Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) Read online

  ALSO BY VIVECA STEN IN THE SANDHAMN MURDERS SERIES

  Still Waters

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2009 Viveca Sten

  Translation copyright © 2016 Laura A. Wideburg

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as I den innersta kretsen in Sweden in 2009. Translated from Swedish by Laura A. Wideburg. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2016.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503953888

  ISBN-10: 1503953882

  Cover design by Kimberly Glyder

  To the kindest Alexander in the world

  CONTENTS

  SUNDAY

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  He was seven…

  MONDAY, THE FIRST WEEK

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  TUESDAY, THE FIRST WEEK

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  Their loud voices…

  WEDNESDAY, THE FIRST WEEK

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  THURSDAY, THE FIRST WEEK

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  His white graduation…

  FRIDAY, THE FIRST WEEK

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  SATURDAY, THE FIRST WEEK

  CHAPTER 31

  SUNDAY, THE FIRST WEEK

  CHAPTER 32

  MONDAY, THE SECOND WEEK

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  “A toast for…

  TUESDAY, THE SECOND WEEK

  CHAPTER 35

  WEDNESDAY, THE SECOND WEEK

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  THURSDAY, THE SECOND WEEK

  CHAPTER 38

  FRIDAY, THE SECOND WEEK

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  SATURDAY, THE SECOND WEEK

  CHAPTER 41

  SUNDAY, THE SECOND WEEK

  CHAPTER 42

  MONDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

  CHAPTER 43

  TUESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

  CHAPTER 44

  WEDNESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

  CHAPTER 45

  The music was…

  THURSDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  FRIDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  SATURDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  SUNDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  “I love you,”…

  MONDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  TUESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  WEDNESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  When did he…

  THURSDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  FRIDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  SATURDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 71

  SUNDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 72

  MONDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  TUESDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  WEDNESDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  Why did he…

  THURSDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  CHAPTER 82

  CHAPTER 83

  FRIDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 84

  CHAPTER 85

  CHAPTER 86

  CHAPTER 87

  CHAPTER 88

  SUNDAY, THE FIFTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 89

  CHAPTER 90

  He sat on…

  CHAPTER 91

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  SUNDAY

  CHAPTER 1

  The woman’s voice slowly counted down over Channel 16 on the marine radio: “Ten, nine, eight . . .”

  The water churned with boats. Several large racing sailboats, meant for the open sea with their enormous sails and shining hulls, crowded the starting line a few nautical miles from Sandhamn. Beyond the starting area, observers maneuvered their boats to get the best view, prepared to follow the spectacle with binoculars.

  The starting vessel, a minesweeper on loan from the navy, was positioned to the starboard of the starting line. Everywhere, large sails ballooned to capture the slight breeze.

  The scene was perfectly set for an exciting race.

  The voice continued: “Seven, six . . .”

  It was a miracle that the competing boats didn’t collide as they navigated into position. At times, they were only a few inches apart as they jockeyed for the closest position to the orange windward flag.

  “Five, four . . .”

  The start pistol would go off with three seconds to spare to account for the time it would take for the sound to reach the boats.

  The first vice chairman of the Royal Swedish Yacht Club (RSYC), well-known business lawyer Oscar Juliander, stood confidently, his knees slightly bent, behind the wheel of his beautiful Swan, an elegant beauty called Emerald Gin. She measured sixty-one feet and had a crew of fifteen. She’d cost a small fortune—over ten million kronor—when he’d purchased her from the Nautor yard in Finland.

  But she’s worth it, Oscar Juliander thought. She’ll definitely be the first across the starting line today. This was the summer when he’d finally be victorious in the Round Gotland Race, no matter what the cost.

  Adrenaline pumped through his veins. Dear Lord, how I love sailing! he thought.

  He glanced out over the water and noticed with satisfaction that there was a TV helicopter circling overhead. There’d be great pictures of the Emerald Gin as she headed across the starting line in the lead.

  As usual, he didn’t mind being in the media, and the media didn’t mind turning their cameras on him. All he had to do was make sure he maintained his coveted position high on the windward side, the position everyone was jockeying for right now.

  He clenched his fists. Soon, very soon, they’d be off on their way to Gotland.

  The water churned as they clo
sed in on the last few feet from the starting line. They were not allowed to cross the line ahead of time, or they’d be forced to turn around and start over—a shame that would not only cost them in terms of lost minutes but might also determine the outcome of the entire race.

  He held his breath as the last seconds were counted down. They were so close now he could almost reach out and touch the start buoy.

  Then smoke from the starting pistol could be seen in the sky. A moment later, the sound of the shot reached them across the water.

  First vice chairman of the board Oscar Juliander slumped forward. His hands released the wheel, and blood streamed from a wound in his chest. His unseeing eyes never even had a chance to register that the race had begun. He was unconscious before his body landed heavily on the deck.

  The shot that killed Oscar Juliander was timed perfectly to coincide with the one signaling the start of the race.

  The Emerald Gin was the first boat in her class to cross the starting line.

  CHAPTER 2

  “What are they doing?” asked Detective Inspector Thomas Andreasson.

  Thomas was on board one of the finest police boats in the flotilla, a fifty-two-foot Stridsbåt 90 that could reach speeds of forty knots.

  Thomas had been her captain during the years he’d worked with the maritime police, but his best friend, Peter Lagerlöf, commanded her now that Thomas had joined the crime unit at the Nacka police station.

  When Peter had asked him if he wanted to come watch the start of the Round Gotland Race, he hadn’t hesitated. One never said no to a day on the water, especially when it included Sweden’s largest offshore race.

  Now his trained policeman’s eyes noticed that something was going on at the starting line. A magnificent Swan 601, the first in its class, rounded up in the wind and headed away from the starting area. It was a strange and unexpected maneuver when she should be on a straight course toward Almagrundet on her way to Gotland.

  “Hand me the binoculars,” he said, his hand already outstretched to receive them. He lifted the black Zeiss binoculars to his eyes and rose to his full height for a better view.

  The Swan was now headed into the wind just beyond the starting line. She’d lost the lead and was already last in the field, the others sailing swiftly ahead.

  One of the crewmembers on deck was waving both arms high over his head.

  A classic emergency signal on the water.

  Thomas could see the crewmember’s desperate face through his binoculars. His stomach churned. Something was seriously wrong on board.

  “What do you see?” Peter asked, squinting into the sharp sunlight.

  “Something’s happened in the cockpit. There’s a crowd standing by the wheel.” Thomas focused the binoculars. “Someone seems to be lying on the deck and not moving, but it’s hard to tell.”

  Peter turned to his subordinate at the wheel.

  “Head over to the Swan.”

  His colleague swiftly changed their course and sheered toward the sailboat.

  As they approached, the young man on the foredeck yelled to them, “Our skipper has been shot!” He gestured wildly. “Some damned idiot is shooting at us!”

  He stopped yelling as he realized they could still be in danger. He crouched down and pressed himself as close to the mast as he could, his eyes filled with fear and confusion.

  Thomas looked around without knowing what he might find. It was impossible to spot a threat in the throng of boats.

  The spectators on nearby boats didn’t seem to understand what had just happened. They were busy watching the sailboats head off into the distance. Sunshine danced on the surface of the water, and behind them the huge starting vessel loomed. The outline of Sandhamn and Korsö Tower could barely be seen.

  Thomas realized how serious this was.

  He had just witnessed a murder, along with hundreds of competitors and audience members, during one of the most important sailing races in the world.

  This was going to become a media circus of giant proportions.

  An enormous yacht approached. She was a Storebro 500, fifty feet long with many stories. The finely polished mahogany glistened. Through the bright sunlight, Thomas could make out a group of men and women looking down on them from the flybridge, an outdoor space with a set of controls from which the boat could be maneuvered.

  A middle-aged man with a captain’s cap and a sweater with the Royal Swedish Yacht Club emblem stood at the wheel. When they were just ten yards from the police vessel, he leaned down to speak to Peter.

  “What’s the matter?” he yelled.

  “Keep your distance!” Peter answered.

  It was not easy to maneuver so that neither the Swan nor the yacht came too close. A collision was the last thing they needed.

  “We have Juliander’s wife on board. How is her husband?”

  In the cockpit of the Emerald Gin, a man in his fifties with silver hair and glasses stood up. His sweater was flecked with red, and he appeared dazed and shocked by what he’d just seen.

  “Someone shot Oscar!” he yelled to the man in the captain’s hat. “Oscar’s dead.”

  Thomas noticed a woman with light-brown hair lift her hands to her face before she moved out of sight. Then the thunder of a helicopter overhead cut off all communication.

  CHAPTER 3

  Nora Linde grabbed the iron handle of the old-fashioned white gate and pushed it open to the beautiful but already overgrown garden.

  She stood at the bottom of the stairs to the entrance to the Brand house, perhaps the most beautiful house in all of Sandhamn. Situated high up on Kvarnberg Hill, right before the inlet, the house had views in all directions. Near the sound, one of the Waxholmsbolaget ferries sailed toward the steamboat landing. It was tourist season, and the ferry was packed. Nora could see passengers leaning against the railing and staring at Sandhamn, their eyes filled with expectation.

  A breeze blew through Nora’s light hair, which had grown during the winter and now reached her shoulders. In one swift and habitual movement, she pulled it into a ponytail.

  From a distance, Nora could be mistaken for a teenager, with her boyish figure and long brown legs. Only from close-up could someone tell she was a grown woman—a mother of two children, in fact. Still, her light-blue linen shirt hung loosely around her stomach.

  She’d just turned thirty-eight. She had some new crow’s-feet around her eyes and a few gray strands in her strawberry-blond hair. Freckles from the summer sun dappled her nose.

  Her gray eyes were dark with anguish.

  She’d dreaded this moment all day. Earlier, she’d screamed at her two boys and been short with Henrik. Her son Simon, just seven, had asked if she was so angry because someone had been mean to her. Her other son, Adam, had stood next to him nodding in agreement.

  It’d hurt.

  She’d taken a deep breath and promised not to let the situation influence her so much. At the very least, she would not take it out on her family.

  Nora’s surprise over her neighbor Signe Brand leaving the Brand house to her had already diminished. Yet her grief over what Aunt Signe had done was still fresh and raw.

  Last summer, Signe had killed both her nephew and his cousin when they’d demanded their share of the great mansion. Nora had almost died of insulin shock when Signe, not understanding the danger, had locked her inside Grönskär’s lighthouse. If Henrik and her best friend, Thomas, had not found her, she would have lost her life.

  Nora shivered.

  She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. The knot in her stomach wouldn’t go away, but it was time to go inside. She would have to decide what she was going to do with the house. Today was as good a day as any.

  She walked slowly up the few stairs and put the key in the lock. It stuck slightly, which was not unusual for such an old house. Then the door opened, and Nora saw the familiar sights she had enjoyed since she was a girl.

  The roomy entryway led to a large dining room that
overlooked the sea, which was so close one could almost smell it. Beautiful old lace curtains framed the high windows. A dark-green Swedish tile oven rested at one end of the dining room. Gold curlicues adorned the tiles.

  Past the dining room was a large living space with an old-fashioned sofa set, as well as a veranda with transom windows. This was where Aunt Signe had been found unconscious before she’d died from taking a mixture of morphine and painkillers.

  The house was completely quiet. Too quiet.

  Nora realized what was missing: the ticking of the old clock in the dining room. Signe had always been careful to wind this clock. Her grandfather Alarik Brand had had it sent to the house at the end of the nineteenth century.

  Nora walked over to the gray cabinet in the corner and took out the key. She knew quite well where Signe kept it—the top left drawer. She carefully opened the glass door and wound the clock. Its familiar ticking brought a smile to her face and tears to her eyes.

  She blinked them away quickly. She had to get through this.

  The night before, she and Henrik had been close to quarreling. Henrik thought they should sell the Brand house as soon as possible. Then they could get on with their lives.

  They were lying in bed talking after the boys had gone to sleep. She rested her chin on her elbow as she listened to him. Only one of the nightstand lamps was on, and it cast long shadows on the patterned blue wallpaper. The heat was oppressive despite the open windows.

  A serious expression came over Henrik’s handsome face, and his brown eyes filled with concern. As she watched him, she noticed how good-looking he still was. His thick dark-brown hair held a touch of gray, but it hadn’t thinned out the way it had with most of the men they knew. His hair parted in the center, complementing his chiseled features.

  It still often surprised Nora that such an attractive and extroverted man had fallen for a girl like her.

  She was introverted—shy, even. She had little social confidence, and she admired Henrik’s ease in all situations. He was the center of attention, while she just listened in on his lively discussions. Still, she loved standing next to him and watching their friends as they laughed at his jokes and comments.

  While he spoke, she let her fingers glide along his arm. She breathed in his familiar scent—one she’d known for fifteen years.

  “You almost died, Nora,” he said. “If we hadn’t broken into the lighthouse, it would have been the end of you. Perhaps you would have suffered permanent brain damage. How could you even think of living in her house after that?”