Tonight You’re Dead (Sandhamn Murders Book 4)

by Viveca Sten

  “The young lad hanged himself.”

  Olle paused, as if he was reluctant to go on.

  “According to the rumors, the poor kid was driven to it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s all I’ve managed to find out so far; it’s still a sensitive subject. But there are also rumors that the death wasn’t quite what it seemed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Olle made a noise that suggested he had just spat out a plug of chewing tobacco. Nora pictured him standing on the jetty in Sandhamn.

  “There was a suicide note, but it was typewritten, and it wasn’t signed.”

  Nora thought for a moment; surely an incident like this should have triggered a formal investigation within the military?

  “Wasn’t there an official inquiry?”

  “No. The soldier was sent home to his family in a coffin. They were told he’d been unable to handle the pressure and had chosen to end his life. Suicide was still something to be ashamed of back then; I don’t think anyone wanted to look into it.”

  “I feel so sorry for his family.”

  “Yes; I believe he was the only son. They took it very hard, apparently.”

  “And what happened to Cronwall?”

  “He started as a cadet at the Royal Swedish Naval Academy but didn’t complete his reserve officer training. He left the military after a while—he might even have been asked to leave. There were plenty of rumors, but nothing ever became public.”

  Olle coughed.

  “Anyway, now you know. I hope you find the information useful.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “You will handle this discreetly, won’t you?”

  Nora wondered whether to tell him that she would have to pass it on to Thomas, but decided against it; there was no point in worrying Olle for no reason. She opted for a compromise.

  “I won’t pass it on unnecessarily, I promise.”

  Nora pressed the elevator button again. Robert Cronwall had a great deal to answer for. She needed to call Thomas right away.

  CHAPTER 71

  It was still raining when Thomas and Margit got in the car, and as they drove, wet leaves from the side of the road whirled up and got stuck under the windshield wipers.

  Urban and Annika Melin lived in a semidetached house in Farsta Strand.

  A far-from-new VW Passat with a dent in the front was parked outside. A plump man in his forties opened the door as soon as they rang the bell.

  “Police?”

  Margit held up her ID. “Urban Melin?”

  The man nodded; he looked as if he were on the verge of tears. “I’m so worried about Annika. What if something’s happened to her?”

  An unpleasant feeling of déjà vu came over Thomas. This was exactly how the encounter with Birgitta Cronwall had started just a few hours earlier.

  “I’ve been waiting by the phone all day,” Melin said. “I called in sick so that I could stay home in case she called, but I’ve heard nothing.”

  He ran a hand over his forehead, disturbing the thin hair arranged in a comb-over to hide his bald spot. He didn’t seem to notice that he had ruined his coiffure.

  Thomas saw that his nails were bitten down to the quick.

  “Tell us everything, and start from the beginning,” Margit said once they were settled on a brown leather sofa that took up most of the living room. A gray cat that had been sleeping on an armchair lifted its head, then slunk off in the direction of the kitchen, wearing a martyred expression.

  “Annika didn’t come home last night; she hasn’t been in touch, and she’s not answering her cell phone,” Urban Melin began.

  “Could she be visiting friends or relatives?” Margit asked.

  “Her father and her brother died many years ago, and her mother has dementia; she’s in a nursing home.”

  “Did you have a fight?” Thomas asked.

  Melin shook his head. “No. Everything was perfectly normal before she disappeared.”

  “Maybe she’s with a girlfriend?” Margit suggested. “Is there any possibility that she could have slept over at a friend’s place without letting you know?”

  “No. I’ve called everyone; no one’s seen her. We don’t have many friends; my wife isn’t easy to get along with.”

  It was an odd thing to say. Thomas was going to let it go for the time being, but Margit picked up on it. She gave Melin a searching look.

  “Why not?”

  Melin obviously wished he’d never mentioned it.

  “Annika has a few . . . issues. She’s a little . . . unstable.”

  “In what way?”

  Melin appeared to be torn between the desire to protect his wife and the need to convey the gravity of the situation.

  “You don’t need to hold anything back,” Margit said gently.

  “She . . . she suffers from mood swings. Sometimes she’s very down, criticizing herself for all kinds of things, then suddenly she’s furious, blaming all her problems on other people. It’s hard to predict how she’s going to react. She can be . . . destructive.” A nerve under his eye began to twitch. “I’m afraid she might come to harm in some way.”

  “What makes you think that?” Thomas asked.

  Urban Melin produced a handkerchief and wiped his bald spot.

  “Things have been difficult for us recently, that’s why I’m so worried. We . . .”

  He broke off yet again, and Thomas and Margit waited patiently.

  “We were expecting a baby,” Melin said after a long pause, “but we lost it three weeks ago, and the situation has gotten much worse since then.”

  Thomas frowned. “Did you say three weeks ago?”

  “Yes, in the middle of September.”

  “I’m sorry to push you on this, but I think we met your wife a week or so ago. Doesn’t she work at the pharmacy in the Farsta Centrum mall?”

  “Yes, she’s a pharmacist,” Melin said eagerly. “She’s worked there for quite some time.”

  Thomas glanced at Margit, who looked equally confused.

  “When we saw her, she was pregnant.”

  Melin shook his head wearily.

  “No, she wasn’t. She had a miscarriage at the Southern District Hospital on Friday, September 14. Trust me, I was there.”

  He buried his face in his hands, and Margit leaned forward and gently touched his arm.

  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  At first, Melin didn’t answer, as if he were debating with himself whether to tell the truth. When he finally spoke, his voice was a monotone.

  “Annika had a car accident. There was no one else involved; she went out late one night and crashed into a road sign. She wasn’t too badly hurt, but the impact drove the steering wheel into her belly, and the baby couldn’t be saved. She was five months along.” His voice broke. “We’d been trying for such a long time.”

  Thomas remembered his recent accident; he pictured Pernilla in the car when she was pregnant with Emily, her swollen belly almost touching the steering wheel. It wasn’t hard to understand why Urban Melin was pale and hollow-eyed.

  “I’m so sorry,” Thomas said. “But it really did seem as if Annika was pregnant when we met her.”

  Surely she had been wearing a loose maternity dress? He’d asked when the child was due, and she hadn’t corrected him; after Christmas, she had said.

  Strange.

  “How could Annika cope with being back at work so soon after the miscarriage?” Margit asked sympathetically.

  “She insisted she’d go crazy if she sat at home brooding. I managed to persuade her at least to go part-time, but she’s not easy to convince when she’s made up her mind. I don’t think she even told her colleagues that she’d lost the baby.”

  He made a funny noise, halfway between a cough and a sob.

  “She’s been worse than ever lately. One minute she’s depressed and anxious, the next dramatic and furious. She changes all the time, and there’s
no way of predicting how she’s going to react. To be honest, it was a relief when she went back to work; she seemed to pull herself together when she was with her coworkers.”

  “Has she behaved like this in the past?” Margit asked.

  Melin rocked back and forth on his chair.

  “She’s always been fragile. It’s hard to believe—she’s so tall and elegant, and she gives an impression of being extremely capable. But inside she’s like a little child, terrified of being abandoned. And yet, at the same time, she pushes people away and feels worthless.”

  “Has she received any counseling or psychiatric help?” Thomas asked.

  “She would never agree to anything like that.” The answer was instant and decisive.

  “It can’t be easy for you to deal with,” Margit said.

  “No, it isn’t. I try to reassure her, of course, I tell her she’s wonderful, but it’s hard to reach her when she’s in that mood.”

  “Have you been together long?”

  “Nine years.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “At the pharmacy where she works. My ex had left me for another man, and I was in a bad place. My doctor prescribed sleeping pills, and when I went to pick them up, I met Annika. We started chatting, and one thing led to another.”

  He straightened a pile of magazines on the coffee table in a quick, nervous movement.

  “We kind of found each other right away, and we soon moved in together. She was like a whirlwind, everything had to happen now. The engagement, the marriage . . . she was the one who found this house.” He looked at them, his eyes full of sorrow. “The only thing we had to wait for was a baby.”

  “That must have been a strain, if she’s as temperamental as you say,” Margit said.

  “It was.” Melin turned his wedding ring around and around. “Sometimes she’d lose it completely. She once twisted my arm so hard that she fractured it. I was in a cast for weeks.”

  “That’s abuse,” Margit said. “Did you report it?”

  An embarrassed silence gave her the answer, but somehow Melin seemed relieved at being able to talk about his dysfunctional relationship with his missing wife.

  “Who would have believed me? Men abuse women, not vice versa. Annika broke down in tears afterward, and she kept apologizing. She said she’d kill herself if I left her. I forgave her, of course. I always do.” He looked utterly lost.

  “Always? Has she hurt you more than once?”

  Melin lowered his eyes. “Yes.” He pointed to a scar on his forearm. “She cut me once when she was really mad.”

  “With a knife?”

  “Yes, she grabbed a carving knife from the kitchen drawer. She was unrecognizable. I’d worked late several evenings in a row, and she claimed I was having an affair with a female colleague. There was no truth in it, of course. I’ve never been unfaithful to my wife.”

  “So what did you do that time?” Thomas asked gently.

  Melin adjusted the perfectly tidy pile of magazines once more and kept his eyes fixed on the table as he spoke. “I forgave her. She promised she’d never do it again.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Yes. When she’s on an even keel, she’s sweet and kind. She looks after me. She loves me very much; I know she does.”

  Domestic violence, Thomas thought. You’re not the only man who’s suffered. Female abusers are more common than people think, but men are reluctant to admit it, let alone report it to the police. If you can’t be with the one you love, you have to love the one you’re with. Is that why you stayed with her? Or were you afraid to leave in case she carried out her threat and took her own life? Or was there something else?

  Thomas got to his feet.

  “Do you mind if we take a look around?”

  “No problem—where do you want to start?”

  “What’s upstairs?”

  “Our bedroom, a guest room, and Annika’s study.”

  “Shall we start with her study?” Margit suggested. “It would also be helpful if you could find us a recent photo. You’ll get it back, of course.”

  “There’s one in my study.” Melin opened a door, and Thomas saw a desk covered in pictures of dentures and rows of teeth. There was also a framed photograph, which Melin picked up and brought over to them.

  “There you go. This was taken last summer, in June.”

  Thomas studied the picture of Annika Melin. She had well-defined features, and although her eyes were serious, she was smiling into the camera. She was slimmer than when he had seen her at the pharmacy, but presumably she had put on weight during the pregnancy. She looked strong and fit; she was wearing blue-and-white running gear, and there was a square cloth with a number on it pinned to her chest.

  Melin looked proud.

  “That was at the Stockholm marathon. Annika’s run it several times, and she’s pretty good. She trains in all weather; sometimes she keeps going until she throws up. She has incredible stamina, my wife.”

  “Shall we go upstairs?” Margit said.

  Melin led the way. When they reached the landing, Margit pointed to a closed door. Melin seemed embarrassed.

  “That’s Annika’s study. She doesn’t like me going in there, so the door is always shut.”

  “Is it locked?”

  “I don’t think so; it’s just that I never go in there.” He tried the handle. “No, it’s open.”

  The room was comparatively small and contained a desk made of dark wood and several well-filled bookshelves. An old-fashioned leather office chair was pushed under the desk. The only window, which was streaked with rain, looked out onto a silver fir; it was so close that the branches were practically brushing against the house.

  There were a number of framed photographs dotted among the books, and Thomas’s attention was immediately caught by a portrait of a young man in his late teens or early twenties. He had cropped hair and was leaning against a fence.

  He was wearing a green uniform, and on his head was a beret with a golden trident on the front.

  Thomas pointed to the picture.

  “Who’s this?”

  Urban Melin came closer and picked it up.

  “That’s Pär—Annika’s brother.”

  CHAPTER 72

  Thomas took a step toward Urban Melin so that they were face-to-face.

  “Pär? What’s his last name?”

  “Andersson, but he’s no longer with us.”

  “Pär Andersson was Annika’s brother?” Margit exclaimed behind them.

  “Yes.” Melin took a step back. “But I never met him.”

  “How come?”

  “He died a long time ago, back in the seventies. Annika was only a little girl; there was a big age difference between them.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I think he killed himself, but she didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why not?”

  Melin fingered his wedding ring again.

  “It was a terrible shock for the family; her father started drinking, and her mother suffered from depression. It wasn’t easy for Annika, growing up in an environment like that. From what I can gather, her mood swings and panic attacks started when she lost her brother.”

  “Do you know how old he was at the time? Was it during his military service?” With a huge effort, Thomas managed to keep his voice calm—much calmer than he actually felt.

  The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

  “Thomas!” Margit called out before Melin had time to answer. She was gazing down at the papers strewn across the desk. “Look at this.”

  Thomas joined her. “They’re maritime charts showing the shipping lanes around Sandhamn,” he said. He pointed to one chart. “That circle is Korsö.”

  Margit moved the pile to one side. “There’s more.”

  Thomas saw a list of addresses and telephone numbers, and he immediately recognized the names: Fredell, Kaufman, Erneskog.

  Robert Cronwall.<
br />
  There was an open book with the title Fifty Years of the Coastal Rangers.

  Was this the book Marcus Nielsen had used when he chose the group of rangers he wanted to study? He couldn’t have known what a deadly choice that would turn out to be.

  Everything pointed in one direction: Annika Melin had been gathering evidence against her brother’s killers.

  Was that why Cronwall had gone after her, too?

  Nora had called Thomas when he was in the car on his way to Farsta. She had told him about the rumors, the suggestion that Cronwall had driven Pär Andersson to take his own life.

  Thomas wondered if the truth was even worse.

  Both Andersson and Marcus Nielsen appeared to have hanged themselves, but in both cases there was a question mark over the suicide notes they had left behind. Neither had been signed.

  Thomas was beginning to see a pattern.

  Had Annika confronted Cronwall and accused him of having caused her brother’s death? He remembered Cronwall sitting in the living room of his fine house in Lidingö, dismissing them with a few polite phrases when he had had enough of the conversation.

  Cronwall was a man with power, a good citizen with a prominent position on the council and the high social status that came with it. Maybe Annika had threatened to tell the truth about the respected councillor and chair of the Rotary Club.

  Was that why he had murdered everyone who could bear witness to what had really happened on that night when Pär Andersson died in a shower room on Korsö? Right on cue, Margit let out a low whistle. She had taken a pile of black-bound notebooks out of one of the desk drawers and had opened one of them. The first page was filled with closely written text, with the date at the top. Inside the cover was a name: Jan-Erik Fredell.

  “She must have gotten them from Marcus Nielsen,” Margit said slowly. “That’s the only possible explanation.”

  Thomas turned to Urban Melin, who was standing by the window.

  “Do you know if Annika met someone named Marcus Nielsen? Twenty-two years old, black hair—he was a student at the university.”

  The words came spilling out; this was urgent. Robert Cronwall and Annika Melin had been missing for almost twenty-four hours. God knows what he could have done with her during all that time . . .