In the Heat of the Moment (Sandhamn Murders Book 5)

by Viveca Sten

  “What happened?”

  He could hardly bring himself to admit what he feared the most, but he had to ask the question. He squeezed his daughter’s hands in his.

  “Sweetheart, has somebody hurt you? You know you can tell me anything. Whatever it might be. Did someone attack you . . . physically, I mean?”

  How do I make her understand that whatever it is, it’s not her fault? he thought frantically, forcing himself to sound calm. Wilma let out another sob, and Jonas steeled himself.

  “No,” she whispered. “I swear, Daddy, it’s not what you think.”

  “Are you sure?” He still couldn’t quite relax. “You don’t need to be scared of telling me.”

  “I swear,” she whispered again, without looking at him.

  With tears in his eyes, he pulled her close and hugged her again.

  You’re still so little, he thought, you can’t fight back if someone out there wants to harm you.

  The minutes passed; Jonas rocked Wilma like a small child. His legs went to sleep, but he didn’t move. “Where have you been?” he said eventually.

  “In the forest.”

  “In the forest? Why didn’t you answer your phone? Or call me back? I tried to get ahold of you over and over again. Didn’t you notice?”

  “There was no point,” she said eventually.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you were with Nora . . .”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Jonas pushed a strand of hair off her forehead. Her skin was cold; she needed to have a hot shower and get to bed. A vein throbbed at the side of her slender throat.

  “You only care about her these days.”

  “That’s not true, honey.” Jonas hugged her closer.

  “I hate being here,” Wilma murmured into his chest.

  “Hush now.”

  The muscles in her back were so tense; he massaged them gently with his right hand. Did she really dislike Nora so much? Why hadn’t he realized?

  “OK, this is what we’re going to do. We’ll go home, and you can take a shower. Then we’ll have another chat about this when you’ve had a rest and something to eat. You must be hungry.”

  Wilma nodded wearily.

  “Right, let’s go.”

  Jonas stood up and helped Wilma to her feet, but she stopped him before he could open the door.

  “Have you said anything to Mom?” Her voice was feeble.

  “Of course I have.”

  “Is she mad?”

  When Jonas finally spoke to Margot a few hours earlier, she had accused him of not taking care of their daughter properly. She hadn’t minced her words. Only the fact that she was in Dalarna had prevented her from coming over to the island and joining in the search.

  “She’s been very worried about you,” he said. “I’ll call her right away and tell her you’re OK.”

  Wilma wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to go to Nora’s house. Can we go back to ours instead?”

  “I don’t know if the power is back on yet,” Jonas said.

  “That doesn’t matter, as long as we can get away from her.”

  The words hurt, but this wasn’t the right time to embark on a discussion. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  Wilma walked out with her head down; she didn’t even look at Nora, who was waiting outside in the sunshine.

  “She needs to have a shower and a nap,” Jonas explained.

  One look at Wilma’s scruffy appearance told Nora all she needed to know.

  “OK, I’ll be up in a minute,” she said.

  “We’re going back to our place—it’s for the best. I think we need to be alone for a while.” He walked away without another word.

  CHAPTER 45

  Nora watched them go. Jonas had seemed so reserved. She felt as if they had lost something, but she couldn’t quite work out what it was. It was strange, seeing him head off toward her old home and knowing she wasn’t welcome to join him. Twenty-four hours ago, she had been happy; they had sat together by the jetty, and everything had been so simple, so self-evident.

  Why did it feel so different now?

  Nora sat down on the old driftwood bench resting on two big stones in front of the boathouse. She had sat there many times, enjoying the sunset.

  The narrow jetty in front of her had faded to a soft, pale gray that blended in with the rock; at the water’s edge, clumps of old seaweed were entangled in the pale-green fresh growth. It was so shallow here that anything bigger than a skiff would scrape the bottom. The gradual rising of the land meant that the iron mooring rings set in the rock were now some distance ashore and of no use whatsoever.

  It was a tranquil place, but today Nora couldn’t find the peace she was seeking.

  Thomas’s boat was still moored at her jetty, so he must still be on the island.

  Was the news already out? Would the TV be filled with images from Skärkarlshamn and the cordoned-off area where the boy had been found?

  She felt a cramping in her stomach, and she was shaky; she knew her sugar level was compromised, and she needed to eat something sweet. As a diabetic, she had to look after herself.

  She stood up and tried to push aside her misgivings as she walked back to the house.

  Soon she would be able to go to bed at long last, but first she had to do something about dinner for Adam and Simon. In her pocket, she found two crumpled hundred-kronor notes; maybe the boys could go and get themselves a hamburger so she wouldn’t have to cook.

  Her cell phone vibrated in the back pocket of her shorts. She took it out and glanced at the display: Monica. She rejected the call.

  Thomas yawned and looked at his watch: five past six. The police outreach center was in shadow now, the sun hidden behind the neighboring buildings.

  He and Margit were still alone. The following day the civilian staff would come in, ready to log crime reports from all over the country. The dual monitors were ready at their workstations, but at the moment, everything was quiet and peaceful.

  “So what do you make of Christoffer Hökström’s kid brother?” Margit said. “It was interesting to hear that he and Victor have fallen out in the past. And he doesn’t have an alibi—or at least Christoffer can’t provide one.”

  “We need to check with that girl—Tessan—before we can say that for sure,” Thomas pointed out.

  Margit thought for a moment. “Maybe he was so mad at Victor that he just lost it,” she said.

  “That’s possible, but is it likely?”

  Thomas reached for the bar of chocolate he’d bought earlier from the kiosk by the steamboat jetty and broke off a large piece. He needed energy.

  “We have three teenagers without an alibi,” he said. “Ebba, Felicia, and Tobbe don’t have anyone who can confirm what they’ve told us. All three could have been involved.”

  He tilted his head to one side until the bones in his neck cracked.

  “I’m looking forward to the forensic report,” Margit said. “We should find out more tomorrow; I hope they’ll have something for us to go on. When did you say the next ferry was?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  “Should we try and catch it?”

  “Not me.” Thomas shook his head. “I’m going back to Harö; I’ll come over on the first boat in the morning.”

  He was longing to see Pernilla and Elin. It had been agonizing to watch Johan Ekengreen embrace his dead son. Thomas wanted to hold his baby daughter in his arms.

  “Should we have another chat with Tobbe before we call it a day?” Margit suggested. “See what he has to say about the fight with Victor? And we need Tessan’s last name.”

  Thomas hesitated. They had already questioned the boy once without the presence of a parent or guardian; it was important not to cross the line, especially because his father was a lawyer.

  But it would be sensible to take the opportunity while Tobbe was still on the island. He nodded, and Margit picked up her phone.
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  “Strange,” she said after a moment. “No answer.”

  “Try his brother.”

  She leafed through her notebook and found the number.

  “He’s not picking up either,” she said in surprise.

  “In that case, we’ll have to go down to the boat and bring him in,” Thomas said, getting to his feet.

  It took only a few minutes to walk from the outreach center to the Royal Swedish Yacht Club marina. There were even fewer boats left now.

  The gap where the Hökström brothers’ boat had been was all too obvious.

  CHAPTER 46

  Johan Ekengreen was sitting at the table in the villa on the island of Lidingö. Everything looked the same as it always did in the large kitchen. Potted plants on the windowsills, a row of fresh herbs in the bay window. The fruit bowl was filled with peaches and nectarines, and Madeleine had arranged beautiful cut flowers in a vase.

  Everything was exactly the same as usual.

  Except that Victor was dead.

  Johan wrapped his arms around his body and rocked back and forth as a low whimper forced its way out of him.

  He couldn’t erase the image of the body lying there on the gurney. His son’s lifeless face, the congealed blood in his hair.

  The refrigerator hummed quietly in the background; it was the only sound he could hear. Madeleine was asleep upstairs; a good friend who was a doctor had prescribed strong sleeping tablets, for which Johan was very grateful.

  Madeleine had been so hysterical when they left Sandhamn that he’d been afraid she was going to throw herself overboard. By the time they got home, Johan had been close to the breaking point. Thank God their friend was waiting on the doorstep. It was a relief when Madeleine more or less passed out in the double bed, and he could stop keeping an eye on her.

  Johan found it difficult to handle the bottomless grief to which Madeleine had given way. It distorted her features and turned his lovely wife into an inconsolable middle-aged woman, a stranger with trembling lips and a broken voice.

  Johan loathed the way she lost control. It was undignified. His own grief was no less devastating because he held it in check; he couldn’t release the roar of pain that threatened to tear him apart.

  He didn’t dare.

  He was exhausted. He got up and poured himself a glass of ice-cold water from the dispenser in the refrigerator door. He took a few sips before returning to his chair. He put down the glass and rested his head in his hands.

  The kitchen was in darkness; long shadows crept along the walls, but he didn’t have the energy to switch on the lights. He must contact Ellinor before it got too late. She had spent the Midsummer weekend with friends in Skåne and wasn’t due home until tomorrow.

  Somehow it had been easier to call Nicole. There was a fifteen-year age gap between his eldest daughter and her deceased half brother. He could talk to her like an adult. She had offered to fly home right away, but Johan had said that wasn’t necessary; it would be fine if she came back for the funeral.

  Whenever that might be. They didn’t even know when the body would be released. Madeleine would be even more distraught when she found out. She was a Catholic, and family tradition dictated that the funeral must take place within five or six days of a death.

  He couldn’t think about that right now. He was dreading the conversation with Ellinor. The thought of telling his eighteen-year-old daughter what had happened made him feel sick.

  His darling Ellinor had always taken care of her little brother. They had had a special relationship. There had been a long procession of nannies over the years, but it had always been Ellinor who read Victor his bedtime story when Johan and Madeleine were away.

  As they had so often been.

  Since Ellinor started at Lundsbergs boarding school, Victor had to spend his evenings alone.

  Johan looked around the spacious kitchen. The white walls and shining surfaces were so impersonal; it was beautiful, elegant, but hardly cozy or homely. How many times had Victor sat here all by himself, with food he’d warmed up in the microwave, while Johan and Madeleine were off traveling?

  The guilt overwhelmed Johan, and his face crumpled. He slammed his fist so hard on the oak table that his hand went numb, but the physical pain was more bearable than the anguish in his heart.

  There were so many things they could have done differently, so many choices he now regretted.

  He felt the salty tears on his upper lip but didn’t bother wiping them away. There was no point.

  Nothing could fix this.

  After a long time, he took out his cell phone. He couldn’t put it off any longer. His fingers shook as he keyed in Ellinor’s number. Deep down, he hoped she wouldn’t answer, that he would be given a stay of execution. But his daughter picked up almost right away.

  “Hi, Dad!”

  She sounded so happy. For a moment he felt as if he couldn’t breathe.

  “I can’t,” he whispered, his chest heaving with suppressed tears. Then the pressure eased. “Ellinor, I have some very bad news.”

  Ebba was in bed. There was nothing she wanted more than to sleep, to escape from everything that had gone on over the past twenty-four hours, but her hands were clenched beneath the covers, and the muscles in her neck were so tense that they ached.

  She couldn’t settle.

  She tossed and turned but couldn’t find a comfortable position. Her pillow felt lumpy and the duvet was too thin; she was shivering in spite of her warm flannel pajamas and the mild June evening. After a while, she got up and fetched a quilt, but it didn’t make any difference.

  One image after another passed through her mind.

  Tobbe making out with Tessan. Victor slamming his glass down on the table, and Felicia sobbing.

  Ebba remembered the sunshine on the shore, the feeling of being the loneliest person in the whole world.

  How could it all have gone so wrong?

  She longed for Tobbe, but she knew it was a waste of time. Was he back home or still on Sandhamn? It didn’t matter; he didn’t care about her anyway.

  Her cell phone was on the bedside table; should she muster the courage to send him a text?

  She reached out, then changed her mind. He didn’t want anything to do with her.

  Ebba closed her eyes, but all she could see was Victor lying on the sand, with blood on his face and empty, staring eyes.

  Victor was dead, nothing could change that. He was dead, and it was too late.

  CHAPTER 47

  Christoffer recognized the figure from some distance away as the boat swung out of the inlet and the pontoons came into view. Their father was waiting on the jetty.

  He slowed the engines. He was only a few hundred yards from the harbor where the Sunseeker was usually moored between two fixed Y-beams, five minutes’ walk from home.

  It had taken them almost an hour and a half to make the crossing from Sandhamn. Tobbe hadn’t said much during the trip; he had spent most of it staring out across the water.

  They had ended up in a procession of leisure craft on their way back from the Midsummer celebrations. It had taken Christoffer’s full concentration to navigate while keeping a safe distance from the other boats. The bright evening sunlight shining in his eyes hadn’t helped matters.

  After his interview with the police, he had reluctantly called his father, just as Thomas had suggested. When he explained what had happened, Arthur Hökström had insisted that they must leave the island immediately.

  Christoffer had tried to protest. “The police said we have to stay; I think they want to speak to Tobbe again.”

  “Listen to me,” Arthur said, cutting him off. “You leave Sandhamn right now. There’s nothing to discuss.”

  Christoffer swallowed. What had he expected? His father had sounded stiff and cold, as though he were in the courtroom. Christoffer had no choice but to obey orders. And now Arthur was standing there, waiting for them.

  He couldn’t see what his father was thinkin
g; dark glasses concealed his expression, but he didn’t look happy.

  With only fifty yards to go, Christoffer shouted to his brother over the throbbing of the engines. “Can you go to the bow and take the mooring ropes when we heave to?”

  Tobbe didn’t react, and Christoffer reached out with his left arm and gave him a shove. Like a sleepwalker, Tobbe stood up and clambered over the windshield and up onto the foredeck. His eyes were red-rimmed.

  Christoffer reduced his speed even more, until the engines were idling. They were getting closer and closer. The hull slipped slowly between the Y-beams, and when they were almost there, Christoffer switched to reverse so that the boat stopped around eighteen inches from the edge of the jetty.

  Tobbe crouched down by the gunwale and grabbed the mooring ropes that Arthur was holding out. When he’d made them fast, he jumped down and landed in front of his father.

  “What did you say to the police?” Arthur said without a second’s hesitation. He sounded angry, and his voice was loud enough for Christoffer to hear all the way back in the stern, where he was busy fastening the last rope.

  He remembered when Tobbe had broken the neighbors’ window. Arthur had hit the nine-year-old so hard that he fell over. Tobbe had been so upset, he’d hidden in the garage for the rest of the day. Christoffer had been thirteen, almost fourteen; even though he was growing up, he hadn’t dared intervene.

  “Dad,” Tobbe said. Christoffer could tell that his kid brother was on the verge of tears.

  “Answer me, what did you say to the police when they questioned you?”

  Arthur grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. He seemed as if he were about to hit the boy. Christoffer dropped the rope and moved forward. His father’s face was no more than an inch from Tobbe’s.

  “How the fuck could you be stupid enough to talk to the police without me?” Arthur yelled.

  CHAPTER 48

  Jonas had sat on the end of Wilma’s bed until she fell asleep. Before he knew it, he had dropped off, too, with his head resting against the wall.

  When he woke up, it was almost ten o’clock at night and dusk had begun to fall; the sun would go down in half an hour.