Текст книги "Still Waters"
Автор книги: Viveca Sten
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FORTHCOMING IN THE SANDHAMN MURDERS SERIES
Closed Circles
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2008 Viveca Sten
Translation copyright © 2015 Marlaine Delargy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as I de lugnaste vatten by Forum in Sweden in 2008. Translated from Swedish by Marlaine Delargy. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2015.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503945708
ISBN-10: 1503945707
Cover design by Kimberly Glyder
For my brave mother
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
MONDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
THURSDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 7
TUESDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 8
WEDNESDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
THURSDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 11
FRIDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
SATURDAY, THE SECOND WEEK
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
SUNDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
MONDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
TUESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 27
WEDNESDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
THURSDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
FRIDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
SATURDAY, THE THIRD WEEK
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
SUNDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
MONDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
TUESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
WEDNESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
THURSDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
FRIDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
SATURDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
SUNDAY, THE SIXTH WEEK
CHAPTER 80
AFTERWORD
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
PROLOGUE
Everything was completely still and peaceful as only winter can be, when the archipelago belongs to those who live there, and the raucous summer visitors have not yet taken over the islands.
The water was dark and shining, the cold of winter lying heavily on the surface. Odd patches of snow rested on the rocks. A few mergansers stood out like dots against the sky, and the sun was low on the horizon.
“Help me,” he yelled. “Help me, for God’s sake!”
Someone threw a tangle of rope out to him, and he rushed to loop it around his body in the ice-cold water.
“Pull me up,” he said, panting as he grasped the side of the boat with fingers that had already begun to stiffen from the cold.
When the anchor attached to the rope was thrown over the rail, he seemed more confused than anything, as if he didn’t understand that its weight would soon drag him to the bottom.
That he only had a few seconds left to live before his body followed the heavy lump of iron.
His hand breaking the surface of the water, tangled in the abandoned fishing net, was the last visible thing. The waters closed over it with an almost imperceptible sigh.
Then there was only the sound of the engine, as the boat turned to make its way back to the harbor.
MONDAY, THE FIRST WEEK
CHAPTER 1
“Here, Pixie! Come here!”
The man gazed irritably at the dachshund as she ran down the beach; she had been cooped up on the boat for several days. He really should have kept her on the leash. Dogs were not allowed to run loose in the summer on Sandhamn, a small island in the Stockholm archipelago, but he didn’t have the heart to observe the rule when the little dog was so happy to run free.
Besides, there was hardly anybody in sight so early in the morning. Those living in the few houses along the shoreline had hardly woken up. The only sound came from the screaming gulls. The air was fresh and clear, the overnight rain had given everything a newly washed feel, and the sun was already warm, promising another glorious day.
The sand was tightly packed and pleasant to walk on. The low-growing pines gave way to ryegrass and wormwood, mixed with clusters of yellow flowers. Tangled heaps of seaweed had washed up at the water’s edge, and over toward Falkenskär a single yacht could be seen traveling east.
Where had that damn dog gone?
He followed her barking. Pixie was yapping, her little tail wagging from side to side. She was standing by a rock sniffing at something, but he couldn’t see what it was. He went over to have a look, noticing an unpleasant smell. As he got closer it turned into a sour, suffocating miasma.
On the ground lay something that looked like a bundle of old rags.
He bent down to shoo the dog away and realized it was an old fishing net full of seaweed. Suddenly he understood what he was seeing.
The fishing net ended in two bare feet, both of which were missing several toes. Only bones protruded from what was left of the shriveled, greenish skin.
Before he could stop himself, his stomach turned inside out. A surge of pink vomit poured out and splashed his shoes.
When he was able to stand upright again, he used a little seawater to sluice out his mouth. Then he got out his cell phone and called the police.
CHAPTER 2
Inspector Thomas Andreasson was really looking forward to his vacation—four weeks in his summer cottage on the island of Harö in the Stockholm archipelago. Morning dips in the sea. Paddling his kayak. Barbecues. Trips to Sandhamn to visit his godson.
Thomas liked to take his vacations late in the year; the water was warmer, and the weather was usually better. But right now, just after midsummer, it was difficult not to long for an escape from the city, to be out among the islands.
Ever since he had started working with the violent crime unit in Nacka Municipality the previous year, he’d had his hands full. There was an enormous amount to learn, despite the fact that he had been on the police force for fourteen years, the last eight with the maritime police.
During that time, he had sailed most of the boats used by the maritime police, from the CB90 to Skerfe boats and RIBs. He knew the archipelago like the back of his hand. He knew exactly where the unmarked reefs were and which shallows were particularly dangerous at low tide.
As a maritime police officer he had seen a great deal and heard many fantastic explanations as to why certain individuals sailed their boats as they did, especially when it came to owners who’d had too much to drink.
He’d handled everything from stolen boats and vandalism to lost foreigners and runaway teenagers. The local population used to complain that people were fishing illegally in private waters. There wasn’t much the maritime police could do about that, other than turn a blind eye when the owner of the waters took the intruders’ nets and kept them as compensation.
On the whole he had been very happy with his job, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that little Emily was on the way, he would have probably never considered applying for a post in the city.
Afterward, when it had all been for nothing, he hadn’t had the strength to move. He had barely managed to live through each day.
But life on the police force in Nacka was intense and fast-paced, and he found himself surprisingly at home, even if he sometimes—particularly during the summer—found himself longing for the freedom of island life.
Margit Grankvist, his colleague and a considerably more experienced officer, peeked her head into the office and interrupted his thoughts.
“Thomas, come and see the old man with me. They’ve found a body on Sandhamn.”
Thomas looked up.
The old man was the head of criminal investigation in Nacka, Detective Chief Inspector Göran Persson. He shared the prime minister’s name, a fact he didn’t appreciate in the slightest. He was quick to point out that his political views did not correspond with those of the prime minister. He was not, however, prepared to expound on those views. He had a somewhat portly figure, similar to that of the prime minister, and displayed a distinct lack of enthusiasm for all the comparisons.
He was an old-school officer, a man of few words, but he created a good atmosphere and was valued by his colleagues. He was conscientious and knowledgeable, and had a great deal of experience.
When Thomas walked into Persson’s office, Margit was already sitting there with her ever-present cup of coffee. The department’s coffeemaker produced a liquid that was positively toxic. How Margit could knock it back in such quantities was a mystery. Thomas had switched to drinking tea for the first time in his life because of it.
“The dead body of a male has been found on the northwest beach on Sandhamn,” said Persson. “Evidently the body is in bad shape; it’s been in the water for quite some time.”
Margit made a note on her pad before looking up. “Who found it?”
“Some poor sailor. Apparently he’s really shaken up. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He contacted us about an hour ago, just before seven this morning. He was out walking his dog when he stumbled across the body.”
“Any suspicion of murder?” asked Thomas, taking out his own notebook. “Any signs of abuse or violence?”
“Too early to say. Apparently the body was entangled in some kind of fishing net. Anyway, the maritime police are on their way to investigate, and they’ve organized transport to bring the body in.”
Persson looked at Thomas. “I seem to remember. Do you still have that house on Harö? That’s next to Sandhamn, isn’t it?”
Thomas nodded. “It takes about ten to fifteen minutes to travel between the islands.”
“Excellent. Local knowledge. I’d like you to go over to Sandhamn and take a look, maybe say hello to your old colleagues.”
A cunning smile played on the DCI’s lips.
“Is there any indication we should be opening a murder investigation?” asked Thomas, glancing at his boss.
“For the time being it’s being treated as an unexplained death. If it turns into a murder investigation, Margit will lead it, but for now I think you can take care of it.”
“Suits me,” said Margit. “I’m up to here with all the reports that have to be in before my vacation. You carry on!” She nodded for emphasis. It was obvious that the countdown to the holidays had begun. Just a few more days of paperwork, then freedom beckoned in the form of a rented cottage on the west coast and four weeks with her family.
Persson looked at the clock. “I’ve been in touch with the police helicopter. They’re still in town, so they can pick you and the technicians up in twenty minutes. You just need to get to the helipad at Slussen. You can get a lift back with the maritime police. Or take the Waxholmsbolaget ferry,” he said with a grin.
“Fine by me,” said Thomas. “You’re welcome to talk me into a helicopter ride any day.”
Persson got to his feet, indicating the briefing was over. “That’s settled, then. Come and see me when you get back so I can get a status report.” He stopped in the doorway, scratching his chin. “Play things down a bit out there, Thomas. It’s the height of tourist season. We don’t want a load of hysterical visitors and journalists getting ideas. You know what the tabloids are like. They’d love to swap their tired old summer standby of sex tips for speculation about a murder in the archipelago.”
Margit gave Thomas an encouraging smile.
“You’ll do a great job. Give me a call if you have any questions. And remember not to come to any conclusions until forensics have had their say.”
Thomas pulled on the leather jacket he always wore, irrespective of the weather.
“Do you think the helicopter could drop me off on Harö when we’re done?” he asked in passing on his way out.
“Of course. If the official government plane could fly Thomas Bodström to Greece for his summer holiday, I’m sure the Stockholm Police can fly Thomas Andreasson out to his summer cottage.”
The DCI grinned at his own wit.
Margit shook her head but couldn’t help smiling. “Talk later. Say hello to the islands for me.”
She waved good-bye.
CHAPTER 3
“Hello.”
Nora Linde automatically answered her cell phone before realizing it was the phone alarm sounding, not the phone ringing. Nora stretched. She turned over and looked at her husband lying in bed next to her.
Henrik was breathing peacefully, like a child. Nora envied his ability to sleep undisturbed through absolutely anything. The only thing that woke him was his hospital pager—when it went off, he was wide awake in a second.
He still looked almost the same as when they’d gotten married nearly ten years ago. Dark-brown hair, muscular abs and biceps from years of competitive sailing, sensitive doctor’s hands with long, beautiful fingers. Nora didn’t begrudge Henrik his stylish profile with its elegant, almost classical Greek nose. On the other hand, she thought it was wasted on a man. At least that’s what she used to say to cheer herself up, because her own nose was far too short and stubby for her taste. A few strands of gray were visible in Henrik’s dark hair, a reminder that he had recently turned thirty-seven, just as she had.
Her cell phone buzzed again.
Nora sighed. Getting up at a quarter to eight Monday through Friday wasn’t her idea of a vacation, but if you had children on an island like Sandhamn, those children attended swimming lessons at the times available.
With a yawn she pulled on her robe and walked into the children’s room. Simon, who was six, was lying with his bottom in the air and his head buried deep in the pillow. It was hard to believe he could actually breathe in that position.
Adam, who had just turned ten, had kicked off the covers and was sprawled diagonally across the bed. His white-blond hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the back of his neck.
Both were fast asleep.
Simon’s swimming lesson began at nine o’clock, Adam’s at ten thirty, so she just had time to get home with Simon and make sure Adam had some breakfast before he set off on his bike.
Perfect timing, in other words.
In spite of everything, she would probably miss the contact with the other mothers and fathers when Simon was also old enough to cycle there on his own. It was pleasant, sitting by the edge of the pool chatting as the children practiced their strokes.
She had attended swimming lessons as a child with many of the parents, so she knew most of them. At that time there had been no question of using a heated pool and warming up in the sauna afterward. They had shivered their way into the water at Fläskberget, the beach on the north side of the island where the swimming school had been until the pool area was built.
She could still remember how incredibly cold it was. But she had gained her swimming badges in water with a temperature of sixty-one degrees; those badges were still around somewhere. Presumably at her parents’ house, just a few hundred yards away.
Nora went into the bathroom to get ready. As she brushed her teeth, she sleepily examined her reflection in the mirror. Tousled reddish-blond hair cut into a bob. Snub nose. Gray eyes. A body shaped by plenty of exercise; some might even call it boyish.
She was quite happy with her appearance, for the most part. Above all she liked her long, shapely legs, the result of many years of jogging. She found it so easy to think while she jogged. Her breasts weren’t exactly something to shout about, particularly after two children, but then again, you could get push-up bras these days. That helped a bit.
As she showered she thought about all the things that had changed on Sandhamn since she’d been a child attending those swimming lessons. As the summer population had increased, so had the traffic to the island. Now the tourists could take a half-hour flight over the archipelago, and there was a helicopter service flying hungry diners out to the Sailors Restaurant. The conference center, situated in the Royal Swedish Sailing Society’s former clubhouse, built in 1897 in the National Romantic style, was open year-round. It was also possible to hire kayaks and old-fashioned bikes to travel around the island.
The beautiful people loved coming out to Sandhamn, hobnobbing whenever there was a regatta or an international yacht race. The Gucci quota had shot up by several hundred percent, as Henrik would remark with some amusement as the big jetty in front of the clubhouse filled up with elegant women in expensive clothes and middle-aged men who carried both their rotundity and their bulging wallets with an air of authority and assurance.
Some of the residents complained about the increased traffic and the number of tourists on the island, but the majority, who depended on the employment opportunities they provided for their survival, had a positive attitude toward the development.
The contrast between the summer months, however, with two to three thousand more people staying on the island and a hundred thousand day visitors, and the winter, with its hundred and twenty residents, could not have been greater.
Despite the fact that Thomas had spent every summer of his life in the Stockholm archipelago, he still found it remarkably stunning in the clear morning air.
Traveling to Sandhamn by helicopter was an unexpected privilege. The view from the wide windscreen was unparalleled. The contours of the islands, strewn across the glittering water, were razor-sharp.
They had flown over Nacka and out toward Fågelbrolandet. Once they had left Grinda behind them and reached the outer islands, the character of the landscape changed. The gentler green of the inner archipelago, with its leafy trees and open meadows, changed to rocky islands with low-growing, windblown pine trees and bare expanses of rock.
When they were level with Runmarö, the characteristic view of Sandhamn opened out in front of them—a closely packed collection of red– and buff-colored houses, just where the sound between Sandhamn and Telegrafholmen began.
Thomas never tired of that first sight of the familiar outline of the little community out on the edge of the archipelago. It had existed as a post for customs and pilot boats ever since the end of the sixteenth century, through Russian devastation, bitter winters, the arrival of steamboats, and the isolation of the war years. It was still a vibrant community.
Thomas squinted through his sunglasses and looked down.
Motorboats and yachts were tied to the wooden jetties, and behind them he could just see the old pilot tower rising up from the highest point on the island. White buoys bobbed out beyond the landing stages, with green-and-red markers showing the way for both commercial traffic and leisure sailors. It was early in the morning, but the channel was already full of white sails on their way out to sea.
After only a minute or so they were over Sandhamn. The pilot rounded the elaborate eighteenth-century customhouse, and the helicopter landing stage beside it quickly came into view. With a precise maneuver he put the helicopter down in the center of the marked rectangle, just a few yards away from the wharf.
“I can wait half an hour or so, then I need to leave,” said the pilot, looking at Thomas.
Thomas looked at his watch and thought for a moment. “We shouldn’t be finished that quickly. You might as well go. We’ll get back somehow.” He turned to the two technicians, who had lifted their black bags out onto the helipad. “OK, let’s go. We’re heading for the west beach, north of Koberget. The maritime police are already there. No vehicles are allowed on the island, so we’ve got a nice brisk walk ahead of us.”
CHAPTER 4
As Nora cycled through the harbor area with Simon on the luggage rack, she noticed a police helicopter on the landing pad. On the far side of Ångbåtsbryggan on Nacka Strand, a large police launch had moored in the spot reserved for the doctor’s boat. A policeman wearing the distinctive uniform of the maritime police was standing on the deck. It was unusual to see so many police officers this early in the morning.
Something must have happened.
Nora cycled past the row of small shops, where you could buy your fill of sailing clothes, chandlery, and sail-making items, and carried on past the back of the clubhouse. She turned into the harbor and cycled along the narrow track that ran parallel with the minigolf course up to the enclosed pool area. After parking the bike behind the ice cream kiosk, she lifted Simon and set him down. She held on to him with one hand and carried the bag with his swimming gear in the other, ducked underneath the sign that said “Closed,” and went into the swimming school.
In one corner, some of the parents were talking as the children ran around waiting for the swimming lesson to begin. Nora put the bag down on a lounge chair and went over to the group.
“Has something happened?”
“Didn’t you see the police helicopter?” said one of the mothers. “They’ve found a dead body—it washed ashore on the west beach.”
Nora gasped. “A dead body?”
“Yes, tangled in a fishing net, can you imagine? Apparently it was just below the Åkermarks’ house.” She pointed over toward one of the mothers, whose son attended swimming lessons at the same time as Simon. “They’ve sealed off the entire beach down there. Lotta barely got through on her way here with Oscar.”
“Was it an accident?” Nora asked.
“No idea. The police wouldn’t say much when she asked them. But it sounds gruesome, doesn’t it?”
“Is it somebody from the island? Could it have been somebody who was out fishing and just fell in?” Nora looked at the rest of the group.
One of the fathers spoke. “I don’t think anybody knows. I don’t suppose it was very easy to see. But Lotta was pretty shaken up when she got here.”
Nora sat down on a bench by the edge of the pool. In the water, Simon was hanging on to an orange float as he struggled to kick his legs properly. She tried to shake off the horrible feeling without success.
Despite herself, she could see the image of a person gasping for air as he became more and more entangled in a net that was slowly dragging him down.
The western part of the island was unnaturally quiet. No morning breeze disturbed the surface of the water. Even the gulls had given up their usual screaming.
Down on the beach, the maritime police had already sealed off the area where the body lay. A few curious onlookers were standing behind the police tape in a silent huddle, watching.
Thomas greeted his colleagues and walked over to the bundle on the ground.
It wasn’t a pretty sight.
The torn fishing net had been shifted slightly to one side, revealing the remains of something that appeared to be the body of a man. It was still wearing the remains of a sweater and tattered pants. It looked as if something had been gnawing at one ear; only flakes of skin remained.
A looped rope was wrapped around the body, just under the arms, looking somewhat worse for wear. It appeared to be an ordinary rope, the kind used to tie up small boats. Strands of green seaweed that had dried in the sun were still hanging from the rope.
The stench in the hot sunshine was almost unbearable, and Thomas turned away as it wafted up.
Some things a person never got used to.
He quelled the impulse to vomit and walked around the body to look at it from the other side. It was difficult to draw any conclusions about the man’s appearance. Clumps of dark hair clung to the skull, but it wasn’t really possible to make out what he had looked like. The face was swollen, the skin suffused with water. The body was blue and spongy; it looked as if it were made of wet clay.
As far as Thomas could judge, the man had been medium height, somewhere between five six and five nine. It didn’t look as if he’d been married; the ring finger on his left hand was still there, and there was nothing on it. Then again, a ring could have easily slipped off in the water.
The forensic technicians had opened their cases and were examining the scene. A middle-aged man was sitting on a rock a little way off. He was leaning back against a tree trunk, his eyes closed. Beside him stood a dachshund, snuffling anxiously. It was the dog owner who had made the gruesome discovery earlier and called the police.
The poor guy must have been waiting there for several hours, thought Thomas, as he went over to introduce himself.
“Did you find the body?”
The man nodded.
“I’ll need to talk to you. I’m just going to sort something out here, then we can have a chat. Can you stay a little while? I know you’ve been here for quite some time, and I really appreciate that you’ve waited for us.”
The man nodded again. He looked as if he didn’t feel well. Beneath the suntan he was pale, his face almost green. There was an unpleasant smell coming from his shoes.
His morning hadn’t gotten off to a particularly good start, Thomas thought before he went back to have a few words with the technicians.
“Thomas, have you come to visit?” Nora smiled when she saw Thomas, one of her oldest and closest friends, outside Westerberg’s grocery store on her way back from swimming. Her bike skidded to a halt on the gravel, and she lifted Simon.
“Look who’s here, Simon. Give your godfather a big hug.”
She had to stretch up so Simon could reach. Although she was above average height, it was nothing compared with Thomas at six foot four. On top of that he was well built, his shoulders broad from years of handball training. He looked just like the archetypal policeman, big and reassuring, with blond hair and blue eyes.
“They ought to use you on recruitment posters for the training academy,” she used to tease him.
Thomas’s parents lived on the neighboring island of Harö, and ever since they had attended the Friends of Sandhamn sailing camp together where they were nine, Nora and Thomas had been the best of friends.
Every summer they had picked up the threads from the previous year, and despite their parents’ conviction that there was romance in the air, they had remained just good friends, nothing more.
The first time Nora got so drunk she threw up, it was Thomas who had cleaned her up and got her home without her parents knowing. At least they’d never mentioned it. When the great teenage love of his life had dumped him, Nora had done her best to console him and let him go on and on about it. They had spent a whole night sitting on the rocks as he poured his heart out.
When they were fourteen they had spent a whole summer studying for their confirmation with the priest in the chapel on Sandhamn, and both of them had done every available summer job on the island: worked in the ice cream kiosk, helped out at the bakery and at the sailing club, ran the till at Westerberg’s shop. They had also danced in the Sailors Restaurant, until, hot and sweaty, they ended the evening with a nighttime dip in the sea below Dansberget as the sun was rising.
When Henrik first showed an interest in Nora by inviting her to the medical students’ ball, she had called Thomas to tell him. She had been deeply attracted to Henrik, whose spontaneous charm had hit her with full force. As usual, Thomas had listened as she fell in love and prattled on.
Thomas had always wanted to join the police, just as Nora had always wanted to study law. She used to joke that when she became minister for justice, she would make him the chief of police of Sweden.
When Adam was born, Nora knew Thomas was the obvious choice for a godparent, but Henrik wanted to choose his best friend and his wife. When Simon came along, Nora insisted that Thomas be his godfather. Thomas was the kind of person they could rely on if anything happened to her or Henrik.
“I’m here to work,” Thomas said with a serious expression. “Did you hear that a dead body has been found on the other side of the island?”
Nora nodded. “It sounds dreadful. I was just at the swimming school with Simon, and that was the only topic of conversation. What happened?” She looked anxiously at Thomas.
“I’ve no idea at this stage. All we know is that it’s a man’s body, and it was entangled in an old fishing net. It looked pretty bad, so it must have been in the water for quite some time.”
Nora shuddered in the warm sunshine. “Terrible. But it must have been an accident, surely? I can’t believe anybody could be murdered here on Sandhamn.”
“We’ll see. The pathologist will have to examine the body before we can draw any conclusions. The man who found it couldn’t tell us much.”
“He must have been shocked.”
“Yeah, I feel sorry for him. Nobody expects to find a corpse when they’re out on their morning walk,” said Thomas with a grimace.
Nora lifted Simon back onto the bike. “Can you come over when you’re finished? I’m sure you’ve earned a cup of coffee,” she said.
Thomas smiled. “Sounds like a good idea. I’ll try.”
