It was clear that few people had noticed Kicki Berggren’s visit to Sandhamn. Among the crowds of summer visitors, sailors, and tourists, hardly anyone had noticed a lonely woman of about fifty.
In spite of the fact that they had knocked on every single door in Sandhamn—more than once in some cases—their inquiries had produced little. Thomas rubbed his eyes and yawned. The only point of interest was a statement Erik had handed in. He had spoken to a woman who lived in the older part of the village who thought she remembered Kicki Berggren walking past the bakery heading toward Fläskberget—going west, in other words. The woman had noticed her because she had been wearing such high heels and had had some difficulty walking on the sand.
“These are much better,” the old lady had said, pointing to her white sneakers, the laces tied in a neat bow.
According to the report, Kicki Berggren had been looking around as if she didn’t really know where she was going.
The woman had also noticed that Kicki had spoken to someone, but she couldn’t remember who it was. She couldn’t for the life of her come up with any distinguishing features about the person Kicki had been talking to. She couldn’t even recall whether it was a man or a woman, let alone the person’s age or appearance. Just that Kicki seemed to be asking questions.
“I’m sorry, but it was all so quick. It was just something I saw out of the corner of my eye. I was too busy wondering how she could walk in those shoes,” she had explained when Erik pushed her for more details.
Thomas got up and went to make a cup of coffee. Two spoonfuls of instant coffee, hot water, two sugar lumps, and a little milk. He stirred thoughtfully as the sugar dissolved. Then he opened the cupboard to see if there was anything to eat. There wasn’t much, but he managed to locate an open packet of slightly stale cookies.
He took his coffee and the cookies back to the computer and sat down. He read through Erik’s report one more time as he pondered. If Kicki Berggren was going to visit someone, but didn’t know where that person lived, it was only logical that she would ask the way. The bakery was a natural meeting point on Sandhamn. Everyone who lived on the island went there on a regular basis to buy bread.
The woman had seen Kicki at some point on Friday afternoon. If one assumed that she was intending to visit someone who lived on the island, then she must have asked a resident. A sailor or a tourist probably wouldn’t have been able to help. Therefore, there had to be someone who had spoken to Kicki and who knew what questions she had asked.
The problem was that they had yet to find this unknown person. Nor had anyone come forward.
On the other hand, Thomas was well aware that he or she wasn’t necessarily still on the island. Many families shared the houses they had inherited, which meant that they spent only part of their vacation on Sandhamn. If this mysterious individual had left the island and gone somewhere else, perhaps to a different part of the country or even abroad, that would explain why the police hadn’t managed to track him or her down. There could also be an even simpler explanation: the person might not realize that he or she had spoken to the woman who had later been murdered and that the police would be interested. If this was the case, the chances of finding him or her were probably infinitesimal.
Thomas drank the last of his coffee. If they could find out whom Kicki Berggren had spoken to, it would provide an important piece of the puzzle.
He decided to post Erik at the bakery for the entire next day with a photograph of Kicki. He would ask him to speak to every person who turned up to find out if anyone had seen or spoken to her a week ago.
They also needed to question the bakery staff again. There was no guarantee that the girls who had been working there when the police turned up were the same as when Kicki stopped by. He remembered working in a bakery when he was a teenager; the employees had different shifts, coming and going all the time.
Thomas closed his eyes and tried to visualize the bakery. If you headed west from there, where would you end up?
In his mind’s eye he saw the lane where the red building housing the bakery was located. It led past one of the oldest houses on Sandhamn, a little cottage dating back to the eighteenth century where someone by the name of C. J. Sjöblom had once lived. The name was etched into the rock at the bottom of the steps leading up to the cottage. Apparently another past resident, an old woman, had made a living taking in laundry for the islanders.
The very thought of washing clothes by hand in winter in the ice-cold water made Thomas shudder.
He continued walking through the village in his mind.
If you carried on along the lane, you passed the little hill where children of every age wore out the seat of their pants by sliding down and landing on the sand.
Then came a row of old houses, followed by the marina for small boats to the north, then Kvarnberget.
Eventually you reached Fläskberget, an attractive sandy shore, which many families in the village preferred to the more famous Trouville beach, which was often packed with tourists.
Finally you came to Västerudd, the western point of the island, which consisted mainly of pine forests and low-growing blueberry bushes, with the odd large house and garden dotted around. It was on the beach between Koberget and Västerudd that Krister Berggren’s body had been found, next to a house owned by the Åkermark family. A stretch of sand with virtually no sign of habitation.
Thomas realized that if Kicki Berggren had been on her way to the western side of the island, it meant that the Trouville area could be discounted completely. This in turn meant that the search area was significantly reduced.
A welcome thought under the circumstances.
He decided to spend the following morning concentrating on the area between the bakery and Västerudd. With a bit of luck they would be able to find someone who had seen a blond woman in high heels wandering around last Friday.
Thomas stretched. He had earned a cold beer down by the jetty. At least he felt like he was getting somewhere.
CHAPTER 42
“What time are we leaving, Mom?” Simon patted Nora’s arm and planted a soft kiss on her cheek.
Nora looked around, only half-awake. The digital clock showed that it was only 7:20. Far too early to get up, at least if she had anything to say about it.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”
“What time are we leaving for Alskär? We’re going there with Fabian’s family, remember? That’s what you said yesterday.”
Nora suppressed a groan. She had completely forgotten that they had promised to take the children to the little island immediately northeast of Sandhamn, just a ten-minute boat trip away. There was a natural sandy beach on Alskär, plus a tiny island opposite that you could wade to. The children loved going there and making their way across the little sound.
Yesterday afternoon, when she was in a really good mood, she had happily agreed with Eva Lenander that they would spend Sunday on Alskär together. Eva’s son, Fabian, was Simon’s best friend on Sandhamn, and the Lenanders lived just a few minutes away.