“Hang on.” There was the sound of rustling paper as Kalle went through his notes. “Pieter Graaf is an IT consultant, and Philip Fahlén has his own company supplying equipment for catering facilities.”
Margit whistled. “Catering facilities—that means restaurants. I’m just wondering if Philip Fahlén supplies more than kitchen equipment to his clients.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s high time we had a chat with those two gentlemen.”
They arrived on Sandhamn after nearly an hour. Sometimes the ferries sailed directly from Stavsnäs to Sandhamn, which took no more than thirty-five minutes, but sometimes it seemed as if they were intent on calling at every single jetty in the southern archipelago. This time they had dropped off passengers on Styrsvik, Mjölkkilen, and Gatan before they reached their destination, but now the harbor opened out in front of them.
Thomas and Margit waited patiently in the line of families and day-trippers. They handed over their tickets and finally disembarked.
People were waiting on the pier to meet the new arrivals. Children and teenagers leaned on their bicycles as they ate Popsicles. Over by the kiosk, several people were going through the newspaper. In his peripheral vision Thomas could see that some of the headlines still featured the murders. And yet the harbor looked more or less the same as usual.
Except that it was quieter. With fewer boats.
Once ashore, they quickly set off for the western side of the island, where both Graaf and Fahlén lived. As soon as Thomas had looked at the map showing all the properties on Sandhamn, he knew exactly which houses they were.
They took the lane to the south of Strindbergsgården; it led into the heart of the village and through the old quarter. On the way they passed a little house painted Falu red, which reminded Thomas of a gingerbread house. Everything was extremely well maintained but in miniature. The garden extended no more than two yards around the property. The flag was flying, and the whole of the south-facing wall was covered in trellises weighed down with heavy bunches of luscious blackberries, in spite of the fact that it was only July. Pretty pots packed with plants were arranged by the fence; a tiny wooden deck area had been squeezed into one corner, and there was just room for a table and two chairs next to a compact woodshed with gray lichen on the roof.
It looked like an advertisement for summer in Sweden.
They cut across Adolf Square, the place where the traditional midsummer celebrations were held. The maypole was still standing, although it was somewhat yellow in comparison to what it must have looked like a few weeks earlier. One of the houses in the square had a climbing rose covering the entire wall; it looked like a pink firework spreading in all directions. There didn’t seem to be a single house where the beds weren’t full to bursting with glorious blooms.
Thomas wondered whether Sandhamn enjoyed some kind of microclimate that was particularly good for perennials. Either that, or all the people on the island must spend all their time tending their gardens. Watering alone must take forever.
He turned to Margit. “Have you been to Sandhamn before?”
“Yes, but it was a long time ago. My daughters have been over here a few times with their friends; it seems to be a popular place with teenagers. Bertil and I haven’t been here for ages. Not since one summer twenty years ago, when the whole place was packed with wasted teenagers. It was indescribable. Drunken adolescents staggering around and not an adult in sight.”
“I know what you mean,” Thomas said. “When I was with the maritime police I picked up one or two who needed a lift home. But I think the situation has improved in recent years. These days most places are closed on Midsummer’s Eve, and there aren’t as many places to camp either.”
“That must have had an effect.”
“You can’t imagine. One year when the weather was really bad, a group of kids actually broke into the police station so they’d be taken into custody. A kind of reverse outreach activity, if you like.” Thomas laughed at the memory.
They continued quickly toward Västerudd. On the way, Thomas took a small diversion to point out Nora’s house and to explain that his godson’s family lived there.
“What a beautiful gate,” Margit said. “I haven’t seen that sun pattern before.”
“I think Nora’s grandfather made it. She inherited the house from her grandparents about ten years ago, and that gate has been there for as long as I can remember.”
“It’s exactly right.” Margit nodded. “It’s good when people preserve a craftsman’s work like that.”
“Perhaps we could stop by and say hello when we’re finished,” Thomas said. “It would be nice to see Simon if we have time.”
Margit nodded.
CHAPTER 48
Pieter Graaf lived in a typical 1950s house surrounded by a large sandy garden containing a swing and a few stunted pine trees. It could have been in any suburb on the mainland and looked like a classic that was popular after the Second World War, when everyone decided to move out of the city. A couple of bedrooms, small windows, a kitchen, and a living room. Yellow wooden façade on a gray concrete base, surrounded by a white fence.
Margit looked at Thomas, who explained that the area had been established just after the war. Land had been divided up and houses built to provide accommodation for the families of pilots who had moved to Sandhamn.
Graaf was about thirty-five years old. He wore jeans and a tennis shirt spattered with something suspiciously like the green paint adorning the hut in one corner of the garden. He also wore a baseball cap with the logo of a well-known sports shop.
As they approached the house, Graaf was kicking a ball with a little boy who looked about three years old. The child was dressed in only a T-shirt and was as brown as a berry. He doubled over with laughter as his father deliberately missed the ball.
Margit and Thomas introduced themselves and explained that they had some questions relating to the recent deaths on the island. Did he have time for a chat?
Graaf looked surprised. He said he had already spoken to a police officer who had come by the previous week, but he broke off the ball game and invited them to sit down. He politely offered them a cold drink and said he would do his best to answer their questions.
The conversation was brief and not particularly useful.
Graaf had never set eyes on Kicki Berggren. He hadn’t even been on the island during the weekend when she was murdered. He had been in Småland visiting his in-laws. Nor had he met Kicki Berggren’s cousin. All he knew about the two of them was what had been in the papers.
Thomas considered him. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the garden. There was virtually no sun where Graaf was sitting. He swung gently on the garden seat, which moved in time with the almost imperceptible movements of his body. From time to time a few pine needles drifted down onto the sand. He appeared to be an honest and pleasant person; he seemed genuinely surprised to receive a second visit from the police.
Many years’ experience had taught Thomas that his first impression wasn’t always accurate. But his gut feeling told him that he was talking to a perfectly ordinary father, not a cold-blooded killer.
“The day before Kicki Berggren died, she was asking about a man with a name similar to yours. Can you think of any reason why she might have wanted to speak to you?”