by Viveca Sten
For the first time since the interview began, Felicia addressed her mother directly. “Tobbe dumped Ebba when she refused to try. What if Victor had done the same?”
She rested her arms on the table, hid her head in her hands, and wept. Jeanette stroked her daughter’s hair, trying to process what she’d just heard.
She looked at Thomas and Margit. “This needs to stop,” she said. “She’s had enough.”
“We’re nearly done,” Margit assured her. “Just a couple more questions. It’s really important that we get to the bottom of this.”
There was no fight left in Jeanette. She sat back in her chair and didn’t say any more.
The two of them were very much alike, Thomas thought, but Jeanette was plumper, with a few strands of gray in her blond hair. The deep furrow in her brow suggested an unhappy life.
“Maybe you’d like to blow your nose,” Margit suggested, placing a box of tissues in front of Felicia.
No response.
“Felicia, I’m going to ask you a question, and it’s essential that you give me an honest answer,” Thomas said. He could almost see her trying to disappear behind the table. “Was there anyone else on the shore that you and Victor knew?”
The girl turned her head toward the open window. The previous day’s rain shower had done little to cool things down; there were signs of an impending thunderstorm in the air.
She’s on her guard, Thomas thought. She knows more than she’s willing to tell us. Is she protecting someone?
“When Victor lost his temper and started yelling at you on the shore, did anyone try to help you?”
“We’re wondering, did you call Ebba or Tobbe and ask one of them to come over?” Margit said.
Felicia shook her head emphatically. “No.” Her voice was stronger now. “I didn’t call anyone. No way.”
Margit kept going. “Did you send a text?”
“No, I swear. Definitely not.”
The sudden change in tone took Thomas by surprise. One minute, Felicia had seemed lost, and the next she was strong and clear.
Then he understood.
The way Margit had phrased her question meant that Felicia didn’t have to lie. She hadn’t called anyone or sent a text message. But she had seen someone on the shore, and she was determined to hide that.
Thomas gazed at her until she grabbed a tissue and blew her nose, as if to avoid having to say anything else. “You did see someone on the shore just before Victor was killed, though, didn’t you?” he said.
“No.” A whisper this time, head down, holding the tissue in front of her mouth. “No, it wasn’t like that.”
“So what was it like?”
Felicia’s eyes filled with tears again.
“Tell us,” Thomas said quietly; he didn’t want to frighten her.
“I saw him.”
“Who?”
“Tobbe.” Another tear slid down her cheek. “I recognized his hair.”
“Felicia.” Margit’s tone was both measured and determined; she had to make Felicia understand how important it was that she told the truth. “Did Tobbe try to help you when you were fighting with Victor?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t remember any more, I’ve already told you.”
“Look at me, please.” Felicia reluctantly met Margit’s steady gaze. “When you were feeling bad and Victor lost his temper, was Tobbe there then?”
“I don’t remember.”
Jeanette Grimstad was pressing her fist to her mouth in an attempt to stay out of the conversation.
Did you really have no idea? Thomas thought. Is it possible to know so little about your own child?
He promised himself that would never happen with Elin.
He spoke slowly so that the words would sink in. “We believe Victor was under the influence of a combination of drugs and alcohol, and because of that, he was like a different person.” He paused briefly, then went on: “We think Tobbe tried to help you and got into a fight with Victor, and that fight ended with Tobbe killing your boyfriend. Is that what happened, Felicia?”
“I don’t remember,” she said, dissolving into helpless sobs. “I told you, I don’t know!”
CHAPTER 67
Felicia followed her mother out of the police station and over to the white Audi parked on the street. Jeanette opened the car door. She hadn’t said a word since they’d left the interview room.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Felicia said as soon as they got in the car. The seat was warm, and her bare legs stuck to the leather upholstery. She had problems fastening the seat belt with her sweaty fingers, but at last, it clicked into place.
Had Mom heard her?
Jeanette turned the key. The engine started, and she put the car in first gear, but instead of driving off, she simply sat there with her hands on the wheel.
Felicia glanced over; weren’t they going home? Her mom was just staring blankly into space. There were hardly any other cars around. She noticed a gray parking meter a few yards away. A dead fly had gotten stuck between the windshield wiper and the glass.
Several minutes passed. Felicia stole another look at her mom; she didn’t dare say anything.
“How could you?”
She’d never heard Mom sound so hurt and disappointed.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m so sorry for everything.”
Jeanette wiped her forehead, shiny with the heat. “I never thought you’d do something like this. Your father and I have always believed you knew how to behave, how to look after yourself. We trusted you, and you’ve lied to us, taken drugs, stolen money from me . . .”
Her voice died away. Felicia clenched her fists, overwhelmed by her mom’s devastated expression, the pain and sorrow in her eyes.
I wish I were dead, she thought desperately, just like Victor. It would have been better if I’d died, too. Things will never be right again.
She swallowed. “Are you going to tell Dad?”
Felicia could hear the pathetic, pleading tone in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. The fear of how her father would react was like a knot in her belly. He had such a temper.
Jeanette gave herself a little shake. She took her hands off the wheel and pressed her fingers to her temples. “I need to digest this,” she said, half to herself, without answering Felicia’s question. “I have to try and make sense of what’s happened.” Without warning she slammed her fists on the wheel so hard that Felicia jumped. “Have you told the police everything? Do you swear there’s nothing else I ought to know?”
She grabbed her daughter’s shoulder; it hurt, but Felicia was too shocked to complain. It was Dad who usually went crazy; Mom was the one who stepped in when Dad lost it. She hardly ever raised her voice.
“Mom, please.”
Jeanette let go but continued to stare at her daughter as if she were a stranger. Her mouth was no more than a thin line. She leaned forward, switched off the engine, and pulled out the keys.
“Tell me about the last time you were with Victor,” she said. “I want to know exactly what happened that night. No more lies, Felicia.”
FELICIA
They were lying on the sand, sheltered by the tree. Victor was still mad. Felicia started stroking his stomach, her hand working its way down. That was usually guaranteed to put him in a good mood.
She tried to quash the feeling that she was behaving like a slut. Just as she unzipped his shorts, Victor pushed her hand away and sat up.
“Don’t you want to?” she said in confusion.
“Let’s make it a bit more exciting,” he said, taking a small envelope out of his pocket. Felicia’s heart sank. He was already so unpredictable; if he was going to do a line now, there was a good chance he would lose his temper again.
“Do you have to?” she said tentatively.
Victor’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, do I have to?”
Felicia backed off. “I just thought we were having a nice time. We don’t need anything
else . . .”
“This is something new.” He tipped two tablets onto his palm and winked at her. “One for you and one for me.”
“What is it?”
“It starts with an e.” He smiled.
Felicia had never taken ecstasy before but didn’t dare protest. Obediently she picked up one of the tablets and washed it down with a swig of vodka from the hip flask Victor had brought with him. It was horrible, but she did it for him.
After a while, she began to feel fantastic. The evening light was so beautiful; she lay back, humming a tune. Victor wanted to have sex but couldn’t get it up. She was worried that he might get mad, but he didn’t seem to care. They lay side by side, gazing up at the sky.
She had to go and pee behind the tree, and that was when she saw Tobbe on the shore. However, he was some distance away, and she was too far gone to make the effort to call out to him. She didn’t even tell Victor he was there.
Then things started to go wrong. The lovely feeling vanished, and a crippling nausea took its place. Her hands were shaking, and her body felt weird.
The nausea was too much, and she had to throw up. Some of the vomit splashed onto Victor’s shoes; he was also coming down, and he was furious. He yelled and swore; Felicia curled up in a ball, more scared of him than she’d ever been.
Someone was coming; she remembered a shadow behind Victor.
Then everything disappeared.
CHAPTER 68
The man who accompanied Tobbe Hökström to the police station was wearing a blue suit, a white shirt, and a pale-blue tie with a darker narrow stripe.
He introduced himself as Arthur Hökström, Tobbe’s father. His handshake was firm, and Thomas realized this was a man who was used to getting his way, just like Felicia’s father.
“I’m a lawyer,” Hökström said immediately. “I’m also a partner in Zetterling Legal. Maybe you’ve heard of us.”
“Do you work in criminal law?” Margit asked.
“No, not at all. My specialty is business law, mainly company acquisitions, that kind of thing.”
He spoke as if that should be obvious. Thomas knew that business law was much higher up the scale than anything involving criminal cases; it was also considerably more lucrative. He’d met Hökström’s sort before: stiff-necked lawyers who’d had nothing to do with criminal law since their university days but who still thought their knowledge was far superior to that of the bumbling cops who were conducting the interview.
“Take a seat,” Margit said, gesturing toward the two chairs on the opposite side of the table in the white-walled room. She quickly read out the obligatory details for the benefit of the tape recorder.
Arthur Hökström took out his cell phone and placed it in front of him.
“Could you put that away, please?” Margit said.
“Why?” He raised his eyebrows but slipped the phone back in his pocket.
Margit turned to his son, who was slumped in the chair, and patted his hand. “How are you feeling, Tobias?” she asked.
“Tobbe. Everybody calls me Tobbe,” he mumbled. He was noticeably pale, with blue-black shadows beneath his eyes.
“You don’t look too good,” Margit went on. “Have you managed to get any sleep?”
“Not much.”
Tobbe attempted to sit up. His jeans had slipped down his hips and appeared to be at least a couple of sizes too big. His underpants could be seen above the waistband, and his white T-shirt hung loose on his body.
“I’ve been having nightmares.”
“About what?”
He shuffled toward the edge of the chair. “About Victor, how he died and so on. Whether it hurt when he . . .” His voice faded away. He tried again. “When he . . .”
It was no good.
“Is there any particular reason why you’ve been having those dreams?” Margit said, holding his gaze. “Is there anything you’d like to tell us?”
Tobbe’s lips moved as he tried to form the words that wouldn’t come. His fingers plucked at the fabric of his jeans.
“You might feel better if you talk to us about what happened,” Margit continued. “Sometimes it’s nice to get things off your chest.”
Tobbe turned to look at his father, who stepped in before the boy could speak. “Where exactly are you going with these questions?”
Margit sat up a little straighter. “A young man was murdered last weekend. We need to talk to your son about the matter.” She turned her attention back to Tobbe. “Is there anything you want to say?”
The moment was gone.
“No, not really.”
Thomas ignored Arthur Hökström and focused on Tobbe.
“We’d like to know where you were on Saturday between eight thirty in the evening and two o’clock in the morning.”
Tobbe looked blank. “I was on the other boat with my brother. I’ve already told you that.”
“Is there anyone who can confirm your whereabouts?”
“My brother and a girl named Tessan. We were together.”
Thomas spoke slowly and deliberately. “We’ve spoken to both your brother and Therese Almblad; according to them, you weren’t actually on board during the period in question. Therese claims that you went ashore at about eight thirty to go to the toilet, and you didn’t come back. She says she didn’t see you after that.”
Tobbe’s shoulders slumped. “Tessan said that?”
“She did.”
“He was with his brother,” Hökström snapped. “We’ve already established that.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Margit contradicted him immediately. “Christoffer can’t confirm that. He spent the night with a classmate named Sara, and he has no idea where his younger brother was during those hours.”
“In that case, he must be mistaken,” Hökström said, refusing to concede.
“It’s possible, but unlikely,” Thomas said. “I find it difficult to believe that Christoffer lied to us, but maybe you’re implying that he’s going to change his story now? Which would mean he wasn’t telling the truth before.”
At first it seemed as if Hökström was going to protest, but then he folded his arms and pursed his lips.
Thomas wondered how he would take the news that his younger son was using drugs. Had he been completely ignorant of the situation, like Jeanette Grimstad?
“May we continue?” he said.
A simple nod.
“So, Tobbe, we’ve found out that you and your friends have been using drugs for the past year or so. Cocaine as well as other substances.”
Arthur Hökström stared at his son in horror. “What the hell?” Tobbe seemed to shrink into himself. “Drugs? Really?”
“It looks that way, unfortunately,” Thomas said, hoping Tobbe’s father would stay out of the conversation.
“Tobbe, we know that you and Victor were both drunk and high on Midsummer’s Day. We also know you were on the shore in Skärkarlshamn in the evening when Victor was killed.”
Tobbe shook his head helplessly.
“We think things got out of hand, leading to Victor’s death. Maybe you tried to help Felicia, and Victor lost his temper. The two of you got into a fight, which ended with you picking up a stone and striking Victor with it.”
“In the heat of the moment,” Margit added. “Not intentionally.”
Tobbe looked horrified. “Dad,” he whimpered.
His father gripped the edge of the table. “You can’t be serious!” he exclaimed.
“Wouldn’t it be best to tell us exactly what happened?” Margit said, ignoring him. “You’ll feel better, I promise.”
“I went to look for Ebba,” Tobbe said, his voice barely holding. “That’s the truth. I never touched Victor. I swear.” He turned to Arthur. “I swear, Dad, I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t me.”
“Enough,” Hökström said, getting to his feet so abruptly that his chair fell over. “You’re not answering any more questions.” He turned to Thomas and Margit. “This is ridic
ulous. My son hasn’t committed any criminal offense. This interview is over. We’re leaving.”
“Sit down!” Thomas barked, much to Hökström’s surprise. “Just think about it,” he went on, softening his tone. “It’s better for everyone if we sort this out. We’ve contacted the telecommunications office responsible for the phone tower on Sandhamn and requested details of all incoming and outgoing calls and text messages on the island, including those from your son’s cell phone.”
Hökström didn’t move.
“I can assure you that if Tobbe had nothing to do with Victor’s death, then that will become patently obvious. However, for everyone’s sake, we need to clear this up as soon as possible. We don’t want to have to bring Tobbe in for further questioning.”
“We’re almost done,” Margit said, “but it really is important that we get the truth about what happened that evening. As a legal expert, surely you can see that?”
Hökström seemed incapable of speech, but Thomas thought he detected a crack in the man’s façade. With his many years of experience in business law, he must be aware that under these circumstances, the police had every right to interrogate his son, whether he was a minor or not. The only issue was how far they would go.
With one hand, Hökström smoothed down his dark hair, which was peppered with gray. It contrasted sharply with Tobbe’s red curls, which clearly didn’t come from his father’s side.
“I guess we have no choice,” he said curtly. He turned and picked the chair up off the floor. “He’s only a kid. Go easy on him.” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder, and for the first time, Thomas thought he saw a spark of tenderness in the man’s eyes.
Tobbe looked terrified, and Margit placed a hand on his arm.
“Tell us what really happened that evening,” she said. “Tell us the truth, Tobbe.”
TOBBE
Tobbe went with Christoffer to Carl Bianchi’s Fairline, which was moored at the Via Mare jetty. Tessan was all over him, but he was no longer in the mood. The effects of the booze had begun to wear off, and he didn’t want to do another line of coke.
