by Viveca Sten
But this was about something else. This time, it was no more than a down payment. An entrance fee, so to speak.
He heard the squeal of brakes; a train had just pulled in and would soon depart for Stockholm. It wasn’t too late to leave.
His grip on the envelope tightened.
CHAPTER 81
Nora dropped off Thomas at the jetty on Harö. The surface of the water was split by the swell from her boat; otherwise the little inlet was perfectly calm and still. A forgotten towel and a pink pacifier were by the steps.
“Would you like to come in and say hello to Pernilla?” Thomas asked.
“I need to get back to the boys, but maybe we could get together this weekend? Why don’t you both come over for coffee?”
The engine was idling, and Nora was holding on to the edge of the jetty to stop the boat from drifting away. Thomas had his jacket slung over one shoulder.
“Can we leave it open? It kind of depends on how the investigation goes.”
“No problem. I’ll call you on Friday,” Nora said, pushing off from the jetty. “Love to the family,” she called over the roar of the engine.
Sandhamn came into view once she’d rounded Harö, and she headed for the red and yellow wooden houses by the inlet. The tall pilots’ tower rose above the tops of the pine trees. It had stood there for decades, providing constant supervision, with the boatmen working shifts so that it would never be unmanned. These days, everything was computerized, of course, and the tower stood empty.
There were no lights on Snurran, Nora’s boat, but they weren’t necessary. The evening sky was clear; the clouds had disappeared, and behind her the huge orange ball of the sun was going down.
On an impulse, she dropped her speed and allowed Snurran to drift. Thomas had looked puzzled when he came over to the Brand villa after his visit to Jonas and Wilma. Nora had ignored his unspoken question; instead she had grabbed her jacket and keys and led the way down to the jetty to start the engine.
The little boat bobbed on the rippling waves. Nora leaned over the gunwale and dipped her hand in the water. It was pretty cold, as was usually the case so far out in the archipelago. However, she liked the coolness enveloping her fingertips and lingered for a moment before taking her hand out.
A large ferry with an Estonian flag was passing to the west of Sandhamn. The setting sun was reflected in its windows; it was as if every pane of glass had been painted gold.
The thought she was trying to avoid came rushing in.
Thomas had been to visit Jonas, in her former home, and she hadn’t been invited.
CHAPTER 82
Johan Ekengreen pushed the handle down and walked in.
A dozen or so tables were set out in the rectangular room with its dark, wood-paneled walls. It was bigger than it looked from the outside; the cooking area was on the left, with several black-painted doors along the opposite wall.
A handful of customers occupied the tables by the window. There was a delicious aroma of tomato sauce and freshly baked pizza. Right at the back, Johan spotted a well-built man with receding dark hair. What remained was cut very short. Johan caught the glint of a fine silver chain around his neck, and he wore a chunky ring made of brushed steel on one thumb.
Beneath the bushy eyebrows, his expression was alert.
His name is Wolfgang Ivkovac. He’s expecting you. That’s all I can do.
Johan made his way across the room. Ivkovac was accompanied by three other men, all equally powerfully built, but he was the only one with a plate of food in front of him—a half-eaten calzone.
Johan lifted his chin and met Ivkovac’s gaze. “You know why I’m here,” he said quietly.
Ivkovac made a brief movement with his head, and one of the men stood up to make room for Johan. He sat down clumsily; he suddenly felt a little faint, his tongue a shapeless lump in his mouth. But it was too late to change his mind.
“My son is dead,” he said slowly.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ivkovac replied, pushing away his plate. “How can I help you?”
Focus, Johan thought. He tried to bring back his military training: the icy calm that took over when every fiber of his body was concentrating on a single goal. When the world disappeared, and nothing else mattered.
“I know who was responsible for his death,” he went on. He reached into his inside pocket, took out a photograph of Tobbe, and placed it on the table. He pushed it over to Ivkovac, who picked it up and studied it carefully.
“He’s very young.”
“So was my son.”
Ivkovac shook his head. “I have children of my own. Two sons and a daughter. Parents aren’t meant to outlive their offspring.” He picked up his glass of beer and drained it. A silvery scar on his throat moved when he swallowed.
Johan pointed to the picture. “His name and address are on the back.”
“Have you brought the money?”
Johan patted the pocket containing the envelope. “Yes.”
“This is going to cost more.” Ivkovac wrote a figure on a piece of paper and showed it to Johan; it was considerably more than the cost of the ski trip to Chamonix. Once again, the taste of bile filled his mouth.
“You will be given the number of an overseas bank account. There must be no indication of where the money has come from. You understand?”
“I’ll fix it first thing in the morning.”
Johan had been conducting business in Turkey for many years. He had an old friend there who was totally reliable. If Johan called him, he would transfer the required amount to Ivkovac’s account without asking any questions. Eventually one of Johan’s companies would receive an invoice for consultancy services; it would be impossible to trace the payment.
I’m good, he thought. Even under these circumstances, I have contacts who can help me with everything I need.
There was no joy in that knowledge.
“When do you want it done?” Ivkovac asked.
“As soon as possible.”
Discreetly Johan took the envelope out of his pocket and passed it to Ivkovac, who slipped it into his own pocket with equal discretion.
“One more thing,” Johan said. “It has to look like an accident.”
Ivkovac exchanged a glance with one of his heavies. “Is that important?”
“Absolutely.” Johan stood up and pushed in his chair. His voice was steady now; the decision was made. “And I want it to happen in front of his father.”
CHAPTER 83
Wednesday
It was hot in his room; Tobbe was finding it difficult to settle. He was wearing only a pair of underpants, but he was sweating, even though he’d thrown back the covers.
The action movie he’d tried to watch had finished just after two; he ought to be sleepy, but he just couldn’t relax. The apartment was quiet, too quiet. Mom had taken one of her sleeping pills hours ago, and Christoffer had gone out to see Sara. He’d offered to stay home, but Tobbe had said there was no need.
Now he was regretting that. He wished Christoffer was there, but he didn’t want to call him in the middle of the night.
Dad had asked if he’d like to come and stay with them for a while, but Tobbe had shaken his head. Moving in with Dad and Eva wouldn’t improve the situation. Mom would see it as another betrayal, for one thing. He couldn’t cope with any more sad, reproachful looks.
He was giving himself enough of a hard time without anyone else joining in.
Every time he tried to sleep, he remembered his interview with the police. The female detective had stared at him as if he were a monster. In their eyes, he was a criminal, a youth offender . . .
A murderer.
Was he going to end up in jail? He was only sixteen, and he was supposed to start college in August. It was only in the United States that teenagers were locked up in real jails, he tried to tell himself, but still his stomach contracted with abject terror. What if he was wrong? What if they locked him up with grown men who raped him?
His lower lip trembled.
There were so many things he regretted, so many things he’d have done differently, given the chance. It was all his fault, but he couldn’t change anything now.
The place was still a mess after the house search. The cops had been rummaging through his drawers and the laundry basket when he got home. It had seemed unreal—the squad car parked outside, Mom weeping in the kitchen. Some of the neighbors had gathered in the street, watching the show. He’d kept his head down and scuttled inside.
If only he had someone to talk to.
Ebba.
She would have understood how he was feeling. He’d been such an idiot, pushing her away.
The police had taken his laptop, but he went into the living room and sat down in front of the desktop computer his mother used. He logged on to Facebook and found Ebba’s profile. At least she hadn’t blocked him, which was somehow comforting.
Slowly he went through her recent status updates; there weren’t many, and none at all since the Midsummer weekend.
He couldn’t resist clicking on her photo albums. When they were together he’d been in practically every picture; now they were all gone. He couldn’t blame her, and yet he wished she’d kept a few. He liked looking at photos of Ebba, though; he found it calming.
After a while, he came to a series of pictures that included both Victor and Felicia. The world tipped on its axis, and he quickly moved on. He didn’t want to see Victor.
The last image of Ebba had been taken on the last day of school in June. She was wearing a white cotton embroidered dress with thin shoulder straps. She was smiling into the camera and holding up the envelope containing her final grades. Tobbe remembered how simple life had seemed that day, the joy of looking forward to the summer break, the hint of sadness that this phase of his education was at an end.
They had stood in the sunshine in the schoolyard, not wanting to say good-bye.
Before he could change his mind, he clicked on Ebba’s message button. A small window appeared on the screen. The word seemed to write itself.
Sorry
CHAPTER 84
It was seven thirty by the time Thomas parked outside Nacka police station and hurried inside. The boat from Harö had been a little late, and he’d also been delayed by the opening of the bridge at Strömma.
The morning meeting was about to begin; he dropped off his jacket in his office and headed for the conference room, where Erik, Kalle, and Karin had already gathered. Margit arrived at the same time from the opposite direction; he stopped by the door and let her go first.
“I bumped into Staffan Nilsson in the elevator,” she said, taking the nearest seat. “He said he’d mentioned the high-visibility vests to you, the ones Harry Anjou was supposed to be collecting.”
“He did.”
At that moment, Anjou appeared in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand. He still didn’t look too good; he had bags under his eyes, and his skin had taken on a grayish hue.
“Perfect. We were just talking about you,” Margit said. “What’s happening with the high-visibility vests?”
Anjou put down his cup and pulled out a chair. “I’ve handed them over. I sent the last couple just now.”
“Excellent.” Margit gave him a searching look. “How are you feeling?”
“Not great.”
Karin glanced up from her notepad. “I’ve got painkillers in my desk if that’s any help,” she said kindly.
A brief nod.
“Changing subjects,” Thomas said, “Sachsen’s been in touch. They’re releasing Victor’s body today; the funeral is tomorrow, if I’ve understood correctly.”
“They’re certainly not hanging around,” Margit commented.
“The mother’s a Catholic.”
Margit raised a warning finger. “In that case, let’s hope Sachsen doesn’t need to check anything later. It’s not pleasant when a body has to be exhumed.”
Thomas’s cell phone rang just as he was leaving the meeting. It was Nora.
“Do you have a minute?”
“As long as it is only a minute.” He laughed to take the sting out of his words.
“Oh . . .” Nora sounded a little upset anyway. “I just wanted to check that you got home OK.”
Thomas suddenly had the feeling that she’d intended to say something else entirely.
“You know I did. You dropped me off at the jetty.”
“Right. Good. Fine. Bye, then.”
She definitely had something on her mind.
“Hang on, let me go into my office,” Thomas said. He went in and closed the door behind him. “Has something happened?” he asked as he pulled out his chair. “Why did you really call?”
A deep sigh on the other end of the line. Thomas remembered how she used to sound when she’d quarreled with Henrik.
“Things aren’t going too well between me and Jonas at the moment,” Nora said after a pause.
“I did wonder why you weren’t there yesterday evening.”
“Did Jonas say anything about me?”
“No,” Thomas said truthfully. “I asked where you were, and he said you were at home. That was the end of it.”
Silence.
“Can I ask what’s going on?”
“It’s this business with Wilma,” Nora said. “She doesn’t like me; it’s been tricky from the start. I guess she’s finding it hard to get used to the idea of Jonas having a girlfriend.”
“That’s to be expected.”
“Jonas was so worried when she was missing all night, but since she came back on Sunday, we’ve hardly spoken. I think he somehow blames me. I don’t know what to do—” Nora broke off abruptly.
“I think Jonas probably feels he needs to concentrate on Wilma right now,” Thomas said cautiously. “She needs her dad.”
He had gathered from Wilma’s account that something unpleasant had happened to her. She hadn’t gone into detail, but it wasn’t difficult to read between the lines. When Wilma left the kitchen, Jonas had hinted that Mattias had crossed the line. However, he had been very clear that he didn’t want the police involved.
It wasn’t Thomas’s place to tell Nora; that was up to Jonas.
“But I don’t even know what happened to her,” Nora burst out. “Jonas won’t tell me anything!”
Thomas tried to find a middle road. “Nora, I can’t go into what Wilma said, but she’s very fragile. There was an incident with a boy—things went wrong. It’s hardly surprising that Jonas is devoting all his attention to her.”
“But why hasn’t he told me that?”
“You know what men are like,” Thomas said in an attempt to lighten the tone. “We can only focus on one thing at a time.”
“So you don’t think I should be too worried?”
“You know Jonas better than I do, but I would probably have reacted the same way.”
“Really? Thank you so much. You’ve no idea what it means to me to hear you say that.”
The relief in her voice was palpable, but Thomas remembered the shadow that had passed over Jonas’s face when he asked about Nora.
CHAPTER 85
It was almost ten o’clock. Thomas had tracked down Mattias Wassberg on Facebook and was now studying the seventeen-year-old’s face on his computer screen. Wassberg was wearing a short-sleeved white T-shirt. His upper arms were muscular; it was obvious that he worked out.
He was definitely a good-looking guy, but there was something about his smile that seemed kind of smug. Then again, maybe Thomas was being influenced by what he’d heard yesterday. He was all too aware of how many teenaged little shits there were out there who treated girls badly. Hopefully Wilma had escaped with no more than a fright.
He called the number she’d given him, and after five rings, a sleepy voice answered.
“Hello.”
Thomas introduced himself. “We need to ask you a few questions about incidents that took place on Sandhamn last weekend.”
“Where exactly are you?”
“Just off Gotland.”
“When are you coming back to Stockholm? We’d really like to see you.”
“Don’t know.”
There was a rushing sound on the line. Mattias Wassberg coughed and said something Thomas didn’t hear, then the connection was broken.
Thomas tried the number again, but this time, a recording informed him that the person he was calling was not available at the moment. He knew that reception at sea wasn’t always reliable, but he gave it one more try, without success.
It wasn’t possible to get ahold of Mattias Wassberg right now.
Staffan Nilsson was bending over a stainless steel bench in the forensic department’s large, light lab. On a table beside him was a pile of neon-yellow high-visibility vests, each marked with the name of the officer to whom it belonged. Those he’d already examined were in a box on the floor.
“OK, let’s see . . .”
Nilsson mumbled away to himself as he went through them methodically, one by one. He always did that; his wife said he sounded like an old man.
He’d already checked seventeen. He reached for the eighteenth; the white label said Adrian Karlsson. He immediately saw that a small piece of fabric was missing from one corner.
“Tweezers, where did I put . . . ah!”
He turned around and found them. He removed a fragment of yellow fabric from an evidence bag that had been numbered as part of the investigation.
Slowly and carefully he brought the torn-off piece to the hole in the vest to see if it fit.
“Jeez!” he exclaimed.
Johan was breathing more easily. The house was quiet; Madeleine was resting, and Ellinor had gone out to see a friend.
He’d felt better as soon as he left the pizzeria in Huddinge. The pieces were falling into place. His debt to Victor would be paid off. Secure in that knowledge, he had returned home and, against all odds, had even managed a few hours’ sleep next to Madeleine.
Anything was better than sitting around, passively grieving.
After breakfast, he had made the final arrangements. He had spoken to his contact in Turkey using a burner phone he’d bought in a kiosk. As expected, there were no problems; his old friend was happy to help, no questions asked.
