by Viveca Sten
Marcus Nielsen bore a strikingly close resemblance to his mother, with the same narrow eyes and straight mouth. Her hair was light brown; perhaps her son’s had been a similar color before he’d dyed it. Marcus’s expression was open, and he looked intelligent. There was no sign of some inner torment that would make him take his own life fourteen months later.
His brother took after their father. They both had blond hair and were a little on the plump side. The father’s arm was around his younger son’s shoulders, and he was smiling broadly at the camera. Presumably they had asked the waiter to take the photograph.
“He looks like a nice guy,” Margit remarked.
“Most people do. Before they die, that is.”
The response wasn’t sarcastic, merely a dry observation.
Typical black humor, Margit thought as she replaced the picture. A way of keeping tragedy at bay. She had found out that the father worked for the local council and the mother was a nurse. The younger brother was still at home; he was in his junior year of high school.
This might be the last photo of the whole family. There would be no more. The parents must be informed as soon as possible; Margit wasn’t looking forward to that particular conversation.
Nilsson took something out of his black bag and headed for the bathroom.
“Any indication that we could be looking at something other than suicide?” Margit said.
He shook his head without turning around. “Not at this stage, but of course we’re securing prints and other biological traces, if there are any.”
“Where’s the girl who found him?”
“In the kitchen with Torunn. She was in shock when we got here.”
“Hardly surprising under the circumstances.”
Margit took a final glance at the bookcase; many of the books had English titles relating to the field of psychology, and there were a number of what appeared to be textbooks on the desk.
“He was studying psychology at Stockholm University,” she said. “I wonder if he had psychological problems of his own?”
Nilsson appeared in the bathroom doorway.
“You mean the kind that could make him take his own life?”
CHAPTER 4
Nora Linde wearily contemplated her son’s messy room. Since she and Henrik had separated, Adam was spending more and more time on his computer. He’d let his clothes pile up on the floor, and he was always glued to the screen, chatting or playing games, as if he preferred the virtual world to the real one. He rarely answered when she spoke to him, and he could hardly bear to waste time sitting at the dinner table.
Nora tried to set boundaries, but it wasn’t easy when she and Henrik had differing views on the matter. There wasn’t much point in her insisting on a limit to screen time if Henrik let the boys do as they wished when they were staying with him. If it had been difficult to reach an agreement when they were living together, it was nearly impossible now.
Just weeks after Henrik’s infidelity had been revealed six months earlier, Nora had efficiently submitted the relevant divorce papers to the court—she was a lawyer, after all. Because they had children under the age of sixteen, they were required to observe a six-month period of reflection before the marriage could be dissolved.
Nora didn’t need a period of reflection. She was very clear about the fact that she didn’t want to be married to Henrik any longer. They could barely exchange two words without getting into an argument, and whenever she had to call him, she’d put it off for as long as possible. However, sometimes she just had to bite the bullet; with a seven-year-old and a twelve-year-old, there were things that had to be discussed.
That didn’t stop her from hoping that the answering machine would come on.
The worst thing was when Marie, Henrik’s new partner, picked up. They had moved in together during the summer, and she had quickly made herself at home in the house in Saltsjöbaden that had been Nora and Henrik’s home for so many years. Marie had a high, slightly shrill voice, and she spoke quickly and breathlessly as if she was constantly surprised at the way of the world. “MarieafGrénier,” she would say in a single breath.
At least my ex-mother-in-law will be satisfied now, Nora often thought sourly. At long last her precious son has found a woman who knows how to behave in proper company. OK, so Marie was what you might call “lesser nobility.” But still, her family was registered with the Swedish House of Nobility, and she had grown up in a manor house. She was just the type of woman Monica Linde had always wanted for Henrik. Nora might be a qualified lawyer, but she was also the first member of her family to go to university. Not exactly a point in her favor, in Monica’s estimation.
It would soon be Simon’s birthday, and somehow Nora would have to get through the celebration, whatever her opinion of her ex. The thought of the party made her stomach tie itself in knots.
She pushed at the heap of dirty clothes with her foot.
“Adam!” she yelled in the direction of the living room, where he was watching TV. “Can you come and tidy this up, please?”
A few seconds passed, and she tried again, a little more forcefully this time.
“Adam!”
The sound of footsteps told her the sharper tone had done the trick. Her son appeared, a sullen look on his face.
“Why do you have to keep nagging me?”
It was the last thing she wanted, but Nora could feel the irritation rising.
“I keep nagging because you leave me no choice. If you made more of a contribution, I wouldn’t have to.”
“Dad doesn’t nag me.”
Nora felt a stab of pure pain. With unerring accuracy, Adam had fired off the perfect shot.
“But right now you’re with me, not your dad.” She was already regretting her words, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Besides which, your dad has a housecleaner, which we can’t afford.”
A look of contempt was the only response.
I want them to be happy here, Nora thought. Why do I always end up starting a fight? She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, which seemed to underline her gloomy thoughts.
She had always been slim, but now she was gaunt. If her diabetes didn’t force her to eat regular meals, she would forget to eat at all; her appetite had completely disappeared over the past six months. Her shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair needed cutting, and there were dark circles under her gray eyes.
Nora knew she wasn’t getting enough sleep, but she couldn’t work out how to remedy that. Her briefcase contained a pile of documents from the bank that she needed to go through to prepare for the coming week; it was going to be another late night.
“I’ll give you a hand,” she said in an attempt to smooth things over. She bent down to retrieve dirty socks and underpants from beneath the bed.
“Mmm.” He didn’t look at her.
“Adam, please. I know this isn’t easy, but we have to try.”
“Mmm.”
She placed a hand on his arm.
“Listen . . .” She took a deep breath. “I thought we might go over to Sandhamn next weekend? You can bring a friend if you like. Your dad’s attending a conference, so you’re with me two weekends in a row.”
A faint smile appeared on the thin face.
Both boys loved spending time on the island, particularly now that they had moved into the Brand villa. It was perhaps the loveliest house on Sandhamn, and Nora had inherited it from her neighbor, Signe Brand, a few years earlier.
During the summer, they had worked together to redecorate the bedrooms and generally freshen up the place. Even Simon had learned to apply wallpaper paste with even strokes. He had concentrated so hard that he’d practically squinted with the effort.
They had also relocated on the mainland. Nora had found a light, airy two-bedroom apartment in central Saltsjöbaden, about fifteen minutes from their former home. The boys shared the larger bedroom, while she had taken the smaller one. The kitchen and living room were generously proportioned
and flooded with sunlight on bright days, and she had managed to squeeze a desk into a small alcove in the kitchen so that she had somewhere to work.
Adam’s voice brought her back to the moment.
“Can I bring Wille?”
William Åkerman had been Adam’s best friend ever since they’d started junior high. The boys had grown even closer over the past six months as Adam tried to get used to switching homes every other week.
She put her arm around his shoulders and gave him a hug. When he was little, his hair had been white blond, but now it was a sandy brown. It wasn’t as dark as Henrik’s, but otherwise he was a carbon copy of his father.
“Of course you can.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Adam’s tone had softened, and Nora felt her heart lift.
Her thoughts turned to Thomas, her childhood friend and Simon’s godfather. He had a summer cottage on the island of Harö, no more than ten minutes from Sandhamn. Should she give him a call to say they’d be coming over next weekend?
CHAPTER 5
As Margit approached the kitchen, she could hear muted sobs and the sound of someone speaking in a reassuring tone. She entered the room and saw a young woman sitting at a round table, with a police officer of about thirty-five years old sitting beside her. Margit realized that it was Torunn.
“This is Amanda,” Torunn said, getting up to make room for Margit.
“How are you feeling?” Margit asked as she sat down.
“Not too good,” Amanda whispered.
“I realize this is difficult, but can you tell me what happened?”
“We’d arranged to meet up today; we have an assignment that’s due tomorrow, and we were going to finish it this morning.”
Her eyes were huge, and the tears had made her eyelashes stick together like black straggling flies’ legs.
“So you study together?”
“Yes, we’re both in the psychology course.” Her face crumpled. “I mean, we were . . .”
Margit placed her hand on the girl’s arm. “Do you remember if the door was open when you got here?”
“I think it was closed.”
“Was it locked? Do you have a key?”
Amanda shook her head. “It wasn’t locked. I knocked, but when he didn’t come to the door, I tried the handle.”
She broke off as she remembered the sight that had met her eyes earlier. Her mouth twitched, and she pressed a clenched fist to her lips as if to stop herself from bursting into tears again. Margit waited; there was no point in trying to rush the girl.
“And when I walked in, he was just hanging there,” Amanda said eventually. “Hanging from the ceiling. He was staring at me, even though he was dead. He kept on staring at me, the whole time.”
She buried her face in her hands.
“Did you see anyone else in the corridor when you arrived?” Margit asked.
The girl looked up. “No—everyone was probably still asleep. I was pretty early.”
Margit covered Amanda’s hand with her own.
“Are you sure you didn’t notice anyone?”
The sound of voices outside told Margit that the body was about to be removed; Nilsson should have done what he had to do by now.
“I don’t remember anyone,” Amanda reiterated.
“Were you close friends, you and Marcus?”
“Yes.”
Amanda reached for a glass of water on the table and took several sips.
“We studied together; we’ve been doing that for a while. We started our course at the same time. But we weren’t dating or anything like that.”
“What were you working on?”
“We were taking a class on groups and group processes, and, like I said, we were working on an assignment.”
“Do you know if Marcus owned a computer?”
Amanda frowned slightly as if she didn’t understand the question.
“Of course he did.”
“We can’t find it.”
Amanda thought for a few seconds.
“Have you checked his backpack? Or the bed? He often sat on the bed while working.”
“He didn’t work at his desk?”
“No, he just kept stuff on the desk.”
“Do you know if he had a printer?”
“I don’t think so; I’ve never seen one anyway.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Amanda nodded.
“So how did he print out his work?”
A little color had returned to the girl’s cheeks. She looked a bit more composed, but still she couldn’t help tugging nervously at the sleeves of her sweater, which already stretched down to her knuckles.
“There’s a printer at the university we can use. That’s what most people do, including me.”
Nothing strange about that, Margit thought. Suicides were often planned in advance. If Marcus Nielsen didn’t have a printer of his own, he could have printed his suicide note elsewhere. He might have been planning this for weeks, maybe months.
The only thing that didn’t make sense was the fact that he had asked Amanda to come over this morning. Perhaps he’d wanted to make sure that someone found him quickly?
“When did you arrange to meet up today?”
“Last Friday in the library, when we didn’t get the assignment finished.”
Margit straightened her back. The chair was hard and uncomfortable; no doubt it hadn’t cost much. Then again, student accommodation wasn’t known for its luxurious furnishings.
“Did you notice anything unusual about Marcus lately? Did he seem upset or depressed?”
Amanda shook her head.
“No, he’s been the same as always. That’s why I can’t understand . . .”
Her voice broke, and the tears began to flow. Margit waited for her to calm down; the girl would be driven home in a squad car as soon as they were done.
“Had he ever talked about taking his own life?” she said after a while.
“Absolutely not.”
The answer was instant and definite.
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“And you were such close friends that you’d have noticed if something was worrying him?”
Amanda nodded with such emphasis that her dark hair fell over her forehead, hiding her face.
“Yes, we talked about most things.”
Margit leaned forward.
“I have to ask you a difficult question. Can you think of any reason why he would want to die?”
“No, I already told you.” Amanda’s tone was suddenly stubborn, and she looked Margit straight in the eye. “Marcus wasn’t depressed. He was a quiet person, but he wasn’t unhappy.”
Those who kill themselves don’t always share their plans, Margit thought. The statistics told their own story; as a rule, friends and family insisted there had been no indication that anything was wrong.
A movement in her peripheral vision made her turn her head. A tall man stood in the kitchen doorway.
The blond hair, now lightly peppered with gray, was still tousled. It looked as though he had simply run his fingers through it. His eyes were puffy as if he had just woken from a deep sleep, and his broad shoulders were slightly hunched.
She sensed rather than saw the limp that was a reminder of how close he had been to losing his life on the ice off the island of Sandhamn last winter.
“Thomas.”
DIARY: OCTOBER 1976
Tomorrow it’s time. I am to present myself at Rindö outside Vaxholm, at the Coastal Rangers training academy.
Dad has promised to drive me; I have to be there to register at eight o’clock in the morning. That means we’ll have to leave at six.
Almost a thousand people applied, four hundred were invited for further tests, and only five percent were accepted. Usually around two-thirds of that small percentage make it through training.
Dad is so proud, he doesn’t even try to hide it. He served in the army as a c
ook, and he actually seemed a little envious when I told him about my application.
Mom was worried more than anything when she found out I’d gotten in.
“Are you really going to do that?”
I just grinned at her. I could already see myself in the green beret with the yellow trident badge.
The emblem of the Coastal Rangers.
When I was ten years old, the family went to Stockholm. We visited the Royal Palace, and there were several military boats moored by Skeppsbron.
As we were leaving, a group of soldiers came along. They were all wearing green berets and marching in perfect time. They all looked exactly the same, with serious, focused expressions. But just as they were passing us, one of them winked at me. As if I were one of them.
I watched them pass, and when they had gone, I asked my dad who they were.
“Coastal Rangers,” he said. “The elite unit.”
“Coastal Rangers,” I repeated, tucking my hand in his. “That’s what I’m going to be when I grow up.”
CHAPTER 6
Thursday (The First Week)
The woman sitting in the reception area at Nacka police station caught Thomas’s attention as soon as he walked in. She was noticeably pale, and she wasn’t wearing a scrap of makeup. Thomas guessed that she was around forty-five, a few years older than him. She was wearing a short black padded jacket and dark-blue jeans that were fraying at the bottom. It was seven thirty on Thursday morning.
“Thomas, this lady wants to see you or Margit,” the receptionist informed him.
The woman immediately got to her feet.
“Thomas Andreasson?”
He nodded.
“My name is Maria Nielsen. My son Marcus . . .” She hesitated, then went on. “My son Marcus died on Sunday. You were there, you saw him.”
Thomas remembered the dead boy hanging there in the sunlight. He remembered the bright autumn day and the stillness in the room when the team had carefully released the rope and taken him down.
