Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) (21 page)

“I love you,” he whispered in wonder.

Those words came so easily.

He hadn’t even believed himself capable of love after all the years and all the lies.

But there the words were, perfectly clear, as if they had lives of their own.

Gratitude washed over him.

This is how it feels to love and be loved. How had he ever forgotten?

He longingly gazed into the face before him. With the back of his hand, he traced the line of his beloved’s chin, throat, and chest.

How could skin feel so soft and smell so good?

“Thank God you exist,” he whispered. “I love you so much. What would I ever do without you?”

“I love you, too.”

The voice sounded gentle as a caress. They kissed and desire filled his body, making him dizzy.

“I will never let you go,” he said. “Never, ever.”

M
ONDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

C
HAPTER
57

“Hello, is this Thomas Andreasson?”

The high-pitched voice on the other end of the line gave Thomas pause before he realized who it was: Diana Söder, Oscar Juliander’s lover and Ingmar von Hahne’s coworker at Strandvägen Art Gallery.

It was about nine thirty in the morning. Thomas sat at his desk as gray clouds filled the sky outside.

“How can I help you? You sound upset.”

“There’s something I have to tell you . . . I think . . .”

A pause on the other end of the line.

“What do you want to tell me?” Thomas asked. He took a sip of water and waited patiently for her to answer.

“I’ve gotten some terrible e-mail messages. Messages with horrible accusations.”

Thomas heard her sniffling.

“What do they say?” Thomas asked.

“They say . . .” She paused to gather strength. “They say I killed Oscar.”

“Can you explain a little more?” Thomas asked. He kept his voice mild to avoid alarming her.

“They call me a whore!” She began sobbing so hard she could barely speak. “They say I did terrible things to Oscar. I don’t know what to do!”

“We’ll need to look at those messages,” Thomas said. “Could you forward them to me, do you think?”

“I’ll send what I have. I deleted the first one immediately, but they kept coming. They’re all so vicious!”

He could hear her blowing her nose.

“That’s all right. Just send the ones you have as soon as you can, and we’ll look at them right away. If any new ones come, send them to us immediately. Will you be all right?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”

Margit read the first message from Diana Söder.

I know you murdered Oscar. You shot him because he didn’t leave his wife. You’re a whore, a disgusting whore. You’re going to pay for this. Don’t imagine you’ll get away with it. You’ll see what I mean. Go to the police and confess.

Margit opened the next one, which wasn’t much different from the first.

You disgusting harlot, confess your crime to the police. You have to pay for his death. You damned whore, you lying adulteress.

The third held more of the same.

“
Somebody
believes Diana Söder killed him,” Margit said once they’d studied every message.

“The question is, who?”

“The wife?”

“Sylvia Juliander?” Thomas thought about it. It seemed a long shot that the grieving widow would send these messages. But who knew what a deceived wife might do after hearing such hurtful news.

“We’ll have to question her.”

“Do you think there’s anything to the accusations?”

“Hard to say,” Thomas said. “But if she were guilty, why would she send them to us?”

“Good point. And she does have a watertight alibi. She was with her brother’s family that entire day.”

Margit stared at the screen.

“
Harlot
is a rather old-fashioned word. And so is
adulteress
. Nobody talks like that anymore. What does that tell us?”

“I have no idea. Do you think this is some kind of biblical retribution?”

“If so, Diana Söder may be in danger,” Margit said.

Thomas nodded. “We should warn her. Too bad we don’t have enough evidence to warrant police protection—even if we had the resources.”

Thomas reread the fourth message open on the computer screen.

“We need to find out who sent these as soon as possible.”

“Give them to Carina,” Margit said. “She’s good with computers.”

Thomas agreed. “Should I interview Sylvia Juliander, or would you rather do it?”

“I’ll talk to her,” Margit said.

C
HAPTER
58

Martin Nyrén sailed his Omega 36 to Stora Nassa, a small collection of islands in the outer archipelago northeast of Sandhamn. Before he left, he’d washed away the black graffiti as best he could. The damage to the hull could be repaired when the boat was in dry dock for the winter.

He planned to stay out until the next morning, when he’d have to be back for an urgent meeting with the Facilities Committee. The owner of a large motorboat had had trouble with reverse as he was docking at Lökholmen. He’d seriously damaged the dock. Now the RSYC had to deal with insurance and repairs. The organization was not wealthy. They brought in enough to finance the operations, but not much more. And they couldn’t raise the already high membership fee.

What could they do? The dock had to be repaired.

He adjusted the sheet that regulated the main sail so he wouldn’t lose speed. It was time to find anchorage for the night. This part of the archipelago could be difficult to navigate. Stora Nassa was full of sunken rocks, and one could easily strike bottom. He checked the echo sounder regularly to be safe.

After a while he found an isolated bay where he could be alone. Once anchored he sat down and opened a beer. He enjoyed the silence, broken only by the distant call of a gull. Before him the gray archipelago skerries spread as far as the eye could see, filed to perfection by water and wind. The sun had become a reddish-orange ball just above the horizon, reflected in the water as a flaming mass. It was unbelievably beautiful and still.

The only thing he missed was Indi.

It had been a wonderful night. Martin remembered yesterday evening as tender and loving. They’d been completely happy.

Afterward he’d tried to persuade Indi to sail with him out to Stora Nassa. He’d stopped just short of begging. He hardly knew why he thought it so important, but he longed for a few more days together. They would wake up on board, eat breakfast together, and take the day as it came.

But all he got were the same old arguments. Someone would see them. It was too risky. Leaving for a few days would be impossible without planning. They had to think about the children.

Finally he could take no more arguing. He said good-bye the way he always did.

He hated secrets and sneaking around. How humiliating. Teenagers did such things, not adults.

Still, he felt hopeful. For the first time they’d discussed a future together, even if their daydream had been careful and oblique.

But it gave him hope.

He’d sneak around for a long time if there were hope that one day they could be together.

He decided to send a message to say good night. With a smile, he picked up his phone.

C
HAPTER
59

One should not read another person’s text messages. Everyone has a right to privacy. That must be respected, even within a marriage.

Usually the cell phone on the hall table would be left alone. Any incoming text messages would be left unread until the owner returned.

If only there hadn’t been that electronic ping. The sound in the silent hallway made the temptation much too great.

One click and the message appeared on the screen.

Blood boiled, rage ensued, but when the wave of anger subsided, the text could not be unread. The truth could not be deleted.

You’ve been cheated on. Cheated on and humiliated. There’s someone more loved than you. You’re going to be abandoned. Everyone will laugh at you. Your life will be ruined.

No doubt what the message meant. Just a few words, but enough, enough. It forced a decision.

Thanks for a wonderful night. I can’t wait until we can spend every night together. -Martin.

This was unacceptable. It had to be stopped.

T
UESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

C
HAPTER
60

A drizzling, almost pleasant summer rain fell. July was giving way to August, the evenings already growing shorter. As darkness fell, the temperature dropped.

The building on Birkalidsgatan sat empty and abandoned.

Built in the thirties, its light façade was darkened from pollution and exhaust. Cleaning would have helped, but it was one of the few commercial buildings on the street. There were no apartment owners trying to increase the value of their property through costly renovations.

At this hour, those who hadn’t already left for vacation would have stopped working long ago, left the building, and gone home. Not a single window was lit.

Perfect for the purpose.

The key slipped easily into the lock. A quick turn, and the entrance door opened. The spot selected was a half floor up with a window facing the street. It offered a perfect view of Birkalidsgatan 22B. It would not be hard to make the shot from this distance.

The keys to the individual doors worked as easily as the one to the entrance. Even the black iron security gate slid up without a sound. The dark single-room studio had a toilet and a small kitchen area with a round table and four chairs. It was stuffy and smelled vaguely of turpentine. Paintings leaned against the walls.

It was too risky to turn on the ceiling lights, but the streetlights cast enough of a glow. The small flashlight also helped, even aimed at the floor to avoid being seen from the street. A large lamp hung over the entrance to Birkalidsgatan 22B. That would help. The person who would soon punch in the entrance code and unlock the front door would have plenty of light.

Enough to aim well, in other words. Enough to kill.

The parts of the rifle rested in a gray sailor’s bag. It weighed next to nothing—a couple pounds. It took only a few minutes to load the ammunition and the rifle parts into the bag, and only a few minutes to reassemble the weapon. At the bottom of the bag was a little box marked
.22 WM
R
; the bronze bullets gleamed under the flashlight.

There was something appealing about the bright metal and the oval form so perfect for its purposes. Remarkable that something so small could do so much damage to the human body.

The rifle’s magazine held eleven bullets, every bullet slipped smoothly into place.

The only thing left to do was wait.

This time there was no hurry. Before, everything had to be timed to the second. There’d been no leeway, since the risk of discovery had been much, much greater.

Now only patience was needed.

Martin Nyrén would soon come home to his apartment. If not today, then tomorrow.

There was all the time in the world to wait for Martin Nyrén.

C
HAPTER
61

The evening meeting of the Facilities Committee was unusually fruitless, Martin Nyrén thought. He sighed over colleagues who sometimes seemed incapable of making a decision. The discussions moved in circles, resulting in an agreement to meet again in a few weeks for a final decision on repairing the Lökholmen docks.

He’d gotten a ride from Saltsjöbaden to Slussen, where he took the subway to Sankt Eriksplan. No one else got off at that stop. He was alone on the platform at almost eleven at night.

Even though he usually walked up the escalator for the exercise, he stood still this time.

His relationship with Indi nagged at him. While at sea, he’d thought a great deal about their situation. Should he demand more, even make an ultimatum?

His love was so strong that everything seemed perfect when they were together. But he hated the loneliness that overcame him the minute they parted.

He wanted to spend every day together. They’d argue sometimes about whose turn it was to do laundry or who should do the grocery shopping. But he’d always find a light on in the apartment when he came home.

Patience,
he told himself.
You must have patience.

When he walked out of the station, he took a deep breath of night air. The city could be stifling during the summer, and he already longed to put out to sea again. He shivered a bit at the thought of the vandalized Omega. It must have been kids. Who else would have done it?

He still needed to report the damage to the police. His insurance company demanded it. But what would he say about the other odd things? That he thought someone had been in his apartment? He had no proof. That he felt followed when he was walking down the street? That he suspected it wasn’t a few kids who had damaged his boat?

He could imagine how the police would grin behind his back if he brought up these concerns. And what could
they
do about it? They couldn’t watch over him and his boat twenty-four hours a day.

He looked around a little more than usual in the night darkness. He picked up his pace and pulled his trench coat tighter. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees since sunset.

He took his phone from his pocket and fingered its metal case. Should he send a text to Indi? Just to say good night?

The thought was tempting. Why not?

Just that possibility put him in a better mood. Somehow everything would work out for them. He could sense it.

The solitary figure in the light trench coat was visible from far away.

The street was silent and empty with many open parking spaces.

It made everything so much easier.

It wouldn’t necessarily stop things if someone were with him. Not even the most observant witness could register the bullet before it was too late. But it was one less thing to worry about.

It was time to focus. Every move must be executed perfectly: flip up the small sight, push the barrel a few centimeters out the window, check the angle. Wait for the right moment.

Through the sight, Martin Nyrén came into focus.

He walked slowly, lost in thought. He didn’t even look up.

He held his cell phone in one hand, but he wasn’t speaking into it. When he got to the entrance, he stopped a moment to look at his watch. Then he leaned forward to punch in the entrance code.

That small movement was key.

The body was perfectly aligned, as if he had voluntarily placed himself at the center of the sight. Light pressure on the trigger, and the rifle fired. The silencer muffled the report as effectively as it had the first time.

Martin Nyrén was hit in the temple.

A perfect shot, a nice entrance hole. Flying brain matter. And it was over.

Martin Nyrén stood completely still for a few seconds, as if his fingers were able to punch in the code by themselves to escape his attacker. Then his legs crumpled, unable to support his weight, and he fell against the entrance door. He slid down the glass and collapsed on the ground. It looked like a single graceful movement that he’d trained for his entire life.

Someone might even think he was asleep.

How easy it was to kill another human being. So simple.

The first time it had been absolutely necessary. When everything had been weighed, only one solution had remained: Oscar Juliander had to die.

And now Martin, too, had to go. Before things got out of hand.

It seemed much easier to breathe now. A feeling of peace settled in. This was much more satisfying than rifling through his apartment, better than following him through the city, better than trying to deaden the feeling of humiliation by vandalizing his boat.

Balance was restored. Martin Nyrén had only himself to blame. His death was a result of behavior that could not be tolerated.

Not for one more day. Not for one more minute.