Still Waters (Sandhamn Murders Book 1)

by Viveca Sten

  She was so preoccupied that she stumbled over a tree root sticking out of the sand and almost lost her balance. The fog had come down once more, and she could taste the fine drops of rain on her tongue. She decided the boys could miss their swimming lessons today. In this weather they might as well sleep in.

  CHAPTER 47

  Margit and Thomas walked out into the police station parking lot to drive to Stavsnäs, where they would catch the morning boat to Sandhamn. Even though it was only nine thirty, the blazing sun had transformed the interior of the Volvo into something resembling a Finnish sauna. A wave of heat struck them as they opened the doors.

  Thomas started the engine, and as he put the car into reverse, he turned to Margit. “Do you remember what work those two property owners on Sandhamn did? I meant to look, but something came up.”

  “I can’t remember. I should have checked.”

  Thomas pulled out onto the highway heading for Stavsnäs. As they were approaching Strömma, his cell phone rang, and Thomas switched to speakerphone. The sound of Kalle’s voice filled the car. He had new information about the rat poison that had killed Kicki.

  “I finally reached somebody at Anticimex, the pest-control firm. Nobody at the hospital in Huddinge was willing to say anything definite, even though I’ve spoken to several different people. They all referred me to some guy who’s a clinical pharmacologist, but of course he’s on vacation abroad and isn’t answering his phone.”

  “So what did Anticimex say?” Margit broke in.

  “He was very dubious about the idea that someone could die from warfarin. He said anyone who consumes rat poison must either be blind or unusually ready to die. Rat poison consists of quite large granules, usually colored green or blue to show they’re dangerous.”

  Margit leaned forward to speak into the phone, which was in a dock below the windshield. “What else did he say?”

  “The amount you would need to consume to produce a fatal effect is more or less the equivalent of an entire meal. You have to ingest a significant amount for it to be dangerous.”

  “It doesn’t seem credible that a person could consume that much without noticing anything,” Thomas said.

  “Exactly,” Kalle said. “And another thing: it usually takes a couple of days to work, according to Anticimex. The idea is that the rats leave the house, so they don’t die down in the basement. Nobody wants to find rotting rat corpses in their house.”

  Margit gave Thomas a look as she digested the information. “I presume we can rule out the possibility that Kicki tried to take her own life by eating rat poison,” she said. “If someone wants to commit suicide, there are plenty of ways that are quicker and simpler; a handful of sleeping tablets and a bottle of whisky usually does the job in no time.” She let out a cynical little laugh; it was a typical coping mechanism among police officers, to deal with unpleasant matters by using dark humor.

  Thomas quickly changed the subject. “Kalle, can you check the professions of those two homeowners on Sandhamn? I was in a rush and forgot.”

  “Hang on.” There was the sound of rustling paper as Kalle went through his notes. “Pieter Graaf is an IT consultant, and Philip Fahlén has his own company supplying equipment for catering facilities.”

  Margit whistled. “Catering facilities—that means restaurants. I’m just wondering if Philip Fahlén supplies more than kitchen equipment to his clients.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s high time we had a chat with those two gentlemen.”

  They arrived on Sandhamn after nearly an hour. Sometimes the ferries sailed directly from Stavsnäs to Sandhamn, which took no more than thirty-five minutes, but sometimes it seemed as if they were intent on calling at every single jetty in the southern archipelago. This time they had dropped off passengers on Styrsvik, Mjölkkilen, and Gatan before they reached their destination, but now the harbor opened out in front of them.

  Thomas and Margit waited patiently in the line of families and day-trippers. They handed over their tickets and finally disembarked.

  People were waiting on the pier to meet the new arrivals. Children and teenagers leaned on their bicycles as they ate Popsicles. Over by the kiosk, several people were going through the newspaper. In his peripheral vision Thomas could see that some of the headlines still featured the murders. And yet the harbor looked more or less the same as usual.

  Except that it was quieter. With fewer boats.

  Once ashore, they quickly set off for the western side of the island, where both Graaf and Fahlén lived. As soon as Thomas had looked at the map showing all the properties on Sandhamn, he knew exactly which houses they were.

  They took the lane to the south of Strindbergsgården; it led into the heart of the village and through the old quarter. On the way they passed a little house painted Falu red, which reminded Thomas of a gingerbread house. Everything was extremely well maintained but in miniature. The garden extended no more than two yards around the property. The flag was flying, and the whole of the south-facing wall was covered in trellises weighed down with heavy bunches of luscious blackberries, in spite of the fact that it was only July. Pretty pots packed with plants were arranged by the fence; a tiny wooden deck area had been squeezed into one corner, and there was just room for a table and two chairs next to a compact woodshed with gray lichen on the roof.

  It looked like an advertisement for summer in Sweden.

  They cut across Adolf Square, the place where the traditional midsummer celebrations were held. The maypole was still standing, although it was somewhat yellow in comparison to what it must have looked like a few weeks earlier. One of the houses in the square had a climbing rose covering the entire wall; it looked like a pink firework spreading in all directions. There didn’t seem to be a single house where the beds weren’t full to bursting with glorious blooms.

  Thomas wondered whether Sandhamn enjoyed some kind of microclimate that was particularly good for perennials. Either that, or all the people on the island must spend all their time tending their gardens. Watering alone must take forever.

  He turned to Margit. “Have you been to Sandhamn before?”

  “Yes, but it was a long time ago. My daughters have been over here a few times with their friends; it seems to be a popular place with teenagers. Bertil and I haven’t been here for ages. Not since one summer twenty years ago, when the whole place was packed with wasted teenagers. It was indescribable. Drunken adolescents staggering around and not an adult in sight.”

  “I know what you mean,” Thomas said. “When I was with the maritime police I picked up one or two who needed a lift home. But I think the situation has improved in recent years. These days most places are closed on Midsummer’s Eve, and there aren’t as many places to camp either.”

  “That must have had an effect.”

  “You can’t imagine. One year when the weather was really bad, a group of kids actually broke into the police station so they’d be taken into custody. A kind of reverse outreach activity, if you like.” Thomas laughed at the memory.

  They continued quickly toward Västerudd. On the way, Thomas took a small diversion to point out Nora’s house and to explain that his godson’s family lived there.

  “What a beautiful gate,” Margit said. “I haven’t seen that sun pattern before.”

  “I think Nora’s grandfather made it. She inherited the house from her grandparents about ten years ago, and that gate has been there for as long as I can remember.”

  “It’s exactly right.” Margit nodded. “It’s good when people preserve a craftsman’s work like that.”

  “Perhaps we could stop by and say hello when we’re finished,” Thomas said. “It would be nice to see Simon if we have time.”

  Margit nodded.

  CHAPTER 48

  Pieter Graaf lived in a typical 1950s house surrounded by a large sandy garden containing a swing and a few stunted pine trees. It c
ould have been in any suburb on the mainland and looked like a classic that was popular after the Second World War, when everyone decided to move out of the city. A couple of bedrooms, small windows, a kitchen, and a living room. Yellow wooden façade on a gray concrete base, surrounded by a white fence.

  Margit looked at Thomas, who explained that the area had been established just after the war. Land had been divided up and houses built to provide accommodation for the families of pilots who had moved to Sandhamn.

  Graaf was about thirty-five years old. He wore jeans and a tennis shirt spattered with something suspiciously like the green paint adorning the hut in one corner of the garden. He also wore a baseball cap with the logo of a well-known sports shop.

  As they approached the house, Graaf was kicking a ball with a little boy who looked about three years old. The child was dressed in only a T-shirt and was as brown as a berry. He doubled over with laughter as his father deliberately missed the ball.

  Margit and Thomas introduced themselves and explained that they had some questions relating to the recent deaths on the island. Did he have time for a chat?

  Graaf looked surprised. He said he had already spoken to a police officer who had come by the previous week, but he broke off the ball game and invited them to sit down. He politely offered them a cold drink and said he would do his best to answer their questions.

  The conversation was brief and not particularly useful.

  Graaf had never set eyes on Kicki Berggren. He hadn’t even been on the island during the weekend when she was murdered. He had been in Småland visiting his in-laws. Nor had he met Kicki Berggren’s cousin. All he knew about the two of them was what had been in the papers.

  Thomas considered him. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the garden. There was virtually no sun where Graaf was sitting. He swung gently on the garden seat, which moved in time with the almost imperceptible movements of his body. From time to time a few pine needles drifted down onto the sand. He appeared to be an honest and pleasant person; he seemed genuinely surprised to receive a second visit from the police.

  Many years’ experience had taught Thomas that his first impression wasn’t always accurate. But his gut feeling told him that he was talking to a perfectly ordinary father, not a cold-blooded killer.

  “The day before Kicki Berggren died, she was asking about a man with a name similar to yours. Can you think of any reason why she might have wanted to speak to you?”

  Graaf looked concerned. He bent down and kissed his son’s forehead; the child had clambered up onto his knee and settled down. The little brown body with the white-blond hair looked exactly like the picture on matchboxes available everywhere.

  “No reason at all. I have absolutely no idea who she was or why she was on Sandhamn. I hope you believe me, because I don’t know how to prove it. The first I heard of Kicki Berggren was when I read about the murder in the paper, as I said.” He looked at his watch, which also showed the date. “That must have been about ten days ago.”

  “You’re quite sure you’ve never met her?” Thomas asked.

  “As far as I know, never.”

  “You live near the Mission House.”

  “True, but so do lots of people. And I wasn’t even here the weekend she died.”

  “Where were you on Easter? That was when her cousin, Krister Berggren, disappeared,” Thomas clarified.

  “I was in Åre; we went skiing and stayed at Fjällgården.” He looked slightly worried. “I’ve never had any contact with these people. I’m sure of it.”

  “Do you spend much time here in the winter?” Thomas asked.

  “No, none at all. We close up the house in October and come back at the end of April. We’re only here in late spring and summer.”

  Margit cleared her throat. “Do you know anyone who works at Systemet?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  She explained that Krister Berggren had worked at Systemet until his death, and that they were interested in any possible connection between Berggren and Sandhamn.

  “I usually go there on Fridays,” Graaf said. “I stand in the line along with everybody else, wishing I’d gone earlier in the week.” The comment was accompanied by a wink.

  “Do you have anything to do with Systemet through your work?” Margit asked.

  “Not at all; none of our clients are public companies. We work mainly with small or medium-size enterprises. In the private sector.”

  Thomas didn’t say anything.

  Graaf smiled and spread his hands wide. “I’d really like to help if I could, but I don’t think I have anything useful to contribute.”

  Thomas decided to change the subject. “What about Jonny Almhult? Did you know him?”

  Graaf looked puzzled. “Who’s he?”

  “He’s the person who was found dead in the water just off Trouville beach last week. He was a permanent resident on the island who made his living as a carpenter. He was an artist, too, a painter.”

  “Sorry, I never met him. We haven’t been coming here all that long, and we haven’t really had much to do with the locals. The house was pretty well-maintained when we bought it, so we haven’t needed any work done so far.” He tapped the table with his index finger. “Knock on wood.”

  The little boy on his knee was obviously starting to get bored with the conversation; he was wriggling like a worm. “Play ball, Daddy. I want the people to go.” He tugged at his father’s shirt. “Go now,” he said again.

  Thomas smiled at the child. “We won’t be long,” he promised. “Just one more thing.” He contemplated the man for a few seconds. “Do you have any rat poison here?”

  “Rat poison?” Graaf looked perplexed.

  “Rat poison,” Margit said. “We’re wondering if you have any rat poison on the premises.”

  Graaf thought for a moment, then gently lifted his son down and stood up. “I’ll have to ask my wife,” he said. “We might.”

  He went over to the open door and shouted. A slim woman with her hair in a thick plait appeared in the doorway. She looked at her husband and the two strangers sitting in her garden.

  Graaf quickly explained the situation. “They want to know if we have any rat poison.”

  “There might still be some down in the cellar,” she said. “In that little cupboard?” She turned to Thomas and Margit. “The previous owner left a bunch of stuff down in the cellar and told us to take what we wanted. There might be some down there; I’ll go check.”

  She disappeared indoors and returned after a few minutes with a plastic container marked with a warning triangle. “Mouse and Rat Killer,” it said in big black letters. She handed it to Thomas, who carefully opened the childproof cap. The container was full of blue granules.

  After a few more questions about Graaf’s contacts on the island over the summer, they brought the interview to a close and left. The little boy had grown tired of the adults and was playing with his ball again. At the moment he was fully occupied with trying to sit on it.

  “That didn’t get us very far,” Margit said as soon as they were out of earshot. “There’s no obvious connection, he has no motive, and he has an excellent alibi. What more can you ask? The only thing that counts against him is the rat poison.”

  “I agree,” Thomas said. “And having rat poison in the house doesn’t make you a murderer.”

  He wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. The air was ferociously hot. The wind had died away, and it would be a long time before there was any prospect of a cooling evening breeze.

  Thomas looked at Margit. “Are you ready to tackle Philip Fahlén?”

  “Absolutely. Lead the way.”

  CHAPTER 49

  They headed off in the direction of Fläskberget and the churchyard, passing a number of more modern houses built from the sixties onward. They looked like typical summer cottages
, far removed from the traditional style that characterized the village.

  Thomas already had sand in his shoes; it was unavoidable.

  There was no mistaking the fact that it was almost the end of July. The lilacs had long since finished flowering and had been replaced by dark-yellow sunflowers and currant bushes laden with fruit. Here and there the odd wilting tuft of grass was sticking up through the sand, evidence of brave efforts to put down roots in an impossible environment. The occasional feeble attempt at a lawn could be seen in a few gardens, but most people made do with flower beds surrounded by the ever-present sand.

  Philip Fahlén lived on the northwest side of Sandhamn, where the spit of land was so narrow that you could see right across the island.

  All the way to the beach where the unfortunate Krister Berggren had been washed ashore just a few weeks earlier.

  They were only ten minutes’ walk from the harbor, busy with boats and visitors, but this side of the island was quiet and peaceful. They could hear birds singing, and the sunlight filtered down through the tops of the pine trees. The blueberries were beginning to ripen; the bushes were full of fruit.

  Fahlén’s house was in a beautiful spot on the rocks, just a few yards from a wide jetty that extended a long way out. A splendid Bayliner day cruiser was moored there, and a huge hot tub made of dark wood stood by the water’s edge, with a perfect view over the sea. On the other side was a boathouse with two small square windows; Thomas could just glimpse several fishing nets hanging on hooks inside.

  The flag was flying, a sure sign that the owner of the house was on the island.