Margit and Thomas crossed the small beach and turned onto the road leading toward Västerudd and the Fahlén house. As they approached, they saw a blue boat with an outboard motor moored alongside the day cruiser. A woman in shorts and a top that left most of her stomach bare was looking out a window. The large sunglasses pushed up onto her forehead made her look like a giant fly. She emerged from the house and came up to the gate when they were still a few yards away.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“We’re with the police. We’d like to speak to Philip Fahlén, if he’s home.” Thomas took out his ID and held it out so she could see he was telling the truth.
“Phil, there’s two police officers here—they want to talk to you.” She looked anxious. “Has something happened? Are we in any danger?”
“We just want to ask a few questions. It won’t take long.” Thomas gave her a reassuring smile; Margit said nothing.
Philip Fahlén appeared in the doorway with a glass in his hand. He was a plump man, aged about sixty-five. He was very tan, and what little hair he had was cut extremely short, which drew attention to his slightly protruding ears. He was wearing blue pants and an open white shirt, with a blue-and-red scarf knotted around his neck.
Thomas thought with a certain amount of amusement that all Fahlén needed was a captain’s hat to complete the impression that he was the captain of a luxury liner cruising the Mediterranean.
Fahlén showed them into the huge living room that overlooked the sea. He offered them a seat on the plush sofa, where there was hardly room to sit down with all the cushions. It was like sitting outdoors, and yet it wasn’t. The view through the panorama window was astonishing: an endless series of islets against the backdrop of a glittering sea.
Glossy foreign magazines and several books featuring topics relating to the archipelago were arranged on the glass coffee table. Thomas recognized a book on lighthouses by the photographer Magnus Rietz, well known for his work on the islands. The entire room had a nautical theme. Pictures of various ships adorned the walls, and the cushions on the royal-blue sofa were patterned with international signal flags. Fabric made to look like maritime charts had been used for the shades of the floor lamps in each corner, and a blue-and-white-striped square rug completed the decor, along with a huge electrified kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling.
It looked as if someone had gone crazy in a marine interior design store.
As Margit sat down on one sofa and contemplated the decor with a stunned expression, Thomas introduced himself and explained why they were there. He summarized the course of events that had led them to Fahlén and started by asking whether he’d had any kind of relationship with either Krister or Kicki Berggren.
“I didn’t know those people at all,” Fahlén said. “I only know what was in the papers. I’ve never met them.” He stared at Thomas and Margit, frowning as if to express his astonishment that they could possibly think there was a connection.
“You’re sure about that?” said Margit.
“Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn’t have said it, would I?”
Thomas decided to change the subject. “Could you tell us a little bit about your company? Is it successful?”
Fahlén looked even more surprised; he clearly hadn’t expected the police to be interested in his business. “Very successful. We supply white goods and dishwashers to restaurants and catering facilities all over the country.”
“How many people do you employ?” Margit asked.
“Approximately fifty. I took over from my father, but of course I’ve expanded. You have to move with the times, after all.”
“Where are you based?” Thomas asked.
“Our head office is in Sickla, but we serve all of Sweden. We have several well-known restaurants among our clients.” It was obvious that Fahlén was proud of his company. He wasn’t in the least embarrassed as he continued to boast about his successes and top-tier clients.
After a while Thomas attempted to steer the conversation toward Sandhamn. “Why did you decide to spend the summers out here? Do you have any particular link to the island?”
“Not really—I fell in love with the archipelago in the seventies and started coming here.”
“Have you been living here since then?”
“No. For the first fifteen years, while my daughters were young, I rented a place in Trouville.”
“And then you bought this house?”
“That’s right. I bought it from old Mrs. Ekman when she was widowed and couldn’t manage it anymore. Picked it up for next to nothing at the beginning of the nineties, long before prices shot up and everyone decided they wanted to buy property here.” He leaned back among the cushions. “I’m sure I could sell it for many times the purchase price today. It’s been an excellent investment, no doubt about it. But I’ve got a good nose for business,” he said with a smug smile.
“Does your company have any contact with Systemet?” Margit asked.
Fahlén looked blank. “Not on a professional basis.”
“Are your clients interested in buying more than just kitchen equipment?” Margit asked.
“What do you mean? Like what?”
“Cheap booze, for example. Contraband.”
“How should I know? Where’s this coming from?” Fahlén demanded.
Margit stared hard at him, keeping her eyes fixed on him for such a long time that he began to fiddle with the glass in his hand. A tiny bead of sweat appeared by his right temple.
Thomas decided to change direction. “Do you spend much time in this house?”
“Quite a lot. We enjoy life here.”
“Do you come here in the winter? Were you here over Easter this year?” Thomas asked.
“As I said, we’re here quite a lot.”
“You didn’t answer my question: Were you here over Easter?”
Fahlén looked confused, as if he were trying to work out why the question had been asked. “Probably—we often spend Easter on Sandhamn.”
“Krister Berggren disappeared around that time,” Thomas explained in a cool voice. “And then his body was washed ashore not far from this house. You can probably see the spot from your kitchen window.” He got up and walked over to the window in question; beyond the pine trees he could just see the strip of shoreline where Krister Berggren’s body had been found lying at the water’s edge.
Fahlén was appalled; he shook his head. “I didn’t meet that Berggren, or whatever his name was, over Easter. And I’ve never met the woman either. I’ve already told you, I know nothing about these people.”
“What about Jonny Almhult? He lived on the island,” Thomas said, his tone growing sterner.
Fahlén shook his head again.
“Are you absolutely certain?” It seemed to Thomas that Fahlén deflated slightly.
Seconds passed as Fahlén gave the matter some thought. “I might have met him once or twice. I definitely wouldn’t say I knew him.”
“So you have met Jonny Almhult before.”
“Possibly. I don’t understand why you’re asking.” Fahlén took a swig from his glass, which was adorned with golden knots all the way round.
“Obviously we’re interested in any information relating to the three people who were found dead on the island.” Thomas spoke slowly, hoping that the words would sink in. “Did Jonny Almhult do any work for you?”
“What kind of work?”
“You know that better than I do. Did he?”