Tonight You’re Dead (Sandhamn Murders Book 4)

by Viveca Sten

  “I understand.”

  Elsa’s eyes were still cold, but she got up and went over to the desk. She picked up the phone once more and asked someone to come along to her office.

  A minute later, there was a knock on the door, and a gray-haired woman of about sixty came in with a thick file under her arm. She wasn’t in uniform, and Thomas assumed she was one of the civilian employees Captain Harning had mentioned on their previous visit—one of those who didn’t like working overtime on a Friday.

  “This is Birgit Hagelius; she deals with archive inquiries,” Elsa said. “She retrieved the information we sent over to you.”

  She introduced the two police officers and quickly explained what had happened.

  “They’re wondering if someone is missing, and if so, why.”

  The older woman sat down. She was wearing a navy cardigan with a pleated skirt of the same color. She reminded Thomas of a character in a British detective series. She seemed anxious; she plucked at a loose thread on her skirt as she spoke.

  “I do hope I haven’t caused you any problems. I did try to find the information you requested.”

  “Nobody’s saying you’ve made a mistake, Birgit,” Elsa said reassuringly. “But maybe you could clarify the situation.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Birgit Hagelius took a deep breath and stopped fiddling with the thread.

  “It’s perfectly simple. A certain percentage of the recruits are sent home during the course of the year, and that is allowed for within the intake system.”

  “Why are they sent home?” Margit asked.

  “Because not all of them achieve the required standard,” Elsa said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “In what way?”

  “Sometimes they fail at the physical challenges, sometimes they don’t have the necessary mental strength. Some are sent home right away; others stick it out for a while but fall by the wayside during the journey. The men can’t be sure that they will complete their training, and there’s a psychological purpose behind that approach. It creates a competitive atmosphere that intensifies everything on both the physical and mental level.”

  “What’s that got to do with the matter in question?” Thomas asked, turning directly to Birgit.

  She coughed. “To begin with, this group consisted of eight aspiring Coastal Rangers, but only seven completed their training.” An invisible fleck of dust was brushed off the dark-blue skirt. “When you requested details of the group members, I assumed you only wanted to know about those who actually qualified as rangers.”

  “I see.” Margit’s tone suggested that she wasn’t satisfied with the explanation.

  “So that’s why I put together seven biographies.” Birgit glanced nervously at Elsa Harning. “It really wasn’t my intention to cause any trouble.”

  “What was the name of the eighth recruit?” Margit said.

  Birgit pointed to the file she had brought with her and placed on the table. It was dark blue, with 1976 written in black on the spine.

  “Pär Andersson.”

  “And why was he sent home?” Thomas wondered.

  Birgit picked up the file but answered without opening it.

  “He wasn’t sent home. He died.”

  CHAPTER 64

  “He died?” Thomas said. “How?”

  Birgit Hagelius looked far from happy. She smoothed down her skirt.

  “He killed himself.”

  “I’m sorry?” Margit said.

  “He took his own life. It was a very sad story.”

  “Highly unusual,” Elsa Harning chimed in. “It’s very rare for someone to commit suicide in the military. That’s one of the reasons why we carry out such rigorous tests at the earliest possible stage; those with suicidal tendencies should be picked up before they even sign on.”

  “But that clearly didn’t work this time.”

  Elsa shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  Thomas turned his attention to Birgit once more. “What happened?”

  She opened the file and turned to the section marked A.

  “OK, let’s see. Pär Andersson was found early one morning in the shower room of the block where his group was billeted. He’d hanged himself. By the time his body was discovered, he’d been dead for several hours, and it was too late to do anything.”

  “That must have been a real shock for everyone,” Margit said.

  Birgit nodded. “Now maybe you can see why I left him out.”

  “Do we know why he killed himself?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes, he left a note in his room saying that he couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “Couldn’t take what anymore?” Margit shot back.

  Elsa stepped in.

  “The Coastal Rangers’ training was particularly tough in those days, as I mentioned when you were here before. Presumably he couldn’t cope with the pressure. It’s extremely unfortunate, but these things can happen. The odd soldier lacks the necessary killer instinct, and that realization can be difficult to bear on an individual level. In this case, it was clearly too much for Andersson.”

  “When did the death occur?” Margit asked icily. Thomas recognized the signs of irritation. Elsa Harning’s attempt to blame Andersson meant that Margit would automatically take the side of the dead soldier.

  “Let me just check . . .” Birgit skimmed the text. “It was late summer 1977—August 31, to be exact.”

  “Almost exactly thirty years ago . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “And where did he die?” Thomas asked, although he could have made an educated guess at the answer.

  “On Korsö.”

  Thomas nodded. Yet another indication that Korsö was the key.

  “Could we have a copy of Pär Andersson’s information?” Margit said.

  Elsa looked uneasy but quickly hid her discomfort behind a neutral question.

  “May I ask why?”

  Thomas responded in kind.

  “Is there any procedural reason why we shouldn’t be given access to this material?”

  Elsa shook her head, as if she had instantly analyzed the pros and cons of refusing to cooperate.

  “Just remember it’s sensitive, and for your eyes only,” she said. “This man took his own life while undergoing military training. It would be”—she searched for the right words—“unfortunate if it came out that a Coastal Ranger committed suicide on Korsö. Even if it was many years ago.”

  Without looking Thomas or Margit in the eye, she picked up her coffee and took a sip. For the first time, Thomas saw a crack in her cool, impeccable façade.

  She was worried.

  He wasn’t convinced that Pär Andersson had been omitted as a matter of routine. He assumed the military wanted to prevent any possible speculation about the cause of the young man’s death, despite the fact that it had occurred so long ago.

  Even if it hampered an ongoing police investigation.

  “There’s been a certain amount of press over the past few years about the Coastal Rangers,” Elsa went on. “About the forms of . . .” She broke off once again. “About the training the recruits underwent. That’s why we’re keen to deal with this discreetly.”

  “I don’t understand,” Margit said, so innocently that Thomas knew the tone was intentional. “Did nobody know Pär Andersson had killed himself? Was the whole thing hushed up?”

  A faint flush began to spread up Elsa Harning’s throat.

  “No, of course not.”

  “So . . . ?” Margit’s tone was even more innocent now, if that were possible.

  That troubled furrow appeared once again between Elsa’s brows.

  “It was a challenging situation. Everything was handled with the utmost discretion, out of consideration for Andersson’s family. There is nothing to be gained from unnecessary publicity when something like this occurs.”

  “Of course not,” Margit agreed. “The press always try to twist things, don’t they?
And that’s no fun for anybody involved.”

  Elsa looked confused, as if she wasn’t sure whether Margit was being genuinely sympathetic or sarcastic.

  “As I said, we’d like copies of everything,” Thomas reminded her. “As soon as possible.”

  A barely perceptible intake of breath told him Elsa wasn’t going to refuse his request.

  “By the way, who found the body?” Margit asked. “Was it another member of Andersson’s group?”

  “Er . . .” As Birgit leafed through the folder, the image of Bo Kaufman came into Thomas’s mind: the man destroyed by booze, as far from the image of a successful elite soldier as it was possible to get. He remembered the pride that had briefly shone in Kaufman’s eyes as he turned the pages of his old photo album, the way he had straightened his back as he recounted his memories of his days in the military.

  Bo Kaufman had enjoyed being a Coastal Ranger. Had he turned to alcohol in an attempt to wipe out the past? The image of a dead comrade hanging from a noose?

  “No, it was an officer who found him,” Birgit said.

  “What was his name?”

  “Cronwall. Robert Cronwall.”

  DIARY: JULY 1977

  We have to paddle just over one hundred nautical miles in the outer archipelago. They’re going to transport us to Forsmark in 200-boats, then we have to make our way back.

  It’s called distance paddling, and it will take forty-eight hours, virtually without a break. We’ve been warned that our wrists will swell, and that our backs will take the most punishment. We’ll be paddling in twos, in Klepper canoes that weigh around seventy pounds. In the prow, there’ll be a small bucket to piss in.

  According to the rules, we paddle for fifty-five minutes, then rest for five, with a break every six hours. However, there’s a rumor going around that we paddle a thousand strokes, then rest for one.

  When we’re done paddling, we have to survive for several days on what nature has to offer. We’re not allowed to take any supplies, or a change of clothes, or toilet paper. We have to prove that we can survive whatever happens, under any circumstances.

  They say that, last summer, a group ate raw herring. They were so hungry, they couldn’t wait to start a fire and cook them; instead they simply stuffed the fish in their mouths as they caught them.

  Another group ate snakes that they found out in the archipelago on their last day. They cut off the heads, removed the spine, and fried the meat in a billycan over an open fire. While they were eating, they reeled off all the delicious food they could think of—chocolate pudding, spaghetti, meat pie, fried eggs. Anything to make them forget what they were actually putting in their mouths.

  I’ve tried to read up in advance so that I will be prepared. I know that the leaves of the Sedum telephium are juicy and keep your guts working so that you can digest your own body fat. You can survive for almost a month as long as there’s water—two and a half liters a day, but no more than one liter of the Baltic’s brackish brew, which must be boiled for at least forty minutes.

  Andersson interrupted me last night as I was lying reading on the top bunk. He came and stood beside me and looked at my book.

  “What’s that?”

  “Survival tips.”

  I showed him the page and read aloud: “Burdock contains carbohydrates, and it is possible to eat cow parsley, but the stomach will pay the price before too long. Lichen is not harmful, and the roots of reeds can be consumed if cooked for a long time.”

  Andersson laughed. His face was tanned, his hair almost white at the temples. He pulled off his sweater and sat down on the bottom bunk.

  “An unfiltered Chesterfield in the morning takes away hunger. That’ll do me.”

  He laughed again, cheerful and carefree.

  CHAPTER 65

  Fortunately, Martinger’s flight was slightly delayed, so Thomas and Margit got to Arlanda in time. Now they were sitting in an interview room that had been put at their disposal by the airport police. A colleague would meet the captain at the gate and bring him along.

  “Robert Cronwall,” Thomas said. “He’s involved in all this somehow.”

  Cronwall had been sitting in his living room listening to classical music when they went to see him ten days ago. His expression had given nothing away when they asked about Fredell and Nielsen, and he hadn’t even mentioned his time in the Coastal Rangers.

  He ought to have recognized Fredell’s name at least. Could he really have forgotten which men had been under his command when Pär Andersson was found dead?

  Why hadn’t he said anything about Fredell?

  The door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark-blue uniform with gold epaulettes walked into the room. He looks like the archetypal airline captain, Thomas thought, reassuring and trustworthy. Exactly the kind of guy who should be at the controls of your plane, according to the commercials.

  Martinger was pulling a wheeled suitcase and carrying a plastic bag with the words “Duty Free, New York” on one side. He put aside his luggage and looked at them, eyebrows raised.

  “Please sit down,” Margit said, pointing to the chair. She and Thomas introduced themselves, and she contemplated the penultimate member of the group that had been brought together all those years ago.

  “I was informed that the police wanted to speak to me,” Martinger said. “I believe it’s about my time with the Coastal Rangers.”

  Thomas nodded but said nothing.

  “Leif Kihlberg called me last night,” Martinger went on. “He told me you’d met and what you discussed.”

  Thomas wasn’t surprised.

  “A lot of old friends have died lately. Is it our turn now, Leffe and me?”

  “Why do you say that?” Thomas asked.

  “Why do I say that? Well, what am I supposed to think? Someone is murdering our former comrades, one by one, if I understood Leffe correctly.”

  Anders Martinger’s voice was steady and bore no trace of fear—rather a hint of sorrow, perhaps.

  A kind of resignation.

  “We’re trying to find out what’s going on,” Thomas said. “We think the motive behind these homicides lies in the past. We’d like you to tell us about your training with the Rangers.”

  A dark shadow passed across Martinger’s face, then he lifted his chin with an air of determination.

  “Eight of us joined up together, all dreaming of becoming elite soldiers in Sweden’s finest fighting force. We were in good shape, fit and healthy, all athletes, and we had applied to the Rangers because that was where we wanted to be. We knew the training was hard, and only a handful would make it through. I still remember how happy I was when I found out I’d gotten in. I felt . . . special. Chosen.”

  “But that soon passed?” Margit said.

  “It was hell on earth. The normal rules didn’t apply. The way they treated us . . .”

  Martinger leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie. Thomas saw a man who had been trying to close the door on these memories for a long time.

  “Things are very different now,” Martinger went on. “The approach has changed radically. The principles of modern leadership have gained a footing, even in those circles.”

  He managed a weary smile.

  “Highly trained soldiers are a valuable resource, and the military can’t afford to let some power-crazed lunatic loose on its recruits, but in the seventies, they had free range. The officers had total control, and extreme punishments—sorry, rewards, that’s what they were called back then—were the norm. It’s hard to explain, but it felt normal then. Today it just seems ridiculous.”

  “Was that why you didn’t stay in the Coastal Artillery?”

  Martinger nodded. “I applied to the air force, where they encourage the kind of attributes that are important in the rest of society: humility, the ability to think as an individual, flexibility. Everything that was missing on Korsö during our training.”

  Thomas could see conflicting emotions in Martinger�
��s face; loyalty toward the comradeship he had known in the Rangers and a desire to be honest.

  “The more I think about it, the more I have to distance myself from the values that were promoted at that time. When I look back today, I find it hard to understand how it could have been allowed to continue, or why I didn’t speak up in certain situations. It haunts me sometimes.”

  A faint flush stained his cheeks.

  “I don’t know how to explain it to you. We kept our mouths shut and obeyed orders, and we felt relieved if someone else was the focus of an outburst of rage. I mean, we stuck together, of course, but sometimes . . .”

  He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “And yet you stayed in the military for many years,” Margit said.

  Martinger ran a hand over his hair.

  “The military has given me an enormous amount, I have to stress that. I received the very best training, both as a pilot and a leader, and I got to know men who will be friends for life. I was very happy in the military, just not with the ethos of the Coastal Rangers at that point in time. If I hadn’t had a very attractive offer from SAS, I would still be in the air force.”

  Thomas changed tack.

  “You had a sergeant named Robert Cronwall when you were on Korsö; what was he like?”

  Martinger sat up straight.

  “He was a total bastard. He was a staff sergeant who wasn’t much older than we were. He had joined up a few years earlier, and he wanted to carry on as a reserve. The reserve officer training started just a few days after we finished.”

  “Can you tell us about him?” Margit said.

  A heavy exhalation.

  “He was something else. Most officers knew where the boundaries were, even if they did push us too hard sometimes. But you could never be sure with Cronwall.”

  Margit leaned forward. “What do you mean by that?”

  Martinger let out a joyless bark of laughter.

  “Let me give you an example. One day, a guy in our group fell asleep—Bo Kaufman, in fact. Who is no longer with us.”

  “We met him before he died,” Margit interjected.

  Martinger nodded.

  “We’d been on a tough training exercise in the snow, and then we had a strategy session indoors. It was hard to stay awake in the warm classroom, and Kaufman nodded off. Bam! Cronwall woke him up by punching him right in the face.”