Still Waters (Sandhamn Murders Book 1)

by Viveca Sten

  The next day, I suggested that we should go out and lay nets, just as Helge and I used to do before he fell ill. Perhaps that would have some effect on Krister, help him to understand how unreasonable he was being.

  It was a beautiful day. A pale winter sun hovered just above the horizon, and the sea was calm. I took him to Ådkobb, which was Helge’s favorite spot for laying nets.

  As soon as I had laid the first net, I felt a sharp movement and saw silvery scales shining in the water. I called Krister to come and look, but when he leaned forward to get a better view, he put his hand on the cowl of the outboard motor to support himself. I hadn’t fixed the clamps properly when the motor was pushed up. As it dropped back down, Krister lost his balance and fell into the water, straight into the net.

  I reached for the nearest rope and made a loop so that he could slip it around his waist, intending to try to haul him back on board. For some reason he had refused to put on a life jacket. “They’re only for women and kids,” he had muttered when I offered him one.

  Suddenly I noticed that the rope I had used was actually the anchor rope, with the heavy grappling hook attached to the other end. The realization came in an instant. If I didn’t pull him out of the water, life would go back to normal. Nobody would be able to take my home away from me. Everything would be just as it had been before.

  Without really thinking, I picked up the anchor and threw it overboard. My arms carried out the movement of their own accord. The last thing I saw was his head being dragged down into the cold, dark water.

  Afterward it was as if there was a kind of white winter’s mist surrounding that day. It almost felt as if it had never happened. But then Krister’s body washed ashore. I knew at once that it was my nephew. I didn’t know what to do. Night after night I lay awake, thinking.

  And then Kicki Berggren turned up. One day she was just standing there, knocking on my door. She was a greedy woman, and she claimed that she was Krister’s cousin. According to her, his death meant that she would inherit in his place. If I didn’t agree to give her half the house, she would force me into it.

  I heard myself offering her a cup of tea before we continued our discussion. It was as if someone else was speaking.

  As I was getting the tin containing my homemade tea blend out of the pantry, I spotted the bottle of rat poison. It had been on the top shelf for years. With trembling hands, I picked it up. The red label with its skull and crossbones seemed to glow in the dim light.

  Then I knew what to do. When the tea was ready, I poured it into two mugs and added a significant amount of the poisonous liquid to one of them. Then I put some homemade jam tarts on a plate and took them into the other room. After Kicki had finished her tea, I asked if she could come back the following day. In an unfamiliar, hollow voice I asked for some time to think over the situation. The same unfamiliar voice promised to give her my decision within twenty-four hours. We arranged to meet the following day at twelve o’clock. But Kicki never came back.

  Helge’s old medication is standing here beside me on the kitchen table as I write this letter. It’s morphine; I got it from the hospital when he was dying. Now it is needed one last time.

  Kajsa is rubbing around my legs, whimpering uneasily. She’s a clever girl; she knows that something is wrong. She is looking at me with such a pleading expression that I can hardly go on writing. But Nora is locked inside Grönskär lighthouse and must be rescued as soon as possible. We were there together this evening, and she knows what I have done. I couldn’t risk her stopping me from doing what I must do, so I had to lock her in. I don’t know how I managed it, but somehow I found the strength to jam the door with the big, heavy spanner I found in the corner. Then I took her boat and came back.

  Tell Nora that I really am very sorry I locked her in.

  A few final words: This is my own decision. No one has the right to take my home away from me. This is where I was born, and this is where I will die.

  Signe Brand

  With a little sigh Signe put the pen down. She folded up the letter, placed it in an envelope, and propped it up against a candlestick on the kitchen table. Then she took another piece of paper, scribbled down a few lines, and slipped it in an envelope. Slowly she got to her feet, crossed the kitchen, and got out a box of matches.

  “Come along, Kajsa,” she said, patting the dog on the head.

  She picked up the kerosene lamp from the kitchen table, the lamp that Grandfather Alarik had bought in Stockholm, to the delight of the entire family. She had been just a little girl at the time, but she still remembered how beautiful the lamp had been when Grandfather had brought it home.

  Carefully, she lit the wick and adjusted it so that the lamp spread a warm glow all around.

  With the lamp in one hand and the morphine in the other, she went out into the greenhouse. With practiced movements she prepared two syringes of morphine; her experience of looking after Helge during his illness had not gone to waste.

  Kajsa had settled down at her feet, on her favorite rug.

  As she injected the dog, the tears poured down her wrinkled cheeks. She stroked Kajsa’s soft, velvety fur and tried to hold back the sobs. Kajsa whimpered but didn’t move; she made no protest as Signe injected the morphine.

  Signe sat motionless with Kajsa’s head resting on her knee until the dog stopped breathing.

  Then she tipped out a handful of tablets and swallowed them with some water. She picked up the other syringe and emptied it into her left arm. She wrapped a blanket around herself, one that she had crocheted many years ago. She was a little bit cold, but it didn’t really matter anymore. Her final action was to turn off the kerosene lamp.

  She could just about make out the horizon and the familiar outline of the islands in the night. She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair for the last time.

  SUNDAY, THE SIXTH WEEK

  CHAPTER 80

  The August moon rose behind the trees on Telegrafholmen, round and dark yellow, so close that you could almost touch it. The children had fallen asleep in their beds without too much fuss for once. Henrik and Nora were sitting down by the jetty.

  There was just the hint of a chill in the air.

  Nora shivered. She didn’t know whether it was the coolness of the evening or the events of the past few weeks. There were a lot of things she didn’t have answers for at the moment.

  She kept turning her teacup around in her hands as she gazed at the sea mist where the sun had just gone down.

  There was an immense distance between her and Henrik.

  Nora could feel herself retreating into her shell, but she had no need for closeness. Her grief and shock over Signe’s death were almost tangible. She still felt frozen and exhausted after her ordeal, but she had refused to stay in the hospital any longer than absolutely necessary. All she had wanted was to get back to Sandhamn and her children.

  She had sat there with the boys on her knee for a long, long time.

  The doctors at the hospital had said that her guardian angel must have been watching over her. One more hour and she probably wouldn’t have survived, at least not without permanent brain damage. Thomas and Henrik had found her at the last possible minute.

  Signe Brand hadn’t been so lucky. She had slipped away not long after she had been admitted to the hospital.

  When the police searched Signe’s house, they found two letters on the kitchen table. One contained an account of what had happened. The other was Signe’s will. Thomas had entered the house through the greenhouse, so he hadn’t seen the letters.

  Signe had assumed that someone would find Nora the following day. She’d had no idea that a night spent in the lighthouse would lead to hypoglycemia, thus endangering Nora’s life.

  Thomas had come by the previous day to tell them that a witness who had spoken to Jonny on the ferry to Finland had been in touch with the police.<
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  Nora had been sitting down by the jetty, just like this evening, and Thomas had sat down opposite her. Thin clouds hid the sun, but it wasn’t cold. It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon.

  The witness, a man in his fifties, had started chatting with Jonny in the bar on the ferry. According to him, Jonny had been very drunk and had been sniveling about the fact that he had run away from Sandhamn because he had had a fight with some girl. He had tried to have sex with her but couldn’t perform. When she made fun of him he had lost his temper and lashed out at her.

  As far as the man could make out from Jonny’s disjointed tale, the blow had made the woman lose her balance, and she had hit her head on something. She had rushed off after that, but when she was later found dead, Jonny had been afraid that the police would arrest him for murder.

  After a while, Jonny had gone out on deck to get some air. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume that he might have wanted to catch a final glimpse of Sandhamn as the ship passed the island.

  One of the CCTV cameras had picked him up as he made his way unsteadily up the steps leading to the top deck. In his befuddled state he had presumably lost his balance and fallen overboard.

  It seemed that his death had been a tragic accident; at least, that was what the police were assuming.

  Thomas had also told Nora what had happened when Philip Fahlén eventually regained consciousness, paralyzed down his left side. He had been in no state to deny things any longer and had immediately confessed to an extensive fraud operation with Viking Strindberg as the spider at the center of the web, ably assisted by his wife. Together they had been stealing wine and spirits from Systemet for years and had earned good money by selling it illegally.

  The confession, along with the lists of phone calls and the wiretap, had been more than enough to persuade both Viking Strindberg and his wife to put their cards on the table and confess.

  “It was pure bad luck for Philip Fahlén and the Strindbergs,” Thomas had said. “If Krister Berggren’s body hadn’t been washed ashore not far from Fahlén’s summer place, we probably would never have caught them.”

  At that moment his cell phone had rung.

  When he had finished the call he had looked at Nora with an embarrassed smile. “That was Carina from the station,” he said, slipping the phone into his pocket. “She’s coming over for dinner this evening, so I’d better go.”

  For the first time in ages, Thomas looked really happy. It made Nora feel warm inside; she really wanted him to find happiness again.

  Nora gave a little sigh and pulled her jacket more tightly around her. It was getting distinctly chilly as the evening wore on.

  “Do you know what’s really sad?” she said quietly to Henrik.

  He looked at her curiously. He was obviously making an effort to reach her, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet him halfway. When he reached out and stroked her cheek, she barely reacted.

  “What?”

  “They died for no reason, Kicki Berggren and Signe. And Jonny, too, of course. But Signe didn’t realize. Once Krister was dead, Kicki Berggren was no threat to Signe and her home.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she struggled to keep her voice steady. “The law is crystal clear. Cousins cannot inherit from one another.”

  Nora gazed out across the sea, filled with immeasurable sorrow. Signe was dead; she would never see her again. The thought was agonizing. Life is so fragile, she thought. Why don’t we realize that?

  AFTERWORD

  Since I first came to Sandhamn as a newborn baby, I have always loved the island; my family has had a summer home here for a hundred years.

  When I decided to try my hand at fiction after writing several factual books on legal matters, the idea of a crime novel set on Sandhamn was irresistible.

  However, this book would never have been written if a significant number of kind individuals had not offered their time and expertise.

  I would like to begin by warmly thanking Gunilla Pettersson; she lives on the island and has answered countless questions about Sandhamn and Grönskär.

  Good friends and colleagues who have taken the time to read various versions of the novel and offered valuable opinions and support are Anette Brifalk, P. H. Börjesson, Barbro Börjeson Ahlin, Helen Duphorn, Per and Helena Lyrvall, Göran Sällqvist, and my brother, Patrik Bergstedt.

  My editor Matilda Lund put a huge amount of effort into the manuscript.

  Sincere thanks also to Inspector Sonny Björk; Dr. Rita Kaupila, who works in the forensics department in Solna; Inspector Jim Näström from the maritime police in Nacka; and radiologist Dr. Kattarina Bodén.

  A number of points must be made. I have taken the liberty of inventing characters who bear no resemblance whatsoever to any living individuals. I have also altered some facts: The Brand house does not exist, and there is no marzipan-green house at Västerudd. The waters off Grönskär are a protected area when it comes to fishing. Systembolaget does not have a central depot in the suburbs, and the ferries to and from Finland stop passing Sandhamn by nine o’clock in the evening. The ferry Cinderella did not come into service until 2006.

  Finally, my wonderful daughter, Camilla, has lived with this book throughout its creation and has discussed the plot during countless walks on Sandhamn. Camilla, you are fantastic.

  I would also like to thank my husband, Lennart—because you are always there for me. Without you, my dream would never have come true.

  Sandhamn, September 2015

  Viveca Sten

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2010 Anna-Lena Ahlstršm

  Swedish writer Viveca Sten has sold almost three million copies of her enormously popular Sandhamn Murders series. In 2014, her seventh novel, the hugely successful I maktens skugga (In the Shadow of Power), was published in Sweden and cemented her place as one of the country’s most popular authors. Her Sandhamn Murders novels continue to top the bestseller charts and have been made into a successful Swedish-language TV miniseries, which has been broadcast around the world to thirty million viewers. Sten lives in Stockholm with her husband and three children, but she prefers to spend her time visiting Sandhamn to write and vacation with her family.

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  Marlaine Delargy is based in Shropshire in the United Kingdom. She studied Swedish and German at the University of Wales, Aberystwyth, and taught German in comprehensive schools for almost twenty years. She has translated novels by authors including Åsa Larsson, Kristina Ohlsson, Helene Tursten, John Ajvide Lindqvist, Therese Bohman, Ninni Holmqvist, and Johan Theorin, with whom she won the Crime Writers’ Association International Dagger for The Darkest Room in 2010.