Текст книги "Still Waters"

Автор книги: Viveca Sten

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

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?”

Graaf looked concerned. He bent down and kissed his son’s forehead; the child had clambered up onto his knee and settled down. The little brown body with the white-blond hair looked exactly like the picture on matchboxes available everywhere.

“No reason at all. I have absolutely no idea who she was or why she was on Sandhamn. I hope you believe me, because I don’t know how to prove it. The first I heard of Kicki Berggren was when I read about the murder in the paper, as I said.” He looked at his watch, which also showed the date. “That must have been about ten days ago.”

“You’re quite sure you’ve never met her?” Thomas asked.

“As far as I know, never.”

“You live near the Mission House.”

“True, but so do lots of people. And I wasn’t even here the weekend she died.”

“Where were you on Easter? That was when her cousin, Krister Berggren, disappeared,” Thomas clarified.

“I was in Åre; we went skiing and stayed at Fjällgården.” He looked slightly worried. “I’ve never had any contact with these people. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you spend much time here in the winter?” Thomas asked.

“No, none at all. We close up the house in October and come back at the end of April. We’re only here in late spring and summer.”

Margit cleared her throat. “Do you know anyone who works at Systemet?”

“Not really. Why?”

She explained that Krister Berggren had worked at Systemet until his death, and that they were interested in any possible connection between Berggren and Sandhamn.

“I usually go there on Fridays,” Graaf said. “I stand in the line along with everybody else, wishing I’d gone earlier in the week.” The comment was accompanied by a wink.

“Do you have anything to do with Systemet through your work?” Margit asked.

“Not at all; none of our clients are public companies. We work mainly with small or medium-size enterprises. In the private sector.”

Thomas didn’t say anything.

Graaf smiled and spread his hands wide. “I’d really like to help if I could, but I don’t think I have anything useful to contribute.”

Thomas decided to change the subject. “What about Jonny Almhult? Did you know him?”

Graaf looked puzzled. “Who’s he?”

“He’s the person who was found dead in the water just off Trouville beach last week. He was a permanent resident on the island who made his living as a carpenter. He was an artist, too, a painter.”

“Sorry, I never met him. We haven’t been coming here all that long, and we haven’t really had much to do with the locals. The house was pretty well-maintained when we bought it, so we haven’t needed any work done so far.” He tapped the table with his index finger. “Knock on wood.”

The little boy on his knee was obviously starting to get bored with the conversation; he was wriggling like a worm. “Play ball, Daddy. I want the people to go.” He tugged at his father’s shirt. “Go now,” he said again.

Thomas smiled at the child. “We won’t be long,” he promised. “Just one more thing.” He contemplated the man for a few seconds. “Do you have any rat poison here?”

“Rat poison?” Graaf looked perplexed.

“Rat poison,” Margit said. “We’re wondering if you have any rat poison on the premises.”

Graaf thought for a moment, then gently lifted his son down and stood up. “I’ll have to ask my wife,” he said. “We might.”

He went over to the open door and shouted. A slim woman with her hair in a thick plait appeared in the doorway. She looked at her husband and the two strangers sitting in her garden.

Graaf quickly explained the situation. “They want to know if we have any rat poison.”

“There might still be some down in the cellar,” she said. “In that little cupboard?” She turned to Thomas and Margit. “The previous owner left a bunch of stuff down in the cellar and told us to take what we wanted. There might be some down there; I’ll go check.”

She disappeared indoors and returned after a few minutes with a plastic container marked with a warning triangle. “Mouse and Rat Killer,” it said in big black letters. She handed it to Thomas, who carefully opened the childproof cap. The container was full of blue granules.

After a few more questions about Graaf’s contacts on the island over the summer, they brought the interview to a close and left. The little boy had grown tired of the adults and was playing with his ball again. At the moment he was fully occupied with trying to sit on it.

“That didn’t get us very far,” Margit said as soon as they were out of earshot. “There’s no obvious connection, he has no motive, and he has an excellent alibi. What more can you ask? The only thing that counts against him is the rat poison.”

“I agree,” Thomas said. “And having rat poison in the house doesn’t make you a murderer.”

He wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. The air was ferociously hot. The wind had died away, and it would be a long time before there was any prospect of a cooling evening breeze.

Thomas looked at Margit. “Are you ready to tackle Philip Fahlén?”

“Absolutely. Lead the way.”

CHAPTER 49

They headed off in the direction of Fläskberget and the churchyard, passing a number of more modern houses built from the sixties onward. They looked like typical summer cottages, far removed from the traditional style that characterized the village.

Thomas already had sand in his shoes; it was unavoidable.

There was no mistaking the fact that it was almost the end of July. The lilacs had long since finished flowering and had been replaced by dark-yellow sunflowers and currant bushes laden with fruit. Here and there the odd wilting tuft of grass was sticking up through the sand, evidence of brave efforts to put down roots in an impossible environment. The occasional feeble attempt at a lawn could be seen in a few gardens, but most people made do with flower beds surrounded by the ever-present sand.

Philip Fahlén lived on the northwest side of Sandhamn, where the spit of land was so narrow that you could see right across the island.

All the way to the beach where the unfortunate Krister Berggren had been washed ashore just a few weeks earlier.

They were only ten minutes’ walk from the harbor, busy with boats and visitors, but this side of the island was quiet and peaceful. They could hear birds singing, and the sunlight filtered down through the tops of the pine trees. The blueberries were beginning to ripen; the bushes were full of fruit.

Fahlén’s house was in a beautiful spot on the rocks, just a few yards from a wide jetty that extended a long way out. A splendid Bayliner day cruiser was moored there, and a huge hot tub made of dark wood stood by the water’s edge, with a perfect view over the sea. On the other side was a boathouse with two small square windows; Thomas could just glimpse several fishing nets hanging on hooks inside.

The flag was flying, a sure sign that the owner of the house was on the island.

Margit was staring at the house as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Thomas, who had known what to expect, grinned at her.

The house was bright green.

In the middle of the idyllic archipelago, where virtually every single house was painted Falu red, someone had decided to paint the whole place bright green. Apart from the white eaves and steps, every last piece of timber was nauseatingly green. Without the eaves and steps you could easily have imagined you were standing in front of a giant marzipan cake. Only the rose was missing.

Margit looked at Thomas, who merely gave a resigned shake of his head.

“To each his own. It’s looked like this for a long time.”

“But why on earth would anyone even think of doing that? In a place like this,” Margit said in disbelief.

“Perhaps they thought it looked nice. Or else they’re color blind.”

“Don’t you have to get permission to do something like this? Surely it must be against building regulations?”

Thomas shrugged. “I expect the council tried, but they can’t be bothered to follow up. People get away with quite a lot out here. You can’t imagine how many houses have gone up without anybody paying much attention to building regulations.”

Margit reached out and touched the wall, as if she weren’t sure if the color were real or if it might come off on her hand. “Good grief. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

A “Welcome” sign was hanging on the front door; fortunately it was painted in more traditional colors—blue and white. One of the windows was ajar, but no one answered when they knocked. They walked around the back of the house and saw that the doors leading to the patio were closed. There were no signs of life.

An enormous wooden deck ran along the back wall. It was dominated by a huge teak table and an unusually large gas barbecue on wheels. A short distance away several striped sun loungers were arranged, while through the wide panorama window they could see a dining table and chairs and a plasma TV on the wall. Bang & Olufsen speakers stood in each corner.

“You could certainly relax and recuperate here on a summer evening,” Margit said.

She looked at the hot tub, from which a white plastic pipe ran into the sea. Presumably seawater was used to fill it. A wooden tray with three glasses and a bottle of whisky was floating on the surface. Evidently the owner wasn’t worried about strangers wandering in and drinking his booze.

The expression on Margit’s face was a mixture of fascination and horror as she contemplated the comfortable lifestyle. “I wonder how you come to afford something like this. It doesn’t look particularly cheap. Either the owner must have won the lottery, or he must have his own business at the very least. What do you think?”

“I think he runs his own business. I imagine quite a lot of this stuff has been billed to the company,” Thomas said. “Of course they’ll go down as essential materials rather than a hot tub for his place in the country.”

Margit gave a wry smile.

“Of course it depends on your conscience,” Thomas said with a wink. “But I can’t imagine someone’s normal income paid for all this.”

Margit looked around. There wasn’t a soul in sight. “What now?” she asked. “There’s no one home, and it could be a while before the Fahléns turn up.”

“If they’re out at sea they’ll probably be back before too long; if they were going to stay away overnight, they’d have taken the Bayliner. They probably left in a smaller boat.” He pointed to some ropes lying on the jetty that appeared to belong to another boat. “One you can use to lay nets,” he said, mostly to himself.

“Do you want to wait?”

“We can come back later. I don’t really want to call and warn them in advance. It’s better to turn up unannounced with questions like this.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s get something to eat, then we can see Nora. I don’t see the point of giving up now that we’re here.”

He set off toward the gate, then turned and smiled at Margit.

“And you’ll get to meet my godson, too.”

CHAPTER 50

“Thomas!” Simon came barreling through the gate and hurled himself into Thomas’s arms. “Did you bring me a present?” He looked expectantly at Thomas, his eyes bright.

“Simon, you don’t ask people for presents!” Nora gave him a reproachful look. “It’s good to see Thomas with or without a present.”

Thomas introduced Margit, and they gratefully accepted the offer of a cold beer—preferably low alcohol, as they were still on duty.

They sat in the garden, enjoying the scent of the roses drifting across from Signe’s garden next door. The swallows were flying high, a sure sign of good weather.

“How’s the investigation going?” Henrik asked as he poured their drinks.

Nora placed a bowl of potato chips on the table; Simon immediately grabbed a handful before she could stop him. Then he beamed, showing the gap in his bottom teeth. It was impossible not to smile back.

Thomas turned to Margit, who grimaced.

“It depends on how you look at things,” Thomas said. “We know what killed Kicki Berggren, but we don’t know how or why.”

“So what killed her?” Henrik asked.

“Rat poison.” It sounded more dramatic than Thomas had intended, and the effect was immediate. Both Nora and Henrik stared at him in surprise.

“I didn’t think you could kill a person with rat poison,” Henrik said.

“You can kill most people with virtually every kind of poison, if they ingest enough of it,” Thomas said.

Henrik frowned. “If I remember correctly from med school, there are a number of notorious cases where people have tried to commit suicide by taking rat poison, or warfarin, but they haven’t been very successful. They’ve just caused themselves a great deal of pain. You have to take enormous quantities in order for it to be fatal.”

“You’re right,” said Thomas. “According to forensics the rat poison alone wouldn’t have been enough, but she suffered a blow to the head, which caused a fatal hemorrhage.”

“That explains it,” Henrik said. “If there was a bleed and the clotting mechanism was impaired by the warfarin, then it would have been nearly impossible to save her. It wouldn’t have taken many hours for her to die in that case.” He took a few chips and went on. “Did she have any other symptoms to indicate that her blood wasn’t clotting?”

“She’d also suffered a blow to the temple that apparently looked much worse than it should have.”

Henrik nodded. “That fits with the effects one would expect. When the blood isn’t clotting, any bleeding becomes much worse than usual, and it can look pretty serious.”

Nora tried to save the bowl of chips from Simon’s repeated onslaughts. “Rat poison,” she said. “That’s an unusual method.”

Henrik nodded. “On the other hand, it’s very easy to get. If you don’t have access to medical resources where you can get the more common poisons, then perhaps you might think it would work, if you don’t really know what you’re doing. If you ask most people I think they’d expect it to do the job.”

Thomas was all ears. “What do you mean by common poisons?” he asked, leaning forward.

“Arsenic, for example, or digitalis, which comes from ordinary foxgloves. A lot of people with heart problems take digitalis, but if you take too much, it’s fatal. The monks used it in the old days when they wanted to do away with someone secretly because the substance was so difficult to trace.” Henrik paused. He took another handful of chips, then continued, “Morphine works in the same way. A small amount eases pain; an overdose will kill. There are many pharmaceutical drugs that become a deadly poison if the wrong dosage is used.”

“So the use of rat poison would suggest that the murderer wasn’t familiar with its effects,” Margit said. “An amateur, in other words.”

“Absolutely. Rat poison is easy to find, and it looks dangerous. But it’s far from effective if you want to be sure of success, so to speak.”

Thomas considered Henrik’s theory. “So if you’re right, we’re dealing with a perpetrator who acted deliberately but didn’t really know how to go about it,” he said.

Henrik shook his head. “Not necessarily. It could also be a murderer who wasn’t prepared and simply used what was at hand.”

“You mean he used the first poison that came to mind?” Thomas said, with a trace of doubt in his voice.

“That’s right. If you haven’t planned in advance to murder someone, but suddenly find yourself in a situation where you feel you have no alternative, then wouldn’t you use whatever you had in the house?”

“Can you buy rat poison on the island?” Margit asked, directing her question to Nora.

Nora looked dubious. “I don’t know, but you can certainly bring it over from town.”

“Hang on. It’s not that easy to fool someone into taking rat poison,” Thomas said. “How do you get someone to polish off a plate of blue granules without making them suspicious? That’s just not possible.”

Nora picked a long blade of grass and wound it around her finger. She frowned as if she were trying to remember something. “I remember some kind of liquid rat poison from when I was a kid,” she said. “My mother used it while we were here, because she used to keep the bottle on the top shelf, and she threatened us with no Saturday sweets if we so much as touched it. It was a dark-brown bottle, as I recall, and there was a skull and crossbones on the label.”

Margit straightened up and looked at Nora. “Liquid rat poison. We should have thought of that. That has to be the explanation. You could just add it to a drink, and it would be easy to fool somebody who wasn’t on guard.” She turned to Thomas. “We’ll give Carina a call; she can look into what’s available. We need a fresh approach.” She patted Nora on the shoulder. “Good thinking.”

Nora looked embarrassed but graciously accepted the praise. Then she frowned again. “Why would the murder of Kicki Berggren be spontaneous, if the murderer had already killed Krister Berggren?”

The question hung in the air.

“We still don’t actually know whether Krister Berggren was murdered,” Thomas said.

“No,” Margit said, “but if he was, no one was supposed to know that. The murderer probably thought he would never be found. That loop of rope around his body was almost certainly attached to a weight, so it would sink to the bottom of the sea. If the rope hadn’t broken, and the temperature of the water hadn’t brought the body to the surface so it was washed ashore on Sandhamn, nobody would ever have found out a murder had been committed.”

Thomas nodded. “If Kicki Berggren hadn’t been killed, her cousin’s death would probably have been dismissed as an accident.”

Margit said, “The discovery of Krister Berggren’s body was unfortunate for the murderer. Then Kicki turns up. Somehow she knows, or thinks she knows, who killed her cousin. So she comes over to Sandhamn and confronts him.”

“He panics,” Thomas said, “and decides to get rid of her, too.”

“Exactly,” Margit said.

“And since the murderer wasn’t expecting Kicki to turn up, he uses whatever he happens to have in the house, namely rat poison,” Thomas said.

Margit leaned back in her chair, looking pleased with herself. The more they understood about the murderer, the better their chances of solving the case. Thomas knew from experience that an unplanned crime usually left a fair amount of evidence behind, and they needed all the help they could get in this investigation.

They didn’t have to wait long for Carina to call back. Thomas could hear from the unmistakable excitement in her voice that she had something to tell them.

“I couldn’t reach any of the pest-control people at this time of day, but I checked online. I found seven types of rat poison containing warfarin, all in the form of blue granules; the usual stuff, in other words.”

“Was that all?” Thomas couldn’t hide his disappointment.

“Don’t be so impatient,” said Carina. “I found something else. Something very interesting. There used to be a product called Warfarin Liquid Rat Poison. It was banned on December 31, 1990, but it was on sale until that date.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” A big smile spread across Thomas’s face.

“And another thing: it was far more concentrated than the rat poison you can buy today. It was almost fourteen times as strong as anything on the market now. Significantly more effective, in other words.”

Thomas whistled. Carina was good. He pictured her face, and to his surprise an unexpected feeling of happiness suffused his entire body. “Terrific work, Carina,” he said, feeling slightly confused as he ended the call. He sat there holding the receiver, startled by his reaction.

A comment from Margit brought him back to reality. “That explains everything. If the murderer had access to liquid rat poison, then obviously it would be much easier to dupe Kicki Berggren into taking a dose that was high enough to kill her.”

“It would have been pretty straightforward,” Thomas said. “All he had to do was mix it with something else she was going to drink.” He finished off his beer and got to his feet.

“Time for a chat with Philip Fahlén, I think. We can always ask if he has any rat poison in the house. Liquid rat poison.” He winked at Nora.

Carina sat for a while lost in thought after her conversation with Thomas. She had blushed with pleasure when he’d praised her over the phone. Over the past few weeks he seemed to have noticed her more than he had in the past. They had also spoken quite a lot. He often asked her to sort something out or to contact people involved in the investigation. And there had been a fair amount of small talk, too.

She felt as if she had gotten closer to him.

He had sounded delighted when she told him what she had discovered on the Internet. As soon as she found the information about the liquid rat poison, she knew he would be pleased. Really pleased. She could hardly wait to call and tell him.

When she heard his voice on the other end of the line, it made her tingle all over. She was sure he had felt it, too. It couldn’t just be her imagination, could it?

She decided to suggest going out for lunch one day soon when he was back at the station. After all, everybody had to have lunch, and it wasn’t quite as big a step as dinner.

She didn’t dare ask him on a date, not yet.

She was humming to herself as she picked up her bag, ready to set off for the gym. You needed a high level of fitness to get into the police training academy, and by now even six miles on the exercise bike felt like a pleasant way to spend the evening. She smiled at her reflection as she passed the mirror in the foyer on her way out of the building.