by Viveca Sten
Jonny Almhult’s house was dark and deserted. Thomas decided to knock on Ellen’s door; she lived in a larger house right next door. It wasn’t uncommon in the archipelago to build more houses on the same plot as the family increased.
Jonny’s mother opened the door wearing a fleecy pink robe. She looked surprised to see him.
“Good evening, Ellen, do you remember me? Thomas Andreasson. I’m with the Nacka police now,” he said.
She stared at him.
“Sorry to disturb you at this late hour. I need to talk to Jonny, but he doesn’t seem to be home.”
Ellen still looked surprised but not quite so alarmed. “He might be at the bar,” she said. “Or asleep. He’s not that easy to wake. Would you like me to go and see?”
“That would be great, since I’m here.”
Ellen picked up a key, and they went over to the smaller house.
Thomas looked around. The compact house was painted Falu red, like so many in the archipelago. White eaves and wooden cladding. There was a pile of unused wood in the garden, along with several defunct boat engines.
Two tubs of glorious pelargoniums stood by the door, and a pot containing a big lilac petunia was hanging in a birch tree.
“Do you do the gardening?” Thomas asked.
“No, that’s Jonny’s job,” Ellen said. “He’s got green fingers, believe it or not. He even reads those gardening magazines. He’s all grown up now.”
She shook her head. Thomas couldn’t work out whether she was proud of her son or worried about him.
Ellen opened the door and went inside. “Jonny,” she shouted. “Jonny, are you home?”
Thomas followed her. It was a typical island bachelor pad. Sand on the floor on the porch, wet-weather gear hanging on the wall. 1950s kitchen. More beautiful pelargoniums on the windowsill. Jonny had a knack for flowers, that much was clear.
A huge television dominated the sitting room; presumably it helped to pass the long, dark winter evenings when the village was deserted and the summer cottages long since closed up. Several attractive watercolors hung on the walls; they were signed JA.
A row of empty beer cans were on the table, along with an ashtray full of cigarette butts. Thomas noticed that several bore the marks of lipstick.
The house smelled stale and stuffy. Nobody seemed to have aired the place out for several days. There were beer bottles on the dish rack, and even more cans next to the fridge.
Ellen disappeared into a room beyond the kitchen.
“He’s not in the bedroom,” she said when she came back. “He must be at the bar. That’s where he usually is if he’s not at home. Have you tried his phone?”
“I don’t have the number, but if you could give it to me, that would be great.” Thomas took out his notebook to write down the number. “Have you spoken to him today?”
“No. He hasn’t been very well, so I didn’t want to disturb him.”
It was obvious that Ellen was uncomfortable; she spoke slowly and avoided looking him in the eye.
“What do you mean by ‘not very well’?”
Ellen looked unhappy. She tightened the belt on her robe and pushed her hands into her pockets. She sounded embarrassed as she answered. “He’d been drinking the last time I came over.”
“When was that?”
“Saturday.”
“What time?”
“I can’t remember exactly. In the middle of the day, I think. Around twelve.”
“And he was drunk?”
“Yes, but not very drunk. He’d had a few beers.” Ellen pursed her lips. “I know what men look like when they’ve had a few.”
“Does Jonny have a girlfriend?”
“Not as far as I know. He’s never been that popular with women. He’s shy, just like his dad.” She hesitated. “But he’s kind, very kind. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Thomas glanced at the coat hooks in the hall, where a white denim jacket adorned with sparkling studs hung alongside the wet-weather clothing.
“Is that yours?” he asked, against his better judgment.
“No,” Ellen said. “It’s not exactly suitable for someone my age, is it?”
“Do you know whose it is?”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
Thomas took down the jacket and carefully checked the pockets. In his mind’s eye he could see Kicki Berggren when he went down to reception in the police station to meet her. She had been wearing an identical jacket. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
In one pocket he found a half-empty packet of Princes. The same brand Kicki had had in her handbag, the same brand she had fiddled with throughout their interview. In the breast pocket there was a comb with several long blond strands of hair; more than enough for DNA analysis.
He moved toward the front door, then changed his mind and went back into the sitting room. Something had caught his attention. He looked over the walls. He stared at the sofa, the TV, the stereo.
Then he realized what it was.
There was a radiator under the window, the same kind of ugly gray radiator found in thousands of Swedish homes. Rectangular, with a valve at the bottom to regulate the heat. On one corner he could see something brownish and dried. It looked as if a strand of blond hair was stuck to the brown patch. It wasn’t a big mark, but it was definitely there.
He stopped himself from touching it. “Ellen, I need to bring in a forensics team to go over the house. You mustn’t come back in until they’ve finished.”
Ellen looked terrified. “What do you mean? Why would the police need to go over Jonny’s house?”
Thomas sympathized with her. Her arms were tightly crossed over her chest, as if to defend herself from something she didn’t want to hear. Her pale lips were barely visible as she clamped her mouth shut, trying to suppress her anxiety.
“I have another question,” Thomas said. “Have you or Jonny kept any of Georg’s nets?”
Ellen didn’t understand the question. “Nets?”
“Fishing nets, I mean, with needles marked GA? Have you kept any of those?”
“I suppose so,” Ellen said, “but I don’t remember how many. I’ll have to look in the boathouse.” Her hand flew to her mouth as she was struck by a sudden realization. “You don’t think Jonny had anything to do with the deaths of those two cousins, do you?”
“I’m not at liberty to say at the moment. We’ll have to wait and see. If Jonny comes home or calls you, please ask him to contact me immediately. It’s extremely important.”
He put his arm around her shoulders and guided her gently toward the door.
“I need you to give me your keys to this house. And the boathouse.”
Ellen’s hand was shaking as she passed over the keys.
She looked lonely and frightened. Thomas felt sorry for her, but there wasn’t much he could do. The most important thing was to get a team over as soon as possible, so they could find out if Kicki Berggren had been in Jonny’s house.
He was fairly sure the answer would be yes.
“Do you have any masking tape or something along those lines, so I can seal the door while I’m waiting for backup?”
Ellen nodded. “In the kitchen. My kitchen,” she said as she walked out.
Thomas accompanied her back to the big house. He waited in the hallway while she fetched the tape. Through the door of the sitting room, he could see a tall Mora clock in one corner. The furniture looked dark and old-fashioned.
Thomas yawned. He was exhausted after a long day’s work. The thought of traveling back to town first thing tomorrow morning wasn’t exactly appealing, but he would have to live with it.
“Go to bed, Ellen,” he said when she returned. “It’ll all work out, you’ll see.”
He went out and closed the door behind him, then took out his cell phone to
call the station. With a bit of luck they might be able to send a team over right away by helicopter.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a late night, after all.
TUESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 27
Thomas stared at the preliminary autopsy report, which had been sent over to Nacka by the pathologist.
It described the body of a female, medium height, normal build, whose death had occurred sometime between five and ten on Saturday morning.
According to the report, the woman had received a blow to the right temple. This blow had resulted in internal bleeding around the temple and right eye, with some damage to the skin. The left-hand side of the back of the head had also sustained damage; it had been struck at an angle and from below the victim with considerable force. The attacker had used something hard and pointed. There was evidence of limited bleeding just behind the right ear. A major hemorrhage had occurred in the brain; this was likely the cause of death, but there had also been a number of hemorrhages in the chest cavity and stomach, as well as inside the mouth and pharynx. Traces of blood had been found in the intestines.
He continued reading the clinical text. It was hard to believe that it concerned a human being, a flesh-and-blood individual who had laughed and loved and appreciated life. If that had been the case, he thought, remembering her apartment in Bandhagen.
Samples of blood, urine, aqueous humor from the eye, and a liver biopsy had been taken and would be sent to the National Forensics Laboratory in Linköping as soon as possible, with a request for priority analysis.
He suddenly stopped reading.
The report stated that the cause of death could not be established beyond doubt. It had not been possible to ascertain what had caused the extensive internal bleeding.
Kicki Berggren had probably been killed by hemorrhage in her brain, caused by either the blow to her temple or the back of her head. But there was no explanation for her other internal bleeding. There had to be more to this.
Thomas knew from experience that forensics hated sending a report that contained so many question marks. When there was no logical explanation for the injuries found, this was meticulously spelled out. It was then up to the police to conduct a thorough investigation in order to find the cause.
Thomas frowned. Now they would have to wait for Linköping to see if there was an answer in the tissue samples. That would take at least four or five days—if they were lucky.
In his frustration, he managed to knock over his cup of tea, and the hot liquid quickly spread across his desk. As he tried to stem the flow with a napkin that was far too small, he felt more uncertain than ever about where the investigation was heading. He was also worn out. He had slept for a little while on the boat, but it had been hard getting up at five thirty to catch the first ferry back to Stockholm.
It had been almost midnight by the time he got the investigative team over to Jonny’s house, so he hadn’t had much sleep. Admittedly he wasn’t someone who needed eight hours every night, but he could certainly feel how tired he was today.
He went to the washroom and splashed cold water on his face. It didn’t help much, but it made him feel slightly better. He picked up the report and headed for the conference room.
Persson was already in his usual seat, with Carina next to him. She smiled at Thomas when he glanced at her. He was struck by how pretty she was in the sunlight filtering in through the window. She also looked cheerful, in sharp contrast to his other colleagues, whose gloomy expressions no doubt mirrored his own. Kalle was sitting next to Carina, with Erik opposite her.
A speakerphone was in the middle of the table. Thomas guessed that Margit had been called, despite the fact that she had just started her vacation. But at least this meant she didn’t have to abandon her family and travel all the way back to Stockholm.
Persson took a sip of coffee and cleared his throat. “Thomas, can you start us off? What have we got?”
Thomas held up the autopsy report. “We have a woman who has been subjected to physical violence, although not of a particularly excessive nature, according to the report. She received a blow to the back of her head and another to her right temple. The blow to her temple was not fatal and was comparatively light, and since the blood vessels are close to the surface around the eye, the injury looks much more serious than it actually was. She also suffered internal bleeding, which does not appear to have been caused by the assault.”
“So what was the cause of death?” Persson was looking impatiently at Thomas.
“According to the pathologist, she appears to have suffered a brain hemorrhage as a consequence of the back of her head coming into contact with something hard, either because she fell or because someone hit her. It could be a combination of both. The autopsy doesn’t tell us whether death occurred as a result of violence or a fall, for example. And as I said, there is no explanation for the internal bleeding, so a number of samples have been sent to Linköping for analysis.” Thomas fell silent. He had tried to relay the contents of the report as accurately as possible, but it wasn’t easy. “It is highly likely that the injuries were sustained in Jonny Almhult’s house; we found her jacket there, and there were traces of blood on a radiator in his living room. If the blood turns out to be Kicki Berggren’s, that could explain the injury to the back of the head. Somehow she got back to the Mission House, where she was found the following morning.”
Suddenly the telephone crackled to life. Margit was trying to make herself heard. “Have I got this right? Kicki Berggren was assaulted, but we don’t know if it was fatal? She has major internal bleeding which can’t be explained? Can I ask what we actually do know?” Margit snapped.
Thomas tried to provide a chronological account. “We believe Kicki arrived on Sandhamn shortly after one o’clock last Friday. We’ve spoken to one of the girls in the kiosk who remembers her, and according to the timetable, a ferry comes in at that time. Kicki asked about somewhere to stay, and it appeared she had just arrived on the island. The girl suggested the Mission House. Since Kicki’s injuries must have been sustained at a later stage, the person who attacked her must also have been on the island.”
“Are there any witnesses who saw her with anyone?” Margit asked.
For a moment her question was drowned out by the sound of children laughing. She was obviously outdoors, probably on the beach.
“We’ve spoken to the staff in all the cafés and restaurants, and no one recognized her,” Thomas said. “But there are a couple of people who only work weekends, and they won’t be back until Friday. I’ve got their phone numbers. I haven’t managed to get ahold of them yet, but I’ll try again when we finish here.” He flexed his left foot, which boasted a huge blister—the result of tramping back and forth all over Sandhamn. “We’ve also knocked on the door of virtually every house on the island, but we haven’t found anyone who saw her. Not so far, anyway.”
Persson scratched his throat. He had a large, angry red mosquito bite just above his left collarbone. “Do we have any idea why this Almhult might have hit her?” He looked at Thomas.
“We don’t even know if it was Jonny Almhult. He’s disappeared, and we haven’t managed to track him down.” Thomas held up a photograph of Jonny Almhult; it showed a man with weak features and brown eyes. He had a broad nose, and his dark hair needed cutting. His face was tanned and freckled.
“He’s never been violent toward women before, as far as we know. He doesn’t have a criminal record. According to his mother, he’s pretty lonely and a little shy. She’s at her wits’ end; she has no idea what’s going on. The last contact she had with him was on Saturday, when he had either been drinking or had a bad hangover.” Thomas paused. “Erik spoke to Almhult two days ago, on Sunday morning, but he claimed he didn’t recognize Kicki’s photograph—isn’t that right, Erik?”
Erik nodded. “Exactly. I was only there for a couple minutes. He was
n’t looking too good; he seemed pretty hungover. When I asked whether he’d had any contact with Berggren, he said he didn’t know who she was. Then he apologized and said he wasn’t feeling well, so I left.” Erik looked unhappy, as if he were reproaching himself because he hadn’t realized that he ought to have questioned Almhult more closely.
“I’ve known of Jonny Almhult since I was a teenager,” Thomas said, “and there’s never been anything suspect about him. There is no obvious reason why Jonny would suddenly pick up a total stranger and start knocking her around.”
“You say she was a stranger, but we don’t actually know whether they already knew each other,” Persson said as he carried on scratching the mosquito bite, which was now bleeding slightly.
“No, you’re right,” Thomas said. “I’ve checked Kicki Berggren’s apartment, and there’s no trace of anything that might explain what’s happened. We haven’t found anything linking her to Sandhamn or Jonny Almhult, apart from the fact that she visited the ferry company’s website.”
The speakerphone crackled again. “What about her colleagues? Was there anyone at work who had a grudge against her?”
“I’ve spoken to the company that runs the casino. She’d worked there for over fifteen years. They didn’t have much to say—she did her job, didn’t take any more sick leave than anyone else, and was generally regarded as honest and reliable.” He looked down at his notebook where he had jotted down the salient points from his telephone conversation with Kicki Berggren’s boss, a miserable man who had shown little interest, in spite of the fact that one of his employees had been murdered. “The only thing unusual, as I understand it, is that she’d worked there for such a long time. Most croupiers pack it in after five or six years. It’s not the kind of profession people stick with, at least not if they have a family. The hours are terrible—evenings only, and late nights, of course. Nor is the working environment all that great.”
“She’d spent some time in Kos recently, hadn’t she?” Persson asked, leaning forward to grab a cookie.