Tonight You’re Dead (Sandhamn Murders Book 4)

by Viveca Sten

  We had moored our camouflage-painted boat by the pilot’s jetty last night. There were twenty of us, and we went and had something to eat at the inn. After dinner, the others went off to the Sailors Bar where there was a dance, but Andersson and I went up to Kvarnberget with a couple of beers to watch the sun go down. Admittedly, we’d had a few drinks, but we weren’t drunk, just a little subdued.

  I’d had a letter from my mother; she and my father were getting divorced. And Andersson—well, I guess he just didn’t feel like painting the town red.

  It was almost eleven, but the endless early-summer sky had only just begun to grow dark. In the distance, a cargo ship made its way toward the Baltic, its red superstructure rising above the tops of the pine trees, making the forest look like a shrunken backdrop in an animated film.

  I had to ask the question that had been occupying my mind for a long time. I took a drag on my cigarette as I wondered exactly how to put it.

  Why didn’t he tell the army to go to hell?

  Why did he let the sergeant pick on him, day after day? Nobody should have to suffer as much as Andersson did.

  “Why do you take so much crap from the sergeant?” I said at last.

  He made a funny little noise. At first, I thought he wasn’t going to answer, then his mouth moved, barely visible in the twilight, and the pale, downy hairs on his chin quivered.

  “My father.”

  “Your father?” I repeated. I could hear how stupid I sounded.

  I took a last drag and stubbed out my cigarette on the damp ground. The bare branches of the birch trees sprawled below us; their leaves had only just started to appear, and the lilac hedges surrounding the houses in the village were covered in pale-green buds.

  Andersson shrugged.

  “My father was stationed here after the war. He’s a captain in the reserves, and he’s always talking about his old comrades in the Coastal Rangers.”

  He took a swig of his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “He was part of one of the first cohorts of Rangers, and he never stops telling me about those days—how they spent that year out here, everything they went through, the cold and the hunger. But they put up with it all for the sake of our country. The war was still fresh in their minds, of course.”

  He almost seemed to be talking to himself now; he was speaking quietly.

  “Every year he goes off on military exercises for at least a week at a time. Then he comes home and boasts about it—‘The old man isn’t finished yet!’ Sometimes he and his pals from the Rangers meet at our place; they toast the old days while my mother runs around serving them food and drink. They get totally wasted and stay up half the night, laughing and talking.”

  A heartfelt sigh, deep in his chest.

  “The following day, he’s hungover, and my mother and sister have to clean up as usual.”

  Far away, I could see the Getholmen lighthouse flashing. The sky had turned deep blue, and the beam of light sliced through the gathering darkness. A motor launch chugged by, its red port light glowing on our side.

  “What do you think he would have said if I’d applied to a different regiment? Or opted for community service instead?” Andersson gazed out at the horizon as he went on: “‘I’m so pleased you’re making your own choices, son.’ Or maybe he would have wished me luck . . .” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. He was squeezing the beer can so hard his knuckles were white. “I have no intention of getting kicked out and slinking home with my tail between my legs. I can do this.”

  He looked down at the can, crushed almost beyond recognition.

  “Then I’ll tell my father to go to hell.”

  CHAPTER 51

  “Thomas. Thomas, you need to wake up.”

  The sound of Pernilla’s voice slowly penetrated Thomas’s consciousness. Exhaustion had gotten the better of him that afternoon; he had gone home and crashed out on top of the bedclothes.

  “How long have I been asleep?” he mumbled.

  “A long time.” She sounded worried. “It’s almost six.”

  Pernilla stroked his cheek; the palm of her hand felt cool against his warm skin.

  “How are you feeling?”

  He rolled over onto his back and looked up at the ceiling.

  “Worn out.”

  “You mustn’t overdo it. Don’t forget that this is your first major case since going back to work.”

  He pulled her close and buried his face in her hair. As always, it smelled fresh and newly washed, and he lay there for a few seconds without moving. Then he raised his head, and their eyes met.

  “Don’t worry about me. The most important thing right now is in there.”

  He patted her slightly rounded belly. Had it gotten bigger over the past week, or was he just imagining things?

  “Snuffkin,” she said. “Our little snuffkin.”

  “Snuffkin?”

  “Well, we have to call it something.” Thomas was struck by the happiness in her eyes. “We need a working title for the newest member of the family. Maybe you have a better suggestion?”

  She lay down beside him, and Thomas was on the point of falling asleep again when she spoke.

  “By the way, you had a phone call.”

  He propped himself up on one elbow. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “You were completely out of it. I came in and tried, but I got nowhere.”

  Thomas swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  “OK. I’ll go and check who it was, just to be on the safe side.”

  He went into the hallway and took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. Missed call. It was a Stockholm number, but he didn’t recognize it. He pressed redial and waited.

  “Fredell.”

  Was it Jan-Erik Fredell’s widow, Lena? Thomas wasn’t sure.

  “This is Thomas Andreasson. I think you tried to reach me earlier—is that Lena?”

  “My name is Annelie Fredell—I’m her daughter.”

  Thomas went into the kitchen and sat down.

  “I have a missed call from this number, a couple of hours ago.”

  “That must have been my mom. Hold on, and I’ll get her.”

  After a few seconds, another voice came on the line, sounding weary and listless.

  “Hello.”

  Finding her husband murdered must have been horrific, Thomas thought. It was Lena who had been the backbone of the family during Jan-Erik’s illness; had his dependence been the fuel that kept her going? Had she now simply run out of strength?

  “Hi, Lena, it’s Thomas Andreasson. I think you tried to get ahold of me; how can I help?”

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Of course not.”

  Thomas could hear her breathing, but she didn’t say anything.

  “What can I do for you?” he said.

  A sharp intake of breath, then Lena seemed to make up her mind.

  “I . . . There’s something I need to tell you.” Her voice was far from steady.

  “Tell me.”

  “It might not be important, but I thought I’d mention it all the same.” She coughed. “When I was clearing out the closets yesterday, I found Janne’s old diaries.”

  “He kept a diary?”

  “Yes, all his life, until his illness made it too difficult for him. He used to write for a while before he went to sleep. I sometimes wondered if he secretly dreamed of becoming an author; he had such a way with words.”

  “I understand.”

  Thomas pulled out the top drawer, searching for something to write with. The first pen didn’t work, but he had better luck with the second. He transferred the phone to his left hand.

  Lena Fredell swallowed hard.

  “When Marcus Nielsen came to see us, he asked questions about Janne’s military service.”

  “Yes, your husband mentioned that.”

  “As you know, Janne was finding it harder and harder to remember because of his ill
ness. Marcus brought up all kinds of things, and in the end, Janne asked me to fetch the diaries.”

  She fell silent for a moment. “He wanted to be able to leaf through them during the conversation,” she went on. “As a memory prop.”

  These diaries could help us track down the rest of the group, Thomas thought, which would save waiting for the military to dig through their archives. And maybe Jan-Erik Fredell’s notes would provide other vital information.

  “Janne went through them, and Marcus was very interested in what he had to say. They spent quite a while together.”

  “Could I take a look at these diaries?”

  “I can’t find them. I think Janne must have let Marcus take them. He got tired; maybe he lent Marcus the diaries when he couldn’t talk anymore.”

  “Do you know what was in them?”

  Lena’s voice was stronger, less afraid and uncertain, as if she was now confident that contacting Thomas had been the right thing to do.

  “No, I was never allowed to read them. Janne always kept them tucked away.”

  But why did he show them to a stranger if the contents were a secret? Thomas wondered. It didn’t make sense.

  “Janne was very careful with his diaries; he actually kept them locked away in boxes,” Lena explained. “It wasn’t like him to act that way. In fact, he didn’t really enjoy talking about his military service like a lot of men do.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, but I was surprised that he was willing to speak to Marcus.”

  “He didn’t give you an explanation?”

  “No. Did Janne tell you that Marcus came across his name in a yearbook? Perhaps that was why he got involved. I’ll never know . . . He might have told me eventually, but . . .”

  A barely audible sob.

  “I forgot all about it after Janne died; I was in such a state when I saw you. It wasn’t until I started going through the closets that I realized they were gone.”

  “Don’t worry,” Thomas reassured her. “One last question: What do these boxes look like?”

  “They’re black, with a small lock, and they’re all marked with the year. The one Marcus must have taken is 1977. There’s a whole shelf filled with boxes, all in order. But I haven’t read a single word. I haven’t opened any of them.”

  Thomas wondered why she was so keen to convince him; was she suffering from a guilty conscience? He was sure he hadn’t seen a box like that in Marcus Nielsen’s apartment. He would need to check the records to make sure, but he should have noticed it if it had been there. Could it be at Marcus’s parents’ house?

  “Thanks for your help, Lena. I’m so glad you called and told me all this.”

  He hung up, then went through the notes he had made during the conversation. So now both Marcus’s laptop and Jan-Erik Fredell’s diaries were missing.

  That couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

  Thomas was in the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, when his cell phone rang. The display informed him that it was Nora; what did she want at this hour?

  She got straight to the point as usual.

  “You asked me to speak to my neighbor, Olle Granlund. He told me quite a lot about what the military got up to on Korsö.”

  Thomas went into the living room and sank down onto the sofa. Pernilla had gone to bed shortly after nine, and he didn’t want to disturb her. He leaned back, fighting off the tiredness. It just wouldn’t go away, even though he had slept all afternoon.

  “What did he say?”

  “He described it as an unusual place, to say the least. He said the aim was to push the soldiers to the breaking point; only then could they be built up again into real Coastal Rangers. An elite force with particular combat skills, he called them. It sounds pretty sick, if you ask me.”

  Thomas could hear clinking and clattering in the background, as if Nora was unloading the dishwasher, putting away glasses and china.

  She continued. “Apparently there were some officers who crossed the line.” She told him about the recruit who had stabbed himself in the leg. “So what do you think of that?”

  “It sounds appalling. Any names?”

  “Olle mentioned a sergeant who was especially sadistic, but he couldn’t remember his name.”

  When the call was over, Thomas remained sitting on the sofa with Nora’s words ringing in his ears. The aim was to create an elite force by pushing the soldiers to the breaking point.

  Was there someone out there who had been pushed too far thirty years ago?

  CHAPTER 52

  Monday (The Third Week)

  The long corridor with its white-painted walls seemed endless. Thomas and Pernilla went the wrong way several times before they finally reached the small reception desk. A sign above said “Ultrasound Reception” in blue letters.

  Pernilla had had to remind Thomas about the appointment that morning. With a sigh, she had waited while he called Margit from the car to tell her he wouldn’t be in before ten; they would have to catch a later train to Gothenburg.

  A friendly nurse showed them into a room with the blinds drawn. There were various machines, one of them with a flashing green light. Pernilla was told to lie on the bed and pull up her top. The nurse smeared a clear gel on her stomach.

  “I’d forgotten how cold it is!” Pernilla said.

  Thomas stayed in the background. He hadn’t said anything for quite some time, and his expression was grim. Pernilla could see that the situation was making him uncomfortable. She tried to catch his eye but without success.

  If something was wrong, it was better to find out now, before their little snuffkin was born and became a real person, a child she could hold in her arms and hug and kiss. It’s better to lose a fetus than a full-term baby, she thought, although she had to steel herself at the idea.

  “You can sit down,” the nurse said to Thomas, pointing to a stool beside the bed. Thomas did as he was told. Pernilla took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, but the tension was still there in every line of his face, and he was sitting up as straight as a poker.

  They had been together exactly like this when they saw Emily for the first time. Pernilla swallowed to get rid of the lump in her throat.

  This time everything would be fine; it just had to be.

  The door opened, and the doctor came in. His hair was drawn back in a neat ponytail. He seemed far too young to be doing this—he looked as if he’d just graduated from college. Then Pernilla realized it wasn’t the doctor who was too young, it was she and Thomas who had grown older. He was forty-one, and she would be forty in November.

  Mature parents, whichever way you looked at it.

  But not first-time parents.

  The doctor held out his hand.

  “Peder Backlund. Welcome.”

  Pernilla managed a wan smile.

  “OK, let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said, switching on the ultrasound machine. With a practiced hand, he moved the metal probe over Pernilla’s stomach; it felt cold and sterile against her skin.

  The little screen next to the bed flickered, and a gray-green, extremely grainy image appeared.

  “You’re in the ninth week, is that correct?”

  Pernilla nodded.

  “And how are you feeling?”

  “I’m very tired, but otherwise OK.”

  “Any nausea?”

  The doctor was glancing from her stomach to the screen and back as he asked questions.

  “Quite a lot, especially in the mornings. But it should pass soon—at least I hope so.”

  Pernilla stared at the screen. A curled-up figure was clearly visible; she knew it was actually only about an inch long at this stage.

  There really was a life in there, a tiny heart beating away. From time to time, the arms twitched, small movements caused by primeval instincts and reflexes. The minute head moved a fraction, as if it was wondering who was out there. Who was peeping in.

  The eyelids, just discernible on the diffuse
image, were no more than black dots, and the hands, or what would become hands in a few months, were sticking out.

  A little fish, swimming in the sea Pernilla’s womb had created.

  A wave of relief flooded her body.

  “There it is. Look, Thomas.” She turned to him. “Can you see it? That’s our baby.”

  Thomas didn’t speak or move, but he seemed marginally less tense. Pernilla could see that his eyes were suspiciously shiny.

  Peder Backlund calmly described what the probe was picking up behind the layers of skin and muscle. It’s remarkable, Pernilla thought. Remarkable and incomprehensible that the instrument being passed across her stomach could produce these images, that it was possible to see her child many months before the birth, enabling a doctor to establish that everything was as it should be, even though the fetus was only a couple of months old.

  “So these are the legs, and here you can see both arms,” Dr. Backlund explained.

  The gentle pressure of the probe wasn’t unpleasant, just a little chilly.

  “And this is the spine.”

  He repeated the circular movement and leaned forward, closer to the screen.

  “Now, let’s see . . .” he murmured.

  Pernilla froze.

  “Is something wrong?”

  The air grew thick; she could hardly breathe. Dr. Backlund shook his head.

  “Nothing to worry about, I just want to check something. One second.”

  He reached for the tube of gel and spread another layer over Pernilla’s stomach. This time, she didn’t make a sound when she felt the coldness against her skin. Anxiously, she studied the doctor’s face, trying to work out what he wasn’t saying. Please don’t let anything go wrong.

  Not again.

  She was terrified and squeezed Thomas’s hand so hard that he gently released her grip. He still didn’t say anything, but as he stroked her hair, she knew that he was equally worried.

  The only sound in the small room was the hum of the fan cooling the mechanism.

  The doctor picked up his stethoscope and listened carefully for a minute or so, then he turned up the volume on the ultrasound machine.

  Was that her baby’s heartbeat? It sounded irregular—was that a bad sign?