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

by Viveca Sten

  Drowsily he shook himself. Wilma was sleeping deeply, with the covers pulled up to her chin. Jonas patted her cheek; no reaction. He got up carefully and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  He went down to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was almost empty, but there were a few bottles of beer on one of the shelves. That would have to do; he wasn’t particularly hungry.

  He took his drink into the living room and sat down on the sofa. The power had been restored, but he didn’t bother switching on the lights. Was it because he didn’t want Nora to see that he was up and about? He had no idea. He could see a light in her kitchen window, so someone was still awake in the Brand villa.

  He took a swig of his beer and weighed the bottle in his hand. The same question kept going around and around in his head: Why hadn’t he realized how Wilma felt about Nora?

  Jonas tried to remember how things had been during the spring. Had Nora been mean to Wilma? He shook his head; she had tried to get along with his daughter, just as he had made an effort with Adam and Simon.

  Ever since they introduced each other to their kids, they had done their best to make it work. It had been a little tricky at first, but in general things had gone well. They had both agreed to take it slowly.

  He had spent the Easter weekend with Nora and the kids on Sandhamn. They hadn’t stayed in the same house, but they had eaten together. Wilma had been a little difficult, but no more than any other teenager.

  Now he was wondering if the signs had been there all along. The thought that she had stayed away because he was with Nora was deeply upsetting. He should have realized how she felt. He was an adult; she was still a child.

  Margot’s outburst was ringing in his ears.

  “How could you let her go off like that? She’s only fourteen! I didn’t think you’d be so dumb, Jonas. I’m really disappointed. You have to take responsibility for our daughter!”

  He pictured Wilma, out in the forest all night, lost and cold, in such despair that she couldn’t even call him.

  This was pure torture.

  Then Nora’s face came to mind. Had he been living in a bubble for the past few months?

  For the first time in years, he had fallen in love. Maybe that was why he’d let himself be swept along. Wilma was growing up, and he knew she would spread her wings before too long. She would move out, make a life of her own.

  What would become of him then, when he was almost forty years old and his only child had left home?

  He hadn’t even turned twenty when she was born; he became a father long before his friends. He had been out of step then, and he was out of step now. They were complaining about sleepless nights and colic, while he was wrestling with teenage problems and puberty.

  He had built his life around Wilma for fourteen years, but the longing for something more permanent had begun to grow inside him, something different from the brief encounters with various women over the past decade.

  He had opened himself up to Nora in a way that he hadn’t done for what seemed like an eternity. It had been fantastic to give in, to let himself fall head over heels in love.

  Nora.

  The very thought of her made him yearn to be with her, but he couldn’t allow his new love to take precedence over his daughter.

  Thomas sat up in bed. He had broken out in a cold sweat, and the thin summer sheet and pillow were damp where they touched his skin.

  Was Elin alive?

  He turned his head and heard her soft, snuffling breathing.

  His dreams had passed seamlessly from one to the other. He’d seen Elin smiling at him, rosy-cheeked and flourishing. The next minute, she had turned into Emily, gasping and blue in the face. When Thomas tried to help her, nothing happened; she kept on fighting for breath in spite of his attempts to blow air into her little mouth. He was already beside himself when the daughter in his dream slid from his grasp and disappeared.

  The image of the baby suffocating in his arms was still only too real.

  Thomas forced himself to slow his breathing; it was only a dream; it wasn’t real. It was still dark, but he could make out his family: Elin was safe in her crib, and Pernilla was asleep on her side. Everything was fine.

  The numerals on the alarm clock shone out at him; only three hours until he had to get up in order to catch the first ferry back to the mainland. He really needed more sleep, but the fear wouldn’t let go. His heart was pounding. He adjusted his pillow, turning it over so that the dry surface was on top.

  He tried to make himself relax and lay on his back with one hand under his head. The only sound was that soft breathing beside him and the faint buzzing of an insect that had found its way in through the window.

  Pernilla edged closer, and Thomas brushed his lips against her bare shoulder where her nightgown had slipped down. He inhaled the scent of her freshly washed hair—apple blossom.

  He was filled with gratitude for the fact that he was no longer alone.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER 49

  Monday

  Nora was woken by the sound of hammering from the property next door. All building projects in the village were supposed to stop after Midsummer, but the odd transgressor who hadn’t finished in time ignored the rule.

  She was lying with her head on the bottom sheet; she had knocked the pillow onto the floor at some point during the night. The house was quiet; no doubt the boys were still sleeping.

  Forty-eight hours ago, Jonas had been lying next to her; now his side of the bed was empty. Nora pushed back the covers and went over to the tall window. It was a beautiful morning. A skiff with a pile of nets in the prow puttered by, but it was impossible to tell whether it had been a successful fishing trip.

  A feeling of melancholy crept up on her, and Nora rested her head on the glass. It was cool against her skin, and slightly uneven, as old windows tended to be.

  She hadn’t heard anything from Jonas during the previous evening. She had tried to see if there were any lights on in his house, but there was no sign of life. He hadn’t come over, and she hadn’t wanted to disturb him.

  She was wide-awake now; there was very little chance of getting back to sleep, even though it was only seven o’clock.

  Over the last six months, she’d been happier than she had been in years. I don’t deserve this, she’d sometimes thought.

  Jonas’s kind, considerate nature and his lighthearted approach to life had been a balm after the years with Henrik. He’d helped her heal after the divorce; she no longer felt broken and rejected. This new, positive attitude enabled her to stop brooding over her failed marriage. She could cope with hearing other people mention Henrik and Marie in the same sentence.

  With Jonas, she began to believe there was another way, a life where both she and Henrik could be happy, each in their own space. Jonas had given her the strength to start over, and gradually she began to regard herself and the boys as a solid family unit.

  She was standing on her own two feet at last, with or without Jonas. He’d helped her to reach this point—but she didn’t want to lose him now.

  Oscar-Henrik Sachsen took his time as he pulled on the white latex gloves. He had eaten a good breakfast; there was no need to neglect the most important meal of the day just because work was calling.

  Two cheese-and-ham sandwiches, a fruit yogurt, and strong coffee. It was the first of many cups of coffee during his day; he would get through at least eight, often more.

  His stick-straight, slightly-too-long hair reached the collar of his white coat. A bald patch gave away the fact that he was getting older; he was about to turn fifty-nine. Six years to go until retirement; he wasn’t sure if he was dreading it or looking forward to it.

  “Ready?” he called to his assistant, Axel Ohlin, who had almost completed six months in the forensic pathology department. He was a skinny guy who didn’t make much noise.

  “Are you fetching the boy?” Sachsen called out again.

&
nbsp; It was seven fifteen in the morning; Sachsen was a naturally early riser.

  Within a few minutes, Ohlin appeared with a gurney that he pushed into the middle of the gray room where Sachsen was waiting. The computer on the bench over by the wall was already switched on.

  “OK, let’s see what we’ve got,” Sachsen said. He removed the cover from the naked body. “Have all the photographs been taken? Can we begin?”

  Ohlin responded with a nod.

  The pathologist walked around the body with a Dictaphone in his hand. He always made a point of recording his first impression, which was something that could never be recaptured once the scalpel sliced through muscles and joints.

  “Let’s take a look at you,” Sachsen said, pinching the skin. Very soon, tissue would be removed, bodily fluids examined, and samples taken to be sent off to the National Forensic Laboratory in Linköping. One organ after another would be lifted out, weighed, and measured.

  “But I’ll stitch you back together,” he murmured. “You’ll look just fine. As good as new.”

  When Sachsen had finished, the skin would be carefully folded back over the cavities and sutured. To the untrained eye, the deceased would look almost the same as usual.

  But so far Victor Ekengreen remained intact.

  From one side, where the bloody wound couldn’t be seen and the eyes were hidden, he almost looked as if he were sleeping. He’s only a young boy, Sachsen thought, allowing himself to put his clinical perspective aside for a second. His poor parents.

  Then he pushed away the thought, as if he had let the reality get too close, and said brusquely to his assistant, “OK, tell me what you see.”

  Ohlin moved a little closer so that he was standing next to Victor Ekengreen. The blond hair was pushed back from the dead boy’s face, and a fine network of blue veins was visible beneath the skin. He was lying on his side, his throat and the crown of his head exposed.

  Sachsen gave Ohlin an encouraging smile. “Go on.”

  “He has a fracture running through most of the sutura coronaria and down toward the sinus frontalis.”

  “Correct. He has a significant wound to the head. Continue.”

  Ohlin did his best to describe the injuries. When he lifted the boy’s head to take a closer look, Sachsen discovered something he hadn’t noticed before.

  He stepped forward and leaned over the body. “What have we here?” he murmured.

  CHAPTER 50

  “Morning, Thomas,” Karin Ek said as Thomas walked into the conference room on the third floor. “Have you come straight from Harö?”

  “I caught the first ferry,” he said. He had arrived in Stavsnäs at a quarter to seven, and it had taken him just over half an hour to drive to the police station in Nacka.

  “How are Pernilla and Elin?”

  Talking about family came naturally to Karin. She had three sports-crazed teenage sons who always needed a ride to some training session or another. When Elin was born, she had given Thomas a beautifully wrapped snowsuit.

  “Absolutely fine,” he said. “They were both asleep when I left.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by Margit.

  “Shit!” she said. She had knocked over her cup, spilling black coffee everywhere.

  “Here,” Karin said, handing her a paper towel.

  Thomas went and sat down next to his colleague. “Are you OK?”

  Margit didn’t answer; instead she concentrated on mopping up the coffee before it reached her papers.

  The door opened and Erik Blom and Kalle Lidwall, the two younger detectives, came in. As usual, Erik had slicked back his dark hair with gel, and he had already acquired an impressive tan.

  “Morning,” he said cheerfully, tucking his sunglasses into his breast pocket.

  Kalle, the youngest member of the team, raised a hand in greeting but didn’t speak. He rarely gave away anything of a personal nature. Thomas knew surprisingly little about his colleague, in spite of the fact that they’d worked together for several years. He was astonishingly tidy; Thomas had often noticed with a stab of envy that there was never a single unnecessary document lying around on his desk.

  “Have you seen the new guy, Harry Anjou?” Thomas asked Karin.

  “He’s in with the Old Man.”

  Göran Persson, the head of the Violent Crime Unit, was only ever referred to as the Old Man. The door opened and he walked in, followed by Harry Anjou, who still looked exhausted. Thomas gave him an encouraging nod.

  “Morning, everyone,” the Old Man said, sitting down opposite Thomas and Margit.

  “This is Harry Anjou,” he began. “He’s joining us from today. Because he was part of the team deployed to Sandhamn over the weekend, it seems appropriate to bring him in on this investigation.”

  The Old Man reached for the plate of pastries provided by Karin. That was probably the last thing he ought to be eating in view of his considerable bulk, in Thomas’s opinion. His red face suggested that he must be at risk of a cardiac arrest at any moment; his cholesterol must be sky-high.

  However, Thomas was grateful for something sweet; he hadn’t had any breakfast. He had managed to get back to sleep but hadn’t heard the alarm clock and had only just caught the ferry. He had dozed all the way across to the mainland.

  “Harry, would you like to introduce yourself to the rest of the gang?” the Old Man said.

  The new arrival nodded to his colleagues and ran a hand over his cheek, where a faint shadow of stubble was visible despite the early hour. Thomas thought about the Walloons who had emigrated to Sweden in the seventeenth century; both the name and the stocky body hinted at that kind of heritage.

  “So my name is Harry Anjou,” he said. “I’m thirty-two, and I’ve been living in Stockholm since last fall.”

  The Norrland accent was unmistakable; his ancestors must have headed north.

  “I’ve just spent six months with another department, and as I’m on a rotation program, it’s time for me to join you. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “Where are you from?” Margit asked.

  “Ånge. I worked in the area for several years after I graduated from the police academy, but most people don’t stick around up there, as you know.” He shrugged as if he expected everyone in the room to be familiar with the depopulation of northern Sweden. “I wanted to give the big city a try. The elk hunting will have to wait,” he added with a wry smile.

  “Do you have a family?” Karin said.

  Harry shook his head. He had a well-defined jawline, and the dark eyebrows stood out against his pale skin. “No. Not yet.”

  “Welcome. We’re glad to have you here,” Thomas said. “Harry and I met yesterday on Sandhamn,” he explained to the rest of the group before turning back to the younger man. “You and the rest of the team did a good job. There must have been a lot to deal with over the weekend.”

  “You could say that,” Harry replied, rubbing his nose wearily.

  “OK,” the Old Man said, “let’s move on. Shall we summarize where we are? Too bad this had to happen at the start of the vacation season.”

  Thomas gave a detailed report on the events of the past twenty-four hours. Karin had put up the photos from the location where the body was found, and Thomas pointed to a close-up of Victor Ekengreen beneath the branches of the alder.

  “All the indications are that Victor was murdered, but making progress won’t be easy. There were so many people on the island over the weekend, mostly visitors. Finding witnesses is going to be a real challenge.” He turned to Margit. “Anything you’d like to add?”

  “As Thomas said, we don’t have much to go on in terms of a motive or perpetrator,” she said. “All we know so far is that Victor had fallen out in the past with his best friend, Tobbe Hökström, who was also visiting Sandhamn over Midsummer.”

  “When’s the autopsy?” Kalle asked.

  “Today, hopefully.”

  “I’ve faxed all relevant documents to the forensi
c pathology lab,” Karin said.

  “And I’ll give Sachsen a call when we’re done here,” Thomas offered.

  “We’ve started looking at the group of friends who celebrated Midsummer on Sandhamn,” Margit said. “If we stick to the old theory that the killer is often among those closest to the victim, then Tobbe Hökström and Victor’s girlfriend, Felicia Grimstad, are of the most interest at the moment.”

  Thomas remembered that quick glance between the brothers, the frightened look on Tobbe’s face, the way he sought support from Christoffer. There was more digging to be done there.

  “Someone needs to go over to Sandhamn and talk to people on the island,” he said. “There must be individuals who saw or heard something. I know a number of contact details were taken yesterday, but there’s plenty more to do.”

  “I can do that,” Erik Blom volunteered. He turned to their new colleague. “Want to come along?”

  Harry Anjou didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic. Thomas guessed it was because Harry, like him, had just returned to the mainland after an intense weekend in the archipelago.

  “Take Kalle instead,” the Old Man said. “Harry can stay here today. We need to take a closer look at Victor, turn his life inside out. I’d like you to get started on that right away.”

  “Sure,” Harry replied. Thomas could have sworn he looked grateful.

  “Charlotte Ståhlgren is our prosecutor,” the Old Man went on. “Margit, Thomas, can you make sure she’s up to speed?”

  Margit nodded.

  “Good,” said the Old Man, getting to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Erik Blom winked at a pretty girl who was holding her five-year-old by the hand as she waited for the ferry to dock. The bow was packed with people ready to disembark on Sandhamn; the man in front of them had two bags of groceries in each hand.

  “How many strollers are there on this goddamn boat?” Kalle muttered as he pressed himself against the wall in order to let yet another mom and her baby pass by. He had been grumpy from the start, but Erik hadn’t bothered to ask why. The chances of his taciturn colleague giving anything away were remote.