And heartbreaking.
After the divorce he had found a two-room apartment in Gustavsberg. It was practical and functional and only twenty minutes away from work, but it wasn’t a home. If anywhere, it was only on Harö that he felt at home these days.
He got his razor and shaving cream out of the medicine cabinet and ran hot water in the sink.
He hadn’t the slightest desire to get in the boat and head over to Sandhamn. But Nora had invited him weeks ago, and he didn’t want to disappoint her. Especially on such short notice.
“Come on, Thomas,” she had said to him. “It’ll do you good to get out and about. You can’t just work or bury yourself on Harö. You need to start seeing people again.”
She was right, of course. But it was so difficult.
He sank down on the toilet seat with the razor in his hand. Sometimes he felt as if he didn’t have the strength to take one more step.
The last fifteen months had been the worst of his life. He wouldn’t wish them on his worst enemy. Nights plagued by bad dreams about Emily and his inability to save her life. Days when he could hardly bring himself to go into work because he was afraid of breaking down in front of his colleagues. The gradual disintegration of his marriage, which he had been powerless to prevent.
Since the divorce had been finalized six months ago, he had avoided social gatherings. There had been no need for the company of others, just a deep desire to be left alone and in peace.
He had devoted almost all his waking hours to work. He had no idea how many late nights he had stayed at the station. But there was something restful about the dark corridors when everyone else had gone home. The emptiness appealed to him. He enjoyed sitting at his desk in silence.
Work had been his lifeline.
Without his colleagues, he doubted whether he would have made it. Getting up every morning had been a real struggle, yet he had taken on as much work as he possibly could. Volunteered for just about everything. Sat there for hours dealing with tasks that weren’t part of his job.
As if every fresh case he solved helped him to rebuild his life, little by little.
Gradually it had begun to hurt less, but the pain was replaced by weariness. It overwhelmed him. Thomas was so exhausted he didn’t know what to do with himself. He could cope with the days, but by the evening he was spent.
He had slept more during the past six months than in his entire life. All he wanted to do at night was to go to bed and sink into oblivion, escape from his life. It was as if he couldn’t get enough unconsciousness.
It wasn’t until the light began to return in April that he started to regain some of his old energy. He was able to rest in those long, light, late spring evenings. To his surprise he found he was breathing more easily.
But the distance between the professional police officer who conscientiously did his job and the private individual who merely wanted to be left in peace had not diminished.
He sat there in the bathroom trying to gather his strength. The dinner party would be starting soon. He stood up and applied the shaving cream to his face. With a determined smile at his reflection, he began to scrape the razor firmly down his cheek.
Kicki Berggren looked around the harbor, which was now half in shadow. The unpleasant taste of the tea she had been given lingered in her mouth. She hadn’t even been offered a cup of coffee—just that revolting tea.
She had tried to rest in her room for a while, but she had been far too wound up, and after an hour she gave up. She picked up her jacket and walked down to the harbor; she needed something to drink. Something strong. And something to eat would be good. She crept down the stairs to avoid the manager, who was a bit of a busybody. She couldn’t deal with her chatter now; she had enough to think about.
The Divers Bar looked nice, but when she got closer she could see that all the seats outside were occupied by younger people. Girls in low-cut tops and oversize shades were sitting there with boys who had greasy, slicked-back hair and red shorts. Rosé wine was obviously cool at the moment; there was a big silver wine cooler on every table, labeled “Think pink, drink pink.”
Her own opinion of rosé was based on her experiences of Mateus Rosé, which had been the drink of choice in every backyard when she was in high school. It hadn’t tasted good then, and it was unlikely that it would taste good now. And she’d had more than enough of spoiled, drunk teenagers on Kos. She didn’t need that here.
She looked around for an alternative.
Sandhamn Värdshus, at the far end of the harbor, looked considerably more inviting. She headed for the area marked “Bar.”
When she opened the door it seemed quite gloomy, but then her eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting, and she could see that she was in a large room with dark wood paneling on the walls and a cozy atmosphere.
A young man with long blond hair in a ponytail was standing behind the bar, taking an order. The long tables were occupied by a handful of people with half-empty glasses in front of them. The place was almost empty, but then a dark bar probably wasn’t the first place the tourists in their summery clothes would go on a lovely evening like this.
Through the window she could see a line of people patiently waiting for a table outside, but sitting indoors suited her perfectly. She needed to be alone for a while, and she wanted something to eat so she could get rid of the disgusting taste in her mouth.
A blackboard on the wall listed the daily specials. Everything looked appealing, and she settled on bubble and squeak with a beer.
She carried her glass over to a corner table far from the bar. She took off her jacket and placed it on the chair next to her, then dug a comb and mirror out of her purse. She dragged the comb through her long hair, then tucked it in the breast pocket of her jacket. Without thinking, she took out her cigarettes, then remembered that people were no longer allowed to smoke indoors in Sweden.
From the corner of her eye she saw a man walk in and order a beer at the bar. He picked up his glass and made his way over to her part of the room.
She automatically smiled at him. Years of welcoming strangers to the tables in the casino evoked the upward curve of her lips without a second’s hesitation.
The man looked pretty good, around forty. Slim build, faded blue T-shirt and jeans, sneakers. His hair needed cutting, but at least it looked clean.
Suddenly she felt the need for some company. As their eyes met she moistened her lips and opened her mouth.
“You’re welcome to sit here,” she said, pointing to the chair opposite her. She smiled as he sat down.
“Do you live here?” she asked.
He looked up from his beer and nodded. “Mmm, I’ve got a house on the island.”
“A summer cottage?”
“No, I live here all the time. I was born on Sandhamn. I’ve lived here all my life,” he said, raising the glass to his mouth.
Kicki edged a little closer. “I’m Kicki.”
“Jonny.” He held out his hand for a second, then changed his mind and nodded instead.
“What do you do?” Kicki asked.
“This and that. I’m a carpenter, but I do a bit of painting as well. I do all kinds of jobs for the summer visitors.”
He took a swig of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As he put the glass down some of the liquid spilled over onto the table, but it didn’t seem to bother him.
“What kind of things do you paint?” Kicki was interested. She needed a diversion for a little while, and she was curious about life on the island.