CHAPTER 44
The pressure was intense and increasing all the time. Persson had held several press conferences over the past few days and was doing his best to keep the top brass informed. The press officer was working furiously to deal with all the phone calls so that the investigation could be conducted without interruption, but his constant requests to Persson for updates had fallen on stony ground.
Now Persson was growling as soon as the phone rang.
The cases of the multiple deaths in the middle of summer had shaken all those involved. The number of tourists heading over to Sandhamn had dropped significantly, and the chamber of trade had contacted the local authority and the chief constable. The problem must be solved, and soon.
The Waxholmsbolaget ferries were carrying far fewer passengers than they should be at this time of year.
The leader of the local council in Värmdö had called a press conference of his own to put forward his view of events, which consisted of a hastily cobbled together conspiracy theory touching on Mafia involvement from the Eastern Bloc. Which hadn’t been of any help to the investigation whatsoever. On the contrary, it had served to increase confusion and had given the media even greater opportunity to speculate on a range of theories.
“Remind me not to vote for that idiot next time we have a local election,” Persson had said with ill-concealed disgust. Then he had wadded up the newspaper in which the council leader had been permitted to outline his homespun analysis and hurled it into the trash.
Persson had also been contacted by the chairman of the Royal Swedish Yacht Club, a well-known figure from the world of industry, who had spoken with great authority, demanding to be informed about what was happening and how the investigation was progressing. The chairman had pointed out how important it was for Sandhamn’s reputation as an international center for competitive sailing that the case should be brought to a conclusion without delay. He had spoken about the long tradition of holding competitions based on Sandhamn and of the youth project on Lökholmen, where children from the Stockholm area gathered to attend sailing and confirmation camps. Anxious parents were calling him up, reluctant to let their offspring travel to the island.
“The situation is extremely worrying,” the chairman said. It was vital that the police understood how serious it was and did their utmost to sort things out. The Yacht Club had even discussed the matter at their board meeting that week. They had noted in the minutes that the police must find the guilty party as soon as possible.
Persson did his best not to explode during the conversation. He was dangerously close to losing his temper several times, and his face, which was normally red, could now be described as scarlet. He gritted his teeth and informed the chairman that the police were well aware of the seriousness of the situation. All available resources had been deployed on the case, including an officer with excellent local knowledge. The investigation was being given top priority.
But when the chairman insisted that he be kept informed on a daily basis, Persson almost lost it.
“I am conducting a murder investigation. I am not an information service. You’re not the only person calling and demanding information I don’t have,” he said.
“Now, now, my good man,” the chairman said. “Let’s not get worked up. It’s essential to maintain a good working relationship between the police and the Royal Swedish Yacht Club. We have nothing to gain by losing our temper.”
Persson almost burst.
“As I was saying to my good friend the commissioner the other day,” the chairman carried on, “I have every confidence in the way the police are conducting their investigation, but naturally I wish to be kept informed. In my position, I must be able to follow your work. Surely you understand that?”
Persson’s complexion changed from scarlet to dark purple.
“Don’t hesitate to contact me if you have a breakthrough. I can always be reached through the Yacht Club’s main office. Don’t worry about disturbing me if it’s something important.”
The receiver was nearly crushed in Persson’s viselike grip. With some difficulty he refrained from shouting again and managed something that could have been interpreted as a polite good-bye.
He ended the call and went into the conference room. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the team had gathered for a briefing. His irate expression and aura of rage rang alarm bells as soon as he walked in. Not even Carina—his own daughter—dared to ask what had happened, and most of those who had heard fragments of the telephone conversation reverberating down the corridor realized that if they wanted to save their own skins they would be well advised to keep a low profile.
“If one more fucking idiot asks me how this investigation is going, I swear I’ll punch him,” Persson said.
No one doubted his ability to keep that promise. He sat down on a chair that was already too small; it creaked in protest.
“So, how’s it going? Thomas, status report, please.” It wasn’t a question, merely an order barked from the corner of his mouth.
Thomas looked down at his papers and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Carina has gone through all the property owners in the part of the island where we think Kicki Berggren was headed. We have two names that could be of interest: Pieter Graaf and Philip Fahlén. Both are summer residents and have names that could to some extent match the name given by the manager of the Mission House. Philip Fahlén’s house is very close to the spot where Krister Berggren’s body was found; Pieter Graaf’s isn’t far from the Mission House, on the way to the beach at Fläskberget. Margit and I will be going over to Sandhamn to interview the two men as soon as possible.”
Persson looked a little less angry; he leaned back in his chair, which wobbled. “Well, at least that’s something to go on,” he said. “What do we know about Kicki Berggren’s other contacts on Sandhamn?”
“Erik will be standing outside the bakery all day today in order to try to find the person she spoke to,” Thomas said.
Persson looked at him impatiently. “How’s it gone so far?”
Thomas looked down at the table. “Nothing useful yet. However, I have spoken again to the girl who was working in the bar the night Kicki Berggren was there.” He flipped through his notebook. “Inger Gunnarsson. She had remembered something after our conversation last week. It seems Kicki had complained of an upset stomach; evidently she asked if they had any kind of antacid behind the bar.”
Margit folded her arms and gazed around the impersonal conference room, where a single wilting Busy Lizzie was the only attempt to make the place look better. Without the view of the blue waters of Nackafjärden through the window, it would have been depressingly bare. “Presumably she was beginning to feel the effects of the poison,” Margit said. “That would fit in with the pathologist’s report. If it was after eight o’clock, she would have started to feel ill. But she had drunk a fair amount of beer, so she might well have attributed the symptoms to something else.”
Persson changed tack. “Have we heard anything about Almhult from the pathologist? Do we know what the cause of death was?”
Thomas picked up a document that had been faxed through that morning. “Cause of death was drowning. There was evidence of a high level of alcohol in the blood. He must have been very drunk when he drowned—paralytic, in fact.”