What was he complaining about? At least he was having a vacation!
Persson didn’t have much time for bureaucrats within the police service who spent their time breathing down the necks of officers in the field. They must be allowed to carry out their investigations without interference; that was his mantra, which he repeated to anyone who tried to meddle.
Thomas stared at the calendar on the beige wall. Eighteen days had now passed since the bright summer morning when Krister Berggren’s body had been found on Sandhamn’s western shore. Eighteen days, which meant it was four hundred and thirty-two hours since the first body turned up. If his minicalculator was working, they’d had 25,920 minutes at their disposal to work out why first Krister Berggren and then his cousin had lost their lives.
If they had succeeded, perhaps Jonny Almhult would have been alive today, instead of having been found floating facedown off Trouville beach.
And Ellen Almhult, who was already a widow, would not have lost her only son.
Deep down Thomas firmly believed all three had been murdered by the same person. His instincts told him that the deaths were linked and that someone who had no hesitation about killing those who stood in his way was hiding in the shadows.
But how were they going to find him?
Thomas clenched both fists so tightly that his fingers ached. He hadn’t a clue why someone had taken the lives of three people. The only thing he did know was that there was a murderer on the loose on Sandhamn.
And that the police had no idea who it was or how to prevent the next murder.
CHAPTER 33
The atmosphere in the station was subdued and oppressive. Routine matters were dealt with unenthusiastically. Most people sat around talking in small groups after their shift; even those who had finished for the day stayed on and chatted.
Everyone knew Ellen and her family.
Jonny’s father, Georg Almhult, had been a part of the village community, an islander born and bred on Sandhamn. He might have had a few too many drinks now and again, but he had never been violent or unpleasant. Ellen Almhult had had a sharp tongue when she was younger, so there had been a certain amount of sympathy when her husband occasionally turned to the bottle. She had fallen out with various people over the years, but at a time like this, all the old grudges were forgotten.
The sorrow at losing a villager was mixed with fear over what had happened—and could happen again. Anxiety seeped through every façade and was reflected in the eyes of all those present. Some of the women were weeping as they talked. No one would be leaving the front door unlocked tonight.
“Thomas,” said Åsa, one of the girls who worked at the station. She had moved to the island a few years ago when she had gotten together with a man who lived there. “Come and have some fresh coffee. Should I make you a sandwich? You look worn out.”
Thomas smiled at her. “Thanks. That would be great. I don’t think I’ve eaten much today.”
Thomas went upstairs to the break room, and Åsa soon arrived with a substantial cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee. The room was sparsely furnished; there was a plain wooden table and two chairs by the window, and at one end of the room someone had managed to squeeze in a bed, which barely fit.
This was where Thomas used to spend the night when he was with the maritime police and couldn’t get back to Harö or the mainland.
He attacked the sandwich while gazing out at the old sandpit where sailing ships had collected sand as ballast for hundreds of years at the price of two öre per ton. It had been abandoned and fenced off long ago, and only an angular, unnatural sandy slope bore witness to its past.
Åsa broke the silence. “Is your sandwich OK?”
Thomas took another bite. “It’s delicious, thank you. I feel much better. That was just what I needed.”
They both fell silent. Åsa looked upset; it was obvious that she had been crying. “I just can’t understand why anyone would want to kill poor Jonny,” she said. “You couldn’t find a more harmless soul. I don’t think he’s done a bad thing in his life.”
“I don’t know, Åsa. Sometimes things happen, and we just can’t understand them.”
“And I can’t work out what he had to do with those cousins. I’ve never even heard of them before. They weren’t exactly familiar faces here.” She let out a small sob.
“I think there has to be a link we’re just not seeing,” Thomas said. “Jonny and Kicki Berggren somehow bumped into one another, but right now we don’t know how or why.”
“I don’t see how there can be a link. Jonny didn’t have many friends, particularly outside Sandhamn. He hardly ever left the island unless he had to. He hated going over to the mainland. He used to say he couldn’t breathe in the city.” She shook her head.
Thomas stretched his weary muscles and gazed out at the sandpit once more. It must have been a hard life, loading sand onto the passing ships that moored at the huge anchors that had been buried in the harbor way back in the eighteenth century. Many of the workers died young, worn out by their labor.
He finished the sandwich and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Thanks again. I’d better make a move; I’ve still got a few things to do.” He paused in the doorway. “Listen, I might grab a few hours of sleep here if it gets too late to travel back to Harö. I probably won’t make it to the city tonight.”
Åsa nodded and managed a little smile. “That’s no problem. You can have the room overnight if you need it. You’ve got a key, right?”
Thomas suddenly felt a rush of nostalgia as he thought of all those late nights when he was with the maritime police. “I do. It’ll be just like the good old days, when we only had drunk teenagers and the odd stolen boat to worry about.” Thomas tried to muster an encouraging smile, but it turned into more of a grimace. He didn’t want to let Åsa see how worried he really was. It was difficult to maintain a positive approach in the face of the anxious expressions around him.
They had to find a pattern, or they would never be able to track down the murderer. Somewhere there was a clue they had missed. There had to be.
When Thomas left the center he took the narrow lane to the right leading down to the promenade, which passed between two yellow wooden houses built at the end of the nineteenth century.
He stopped at the kiosk and looked at the newspaper placards; they were designed to attract maximum attention.
“Extra,” they said in thick black letters. “Another Murder on Sandhamn! Second Man Found Dead!”
It was incredible how quickly the press found out about what had happened. They’d only just got the body to Solna, and the stories were already in print.
One thing was certain: Persson wouldn’t be pleased about the fresh speculation in the media.
CHAPTER 34