He was reputed to be an excellent policeman, sympathetic and fair. An honorable man who was good to work with. His likeable personality made him a popular member of the team, despite the fact that he kept a good deal of distance. He didn’t allow anyone to get too close.
According to what Carina had heard, he had lost a child about a year ago. After that, there had been no hope for his marriage, and it had ended in divorce. There had been talk in the office about the little girl who had died of sudden infant death syndrome, but nobody knew the details.
For a long time he had been very depressed, but lately his spirits had begun to rise. At least if you believed the office gossip.
She hadn’t been with anyone special recently, just dated a little. Boys her own age who bored her. Thomas—who was approaching forty—was completely different. He didn’t just look good; he was a grown man, not an immature boy. On top of that, there was something about Thomas that struck a chord with Carina, although she couldn’t really explain it. Perhaps it was that sense of sorrow just beneath the surface. Or the fact that he didn’t really seem to notice her, which merely served to increase her interest.
She knew she didn’t look too bad; she was small and neat and had a dimple in her left cheek that people often mentioned. She usually had all the approval she needed from guys, but Thomas treated her just like everyone else, in spite of the little hints she dropped.
Carina had begun to find herself errands that took her into Thomas’s office. Sometimes she would treat him to a Danish pastry or a piece of cake to go with his morning coffee. She tried to make sure she was sitting close to him when they had a briefing and made every effort to attract his attention. But so far it hadn’t made a bit of difference.
She lingered in the doorway as Thomas studied the report. Her eyes rested on his hand, holding the papers. She thought he had such beautiful fingers, long and slender with attractively shaped nails. From time to time she wondered what it would feel like to be touched by those fingers. Before she fell asleep she would fantasize about his hands, caressing her. How it would feel to lie close by his side, skin on skin.
Completely oblivious to Carina’s thoughts, Thomas was absorbed in the report. It was written in cold, clinical language, with no emotional nuances revealing anything about the man in the descriptions. Short, clipped phrases efficiently summarized the results.
Death by drowning. Water in the lungs. Injuries to the body sustained during the time spent in the sea, as far as they could judge. Several fingers and toes missing. No trace of chemical substances or alcohol in the blood. The old fishing net was made of the same cotton fiber as Swedish fishing nets usually were. The loop of rope around the upper body had been ordinary rope. It appeared that something had been attached to the rope; the end was frayed, and traces of iron indicated that it had been in contact with a metal object.
Nothing in the report indicated that death had been caused by another person.
Suicide or an accident, in that case.
The only strange thing was the rope around the body. Thomas considered this. Why would someone have a rope around his body if he’d drowned accidentally? Had Krister Berggren tried to get out of the water after falling in? Or, if he’d committed suicide, had he made a bungled attempt to hang himself, then regretted it and jumped in instead? In which case, wouldn’t he have removed the rope? Why just push it down his body? Perhaps that kind of question was unimportant given a person’s state of mind just before a suicide attempt.
The fishing net could be explained away as a simple mishap. The body could have drifted into someone’s net and gotten entangled in it. The loop of rope was more difficult to understand. On the other hand, his years as a police officer had taught him that certain things cannot be explained. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.
If the rope hadn’t been there, the death would have been written off as either an accident or suicide right away, but it was chafing Thomas’s thoughts like a tiny stone in his shoe.
He decided to go over to Krister Berggren’s flat. There might be a suicide note or some other information to help explain things.
Krister Berggren had lived on the far side of Bandhagen, a suburb just south of Stockholm.
Thomas parked his car, an eight-year-old Volvo 945, by the curb and looked around. The buildings were typical of the 1950s, made of buff-colored brick, four stories, and no lift. Row after row of blocks of flats met his gaze. There were a few cars parked on the street. An elderly man in a cap was making his way with the help of a walker.
Thomas opened the outer door and walked into the entrance hall. The tenants’ names were listed on a board to the right. Krister Berggren had lived two floors up. Thomas walked quickly up the stairs. On each floor there were three doors made of pale-brown wood, which had become scratched over the years. The walls were painted in a nondescript shade of beige gray.
Beneath the nameplate that said “K. Berggren” was a piece of paper with No Junk Mail written on it in pencil. Despite this, someone had tried to shove a huge bundle of advertisements through the letterbox.
The locksmith had arrived a few minutes earlier; when he opened the door for Thomas, a stale smell immediately surged toward them in a mixture of old food and enclosed air.
Thomas started with the kitchen. On the dish rack stood several empty wine bottles and a dried-up loaf of bread. There were dirty plates in the sink. He opened the old fridge, and the stench of sour milk hit him. Moldy cheese and ham lay next to it. It was obvious nobody had been there for months.
There were no surprises in the living room. A black leather sofa, dreary sea-grass carpet that had clearly been there for some time. On the glass table, various rings left by glasses and bottles bore witness to a predilection for alcohol, coupled with a lack of interest in taking care of the furniture. A few dead potted plants stood on the windowsill. It was obvious that Krister Berggren had lived alone for many years; there was no sign that a woman had shared his life.
The bookcase was crammed with DVDs. Thomas noticed an entire shelf filled with Clint Eastwood films. A few books—some looked as if they might have been inherited, because they had old-fashioned, worn leather spines with gold lettering. On one wall hung a poster showing Formula One cars at the starting grid.
On the table were a pile of assorted catalogs, one copy of Motor Sport, and a TV listings magazine. There was also a brochure for the ferry company Silja Line in the pile. Thomas picked it up and looked at it more closely. Perhaps Krister Berggren had simply fallen overboard from a ferry to Finland. All the big shipping companies passed the western point of Sandhamn at around nine each evening.
He went into the bedroom and looked around. The quilt was pulled over the bed, but there were dirty clothes lying around. An old copy of the evening paper Aftonbladet was on the nightstand. Thomas picked it up and looked at the date: March 27. Could that be the last time Krister was at home? It matched the best-before date on the carton of sour milk in the fridge.
On a bureau stood a black-and-white photograph of a girl with a 1950s hairstyle, wearing a twinset. Thomas picked it up and turned it over. Cecilia—1957, it said in ornate handwriting. The girl was pretty in an old-fashioned way. Pale lipstick, beautiful eyes gazing far into the distance. She had a neat, clean air about her. Presumably she was Krister’s mother. According to the records, she had died at the beginning of the year.