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

by Viveca Sten

  He couldn’t stand it.

  The board meeting was set to begin at two o’clock, in fifty minutes. He had plenty of time, but he’d rather sit and wait in the car than stay home. There was a packet of cigarillos in the glove compartment; Johan rarely smoked, but now he reached for the box, took one out, and lit it.

  His cell phone rang. Johan groped in his inside pocket and managed to get it out, automatically glancing at the display. The phone suddenly felt cold in his hand.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I’ve spoken to someone involved in the investigation,” said the familiar voice. The chief of police sounded almost the same as when they had trained together as Coastal Rangers on the island of Korsö forty-three years earlier—just a little more world-weary, perhaps. “It seems there are strong suspicions against one of your son’s friends.”

  Johan tightened his grip on the phone. “Do you have a name?”

  “Tobias Hökström. Do you know him?”

  The cigarillo fell from Johan’s fingers and onto his knee, burning a hole in the inner thigh of his pants. He fumbled around and managed to put it out.

  “Hello? Are you still there?”

  Johan’s voice was rough when he answered. “Yes. Tobbe Hökström is—was—Victor’s best friend.”

  The car in front braked, and Johan only just managed not to crash into it. He pulled into the outside lane, cutting off a yellow cab.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “Are you saying Tobbe killed my son?”

  “It looks that way. The investigating officers think the boys got into a fight; apparently they were both high on drugs.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “They found traces of cocaine in Victor’s body.”

  That detective, Thomas Andreasson, had said something about drugs when they spoke on the phone yesterday, but Johan had refused to believe it.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you knew,” his former comrade-in-arms went on. “It looks as if the two of them had some kind of argument on the shore that ended with Hökström killing your son. Then he panicked and hid him under a tree. A man walking a dog found the body just a few hours later.”

  Without realizing it, Johan had increased his speed, and he was now traveling at over ninety miles per hour. The landscape was racing by way too fast. With a huge effort of will, he took his foot off the gas.

  “Has Tobbe confessed?” he asked in a strained voice.

  “Not yet, but he came in with his father for another interview today.”

  Arthur Hökström. Johan knew him, but only in passing. Madeleine didn’t like him.

  “He’s been informed that he is suspected of homicide or manslaughter. The prosecutor has issued a warrant to search his home, and the clothes he was wearing have been taken away. They’re considering an arrest, but the prosecutor wants more forensic evidence, and the analysis will take at least a week. He’s also a minor, of course, which makes the situation a little trickier.”

  “I understand,” Johan whispered.

  “They’ll bring him in again soon. At the moment, they’re checking his cell phone.” The chief of police paused briefly. “I’ll be in touch when I know more.”

  “Thank you.”

  Johan put the phone down on the passenger seat. His heart was pounding. He spotted a gas station and changed lanes without checking his rearview mirror. He pulled into the parking lot. When he switched off the engine, cold sweat was trickling down the back of his neck.

  Tobbe. Was it Tobbe who’d murdered his son? The same boy who used to go on vacation with them, spend weekends with them at the summer cottage? A happy-go-lucky kid who’d suffered badly when his parents split up?

  The police must have made a mistake.

  Johan started shaking violently. His pulse was racing. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands in an attempt to calm himself.

  What had Andreasson said? Johan had contacted him to find out how the autopsy had gone and to ask when Victor’s body would be released for burial. Madeleine talked about nothing else, insisting that he must be laid to rest as soon as possible in accordance with family tradition.

  Johan heard Andreasson’s voice in his head, loud and clear. “I’m afraid your son was under the influence of drugs when he died, which means the examination of the body will take longer. We’ll be in touch as soon as we can give you something definite; I hope there won’t be too much of a delay.”

  Drugs.

  Johan had refused to believe it; his boy was no junkie. He had dismissed the idea and hadn’t even mentioned it to Madeleine.

  Admittedly he’d heard that there were drugs in the neighborhood; that was one of the disadvantages of living where they did. The kids had a charmed lifestyle and more money than they could handle. Some crossed the line and went looking for kicks, but Johan hadn’t thought that kind of thing would ever touch his family. He’d given them so much.

  There was a smell of charred fabric in the car from his mishap with the cigarillo. Outside it had begun to rain, droplets of water landing on the windshield and running down the glass.

  Somebody must have talked Victor into trying cocaine. That was the only reasonable explanation. Johan picked up his phone again; he had to know.

  “Thomas Andreasson.”

  It sounded as if he was outdoors; Johan could hear a car horn in the background.

  “It’s Johan Ekengreen. You said yesterday that the autopsy showed that Victor was under the influence of drugs. What did you mean?”

  The words came out way too fast. Johan took a deep breath; if he sounded agitated, he wouldn’t get the information he needed.

  “I’m afraid the forensic pathologist found traces of cocaine in Victor’s body.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t think he was mistaken. There are also witnesses who’ve stated that your son took cocaine on Saturday.”

  “What witnesses?” He was still too frantic. Calm down, he thought.

  “People who were with Victor on Sandhamn.”

  Andreasson was refusing to go into detail; that wasn’t good enough.

  “Can you be more specific? Who are these people? Are they reliable?” Johan waited, on a knife’s edge.

  “We’ve spoken to both his girlfriend and his best friend.”

  So Felicia and Tobbe had confirmed that Victor was on drugs. He could hardly see through the windshield now because of the rain. Or was there something wrong with his eyes?

  “Why?” he asked. “Why was he taking drugs?”

  The answer didn’t come immediately, as if Andreasson was considering how much to reveal. Eventually he said, “It appears that his friend was the one who started first, but all three have been using drugs for quite some time.”

  Johan couldn’t speak.

  “I’m very sorry,” Andreasson went on, “but it looks as if your son was caught up in a pretty serious addiction.”

  He clearly wanted to end the call, but Johan wasn’t done yet.

  “One more thing. Do you have a suspect?”

  “Unfortunately I’m not at liberty to answer that question.”

  “Please. We’re talking about my son here.” Johan couldn’t hide his desperation, and it worked.

  “We have informed one person that they’ve been identified as a suspect, but I can’t say any more at this stage.”

  Paralyzed by shock, Johan hung up.

  Tobbe.

  Victor had gotten into drugs because of Tobbe. He had enticed Victor into drug abuse and addiction, then killed him.

  The taste of bile in his mouth came without warning. Johan barely managed to push open the car door before he brought up the entire contents of his stomach. A pinkish cascade of vomit splashed onto the black tarmac under the car.

  When he’d finished, he rested his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes.

  Bastard.

  CHAPTER 72

  There were clothes strewn all over the floor in Wilma’s room, including a red
bikini and a wet towel under the bed. The nightstand was covered in dirty dishes.

  But Jonas wasn’t there to complain about the mess. Wilma was sitting with her back to the yellow wall, knees drawn up, music pouring from the laptop resting on her lap, her cell phone within easy reach on the crumpled sheets. She was still wearing her nightgown, even though it was after two. The room smelled stale, as if the window hadn’t been opened for several days.

  Jonas sat down on the side of the bed. “Hi, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

  Wilma kept her eyes fixed on the screen.

  “Don’t you think it’s time you and I had a chat?” Jonas leaned forward and gave his daughter a cautious pat on the cheek. “I know you’ve talked to Mom, but I need to know what happened on Saturday, too. When you’re living with me, you have to respect my rules. You understand that, don’t you?”

  All of Wilma’s attention was focused on her laptop. The music changed from one frantic track to another; Jonas didn’t recognize either of them. Had she even heard what he’d said?

  “OK. Enough now.”

  Reluctantly she put the computer down on the bed. Her cell phone pinged, and she automatically reached for it. Jonas gently covered her fingers with his. “Can’t you leave that for minute?”

  “Why?”

  Wilma refused to meet his gaze. Jonas was at the point of snapping at her but managed to stop himself. “Because I’m asking you to.”

  She put down the phone.

  Where to begin? It felt as if every word was loaded, like hidden landmines that could explode if he took the wrong step. Margot should have been there; they should have had this conversation together.

  Anger and concern fought for supremacy as he tried to come up with the right thing to say.

  “This wasn’t OK, not at all, and I hope you realize that. You were supposed to be home by a certain time—a time you and I had agreed on. Both Nora and I were so worried that something bad had happened to you on Saturday.”

  “What’s it got to do with Nora?” Wilma said, her voice sounding surprisingly shaky. “She’s not my mom.”

  It had been a mistake to mention Nora, Jonas thought, but it was too late now.

  “I was really worried. I thought something bad had happened to you.”

  The emphasis was on I this time. Wilma reacted by lifting her chin a fraction, but her body language was still defensive.

  Once again, Jonas searched for the best way to express himself.

  “When the police showed up, I thought it was because of you. And you weren’t answering your phone. Don’t you realize how frightening that was? I was out looking for you half the night!”

  As he spoke, Jonas was struck by how close to the surface the fear had been. He had tried to mask it with rational explanations in order to avoid thinking the worst, but deep down, he’d been terrified.

  He got a lump in his throat as he thought about what could have happened. It was impossible to forget that another family had lost a son that night.

  “This definitely wasn’t OK,” he repeated, not caring that his voice gave away his true feelings.

  Wilma let out a sob, and Jonas had to struggle to avoid losing control. Suddenly she threw her arms around him.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.”

  “Promise me you’ll never do anything like that again. Never, you hear me?” Jonas hugged his daughter tightly. After a long time, he said quietly, “I want you to tell me what went wrong.”

  “Do I have to?” Wilma mumbled.

  She sounded so fragile, and once again anxiety overwhelmed him. He gave her one more squeeze.

  “What happened, Wilma? I need to know.”

  WILMA

  Malena was waiting by the Strindbergsgården café. Wilma gave her a triumphant smile and opened her bag to show off the stolen bottles.

  “Cool,” Malena said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “To the beach by the tennis courts. The others are already there.”

  Arm in arm, they hurried through the harbor area, past the group of drunken guys hanging around outside the Divers Bar. A few of them shouted appreciative comments at the girls; Wilma pretended not to hear, but it was exciting.

  It took around ten minutes to find the others; they were sitting on the beach around a campfire. She noticed Mattias right away; he was lying on his back with his hands behind his head, an open bottle of beer beside him. She felt a tingling sensation in her tummy as soon as she saw him; he was gorgeous. She tried to ignore him and nodded in the general direction of everyone else before she sat down just a few feet away from him. She thought he might have been checking her out, but he didn’t say anything.

  She thrust out her breasts as best she could and took the bottles of wine out of her bag. “Anyone want a drink?” she said, turning to Mattias as if by chance.

  He propped himself up on one elbow. “So the little schoolgirls have brought some booze,” he said with a grin. “And how are you going to open the bottle?”

  Embarrassed, Wilma realized she needed a corkscrew. How could she have been so dumb? Why hadn’t she chosen screw-top bottles? She blushed and tried to think of a way of hiding her confusion.

  “Try this,” said a boy sitting opposite. His name was Micke, and he was holding out a corkscrew with a red handle. “Want me to open it for you?” He smiled as he reached out and took one of the bottles from her.

  “Thanks,” Wilma muttered. She glanced at Mattias; he must be thinking she was a stupid kid who didn’t understand anything. She could have kicked herself for being such an idiot, but Mattias had already lost interest. He was lying on his back again, chatting with one of the older girls. His brown hair brushed against the sand, and Wilma wished she could reach out and touch it.

  The girl giggled, and Wilma got the feeling they were talking about her—probably making fun of her clumsy attempt to look cool.

  Micke pulled out the cork and passed the bottle back to her. “There you go.”

  “Thanks.” She was still watching Mattias, who wasn’t taking any notice of her.

  Malena gave her a nudge. “Can I have some?”

  Wilma handed her the bottle, and she took a swig. Wilma did the same; she had to make a real effort not to pull a face. Quickly she forced herself to take an even bigger swig so that no one would realize it was the first time she’d really gone for it in terms of booze.

  An hour and a half later, both bottles were almost empty. Wilma had edged closer and closer to Mattias, and now she was only inches away. The other girl got up and wandered off into the trees to pee.

  Wilma leaned against Mattias. She felt slightly dizzy and had to put one hand on the ground to support herself, but this was her chance.

  “Wanna do something?”

  She was definitely slurring her words, but she hoped he wouldn’t notice. After all, he’d done his share of drinking, too; the beer bottle was empty, and he had another in his hand. A bottle of vodka had been passed around the group several times.

  Mattias glanced at her. His forehead was red where the sun had caught it. He grinned at her. “Like what?”

  She shrugged and tried to smile as invitingly as possible. She hoped the red wine hadn’t stained her teeth. “Maybe we could come up with something, you and me,” she said.

  He was looking at her properly now. Wilma could hardly breathe.

  “OK, let’s go,” he said, getting to his feet.

  Wilma stood up and hurried after him. She felt a bit wobbly at first, but it soon passed.

  “We’ll be back,” he called to the others over his shoulder. “See you later.”

  Mattias held out his hand, and Wilma thought she would die of happiness. They walked a little way until the beach came to an end, and they reached a fence with gray buildings on the other side. Mattias clambered over the fence as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Wilma stayed where she was. Her head was spinning, but she tried to conce
ntrate on Mattias.

  “What are you doing?” she said uncertainly.

  “My aunt lives here. My dear aunt Ann-Sofie.”

  Wilma didn’t understand. “We’re going to visit your aunt?”

  “There’s no one home, and I know where she keeps the spare keys,” he said. “Come on.”

  He headed for the main house, and Wilma trailed hesitantly after him. There was a huge log pile to one side; Mattias went over to it and felt around in the corner. Something metallic glinted in the sunlight.

  “Won’t she be mad when she finds out?” Wilma whispered.

  “Who’s going to tell her?”

  Mattias headed for one of the smaller cottages and unlocked the door. Suddenly they heard a voice nearby; Wilma turned her head to see who it was. “Shit, it’s the police,” she said quietly.

  “They’re all over the fucking island this year,” Mattias said. “Ignore them. They’ve nothing to do with us.”

  He pulled Wilma inside with him.

  “Did they see us?” she whispered.

  “I’ve no idea, but it doesn’t matter. If they ask, I’ll just tell them my aunt lives here.”

  He closed the door behind them and looked out the window for a few seconds. Wilma waited beside him, hardly daring to breathe.

  “It’s OK, they’re gone,” he said. He turned to Wilma and pressed his body against hers. In a second, he’d pulled the white top off over her head, exposing her bra. His fingers found their way to her shorts; he unzipped them, and they fell to the floor.

  Wilma stared down at her feet. Overcome with embarrassment, she stepped out of her shorts but felt stupid standing there, half naked.

  “Nice,” Mattias said, squeezing her breasts. He started to kiss her but broke off. “Do you have protection?”

  Wilma shook her head unhappily. “No.”

  An impatient sigh. Wilma was feeling more and more uncomfortable; this wasn’t how she’d pictured her evening with Mattias. Everything was happening too fast.

  She’d thought they’d sit on the beach and talk, get to know each other better, maybe make out a little. A thousand times she’d imagined what it would feel like when he first kissed her, but her fantasy was never like this, with him kneading her breasts so hard that it hurt.