Closed Circles (Sandhamn Murders Book 2) (17 page)

W
EDNESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

C
HAPTER
45

The investigators filed into the large conference room at the police station. The room was sparsely furnished: one oblong table and eight chairs, a flip chart on an easel, and, on one of the short walls, a whiteboard.

The only beautiful thing about the room was the view of the water. In the daylight, they could see large ferryboats bringing tourists to the Venice of the North.

The enlargement hung on one wall. Thomas stood next to it, pointing out the vessels carrying spectators.

“There are only three large yachts near the starting line. One of them belongs to Axel Bjärring. He had many RSYC members on board, and we’ve spoken to all of them. They give each other alibis.”

Then he pointed slightly to the right.

“Here are two other yachts in range. One is a Princess 47, and the other is a forty-two-foot Riva Malibu.”

He explained his new idea about the shot most likely coming from a larger craft.

“Not bad,” Margit agreed.

“We’ve identified both owners, and Kalle already interviewed them.”

“Kalle,” Persson said. “Tell us what Holger Alsing had to say.”

Kalle said that Alsing, the owner of the Princess, seemed like a happy person. He’d taken his wife and three teenage sons, as well as their Siamese cat, to watch the start of the Round Gotland Race. His children hadn’t lasted long. They’d begun to complain of seasickness and boredom.

“You know how teenagers can be,” Alsing had said.

Kalle didn’t know how teenagers could be, but he’d nodded anyway.

They’d returned to Sandhamn early because of the constant complaining. They’d gone to Värdshuset Restaurant. It was only that evening, while watching the news, that the Alsing family had heard what had happened.

When Kalle had asked if anyone could verify his story, Alsing had grinned and said his wife and sons could. They were all in the same boat, so to speak.

“That’s their whole story,” Kalle said.

The interview with the people on board the other yacht was similar. Unlike the Alsings, this skipper had been present at the time of the shooting. He realized something had happened on the
Emerald Gin
, but he didn’t know what. He thought maybe someone had taken ill.

Kalle finished his report. The room fell silent. The investigators gazed at the enlargement and considered the new information.

Carina spoke up first.

“The hatch. There’s a hatch on the foredeck of this boat. Look here.” She approached the picture and pointed to the hatch.

Thomas joined her to study the enlargement. It showed the boats all pointing in the direction of Juliander’s Swan at the moment of the start. The Princess 47 was the only yacht with a hatch on the foredeck.

Thomas leaned closer. Could someone shoot from the forepeak with the hatch open?

Why not?

If someone kneeled on the bunk, opened the hatch, and aimed carefully? If the vessel didn’t careen because it was so large? And if he were protected from anyone seeing what he was doing so that nobody could interrupt?

“Sharp, Carina,” he said.

She brightened. It worried him to see how happy his praise made her.

“It just came to me. Just like that.”

Persson beamed at his daughter.

“We must talk to Holger Alsing again,” Margit said. “Immediately. Where does he work?” She looked at Kalle.

“He’s an engineer with his own consulting firm. He often takes clients out on his yacht.”

“Any connection to Juliander?”

“He claimed he’d never met him.”

“Interesting,” Thomas said.

“Very interesting,” Kalle agreed.

“Does he have a gun license? For a rifle, like a Marlin?”

“We’ll check right away.”

Thomas nodded, studying the lineup again.

Had they really found a suspect?
And all those other lines of
investigation—the many affairs, the Russian mafia, the drugs, the crooked credit card—were they simply red herrings? Events in Juliander’s life unrelated to his death?

Could the answer to this riddle be on board the Princess 47, right in front of their eyes?

Alsing’s only alibi was his word that he’d spent the day with his wife and sons. Could that be a lie? They’d check with his family. And what might be Alsing’s motive?

“We have a bit of a problem,” Kalle said.

“What?” Persson furrowed his eyebrows as he drank the last bit of coffee.

Kalle looked unhappy.

“He’s not in Sweden.”

“He? You mean Alsing?” asked Thomas.

“Why not?” asked Margit.

“He left the country this morning,” Kalle said. “He and his family went to Mallorca for a two-week vacation.”

Kalle hung his head as if he felt personally responsible.

Thomas and Margit looked at each other.

“Should we try a phone call?” asked Thomas.

“The risk is that we’d warn him unnecessarily,” Persson said. “We have no proof, no reason to have him arrested and held while abroad.”

Thomas agreed. They needed a great deal more evidence to get someone extradited. He could already hear Öhman, the prosecutor, explaining it to him.

“So when did you say he’s supposed to return?” asked Margit.

“Two weeks,” said Kalle.

“We’ll bring him in for questioning then,” Margit said. “Once he’s back on Swedish soil.”

“Until then, find out everything you can about this guy,” Persson
said. “More on his job, his financial situation, his gun licenses, and so on.”

“Somewhere we’ll find a connection to Juliander,” Margit said. “We’ll be ready when he comes back to Sweden.”

The music was deafening. He was drunker than he’d ever been before, but he liked it. He enjoyed the feeling of freedom that alcohol gave him.

Here there is no sorrow,
he thought, as if he were a young man at a college party again.

They
’
d gone to Alexandra’s, a nightclub catering to the most elegant people in Stockholm. The place everyone who was anyone went, even the king.

His bachelor party had begun with a tour of the Central Baths, where he’d gotten a massage from a scantily clad young woman. Then they continued to the Restaurant Riche, where they enjoyed an expensive dinner and many glasses of schnapps followed by a hearty Burgundy. They finished with cognac and coffee. His closest friend, Ruter, whose real name was Rudolf, delivered a heartfelt speech. Ruter would be his best man on Saturday. He told funny stories until they were all laughing and crying at the same time.

He barely made it from the restaurant to Alexandra’s. His good friend the Count held his arm to help steer him. The beautiful owner escorted them to a private corner where glasses and bottles waited.

People danced wildly around them to the blaring sounds of the pop group Sweet.
Beautiful women in short dresses and young men with sideburns and velvet jackets surrounded him. Someone put a gin and tonic in his hand, though he hardly needed another drink.

In one week, it would be time. The ceremony would happen at three in the afternoon, at Oscar’s Church in the center of Östermalm.

For a long while, he’d ignored the wedding preparations. The unending stream of decisions made him dizzy, from the design of the wedding cake to the seating arrangement at the table of honor. How could it take so much time to plan a celebration that lasted only a few hours?

After the engagement, everything moved forward with surprising speed. His bride’s bottomless enthusiasm scared him. It felt like the wedding had become more important than their relationship. She’d spent so much time planning the ceremony the last few months that he’d barely seen her.

He took a long pull from his drink and stumbled over to the Count, who was talking with a pretty brunette on his knee.

“
Skål!
May the devil take me!” he said. He downed the rest of the drink and ordered another.

T
HURSDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

C
HAPTER
46

The funeral was set for two in the afternoon, but guests began to gather in front of Uppenbarelse Church in Saltsjöbaden half an hour early.

The beautiful old church, designed by Ferdinand Boberg, sat high up on a hill with a wide view of Ersta Bay. An imposing creation that could hold four hundred people, the church dominated the surroundings with its clock tower and art nouveau architecture. Today Oscar Juliander would be buried here.
They’ll need all the space,
Thomas thought. The parking lot had filled up and cars now lined the narrow road to the church.

Thomas and Margit stood apart from the others. He recognized many of the guests, including famous businessmen and lawyers. At the entrance, he saw Ivar Hallén, from the Kalling law firm, standing with a group of men and women dressed in black. Thomas guessed they must be Juliander’s colleagues from the firm.

Eva Timell stood with them. She wore dark sunglasses, but Thomas could tell by her flushed face that she’d been crying.

Thomas and Margit waited until everyone went inside. Then, just before the huge wooden doors closed, they entered. Space was scarce because of the crowd, but they managed to find a spot in the last pew before the giant doors opened again for the family.

The minister led the procession with Sylvia Juliander beside him. She wore the darkest black dress imaginable and a hat with a veil. Their three children followed, the daughter slightly ahead of the sons. Sylvia clutched a crumpled linen handkerchief. The sons walked solemnly in black suits with white ties. Each child carried a red rose.

The family sat in the pew closest to the altar. Silence settled over the congregation, then the organist began to play the hymn “Beautiful Savior.” It reminded Thomas of the last funeral he’d attended, the one with only a tiny white casket. He and Pernilla had sat in the pew closest to the altar, struggling to understand something beyond comprehension.

Emily no longer existed. Emily was dead.

They’d held the service for only the two of them. They could not handle having anyone else there, not even their parents. They’d barely managed to make it through themselves.

Thomas did his best to set these melancholy thoughts aside, to ignore his sense of failure as he remembered the funeral and separation afterward from the woman he thought he’d be married to for the rest of his life.

If he died tomorrow, there wouldn’t be enough mourners to fill a church, he thought in an attack of self-pity. Just one ex-wife and one young girlfriend he was already tired of.

Thomas willed himself to close his eyes and think about the investigation instead.

Until now, they’d only had pieces of a puzzle. Wherever they turned, the media followed. It was hard for the police to work amid all the speculation. There seemed no end to the articles written about this story. The tabloids even turned to pure invention. If Persson hadn’t thought to get their media spokesperson involved immediately, they wouldn’t have had a moment of peace.

Thomas opened his eyes and looked toward the altar.

The family had chosen a walnut casket. An unbelievable number of flower wreaths and bouquets surrounded it, and an especially beautiful arrangement in white and green tones adorned the top.

The minister delivered a touching eulogy about Juliander’s love of life, his ability to find humor in any situation, and how valuable he’d been to so many.

Thomas felt surprisingly moved by the eulogy. His team had developed a picture of an unfaithful liar who manipulated the truth and took his material status for granted. Thomas had come to see Juliander as a deeply egotistical man who put his needs above those around him.

Now, another person came into focus. Oscar Juliander meant a great deal to many. People liked him, the same people who now cried quietly in this church. His widow and children remained in the first pew, inconsolable. And somewhere, far from here, a distraught Diana Söder delivered her own silent farewell. He knew she did not dare attend the service, especially after the newspapers exposed their hidden relationship. A wave of compassion washed over Thomas as he remembered her pale face and tear-filled eyes.

What made the dead attorney so obviously seek all the classic attributes of success?
Thomas wondered as the minister prayed for Oscar Juliander’s soul to find peace. Was he driven by competition? Was it all about the trophies he’d collected in droves? Did he enjoy being a lawyer with the high salary, the cars, the boats? Or did these things seem hollow once he’d acquired them? Was the house of cards about to fall down?

When the time came for guests to walk past the casket to bid Oscar farewell, Thomas and Margit quietly stepped outside. They’d had no specific reason to attend Juliander’s funeral. It simply felt like the right thing to do, especially while investigating the man’s death.

Eventually, the doors opened wide and people exited. They milled about on the gravel pathway below the church, many of them still drying tears.

The family had invited the guests to a reception in the Grünewald mansion not far from the Juliander home. Thomas assumed most would attend. He nodded to people he’d interviewed in Sandhamn and who recognized him.

As he stepped back to let someone hurry past, he bumped into someone. He turned to apologize and found Ingmar von Hahne.

“It’s nothing,” von Hahne said as he caught his balance.

He shook Thomas’s hand and greeted them both. Standing beside him, Isabelle von Hahne did the same.

“How is the investigation going, if I may ask?” Ingmar von Hahne said.

Thomas and Margit glanced at each other; they found it best to give the standard answer in these situations.

“It’s moving along,” Margit said. “These things take time.”

“We all hope you find the bastard!” Ingmar said. “People like that should be locked up for the rest of their lives.”

Margit changed the subject.

“I hear that you’ll be elected chairman of the RSYC in September,” she said. “I read about your nomination in the paper.”

Before von Hahne could speak, his wife jumped in.

“Isn’t it wonderful? Ingmar has put so much time into the club that he really deserves it.” She looked pleased as she continued. “We all know he’ll do a fantastic job. It’s a big responsibility, and Ingmar is certainly the man for the job!”

She didn’t seem to care that she was embarrassing her husband.

“Did you know that Ingmar’s father also served on the board? He was first vice chairman in his day. So this is the second generation. Perhaps our son, Marcus, will follow in their footsteps.” She sighed briefly. “My father-in-law would be so proud if he could see us today. But unfortunately, he passed away many years ago.”

“Now, Isabelle,” Ingmar von Hahne said. He looked at Margit and Thomas. “I regard this as a temporary position. Somebody had to take over after Hans, and now that poor Oscar is no longer with us . . .”

He gave a helpless shrug and let his eyes wander along the tops of the trees.

Margit shifted her weight from one foot to the other, unable to think of anything to break the silence.

Ingmar von Hahne glanced at his watch.

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to excuse us,” he said. “We must go to the reception. We wish you luck with your investigation.”

He gave a friendly nod and escorted his wife to their car.

“He seems like a nice guy,” Margit said. “In contrast to his wife. Yuck. I wonder what he ever saw in her.”

Thomas had not been impressed by either of them.

“They’re the worst sort of upper-class people, if you ask me. I’ve had to deal with a number of their kind in Sandhamn. He’s simply the male version of her.”

He headed in the same direction as the von Hahne couple.

“Time to get going,” he said. “Anything will be better than this.”