In the Shadow of Power (Sandhamn Murders) Read online

  “I’m assuming you know,” she said, unable to suppress her curiosity even though she would have liked to pretend she wasn’t remotely interested.

  Eva held up both hands, fingers spread wide.

  “Times two.” She waited for Nora’s reaction.

  “Twenty million! You’re kidding me, right? That’s crazy!”

  “That’s what I heard—from what they call a reliable source.”

  “Who the hell’s paid that much?”

  “I don’t know their names, but I believe they’re Swedes who live overseas.”

  Of course they are, Nora thought.

  “I think they live in London,” Eva went on. “Apparently work started on an enormous house back in the fall. The build won’t be cheap either. It’s supposed to be finished by the summer.”

  Nora looked over at the old boathouses at the bottom of Kvarnberget. They reminded her of a time when the islanders went fishing in order to put food on the table and used the boathouses to store their nets and equipment. These days, most of them had been renovated into cabins or saunas—a development that certainly wasn’t unique to Sandhamn, but she still found it depressing.

  “So fru Sjöberg must have finally passed away,” she said. No one had lived at Fyrudden for years. The widow who owned the land had spent the last ten years in a nursing home while her house gradually deteriorated. Ida Sjöberg must have been close to a hundred years old by the time she died.

  “Yes. I think it was the winter before last, because apparently the sale went through pretty soon after that. She didn’t have any children, so it’s her nephews and nieces who’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.”

  Marco let out a loud bark; he’d finished snuffling around and was tugging on his leash. Nora glanced at her watch.

  “I have to go. Jonas will be wondering where I am.” She gave Eva a quick hug. “Good night. If you happen to see my son, tell him I want him home by eleven.”

  It was dark now, with only a few pink streaks showing where the sun had gone down. The sky was strewn with the distant sparkle of countless stars. Nora shivered as she hurried home.

  So Fyrudden had been sold. It had to happen eventually, of course. The plot was enormous, probably one of the largest on the island. It was in a fantastic south-facing location and included a significant stretch of the shore. It was worth a lot of money, but even so, twenty million sounded ridiculous.

  The former owners had never even considered fencing off the area. Respecting the tradition of open access along the coastline had been a given.

  What would happen now?

  People who were prepared to spend that much were unlikely to be considerate of old customs. That had become clear over recent years, as many properties on the island had changed hands.

  Would it still be possible to walk along the shore and enjoy the beautiful view? What would the new owners decide to do when they settled on Sandhamn?

  One thing’s for sure. If they do put up fences, there’ll be trouble.

  CHAPTER 3

  Thomas Andreasson gently touched Pernilla’s shoulder. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa with her head on the wide armrest. Her mouth was half-open, but she wasn’t snoring; instead she was making little sighing noises at regular intervals.

  “Pernilla? Don’t you think you should go to bed instead of nodding off in front of the television?”

  Slowly she opened her eyes.

  “It’s almost eleven thirty,” Thomas went on. “You’ve been asleep for quite a while.”

  “How did the movie end?” Pernilla asked, yawning and running a hand through her tousled red hair.

  “Same as always. The good guys won, and the bad guys got what they deserved. No basis in reality whatsoever.”

  It was meant as a joke, but he could hear how bitter he sounded. Pernilla sat up and stroked his face.

  “Is that how you feel?” Her hand rested on his cheek. Thomas knew she’d been worried about him lately. He shrugged. The words had just come out; he hadn’t really given them much thought, and he didn’t really want to talk about how he was feeling. Certainly not at this hour.

  “OK, let’s go to bed,” Pernilla said with another yawn.

  “I’m not tired. You go. I’ll be there in a while.”

  “Don’t stay up too long.”

  Pernilla opened the door of Elin’s room and peeped in. Thomas knew their daughter was fast asleep; he’d already checked on her several times. The constant worry that something might happen during the night never left him. He went over to the kitchen window and looked out at the silhouette of the jetty, the shadows cast by the small lantern at the far end, and the water covering the seabed like a shining lid.

  It had been a quiet Walpurgis Night. Nora had asked if they’d like to join in the celebrations on Sandhamn, but they’d decided to stay on the smaller island of Harö. Thomas’s parents had come over for an early dinner, then gone back home.

  Spring is in the air at last, Thomas thought.

  Soon everything would begin to grow, and the lilacs would bloom. He and Pernilla and Elin would spend the summer on Harö as usual; he was hoping to extend his vacation by using some of the paternity leave he’d saved so that Elin could enjoy more time out in the archipelago. Thomas’s parents would be in their summer cottage and were always open to babysitting.

  He ought to be feeling good now that the long, cold winter was over.

  Instead he was at a very low ebb, drained of energy.

  He took a cold beer out of the refrigerator, returned to the sofa, and picked up the remote. He flicked from one channel to the next until he settled on an old action movie he’d already seen several times.

  He had nothing to complain about. He was happy with Pernilla and deeply grateful that they’d found their way back to each other after the divorce eight years earlier. The fact that Elin had come along was a miracle in so many ways.

  Every day he looked at his daughter, amazed that she was part of his life.

  And yet he was sitting here, brooding. Why couldn’t he just be . . . happy?

  This year he would turn forty-six. He had a long way to go until retirement. Could he really continue working as a detective inspector for so many years?

  The thought of constantly being faced with the various expressions of human stupidity and evil was sometimes difficult, sometimes almost unbearable. Having to deal with despairing relatives and victims, cynical lawyers making unreasonable demands . . .

  He wasn’t enjoying his beer. He turned off the TV and put on his jacket. He needed to get out of the house, clear his head.

  It was wonderful to fill his lungs with cool sea air. Thomas took a few deep breaths as he made his way down to the jetty. A fine layer of dew covered the oiled planks. Across the water lay the island of Storö and Hagede jetty, invisible in the darkness. In the winter it was possible to walk there across the ice.

  Only weeks ago, icicles had hung from the eaves, and patches of snow still lingered in the crevices of the rocks. He hadn’t even put his aluminum boat, a Buster, in the water yet; everything was delayed this year.

  You have nothing to complain about, he told himself yet again as he pushed his hands deep into his pockets.

  His former partner, Margit Grankvist, had promoted Thomas to the position of team leader when she took over the department a year or so earlier. His salary had increased, as had his administrative duties; unfortunately the former didn’t compensate for the latter.

  He and Margit operated on a firm basis of mutual respect. She gave him a great deal of freedom and trusted his judgment. Even so, the past months had been challenging, with a number of difficult cases and a seemingly never-ending stream of budgetary cuts.

  Something wasn’t right with him. When the alarm went off in the mornings, he just didn’t want to get up.

  Is this how it’s going to be? he asked himself sometimes as he drove to work, wondering how he’d make it through the day.

  Thomas turned around a
nd gazed at the house.

  Pernilla and Elin were sleeping behind those walls. The two most important people in his life.

  I’m a lucky man. So why wasn’t he happy?

  CHAPTER 4

  How could he possibly have missed the call from Russia? Carsten Jonsson stared at his cell phone and realized it was on silent. He must have forgotten to change it after the meeting at the bank, and now it was too late to call back. He’d had a few drinks in a bar, and it was almost midnight, even later in Moscow. He’d have to wait until tomorrow.

  He went into the library and poured himself a small whisky. He’d earned it. Everything had gone well at the bank, things were going according to plan, and the loan would be repaid in October as agreed.

  Carsten sank down into the leather armchair facing the huge picture window. It had stopped raining while he was walking home, and now the clouds had dispersed, suggesting that tomorrow might be nice. It was about time; it had rained almost every day throughout April.

  The apartment was silent; Celia and the children were in bed, as was the nanny. Marianne? No, Maria. He found it difficult to keep track; none of the girls stayed for long.

  Maria was made of sterner stuff, though. She’d made a speedy recovery from the accident in the underground parking lot.

  Accident.

  Carsten considered the word. The car had been completely destroyed, and it was pure luck that no one had been hurt. According to the insurance company, the explosion had been caused by an unusual technical fault that had made the gas tank self-ignite. No one was to blame.

  He ran his fingertips over the armrest.

  There had been considerable interest in the Russian share deal. And he’d had to play hardball in a number of other business matters.

  What if it hadn’t been an accident?

  He didn’t want to go back to all that hassle with United Oil, the nights when he didn’t know if he could continue, the mornings when he needed to use a little something extra to get him out of bed. Everything that happened afterward.

  But he was a different person now. He hadn’t taken anything for years, although he made sure he had a supply nearby, just in case.

  His glass was empty. Carsten got up and refilled it.

  Hopefully the insurance company was right, and the incident in the parking lot had nothing to do with his business affairs. Maria seemed fine now, and she was good with Oliver and Sarah. Carsten checked from time to time to make sure she always spoke Swedish with them. It was important for the children to be comfortable in his mother tongue. They had to learn about their heritage, be able to talk to their grandmother.

  That was why he’d built the house on Sandhamn. At least that’s what he told himself, even though he knew better. The image of his father’s face came into his mind, but he pushed it away.

  It had taken a lot of negotiation before he’d been allowed to buy the extensive plot of land, but in the end, money had won the day.

  As it always did.

  The vendors’ talk of selling to locals or turning the area into a nature reserve had died away when they saw the size of the wad of cash he was waving in front of their noses. On the day the contract was signed in the lawyer’s office, he had seen the greed in their eyes; they were already thinking about what they were going to spend it on.

  The dark-blue night was illuminated by beams of light playing across the sky. London sparkled before him.

  As a young man, he had lived in New York, trading in stocks and shares for one of the biggest American investment banks. That was long before he set up the venture capital fund and started making investments of his own, but he’d never felt at home in the US—unlike London.

  Carsten ran a hand through his hair, wondering what kind of car he should go for when the Russian deal went through. A new sports car, maybe. If he wanted it next spring, he probably needed to order it now, get in line.

  He’d never gambled so much on a single investment, but the setup was brilliant, and he’d immediately realized that this was a unique opportunity to make a grotesque amount of money.

  It was all thanks to Anatoly Goldfarb, his former colleague at the bank in New York. After a few years Anatoly had been lured back to Moscow by a newly founded Russian investment bank offering huge bonuses, but he and Carsten had kept in touch. It had been well worthwhile.

  Carsten shook his glass, clinking the ice cubes.

  Russia was volatile. He wasn’t unaware of the risks involved in doing business with the former Soviet state, the need to grease the palms of key individuals and pay out significant sums in “commission.” However, with Anatoly by his side, there was no danger. Carsten would never trust his old friend completely, but he did trust his desire to make a profit.

  The investment in the Russian technology company had begun with a call from Anatoly two years earlier. Carsten had been sitting in the library with a glass in his hand, just like now. Anatoly had asked if Carsten was interested in getting involved with a company that was showing great—no, amazing—potential.

  As was so often the case, whether the country in question was the US, Sweden, or Russia, it was all about a team of smart young computer engineers who’d come up with a brilliant idea.

  Ten or fifteen years ago, Russian investments had focused on gas and oil. That was at a time when Russian national treasures were being sold off for next to nothing. The former KGB guys had been on the front line, the ones who gradually emerged as a new upper class: the enormously wealthy oligarchs.

  Today the Internet was key. There was mind-blowing potential in a country with 140 million inhabitants, where global giants like Google and Facebook were nowhere near as dominant as they were in the rest of the world.

  Carsten had flown to Moscow almost right away. He’d spent several days in meetings with Sergei and Roman, the two founders who’d begun to hone their business plan when they were college students.

  He’d gone into every detail, met the other board members, examined every calculation, and eventually he was convinced. Sergei and Roman were most definitely whiz kids who could work magic with computers.

  Carsten already knew that Russian programmers were considered to be among the best in the world and always came out on top in international competitions. However, these two had something even more important: an inner drive, a hunger he recognized within himself. Both Sergei and Roman wanted a slice of the pie, the incomprehensible payoff that was accessible only to the superrich in Russia. Sergei in particular practically drooled whenever the stock market flotation was mentioned.

  They had also managed to secure GZ3, a Russian bank and investor with an excellent reputation. It now owned twenty-five percent of the shares, guaranteeing a successful flotation.

  Carsten refilled his glass for the second time.

  Sergei and Roman’s idea was to create a safe payment method for the e-commerce firms that had begun to appear throughout Russian society. The ability to pay safely online was still a major problem in the country, and although a vast number of firms had started up in recent years, customers were hesitant. The fear of being scammed was still widespread.

  KiberPay had developed a solution that made the problem disappear. It enabled the buyer to feel secure; the payment didn’t go through until the goods had been delivered. The technology behind it was also smartphone-based, and that was the key to its success.

  The payment system was accessible to Russians who still didn’t have a credit card but did have a cell phone. It opened up a channel to millions of customers and would revolutionize the Russian market, perhaps even other markets, such as those in Africa.

  The fact that it also provided a huge amount of data such as individual telephone numbers and personal preferences wasn’t exactly a disadvantage either. Carsten could already see the potential in the customer database that would quickly grow. The marketing opportunities capitalizing on that information were endless.

  He inhaled the aroma of the whisky in his glass.

  I
t hadn’t taken him long to make up his mind after that first meeting. This was an extraordinary investment that would double the size of the venture capital fund in one stroke.

  With Anatoly’s help, Carsten put everything in place, making sure he fulfilled the additional demands placed by the Russians on a foreign investor. His lawyers set up a purpose-built structure; the holding company in Guernsey guaranteed that the profits could be brought home gradually with minimal taxation.

  Over the past two years, all the forecasts regarding the Russian business had been met or exceeded, and everything had gone according to plan. Each time Carsten checked, he was surprised at how positive it all seemed. More and more customers were signing up, the income streams were growing fast.

  In September they would float the company on the stock market, and he would more than recoup his investment.

  That was why he’d increased his exposure to risk when Anatoly contacted him in January and offered him another bundle of shares. One of the original investors needed to reduce his commitments at short notice; was Carsten interested?

  It didn’t take him long to make up his mind, not least because plenty of others were beginning to sniff out the potential in KiberPay.

  A few weeks later, he had acquired an additional portion of the company. This time he bought the shares privately; it broke every rule in the book, but he didn’t care. He had to borrow money to facilitate the deal, using all his assets as security, but he knew it was a sound investment. The loan wasn’t due to be repaid until October, which gave him plenty of time after the flotation.

  The profit would give him a platform of his own, the freedom to do exactly what he wanted for the rest of his life. A personal loan of twelve million dollars made his head spin, but he knew this was the chance of a lifetime.

  He could see the beam of the headlights as a lone car crossed Chelsea Bridge. Nice and steady, like Carsten’s plans. By the fall he would be richer than he could ever have imagined.

  And he would no longer need Celia’s money.