Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) (22 page)

C
HAPTER
62

The call came in at 11:55 p.m., just five minutes before Tuesday turned into Wednesday.

The woman who called in was hysterical. The operator had trouble understanding and used many soothing words to calm her down. The woman could then describe what she’d seen.

A man lay in front of the entrance with blood coming from his head. She’d found him when she’d returned home from Stockholm Arlanda Airport—she was a flight attendant.

The alarm went through the provincial central communication system, and, as luck would have it, a patrol car was on the other side of Sankt Erik Bridge at Fleminggatan, not far from the scene. It would arrive in just a few minutes.

They sent an ambulance as well. Although the woman said the man was dead, the operator did not want to take any chances by sending only a hearse, the usual for transporting dead bodies.

And, last of all, a team of crime scene investigators was dispatched from the Stockholm police station.

The policemen saw immediately that the flight attendant was correct.

The man on the stairs in front of Birkalidsgatan 22B was really, truly dead. The cause of death was most likely the hole in his temple. In addition, there was a great deal of blood and brain spatter on the frosted glass door.

Clearly in shock, the flight attendant sat beside the corpse. She had some blood on her uniform.

When an officer in his thirties tried to speak with her, she began to weep. He helped her up and accompanied her to her apartment. He hoped there she might calm down enough that he could question her.

Conny Malmsten, the forensic technician on call that evening, arrived right before the ambulance. The police had already cordoned off the area to minimize access to the crime scene and secure the evidence.

Conny needed little time to figure out the cause of death.

“I’m assuming he was shot right here,” one of the uniformed officers commented when Conny arrived.

“That appears to be the case,” Conny agreed.

He studied the scene in front of him.

The blood pooled on the ground under the man’s chin, and the spatter of other bodily fluids indicated that this was the primary crime scene.

Conny pulled out his digital camera. His photographs would serve as the basis for the investigation, both in reconstructing the chain of events as well as pinning down any material evidence. As he snapped the photos, he constructed a mental picture of what had happened.

There was no powder mark on the skin, as far as he could see. This indicated the shot had come from a distance. This also indicated there was little likelihood of finding any evidence here about the killer.

When he finished, he put his camera back in its heavy black case. He was meticulous about his equipment. Nothing made him more irritated than finding something out of place—it could ruin his whole day.

Conny Malmsten stepped past the corpse and opened the front door. Luckily it swung inward, so he did not have to disturb the body.

He didn’t see anything unusual in the stairway, so he stepped back outside and moved around the corpse with care.

There were pieces of a cell phone on the steps outside. The bottom plate hung open, and parts had fallen out. He put the pieces inside an evidence bag. If they could reassemble the phone, they might discover who the deceased had been calling.

He put on plastic gloves and carefully inspected the victim’s skull. He could see more closely where the bullet had penetrated. Then he began to swab for biological evidence.

All bodily fluids at the scene would have to be secured.

It was going to be a long night.

W
EDNESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

C
HAPTER
63

It was seven thirty in the morning, and the atmosphere in the conference room was gloomy.

“So what do we know?” asked Persson. He looked ill as he blew his nose into pieces of toilet paper from a roll on the table.

“So what do we know about all this?” he asked again.

He took a sip of coffee and looked around the room.

Last night’s death had taken much of the fight out of the team. They’d now have to double up on their workload with no solutions in sight.

The news outlets were already calling often enough to keep the police spokesperson busy, to say the least. The murder of Martin Nyrén dominated both the TV and radio news broadcasts.

“Another Board Member of the Royal Swedish Yacht Club Murdered!”

Thomas blinked and tried to focus. He’d been up since five that morning, when a shaken Hans Rosensjöö had phoned to inform him that Martin Nyrén had been shot to death in front of his Birkastan apartment building.

The police had contacted Nyrén’s brother, who had immediately phoned Rosensjöö. They both connected his death with Juliander’s murder.

Thomas had thrown on his clothes and hurried to the station. There he’d spent an hour trying to find out what had happened. He’d talked to the forensic unit for a description of the crime scene. Conny Malmsten, the technician first on the scene, shared his conclusions.

Thomas repeated the facts to his coworkers. “The victim is Martin Nyrén. He was fifty-three and single. Lived in a three-room apartment in the Birkastan District. Worked at the Legal, Financial and Administrative Services Agency as a manager. He finished law school and was head of the RSYC Facilities Committee.”

“What’s that?” asked Erik.

“It’s the committee in charge of the property and grounds. They care for all the RSYC’s buildings, docks, and the like.”

“So what happened?” asked Margit.

Thomas held up one of Malmsten’s photographs. The position of the body was clear. The curved back, the sprawled legs, the head below a blood-flecked glass panel.

“He almost looks like he’s asleep,” Kalle said.

“He was on the board with Juliander, and he was also a lawyer,” Persson said. He blew his nose again. “Any other connections?”

“We don’t know,” Thomas said. “We need to find out.”

“And the murder weapon?”

“He was shot. In the head. The bullet went right through the brain. He died instantly.”

“So perhaps another long-range shooting.” Persson sighed as he said this.

“Have they started the autopsy yet?” asked Margit.

“They’ll do it this morning. Dr. Sachsen has moved him to the top of the list. He said by lunchtime we could stop by for the results.”

“Anything else?” asked Persson.

“Conny Malmsten confirmed that Nyrén was shot from a distance,” Thomas said. “There were no powder burns, and the entry wound was small.”

“So a rifle?” asked Margit.

“Most likely. We’ll have to wait for ballistics to know for sure if it was the same one used to kill Juliander.”

“Anything else at the crime scene? Another bullet lodged somewhere, perhaps?”

“No, nothing.”

Juliander had been shot with a half metal jacket bullet that had remained in the body. A full metal jacket bullet probably would have gone right through Nyrén’s head and out the other side. A moment of silence came over the room. The similarities between the two killings were clear.

“What are the chances that two different killers use the same method to gun down two members of the same club?” Margit asked. She propped her chin on her hand.

“Very small, I’d assume,” Persson said.

“So what’s it all mean?”

“We have a crazy person at large who does not like this yacht club,” Thomas said. “Or, at the very least, does not like the members of its board.”

“The RSYC is the natural link,” Margit said. “We have to begin with them.”

“Members of the board must have police protection,” Persson stated. He turned to Margit. “You and Thomas see to that.”

Margit noticed Persson’s runny nose and swollen eyes.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” she asked.

Persson gave a dismissive wave.

“We’ll have to speak with Juliander’s widow again,” Thomas said. “She might give us some connection between the two. And we need to track Nyrén and see what he’s been up to the past few weeks.”

“This sheds new light on our theory about Holger Alsing,” Margit said. “Is he still on Mallorca? If so, we can eliminate him as a suspect, especially if the same rifle was used.”

“So, we find ourselves back to square one,” Persson stated. He blew his nose again to clear it before attending a hastily called press conference.

“You should really go home and lie down,” said Margit.

C
HAPTER
64

Ingmar von Hahne slowly hung up the phone on his nightstand.

His wife returned from the bathroom and gave him a curious look.

“Who called so early in the morning?” she asked.

“Martin Nyrén has been shot,” Ingmar von Hahne said. His eyes widened with shock, and his face turned white.

“What did you say?” Isabelle stood still in the doorway.

“Martin Nyrén has been murdered.”

“What? He’s dead?”

“Yes,” Ingmar von Hahne said. “Hans called. Someone shot Martin last night in front of his building. He died immediately, they said. Good God.”

He stared at the telephone as if he didn’t believe the news it had delivered. He felt like he might faint.

Isabelle stood speechless for once. Silence descended on the room. Ingmar sat upright on the edge of the bed as if paralyzed. He took short, quick breaths.

“We have to call the police,” Isabelle said. She pulled the belt of her robe tighter.

“What do you mean?”

“You need police protection,” she said. “If there’s some kind of crazy person out there shooting the members of the board, you might be next . . .”

Ingmar could not reply.

“Soon you’ll be chairman. Have you forgotten?” she said.

He buried his face in his hands. Then he slowly lay back on the bed.

Isabelle left the room to give Ingmar some space.

What good would it do to call the police? What good would anything do?

C
HAPTER
65

Back to square one,
Persson had said.

Those words echoed in Thomas’s mind as they parked behind the redbrick building that housed the Forensic Medicine department.

Like before, it took a while until Dr. Sachsen appeared behind the ribbed glass door. He looked tired and worn out. He had been awake since the crack of dawn, same as them.

They followed him through the long corridors to the autopsy room. He opened the door and entered first.

A body lay under a sheet on a steel examination table. Dr. Sachsen showed them the body of Martin Nyrén, already sewn up after the autopsy. It was hard to believe that his chest cavity had been pried wide open that same morning.

He looks younger than fifty-three,
Thomas thought.

Despite the flecks of gray, Martin Nyrén was not losing any hair, unlike many men his age. His face looked peaceful. He probably hadn’t even had a chance to realize his life was ending.

Thomas walked around the table to examine the body more closely.

There were no unusual marks. He’d been in good shape. Perhaps a tad overweight, but nothing serious. He had a faded scar from an appendectomy.

“What can you tell us?” asked Margit.

Dr. Sachsen took his glasses from his breast pocket and skimmed the autopsy report to refresh his memory.

“Let’s see what we have here,” he said, leafing through his papers. “His death was instantaneous. The bullet entered the left temple and continued through the right half of the brain, destroying enough tissue to quickly end his life.”

“Can you tell us anything about the trajectory?” asked Margit. She leaned forward to examine the entry wound. Barely a centimeter long, it was neat and clean, like a surgical incision.

“The angle seems to be slightly from above. The bullet traveled in a downward trajectory, which indicates that the shooter was higher up than the victim.”

“How much higher?” asked Thomas.

“Hard to say. Slightly, perhaps.”

“And the distance between them? What do you think?”

Thomas remembered that the shot in Juliander’s murder had come from somewhere between fifty and one hundred yards away.

“A fair distance. I found no powder residue, so we’re talking several dozen yards. I’d say between twenty and eighty. I can’t give you a more exact number.”

“And the bullet?”

Dr. Sachsen picked up something small from a steel bowl. He held it up so they could get a good look.

“It’s very similar to the previous one,” Margit said. “Suspiciously so.”

“Yes. The same mushroom shape, the same metal.”

“When will you send it out for further analysis?”

“This afternoon.”

“How long until we hear back?”

“You’ll have to ask Linköping. Perhaps you can persuade them to bump you to the top of the list.” Dr. Sachsen continued before Margit could open her mouth again. “Because that’s what you’ll do anyway. Right?”

“Should we drive out to Birkalidsgatan?” Thomas asked when they were back in the car. “I’d like to take a look at the crime scene, even if it’s already been cleaned up. It’s a damned shame they didn’t call us last night.”

Margit shrugged.

“The central station had no way to know the connection. They’re not mind readers. The operator followed procedure.”

Margit’s logic didn’t soothe Thomas.

“Persson says we have jurisdiction because of the obvious similarities.”

Thomas started the car.

“It won’t take long to get there if we take the Solna Bridge.”

Five minutes later, Thomas parked on a cross street of Rörstrandsgatan, a few hundred yards from where Martin Nyrén had died.

He stepped out of the car and took in the calm atmosphere of the neighborhood. There were few cars on the street and many small shops and cafés on the ground floors of the buildings. It felt like a small town in the midst of a big city.

As they walked up to Birkalidsgatan 22B, they saw traces of blood on the steps. Someone had tried to clean one of the glass panes on the front door, but there were still noticeable smears.

Thomas held up Malmsten’s photograph from the crime scene. Despite the darkness of night, it was surprisingly sharp. Nyrén’s face was clear. He looked as peaceful as he had in the autopsy room.

“Stand by the door,” Thomas said. “Let’s try to reconstruct what happened. We know he was on the way home. He stood at the entrance, probably opening the front door. But he couldn’t have done much more than that.”

Margit took her place in front of the keypad and bent forward.

“Like this? If he was entering his code and was shot in the temple, he was probably standing here, right?”

Thomas watched her and nodded.

“The doctor said he’d been shot from a distance of at least sixty-five feet. And from slightly above.”

Thomas crossed the street until he stood at the right distance, about twenty yards away, but he remained at the same height as Margit.

Thomas turned to look at a slightly shabby building behind him.

Margit joined him across the street.

“Are we thinking the same thing?” She looked back at the entrance to the apartment building. “That the killer was here? For instance, aiming from that window?”

She shaded her eyes with her hand and pointed to the first row of windows a half floor up. Then she leaned forward to read the business names embossed on the plate by the entrance.

“No individuals, only businesses. Nothing else.”

Thomas read the names over her shoulder. Then his eyes stopped.

“Strandvägen Art Gallery” was listed neatly on one of the metal plates beside the entrance.

Thomas remembered the elegant script on the entrance to Ingmar von Hahne’s art gallery. Ingmar von Hahne: RSYC board member and the boss of Oscar Juliander’s mistress.

It could not be a coincidence.

Someone must have shot Martin Nyrén from this rented space. Was it Ingmar himself? And, if so, why?

“Come on,” he said to Margit. “Let’s go look at Nyrén’s apartment. Meanwhile, I’ll call for a warrant to search this place.”

Thomas opened a solid oak door and stepped over the morning paper lying on the hallway rug. The apartment smelled freshly cleaned. He nodded at one of the technicians securing evidence.

“How’s it going?” Thomas asked.

The man glanced up.

“Not bad. But unfortunately this place is clean as clean can be.”

“Any fingerprints?”

“Not yet, but I’m still working.”

The spacious three-room apartment showed that the owner cared about his home. The interior design was expensive but not ostentatious, and the apartment was well ordered. Everything had a place. Colorful art hung on the walls, and white orchids in matching pots lined the living room window. Everything looked almost obsessively neat.

This is not your average bachelor’s apartment,
Thomas thought. He pictured his own sparsely furnished two-bedroom place, a space to sleep and not much more.

They took their time wandering around the apartment, trying to build a picture in their minds of its dead owner.

Thomas used the telephone to check Martin’s answering service. No messages had been saved.

The bedroom was as orderly as the rest of the apartment, though the colors were more somber. A stack of books sat on the nightstand. Thomas didn’t recognize any of the authors.

They noticed unplugged computer cables on the desk. The technicians had already taken Nyrén’s computer. With a little luck, they might access its contents.

They walked into the kitchen, the room as tidy as the rest. A large gas stove dominated the space. Margit opened the refrigerator.

“Not a starving bachelor,” she said.

Thomas leaned forward to see.

The shelves were filled. He saw various kinds of French cheese, a number of chocolate bars, and a large chunk of Parmesan beside a package of kalamata olives. Two bottles of champagne were chilling in the wine compartment.

“Was he expecting company?” Margit asked. “Or was this standard for him?”

“Yes, I wonder who was supposed to drink all that champagne.”

They went into a bathroom with gray mosaics on the walls.

“Thomas, he was single, wasn’t he?” Margit asked.

“Yes.”

“Then why are there two toothbrushes in the mug?”