Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) (11 page)

His white graduation cap, now a symbol of hope and freedom, flew through the air as he sang wholeheartedly with all the other graduates of Östra Real School.

“We’ve graduated! We’ve graduated! God damn, how great we are!”

The relief of not flunking out made him euphoric, and his body felt bubbly as a bottle of champagne.
The future is mine!
he thought.

He would never have overcome a failure. Being one of those miserable, sad students who had to slink out the back door behind the janitor, while his family and friends waited in vain in the schoolyard by the entrance.

I’d rather die,
he had thought while the examiner deliberated.

It had taken forever. He had stood ramrod straight, fists clenched at his sides, on fire with impatience and agony.

The examiner had shuffled through his papers and made a note. Then he’d taken off his glasses, polished them with a small cloth, and replaced them before opening his mouth.

“I believe the candidate has passed,” he said.

Now here he was, diploma in his hand, freshly graduated as he saw his parents approach.

His father wore a hat and an elegant dark-blue topcoat, even though it was almost seventy degrees out. His mother looked elegant in a light linen dress and matching hat decorated with a pink cloth rose. His mother’s personal seamstress had created the ensemble.

“Darling!” she exclaimed. She threw her arms around him. “How handsome you look! You’ve done so well!”

Her eyes shone. When she kissed him on the cheek, he caught a whiff of sherry.
She couldn’t leave it alone,
he thought.
Not even today.

“Congratulations, my son,” his father said. “You’ve succeeded after all. I’m pleased.”

“Thank you, Father.” He gave a slight, automatic bow.

“Here you are, then,” said his father, handing him an envelope. “Have some fun. You’re only young once.”

He winked.

He took the envelope, but his father’s attempt at manly camaraderie only made him uncomfortable.

Farther away, his younger brother shot a peashooter at an older lady in a lilac silk dress. She gave out a short shriek and looked around, but she couldn’t determine where the pea had come from.

His brother was grinning.

He looked for Elsa, their housekeeper. She should have been here. She was the one who had helped him get through school.

He could not have survived without her unconditional love.

“Where’s Elsa?” he asked.

“At home, of course,” his mother said. “She’s getting the buffet ready. Who do you think would set the places and prepare the food if she was here?”

She laughed a bit too loud and shrill.

Well, who else would it be? Not you, Mother, drinking your sherry all day long,
he thought.

One of his schoolmates took him by the arm.

“Come on, you have to meet my parents. And my little sister. She’s eager to meet you.”

F
RIDAY, THE FIRST WEEK

C
HAPTER
26

On his way to the station, Thomas decided to see if the bullet analysis was finished. The forensic medical examiner had sent it to Stockholm’s technical department, and they’d forwarded it to the National Forensic Laboratory in Linköping.

It should have arrived on Wednesday, or at least yesterday. So it was reasonable to expect results by today from Linköping. It wouldn’t take long to run the data through the computer once they’d received the bullet.

Thomas punched the number into his phone with one hand. Someone answered on the first ring. Thomas didn’t know the woman’s name, so he explained who he was and what he wanted.

“Well, you’re in luck,” the woman said. Gunilla Bäcklund was her name. “If you’d called ten minutes later, you’d have had to wait until Monday. I’m on my way out the door for an all-day meeting. Thank God it’s Friday, right?” She laughed at her own joke.

Her casual demeanor irritated him, but he decided to ignore it. The analysis was part of a murder investigation, and every bit of information should be reported as soon as possible. He turned off the car fan so he could hear her better—it was just blowing hot air anyway. When he’d bought the car, he couldn’t afford adding air-conditioning. Now he wished he had. The morning sun turned his car into a sauna. He asked what she’d discovered.

“We’ve done a thorough analysis,” Gunilla said. She spoke brightly, not at all put out by his short tone. “You’re in luck here, too. We know it’s a rifle, and not just any kind either.”

“Oh? How’s that?” Thomas switched the phone to his other hand and rested his elbow on the edge of the rolled-down window. It was as hot outside as inside the car, and he felt sweat starting to slide down his back. He squinted against the bright light and wished he hadn’t left his sunglasses at the station.

“As you probably know, the grooves and lands in the barrel of a weapon imprint every bullet,” she said. “You can scan the number and direction of the lands depending on whether the gun barrel has left- or right-twisting grooves.”

She reminded Thomas of one of the lecturers at the police academy who was enthusiastic even though her listeners were bored out of their minds. He realized this conversation would take a great deal of patience.

“I understand,” he said.

Gunilla Bäcklund would not let herself be rushed.

“Most weapons, even handguns, have five to eight grooves of varying widths. They can be used to identify a weapon, since they are specific to the weapon and its maker.”

“Yes, I see,” said Thomas.

“In addition, the FBI has created a huge database of land and groove data from almost all the rifles in the world. They call it the General Rifling Characteristics file, though everyone just says the GRC. That’s much easier.”

She paused to take a breath and continued before Thomas could respond.

“It’s a wonderful tool. All the police forces in the EU use it. Between that and the German database, we have all types of guns covered.”

“All right,” Thomas said. “So what have you found out about this exact bullet?”

He tried to stay calm, but he couldn’t help honking at the car in front of him that was lingering despite the green light. The driver flipped him the bird.

“If a bullet comes from a weapon with a common groove system, it’s almost impossible to identify the exact type of rifle,” she said. She paused to increase the effect of what she was about to say. “But
this
bullet, you see, comes from a special rifle.”

“You wouldn’t mind telling me what kind, would you?”

“Not at all!” Gunilla Bäcklund said happily. “This bullet wasn’t shot from a rifle with five to six right-twisted grooves. It comes from one with twenty!”

It was clear to Thomas that Gunilla Bäcklund expected him to respond with surprise. She waited in silence.

Thomas worked up as much enthusiasm as he could. “That’s very exciting,” he said. “But what does it mean?”

Bäcklund giggled.

“It means we know both the exact kind of rifle and its manufacturer.”

Thomas couldn’t help smiling. This was good news, really good news.

“And what is it, if I may ask?”

“It’s a Marlin.”

“A Marlin,” Thomas repeated. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“Oh, it’s a very popular American rifle,” Gunilla Bäcklund continued. “It’s cheap and dependable. It uses Micro-Groove landing for its .22. Excellent for us as an identification mark. You ought to thank your lucky stars that your suspect didn’t use a common Winchester.”

Thomas gave it some thought.

“Could you put a telescopic sight on a Marlin?” he asked.

“Sure. Easily. Theirs is specially made for quick shots, kind of like the express sight on a British gun.”

“What about a silencer? Can you use one?”

“Definitely.”

That’s why nobody had heard a second shot. Dr. Sachsen’s theory was most likely correct.

“Thanks, Gunilla. That was very helpful,” Thomas said before hanging up on the long-winded Ms. Bäcklund.

He tried to imagine how many registered Marlin owners there were in Sweden.

Five hundred? One thousand? They could probably find out through the central gun registry.

This had to be checked out as soon as possible.

C
HAPTER
27

Henrik whistled as he cleaned the nets from the morning’s fishing trip. He’d gotten four perch, one fine turbot, and five flounder.

He stood at the edge of the water, where he’d hung the nets on four tall spikes down by the dock. He folded them carefully to avoid tangles. Tangled nets were the worst, especially if you discovered your mistake when you were already out to sea.

He opened the door to the Falu-red boathouse at the base of the dock. It was barely two yards long by one and a half yards wide, but it was tall with enough room for the nets and the tools. Everything hung neatly from black iron hooks.

Henrik walked back to the dock and opened the fish keep. You could store caught fish there for a few days so they were fresh when you wanted to eat them.

He picked up the perch and tossed three of them into a bucket of water. He set the fourth fish on the makeshift cleaning table he’d put together himself. The sun was already hot, and he felt sweat on his back. He’d enjoy a dip once this was through.

Adam and Simon were busy jumping off the end of the dock. They’d helped him bring in the nets that morning.

“Cannonball!” yelled Adam as he leaped off the dock. Water splashed in all directions, and his brother choked with laughter.

Henrik cut deeply into the perch’s neck so that the head was almost detached. Then he stuck his knife into the anal opening and split the belly all the way to the orange fins. With a sure hand, he cut along the spine on both sides until the fillets loosened. He removed the sharp rib bones and pulled the meat from the skin and then took the small, upright bones from the middle of the fillet. This last bit was called “taking the pants of
f
” by the inhabitants of the archipelago.

“Well, then,” he said. He contemplated the results of his work. “Not even the royal palace serves such fine food.”

He whistled an ABBA tune as he picked up the next perch. He’d scraped the fish guts to the side. The seagulls would have a feast later. It was a spectacle the boys loved to watch.

As he continued to clean the fish, he began to dream about spending the millions they would make by selling the Brand house. It was incredible, better than winning the lottery.

Not that he didn’t have a good salary. As a radiologist at one of Stockholm’s major hospitals he earned more than the average Swede. He actually earned more than an average household with two incomes. But he didn’t want to be an average person.

He compared himself to his classmates, the ones who’d gone on to study at Sweden’s Harvard, the Stockholm School of Economics. Most of them had become bankers or ran venture capitalist companies. They earned millions in bonuses, which was as clear as day when they’d meet for a beer or go sailing together. Many of them were enthusiastic sailors just like he was, but there’d be plenty of chatter about fine cars and fast boats. They would gossip about who’d bought what exclusive mansion or who’d earned what tidy sum on an IPO.

His own employer, a state-run hospital, could not even spell the word
bonus
, that much was clear. If he wanted to earn as much as his friends, he’d have to change professions. But Henrik had not become a doctor just for the income. He’d dreamed of being a doctor since he was in secondary school. He didn’t really know why. No one in the family worked in the medical field. He was an only child, so no sibling inspired him. His father had always been in the diplomatic corps and finished his career as an ambassador. His mother had put aside her own ambitions to help her husband achieve his goals.

When Henrik began med school, he’d planned on becoming an outstanding orthopedic surgeon who repaired broken bones and shattered spines. After his studies were complete, he spent some time in the radiology department while waiting for a residency. Something about the role of a radiologist appealed to him.

Perhaps it was the ability to understand and decipher something other doctors saw only as shadows and light, the thrill of finding the missing piece to a puzzle in a hazy picture. When he stood at the podium and explained the X-rays to the surgeons, his interpretation was the difference between life and death.

Secretly, he was also proud of his reputation as a nice and well-liked specialist doctor. He was especially popular among the nurses, who always seemed to gather around him when he was on a coffee break. And he did nothing to dissuade them.

Still, his profession would never lead to lots of money. Henrik understood the value of economic freedom. It was important to him to live the kind of life he’d enjoyed growing up.

When Nora became pregnant with Adam, they moved from their two-room apartment on the outskirts of the city. Nora fell in love with a yellow wooden house in Enskede, not far from where her parents lived in Älvsjö, but Henrik was determined to live in Saltsjöbaden, where he kept his sailboat. He’d lived there as a child when his father was not stationed abroad, and many of his school friends still lived there. He felt at home in the midst of the greenery surrounding the beautiful old mansions.

It was a more expensive location, however, and they could barely afford the small town house they’d chosen. It was far from the kind of mansion Henrik dreamed of.

Now he could change everything.

With the profits from Signe’s house, they could settle in one of the fin-de-siècle mansions with money to spare. Visions of a new car glimmered in his imagination, but he pushed them away with a smile. One thing at a time.

If only Nora wasn’t so obstinate about that house. Sometimes he had no clue what she was thinking. Like the time she’d gotten this crazy idea about moving to Malmö. That would uproot the family—how insane! Their parents lived in Stockholm. All their friends were there. Henrik had no desire to look for another job. They’d had a few bitter arguments about it.

Nora had mourned Signe as if she were her own grandmother. She’d been nearly inconsolable as they’d put Signe to rest in the small island cemetery, where most of the Sandhamn families buried their dead.

Henrik could not understand why Nora couldn’t put the past behind her and move on. Instead, she let that terrible summer torment her all winter. She fell silent and kept to herself, spending most of her free time with the children. For a long time they hadn’t even had guests over. Whenever Henrik brought up the idea of hosting a dinner, Nora objected. Months went by without them seeing anyone.

Now Henrik could see the light at the end of the tunnel. That insane woman’s will was a silver lining to the cloud that had hung over them. In a new house, each boy would have a room of his own. They could have a real yard, not the lawn the size of a postage stamp that they had now. They’d have a real dining room, so guests wouldn’t have to eat in the kitchen with the dirty dishes.

Again he struggled to follow Nora’s thoughts. At first, she’d seemed happy that he’d taken the initiative and contacted Svante Severin. Then she’d done a one-eighty, becoming almost hostile when the man arrived.

Henrik later called the real-estate agent to make sure she hadn’t insulted him, but Svante Severin remained enthusiastic. He reassured Henrik that he would put all his energy into the deal. He said the family from Switzerland had contacted him several times. They happened to be in the archipelago for the summer in a rented place on Ljusterö, another island not far from Sandhamn.

Henrik had called his mother to tell her about their plans. She’d understood immediately how important it was for him to leave the town house. Henrik knew Nora found Monica trying at times, but his mother was a great support. She’d welcomed Nora into the family and gone out of her way to make her feel at home. Besides, maybe a little tension between a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law was normal.

Henrik shrugged off these thoughts as he transformed another perch into delicious fillets. This evening he planned to fry them in butter and serve them with potatoes and a cold mustard sauce.

He whistled while he daydreamed about the part of Saltsjöbaden where he’d most like to live. Solsidan, perhaps, or why not by the Hotel Bay, on the waterfront?