by Viveca Sten
Their mother was always afraid something might happen to Tobbe. She constantly told him to be careful, and right from the start, Christoffer felt it was his responsibility to take care of his kid brother so that their mom wouldn’t worry.
When Christoffer was nine and Tobbe five, Arthur became joint owner of a large legal practice. He was earning good money, and they moved to a bigger house. The brothers were each given a room of their own, and Arthur had a spacious study in the basement. No one was allowed in; he often spent time there in the evenings.
Mom gave up her teaching job. She was always home when they got back from school, and Christoffer remembered her doing lots of baking when he was little. Gradually, however, she started to spend more and more time in bed.
“Mommy needs to rest,” she would say. “Be a good boy and pick Tobbe up from day care.”
In the bathroom cabinet there were white bottles; the labels had a red triangle on them and tiny writing. Sometimes it was obvious that Mom had been crying.
Arthur began to travel more because of his job. When he wasn’t away, he worked late. Once, when Christoffer was thirteen, he had gone outside to empty the trash and had come across his father talking on the phone by the garage. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t avoid hearing the voice around the corner.
It was only a brief conversation, but it was clear that Arthur was talking to someone he really liked. His voice was different from when he spoke to Mom—gentler, happier.
Christoffer hated him for that tone of voice.
The business trips grew longer. The number of white bottles in the bathroom cabinet increased.
Tobbe hung out with his friends. He’d always formed friendships easily, starting in his day care group. He often stayed over with his best pal, Victor. Sometimes he went on vacation with the Ekengreens or to their summer cottage in the archipelago.
Which was a good thing, in Christoffer’s opinion. The pressure eased when Tobbe was away, and he could stop worrying about his brother. The anxiety was always there, just below the surface.
Tobbe didn’t seem to notice the tense atmosphere at home. It was as if he couldn’t be serious, not even for a second.
Or he didn’t dare.
Christoffer couldn’t wait to graduate from high school and leave home. He avoided his parents, his father’s clumsy attempts to get along with him and his mother’s air of quiet desperation when he went out.
During his final year, he studied nonstop. He needed top grades to get into the Stockholm School of Economics. Concentrating on his work was a relief; he could fill his head with physics and math and keep everything else at bay.
He was going to move out as soon as he graduated.
A week after he finished school, Christoffer was woken by the sound of his mother hysterically weeping. She was sitting in the kitchen in her nightgown with the telephone beside her.
Arthur had just called. He wanted a divorce, as soon as possible. He’d told her over the phone.
From then on, she stayed in bed. She stopped bathing, and her hair was greasy and disgusting. Her bedroom started to smell bad.
Christoffer seethed with rage whenever he tried to help her. Pull yourself together, he wanted to yell. I’m not your parent. I’m your son! I can’t do this.
He despised her, while at the same time he was ashamed of his feelings.
Somehow they found an apartment for rent in a block nearby, and the three of them moved in August. Christoffer packed everything up as best he could and carried the boxes to the moving truck.
The area was known as the Divorce Dump because it was largely populated by all the divorced wives who could no longer afford to live in their fine houses. And now they lived there, too.
When Christoffer asked why they had to move, Arthur lost his temper.
“How the hell do you think your mother would be able to afford to stay here?” he bellowed. “She doesn’t work. I have to support her. I should at least be able to live in my own house. I’m paying for it, after all!”
Christoffer hated him even more after that. He’d gotten into the School of Economics, but there was no way he could leave home now; Mom wouldn’t be able to cope.
He would hang out in the library after lectures to avoid going back to the three-room apartment. Sometimes he worked as a bartender at a club in Stureplan, and he would let Tobbe come along if he promised to stay in the background. His kid brother thought it was cool, and Christoffer liked to make him happy.
When Tobbe hooked up with Ebba, things calmed down. She was good for him, and Christoffer was pleased that Tobbe had found a girl who had an air of stability about her. Ebba’s parents were divorced, too, but seemed to get along pretty well.
Occasionally Arthur would give them some money or offer to lend Christoffer the car. Christoffer suspected that he had a guilty conscience. His new woman, Eva, had moved into their old house, and her belly was already swollen. He would have a half sibling twenty years his junior; the idea repelled him.
He often rejected the call when Arthur tried to contact him.
They didn’t see one another very often; Christoffer and Tobbe were too old to spend alternate weeks with each parent, and in any case Christoffer refused to be a guest in his former home. He even took the long way around to avoid seeing the place.
The two brothers had had dinner with Eva and Arthur just once. They had gone to a fine restaurant, but the evening had been strained to say the least. Eva was only ten years older than Christoffer, and it felt weird to be sitting opposite her. From time to time, she rested her hand on her noticeable bump.
As usual, Tobbe had played the fool, but for a change, Christoffer had been grateful. Otherwise the whole thing would have been a total disaster. He looked away whenever Eva and Arthur touched each other; he didn’t want her pawing his father.
Midsummer had always been difficult; Mom was really low, and Arthur preferred to go away and avoid the memories. He’d said they could borrow the boat if they wanted to go out into the archipelago, and Christoffer thought that sounded cool. Some of his friends from college had said they were going to Sandhamn.
He told Tobbe that he and his friends were welcome to come along; at least that would mean he didn’t have to worry about what his brother was up to.
During the winter, Christoffer had noticed that Tobbe was partying hard, and sometimes he wondered if it might have gone too far. Tobbe’s clothes stank of smoke, and he was often hungover on the weekends. Then he broke up with Ebba. He shut down completely when Christoffer tried to find out what had happened.
There was also bad blood between Tobbe and Victor, even though they’d been friends for so many years. One evening they almost got in a fight, and afterward Tobbe wouldn’t say why. Christoffer thought Victor was different, too; he seemed restless, and suddenly he had a short fuse. He would often snap at Felicia for no apparent reason; once, when she was at their place, she started crying and locked herself in the bathroom.
One morning after Tobbe had come home very late the previous night, Christoffer came straight out and asked him what the hell he was up to. Tobbe dismissed his question with a grin, just as he did with most things.
“I’ve just been smoking a little hash—who hasn’t?”
Christoffer let it go. The spring semester was full on, and he had no spare time. But he thought it would be good to keep an eye on Tobbe over the Midsummer weekend.
CHAPTER 43
A pretty depressing picture was emerging, in Thomas’s opinion. From his own experience, he knew how easy it was to let the grief over a lost child poison a relationship, but the Hökströms had two other children to take care of.
He couldn’t help wondering whether Christoffer had ever given way to his rage against his parents: the father who had mentally left the two boys long before the divorce and the mother who had capitulated even earlier.
You must have missed your dad when you were growing up, he thought. Particularly at night when your
mom couldn’t cope and your little brother was upset. It wasn’t your job to fix everything.
“Do your parents know what’s happened?” Margit asked, trying to make eye contact with Christoffer.
“No.”
“Don’t you think you should call them?”
A shrug said it all. The resigned gesture really bothered Thomas. “I think it would be best if you spoke to your father,” he said. “It would make the situation easier for us, as your brother is a minor.”
“OK.”
“What happened later that night?” Margit said after a moment. “After Victor and Felicia took off?”
“We partied on the other boat, where my friends were.”
“Could you be a little more specific?” Margit leaned back on her chair. “Who owns the boat, who invited you, who was there?”
Christoffer ran a hand through his wavy hair; he looked like a student about to speak in class, polite and correct. “It’s a Fairline Phantom 46, and it belongs to Carl Bianchi.”
Thomas recognized the name from the press. Carl Bianchi had earned big bucks in the finance industry and was only too happy to show off his assets. He had been the subject of a highly publicized dispute with the tax office over a deal in which Bianchi had moved millions of kronor out of the country in order to avoid paying taxes. The authorities had lost in court, but a great deal had been written about the case, and Bianchi had spiced things up with a number of controversial pronouncements about the tax situation in Sweden.
It was a strange world, where a twenty-year-old and his friends were allowed to use a yacht that cost way more than the average Swedish home, but Thomas wasn’t really surprised. He had seen a great deal on Sandhamn over the years.
“It’s fantastic, it has an amazing flybridge and powerful engines,” Christoffer said, temporarily animated, as if the memory of the yacht had chased away the angst.
“Flybridge?” Margit repeated.
“It’s a kind of open deck on the roof, above the cabins,” Thomas explained. “It means you can sit outdoors and steer, plus it provides an unobstructed view when you want to heave to.”
“Right.” Margit didn’t seem to get it but decided to move on. “What time was it when you went over there?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe eight, eight thirty? I went and picked up some burgers around seven thirty, and we left when we’d finished eating.”
“Who left?”
“Me and Tobbe, Tessan and her friends. Victor, Felicia, and Ebba had already gone. We didn’t know where they were.”
“Did you go and look for them?”
Christoffer shook his head. “There was no point.”
“Why not?”
“To be honest, it seemed like Victor and Felicia could use some time alone. And Victor needed to calm down; he’d been a fucking pain on Midsummer’s Eve, looking for the slightest excuse to pick a fight.”
“And Ebba?” Margit asked.
Christoffer kept his eyes down. “That was kind of complicated. She and Tobbe had hooked up for a while, but . . .” He broke off. “I didn’t feel it was my job to keep an eye on her.”
“She’s only sixteen, and you’re twenty,” Margit said. “Ebba was distraught when she left. You told us that before. Don’t you think one of you should have taken some responsibility, maybe followed her to make sure she was OK?”
A faint flush crept up Christoffer’s cheeks. “You’re right. I just didn’t think about it at the time.”
You’re pushing at an open door, Thomas thought, giving Margit a look. Harry Anjou had already taken the same line. Margit seemed to pick up on his silent signal, because she changed tack.
“You mentioned that Tobbe and Victor had fallen out during the spring.”
Christoffer shuffled uncomfortably. “It only happened once.”
The answer was instant. Thomas tried to read his expression; he had a strong feeling that Christoffer wished he’d never mentioned the incident.
“So what was it all about?” Margit said.
“I don’t know. I got home from a party and found them outside the door of the apartment block.”
“Were they fighting?”
A stiff shrug. “Not exactly. They were yelling and pushing each other around. It was late at night, and they were both far from sober.”
“So what happened?” Thomas asked.
“I told them to pull themselves together. Victor went home, and Tobbe came in with me. A few days later, they were friends again.” Christoffer suddenly sounded exhausted. “Could I have a glass of water?”
“Of course.” Margit got up and fetched him a drink. Thomas waited until he had taken a few sips.
“What did you do when you got to Carl Bianchi’s boat?”
“We partied. There was music, plenty to drink, a great atmosphere.” Christoffer seemed relieved at the change of subject. “There were people everywhere, on the foredeck and up on the flybridge. They were mostly friends from college; we’d arranged to meet up.”
“We’re going to need their names and contact information,” Thomas said, and Christoffer nodded. “So you arrived there around eight on Saturday evening; how long did you stay?”
“I’m not sure—until two, maybe three in the morning.”
“Was it dark when you left the party?”
“Yes.”
“Was the club still open? Could you hear the music when you were leaving?”
“I don’t think so.”
“After two, in that case,” Thomas said.
“Is there anyone who can confirm that you were on board the whole time?” Margit asked.
“Yes, I was with a friend, a girl, nearly all evening. She came back to our boat with me and stayed over.”
Christoffer gave a faint, almost sheepish smile. This girl meant more to him than a one-night stand, Thomas suspected.
“What’s her name?”
“Sara, Sara Lövstedt. She’s at the School of Economics, too; we’re in the same study group.”
Thomas looked down at his notes.
“So she’s the one who was with you when my colleague came looking for you?”
“That’s right.”
“And she can confirm that you were together during that period?”
“Absolutely.”
He sounded eager, even a little proud.
The room was getting warmer; Thomas was sweating. He got up and opened another window in an attempt to create a draft.
“Can you tell us what your brother was doing during the evening?” Margit asked.
“Tobbe? He was with me.”
“The whole time?”
“We went over there together. He was with Tessan, the girl Ebba yelled at.”
“Tessan?” Margit prompted him.
“I don’t know her last name. I think she was at his old school.”
“I don’t get it,” Margit said slowly. “You were there for around six hours, you say you were with a cute girl. Are you telling us you didn’t let Tobbe out of your sight all evening?”
Suddenly Christoffer was a lot more wary. “I mean . . .” He stopped himself and started again. “I wasn’t watching him every second, of course, but I know he was there.”
“Where were you sitting?”
“In the stern, to begin with anyway. Then we lay on the foredeck, just chilling out.”
“You and Sara?”
“Yes.”
“So how do you know where Tobbe was?” Margit asked. “If the boat’s as big as you say, there’s no way you could see everyone on board. It must have been pretty chaotic.”
“He was there the whole evening, with me,” Christoffer insisted. “I’m sure of it. I would have noticed if he’d disappeared.”
“Can you swear to that?” Thomas said. “Could you stand up in court and swear to that?”
“No,” Christoffer said slowly.
“So in fact you don’t know where your brother was between eight thirty in the evening and two o’clock in
the morning?”
Christoffer was breathing more heavily now. “No,” he admitted. “No, I don’t.”
CHAPTER 44
The red boathouse was on a flat rocky area just yards from the jetty belonging to the Brand villa. Two small windows with white frames let in the daylight; the interior was no more than a few square feet.
Jonas ran down the path with Nora close behind. His relief was mixed with concern; Wilma was back, but why had she hidden in the boathouse instead of coming home?
Something must have happened.
Nora stopped when they reached the door. “I’ll wait here. It’s better if you have some time alone with her first.”
“OK.”
Jonas noticed that Nora was a little taken aback by his curt response, but he didn’t have time to apologize; he had to get to his daughter. Nora was about to give him a hug, but before she had time to do anything, he pushed open the door, then peered into the semidarkness.
There she was, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, below old perch nets hanging on hooks. Her legs were drawn up to her chin, her arms tightly wrapped around them. In spite of the gloom, Jonas could see that Wilma’s face was swollen from crying.
“Sweetheart!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing in here?”
“Daddy . . .”
He crossed the floor in a second and crouched down in front of her.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to do it, I’m so sorry.”
She threw herself into his arms, her body shaking with sobs. Jonas held her tight.
“It’s OK, honey, calm down. Everything’s fine now.”
Wilma buried her face in his sweater. There was sand in her tangled hair, and her feet were bare and dirty. Her clothes stank of vomit.
“Let me have a look at you,” Jonas said gently. He lifted her chin so that he could see her properly, but Wilma turned her head away. She seemed so shaken and upset; her face was ashen against the unpainted walls of the boathouse.
Jonas sat down on the dusty floor and gently stroked her cheek. He could see a scrape on her elbow, with gravel stuck to the surface of the wound.
