Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) (8 page)

C
HAPTER
18

A strange feeling came over Martin Nyrén when he opened the front door. He stood in the hallway and looked around.

The long, blue-patterned Persian runner was still in place. On the hall table, beneath the Balinese mirror he’d bought on a trip to Asia, everything was in its proper place. Below the mail slot, a few white envelopes and ads lay on the floor.

Still, something made him hesitate.

He walked into his living room without taking off his shoes. His beautiful Italian leather sofa was there, and the windows were properly shut. He noticed he’d forgotten to close the curtains when he’d left that morning, and the orchids were wilting in the bright sun.

Then he realized what he’d been sensing: an unfamiliar scent. A smell that didn’t belong.

He furrowed his brow as he tried to identify it. A mixture of exotic spices? Nutmeg, perhaps, or cloves.

He walked back into the hallway and hung up his jacket.

Where had this scent come from? Had somebody been in his home?

He walked around his apartment again. Everything appeared normal, nothing missing or out of place.

He sniffed the air again. Was he imagining things? It was hard to tell.

He shook his head and let go of the thought. It was probably the smell of flowers in the hot air. The apartment was certainly stuffy.

He opened the window as wide as possible to let in the cool evening air.

Then he poured himself a glass of whisky and water.

Their loud voices woke him in the middle of the night. He’d turned thirteen that summer, but wetting the bed still woke him up. He’d try to scrub the sheets clean in the sink so nobody would notice.

This time, something else startled him from his dreams. His father’s muffled voice came through the thin walls between the bedrooms of the summerhouse. He heard his mother’s desperate pleading.

“I’m begging you. Please stop seeing that woman!”

His mother cried. She was drunk. Of course.

She thought nobody noticed when she poured herself glass after glass of sherry. Everyone in the household knew what she was doing. But nobody said anything, especially not his father.

“Don’t stick your nose into things that don’t concern you!” his father yelled. “If you weren’t sloshed all the time, I wouldn’t have to go to her.”

He pulled up his blankets and put his pillow over his head so he wouldn’t have to listen. The lump in his throat hurt.

When he got up in the morning to eat breakfast, Elsa told him that his father had already gone back to Stockholm for important business and his mother had such a migraine she needed to be alone.

W
EDNESDAY, THE FIRST WEEK

C
HAPTER
19

Persson cleared his throat to indicate that it was time to get the meeting started, and people took their seats, coffee mugs in hand.

It was eight in the morning—exactly two days and twenty minutes since Oscar Juliander had been shot to death a few nautical miles southeast of Stockholm. Rain beat against the windows. The temperature had dropped to sixty degrees as dark clouds rolled in.
Typical Swedish summer,
Thomas thought.

Thomas and Margit sat on one side of the conference table while Kalle and Erik took chairs at the short end, with Carina next to them.

Persson cleared his throat again. “Well, it’s time to draw some conclusions. Who wants to start?”

He looked directly at Margit and Thomas.

“So, you two went out to Sandhamn. What did you find out so far?”

Margit walked over to the whiteboard. The first marker she picked up was dried out, but the second one worked.

As she wrote, she discussed the main conclusions that she and Thomas had arrived at.

When she was done, Margit pointed to the list on the whiteboard:

Jealousy

Mistresses

Wife?

Cuckolded husband

Financial crimes

Russian mafia

Drugs

“Why did you put a question mark after
wife
?” asked Persson.

Margit took a few moments to think before she replied.

“She certainly has a motive, but she also has an alibi. Seven people described her drinking Italian wine on the Storebro when the shot was fired. Every single person on board that boat can back each other up. She also appears to have no experience with guns, let alone a permit to own one.”

Margit reached for her coffee cup.

“I don’t see what she’d have to gain,” she said. “I believe we can eliminate her as a suspect at this time.”

“Nobody will be eliminated until I say so,” Persson muttered. “I understand there are several mistresses involved.”

A number of meaningful looks were exchanged around the table.

“You could say that,” Erik said quietly.

“Are you jealous?” Margit smiled.

“No, I’m doing quite all right with the ladies,” Erik responded. Everyone around the table believed him. He was a young man, almost thirty, with a boyish smile and a muscular body.

Kalle held up the list of mistresses from Eva Timell. Over a dozen women were listed by name and address.

“So he enjoyed the good things in life.” Persson chuckled.

“That’s one way to look at it,” Margit said. “If you find a man cheating on his wife funny.”

“Let’s focus,” Persson said. “Divide the list among yourselves and contact these women. We can leave the wife out of it for now. Next, what can you tell me about the financial situation?”

Thomas turned to Carina.

“How did it go? Did you locate his financial records?”

The prosecutor had granted them permission to examine Juliander’s bank accounts.

“I’ve just begun,” Carina said. “It’ll take some time since it’s hard to reach people in July. I’ll know more by the end of the week.”

“We’re also going through his legal caseload to see if anything comes up,” Thomas said.

“I see. What about the Russian mafia hypothesis?”

Persson turned to Margit and Thomas, who, in turn, looked at Erik Blom. Erik flipped through his notebook.

“We found no police report, so it appears he did not bring the letters his son mentioned to our attention. According to Eva Timell, the letters may be connected to the bankruptcy of a company called Eastern Property. It’s been a few years since Juliander handled the case.”

“That may be why he didn’t take the letters seriously,” Thomas said.

“Or he didn’t dare report it,” Margit said.

“I spoke to a former colleague in Financial Crimes yesterday,” Erik said. “I asked if he recognized the name Eastern Property or anyone who may have been involved.”

He flipped through a few more pages and looked up.

“My colleague checked the names against their records.”

“What did he find?” asked Margit.

“He didn’t find anything in the crime records, nor in the list of banned economic activities.”

“If the Russian mafia was involved, they might have used a fall guy.”

“A fall guy?” Carina asked. She looked embarrassed as she realized everyone else knew what the term meant.

“It’s the person who takes the fall if a company goes bankrupt, especially if there were any financial crimes. They find a man on the board to take the blame.”

“Are there really people who’d do that?” Carina asked.

Thomas couldn’t decide if her question was serious or if she was
really that naïve. Then he felt a little disloyal for questioning his
girl
friend—or whatever she was to him.

“You’d be surprised,” Margit replied. “If you only knew what a guy down on his luck would do for a few thousand kronor. Somebody on unemployment would be glad to sign his name on a business contract for next to nothing.”

“Whatever,” Erik said. “If the mafia used a fall guy, it won’t be easy to find them.”

“How does the Russian mafia usually operate?” asked Persson. “Does this match their methods?”

There were a few moments of silence until Thomas spoke up.

“I’m not an expert, but it doesn’t seem like it. Waiting a whole year just to get rid of a troublesome bankruptcy lawyer? It’s a stretch.”

He was doodling a few pictures in his notebook.

“If they were really unhappy with Juliander, they would have sent some thug to beat the shit out of him.”

“They would have had many ways to get rid of him,” Margit agreed. “A car crash, a shot in the night, a knife in the back in a dark place. Take your pick.”

She leaned over the table.

“This was a sophisticated murder that required care and planning. Our Russian friends are not known for their finesse. Why go all the way to the seafront when it’s easy enough to take him out after work some dark night?”

She sank back into her chair and crossed her arms. She looked like an angry wasp with her short dyed-red hair. It wasn’t pretty, but it inspired a certain respect.

“Maybe they wanted to send a message,” Persson speculated.

“So long after the letters?” Margit raised an eyebrow. “Who would they be targeting? All the bankruptcy lawyers in Sweden? Those gangs tend to keep to their own kind. They avoid lawyers and the courts. It’s a bad idea to draw attention by attacking the judicial system.”

“I can buy that,” Persson said. “So let’s put the Russian connection to the side for now.”

He rocked in his chair, which creaked under his weight.

“In my opinion,” Thomas said, “
how
Juliander was killed is as important as the fact that he
was
killed.”

Persson turned toward Thomas.

“Go on.”

“As Margit mentioned, this murder was very carefully planned. So I believe the way he was killed is important. It had a purpose. Juliander was taken down in a moment of triumph.”

“Yes,” Margit said. “It was almost an execution if you think about it.”

“That’s right,” said Thomas.

“Would a scorned woman go to so much trouble to kill her lover?” asked Persson.

“Doubtful. But what about a jealous husband?” Thomas asked. “A competitive sailor, perhaps active in RSYC, who would be at the start of the race anyway. Someone who had access to both a boat and a rifle.”

“That’s worth looking into,” said Persson. “Keep following that lead.” He changed the subject. “Drugs. What can we say about that?”

Thomas summarized his conversation with Winbergh and his suspicions of drug use.

“So Juliander was a drug user?” Persson asked. “Any other evidence for this?”

“We haven’t found any so far.”

“So the charming lawyer did have a few secrets. By the way, what have we found out about the murder weapon?”

Erik pointed to a tall stack of printouts in front of him.

“We’re comparing all gun permits with the names of the people around Juliander. We’re especially looking for persons who had licenses for small-caliber weapons and ammunition.”

“Be sure to include the entire RSYC gang,” Persson said.

“How many people are we talking about?” asked Margit.

“There are about six hundred and fifty thousand gun owners in Sweden and over a million gun permits.” Erik grimaced. “At least we have Sachsen to thank for ruling out shotguns.”

He winked at Carina, who winked back. She went to the window and opened it wide. The fresh air was a relief in the oxygen-starved room.

Persson collected his papers. Nobody said a word.

“I think that’s enough for now. Everyone knows what to do for the rest of the week?”

Persson started to get up from his chair, then sat down again.

“By the way,” he said. “Keep the prosecutor in the loop. Otherwise things will get hairy.”

“We’ll be meeting with her tomorrow morning,” Margit said. “We’ll take care of it. Don’t worry, Charlotte Öhman’s on the case, and we know her.”

C
HAPTER
20

Nora disliked the real-estate agent from the moment he set foot on Sandhamn. She couldn’t decide which was worse: his dapper jacket, his polished shoes shining from across the dock, or the fact that he wore a tie in the outer archipelago.

His youth surprised her. He smiled like this was the opportunity of his life.
An ambitious young man,
Nora thought to herself.
Ready to impress his superiors.

Svante Severin wasn’t dissuaded by Nora’s cool reception. He flashed a well-practiced smile and shook her hand far too long. With Henrik, he acted as if they’d known each other for years. A constant stream of words flowed from his mouth in the ten minutes it took them to walk to Aunt Signe’s house.

When they reached the house, he used every superlative imaginable to describe the property.

The kitchen had an irresistible, old-fashioned charm. The Swedish tile oven in the dining room entranced him. The old-fashioned veranda took his breath away. Even the old bathroom, with its claw-foot tub, received its share of breathless admiration, though it was obvious the room needed a complete renovation.

Nora bit her tongue and delivered a stiff smile.

“Were you listening?” Henrik asked.

“What was that?”

Lost in thought, Nora had not heard a word they’d said as she followed them down the stairs and back into the dining room.

“You have to pay more attention, darling. Svante said they’d adjust the fee since this is such a unique property.”

Nora crossed her arms and looked at Svante Severin and Henrik.

“Fee?”

“They have to be paid for their work, of course. But Svante here is ready to waive his normal fee of four percent for a fixed sum. Doesn’t that sound great?”

Henrik wrapped a protective arm around Nora’s shoulders while nodding to the real-estate agent.

“Absolutely,” the man said. “It would be an honor to market a cultural treasure like your house. I’m sure we can come to an agreement that benefits everyone.”

He smiled as if to reassure them. “I wouldn’t haggle about percentages in a case like this.”

The situation was bizarre. Nora searched for a sign that Henrik understood she was far from ready to sell.

She pulled away from Henrik and walked to the window. The view amazed her, as always. Through the inner window, she could see the old wicker chair on the veranda where Signe used to sit in the evenings. For a moment, she almost thought she heard the thud of a tail on the floor, the sound of Signe’s dog, Kajsa, who’d always slept at her feet.

“I think it’s too soon to discuss all this,” Nora said. “Henrik, we need to talk this over first.”

Henrik continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

“Listen, Nora. Svante says there’s already been an offer.”

“An offer?”

“A good offer. This house is in demand.”

Nora touched the old Mora grandfather clock in the dining room. It had stopped ticking.

“How can there be an offer? We haven’t even put the house on the market.”

Severin looked at them with surprise.

“You see, after Henrik and I talked, I searched our customer register. Sandhamn is very attractive, especially for Swedes living abroad. We have a list of customers who have already expressed an interest in buying older homes here.”

“I still don’t understand,” Nora said.

“After our conversation, I found an interested family. They’re Swedes living in Switzerland. When they heard about the Brand house, they jumped at the chance to buy it.”

Nora was furious. She couldn’t decide who made her angrier: her husband or his real-estate agent. But she had reached her limit.

“How much money are we talking about here?” Henrik said.

“I believe”—Severin paused for effect—“we’re talking about several million here. It’s an extraordinary house in an extraordinary location. It’s all about location, you know,” he said.

“Wow, that’s a fortune,” Henrik said. “And all for something that just dropped in our laps.” He turned to Nora. “Unbelievable, right? Just think what we could do with that kind of money! We’d have all kinds of possibilities!”

He beamed at the real-estate agent.

“Henrik, we have to think about this,” Nora said. “We haven’t even decided to sell yet.”

Nora gave her husband a thunderous look, and then she turned to the agent.

“Thank you for taking the time to come to the island. We really have to think about this. Both of us.” She glared again at her husband, but he seemed lost in thought about the money.

She led the agent to the door.

“We’ll be in touch,” she said.