When Thomas and Carina arrived at the apartment block in Bandhagen, there wasn’t a soul in sight. The only sign of life was a black cat with a white tail; it hurried across the road without looking back.
The apartment on the third floor was just as silent and deserted as the last time. The police notice made it clear that no unauthorized persons should attempt to enter. Thomas unlocked the front door and let Carina in. It smelled even more stale than before. They walked through the narrow hallway and into the living room with its scruffy wallpaper. The sparse furnishings and grubby black leather sofa were still just as depressing.
Carina looked around. “It’s miserable.”
“You could say that.”
“Krister Berggren must have been a really lonely person.” She shuddered.
A bullfinch was singing away outside the window, oblivious to whatever might be going on in the buildings around him. The desolation that was so typical of the city at the height of summer was palpable. All those who possibly could have fled the hot tarmac and suffocating air packed their bags and headed for the nearest coastline. The only people left were those who had neither the time nor the energy to get away.
Thomas pointed to the smaller room. “If I take the bedroom, can you do the living room?”
“Of course. Am I looking for anything in particular?”
“No, I just can’t help feeling that we’ve missed something. The key to a safety deposit box where he kept the money from his underhand deals, for example, or something else that links him to Sandhamn.” Thomas shrugged. “I wish I could be more specific.”
Carina took out white latex gloves and passed a pair to Thomas, her expression serious. It was obvious she was trying to behave in a professional manner, but Thomas just thought she looked rather sweet.
Methodically, he began to go through the bedroom once again, tipping every drawer out onto the bed before examining and sorting the contents. Then he turned his attention to the closet, which contained nothing unusual. A few pairs of black pants, several pairs of scruffy jeans, a Windbreaker with Systemet’s logo on the back. He checked the shelves inside the closet and the drawer in the bedside table.
He pulled two beer crates full of porn magazines from under the bed: an assortment of women, mostly blondes, in a variety of poses that left little to the imagination. It was somehow sad rather than titillating.
After an hour, Thomas had examined every single item in the little room. He hadn’t found anything new, but what had he expected? The investigative team had already carried out a forensic search that had led nowhere.
With a sigh, he straightened up and went into the bathroom. There were no surprises in the medicine cabinet, nor in the narrow spaces behind the bathtub and the toilet. He wasn’t surprised. It was very rare, apart from in movies, that secret papers were discovered taped behind a toilet tank.
He rubbed the back of his neck and stretched. Then he went to join Carina in the living room. She was sitting on the floor, systematically going through everything that had been in the bookcase. On her knee she had a photo album, one of several from the bottom shelf. She had already checked the videos, which were now piled on the table. The drawers had been removed from the desk and placed on the sofa.
Thomas carefully moved one of them, which contained piles of papers and other bits and pieces, and sat down.
“How’s it going?”
“So-so.”
“How were his finances?”
“I’ve looked at his bills going back several years, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. We’ve already seen his bank statements, and there are no unexplained credits or debits. If he was making money on the side, he definitely wasn’t putting it into his bank account.”
“Exactly. That’s why there ought to be a key to a safety deposit box or something similar that we just haven’t found yet. He was probably bright enough to realize you don’t turn up at the bank with dirty money.”
Carina pointed to a pile of magazines. “I’ve gone through dozens of car magazines and piles of travel brochures, but I haven’t found a thing.”
“So I see.”
Thomas picked up a copy of Motor Sport from 2004 and flipped through it.
“I was thinking of going through his photo albums again, just to be on the safe side. Maybe you could take one of them? Unless you want to start on the kitchen?”
Thomas didn’t answer; he simply removed one of the albums from the shelf. The pages were slightly yellowed, and some of the pictures were loose where the glue had dried. The album contained lots of photographs of the woman whose framed portrait stood on top of the chest of drawers. A neatly written caption under each one provided information about who was with her and when the picture had been taken. It must have been put together by Krister’s mother; the handwriting looked like a woman’s, and it was difficult to imagine Krister Berggren as the kind of person who would meticulously sort pictures into an album.
Presumably it had come to him after his mother’s death.
Thomas gently turned the pages. Several photographs had begun to turn yellow. He found Krister and Kicki in an old Volvo Amazon; they were sitting in the back, proud and slightly self-conscious, both with their thumbs up.
Suddenly Thomas noticed that Carina’s attention had been caught by something. She appeared to be trying to get an envelope from behind a large photograph of Krister’s mother, which took up a whole page in the album. She slid it out gently and opened it. She started to read, her brow becoming more furrowed as she went along. After a couple of minutes she looked up, a big smile on her face. “Thomas, I think I’ve found the missing link.”
She had his full attention. “What do you mean?”
She handed over the letter and the envelope. To my son Krister, it said on the outside. To be read after my death.
CHAPTER 69
Thomas held the letter in his hand, suddenly feeling that they had found the key to the mystery. He began to read.
Dear Krister, You have never known who your father was, the letter began. It was two handwritten pages. It was dated a year ago. There was no stamp on the envelope, so presumably it had been handed directly to Krister rather than being mailed.
Thomas slowly read through the text. When he had finished he sat in silence for a little while. Then he turned to Carina, who was watching him attentively.
“So now we know what linked Krister Berggren to Sandhamn.”
She nodded. “And who his father was.”
Thomas held up the letter. “He had every reason to go over to the island.”
“Yes, especially if he found out after his mother’s death,” Carina said. “She died at the end of February, and he disappeared at the end of March. He must have decided to make contact soon after the funeral.”
Thomas contemplated a picture of Krister; he was gazing beyond the camera, as if waiting for something or someone that never appeared. “So he suddenly learned who his father was, and that he had more living relatives, not just Kicki.”
Carina pushed her hair back. She was looking over a photograph of Cecilia Berggren, who was holding her son in her arms and looking straight down the lens with a serious expression. “It must have been such a shock,” she said. “After all these years. I wonder why his mother never told him.”