Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) (7 page)

C
HAPTER
15

Henrik came home right after lunch, catching Nora off guard. Before she could mention the phone message, he smiled and told her he’d made an appointment with a real-estate agent for the next day.

The realization made her cold inside. Did he not know how she felt, or did he not want to understand?

While she tried to form a response, she realized he was looking for praise besides.

“It wasn’t that easy, believe me, right in the middle of the summer and all,” he said. He looked pleased. “Especially if you’re looking for a really good guy.”

“But shouldn’t you have asked me first at least?” Nora said.

They were standing in the kitchen. The boys had already run into the yard. Nora began wiping down the counters forcefully so she wouldn’t have to look at him.

Henrik seemed surprised. Then anger flooded his face.

“I thought you’d be happy,” he said. “It’s hard to know what you want these days. I’m trying, I really am.”

He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, but then he shut it again.

Nora smiled in an attempt to pacify him.

“I was just a little surprised,” she said. She put down the gray dishrag. It was on its last legs, and she made a mental note to pick up more at Westerberg’s Grocery Store the next time she had to go shopping. “Perhaps it’s not a bad idea to get a professional opinion. As long as he won’t feel we’re wasting his time.”

Henrik looked at her.

“What do you mean by that?”

“We haven’t decided whether we’re going to sell—we’ve only made a few offhand remarks about it.”

“You can’t be serious about us moving in there,” he said. “Do you really want to live in a house that belonged to a murderer?” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the countertop.

Nora felt her body go rigid. Through the window she saw a guide leading a group of tourists through the village. He was likely telling them Sandhamn’s history and how the population used to live long ago.

She wondered if life was easier then. Probably not. Just different.

Her instinct was to become defensive.

“Don’t call her a murderer! Aunt Signe was a fine person.” She spoke more sharply than she’d intended. “She didn’t will the property to me to sell it. She wanted me to take care of it. She loved the Brand house more than anything else.”

“Get a grip,” Henrik said. “She killed two people, or have you forgotten that? Don’t be so goddamn loyal. Two people are dead because she didn’t want to share her property.”

Henrik could not hide his frustration. Nora shot him an unhappy look. She felt torn between her loyalty to Aunt Signe and keeping the peace at home. She didn’t want to quarrel with Henrik again.

“Sweetheart,” she said. “Let’s not argue about this. Let’s meet the agent and see what he has to say.”

She snuggled close to him and tried to relax. He smelled like coffee and cologne, a familiar scent that made her feel better immediately. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and felt him soften as well.

“That’s just what I’ve already said. You’ll see this is the right thing, Nora.” He stroked her hair as he spoke. “All I want is what’s best for us and for the children. Can’t you understand that?”

C
HAPTER
16

Thomas drummed his fingers impatiently on the green fence surrounding the entrance to the Department of Medical Forensics in Solna. They’d driven there right after visiting the Kalling law firm.

The department was just north of Stockholm, on the campus of Karolinska University Hospital. The redbrick building looked like any other in the area. Students sauntered across the lawns. Presumably taking summer courses.

“How long can it take to open the door?” asked Thomas. He didn’t expect an answer.

“About as long as it takes to walk the length of the place,” Margit said. The autopsy rooms were on the other side of the building. “He’ll be here any minute. Just be glad that he took our case first so we don’t have to wait until the end of the week for results.”

Thomas didn’t reply, but he stopped drumming his fingers.

Behind the glass door’s white ruffled curtain, a shadow appeared shortly before Dr. Oscar-Henrik Sachsen emerged.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he said. “There’s no one around to open the door in July.”

Margit and Thomas followed him through the long hallway, down a spiral staircase, and into another long hallway. Finally they arrived at a collection of silent, neutral spaces, where the pale linoleum matched the gray walls: the autopsy rooms. Various instruments and stainless-steel bowls were arranged on a counter.

They greeted Dr. Sachsen’s assistant with a nod. The assistant wore a long white coat and was busy entering something into a computer.

A body rested under a white sheet on an examination table nearby.

“Would you like to take a look?” Dr. Sachsen asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled the sheet off of Oscar Juliander.

The bullet hole looked remarkably neat, like a small incision below his left nipple.

“He’s a good-looking guy,” Margit said. “He must have gone to the gym quite a bit to stay in shape like that.”

They recognized his face from television and newspaper photos. Juliander had frequently appeared in the media during the real-estate crash in the nineties, when many businesses went bankrupt. Since then, whenever a similar case had come up, he had been called in to give his opinion.

“I assume there’s no doubt about the cause of death,” Thomas said.

“No, no need to put much time into figuring that out,” Dr. Sachsen said. “His death must have been instantaneous.”

He leaned forward and pointed.

“The bullet went straight through the heart’s right ventricle, although the shot was not direct. The bullet’s trajectory indicates it entered the victim’s body from the front right.”

Thomas remembered Fredrik Winbergh’s statement.

With a pair of tweezers Dr. Sachsen picked up an object less than a centimeter long and five millimeters in diameter.

“Here’s the bullet. It appears to be from a rifle, half-jacketed, and it matches the wound.”

“So, not a handgun,” Margit said.

Dr. Sachsen shook his head. “I don’t believe so. A handgun would have left more residue by the entrance wound. Still, we’ll have to wait for the ballistic analysis to say for sure. Did you find any cartridges at the scene?”

“No, nothing,” Thomas said. “Is there any other evidence it was a rifle?”

“The shot was fired from a distance,” Dr. Sachsen said. “Otherwise, the area around the wound would have been more torn.”

Margit studied the object after Dr. Sachsen set it down in a bowl.

“It’s a small-caliber bullet,” Dr. Sachsen said. “Most likely a .22.”

“What does that tell us?” Margit asked.

“Well, I’m not a ballistics expert, but I’ve brought down a deer or two. These bullets are often used in hunting.”

“Why is that?”

“These bullets expand when they enter the body. That’s why it has this mushroom appearance at the top.”

“To cause more damage,” Margit muttered to herself.

“It’s also unusual to use lead-tipped ammunition in a handgun,” Dr. Sachsen continued. “Which would further indicate a rifle.”

Dr. Sachsen picked up the bullet again so they could study it more carefully.

“Look here. Here’s the lead tip. Only the casing is copper. Typical hunting ammunition. The bullet stays in the body and causes the maximum injury possible, just as you said, Margit.”

He slowly set the bullet down.

“If I were you, I would look for a rifle designed to hunt small animals.”

“If a rifle was used, the shooter could not have been aboard the
Emerald Gin
.”

Thomas found himself coming to the conclusion as he uttered the words.

Since the bullet had entered Juliander’s chest from the right, the killer must have been on a boat to his windward side. In other words, from the spectator boats.

It fit their theory.

He closed his eyes to better visualize the start of the race. The police boat was behind the starting line, with the big starting vessel right in front of them. There were hundreds of spectators.

“At least two people must have been involved,” Thomas started to think out loud. “One steering the boat and the other taking the shot. It would be too difficult to do both at once, especially since the shot was so precise.”

“Is it even possible to shoot accurately from a moving boat?” asked Margit.

“You’d have to be very good to hit such a target,” Dr. Sachsen said. “But in the right position, with the right weapon, it could be done. What was the weather like that day?”

“Very calm,” Thomas said. “A light breeze. An ideal summer day.”

“Perfect circumstances for aiming a rifle accurately,” Dr. Sachsen said. “You could do it from any deck.”

“Someone should have heard the shot.” Margit looked skeptical.

“Not if the sound of the starting gun masked it,” Thomas said. “That’s a loud bang, believe me.”

“But how could someone time it so well? It’s less than a second.”

“A real ace could manage it,” Dr. Sachsen said.

“Perhaps he used a silencer,” Margit said. “That sound wouldn’t have carried far.”

Thomas nodded. “Especially if he synchronized it with the starting gun. Even if someone else heard, they might have thought it was just an echo.”

“A silencer works well with small-caliber ammunition,” Dr. Sachsen said. “But it’s harder with larger calibers. You can’t dampen the sound so well. With a .22, there’s nothing but a dull thud.”

“Hardly noticeable at sea,” Thomas said.

Again, he remembered Juliander on the deck after the race began, and the confusion that broke out when the crew realized their skipper was dead.

Thomas took one final look at the bluish-white body on the examination table.

“We’re dealing with a cold-blooded killer,” he said.

C
HAPTER
17

The drive from Solna to Saltsjöbaden usually took about thirty minutes if it wasn’t rush hour. Thomas drove while Margit sank into thought. They passed Fisksätra, a crowded group of shabby apartment buildings built in the seventies. They stood in stark contrast to the fashionable houses in Saltsjö-Duvnäs and Saltsjöbaden.

A few minutes later, they reached Saltsjö Square and turned west toward Neglinge. The Juliander house sat on the other side of Hotel Bay and the historic Grand Hotel. The winding road led them past huge mansions with exquisite gardens sitting next to some white brick town houses from the sixties.

Out on the spit, they could see the RSYC yellow clubhouse.

Only fifteen minutes from the center of Stockholm and they found themselves in the middle of the countryside. The water sparkled in this lush landscape. Some houses were completely covered in ivy. Hundred-year-old oaks stood in many of the yards, a clear indication that Saltsjöbaden was one of the first suburbs of Stockholm. The industrial Wallenberg family had founded it, and their influence was still felt throughout the area.

Thomas turned onto Amiralsvägen, and they soon caught sight of the large gray mansion. It had a fantastic view of Saltsjö Lake. In the driveway, a Land Rover was parked next to a silver Lexus, while another car, a black Porsche, rested in the shade.

“Not a bad place,” Margit said. “I wonder how long it takes to clean it.”

“You mean for the maids? I doubt they pick up a vacuum cleaner themselves,” Thomas said.

They walked to the white front door, and Thomas rang the bell. A young man in jeans and a red shirt with a well-known logo opened the door immediately. He introduced himself as David Juliander, Oscar’s youngest son.

Margit remembered that the lawyer had three children: two sons and a daughter. The daughter was studying abroad. Paris, if Margit had her facts right. The youngest was following in his father’s footsteps and studying law. The oldest son worked in IT. So David was the one studying law.

Thomas expressed his sympathies and asked for David’s mother. The young man invited them to sit down in the living room. He said that his mother was still resting, but he’d let her know they were there.

They sat on the large corner sofa upholstered in an unusual material resembling suede. It faced the water so one could enjoy the view.

While they waited, Margit wondered about the woman they were going to meet. How did she feel as she wandered through this house while her husband was off having his adventures? The children must have been busy with their own lives.

She could imagine Sylvia moving from room to room waiting for her husband. She must have known what was going on. Perhaps she’d even confronted Oscar and then learned to swallow the bitter truth to preserve the marriage.

She must have been lonely, especially after the children left, Margit thought.

A few minutes later, Sylvia Juliander entered the room. She looked pale but composed. Her brown hair framed her narrow face. It was obvious that the past few days had taken a toll on her.

Her son sat next to her and watched his mother with concern. It was obvious he wanted to take care of her, as if he were the parent instead of the child.

“You have some questions for me,” Sylvia said. She spoke in a quiet voice. She fidgeted with a loose thread on her blue cardigan. Her well-trimmed fingernails were painted a neutral color. She wore a large sapphire ring as well as a simple golden wedding band on her left ring finger.

Thomas broke the silence.

“As you know, our highest priority is to find the person who murdered your husband. Therefore, we must ask some questions that may seem unpleasant or unusual. We apologize for any distress.”

Sylvia nodded.

“Do you know if your husband had any enemies?”

The pale woman looked frightened.

“Why would he have any enemies? Oscar was a business lawyer. People liked him. He was in great demand.”

“It’s important that you consider the possibility, no matter how strange it seems,” Thomas said. “We need to create a picture of your husband’s public and private lives.”

Thomas gave her an encouraging smile.

“I understand. Still, I’ve never heard him mention any enemies,” Sylvia said. “Actually, I know very little about my husband’s business. He said he didn’t want to bore me with his work. I wouldn’t understand much of it, anyway.”

David Juliander’s face twisted, and he leaned forward.

“My dad received threatening letters,” he said.

Thomas studied the sad young man. Despite the tan, he looked worn and tired.

“Who sent them?” Thomas asked.

“I think it was called Property something. I don’t really remember. Something to do with real estate.”

“How do you know?” asked Thomas.

“I happened to open a letter by mistake. My dad told me it was a company who’d employed him during some bankruptcy proceedings. He told me the previous owners had owed the Russian mafia money. The mafia wanted to pillage the company, but they went into bankruptcy before that happened.”

“Are you sure about this?” Margit asked.

David seemed to hesitate.

He’s just a boy who’s recently lost his father,
Thomas thought.

“Pretty sure. When they found out about the court proceedings, they told my dad to stop the bankruptcy case. But the court had already ruled on the matter.”

The young man was familiar with legal terms. He clearly went to law school.

“What happened to the letters?” Margit asked.

“He said he’d given them to the police.” David seemed unsure. “I don’t remember that well. It was last year, or maybe even the year before. My dad told me not to worry about them.”

He cleared his throat and went on.

“My dad laughed it off,” he said. “I asked if he was scared. He told me that such threats happened occasionally to lawyers, but it was nothing to worry about. I’d forgotten all about it until now.”

Thomas made a note to check if Juliander had filed a report about the threatening letters. He also noted that the letters had been sent to the home address, even though the family had an unlisted telephone number.

Margit turned to Sylvia and asked, “How was your relationship with your husband? Were you happily married?”

Sylvia appeared insulted by such a private question.

“We’ve been married for almost thirty years. We have three children.”

“Please answer my question,” Margit said. “How would you describe your marriage?”

Sylvia stared at Margit for a moment. Then with a sigh and a quick look at her son, she decided to speak.

“I was alone most of the time,” she said. “Oscar traveled a great deal. He had work and many other duties as well. The Swedish Bar Association, the RSYC.”

“Tell us about his sailing,” Thomas said.

Sylvia’s entire face transformed. As she smiled, the worn contours disappeared. She was still a beautiful woman.

“Oscar loved sailing,” she said. “He’s loved it since he was a teenager. He’s always raced. The bigger the boat, the better. I think his best memories were made at sea. He found peace there, even though he always focused on winning.”

“Do you like to sail?” Margit asked.

Sylvia laughed. Her smile disappeared.

“No. I don’t like sailing. I get seasick the moment I see a mast.” She pulled her cardigan tighter around her body. “But it was Oscar’s life. Our eldest son loves it, too. But not David. Right, darling?”

She looked at her son, who nodded in agreement and squeezed her hand.

“What did you do while your husband was at sea?” Thomas asked.

Sylvia shrugged hopelessly.

“I’d wait for him in port. Or I’d stay at our summerhouse on Ingarö. I often found myself waiting for Oscar. It became part of our marriage.”

“Were you also active in RSYC?” Margit asked.

“Not really.” She shook her head. “Oscar wanted me to become more involved. I did my best, but I wasn’t really interested.”

“Did your husband expect to be elected chairman this fall?” Thomas asked.

“Yes. But I wasn’t really paying attention. It wasn’t that important to me.” She spread her hands. “Becoming chairman was just one more duty that would take him away from us.”

“Why do they need a house on Ingarö when they already have one with such a wonderful view of the water here in Saltsjöbaden?” asked Margit as they left. “Going from one water view to the other. What’s the point?”

Thomas turned the Volvo around and started back. He simply smiled.

“What do you make of those threatening letters? The Russian mafia has their methods, but that’s not usually one of them,” Margit said.

“I hope the letters are still around. That is, if Juliander actually filed a police report. It’s not certain that he did. We’ll have Erik check for it.”

Margit nodded.

“If the letters exist, we’ll have to find out where they came from,” she said.

Thomas’s telephone rang. He picked up the call.

“Hello, this is Britta Rosensjöö. We met on Monday.”

Thomas pictured the distraught woman who’d constantly twisted her damp handkerchief between her fingers.

“Hello,” he said.

“Well, yes,” she said. “I want to tell you something . . . if you’re not busy, that is.”

“Not to worry,” he said. “What’s up? Did you find your camera?”

“No, I haven’t, but I’m sure it’ll turn up. It’s not the first time I’ve misplaced something.”

She fell silent for a few moments.

“The thing is, I think someone broke into our hotel room. Hans says I’m imagining it, but I still wanted to call and tell you.”

“A break-in?” Thomas asked.

“Yes, that’s right. It looks like someone was in the room.”

“Is anything missing?”

“Not a thing. But it’s not the way I left it.”

“Do you think the cleaning lady might have moved things around?” Thomas asked.

“That could be it.” She hesitated for a moment. “But still, it feels like someone has been in our room. I can’t shake that feeling.”

“But nothing is missing, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“Perhaps it’s nothing to worry about. If you find something more, that something has gone missing, give me a call.”

Thomas hung up and told Margit about Britta’s concerns.

“What do you think?”

“I think it probably has nothing to do with the investigation. She seemed a bit confused last Monday, and she’s still pretty shaken by what happened.”

Margit looked out the window. They passed the square and were heading back to the highway.

“I’m sure you’re right. Just a cleaning lady moving things.”