Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) (23 page)

C
HAPTER
66

“We need to know where you were last Tuesday evening,” Thomas said.

Ingmar von Hahne looked terrified. Dark circles hung under his eyes. The confident, well-tanned appearance from last month at Sandhamn was long gone.

“I was home. At home, in my apartment.”

“Anyone there who can back up your story?”

“No.” His voice was low. “I was home. Alone. At least until midnight when my wife returned, and shortly after that, my daughter, Emma. Marcus, my son, is still out in the country.”

“So you knew Martin Nyrén,” stated Thomas.

Ingmar von Hahne nodded without speaking. Thomas pointed to the tape recorder and asked him to speak up so his words could be recorded.

“Yes, yes, I did.”

“Can you describe how you came to know him?”

A moment of silence.

“We knew each other from the RSYC,” Ingmar von Hahne said. “He was the chair of the Facilities Committee. I’m the secretary of the board.”

“How did you find out he was dead?”

“Hans Rosensjöö called me this morning. He said Martin had been murdered!” Ingmar gave them a forlorn look. “What kind of crazy killer is on the loose?”

“Martin Nyrén was found outside his front door in the Birkastan District. We believe he was shot from the building across the street,” Margit said. Until that moment, she’d let Thomas ask all the questions. “You know the area, don’t you?”

Ingmar von Hahne’s eyes darted around the room. A vein pulsed in his throat.

“Did you understand my question?” Margit asked.

The tormented man nodded silently, and Thomas reminded him to speak aloud for the recording.

“Yes. Yes, I know exactly where it is. I have storage space there.”

“Storage space?”

Thomas waited for an answer.

“When there’s not enough room in the gallery, I keep the overflow artwork there.”

“It’s close to Martin’s apartment?”

“It’s across the street.”

“Actually, we already know that,” Thomas said. “We’ve already been in your storage space. We received a search warrant this afternoon.”

Thomas’s comment made Ingmar pale.

“Would you like to know what we found there?” asked Thomas.

“Yes.” The reply was a whisper.

“We found traces of gunpowder residue on the windowsill, the one that gave a perfect view of the entrance to Martin Nyrén’s building. Is this a coincidence? What do you think?”

“I don’t think anything,” Ingmar von Hahne said. He choked on the words and put his face in his hands.

“So, I’ll ask you again. Where were you Tuesday night?”

“I was at home, as I told you!”

Margit broke in. “Any explanation about why we’d find gunpowder marks in your storage space?”

“Somebody must have broken in.”

“The outer door was undamaged.”

“But what other explanation could there be?”

The man on the other side of the table looked ready to faint. All he wanted was to wake up from this nightmare.

“You can’t think I had anything to do with Martin’s murder!”

“Who has keys to the room?” asked Margit.

Ingmar von Hahne looked uncertain.

“Well, I do, of course. And Diana, who is employed at the gallery. And we have a student intern, a young woman studying art history. She helps out sometimes. I know her parents.”

Thomas peered at Ingmar von Hahne without expression for a few seconds before asking the next question.

“By Diana, you mean Diana Söder?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

Thomas ignored that and went right to his next question.

“How long did you know that Diana Söder had a relationship with Oscar Juliander?”

“I read it in the paper.”

“They met at your Christmas party last year,” Margit said. “It seems their relationship lasted almost eighteen months. Didn’t you know before it came out in the papers?”

Ingmar von Hahne sank into his chair.

“Oscar had a weakness for women. That’s not a secret. But it was only recently I knew that Diana was seeing him.”

His hand shook as he took a drink of water.

Thomas studied him during the silence.

Ingmar von Hahne did not look well at all. It appeared as if he’d just thrown on whatever clothes were on hand. The dapper gallery owner he’d met earlier had vanished.

“Do you think Diana would be capable of murdering Oscar out of jealousy?”

“Absolutely not.” The answer was abrupt and without hesitation. “I can’t imagine Diana capable of killing anybody. She’s the sweetest person you could ever imagine. Mother to a little boy. I don’t believe she even knows how to hold a gun.”

“Do you know if she knew Martin Nyrén?”

“I have no idea. She might have met him at one of our gallery parties, like she met Oscar.”

Thomas changed direction.

“Do you know of any connection between Juliander and Nyrén?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Any business together? Often together socially?” Thomas clarified. “Do you know anything at all which could explain why both of them are dead?”

“I can’t think of anything they had in common besides the RSYC. It’s the only place I know of where their worlds met.”

“Do you have anything against Martin Nyrén personally?”

Ingmar von Hahne’s face twisted, as if he were close to tears.

“Me?” he said, his voice trembling. “Martin was my friend! I liked Oscar, too, for that matter.”

Thomas considered something else. Ingmar von Hahne had been adamant that he’d really not wanted the post of RSYC chairman. Perhaps the truth was just the opposite? Perhaps he presented those feelings as a smoke screen? The lust for honor and power could be a strong motive, especially for those in the upper tier of society, like Ingmar von Hahne.

He might be telling the truth, but what if all this shock was just an act? Thomas knew from experience how easily some people could lie, so he decided to press harder.

“So, how long have you wanted the chairmanship of the RSYC?”

Ingmar von Hahne seemed surprised.

“What are you talking about?”

“Please answer the question. We want to find any possible motives behind the two murders. Lust for power could be one of them.” Thomas kept his eyes fastened on him. “Would you kill someone for it?”

Ingmar von Hahne sat straight up, collecting himself as he stared at Thomas in disgust.

“Are you out of your mind?” His indignation was clear. “I have never wanted that position! My nomination should have no bearing on these deaths. It is bizarre to even imagine such a thing. Bizarre!” Ingmar von Hahne’s lips pressed together in a thin line, his earlier indecisiveness now completely blown away.

“The chairmanship was the last thing I ever wanted.” He sounded sad. “All my life I have tried to live up to others’ expectations of me. If you think I would shoot Oscar over that position, you’re not right in the head.”

He looked around the room as if searching for strength; then he focused on Margit. It was obvious he thought her the more sympathetic of the two.

“Everyone who knows me knows I could not hurt a fly. I need to go home now.”

They compared their impressions of all the interviews conducted that day. Somehow it was already six thirty in the evening. Through the window they heard the song of a blackbird perched on a branch outside.

Margit rested in the visitor’s chair in Thomas’s office, her tired eyes a reflection of his own.

They’d arranged all possible security precautions for each member of the RSYC. They’d given out personal alarms and an emergency number. They’d also told the board members not to go out after dark, to stay away from unknown areas, and to keep an eye on their surroundings.

Persson had fielded calls from upset citizens, all with the same complaint. What were the police doing to protect the public?

Didn’t he understand that people feared for their lives?

Finally his summer cold knocked him out. He would have to stay home for a few days to recuperate. It was hard to tell if the virus or the phone calls had brought him down. At any rate, Persson finally realized he was too sick to work.

Thomas knew they didn’t have enough officers to guard every RSYC member around the clock. That was impossible. But the public couldn’t understand that.

The media was having a field day, and Thomas feared the National Bureau might take over the investigation soon.

Some more prominent RSYC board members got their companies to provide private security. Although Thomas was, in principle, against such action, he also realized it would take some pressure off them. Another murder would be indefensible. The situation was dire enough already.

Diana Söder came to the police station a few hours after Ingmar von Hahne left. It surprised her to be called in again. When Thomas questioned her about the key to the storage area, she hadn’t been much help.

Thomas clasped his hands behind his head and stretched.

“We’ve just seen two people who insist they had nothing to do with these killings. Diana Söder says she’s never held a gun in her life, plus she’d never even met Martin Nyrén. And Ingmar von Hahne swears he’s innocent.”

“She became really upset when you insinuated she might have killed Juliander.” Margit furrowed her brow. “Do you think she’s putting on a show?”

“Hard to say. I’m sure that she loved Oscar. She also has an unshakable alibi for the day of his death. So does von Hahne for that matter. And Diana Söder came to us voluntarily with those anonymous e-mails.”

“A smoke screen?”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Could jealousy drive her to hire a hit man? That does happen.”

“Yes,” Margit said. “But not very often. And the question remains, what did she have to gain?”

“Maybe he wanted to end it. Maybe he wanted to leave her for someone else . . .”

“Perhaps, but is that believable? And why would she kill Nyrén?”

Margit crossed her arms and leaned back.

“The only person who had anything to gain from Juliander’s death is von Hahne,” Thomas said.

“For the chairmanship? Do you really believe that?”

Thomas shrugged.

“Don’t forget. The shot that killed Nyrén came from his storage space.”

“Just a coincidence? Was it simply a good spot to make the shot? But why get rid of Nyrén? As long as we’re considering von Hahne as the killer.”

“I have no idea. Maybe Nyrén found something on him and threatened to reveal it to the authorities.”

Margit looked skeptical. “We have guesses and nothing more.”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “By the way, what did Sylvia Juliander say?”

“She knew nothing about any connection between Nyrén and her husband outside of the RSYC. Nothing at all.”

“So we have nothing, too.” Thomas tried to stifle a sigh.

When did he lose his children?

When they were born, a feeling he’d never experienced before overcame him. Those tiny, tiny fingers grabbing his. The downy hair barely visible. Eyes peering at him, struggling to focus.

His joy had surprised him. All during his wife’s first pregnancy, he’d been distant, as if the whole business didn’t concern him. It was one more thing that happened because it was expected, not because he wanted it. He felt as if no one ever asked what he wanted, so he would not participate.

Children were expected, nothing more, nothing less.

But as he stood there in the hospital and looked into the tiny crib where his son lay, he couldn’t imagine life without him.

After their births, he’d spent as much time as possible in the nursery. He could play for hours on the floor with building blocks and teddy bears. Tickle tummies until the kids screamed with laughter. Read stories until their eyes shut and the arm hugging the teddy bear fell away.

Things changed so quickly. The children’s voices began to echo his wife’s thoughts. Their opinions became foreign to him, and their values veered far away from his own.

His daughter no longer sought out his company. She preferred to go shopping with her mother. She stopped chatting with him and became preoccupied with her appearance.

His son, his firstborn, turned snobbish, throwing hackneyed phrases around and surrounding himself with friends he could barely understand.

The siblings formed a united front where he was barely welcome or desired.

As time went by, he felt more and more superfluous in his own home, to the point where he spent more and more evenings working.

Their mother ruled the family, leaving less and less space for him.

When had he lost his children?

T
HURSDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

C
HAPTER
67

Nora couldn’t take it anymore.

Henrik had phoned Monday morning to let her know he was going to work all week and come out to Sandhamn that Friday evening. They could talk then.

Nora had been on autopilot the past few days. She made food for the boys, took walks on the beach, bought ice cream as soon as Adam and Simon begged for it. She had no strength to argue with them. A proper upbringing would have to wait.

Finally she became too restless to stay on the island. If she did, she would go crazy pretending things were normal.

On Wednesday evening, she called her mother, Susanne, to see if she could take the children for a few days. Nora said she had to go into the city for work. As usual, her mother was happy to help.

Nora’s mother looked concerned but did not ask questions. Nora appreciated her discretion. If she’d asked how things were going with Henrik, Nora would have burst into tears.

And what good would that do?

Nora took a morning ferry into Stavsnäs and then the 433 bus to Slussen. Despite the winding road, she fell asleep and did not wake until the final stop. Then she got off and followed the crowd down to the subway.

The shabbiness of Slussen station surprised her. Slussen was one of the first built in Stockholm. The tiled walls were filthy, and Nora wrinkled her nose involuntarily at the scent of urine. She hurried to the platform, relieved when the train arrived.

Someone had left the free newspaper
Metro
on the seat. Out of habit, she picked it up, skimming an article on the Stockholm court system and the long waits for cases to make it to trial. It could take years for an abuse case to reach the court. During that time, the witnesses could forget what they’d seen or the victim could be frightened into silence. It didn’t surprise Nora, since the system was chronically understaffed, but it might upset people and undermine their trust in the judicial system.

And for good reason. It was unfair to make people wait so long for justice. Allotting the police more resources wouldn’t solve anything if there weren’t enough people to process the cases.

Nora remembered all too well her own time as a law clerk in Visby. Even then, there wasn’t enough money. The situation today clearly hadn’t improved.

Nora sat still with the paper on her lap. Stockholm District Court: the words felt like a sign.

She’d had a vague plan to wander the city, maybe go for a swim at one of the pools. She’d hoped to find peace for a while, to take a break from thinking.

Now another idea came to her.

As the train pulled into Central Station, she grabbed her backpack and got off. She took the escalator to the bottom platform where the blue line ran. She was in luck. The train pulled in as she arrived. She boarded and was at Stockholm City Hall a few minutes later.

She looked up at the stone building that towered above the station. Stockholm City Hall, home to Stockholm District Court.

It was an impressive building where many court cases of all kinds were handled. Here Clark Olofsson was sentenced to prison after the hostage drama at Norrmalm Square. Here one of the most elusive criminals in the history of Swedish crime, Laser Man, received a life sentence. A divided court suffering under intense pressure from the media had condemned Christer Pettersson for the murder of Swedish prime minister Olof Palme.

But other government offices shared the building. For example, the Financial Supervisory Authority, which oversaw cases involving procedures, like the appointment of bankruptcy trustees. The paperwork for each case was sent here, such as the inventory, the management reports, and descriptions of the measures taken on behalf of the bankruptcy estate. They were updated every six months—all here for safekeeping.

That meant most of Juliander’s cases should be here. Not exactly inside this beautiful building, but a few hundred yards away, in an archive built in the nineties at the corner of Scheelegatan and Fleminggatan.

Nora still had the list of Juliander’s cases from Thomas. On impulse, she’d shoved them into her backpack when she’d left Sandhamn. She felt bad about not looking at them sooner and thought she might go through them on the ferry.

She could spend a few hours here studying Juliander’s case reports in the archives. As a bank lawyer, she’d done her share of inventories and reports. She was no stranger to these documents.

And she longed for the chance to take her mind off Henrik and the Brand house. At Sandhamn, those situations consumed her thoughts. They started first thing in the morning and lasted until night.

Burying herself in Juliander’s paperwork would be welcome.

And Thomas would certainly appreciate her help. It was the least she could do after crying on his shoulder last Sunday. He was her best friend. For his sake, she could sacrifice an afternoon of work.

She straightened her backpack and headed off toward Fleminggatan.