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

C
HAPTER
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.

C
HAPTER
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?”

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.

C
HAPTER
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 we 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.