by Viveca Sten
If she woke him, the magic might disappear. At the same time, she wanted him again; it had been many months since she’d experienced pure lust like this.
What if yesterday had been a huge mistake, something she would regret every time she bumped into him by the gate? The thought made her stomach contract. Jonas was a pilot and a single father; maybe he wasn’t interested in anything other than a one-night stand. No point in thinking about a relationship.
But she wanted him so much.
She gently brushed his shoulder with her lips, still watching his sleeping face. His eyelids flickered, as if he were dreaming. About something nice, hopefully.
No, Nora thought, I will never regret this night with Jonas, no matter what happens.
CHAPTER 49
Thomas plodded wearily into the conference room. He could easily have slept for many more hours. He hadn’t woken Pernilla; he had just left her a note telling her he had gone to work. On the way, he had stopped and bought a large coffee in the hope that it would revive him.
Margit looked up as he walked in, then pushed a plate of cinnamon buns in his direction.
“How are you feeling?”
A yawn was his only response.
The Old Man arrived, with Kalle Lidwall, Erik Blom, and Karin Ek close behind. Karin closed the door, and they all settled down around the table.
Margit summarized what had gone down in Kaufman’s apartment the previous day. She had already put up a photo on the whiteboard so that everyone could see how he had been lying when he was found.
Thomas turned his stiff neck; he could hear the vertebrae complaining.
“We have to be looking at the same killer,” he stated firmly.
“Even though he wasn’t in the bath?” the Old Man said.
“Where do you drown someone if you don’t have access to a bathtub?” Thomas asked.
A flash of comprehension passed over Margit’s face.
“Kaufman only had a shower, no bathtub,” she said slowly. “The perp couldn’t kill him in the same way as Fredell and Erneskog.”
“So he had to improvise.” The Old Man’s dry comment sounded unintentionally comical.
“Unless he knew the layout of Kaufman’s apartment in advance,” Thomas countered. He could picture the course of events.
The doorbell rang, and Kaufman let his visitor in. A glance into the bathroom, which turned out to have only a shower stall. The instant realization that a different approach would be required this time. Was there anything in the apartment that he could use instead?
Presumably it didn’t take long for the killer to come up with a solution. All he had to do was shuffle the drunken man in the direction of the bedroom.
Had Kaufman realized what was waiting for him in there? Hopefully not.
Thomas got up and went over to the whiteboard. He picked up a pen and sketched the rooms in Kaufman’s apartment.
“Kaufman lets the perpetrator in,” he said, drawing a red arrow by the door.
Margit took over. “Somehow, probably by threatening him with a gun, he forces Kaufman to lie down on the bed and knock back whisky until he’s too drunk to offer any resistance.”
“Which probably wasn’t that difficult,” Thomas interjected.
“Then he used the pillow,” the Old Man concluded.
“Fredell also let his killer in,” Erik Blom noted, clicking his ballpoint pen.
“For some reason, they’re not scared of their visitor,” Thomas said.
“Which means they must have some kind of relationship with him,” Margit cut in right away. “They know one another.”
Karin looked up from her notepad.
“If he has a gun, why doesn’t he just shoot them?”
Thomas went back to his seat. It was a question he had already asked himself.
“There could be a simple explanation,” Erik Blom said. “He doesn’t have a silencer. So it would make a hell of a noise to shoot someone inside their apartment. The risk of being caught would be significantly higher.”
“It’s also very messy, particularly at close range,” Kalle pointed out. “You’re going to get blood and God knows what else all over your clothes, and the forensic evidence would be virtually impossible to get rid of.”
Margit agreed.
“So far, everything has been very neat and tidy. We’ve found no trace of the perpetrator. Everything has been meticulously planned, from start to finish.”
“Apart from the pillow,” Karin said.
“But that wasn’t part of the plan,” Thomas said. “With a bit of luck, we’ll find the killer’s DNA on the pillowcase; he must have used his weight to press down on Kaufman’s face.”
“So everything suggests that we’re dealing with an intelligent individual,” the Old Man mused. “Sufficiently cold-blooded to handle a setback and smart enough to find a way around it.”
“It seems like he’s upping the level of difficulty,” Karin remarked.
All eyes turned to her.
“What do you mean?” Thomas asked.
“He started with the easiest—Fredell. Then he went for the alcoholic.”
“But what about Erneskog? How do you know he was ‘easy’ to kill?” Margit asked, drawing quotation marks in the air.
Karin didn’t have an answer, but Thomas thought for a moment, then spoke up.
“In a way, I think you’re right. The killer has a plan. He is choosing the order in which he dispatches his victims. And he’s getting more confident, hence the alternative method in Kaufman’s case.”
“Do you think he’s practicing?”
Once again, Karin had said something unexpected.
“Practicing?” Margit repeated.
“Each time it’s a little more tricky, a little more challenging. I’m thinking about my son’s judo classes.” Karin moistened her lips with her tongue. “It might sound crazy, but I couldn’t help thinking of his training, where the level of difficulty gradually increases.”
Thomas closed his eyes. If Karin was right, which was highly likely, that meant more people were in danger. The killer was getting ready for the tasks that lay ahead.
Who was his next victim?
There was a knock on the door, and the temporary receptionist appeared with a newspaper in her hand.
“This just arrived—I thought you ought to see it.”
The Old Man took the paper and held it up so that everyone could read the headline. THE WEEKEND KILLER, it said in big black letters. The Old Man quickly scanned the report.
“OK, so now the public has a well-informed account of our investigation,” he said crossly. “Most of the details are here.”
“How did they get ahold of this?” Karin exclaimed.
“A homicide on Saturday or Sunday, three weeks in a row. That’s bound to rouse interest,” Margit said. “There was a lot in the papers about Fredell last week; a disabled guy attacked in his own home makes a good story. It was only a matter of time before they put two and two together.”
The Old Man tossed the paper aside. “We’ll deal with the press when we’re done here. Any volunteers?”
His question was met by absolute silence. He snorted, but without much conviction. Thomas stood up and went back to the whiteboard. He picked up a blue marker and wrote DETERGENT in capital letters.
“What’s going on with the detergent? The autopsy showed traces in two of the victims, and I’m betting the same will be true in Kaufman’s case.”
“What do you use detergent for?” Margit said, thinking aloud. “You clean, you wash, you get rid of dirt and stains.”
“Maybe the killer has some kind of hang-up,” Erik Blom speculated, running his fingers through his slicked-back hair. “Something to do with water and cleanliness?”
He looked as if he hadn’t shaved this morning, but then again, the faint stubble was probably intentional rather than the result of a hurried departure from home. He reminded Thomas of a trendy advertising executive, not a dow
n-to-earth cop.
“Perhaps he’s washing his hands,” Erik went on.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I’m just wondering if our perp is trying to say he’s not guilty, that he’s somehow not to blame?”
Thomas was doubtful. If Erik was right, the killer should have been the one undergoing the cleansing process, not the victims.
“I don’t agree,” he said. “I think the detergent is connected with the men who were killed.”
“Any traces of detergent on Marcus Nielsen’s body?” the Old Man wondered.
“Not as far as I know.”
“He was much younger than the others,” the Old Man went on. “Could the age difference be a factor?”
“You mean he was ‘cleaner’ in some way?” Once again, Margit drew quotation marks in the air. “Less guilty than the rest?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s possible.” Margit leaned back in her seat. “But it’s weird. I don’t get it, anyhow.”
She wriggled out of her thick cardigan and dropped it on the empty chair beside her.
“Where does this guilt come from?” Thomas said. “Why would the killer be trying to cleanse his victims?”
They all looked at one another. Nobody had an answer.
After the meeting, Margit followed Thomas into his office and sat down. He had picked up the newspaper on his way out of the conference room, and he’d glanced through the rest of the article. The journalist had a good overview of the course of events, but he didn’t know all the details.
“At least they haven’t made the link with the military,” Thomas said when he’d finished reading.
“I can’t get ahold of Elsa Harning,” Margit said. “I’ve left several messages, but she hasn’t gotten back to me.”
“We need the names of the rest of that group.” Thomas stood up and went out into the corridor. “Karin!” he called.
Karin emerged from her office; her cheeks were slightly flushed, but she looked pleased with herself, as if she knew what he wanted. She was carrying two plastic folders.
“Any luck with Eklund and Kihlberg?”
“I was just coming to see you. I got in at seven this morning to start searching.”
“Thank you.”
Thomas took the folders and went back to Margit. One was marked Stefan Eklund, the other Leif Kihlberg. Eklund’s contained only a single sheet of paper.
“Eklund is no longer in Sweden,” he said. “He emigrated to Australia in the eighties. Karin hasn’t managed to find a current address.”
“What about Kihlberg?”
Thomas skimmed the closely written text.
“He lives in Gothenburg.”
“Not Stockholm,” Margit said pensively. “I wonder if he’s visited the city over the past few weekends?”
Thomas knew exactly what she meant.
“I suggest we go to Gothenburg tomorrow and ask him in person.”
Thomas remembered the words attributed to the famous jazz pianist Count Basie: It’s not the music that’s important, it’s the notes you don’t hear that count.
Which notes should they be listening for?
CHAPTER 50
Nora was alone in the bed when she woke up again. It was past ten o’clock; she had slept much later than she’d intended.
At first, she was disappointed that Jonas was gone. Then she remembered: he had mentioned on Friday evening that he would be flying to Bangkok on Sunday. No doubt he had caught the early morning ferry to Stavsnäs. She sank back against the pillow and lay there for a while half-dozing, half-awake as her mind wandered.
She kept on seeing Jonas in the moonlight. The silhouette of his body as he slept, her naked stomach against his back when she opened her eyes at dawn. His soft smile when she kissed him awake.
Eventually she got up and pulled on her robe. She decided not to shower and get dressed just yet; she didn’t want to wash away last night. Instead she would treat herself to a cup of coffee on the veranda. It still felt strange, doing as she pleased without having to think about making breakfast for the rest of the family, but for the first time since she could remember, it was good to be alone.
There was a little note on the kitchen table.
Hugs and kisses, Jonas, it said in pencil. Beside it stood a glass containing a rosebud that was just about to flower. He must have picked one of the last red roses from the climber scrambling up the side of the house. The romantic gesture warmed her heart, and she bent down to sniff the bud. The faint scent reminded her of summer. Even if it was only one night, it wasn’t a mistake, she told herself again.
Nora was locking the front door behind her when she heard someone calling her name. She turned and saw Olle Granlund.
“Are you heading home?”
“I’m afraid so—I have work to do, and the boys will be back from Henrik’s tomorrow.”
Saying it out loud intensified her longing to see them. She checked her watch; the last ferry of the day would be leaving in fifteen minutes. She mustn’t miss it. Last night’s lack of sleep was making itself felt now; she had tried to have a nap in the afternoon but couldn’t settle. She slipped the keys in her pocket and walked to the gate.
Olle was holding a sheet of paper that looked as if it had been torn from an old block of file paper; there were four round holes in the margin on one side, and a faint thumbprint was visible in one corner.
“I found the poem by Elias Sehlstedt, the one I mentioned yesterday on Korsö. I wrote it down for you.”
Nora was touched.
“That’s really kind—thank you.”
She took the paper and read the poem out loud.
“Three cheers for Avén! Salute his name!
May happiness pick her flowers for you!
Here you have your own commission,
You will never be disturbed by the Skeppsholm bell.
At the top of this tower, high in the sky,
You will sit like the sun itself,
Shining your light out across the sea
So that the sons of the sea will not founder.
“It’s wonderful. Thank you so much.”
Nora could have sworn she saw a faint blush on the old man’s cheeks.
“I thought you might like it,” he said.
Nora glanced at her watch again; she really couldn’t afford to miss the ferry.
Olle was shuffling as if he had decided to tell her something but didn’t know how.
“I’ve been thinking about what you asked me yesterday,” he began. “Old rumors about the Coastal Rangers.”
“Yes?” Nora opened the gate.
Olle looked around as if he were afraid someone might overhear.
“You remember I told you that the Rangers were trained to be hard on themselves and on others?”
Nora nodded. Olle shifted from one foot to the other, looking anything but happy.
“Sometimes things went wrong; sometimes the officers got out of control.”
Nora felt as if she was prying into matters that didn’t concern her, but she shook off her concerns and listened anyway.
“Training for the Rangers was always tough, but there were some pretty unpleasant characters back then, the kind who went too far because they liked it, not because it was necessary.”
Nora put down her bag.
“Complete sadists, to tell the truth. One sergeant in particular had a terrible reputation. I heard about a recruit who was willing to do anything to be sent home; he was on the point of collapse. The pressure got too much for the poor guy.”
“What happened to him?”
“He stabbed himself with a knife. He made a deep gash in one leg; there was blood everywhere, and, of course, he couldn’t march anymore. I guess he thought they’d have to send him home then.”
“And did they?”
“No. The sergeant was a complete bastard. He just stood there when he saw what the kid had done. Told him to slash the other leg
as well.”
The words made Nora recoil. “You’re kidding me!”
Olle bowed his head. “That’s not the worst of it.”
Nora could see the sorrow in his face. And something else. Shame over a brother-in-arms.
“How could it get any worse?”
“Eventually the soldier managed to get away, but he died in a car accident shortly afterward. They say that this particular sergeant proposed a toast in the mess, because the recruit hadn’t been up to the mark as a Coastal Ranger, and he was glad to be rid of him.”
“That sounds crazy.”
“Yes, but like I said, these were bad apples, the exception to the rule.”
Olle ran a hand over his gray hair, still thick despite his age.
“You have to remember that the majority of them were fine soldiers. The purpose of the Coastal Rangers has always been to defend Sweden from attack, which means the stamina and resilience of those men has to be tested to the limit.”
Nora was torn between her desire to hear more and her need to catch the ferry. One last question, then she would have to run.
“Do you remember the name of this sergeant?”
Olle scratched the back of his neck. His blue overalls had brown patches on the knees, presumably because he spent so much time kneeling on the jetty repairing things.
“It’s such a long time ago . . .” He rubbed behind his ear, looking disappointed. “But I can try to find out.”
Nora picked up her bag.
“When did all this happen?”
“In the seventies.”
DIARY: MAY 1977
“My father,” Andersson said tersely.
We were on the northern side of Sandhamn, on a hill just before the inlet to the harbor. Behind us lay a large villa with a fantastic view out across the sea.
For once, we had been given evening leave and permission to go over to Sandhamn. The villagers don’t like our visits; they think we make too much noise. Therefore, there is a tacit agreement that we stay on Korsö and avoid Sandhamn as much as possible. But it’s not possible to keep us cooped up there all the time, so occasionally we’re allowed to come over. It only takes ten minutes to row across, and we had been looking forward to this visit for a long time.
