by Viveca Sten
The answer came back right away.
No idea.
A few seconds passed, and then the phone buzzed again. The letters glowed in the semidarkness.
I saw Tobbe on the shore when Victor died. What should I tell the cops?
CHAPTER 62
A single lamp was lit in the library, where Johan Ekengreen was sitting in a brown leather armchair. The light spread in a faint circle; the bookshelves along the walls were in shadow. The Johnny Cash CD had long since come to an end, but Johan couldn’t summon the energy to change it. He was holding a glass half full of Cognac, and the bottle on the table was almost empty.
Ellinor had landed in the early afternoon, pale and devastated. The tears began to flow as soon as she caught sight of him in the arrivals terminal. Johan gritted his teeth; he couldn’t start crying, too, not in such a crowded place. He’d already noticed that a number of people seemed to know who he was, so instead he clenched his jaw so tightly that his voice became harsh.
“Give me your bag. The car’s outside.”
He marched toward the door, desperate to get out of there before he lost control. Ellinor scurried along behind him.
Pontus, his eldest son, was still in Ibiza. He was the only one who hadn’t broken down when he heard the news. As long as Pontus can play golf and go skiing, he is happy, Johan thought with a stab of anger.
Pontus was alive and Victor was dead.
There was no point in thinking that way. It wasn’t fair, but he couldn’t help it. Pontus wasn’t the one on whom Johan had pinned his hopes. He was pleasant and charming, but there wasn’t much more to him than that. He was a lightweight who took after his mom—that was the unpalatable reality.
In the semidarkness, Johan admitted the truth to himself. It was in his youngest son that he’d recognized himself; it was Victor who was supposed to carry his legacy forward.
And yet Victor’s life had been so radically different from his own. Johan had never gotten anything for free. His parents had worked in a factory in order to provide for him and his older sisters. He remembered his mom suffering from a permanent toothache when he was growing up, but there wasn’t enough money to pay for the dentist, and in the end, she’d lost all her teeth.
He could still see her dentures on the bedside table.
It was clear from an early age that Johan was smart. In spite of the shortage of funds, his mom had insisted that he continue his education rather than leaving at the end of elementary school, like the other boys in the village.
He was the first member of his family to graduate from high school.
He ought to remember that day with joy and pride, but all he could recall was the humiliation, the feeling of shame and embarrassment as he stood in the schoolyard with his parents—his father in his shabby cloth cap, his mother in a bobbled cardigan over a floral-patterned dress.
He had been invited to his classmates’ graduation parties, but it was a bitter joke; he couldn’t possibly return their hospitality.
The following day, he began his military service as a Coastal Ranger. It had been the best time of his life, and when he moved on to college, he did so with a real sense of regret. However, he found it easy to learn, his grades were good, and he gradually noticed that, to his surprise, he was popular with his female classmates.
New worlds opened.
He adapted himself to his environment like a chameleon, secretly studying his well-off friends and the way they behaved. How a man courted a woman, how a younger person spoke to someone older. He took it all in.
Discreetly he added extra letters to his surname to make it sound more distinctive: Ekgren became Ekengreen. His contacts led to a good job, where he wore a white shirt and shiny shoes. At the age of thirty, he was earning more money that his parents could have ever dreamed of.
He rarely visited them.
He got a promotion, moved to a new job, and then another. He was a managing director by his midthirties. He was invited to take part in panel debates and interviewed in the business press, and after a few years, the chairman of a large firm featured on the stock exchange offered him a role running a group of companies. He was earning even more but didn’t feel at home anywhere. He hid this emptiness carefully, with a luxurious house in one of the best suburbs and tailor-made suits.
Pontus and Nicole’s mother had been with him for part of the journey. For years, she ignored all the rumors about other women, until in the end, she decided she’d had enough and left him.
He met Madeleine at a private dinner. She was perfect: sixteen years younger and from a family that was well known within the financial sector. Her mother came from Polish nobility. Ellinor came along first, then Victor two years later. They were both as fair-haired and elegant as their mother.
Ellinor and Victor.
His grip on the Cognac glass tightened.
Photographs of the children were displayed on the mantelpiece above the open fire. His four children. Now only three were alive. Victor would not be coming back. Death was irrevocable.
For the first time in his life, Johan felt older than his years. He took a gulp of brandy, feeling the burn on his tongue.
The lack of certainty about how Victor had died tormented him more than he could have imagined. Suddenly he realized why the relatives of those who perished in tragedies at sea fought for years to have the bodies recovered.
The need to find out what had happened was a physical compulsion; not knowing was causing him actual pain. It was all he’d thought about for the past twenty-four hours.
Who had murdered his son?
In the afternoon, he’d called the police to ask how the investigation was going, but the answer had been far from satisfactory.
“We’ll be in touch when we know more,” Thomas Andreasson had said.
That wasn’t good enough.
Johan’s stomach contracted when he thought back to those noncommittal words. Was he going to have to wait weeks, maybe months, for an answer?
“You must have found out something,” he had insisted.
“We’ll be in touch.”
Johan felt as if he was being suffocated, and the frustration made his skin crawl. He couldn’t just sit around, waiting.
He slammed the glass down on the table and got to his feet. He took a few steps without really knowing where he was going, then went over to the desk and stood there, his hands resting on the surface as he scanned the room.
On the second shelf of the far bookcase stood the jubilee book celebrating the Swedish Coastal Rangers, the elite military force trained on the island of Korsö, just off Sandhamn. Johan had thrived during his time with the Rangers. He had worked like a dog; the rumors about the harsh regime had not been exaggerated. But he had learned to grit his teeth and never lose focus, lessons that had been invaluable in his subsequent career. The team spirit had been extreme; nothing could break the loyalty within the troop.
Johan hesitated, then went over and took down the book. He leafed through the pages until he found his own group.
Thirty-six men had completed the course that year, in the midsixties. He was in regular contact with only a few but knew he could ask his fellow soldiers for help at any time, whatever the problem might be.
He turned and looked at the photograph of Victor.
His son was smiling at him, his blond hair tousled. His pale-blue shirt was open at the neck, revealing the silver confirmation cross his parents had given him. It was only a year since Victor was confirmed at a sailing camp in the archipelago.
The memory of Victor’s face as he lay there on the gurney, with strands of hair stuck to his forehead by congealed blood, suddenly overwhelmed Johan.
It hurt to breathe.
He went back to the desk, opened the top drawer, and took out his old address book. His fingers found the entry by themselves, and he quickly pressed the buttons on his cell phone.
“It’s Johan Ekengreen. I need your help,” he said quietly.
C
HAPTER 63
Tuesday
Wilma was still sleeping. Jonas thought it was probably just as well. He’d left her in peace the previous evening as Margot had suggested, but today they had to talk.
Quietly he closed her bedroom door and went downstairs. With practiced movements, he laced up his sneakers and went outside. The air was warm even though it was only eight o’clock in the morning.
The Brand villa loomed above him on Kvarnberget, but he avoided looking at the yellow house and set off in the direction of the Mission House instead, into the forest. The running track cut across the island, along the shore on the southern side. All the way to Trouville and back. Two circuits took just under an hour—forty-five minutes if he pushed himself.
It was liberating to be among the fir trees. The tops of the tall pines rustled softly in the breeze, and the only other sound was the pounding of his feet on the needle-covered path that wound through low-growing blueberry bushes and heather.
Jonas focused on his rhythm, breathing evenly and trying to clear his mind of everything else. He had tossed and turned all night; right now he wanted his body’s stress hormones to be eaten up by exercise.
He increased his pace and turned toward the southern shore. It was more isolated than the popular beaches at Trouville, and the sand wasn’t as fine, but Jonas thought it was prettier.
That was where he had talked to Nora for the first time. Really talked. She’d been out walking by herself, and they’d bumped into each other by chance. That was in September, six months after she’d split up with her husband. She’d seemed so sad, her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and at one point, she’d been on the verge of tears.
Jonas had found that encounter on the shore very moving, especially the moment when her lips trembled. He had made her smile by skipping stones. They had walked back to the village together, and before they parted, he heard himself asking if she’d like to have dinner with him, much to his surprise. He had barely formulated the thought before the words came out, and he was so pleased when she said yes.
They’d spent a long, relaxed evening in the Divers Bar, and a week later, they had met up again by chance. Both had a child-free weekend, and they had ended up spending the night together.
He had fallen in love almost right away.
A woman to live with, he had thought instinctively. For the first time in years, he liked waking up with someone instead of rushing away as quickly as possible.
The sweat was pouring down his back; Jonas stepped it up even more. It felt good, concentrating on his muscles and aching lungs. It was important to find the right route across the shore—not too far up because running through the soft sand would take too much work and not too far down where the waves would be licking at his sneakers. He would soon reach the island’s soccer field, where kids had been kicking a ball around for many years.
A short distance away, two women were standing by the water’s edge in swimsuits, preparing for a morning dip. Jonas raised a hand in greeting as he ran past.
Two distinctive-looking houses with turrets and rock formations in the yard came into view. In order to avoid disturbing the owners, he cut back into the forest and up a small hill. He forced himself to move as fast as he could, and he tasted a mixture of blood and salt in his mouth.
Far away, a dog was barking, and Jonas took the wooden bridge leading to the wide road and the village. The planks were springy beneath his feet, and within minutes, he was on the home stretch, the blood pounding in his veins and sweat trickling into his eyes and dripping onto his T-shirt, which was already soaking wet.
Despite his best efforts, his thoughts caught up with him.
Was he going to have to choose between his daughter and his relationship with Nora? Were things really that bad?
CHAPTER 64
The drug squad was located on the floor above the Violent Crime Unit. As Margit and Thomas made their way upstairs, Thomas told her about the previous evening’s conversation with Harry Anjou.
Torbjörn Landin had gathered three colleagues in a small, windowless conference room. He was a tall man with ruddy skin; it almost looked as if he had some form of rosacea around his nose and on his cheeks. His handshake was firm.
“Welcome,” he said, indicating two empty chairs.
Thomas recognized the faces of those present, and Landin quickly made the introductions: Harald Rimér, Kurt Ögren, and Emma Hallberg.
“This is half of the team of plainclothes officers who were on Sandhamn over the Midsummer weekend,” he said. “The others aren’t in today, but we can speak to them later if necessary.”
Thomas said hello and took out his notebook.
“I’ve given them a heads-up on your case,” Landin went on. “What do you need to know?”
Anything that can throw light on Victor Ekengreen’s final hours, Thomas thought. He took out a photograph of Victor, supplied by the boy’s parents. It was taken outdoors, by the sea. Victor was tanned and wearing a red-striped lifejacket. He was looking at whoever was behind the camera.
Thomas suddenly got the feeling that Victor was far from happy, but maybe he was just squinting into the sun. Hard to tell.
“This is Victor Ekengreen,” he began. “We’re wondering if any of you noticed him during the weekend?”
The picture was passed around, but they all shook their heads.
“He was a good-looking kid,” Emma Hallberg said quietly.
“One of our theories is that Victor might have arranged to meet his dealer at the scene of the crime, and then things went wrong,” Margit said.
“We’re wondering if anyone you had under surveillance could have been involved,” Thomas added.
“He was found in Skärkarlshamn, wasn’t he?” Emma said, handing back the photo.
“That’s right.”
“It’s too far away.”
“What do you mean?” Margit asked.
“There was a lot of dealing going on around the harbor. It wouldn’t make sense for a dealer and his customer to go all that way to carry out a transaction when they could simply go around the back of a building and do what’s necessary in minutes.”
“Good point,” Landin said. “Most buying and selling takes place on board the boats. Word spreads fast; it doesn’t take long for people to suss out where to go. It’s not the dealers who move, it’s the customers. It would be far too time-consuming for a dealer to meet each individual buyer in a different place.”
“We raided several boats during the weekend,” Harald Rimér said. His head was shaven and tanned. “It’s not hard to see where business is being conducted when you know what you’re looking for.”
Landin cracked his knuckles one by one. “New visitors arrive on certain boats at intervals of around fifteen minutes,” he explained. “They don’t stay long. They step aboard, shake hands, and go below deck. After five or ten minutes, they reappear, say their good-byes, and leave. After a little while, the next visitor appears. That’s when you get the feeling something’s going on.”
The others murmured in agreement.
“So why would a dealer bother going all the way to Skärkarlshamn, when all he has to do is wait for his customers to turn up?” Thomas wondered aloud.
He thought back to the conversation with Harry Anjou, who had insisted that Skärkarlshamn was the perfect spot for dealing. A suitable distance away from the harbor.
“I’d gotten the impression it might be a good place,” he said.
Emma shook her head. “Too much trouble.”
“Tell me something,” Kurt Ögren said. “Did Victor Ekengreen have any ‘Amsterdam envelopes’ on him?”
Thomas recognized the term. The most common way of carrying a few grams of cocaine was a square piece of paper about the size of a Post-it note folded to form a tiny envelope. “Not as far as we know,” he said.
“How about balls of plastic wrap?” Landin asked, referring to a standard method of transporting larger amounts of the drug. By p
utting the thumb and index finger together and winding the wrap around them, a pocket was created into which the powder could be poured.
“No,” Margit said. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just thinking that if your victim had unopened packages, he wouldn’t have needed to buy any more.”
Nothing wrong with his logic, but all they’d found on Victor was a small plain envelope—not an Amsterdam envelope—that had been sent off for analysis. Was the drug issue a dead end? Should they drop the theory that Victor’s death was connected to the dealers on Sandhamn?
No, it was too soon. Thomas wanted to know more.
“Was Minosevitch under close surveillance during that evening?” he asked. “There were a lot of people around the harbor; did you know exactly where he was?”
“I can answer that,” Emma volunteered. “He and his gang were in the Sailors Restaurant, eating and drinking.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. They had a long table to themselves on the eastern veranda. I can’t swear that they were all there, but it certainly looked that way; there were at least ten or twelve of them having a good time.” She paused briefly. “They weren’t hard to spot, if you know what I mean. They take up a lot of room.”
“What about the time?” Thomas asked.
Emma shrugged. “Well, they were there when the flag was taken down. I was checking out the restaurant when I heard the shot.”
“Nine o’clock,” Thomas said automatically. “That’s when the flag is lowered.”
“There you go.”
So Minosevitch and his henchmen were having dinner at roughly the same time Victor Ekengreen was being beaten to death on the shore. But if just one of them hadn’t been in the restaurant . . . or had come along later . . . they didn’t know how many were in the group.
Why had Victor gone to Skärkarlshamn? That was still the key question. It could be pure chance, but if not . . .
Margit stepped in. “OK, let me ask you this. Is it likely that one of these guys would kill a teenager because of a dispute over a few grams of cocaine?” She turned to Landin. “What do you think?”
