Still Waters (Sandhamn Murders Book 1) (9 page)

S
UNDAY, THE THIRD WEEK

C
HAPTER
20

When Thomas went out to Sandhamn on Sunday, he had a photograph of Kicki Berggren with him. They had found it in her apartment early that morning. It was the only useful thing he and Carina had found so far.

Kicki had lived close to her cousin, in a similar residential block in Bandhagen. Her three-room apartment wasn’t large, but it was well planned and considerably more homely than Krister’s. It consisted of a bedroom, a living room, and a small dining room.

One corner of the living room was occupied by the computer and TV; there was also a sofa and a coffee table with piles of celebrity magazines all over the place. Thomas recognized pictures of everyone from the royal family to the Beckhams. The bookcase was from IKEA; he had the same one, but in a different color. Just like Krister’s apartment, it was filled with magazines and DVDs, although there were a few books on the top shelf.

It was obvious that Kicki Berggren had been away. Her suitcase was still in the hallway, and a film of dust covered the furniture.

Thomas opened her computer to see if there was anything that might help them, but her e-mails mostly involved chats with girlfriends and the usual Internet jokes. He recognized several of those from his own inbox.

A number of websites were listed as favorites. Thomas flicked through them and noticed that she had recently visited the Waxholmsbolaget homepage, presumably to find a timetable for the ferries to Sandhamn.

None of the other pages provided clues as to the reason for her visit to the island. There were no saved documents or other information that might help them. There was nothing whatsoever on Kicki Berggren’s computer that could shed any light on the matter.

Why did she go over there?
Thomas wondered as he perched on the edge of her bed. The duvet cover was pale green with a pile of matching cushions in the middle of the bed. There was an ashtray containing a stubbed-out cigarette on the bedside table.

When Kicki had come to the police station, she hadn’t said anything about the possibility of visiting Sandhamn, and yet she had gone there two days later. So there must have been some reason that she hadn’t mentioned to him—possibly someone she had decided to visit? But why hadn’t she told him? Had she already known what lay behind Krister’s death?

Carina went through her clothes, most of which came from H&M and KappAhl. A number of black skirts and white blouses tied in with her profession as a croupier. The bathroom contained neatly arranged jars of moisturizers and other beauty products. An overflowing laundry basket on top of the washing machine had obviously been left for later. The bathroom cabinet contained a pack of condoms, along with painkillers and lozenges.

There was also a plethora of assorted brands of nasal drops; Carina wondered if it was the poor air quality in the casino that caused problems. She didn’t know much about the life of a croupier but assumed it wasn’t the healthiest working environment. Thomas had no idea.

After a while Carina called Thomas over and showed him a box she had found inside a closet.

“Look at this.”

Thomas bent down; the box was full of photographs, many in black and white. He went through them at random. “Do you know who this is?” He held up a photo of a young woman.

“No.”

“Krister Berggren’s mother—Kicki’s aunt.”

Carina took the photograph and studied it carefully. “She’s so beautiful. She looks like a 1950s film star!” She held up a wedding photo. “I suppose this must be Kicki’s parents. The groom looks as if he’s related to the girl in the other picture, doesn’t he?”

Thomas leaned over to see. The groom seemed less than comfortable in his formal suit, but the bride looked happy and in love. She had a typical fifties hairstyle: neat curls and lots of hair spray. Her dress was simple but lovely, and she was holding a small bouquet of roses.

Thomas took the box into the kitchen and looked through the photographs. Many showed both Kicki and Krister at different ages, from childhood to adulthood. Neither of them had aged particularly well. The pictures of Krister as a little boy revealed a sullen child, usually peering at the camera from beneath his bangs. He rarely looked cheerful.

Kicki had been quite a pretty teenager, with long dark hair in a ponytail and only slightly too much makeup. But the pictures taken in recent years showed a woman who didn’t seem happy. Her cheeks sagged, and instead of laughter lines around her eyes she had developed deep creases by the sides of her nose.

She seemed to have lived a single life for a long time; neither her e-mails nor her apartment suggested any long-term relationship. The freezer was well stocked with Weight Watchers meals for one, and the kitchen was less than well equipped.

A typical single person’s household in the city, where more than 60 percent of the population lived alone and had no family.

Just like Thomas.

He saw himself with Pernilla, back in the days when they were happy and still married. When they were expecting Emily, full of anticipation and plans for the future. He hadn’t imagined that just a few years later he would be approaching forty and divorced, while all his friends were fully occupied building their families. Or that he would be making regular visits to a small gravestone marking an even smaller grave and wondering what he had done wrong.

And who was to blame.

Once again, and for the umpteenth time, he reminded himself that he had to move on, to put the past behind him. He just didn’t know how to go about it.

Carina gently touched his arm, concern in her eyes. “Come on, let’s go. We’re done here.”

As soon as Thomas met up with Kalle and Erik on Sandhamn, they provided him with a brief update, and the three of them then divided up the necessary tasks.

While Erik continued knocking on doors, Thomas and Kalle visited all the shops and restaurants, starting at the north end of the island and working toward the Yacht Club. When they reached Värdshuset, the landlord shook his head. He couldn’t say whether Kicki Berggren had been in the bar or not. Both the bartender and the waitress who had been working on Friday evening were temporary staff who only worked weekends. They wouldn’t be back on the island until the next Friday. Thomas took their numbers but realized he would have to go and see them in order to show them the photograph of the dead woman. With a bit of luck they would be in Stockholm and could meet him at the police station.

He and Kalle carried on talking to staff in the shops and bars in the harbor area. Thomas counted a total of eleven establishments where you could buy or eat something. Not bad for a little island way out in the archipelago.

Just as they were leaving the Yacht Club’s restaurant it struck him that there was one more place: the old hotel by the harbor that had been renovated a few years ago and reopened under the name the Sands Hotel.

He turned to Kalle. “Listen, we’ve missed the Sands; we need to go back and talk to them.”

Kalle bent down and emptied his shoes for at least the tenth time. “How much sand is there on this island?” he said. “Is there no end to it? I thought the Stockholm archipelago was made up of rocks and pine trees. This is a clone of the Sahara.”

“Stop whining; you could be stuck in a boiling hot police station, and instead you get to enjoy the beautiful archipelago,” Thomas said.

“Easy for you to say; you’ve spent every summer running up and down the sand dunes.”

Thomas ignored the comment and set off toward the hotel. “We’ll have coffee when we get there.”

To be on the safe side, they both had a Danish pastry as well, and then it was time to make a start on the door-to-door inquiries. The routine was always the same. Ring the bell, introduce themselves, show the photo of Kicki Berggren, ask the same question over and over.

By the time they had visited some thirty houses, Thomas was beginning to lose heart. Nobody recognized Kicki Berggren. It was as if she had never set foot on Sandhamn. A lot of people weren’t home, which was hardly surprising on a beautiful summer day, but that just made the task all the more time-consuming since they had to make a note of the houses they would have to revisit.

Thomas realized this would take the entire following day. He wished he could call for backup, but the depressing truth was that everyone was on vacation. The moral of the story: try to avoid falling ill or getting yourself murdered in July, he thought. There are no hospital beds and no police officers. All those who could possibly take their annual leave had disappeared. With the possible exception of the press.

Persson had sent a message to say that they would be holding a press conference on Monday. The district commissioner was showing a vested interest in the case and would be attending. The newspapers were desperate for information; the combination of an idyllic locale and a summer murder was irresistible.

The media had also discovered the connection between the two people who had died. There was wild speculation about what was behind the “Killing of the Cousins on Sandhamn,” as they referred to the case. The fact that it still wasn’t clear whether Krister Berggren had died of natural causes was obviously irrelevant.

It wasn’t difficult to spot the journalists on the island. When they weren’t hanging around outside the Mission House, which was still cordoned off, they were swarming all over the village. Soon there wouldn’t be a single person who hadn’t been interviewed and expressed his or her views on the case.

C
HAPTER
21

Jonny Almhult wanted to throw up. Sour bile surged up his throat and into his mouth. He broke out in a cold sweat on his forehead and the back of his neck. For a moment he could barely stay on his feet. He swallowed hard and grabbed ahold of the doorframe to keep his balance.

When the police had knocked on his door to ask whether he’d had any contact with Kicki Berggren, he had only just managed to hold himself together. He was already half-drunk, and it was only two thirty on Sunday afternoon. Since his mother woke him up on Saturday and told him a woman’s body had been found at the Mission House, he had been drinking nonstop. He didn’t dare be sober.

He had been spending all his time lying on the sofa in the living room, the thoughts going around and around in his head. From time to time he dozed off. When he woke up he suppressed the fear with more booze.

Occasionally he got a whiff of his body odor. It wasn’t very nice.

Anxiously he wondered whether the cop had been able to tell that he was lying through his teeth. He had shown Jonny a photograph of the woman from the bar and asked whether he had seen her before.

Jonny had been adamant. He had never set eyes on her. He had crossed his arms so the cop wouldn’t be able to see that his hands were shaking.

He had felt like the fact that she had been in his apartment was written all over his face. But the cop had merely apologized for disturbing him and wished him a nice day.

He could take his fucking nice day and shove it.

Jonny staggered back to the living room and flopped down on the sofa. He reached for the lukewarm can of beer on the table. What should he do if the cop came back? Stick to his story? Make something up?

No doubt Inger, who had served them in the bar, had already been busy gossiping about the fact that he had been sitting with that woman.

So unnecessary.

He had only wanted to have a chat with her. Nothing else. And then things had gotten out of hand. Because she didn’t get it. Stupid cow.

How the hell could she go and die like that?

He went over what had happened yet again. They had been sitting on the sofa when she had started acting out. He’d had to do something. He’d had no choice.

He hadn’t hit her very hard. Definitely not. Just a little slap to make her understand. He wasn’t the violent type.

He knocked back the last of the beer and dropped the can on the floor with a metallic clang, and it rolled under the sofa. Why hadn’t she done as she was told from the start?

And now he’d ended up in the middle of a nightmare.

He swallowed several times. He couldn’t stay here. It was only a matter of time before the police realized they needed to question him. He had no intention of being caught. It wasn’t his damn fault. He had never meant to kill her. That hadn’t been the plan.

Without wasting any more time, he made his decision. He would head for the city. He threw a pair of jeans and a few T-shirts into a bag. He was pretty sure there was a direct ferry at three. If he got a move on, he should be able to catch it.

In the kitchen he grabbed a carton of milk and chugged it. He saw two cans of beer sitting in the fridge. Might as well take those with him. He swallowed a painkiller with the last of the milk and left the apartment.

He wondered whether he should leave a note for his mother but decided it would be simpler to call her later if he felt like it.

Jonny hurried down to the pier as quickly as he could. The
Cinderella
was waiting there, packed with tourists who had spent the day on the island and were heading home. Strollers and backpacks were everywhere. He suppressed the urge to run.
Nice and calm,
he thought.
Don’t draw attention to yourself.

The rapid walk had left him out of breath, but he made an effort to breathe quietly so no one would look at him. Keeping his head down, he boarded the boat and found a seat toward the stern. He pulled his hood down over his forehead and pretended to be asleep.

When he finally heard the three short toots indicating that the boat was departing, a sense of relief flooded his body. Then he had to rush to the toilet to throw up. Some of the vomit splashed on the floor, but he didn’t care. He just about managed to clean himself up.

He spent the rest of the trip sitting in his corner, making sure he didn’t make eye contact. He was desperate for a hit of snuff but didn’t dare go down to the cafeteria to buy a tin. He nodded off from time to time, but it was a superficial, uneasy sleep that brought him no rest. Only a reminder that his body wanted nothing more than to drift away to a world where the events of the past few days had never happened.

The captain of the
Cinderella
steered toward Stockholm with a practiced hand. After the narrow passage through Stegesund, where the old traders’ houses had been recently renovated, they reached Vaxholm, where a number of passengers disembarked. The boat then rounded southern Lidingö, with a brief stop at Gåshaga, before the familiar buildings of inner-city Stockholm appeared.

From his place at the stern of the quarterdeck Jonny watched as they sailed between Djurgården and Nacka Strand before finally docking at Strandvägen.

He picked up his bag and rummaged in his pocket for his ticket, which he handed over as he went ashore.

Now where should he go?