Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) Read online

  If it were only so simple, Nora thought, bringing herself back to the present.

  She left the dining room and walked up the stairs. Four large bedrooms occupied most of the second floor. The original fifth bedroom had been turned into a bathroom with a big claw-foot tub.

  Signe had lived alone in this house and only used the southernmost bedroom. The others had stood empty for as long as Nora could remember, though they were still decorated with furniture from the early twentieth century, when Signe had grown up. The furniture was old-fashioned and heavy but suited the house. Many pieces were handmade, real works of art.

  One of the rooms contained a fantastic old Swedish sofa bed made of delicately carved wood and upholstered in black velvet. Signe had told her once how her brother had almost suffocated in that bed when he’d gone to sleep and it had closed on him. His mother, hearing his desperate shrieks, had found him just in time.

  Nora stopped in front of a portrait of Signe’s parents. They stared straight into the camera with serious expressions typical of the time. Signe’s mother wore black and sat in an armchair. Her father stood behind her with an authoritative look. The green Swedish tile oven was visible in the dining room behind them.

  Nora could not stop her tears any longer. The reason for Signe’s death and the aftermath of her passing were unbearable. The loss was a weight on her chest.

  And she must decide what to do with this house.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Business lawyer Oscar Juliander, who was also the vice chairman of the Royal Swedish Yacht Club, was murdered while participating in the Round Gotland Race.”

  The television reporter calmly described the incident as the camera swept over a glittering sea filled with sailboats heading for Gotland.

  “Oscar Juliander was a well-known partner in the law firm Kalling, one of the most important firms in Sweden. Over the years, he made a name for himself as one of Sweden’s most trusted bankruptcy lawyers.”

  The screen showed a man in his sixties with a serious expression staring back at the camera. He wore glasses and a dark-blue piqué sweater, and his forehead was red and shiny from time spent on the water in harsh sunshine.

  “We are, of course, extremely shocked,” a Hans Rosensjöö said. According to the box in the corner of the screen, he was the spokesman for the Royal Swedish Yacht Club. “Our thoughts go out to his wife, Sylvia, and their children in this difficult time.”

  “What can you tell us about the deceased?” the reporter asked. He stuck the microphone uncomfortably close to Rosensjöö’s nose.

  Hans Rosensjöö appeared to take offense, perhaps finding the question in bad taste.

  “Oscar was a true competitive sailor and a valuable friend. Those of us in the Yacht Club mourn his passing.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?” the reporter asked.

  “That is the job of the police,” Rosensjöö said. He clearly wanted to end this conversation.

  He took a step backward as if he needed to defend himself.

  “Are you going to cancel the race now?” the reporter asked. He spoke with excitement. “Do you dare continue the race after what has happened? Is there a killer at large on the high seas?”

  “The race will continue as planned. That is what Oscar would have wanted. I have nothing more to say on the matter.” Hans Rosensjöö did not bother to hide his irritation anymore.

  The reporter pointed to the harbor, where motorboats and sailboats were docked side by side.

  “Right here in the paradise of Stockholm’s archipelago, members of the sailing community are wondering if they are risking their lives when they set sail. The police have not yet announced a motive behind the murder, but today Sandhamn is an island in shock. Speculation is running wild.”

  The camera panned over the water and rested for a moment on Lökholmen, the large island with a great harbor across from Sandhamn. On the left, Telegrafholmen framed the harbor, creating a wind-protected location that made this sailing metropolis famous. The camera continued until it reached Oscar Juliander’s Swan docked alone at one of the pontoons. Its green hull shone in the sun. The Emerald Gin looked lost and abandoned, like a thoroughbred left in the stables after the race has begun.

  Blue-and-white crime scene tape blocked off the edge of the dock. The words “Entry Forbidden” were written on a yellow sheet of paper that also listed the law forbidding curious bystanders from coming any closer. A police vessel bobbed on the waves nearby.

  With one final panoramic view of the Falu red clubhouse, where the flag hung at half-mast, the news spot concluded.

  “Did you hear that, Ingmar?” Isabelle von Hahne asked her husband as they watched the television in their suite in the Yacht Hotel. “Good old Hans didn’t manage the interview very well. That old man needs to learn how to deal with the media.”

  She took in the view beyond the balcony door before she turned off the TV.

  As usual, her blond pageboy hairstyle looked flawless, with discreet highlights woven in. On her little finger, she wore a ring bearing the yellow-and-blue crest of her noble Baltic family. She noticed it needed to be cleaned, along with her diamond wedding ring. Then she shrugged and began to flip through a magazine.

  Ingmar von Hahne shook his head.

  “What can you expect on a day like this? After what happened?”

  He took a miniature whisky bottle from the minibar.

  “Do you really have to take a drink now?” Isabelle asked.

  Ingmar looked at the woman who’d been his wife for the past thirty years. He decided not to comment.

  “We’ll need to hold an extra board meeting later this evening,” he said. “Hans asked me to call around and find as many members as possible. We’ll put out a press release and discuss how to handle this situation.”

  “Doesn’t he have a secretary who can handle this?”

  “I am the secretary of the club,” Ingmar said. “It is part of my job to handle a crisis like this.”

  He poured the contents of the small whisky bottle into a glass.

  “We’ll meet at eight o’clock in the members’ lounge. You’ll have to dine without me. Maybe you can have dinner with Britta? I wouldn’t be good company tonight anyway.”

  Isabelle sighed and turned on the TV again.

  “Britta Rosensjöö only wants to talk about her grandchildren.”

  Ingmar sipped his whisky.

  “By the way,” Isabelle said, “has anyone talked to Sylvia since she came ashore?”

  Her husband shook his head. “Not that I know of, but I’m sure Hans gave her something to calm her down. He was going to call the children. If they aren’t here already, they’re on their way.”

  “He can call the children we know about, at least,” Isabelle mumbled.

  Ingmar shot her a quick look. “I know that Oscar wasn’t the best of men, but he doesn’t deserve comments like that.”

  Ingmar pictured his friend the last time they’d talked, at the skippers’ meeting the night before. All the skippers had gathered for a briefing on the competition.

  Oscar had stood by the flagpole at the large dock, smiling and tan as ever. His thick, sun-bleached hair had not yet turned completely gray. The sun had also bleached his red sailing shorts a light pink. He’d been in a wonderful mood, strong and energetic as he laughed and joked with his crew.

  Ingmar von Hahne went to the minibar again.

  “Nora, have you heard what happened?”

  Henrik entered the house with an agitated expression. Nora had fallen asleep on the sofa. Visiting Signe’s house had taken all of her energy.

  She woke instantly and looked up at Henrik.

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody shot Oscar Juliander.”

  “What?”

  “The lawyer. The Royal Yacht Club vice chairman. He was killed the minute the starting gun went off.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No. Do you remember when w
e looked at his boat yesterday? The Emerald Gin. It was the Swan at the large dock in the harbor.”

  “The green one?”

  “That’s it.”

  Nora’s thoughts circled back to the events of the previous summer. Another murder at Sandhamn. Her stomach hurt. She hoped Henrik was mistaken.

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It’s been on the news.”

  He took the remote and turned on Text-TV, the Swedish channel listing the news of the day. “See for yourself.”

  The green letters stood out against the black background. The words described the day’s events as they slowly crossed the screen.

  Nora felt tears start to form. Terrible memories swept over her.

  “It’s a damn shame, this story,” Henrik said. He did not notice her reaction. He picked up the phone. “I’m going to call my parents. Juliander’s summer place on Ingarö is close to theirs.”

  Nora heard him start speaking as he disappeared into the kitchen.

  She sank back into the sofa. She did not want to believe this was happening.

  CHAPTER 5

  “What is wrong with the people on that island?”

  Göran Persson, the head of the criminal unit of the Nacka police, couldn’t keep his anger under control.

  It was six thirty on Sunday evening. Thomas had gone back to the mainland, and now his younger colleagues Kalle Lidwall and Erik Blom joined him at the station. They’d been called in for a meeting. Carina Persson, the chief’s daughter, sat beside them. For the past two years, she’d worked as their administrative assistant while trying to get into the police academy. She’d finally been admitted this fall.

  “Last summer that crazy old lady killed people right and left because of some old house. This summer somebody shot a sailor on the high seas. The journalists are going nuts. Do you have any idea how many calls we’re getting?”

  Persson’s face was red and his forehead sweaty. His body looked too large for his desk chair. A thunderstorm rumbled in the distance, and dark-gray clouds covered the sky.

  “Another summer gone straight to hell because some trigger-happy idiot can’t control himself.”

  It’s not your summer going to hell, Detective Inspector Margit Grankvist thought. She sipped her coffee, which tasted like stale grounds, even though it was fresh from the machine.

  Last summer’s aborted vacation weighed on her mind. She’d had to leave her husband and daughters on the west coast while she took part in the investigation of the Sandhamn murders.

  This year, she’d been wise enough to rent a cabin on Djurö, just three quarters of an hour away from the police station in Nacka. Keeping her daughters away from the moped gang they’d met down in the province of Halland certainly played a part in her decision.

  She’d been on vacation for three weeks already. A healthy tan softened her narrow features. Years of police work and irregular working hours had left their mark. Her deep eyes were always on alert. Planning her vacation better this year was a small consolation.

  “Thomas, you were at the scene of the crime. What can you tell us?” Persson asked.

  Thomas lifted his gaze from his notebook and looked around.

  He was also tan, his hair almost white blond around his temples. The lines at the corners of his eyes were lighter. He wore a light-blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves. The back pocket of his jeans showed the imprint of his wallet, a mark made by years of use. Although the murder had transformed a relaxing day on the water into intensive police work, he appeared fresh and rested.

  He stretched and then tried to summarize what had happened earlier that day.

  Half the day had passed by the time they’d gotten the Emerald Gin docked and called in doctors and criminal technicians. Oscar Juliander’s body had been transported to the forensic laboratory in Solna for an autopsy and further tests. The vessel remained in the Sandhamn harbor, waiting to be moved to the police shipyard for a more thorough examination.

  Thomas and Peter had secured a conference room at the hotel. There they interviewed a number of eyewitnesses who had been on board the Emerald Gin.

  “Nobody seems to have seen or heard much. According to Fredrik Winbergh, the crewmember who was standing closest to Juliander, everything happened extremely quickly. One second everyone was focused on crossing the starting line first, and the next moment the victim collapsed right in front of their eyes.”

  “Can Winbergh be the killer?” asked Margit.

  “We can’t exclude anyone at this time,” Thomas said. “At least fifteen people were on board, and many of them were close to the cockpit.”

  “It’s hardly possible that one of them could draw a pistol and shoot him in front of the others,” Margit said, answering her own question.

  “It would have been smarter to wait until nightfall, or until they’d gone ashore,” Erik added. “Why make it harder?”

  “We’ve collected all the clothes from the crew of the Emerald Gin. We’ll be looking for powder stains and other evidence of a pistol firing at close range,” Thomas said.

  “What are the alternatives?” Margit asked. “Was the killer on another boat? Perhaps one of the other racers?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Well,” she said. “That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  Thomas had nothing to say to that. It was physically impossible to check each and every boat in the area. There were hundreds, and the perpetrator could have fired from any one of them.

  He looked down at his notebook.

  “Winbergh first thought Juliander might have had a stroke,” he said. “Until he saw the blood. Even then, he didn’t realize the man had been shot.”

  “What about the boats not in the race?” Margit asked. “Did anyone see what happened?”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “Not directly. We spoke to several witnesses. They are RSYC members who were on board a Storebro motor yacht. The vessel was close to the starting line at the time of the shooting. We’ll question them thoroughly tomorrow. We didn’t have time today.” He glanced over his notes. “Juliander’s wife, Sylvia, was on board with them. We weren’t able to speak to her because of her shock. Hans Rosensjöö and his wife were also on board.”

  “Isn’t he the chairman of the club?” Persson asked.

  “That’s right. He’s a bank director. His wife is Britta. He was watching the sailboats as they approached the starting line, but he was looking at the sails, not the cockpit of Juliander’s boat.”

  “Who else was on board?” asked Margit.

  “Let’s see,” Thomas said. “Ingmar and Isabelle von Hahne, another married couple.”

  “Nobility, of course,” Persson muttered.

  “The guy who owns the Storebro is a doctor by the name of Axel Bjärring,” Thomas continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “His wife, Lena, is also a doctor. She was the one who boarded the Emerald Gin and determined that Juliander was dead. Their teenage daughter was on board, too. Judging by the wineglasses, not all of the passengers were entirely sober.”

  “What more do we know about the victim?” asked Margit. “I’ve seen him on TV a few times. He was quite well known.”

  “According to Winbergh, he’d participated in fifteen Round Gotland Races,” Thomas said. “This year, he put all his money into winning and bought this new Swan from a shipyard in Finland. He was a bigwig in the RSYC, active in the sailing world, and a favorite in this race.”

  “Did he have enemies?” asked Erik.

  “Any lawyer that well known must have a few enemies,” Thomas said. “The question is whether or not one of his enemies did this.”

  “It’s still rare that people murder lawyers,” Margit said. “And this was a spectacular way to kill someone, I have to say. What a scene.”

  Kalle nodded in agreement.

  “Are there any possible motives?” asked Persson.

  Thomas shook his head.

  “Wel
l, the usual. Love. Hate. Money,” Margit said.

  “When will forensics finish the autopsy?” Persson asked.

  “We’re in luck.” There was a trace of self-satisfaction in Margit’s voice. “They can look at him on Tuesday.”

  She glanced at Thomas, who nodded in appreciation. Margit had pressured them to look at the victim quickly. Thomas and Margit had worked seamlessly together since the murders last summer. By now they knew each other well.

  Thomas would listen patiently as Margit complained about her two teenage daughters and their constant arguments. In return, Margit kept an eye on Thomas and made sure he didn’t work too many long days in a row.

  “We must to talk to Juliander’s wife as soon as she’s ready,” Thomas said. “We also need to question his colleagues at the firm and the leaders of the RSYC. They are all on Sandhamn at the moment because of the race, so we’ll head out there early tomorrow morning.”

  He turned to Carina.

  “Call Swedish Television and request their film footage from the start of the race. Perhaps we’ll find something useful.”

  “Sure, I’ll do it as soon as we’re done here.”

  Persson looked thoughtful, as if he’d just made a decision.

  “I’m going to ask the county commissioner for a media spokesperson this time around. We need somebody who can handle journalists. Otherwise we’ll never get the space we need to work. This is a big deal. I’m sure you all realize this already.”

  Nobody said a word. An unpleasant feeling from last summer settled over them. The black headlines broadcasting every development must have influenced Persson’s decision.

  “Are we going to bring in the National Bureau?” asked Margit.

  “Let’s keep it all in the family for now,” Persson said. “Here’s what we’ll do. Margit and Thomas, you’re in charge of the investigation. Margit will stay in touch with the prosecutor. I don’t know who’s been awarded that role yet. Kalle and Erik, you’re backup. It worked well last summer.”

  Persson’s eyes roamed from Margit to Thomas and back again. He smiled and took a deep breath.