Still Waters (Sandhamn Murders Book 1) (22 page)

C
HAPTER
51

The shore at Fläskberget was almost deserted. Calm had descended after the invasion earlier in the day. A forgotten red plastic spade down by the water’s edge was almost the only evidence of the hordes of families who had been there; a child’s blue shoe was sticking up out of the sand.

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?”

“He might have helped us out with the odd practical job now and again. I don’t really remember.”

Margit looked at him skeptically. “Is that all?”

“I can’t think of anything else.”

“He didn’t help you deliver messages to other people? Messages you didn’t want to deliver yourself?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Fahlén had abandoned his relaxed posture and was now sitting upright on the sofa.

“You didn’t ask him to contact Kicki Berggren on your behalf, for example?”

“Absolutely not.” The response was swift and irate.

Thomas wondered whether to ask a few more questions about Almhult but decided he was unlikely to get any more information out of Fahlén unless he brought him in for a formal interview. He needed to give the matter some thought.

Instead he fixed Fahlén with his gaze once more. “Do you have any rat poison?”

“I haven’t a clue. You’ll have to ask my wife. Sylvia does all the shopping.”

“Have you had rats in the house? Surely you must know that?”

“We might get them occasionally in the autumn. I can’t really say.”

“But you haven’t gone out and bought rat poison?”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t know!”

“What were you doing the Friday before last—ten days ago?” Margit interjected.

A look of uncertainty spread across Fahlén’s face. He frowned, as if he were trying to remember where he had been. “I think I was here, working on the boat. The engine wasn’t ticking over properly, so I was trying to fix it. At least I think it was that weekend.”

“Is there anyone who can confirm that?”

“Sylvia was here.”

“All day?” Thomas asked.

Fahlén looked slightly shifty. “Probably. Well, nearly all day. If I remember rightly she might have gone out on her bike for a while in the afternoon to meet some friends for a glass of wine. But you can ask her yourself. It’s not easy to recall the exact details a week and a half later.”

Thomas leaned forward so he was close to Fahlén, only a few inches from his face. Fahlén reeked of cigarette smoke. “Is it definitely true that you didn’t know Krister Berggren or his cousin Kicki? Neither of them ever came here?”

“I’ve told you, no. Don’t you think I know who’s been in my house?” Fahlén said, his voice rising.

“You just said you didn’t know Jonny Almhult, then you changed your mind.”

“I’m getting very tired of this. Exactly what are you insinuating? If you are intending to continue with this line of questioning, I want my lawyer present.” Fahlén stared defiantly at Thomas.

“That’s one option, of course,” Thomas said. “But it would be much simpler if you could just answer our questions, since we’re here now.”

Fahlén didn’t share Thomas’s point of view. He got to his feet, indicating that the conversation was over, and mopped his brow with a red handkerchief. Then he walked into the hallway, where he opened the front door wide. “Thank you for stopping by. Have a nice day.”

Thomas couldn’t help being fascinated by the fat man in the doorway. He hadn’t expected Fahlén to pluck up so much courage; he had pegged the man as a philistine and pretty sly but certainly not brave. Thomas was almost impressed in spite of himself.

Thomas and Margit got up and headed toward the door.

Fahlén mopped his brow with the red handkerchief once again.

Thomas gave him one last look before leaving the house. “See you again,” he said.

Fahlén didn’t say good-bye.

Margit and Thomas set off along the path. The wind had started to pick up and could be heard blowing through the trees; their gray trunks provided a gentle contrast to the green of the blueberry bushes. Clumps of blue-green moss were scattered among the pines like soft cushions.

Margit glanced at her watch. “It’s getting late. We’d better make sure to catch a ferry back to town.” She turned around and looked back at the house. “What do you make of Fahlén? I’ve never seen such a fine example of nouveau riche. But I wonder if he’s capable of three murders?”

Thomas scratched the back of his neck as he considered her question. “Hard to say. He didn’t seem all that trustworthy—I got the feeling he was extremely nervous. I definitely think we need to take a much closer look at him. I think we can forget about Graaf for the time being, but there’s something about Fahlén that just doesn’t feel right.”

He took one last look at the marzipan-green house behind them, then checked his watch.

“I think there’s a ferry in half an hour. If we head back now, we’ll be there in plenty of time.”

W
EDNESDAY, THE FOURTH WEEK

C
HAPTER
52

Nora looked around. The address of the recruitment company had led her to an old building in one of the better areas of Stockholm, known as Öfre Östermalm. It had an impressive entrance, with a red carpet in the foyer. The offices were three floors up in an old-fashioned patrician apartment, which must have been built as an elegant residence for some well-to-do family back in the day.

It was hardly surprising that the bank was working with such a conservative company; the financial world wasn’t exactly famous for its progressive thinking.

She had caught the early morning ferry, and even though she was tired, it had been nice to get up so early. There was a special freshness in the air that was only discernible before eight o’clock in the morning on Sandhamn. It was wonderful to breathe in the pure air and enjoy the stillness before the archipelago came to life.

The boys would be spending the day with her parents while she was in the city; Henrik would be busy with his boat. As usual. Nora was intending to have a look at the summer sales while she had the chance. She didn’t often have time to wander around town without keeping one eye on the clock.

She had told Henrik she had to go into work to sort out something that had come up unexpectedly. It didn’t feel like a lie—it was more like waiting until a more suitable moment to tell the truth. It could well turn out that the new job wasn’t worth considering, in which case she and Henrik would have fallen out quite unnecessarily.

The receptionist showed her into a conference room where coffee and mineral water were set out on a tray. Nora almost laughed; the room was exactly as she had imagined. On the mahogany table stood a vase of beautifully arranged flowers. Several attractive paintings adorned the walls. The impression was so warm and welcoming it could almost be someone’s home.

Nora wondered what would happen if she met someone she knew. They might well be interviewing one of her colleagues from the bank’s legal department. She assumed people must bump into one another occasionally if the interviews overran, but she hoped that wouldn’t happen.

When Rutger Sandelin walked in and introduced himself, she immediately recognized his voice from their phone conversations. It was an unusual name, Rutger. It sounded English, like a medieval knight. She had pictured a muscular individual in leather boots and riding breeches. Instead he was an impeccably dressed man in his sixties, with a sprinkling of gray in his hair and a hint of plumpness.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “The bank asked us to see you in order to gain an objective view of your qualifications. The idea is that the appointment shouldn’t be affected by internal considerations and relationships.”

“I understand,” Nora said. It all sounded very sensible.

They started to discuss the post in Malmö and the qualifications necessary for the legal adviser in the southern region.

As Nora answered his questions, she noticed that he had a greasy mark on the lilac silk tie that matched his shirt to perfection. Presumably it was the result of an accident over lunch, but it helped to make him more human.

Nora told him about herself and her work experience. She had studied law in Uppsala and had been an active member of the students’ union. After graduating, she had worked in the district court before beginning as a trainee with the bank. Eventually she had applied for her current post.

Her background was detailed in her file, but he seemed to want to go through everything, as if he were dealing with a completely new post outside the bank.

Nora also had to talk about her strengths and weaknesses, and how her colleagues would describe her. She had to tell him what she found difficult and challenging and how she handled stress and conflict.

She thought to herself that it was singularly pointless to ask the mother of small children whether she could deal with stress and conflict. If you couldn’t sort out that kind of situation, you wouldn’t last five minutes in her family. All children clashed at regular intervals, right? In addition, the combination of two parents working full-time, two boys aged six and ten, and an endless stream of notes from day care and school about excursions, packed lunches, and collections for this and that made the perfect stress generator.

Suddenly Sandelin asked how she would describe her relationship with her current boss. Nora was slightly taken aback.

What should she say? That Ragnar Wallsten was a spoiled brat who had been promoted far above his competence level? That his sharp tongue meant that most people were reluctant to stand up to him, but few sought out his company? That when she first started in the department she had watched him bully an older colleague into a bitter departure?

During the course of a few seconds she desperately tried to decide which way to go.

“We have a decent relationship, the way most colleagues do,” she said. Her voice died away as she searched for something neutral to say. “He’s not the kind of boss who interferes a great deal. He leaves people to get things taken care of.” The last comment sounded so idiotic that she regretted it as soon as the words came out. “Of course he’s very busy with major issues within the bank,” she added.

Sandelin seemed to be aware of her embarrassment and smiled at her. He leaned forward and looked Nora in the eye. “I’ll be honest with you. Opinion is divided on Ragnar Wallsten and his ability to lead the legal team.”

Nora bit her lip. This sounded too good to be true. She was sick and tired of working with him.

When they had been talking for about an hour, Sandelin changed focus. Could she tell him about her husband’s work?

“He’s a consultant radiologist at the hospital in Danderyd. He’s really happy there.”

“And how would he feel about moving to Malmö?”

“We haven’t really discussed it yet, but I’m sure he’d have no difficulty getting a job at one of the hospitals in the area.”

Sandelin leaned back in his chair and brought his palms together, which made him look like an old-fashioned schoolmaster. “It’s very important that couples are in agreement on an issue like this. When the whole family moves, it’s a major readjustment. Everyone has to make an effort to do their best to adapt to a new environment.” He gave her a searching look. “Do you think your husband is ready to make that readjustment?”

Nora swallowed. Everything Sandelin had told her about the new job sounded fantastic. Exciting responsibilities, excellent conditions, and a significant promotion. The bank would pay for the move and provide assistance in finding somewhere to live. In addition, the Öresund area was buzzing. The new bridge to Denmark had brought with it a huge upturn for the whole of southern Sweden; the continent had suddenly opened up. Just a few hours in the car, and you were on mainland Europe. The boys would love living so close to Legoland. Imagine being able to drive across to Copenhagen and wander hand in hand down Strøget, the lovely pedestrian shopping area.

“We need to talk about it in more detail, of course, but I’m sure Henrik will think it would be exciting for the family to move and have the chance to experience something new.” Nora secretly crossed her fingers, even though she knew it was a childish thing to do.

Sandelin beamed at her. “You have an excellent reputation within the bank. Magnus Westling, who is the new boss for the southern region, has heard very positive things about you, and he thinks you would be an excellent choice for this position. Think it over for a few days and let me know how you feel; if you wish to proceed, we’ll arrange for you to meet him. In the meantime I’ll send a report to your HR department.”

Back out in the street after saying her good-byes to Sandelin, Nora was both excited and depressed. How was she going to get Henrik to move to Malmö? She really wanted to accept the job.

She went into the nearest café and bought herself a latte. If Henrik had received an offer like this, there would have been nothing to discuss. Henrik and everyone else would have simply assumed she would pack up all their belongings and move. But when it was the other way round, the solution wasn’t quite so self-evident.

On an impulse she called Henrik’s phone, just to hear his voice. Over the past few days they had barely exchanged a word unless it had to do with the children. But his phone was switched off and went straight to voice mail.

Which presumably meant he was at sea. As usual.