleepless nights would end when Lina grew up. Wrong. These days, as she lay awake, unable to drop off until Lina got home, she sometimes longed for those early years when the worst that could happen was her daughter being woken by a nightmare. The simple solution was a cuddle or maybe a bottle. If that didn’t do the trick, Marianne would bring her into their double bed, where the child would immediately fall back asleep. Admittedly, Marianne’s reward was a barrage of kicks to her back all night, but that was nothing compared with the gnawing anxiety of the past few years.

  The coffee was ready.

  She checked the time again: seven forty-five. She would call at eight, not a minute later. That was still pretty early, but she just couldn’t wait any longer.

  Her favorite blue ceramic mug was right at the front of the cupboard. The mere sight of it made everything feel normal again. Two lumps of sugar and a generous dash of milk, and her coffee was ready. Sweet and strong, exactly the way she liked it. She felt better already.

  Marianne smiled to herself. What had she actually imagined? What could happen here on Sandhamn, an island Lina knew like the back of her hand? She could find her way home in her sleep.

  It was just over a mile between Trouville, on the eastern side of the island, and their house in the village. What could possibly happen over such a short distance?

  Marianne sipped her coffee and shook her head. She had gotten herself all worked up for nothing. This wasn’t the first time Lina had stayed over at her best friend’s and forgotten to call. She’d probably been too tired when it was time to leave, so it was easier to stay with Louise—particularly given the fact that the nights were pitch black with
no streetlights to speak of, and most houses were closed up for the winter. In spite of the fact that it was the midsemester break, very few visitors had turned up.

  Distractedly Marianne stirred the sugar that had collected in the bottom of her mug. She glanced over at the old wood-burning stove that they had kept when they renovated the house her mother had left them. It had gone out during the night, but the metal was still wonderfully warm.

  She got up to relight the fire. Eating breakfast next to the crackling flames was so cozy. When the bitter wind blew from the north, they were grateful for the woodstove as well as the old, tiled stoves in the dining room and living room.

  She looked at the clock one more time. Three minutes to eight. She couldn’t wait any longer; she picked up the phone.

  “Hello?” A sleepy voice answered on the third ring; it was Hanna.

  Marianne immediately felt guilty; she had woken Hanna for no reason.

  “Hi, it’s Marianne. Sorry to disturb you—I just wanted to check if Lina’s there. She didn’t come home last night, and of course she hasn’t called. I know it’s stupid, but I just wanted to check that everything’s OK.”

  Silence at the other end of the line. Only for a second, but it was a second too long. She couldn’t breathe again.

  “Lina? She’s not here. She left around ten o’clock last night. You mean she didn’t come home?” The surprise was audible in Hanna’s voice. “Wait a minute, I’ll go check.”

  “Please,” Marianne whispered, clutching the receiver so hard her fingers ached.

  A few long moments later, Hanna was back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was right, she’s not here. Louise says she rode her bike home when the movie was over. Are you sure she’s not in her room?”

  Marianne couldn’t speak. She tried to form words, but her tongue refused to obey. Everything was flickering before her eyes.

  Where was her daughter?

  CHAPTER 2

  Friday, February 23, 2007

  “You spend your summers on Sandhamn? I have a friend who lives there.”

  The young woman chattered away, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was getting no response.

  Nora Linde wished she hadn’t let herself be persuaded to attend the party, organized by a doctor who was a colleague of her husband, Henrik. As soon as they’d arrived, Henrik had headed off to join a group of his friends, and now Nora was stuck here with a girl at least ten years her junior. Her brown hair was cut in a fashionable, choppy style, and she was wearing a short skirt that emphasized her slim legs.

  She made Nora feel old and worn out.

  Nora couldn’t remember when she had last found the time to exercise, and her blond bob was in dire need of a trim. Ten years of small children and a full-time job as a lawyer for a major bank had taken their toll. A husband who chose to devote himself to his career and a passionate interest in competitive sailing didn’t exactly help matters.

  Her black dress was neither new nor trendy, but she hadn’t been able to summon the energy to make an effort. Not for Henrik’s sake, anyway.

  Their relationship had been frosty these past six months, thanks to Nora’s decision to hold on to the Brand villa, which her neighbor and honorary grandmother, Signe Brand, had bequeathed to her. Henrik had insisted on selling the house, which sat right on the Sandhamn inlet, so that they could buy a larger and more ostentatious property back home in Saltsjöbaden, but Nora had refused.

  They had bickered all fall, polite strangers doing their best to behave normally. Conscientious parents who went together to Adam’s football matches and Simon’s tennis games, pretending that nothing was wrong. They had been living in an emotional vacuum, which worked in the short term, but something had to give.

  “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch what you said,” she apologized. It wasn’t this cute girl’s fault that Nora and her husband weren’t getting along.

  The girl beamed at her.

  “No problem, I know I go on a little sometimes. I just said I know someone who lives on Sandhamn. Or rather, my best friend, Marie, does; I came to the party with her. She’s a nurse.”

  “Oh yes?” Nora did her best to seem interested; she sipped at the pink concoction in her glass and smiled encouragingly.

  “Marie’s with a guy who has a house there. The archipelago is amazing, isn’t it? Anyway, he has a place there with his wife.”

  “His wife?”

  Her companion looked guilty.

  “I mean, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.” She suddenly seemed unsure of herself. “Marie’s boyfriend is still married, but he’s in the process of leaving his wife. He would have done it already, but they’ve got kids.”

  “Makes sense,” Nora said, wondering what she could say that wouldn’t sound idiotic. The conversation was bizarre. What do you say to someone who tells a complete stranger that their friend is having an affair?

  “Marie’s crazy about this guy. He’s fantastic—tall, dark, and handsome! He’s even a doctor—not bad, huh?” She winked meaningfully at Nora and took a big gulp of her drink.

  “A doctor,” Nora repeated.

  “Absolutely. A real catch.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I guess I shouldn’t say; according to Marie, he wants to keep the whole thing secret until he talks to his wife. Then again, what harm can it do?”

  “What harm indeed?”

  “His name’s Henrik. He’s a radiology consultant at Danderyd Hospital.”

  She smiled at Nora, raising her glass to her lips once more.

  CHAPTER 3

  The theme tune to TV3’s Crimewatch faded, and Hasse Aro’s familiar face appeared on the screen.

  “Welcome back,” the anchorman said gravely. “For our final story this evening, we turn to the case of Sandhamn’s missing girl.” He glanced down at his notes. “Lina Rosén disappeared one dark and stormy night this fall. The small island of Sandhamn out in the archipelago is home to no more than one hundred and twenty permanent residents, though hundreds of thousands of visitors pass through every year. It’s a summer paradise, famous for its beautiful sandy beaches and delightful regattas.”

  He cleared his throat, and the camera zoomed in on his face. His expression was troubled, his tone sorrowful.

  “Today the islanders are tormented by the mystery of what happened to Lina Rosén.”

  The screen showed a picture of a pretty girl who looked about twenty years old. She had long blond hair and was reclining on a deck chair. Her white tank top emphasized her tan, and she was smiling into the camera. In the background it was possible to make out cliffs and a sandy shore; it looked as if she were on a terrace by the sea.

  “The last time Lina’s parents saw their daughter alive was Friday, November 3 of last year, when she went to visit a friend on the southeastern side of the island, in the resort area known as Trouville. According to this friend, she set off for home on her bicycle at around ten o’clock in the evening. From that point on, there is no trace of Lina Rosén. In spite of a huge police operation, she has never been found.”

  The image switched to a view of the Sandhamn inlet, the camera panning across the wooden structure of the Sandhamn Inn, past the steamboat jetty, and across to the Royal Swedish Yacht Club’s red clubhouse, built in 1887.

  There wasn’t a soul in sight. In summer there would be long lines of people at the kiosk by the jetty, but now its gray metal shutter was firmly closed. The stores along the promenade were all closed up, too, secured with sturdy padlocks. There was a feeling of desolation about the place, reminding viewers that the search for the young woman had proved fruitless.

  Then the camera zoomed in on a white house. The Roséns were natives of the island, the voice-over explained, and the house had been in the family for many years. Slowly the camera moved away, panning out across the forest to the tennis courts, where the road to Trouville began. The road Lina had traveled the night she disappeared.

  Back in the studio, Hasse Ar
o now turned to a police officer. The man was about forty, tall and broad-shouldered, with short blond hair. He seemed kind, and had a fine network of laugh lines around his eyes.

  “Thomas Andreasson, you are a detective inspector with the Nacka police, and you’ve been involved in this case ever since Lina Rosén was reported missing. What can you tell us?”

  The DI cleared his throat.

  “The search went on for several days, but unfortunately we were unable to find any trace of Lina.”

  “Did you have help from the public?”

  “Yes, the islanders made a huge contribution. Lots of people volunteered, and we had search parties combing the entire island.”

  “How is it possible to disappear on an island as small as Sandhamn?”

  Thomas looked troubled, and he gave a little sigh.

  “I agree that it seems unlikely, but the truth is we’ve found no evidence—nothing that could explain where Lina has been since she disappeared almost four months ago.”

  “Could she have drowned?”

  “It’s not impossible. As you said, it was a stormy night. If she went out in a boat for some reason, it could easily have capsized. We are now appealing to members of the public to get in touch if they have any information that could help us. Our investigation has reached a dead end.”

  Hasse Aro looked straight into the camera.

  “If you know anything about Lina Rosén’s disappearance, please contact us or the police immediately. Her parents are offering a reward.”

  The theme song returned, and a box at the bottom of the screen stated that the program was a repeat, and that viewers could no longer call in.

  Thomas Andreasson leaned back on the sofa in his apartment in Gustavsberg, a suburb of Stockholm. He slowly finished his coffee as he thought about what he had just seen.

  Somehow Lina Rosén had vanished from the face of the earth that November night. It had been extremely wet and windy—one of those autumn storms so common in the outer archipelago. It had been several days before the wind died down and the sea regained its normal blue color.

  By the time they realized the gravity of the situation, almost forty-eight hours had passed. Initially Lina’s parents had searched for her on their own, only contacting the police on Sunday night. Procedure dictated waiting at least twenty-four hours; it often turned out that missing teenagers were with friends and had simply failed to get in touch. So Lina’s parents had been assured that their daughter would probably be back soon.