In the Shadow of Power (Sandhamn Murders) Read online

  In the beginning she’d believed that the money she had persuaded her father to put into Carsten’s venture capital fund would form a solid basis for their relationship, but instead it had opened up a deep rift between them. It had made Carsten financially dependent on her family, and she knew he hated the situation.

  Celia’s eyes filled with tears. She’d never really been in love until Carsten came into her life at that wedding. They’d danced together all evening, and she’d known right away that this was the real thing.

  He’d made it clear that he was prepared to fight for her, even though her parents were wary and had tried to persuade her to take it slowly.

  “I’ll never let you go,” he’d declared when she told him how her mom and dad felt.

  The proposal had been unexpected and had made him even more attractive. When she was finally standing at the altar with her hand in his, she had been convinced that her parents were wrong. It had been the happiest day of her life.

  She couldn’t face the idea that they’d been right all along. They’d warned her against marrying someone from a different social circle and had been afraid that Carsten was more interested in Celia’s money and connections than their darling daughter.

  The thought of admitting how bad things were between them was unbearable. She simply had to grit her teeth and make sure her marriage survived.

  A single tear trickled down her cheek.

  Maybe Sandhamn was exactly what they needed after all; maybe spending a summer on the island would help them find their way back to each other, make the family whole again.

  She so wanted Carsten to look at her the way he used to.

  And she wanted the children to run to her instead of to Maria.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Hi, I’m home.”

  Pernilla closed the front door with a soft click.

  She sounds so happy, Thomas thought before he left the kitchen and the dirty dishes. He and Elin had eaten without her because Pernilla had had a late meeting.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” He kissed her gently on the lips. “Do you want something to eat? There’s goulash.”

  “I’d prefer a glass of wine. You’re never going to believe what’s happened today!” Pernilla was beaming. “I’ve been offered the most fantastic job—that’s why I’m late. I thought it was an ordinary meeting with a major client, but it turns out they want me to take on the responsibility for all branding issues in Scandinavia. I’ll be leading a team of four, it’s really well paid, and I’ll get a company car!”

  Thomas was still holding the tea towel. He pulled Pernilla close and gave her a big hug.

  “Congratulations! Let’s open a bottle of wine to celebrate.”

  Elin came running in and Pernilla picked her up. The little girl nuzzled into her mother’s neck as she always did. The back of her blond hair was tousled.

  “Hi, honey! Guess what? Mommy’s so happy today!”

  Thomas went back into the kitchen. “Red or white?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Either is fine.”

  He inspected the top shelf in the pantry. There were two bottles of red wine; one was Pernilla’s favorite, a Merlot. As he unscrewed the cap, he could hear her chatting away to Elin. She sounded so excited; the words came bubbling out. He was pleased for her, he really was. She worked hard, she was good at her job, and she deserved an opportunity like this. Absolutely. Now Elin was a little older, so it was easier for Pernilla to focus on her career.

  “Problem?” Pernilla teased him, pointing to the bottle in his hand. She opened a cupboard and took out two glasses.

  “Leave the dishes, we can do them later. Let’s go and sit on the balcony. It’s a lovely evening, quite warm out still.”

  Thomas followed her through the living room, where Elin was curled up on the sofa in front of the TV, watching the last children’s show of the evening before the news.

  The turn-of-the-century apartment block in Södermalm was made of brick, like so many other buildings in the area. The balcony was big enough to accommodate two wicker chairs and a coffee table. Thomas had covered the concrete floor with dark-brown wooden decking.

  “So tell me all about it,” he said when they were sitting down with a glass of wine.

  “They want me to start as soon as possible, preferably in September. The guy who’s doing the job now is leaving in midsummer. The idea is that I’ll have an overarching brief throughout Scandinavia, dealing with branding and content.”

  “What?”

  “I know, it’s all jargon,” she said with a smile, taking a sip of her wine. “It’s about developing the brand in the future, finding out how it’s perceived by clients, suppliers, and the market as a whole. What’s the first thing you think about when you hear names like IKEA or Volvo?”

  “You have to remember I’m just an ordinary cop,” Thomas said, half joking and half serious. “We’re not very good at discussing branding and consent.”

  “Content. Sorry, I got carried away.” She pushed back her hair. “The idea of working in depth on a brand gives me such a buzz. At the moment everything I do is targeted—we go in, we run a campaign, we disappear. There’s no follow-up. This will give me the chance to work on every aspect from beginning to end.”

  Thomas nodded as if he understood exactly what she meant.

  “Their head office is right by the Globe, which is perfect. I’ll have a shorter commute than I have now, and I can still cycle as long as there’s no snow.”

  A group of children was playing down in the courtyard, and the sound of their laughter filled the air. The leaves of the old weeping birch were already a darker shade of green; spring was turning into summer.

  “It’ll mean a substantial salary increase too,” Pernilla added, giving him a look that was difficult to interpret.

  “Great,” Thomas said quickly.

  A little too quickly?

  There was no reason not to be happy, but at the same time the knowledge that the gap between their salaries would be even greater made him uncomfortable. He reminded himself that they lived in an equal society, in one of the world’s most egalitarian countries.

  “That’s wonderful,” he went on, wondering who he was trying to convince. “Here’s to your new job!”

  CHAPTER 9

  Monday, June 3

  Carsten Jonsson stopped on the edge of the forest and allowed his gaze to sweep slowly across the area. The morning sun was already high in the sky; the shore was bathed in sunlight. There was the odd patch of reeds or lyme grass, but there were no buildings to spoil the view. Apart from a few terns circling overhead, he was completely alone.

  He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This was good, better than he could have imagined. Slowly he took in the house, just yards from the water’s edge. The huge panes of glass reflecting the light, the turret on one gable end.

  The renowned architect had been worth every penny.

  The external walls consisted of panels painted dazzling white, creating a dramatic contrast with the black metal roof. The windows ran from floor to ceiling—double height in the living room. Every detail had been carefully planned. Carsten had spent a ridiculous amount of time on the architect’s drawings, and it had cost a fortune, but he’d been determined not to hold back on anything. After all, the expense was peanuts compared with the money that would come flooding in once the Russian deal was signed and sealed.

  Stylish, he thought. It was exactly what he’d dreamed of when he was a little boy and knew that one day he would stand here like this.

  Something hardened in his pants.

  “It’s perfect,” he murmured to himself, refusing to allow the memory of his father’s voice to seep through.

  The dull roar of an engine could be heard in the forest. It grew louder, and soon a quad bike appeared, pulling a trailer with several men on board.

  Carsten recognized Mats Eklund, the project manager, bent over the handlebars. When the bike stopped, Eklund raised
a hand in greeting and switched off the engine. His double chin wobbled as he clambered down. The builders disappeared behind the house, chatting quietly as they headed for the shed that was used to store their tools and equipment.

  Carsten walked to the steps, studying his project manager. He knew that Eklund had a good reputation, but he was also aware that he paid just enough tax to avoid the suspicions of the IRS. The foreign workers probably didn’t earn much.

  “You’ve made excellent progress,” Carsten said, holding out his hand as Eklund came over.

  “I brought in some extra bodies, just as you asked.” Eklund unzipped his dark-blue fleece jacket and produced the key from his inside pocket. It was shiny and new, just like everything else in front of them. “OK, let me show you what you’ve paid for.”

  Eklund opened the door, then took a step back.

  “After you—it’s your house.”

  Carsten walked in, and the light struck him right away, a flood of sunshine illuminating every corner of the house. Reflections of the sea danced and shimmered in the air. Sun, wind, and water only yards from his feet.

  “You’re going to need plenty of blinds,” Eklund commented.

  Carsten wasn’t listening. He moved into the huge open-plan space, well over six hundred square feet. He could already picture the generous sofas next to the open fire. They’d place the dining table, with Arne Jacobsen chairs, by the south-facing glass wall.

  Newport and Danish design—he could already hear Celia’s protests, and the thought made him smile.

  The wing housing the family bedrooms extended from the living room at a wide angle. Each one had a stunning sea view, and the master was at the far end with windows directly facing the water. Deep built-in closets would give Celia plenty of room for her clothes.

  In the opposite direction, a smaller wing provided accommodation for the nanny.

  It had been the architect’s suggestion to distribute the bedrooms in this way. At first Carsten had been unsure, but now he understood. The different sections of the house balanced one another while screening the interior living space from the shore. “Two bird’s wings protecting the nest,” he’d said.

  “The major appliances won’t be here until next week,” Eklund said. “But everything’s ready. It won’t take long to complete the installation. The electrician has practically been living here recently.”

  Carsten folded back a section of protective wrapping to admire the shimmer of the pale-gray Italian stone floor tiles.

  “It’s fantastic. But don’t forget, it has to be finished by midsummer.”

  “I know what’s in the contract—you don’t need to remind me.” Eklund adjusted a strip of masking tape on one of the window frames. “By the way, the local council came to visit.”

  Carsten closed his eyes. The council had raised objections from the get-go. The drawings had had to be redone several times, and he’d been forced to fly to Sweden in order to attend the meeting with the Planning Committee in person. The architect had been there, too, and charged him a whole day’s pay for his trouble.

  The application had been rejected, and Carsten’s only option was to get his lawyers to complain to the county council in order to push through what he wanted.

  “What was it this time?” he asked, thrusting his clenched fist into his pocket with such force that he scratched himself on the zipper.

  “We found two old women creeping around outside when we came back from lunch on Wednesday. They were busy measuring and taking notes—said they were carrying out an inspection.”

  “What happened?”

  “They claimed we haven’t followed the approved plans. They think the footprint is too big.”

  Carsten relaxed his clenched fist. He knew they were right, but that was irrelevant. He had no intention of allowing a bunch of underpaid pen pushers to dictate what his new house was going to look like. He was done with Värmdö local council.

  “What did you say to them?”

  “I told them they had no right to be here. We’ve been granted permission from the Planning Committee, and we’re following those plans. End of story.”

  Carsten’s eyes narrowed as he thought about the gray-haired chair of the Planning Committee. The condescending look on her face.

  “I realize it’s been a long time since you lived in Sweden,” she’d said. “But Swedish laws apply here, and the kind of building you’re intending to erect isn’t appropriate in a place like Sandhamn. Plus it’s too close to the water.”

  As if she’d never made an exception to the rules regarding the preservation of the shoreline. Carsten knew exactly how many times the committee had ditched its so-called principles; his legal advisers had provided him with a long list. A list that proved very useful when he complained to the county council.

  “Did you get their names?”

  Eklund nodded.

  “Good. I’ll call my lawyer, get him to report them to the police.”

  Carsten went over to the kitchen area and opened one of the cupboards. He admired the solid wood, the softly curved handles in brushed steel. They’d been specially ordered from France; it had taken six months to get ahold of them.

  “Say they were trespassing,” he went on without turning around. “That should keep them away. They’ve got no business coming onto my land.”

  It would teach them a lesson if nothing else. The police might well dismiss the matter, but there were other options. He could take them to court, file a private prosecution against them as individuals, prevent them from hiding behind their professional roles.

  That should keep them up at night, but above all it would send an important message: Don’t fuck with me.

  “Won’t that cause even more trouble?” Eklund said, running his hand down the edge of a freshly painted door until he brushed against the square handle.

  “That’s my problem.”

  Eklund went over to the glass wall; an orange pilot boat was passing by.

  “Are you happy with the jetty?”

  “Very happy.”

  Carsten gazed with satisfaction at the huge structure, which would easily provide berths for four or five boats.

  “By the way, have you heard anything about the planning consent? One of your neighbors came over the other day to ask about it.”

  Carsten sighed. Fucking assholes.

  “We haven’t built a new jetty,” he explained. “Therefore we don’t need planning consent. This is just a redesign.”

  He’d checked this out, too, with his lawyer, who’d assured him that he’d win if anyone decided to take him to court. Soon his legal bills were as high as those from his architect, but he didn’t care. Nothing was going to stop him.

  Carsten gave the cupboard door a little push. It closed gently and without a sound, exactly as per his specifications, which put him in a slightly better mood.

  The locals were bound to object. Good old Swedish envy. What else had he expected?

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a shrug. “I’d like to take a look at the bedrooms now.”

  He headed along the hallway to the master suite.

  “What the fuck?” he yelled.

  CHAPTER 10

  Carsten was pointing to the big window. There was an ugly mark in the center, and the glass was crisscrossed with cracks.

  Eklund walked past him to take a closer look.

  “It wasn’t like this when we left on Friday.”

  “How the hell did it happen?”

  It wasn’t too difficult to figure out, but Carsten wanted to hear Eklund’s explanation.

  The other man’s forehead was beaded with sweat.

  “It was too expensive to employ a security guard over the weekends,” he muttered. “The boys don’t want to stay around unless they’re getting paid more.”

  “If you’d told me that before, this could have been avoided.”

  Eklund stared at the window, his expression troubled. “You know this project isn’t po
pular on the island. People say we’re destroying the forest by driving back and forth on the quad bike, crushing heather and blueberry bushes.”

  “And are you?”

  “We’ve brought in most of the materials by boat, but a certain amount of driving is inevitable. We can’t walk from the harbor, carrying everything that’s needed for the project.”

  Eklund stuck his index finger under his black knit hat and scratched the back of his neck.

  “We’ve had complaints about the jetty, too. Your new neighbor, Agaton—the guy who lives over there.” He pointed northwest. “He came over the other day and went off.”

  “Agaton?” Carsten frowned. “He’s the guy who wrote all those letters.” He turned away from the broken window and shrugged. “He needs to stay away from my property.”

  “He claims the new jetty is partly in his waters.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Nothing, just that it was none of my business, and he’d have to take it up with you.”

  Eklund peered at the window again. “Maybe it was just kids. A couple of bored teenagers who’d had too much to drink. There’s not much to do on this island before the season gets underway.”

  Carsten pushed aside a shard of glass with his shoe.

  “Get this cleaned up and make sure a new window’s fitted as soon as possible.”

  He walked out of the room; he couldn’t look at it any longer.

  So there were objections on the island? It was hardly a surprise, but he knew how to get the locals on his side.

  CHAPTER 11

  Tuesday, June 4

  Carsten was walking through customs at Sheremetyevo, Moscow’s international airport. Automatically he looked for the sign for Aeroexpress, the train that would take him into the heart of the city. Moscow traffic varied between total gridlock and complete chaos, and as a seasoned traveler he rarely took a cab into town.