by Viveca Sten
Maria Nielsen’s voice trembled as she said, “I need to speak to you.”
“Come with me,” he replied, leading the way to the elevators.
Thomas offered Maria a cup of coffee, and she accepted it without saying anything. She added two lumps of sugar to the steaming black brew. He showed her into one of the smaller interview rooms, and she sank down on a chair without taking off her jacket.
“I need to speak to you about my son,” she burst out before Thomas had even sat down. “Marcus can’t have taken his own life. It’s impossible. Someone must have killed him.”
“What makes you say that?”
Thomas fixed his gaze on the woman’s ashen face, making an effort to keep his expression neutral. He didn’t want to exacerbate her desperation by showing doubt.
“I just know. Marcus never said a word about taking his own life. He wasn’t an unhappy person; he’s never been depressed.”
Thomas leaned forward. “Since Marcus no longer lived at home, is it possible that something could have happened, something you and his father weren’t aware of?”
She shook her head firmly.
“I don’t believe that. We got along very well, and besides, David would have known if something was wrong.”
“David?”
“Marcus’s younger brother. They’re . . . they were . . . like twins. David is devastated. They were supposed to go skiing this winter; they were talking about spending a week in the French Alps after Marcus’s exams in January.”
She pulled out a crumpled tissue and wiped her nose.
“Why would he plan a trip with his brother if he was planning to kill himself?” Her tone changed from resigned to aggressive. “Why? Can you tell me that?”
Thomas held up his hand.
“You know the autopsy showed no evidence of anything that would indicate this wasn’t a suicide? Have you received a copy of the report?”
Maria nodded, her expression grim.
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“The CSI team has examined the scene, and they found no evidence to suggest that a crime has taken place.” His eyes were full of compassion. “Unfortunately everything points to the fact that he died by his own hand.”
Maria recoiled as if she had been slapped, and her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m so sorry,” Thomas said.
“Someone must have murdered Marcus. You can’t close the case. You just can’t.”
“I didn’t say we were going to do that, but without signs of a crime, it’s difficult to launch a homicide investigation.”
Maria’s burst of anger was replaced just as suddenly with despair.
“Please. My son deserves better than this.” She leaned across the table and grabbed Thomas’s wrist. He felt for her, he really did, but he also knew what the Old Man, the chief of the Violent Crime Unit, had said about cutbacks and understaffing at yesterday’s morning briefing. The paperwork was piling up on his desk. A young student who appeared to have simply grown tired of life was unlikely to be prioritized under the circumstances.
“Do you have children?”
The question took him by surprise, and for a second Thomas didn’t know what to say. He played for time by taking a sip of his coffee.
“Do you?” Maria repeated.
“No. Yes.”
He could hear how lame he sounded. He remembered exactly how he had felt the day he’d woken up to find Emily lying stiff in her cradle beside the bed. When every attempt to revive her had failed, the paramedics had had to physically drag him away from her little body.
Her death had broken his marriage, and it had almost broken him, too.
“I had a daughter . . . but she died when she was very small.”
At least he could say the words aloud now; it had taken a long time to get to this stage.
Maria Nielsen blinked, but the set of her mouth was determined. She fixed her puffy red eyes on Thomas’s face.
“I’m sorry for your loss, but that means you can understand how I’m feeling right now.” Her voice became even more insistent. “You have to help me. Marcus didn’t take his own life. I just know he didn’t.”
CHAPTER 7
After showing Maria Nielsen out, Thomas made his way to the conference room where morning briefings were held. Her sorrowful plea remained with him.
The Old Man was sitting at the head of the table as usual, with their superefficient assistant Karin Ek beside him. Erik Blom was finishing off his coffee, his wet hair and flushed face revealing that he had come straight from the gym. His cell phone beeped, and he smiled as he read the message. Thomas had no doubt that it was from one of the many girlfriends who came and went in his carefree colleague’s life. Personally he could hardly recall that kind of existence.
At precisely eight o’clock, the door opened and Margit walked in and sat down next to Thomas.
“Sorry,” she murmured in the direction of the Old Man. “Traffic jam on Skurubron.”
She received a curt nod in response.
As they went through the business of the day, Thomas couldn’t stop thinking about Maria Nielsen. He had half promised her that he wouldn’t drop her son’s case—not because he had changed his mind about the cause but because he was moved by her despair.
Suddenly he realized the room had fallen silent.
“Are you with us, Thomas?” the Old Man said.
Thomas tried to pull himself together and look as if he was up to speed, but he had no idea what they’d been talking about. As so often happened these days, he had lost his concentration. It was as if his brain didn’t want to cooperate. He might have one thing in his head, and then all of a sudden he was thinking about something completely different.
“Absolutely.”
“OK, that’s it for today,” the Old Man said.
“Wait.” Thomas couldn’t help himself.
“Yes?”
“Marcus Nielsen.” His tone was more challenging than he had intended.
“What about him?”
“Shouldn’t we take a closer look at his death?”
The Old Man looked inquiringly at him. “He hanged himself.”
“I spoke to his mother this morning. She doesn’t believe it.”
“I went to see his family on Sunday,” Margit said. “None of them was willing to accept that he’d killed himself. The relatives almost always react that way.”
“I’d like to spend a few hours on the case, if that’s OK,” Thomas persisted. He caught a glimpse of something that was difficult to identify in Margit’s eyes. Sympathy, perhaps. Or worry that he was losing his grip?
On Sunday, he had arrived late to the scene. It wasn’t the first time he’d shown up late; he was still sleeping badly, and occasionally he took a sleeping pill, even though it left him feeling drowsy the following day. Sometimes he didn’t hear the alarm clock and missed the morning briefing altogether.
But the alternative was to wake up in the small hours, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep because of the thoughts going around and around in his head like a never-ending movie. Which left him walking around in a fog the next day due to lack of sleep.
“I’d like to visit the family, talk to them one last time.”
He could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. He sat up a little straighter and tried again.
“I think we can afford that. The boy was only twenty-two.”
“OK, but don’t spend too much time on it,” the Old Man conceded. “You’re needed elsewhere, Thomas, now that we’ve got you back.” He gathered up his papers and got to his feet. The meeting was over.
The Nielsen family lived in a whitewashed house in a northern suburb of Stockholm. The neighborhood was made up of similar small houses with tidy gardens side by side. Several of the properties had been renovated or extended, but it was clear that they all had originally been built to the same design.
The door was opened by a teenage boy who looked pale and stra
ined. David, Thomas thought. Marcus’s younger brother.
He introduced himself, and David stepped aside to let him in.
“Mom!” the boy called out. “It’s the police.”
Maria Nielsen came down the stairs. She looked as if she’d been crying; her eyes were red-rimmed. Her hair was caught up in a rubber band, but several strands had escaped.
“What are you doing here?” she said in surprise.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you. I have a few more questions. If that’s OK, of course.”
“No problem.” She ran a hand over her hair in a nervous gesture. “Coffee?”
Thomas was ready for the question; most people automatically offered a cup of coffee when the police turned up, and it could sometimes be positively therapeutic. On this occasion he shook his head.
“I’m fine, thanks. I just wanted to find out a little more about Marcus.”
He followed mother and son into the living room, which was dominated by a huge flat-screen TV. The Xbox told him that the brothers were into video games. But now there was only one brother left.
“When did Marcus move out?” he began.
“Last year, when he started at the university,” Maria replied. “But he came home often—he was here on Saturday, for example.” She looked down at her hands. “He used to bring his laundry,” she went on, smiling bravely. “I thought he ought to be able to do it himself, but I couldn’t say no.”
She raised her chin, a defiant expression on her face.
“On Saturday Marcus was exactly the same as he always was, which is why it doesn’t make any sense for him . . .” She gazed over at the window and whispered, “To have hanged himself that same night.”
David made a small whimpering noise as his mother uttered those terrible words.
Thomas tried to be gentle.
“Do you remember what he did when he was here on Saturday? Did he say anything that struck you as unusual?”
She shrugged, a weary gesture that revealed the chaos within.
“Everything was just the same as always. Marcus had something to eat in the kitchen, and then he went up to his room.”
Thomas turned his attention to David. “Were you here?”
“Yes.”
“Did anything about your brother strike you as unusual?”
David’s mouth trembled as he answered. “Marcus was just the same as always, like Mom said.”
“Did you do anything special on Saturday?”
“No, he spent most of the time lying on his bed surfing the net.”
Thomas recalled that Marcus’s laptop and cell phone still hadn’t been found. Strange.
“What device was he using?”
“His laptop, of course.”
“We can’t find it in his apartment. Are you sure he had it with him on Saturday?”
David was clearly taken aback.
“Marcus took his laptop with him everywhere. He carried it in his backpack.”
“Could he have left it here?” Thomas asked. “Could it still be in his room?”
“I haven’t seen it,” Maria said, “but we can go and take a look if you like.”
She led the way upstairs and opened the first door they reached. She stepped back to let Thomas in.
Marcus’s childhood room wasn’t large, no more than 270 square feet, and it contained a bed, a desk, and a shabby black leather armchair. The walls were decorated with a selection of posters and an old scout flag. Thomas went over and touched the faded fabric.
“Marcus was an active member of the sea scouts when he was a teenager; he liked being out at sea,” Maria explained. “He was also a member of a canoe club; they used to go paddling around the archipelago.”
Thomas turned to face her.
“That’s something I enjoy, too. I have a house on Harö, not far from Sandhamn, and I often take my canoe out when I’m there.”
Maria Nielsen’s mouth twitched.
“Just like Marcus.”
“How were his studies going?” Thomas asked.
Maria sank down on the bed and ran her hand over the soft sheepskin throw draped over the end.
“He was so pleased when he got a place in the program. His exam scores were excellent. It’s not easy to be accepted; psychology is very popular.”
“Why did he choose that particular major?”
“There was a teacher at his high school who got him interested. It’s amazing, isn’t it—one person can mean so much when it comes to the choices we make.”
Her voice was melancholy.
Thomas glanced around one last time. There was no sign of a laptop, and nothing else struck him. Until his death, Marcus Nielsen had been like any other young student.
The familiar number glowed on the telephone display. If Nora didn’t pick up, her voice mail would automatically take over, and she could choose when to listen to Henrik’s message.
Or not.
But what if it was something important?
Reluctantly she accepted the call.
“It’s me.”
The nonchalant tone made her blood boil. They were separated, after all, and the divorce would soon go through.
After thirteen years of marriage.
“Yes.”
Nora could be as abrupt as Henrik was casual.
“There’s a problem with the midsemester break.”
Nora bit her lip to stop herself from saying something foolish. She didn’t know where all this anger came from, but it was like flicking a switch as soon as she heard him speak.
“Right.”
“My schedule has been changed. I’m on duty all week, so I can’t take the boys to London as planned.”
“Are you sure Marie hasn’t persuaded you to change your mind?”
The words had hardly left her mouth before she regretted them. When did she get so peevish? She really needed to pull herself together.
“Leave her out of this.”
But Nora couldn’t stop.
“Maybe the two of you would prefer a romantic break. I’m sure she can’t cope with two demanding boys clinging to you the whole time.”
“Stop it!”
Henrik’s tone was like the crack of a whip.
Nora blushed. She took a deep breath and made an effort to lose the aggressive tone.
“The boys will be disappointed.”
“I know.” Henrik sounded more conciliatory. “It’s actually nothing to do with me; another radiology consultant is off sick for two months, so we’ve had to revise everyone’s schedule.”
“I see.”
She felt more than a little embarrassed.
“I thought we could maybe go later in November; I’ve got four days off at the end of the month.”
“That would mean taking them out of school.” Nora could hear how negative she sounded.
“Surely that’s not the end of the world?” Henrik said. “It’s not as if they have to take exams or anything—a few days won’t make much difference.”
Nora suppressed an acerbic retort.
“No, it should be fine. But you have to apply for leave of absence.”
“How do I do that?”
The rage came surging up again. All these years she had taken care of everything, while Henrik remained blissfully ignorant. She had always dealt with the boys’ nursery and then school; he had never even lifted a finger.
And still he had screwed a nurse at work.
“I’m sure you can call the school office and ask!” she snapped and slammed down the receiver.
The blue-and-white tape still stretched across the door of Marcus Nielsen’s student apartment. Thomas carefully lifted it up and let himself in.
There was a musty smell, and the room was in semidarkness. The sky outside was overcast, and the bright sunlight he remembered from Sunday was gone.
He looked around without really knowing what he was searching for. Coming here might be a waste of time, but he had promised Maria Nielsen that he would
try to find out what had happened to her son.
He would devote a few more hours to the case; it was the least he could do. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and started to go through the books and papers on the desk. Most of the material seemed to be related to Marcus’s classes, but under one of the piles he found several comic books with Japanese manga comics. They looked well thumbed, and one of them had a large grease mark on the front.
Thomas smiled. No doubt Marcus had needed a little relief from his academic texts.
Methodically he checked the bookcase, then the closet. He sensed Maria Nielsen’s hand behind a stack of neatly folded T-shirts and sweaters on a high shelf, which provided a stark contrast to the mess below.
He found a red-and-white bag under the bed, with a shabby wetsuit inside. Presumably Marcus had used it when canoeing. If he had visited the waters off Sandhamn, he and Thomas might even have waved to one another, as canoeists do. Thomas had his own kayak and liked to go out early on summer mornings. Suddenly he longed to get out there; it had been a while.
He had spent an hour in the apartment, and found nothing.
With a final glance around the room, he switched off the light and left Marcus Nielsen behind.
DIARY: OCTOBER 1976
There are eight of us in the group, and we all look exactly the same with our buzz cuts and green uniforms. Like a collection of paper dolls, all cut from the same pattern.
The transformation took place yesterday. I went to the barber as an ordinary Swedish boy with longish hair and came out with nothing but stubble. Then, clutching a stack of official clothing, I tried to find my way to the accommodation block.
There are twenty of us sharing the dormitory, with no more than three feet between the bunk beds. We’re not even allowed to keep our first names; instead we are addressed by a number and our surname. My number is 103. The one stands for the first platoon, and the three is my position within the group. I’m the oldest in our group, and Andersson, whose bed is next to mine, is the youngest. His birthday is in December; maybe that’s why he’s a little smaller than the rest of us. He seems like a nice guy, even though he doesn’t have much to say for himself.
Kihlberg seems pretty cool, as does Martinger, who is well over six feet tall and built like a barn door. The others are probably OK, too; the only one I have a problem with is Eklund.
