Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) (15 page)

T
HURSDAY, THE SECOND WEEK

C
HAPTER
38

She couldn’t take her eyes off the computer screen. Though she despised every word in that hurtful message, she couldn’t stop reading it.

Confess your sin, you disgusting whore. The game is up. Don’t ever imagine that Oscar loved you. He just played with you, like he played all the others. You were one in a long line. Now you have to do penance for your crime.

The words cut and her entire body shivered. Diana Söder read the message again. Tears began to form, and fear took over.

Who sent this awful message? How had they found her personal e-mail address? And how did the sender know so much about her relationship with Oscar?

She leaned forward and rested her head on the desk. The surface grew wet, but she didn’t care. She was alone in the gallery.

She’d had no bad intentions when she’d met Oscar. He reassured her that his marriage was dead. He and Sylvia were just waiting until the children finished their university educations, and then they’d divorce.

He told her this again and again.

She trusted him, believed his reassurances. Why shouldn’t she?

She’d never loved anybody the way she loved Oscar. He was the love of her life. And he’d been wonderful with her son. They’d been like a little family, and she’d started to dream of a second child. A child together. She wasn’t forty yet. It could still happen. She imagined growing old together. As soon as he got divorced.

If she would just be patient. If she would wait for him.

She could have waited as long as it took. Her time with Oscar had been the happiest in her life.

Suddenly she sat up and pounded the key to delete the horrible e-mail. She deleted it from the trash folder as well. Then she closed her eyes and tried to focus on something positive, something happy.

But she could think only about Oscar. She took a sip of water to calm the sobs rising in her throat. Then she shut off the computer.

Surely this must be somebody’s idea of a joke. Someone with a sick sense of humor.

That’s what it had to be.

“How long have we been working here?” asked Margit. She rubbed her eyes. It was almost eight at night. They were still in the conference room where they’d taped the enlargement to the table. They’d taken a short break to grab a sandwich wrap, the only food they’d had since lunch.

Margit looked in disgust at the discarded food in the garbage.

“That’s one way to diet,” she muttered.

Thomas looked up from the magnifying glass.

“Perhaps we should quit,” he said. “I’m beginning to get cross-eyed.”

He rubbed his neck as he studied the list of the distinctive features on the boats. They’d scrutinized the photograph from every angle, but there were many boats still not identified.

Each time they found something distinctive, they handed it off to Kalle, who compared the details with known boat models and then checked with insurance agencies to find possible owners. A few additional people had come in to help search the Internet and make phone calls.

Thomas considered it a different way of knocking on doors. Knocking via the phone, so to speak. Still, it was slow and detailed work.

Any information we turn up will help,
he thought. For a moment he wondered if they were simply chasing a red herring. Either way, what alternative did they have?

The right boat would lead them to the person who’d fired the killing shot.

F
RIDAY, THE SECOND WEEK

C
HAPTER
39

It was Friday afternoon, and the homicide unit was about to break for the weekend.

They needed some time to rest and recover. The faces around the table looked tired and irritated, worn down from the tedious work of identifying spectator boats.

Twelve days had passed since Juliander had been killed.

In a well-meaning attempt to provide her colleagues with energy, Carina had bought cinnamon buns to go with their coffee. She looked content in a room overtaken by low morale. She hummed under her breath despite her colleagues’ long faces.

Persson took his place at the head of the table, his face blank, lips pressed tightly together. He looked discouraged by the lack of a breakthrough in the case.

“Let’s get going,” he said. “First, Juliander’s finances.”

He turned toward his daughter. “Have you found anything to explain how Juliander could have purchased that Swan?”

“Not by making any money on the stock exchange,” Carina said. “But I’ve found something very interesting, well worth exploring.”

For effect, she fell silent, still flipping through the papers in front of her.

“Spit it out, Carina,” Erik said.

Carina smiled and raised her eyebrows teasingly. She gave herself a few more seconds to enjoy the attention. Then she couldn’t hold back any longer.

“I’ve got Juliander’s wallet, and I’ve gone through it thoroughly. Forensic Medicine sent it over today. And I found a credit card . . .”

“A credit card,” Persson said. “Everybody has credit cards.”

“Not one like this. This is a personal platinum card from a bank in Liechtenstein. Vaduz Verwaltungsbank.”

“Where’s Liechtenstein again?” asked Kalle.

“One and a half hours away from Zürich,” Margit said. “It’s a tax haven. The OECD blacklisted it.”

“Why’s that?” asked Kalle.

“Money laundering. They work with neither the police nor tax authorities from other countries.”

“So how does this credit card fit in?” asked Kalle. “And what’s a platinum card?”

Carina smiled at his question and sneaked a glance at Thomas.

“It’s a very nice card with no credit limit at all. You can buy whatever you want.”

“I’d sure like one of those,” Kalle said.

“Me, too.”

“Tell us about that card,” Thomas said.

Carina held up an enlarged photocopy of a gray credit card.

“You usually get credit cards through your bank. It’s either directly tied to your account so that the money is pulled from it immediately, or you pay your bill once a month.”

“Yes, we know how credit cards work,” Erik said.

“But there’s something special about this one,” Carina continued. “With a Swedish credit card, the bank has to report the activity to the tax authorities every year. And you have to make sure those figures correspond with your income tax report.”

“But you said Juliander’s card was not from a Swedish bank,” Thomas noted.

“Exactly,” Carina said. Hours of surfing the net and putting the pieces together had paid off. She felt like a real investigator.

Thomas had been chilly toward her the past few weeks. It made her feel insecure. But she’d swallowed her anger and decided to show him just how good she was. She would impress him with some serious police work, and he’d look at her the same way he had last summer.

She was so much in love with him it hurt. She longed for him all the time. She’d accepted having to keep quiet about their relationship over the past year. But she was not about to get dumped in secret. She had no intention of letting him go.

“This is how it works,” she said. “If someone has a foreign credit card, he or she also ought to have a bank account in a foreign bank. In this case, it must be in a country outside the EU that does not report Swedish citizens’ finances to the Swedish government.”

“Do you think we’re talking about money laundering?” Margit asked. She leaned forward and put her chin in one hand. “Money abroad not reported to the Swedish tax authorities?”

Carina nodded.

“If he were smart, and he most certainly was, he’d only withdraw cash with this card,” Carina said. “Then none of his purchases could be traced. We’d never be able to find out what he used the money for.”

“So now we know where the rich lawyer kept his money,” Thomas said. “Can we assume he bought his fancy boat using this credit card?”

“It’s possible,” Carina said.

Thomas smiled at her.

“This is extremely interesting,” Margit said. “Good work, Carina.”

“Yes, well done,” Thomas added.

Carina beamed like the sun.

“So where do we go from here?” Persson asked. “Do we know how much money we’re talking about here?”

“And where the money came from?” Margit added.

“There’s someone I can ask,” Thomas said.

C
HAPTER
40

Nora stood in front of the ice cream shop in the middle of the Sandhamn boardwalk, waiting to buy ice cream for the boys. Three scoops each. Simon wanted chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla, while Adam asked for blueberry, melon, and chocolate toffee crunch.

The girl behind the counter put bright-red raspberry jelly on top of each cone. They looked so good that Nora bought a small one for herself, a rare indulgence because of her diabetes.

It was already five in the evening, so they’d have a late dinner. Again. As they often did during summers at Sandhamn.

They found a bench where they could see various boats tied close to the dock and tourists strolling up and down admiring them. Henrik immersed himself in the evening paper.

As Simon sat down, the raspberry jelly fell onto the sand. His mouth opened to let out a wail, but Nora stopped it by reassuring him that they could get another one. She walked back to the ice cream shop with the cone, and they fixed it right away.

Simon gave her a big hug.

“You’re the best mom in the world!” he said.

He held out his ice cream and offered her a lick, but she declined.

“Thanks, sweetie, but I have one of my own.”

Her phone rang.

She fished her phone from the pocket of her red shorts with her free hand. It was Thomas.

“Hi, there!” she said. “How’s it going back in the city? How’s the investigation?”

“It’s going slowly,” Thomas said. “Very slowly.”

Nora licked the already melting ice cream. Despite her best efforts, a large chocolate drop landed on her shorts. Typical.

“Are you coming out this weekend?” she asked.

“Yes. I need your help with something.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I need information about the rules of bank secrecy. Especially banks in Liechtenstein.”

“Liechtenstein?” Nora had to laugh. “What? Are you thinking of hiding some money?”

“No, of course not,” Thomas said. His voice remained serious. “But could you look into it for me? I need to know more about that country’s banks. Will you have some time to talk on Sunday?”

“Sunday,” Nora said. “Just a sec.” She turned to Henrik, who was now lost in the sports pages. “What are we doing the day after tomorrow?”

“Nothing in particular,” he said.

“Thomas wonders if I can help him with something for an hour or two. Is that all right, or are you planning to go sailing?”

Henrik shook his head and looked up at her, squinting in the bright sunlight.

“Nope.”

He disappeared back into the world of sports.

She put the phone back to her ear.

“Sunday’s fine.”

“OK, we’ll meet then. Do you want to go out to Harö, or would you like me to come on over to Sandhamn?”

“Here is easier. Then I won’t have to lug my computer on the ferry. What time?”

“Around three?”

“Sure. See you then.”

Nora hung up and slid her phone back in her pocket.

Liechtenstein. A place often tied to illegal cash transfers. What did this have to do with the murder of Oscar Juliander?

She frowned at her ice cream, now a sloppy mess between the paper and the cone. She looked down at her shorts and took a moment to appreciate her washing machine—a mother’s best friend. She remembered her own mother washing clothes at the end of the dock. Not until the late sixties did they have a Laundromat in the area.

She inspected her shorts again and sighed. She’d have to change when they got home.

S
ATURDAY, THE SECOND WEEK

C
HAPTER
41

Martin Nyrén realized he’d made a mistake as soon as he arrived at the barbecue. Actually, he knew going there would be a mistake, but he couldn’t stay away. It was one of few chances to see Indi during the long month of July. And people might notice if he declined the invitation. They had an easier time meeting in town. They could blame work or a late meeting to allow them to sneak away without raising suspicion. Out here there were no excuses, just the long wait until summer ended.

He regarded the scene before him.

A large party tent stood in front of the house. Through an opening he saw a long table covered with a checkered cloth. Two enormous speakers were set up on each side, probably to supply music for the dance later.

Two large grills occupied one corner of the lawn. Two men in chef’s hats and aprons watched over some kind of meat—possibly lamb—rotating on a spit over red coals.

Martin enjoyed grilled lamb, but he found that a meager comfort. His desire to leave kept growing, though he resisted the temptation to sneak away.

The past weeks had been torture. There was still no progress on Oscar’s murder, and the vandalism to his Omega weighed on him. In addition, the unpleasant feeling that someone was watching him continued.

People wandered around the lawn laughing and holding glasses in their hands. A cute girl poured drinks for everyone at a temporary bar in the middle of the yard. Martin walked over, and she ladled something from the punch bowl into a glass for him.

“It’s sangria,” she said. “We’re having a Spanish theme tonight. Here you go.”

He took a long sip of the pink drink with chopped oranges and ice cubes. Excellent. Not that weak stuff they served on a charter trip to Spain. This was full-bodied and strong. As he took another sip, he understood why the Spanish were so fond of their national drink. He hoped the drink might help him conjure up a spark of party spirit.

Drink in hand, he looked around the party.

To his left was his hosts’ summerhouse—a modern white building with a beautiful view. A wide veranda with dining furniture and lawn chairs covered the south wall.

He imagined his hosts lounging on their wooden deck during these lazy summer days, enclosed by a white railing with crossed slats. It reminded him of signal flags used at sea. Rows of tall pines bordered the property on both sides. Toward the road, huge lilac bushes did the same.

A Jet Ski was tied to the dock. Martin Nyrén detested the machines, and, deep down, he missed the days when Jet Skis were not allowed on the water. They were expensive playthings for people with money to burn and served no purpose beyond making noise. He had a fair idea of why it was sitting there. With teenagers in the house, there would be a lot of pressure on the parents to get the latest model.

A small, tarred skiff was docked next to the Jet Ski. The pair looked like a study in opposites. Martin imagined himself rowing the boat out on a peaceful, windless day and then allowing the current to pull him along.

In one corner of the party tent Hans Rosensjöö stood with other board members and their wives. Martin sauntered over to say hello. It would be awkward to leave now. He should stay for dinner at least. He arranged his face into something resembling a smile and approached the group.

Perhaps there might be a chance for a few stolen minutes with Indi that evening, he thought. Something to tide him over, since there would be no moments alone together in the near future.

Perhaps after dessert, when people mingled here and there over after-dinner coffee.

He already felt better.

“Hello!” he exclaimed. “What a nice party! How are things going?”

Friendly smiles returned his greeting.

Then a light scent reached his nostrils, something spicy that disappeared even as he took it in. He tried to remember where he’d smelled it before. Then he did.

In his apartment the evening he’d thought someone was inside.

But even as he tried to capture the scent, it vanished.