by Viveca Sten
As expected, the forensic report had confirmed that the dried blood on the radiator in Jonny Almhult’s house was Kicki’s. The jacket hanging in his hallway also belonged to her. Therefore, there was clear evidence that she had been there, but it had been impossible to establish where she had ingested the fatal poison.
Thomas wondered when he had last felt properly rested. His sleep deficit was beginning to reach unimaginable levels. He remembered how tired he had been during those first few months after Emily was born, but it had been easier then because he had been so amazed at the miracle of becoming a father.
At the moment, he was utterly exhausted. Either he was trying to talk to people on Sandhamn or he was trying to piece together information as it emerged. They had brought in extra staff to go through everything one more time with a fine-tooth comb.
Thomas went off to the coffee machine. It felt like an admission of defeat, but the only thing that enabled him to think clearly at the moment was unlimited quantities of caffeine. With a certain amount of distaste he got a cup for himself and one for Margit, then went back to her office.
“Here,” he said. “This might help. Who wants a family vacation when you can sit in a stifling hot police station and solve a murder?”
Margit looked at him, her expression grim. “Very funny. I promised the girls we’d have four weeks together this year. And it was a nightmare trying to find a decent place to rent in July that didn’t cost a fortune.”
Thomas leaned back in his chair. “But the family’s having a good time, right? They’re still down there?”
“Oh yes, the girls are absolutely fine. But Bertil wasn’t at all pleased when I said I’d have to come back here.” Margit glanced apologetically at the photograph of her husband that stood on her desk. She put her head in her hands and groaned. “I just don’t understand how Jonny Almhult comes into the picture. Everyone you’ve spoken to describes him as a fairly innocuous person, not a violent character. Definitely not a ladies’ man. It’s hard to imagine him beating Kicki Berggren after drowning her cousin.”
“And even if he did,” Thomas said, “we still have no explanation as to why Jonny is also dead.” He linked his hands behind his neck as he gave the matter further consideration. “What if there’s a fourth person involved?” he said. “Perhaps someone Jonny used to work for, before something went wrong. If he was acting on behalf of someone else, that could explain why he was killed. In which case we have a murderer who has killed three people and possibly got rid of Jonny in order to cover his tracks. Which takes us back to the question of why the two cousins were killed.”
Thomas gazed at the sparkling blue waters of Nackafjärden through the window. It was a perfect day for sitting on the jetty with a cold beer, instead of drinking tepid coffee in a stuffy office.
With a huge effort he forced himself to gather his thoughts. “We’re getting nowhere fast,” he said. “We haven’t even managed to find the person Kicki Berggren allegedly spoke to outside the bakery. And if it was someone who was visiting for a few days, the chances of doing so are almost nonexistent.”
Margit took a sip of coffee. She ran a hand through her hair, which didn’t make her look the least bit better, then started rummaging through the pile of reports. “If your theory that Kicki was heading west on Sandhamn holds, then at least we have a limited area on which to focus. Plus Krister’s body was washed up on that side of the island,” she said as she skimmed the document in her hand.
Thomas picked up a large map showing every property on Sandhamn. He spread it out on the desk and drew a large circle around the northwestern section, from the bakery to the outermost point of Västerudd.
“There are approximately fifty houses inside this circle,” he said, carefully examining the map.
He got up and went out into the corridor to call Carina, who appeared in the doorway a minute later.
“I’m just wondering about that check on property owners on Sandhamn that we talked about on Friday,” he said. “Did you manage to find anything that matched the name the Mission House manager thought she remembered?”
Carina shook her head. “Sorry, no. The land registry office is closed on Fridays; they open at nine this morning, so I’m going to call them as soon as possible.”
She looked like an abandoned kitten, with her heart-shaped face and a little dimple in one cheek.
Thomas gave her an encouraging smile, and she seemed to relax.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “But let us know as soon as you find out anything. We’ll be here for quite some time.”
He was rewarded with a beaming smile. “I’ll come and tell you right away, I promise.”
“Try to find out which of them are permanent residents and which are summer visitors, if you can,” Margit said. “I have a feeling Kicki was looking for a summer visitor. I find it difficult to believe a resident would be involved in something like this. Small communities usually exercise a high level of social control. If someone is smuggling alcohol, I don’t see how you could run it from the archipelago. It would be very complicated, anyway.”
“Jonny Almhult was a resident; that contradicts your theory,” Thomas said.
“But we think he was working for somebody else, don’t we? And didn’t he do a lot of little jobs for summer visitors?”
Thomas figured as a carpenter, Jonny must have had plenty of opportunities to join forces with someone who might want slightly more demanding tasks carried out. Striking fear in a third party, for example. Jonny must have met most of the homeowners over the years. But would Jonny have poisoned Kicki and then slapped her around? That couldn’t be right.
“How likely is it that Jonny could lead us to the real killer?” Margit asked. “The indications are that Kicki ingested the poison before she met him. She might just have picked up Jonny in the bar; perhaps they bumped into one another, and there was no connection with the person who gave her the poison.” Margit looked at him, waiting for a response.
Thomas had to admit that she could be right. “It’s possible.” He picked up a pen and doodled in his notebook as he tried to come up with something sensible. “We have no evidence Jonny was in collusion with the person who murdered Kicki and presumably killed her cousin. But isn’t it a bit far-fetched to assume it was pure coincidence?”
Margit looked skeptical. “Most things seem to be a bit far-fetched in this case. Nothing has been straightforward so far.”
“I still think we should stick to the hypothesis that Jonny has some kind of relationship with the poisoner, who is also involved in Krister’s death,” Thomas said. “Think about the needle threaded through the net around Krister’s body. It was marked with Jonny’s father’s initials. I can’t believe Krister’s death has nothing to do with everything else that’s happened.”
Margit had nothing to say. She took the top off a marker and went over to a flip chart in the corner. She drew two stick men and a stick woman side by side. Above them she wrote Known Facts. “The deceased were two cousins, plus one person previously unknown to them. None of them was married or had children. All three made little money. Two seem to lack any connection with Sandhamn; one was a resident. There is no obvious motive for any of the murders; all we have is speculation.”
Thomas gazed at the flip chart. “Aren’t you going to write down that we don’t have a perpetrator either?” he said sarcastically.
Margit smiled. “I haven’t finished yet.” She picked up another marker.
Cause of death: two drowned, one poisoned, violence a contributory factor.
Residence: two lived in Stockholm, one on Sandhamn.
Relationships: two knew each other very well, the third probably a passing acquaintance of one of them.
Work: warehouse worker, croupier, carpenter.
When she had finished she took a step back and read through her summary. Then she went back to her s
eat and put down the marker. She rubbed her eyes and blinked a few times. She had reorganized the information they had, but it provided no fresh insights.
Thomas gazed at Margit’s notes. He chewed on a marker for a little while, then went over to the chart and carefully wrote Sex. He stood there for a moment, then added a question mark. “Try this. The murderer gives Kicki a bunch of rat poison, but he’s not sure it’s enough. On top of that, he doesn’t want to take the risk of her babbling about what she knows. So he tells Jonny to go and find her, just to be on the safe side, and to keep an eye on her. It wouldn’t have been particularly difficult to track her down on the island. He bumps into her in the bar according to plan. They have a few beers together, and she goes home with him. Then something goes wrong.”
Margit was looking intently at Thomas. “Perhaps Jonny thought he might get something out of it for himself. He would do what he had been told to do, but he would go to bed with her as well.”
“And when she wasn’t interested . . .”
“He lost his temper and hit her.”
“Not because he’d been told to, but because she turned him down.”
“And the desired result was achieved after all: Kicki died.”
“And everyone was happy.”
“Except perhaps Jonny,” Margit said. “Violence instead of sex doesn’t really sound like a great result.”
Thomas couldn’t argue with that. “If we can track down Jonny’s contact, we’ll probably have our killer,” he said.
“Very possibly. We need to carry on tracing Jonny’s movements and finding out who he met up with.”
Thomas yawned and put down the marker. “But what we really need to know is who Kicki was asking about. Let’s hope Carina’s inquiries get us somewhere. And soon.”
CHAPTER 44
The pressure was intense and increasing all the time. Persson had held several press conferences over the past few days and was doing his best to keep the top brass informed. The press officer was working furiously to deal with all the phone calls so that the investigation could be conducted without interruption, but his constant requests to Persson for updates had fallen on stony ground.
Now Persson was growling as soon as the phone rang.
The cases of the multiple deaths in the middle of summer had shaken all those involved. The number of tourists heading over to Sandhamn had dropped significantly, and the chamber of trade had contacted the local authority and the chief constable. The problem must be solved, and soon.
The Waxholmsbolaget ferries were carrying far fewer passengers than they should be at this time of year.
The leader of the local council in Värmdö had called a press conference of his own to put forward his view of events, which consisted of a hastily cobbled together conspiracy theory touching on Mafia involvement from the Eastern Bloc. Which hadn’t been of any help to the investigation whatsoever. On the contrary, it had served to increase confusion and had given the media even greater opportunity to speculate on a range of theories.
“Remind me not to vote for that idiot next time we have a local election,” Persson had said with ill-concealed disgust. Then he had wadded up the newspaper in which the council leader had been permitted to outline his homespun analysis and hurled it into the trash.
Persson had also been contacted by the chairman of the Royal Swedish Yacht Club, a well-known figure from the world of industry, who had spoken with great authority, demanding to be informed about what was happening and how the investigation was progressing. The chairman had pointed out how important it was for Sandhamn’s reputation as an international center for competitive sailing that the case should be brought to a conclusion without delay. He had spoken about the long tradition of holding competitions based on Sandhamn and of the youth project on Lökholmen, where children from the Stockholm area gathered to attend sailing and confirmation camps. Anxious parents were calling him up, reluctant to let their offspring travel to the island.
“The situation is extremely worrying,” the chairman said. It was vital that the police understood how serious it was and did their utmost to sort things out. The Yacht Club had even discussed the matter at their board meeting that week. They had noted in the minutes that the police must find the guilty party as soon as possible.
Persson did his best not to explode during the conversation. He was dangerously close to losing his temper several times, and his face, which was normally red, could now be described as scarlet. He gritted his teeth and informed the chairman that the police were well aware of the seriousness of the situation. All available resources had been deployed on the case, including an officer with excellent local knowledge. The investigation was being given top priority.
But when the chairman insisted that he be kept informed on a daily basis, Persson almost lost it.
“I am conducting a murder investigation. I am not an information service. You’re not the only person calling and demanding information I don’t have,” he said.
“Now, now, my good man,” the chairman said. “Let’s not get worked up. It’s essential to maintain a good working relationship between the police and the Royal Swedish Yacht Club. We have nothing to gain by losing our temper.”
Persson almost burst.
“As I was saying to my good friend the commissioner the other day,” the chairman carried on, “I have every confidence in the way the police are conducting their investigation, but naturally I wish to be kept informed. In my position, I must be able to follow your work. Surely you understand that?”
Persson’s complexion changed from scarlet to dark purple.
“Don’t hesitate to contact me if you have a breakthrough. I can always be reached through the Yacht Club’s main office. Don’t worry about disturbing me if it’s something important.”
The receiver was nearly crushed in Persson’s viselike grip. With some difficulty he refrained from shouting again and managed something that could have been interpreted as a polite good-bye.
He ended the call and went into the conference room. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the team had gathered for a briefing. His irate expression and aura of rage rang alarm bells as soon as he walked in. Not even Carina—his own daughter—dared to ask what had happened, and most of those who had heard fragments of the telephone conversation reverberating down the corridor realized that if they wanted to save their own skins they would be well advised to keep a low profile.
“If one more fucking idiot asks me how this investigation is going, I swear I’ll punch him,” Persson said.
No one doubted his ability to keep that promise. He sat down on a chair that was already too small; it creaked in protest.
“So, how’s it going? Thomas, status report, please.” It wasn’t a question, merely an order barked from the corner of his mouth.
Thomas looked down at his papers and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Carina has gone through all the property owners in the part of the island where we think Kicki Berggren was headed. We have two names that could be of interest: Pieter Graaf and Philip Fahlén. Both are summer residents and have names that could to some extent match the name given by the manager of the Mission House. Philip Fahlén’s house is very close to the spot where Krister Berggren’s body was found; Pieter Graaf’s isn’t far from the Mission House, on the way to the beach at Fläskberget. Margit and I will be going over to Sandhamn to interview the two men as soon as possible.”
Persson looked a little less angry; he leaned back in his chair, which wobbled. “Well, at least that’s something to go on,” he said. “What do we know about Kicki Berggren’s other contacts on Sandhamn?”
“Erik will be standing outside the bakery all day today in order to try to find the person she spoke to,” Thomas said.
Persson looked at him impatiently. “How’s it gone so far?”
Thomas looked down at the table. “Nothi
ng useful yet. However, I have spoken again to the girl who was working in the bar the night Kicki Berggren was there.” He flipped through his notebook. “Inger Gunnarsson. She had remembered something after our conversation last week. It seems Kicki had complained of an upset stomach; evidently she asked if they had any kind of antacid behind the bar.”
Margit folded her arms and gazed around the impersonal conference room, where a single wilting Busy Lizzie was the only attempt to make the place look better. Without the view of the blue waters of Nackafjärden through the window, it would have been depressingly bare. “Presumably she was beginning to feel the effects of the poison,” Margit said. “That would fit in with the pathologist’s report. If it was after eight o’clock, she would have started to feel ill. But she had drunk a fair amount of beer, so she might well have attributed the symptoms to something else.”
Persson changed tack. “Have we heard anything about Almhult from the pathologist? Do we know what the cause of death was?”
Thomas picked up a document that had been faxed through that morning. “Cause of death was drowning. There was evidence of a high level of alcohol in the blood. He must have been very drunk when he drowned—paralytic, in fact.”
“Any trace of poison?” Persson looked at Thomas. It was obvious that he was hoping for a negative response.
“No chemical substances whatsoever, at least in the preliminary report. However, they have sent samples to Linköping for analysis, and it’s difficult to be certain until we’ve heard from them.”
“Anything else?”
“Crush injuries.”
“What?”
“Crush injuries to the head and the rest of the body, as if he’d hit something with tremendous force, or as if someone had hit him with a blunt object. He had a number of broken bones, along with severe bruising.”
“Any idea what might have caused all that?” Margit asked, looking at Thomas.
