“How often did you usually speak to one another?” Thomas asked, offering the box of tissues once more.

Kicki squirmed uncomfortably. “It varied.” She looked down, studying her bright-pink nails.

“But you were in regular contact?”

“Absolutely. We don’t have any other family.”

As Kicki described Krister’s upbringing by his single mother, Thomas came to the conclusion that there didn’t appear to be anything in Krister’s background to explain why he should have ended up on Sandhamn.

“Do you have any idea why he might have been in the archipelago?” he asked. “Is there anyone he might have been visiting out there?”

Thomas looked at Kicki, but she continued staring at the floor.

Before she had time to say anything, Thomas went on. “Do you know if he ever traveled on the ferry to Finland? Was that something he did in his spare time?”

Kicki started nibbling on one of her fake nails. It was obvious she was desperate for a cigarette; she was plucking at her jacket with the other hand and seemed to be silently cursing the smoking ban inside the station.

“Yes, sometimes. Why?”

“We’re wondering if he might have fallen overboard off one of the ferries. They pass by just off Sandhamn every evening. That might explain why his body washed ashore on the island.”

“Krister wasn’t a good swimmer. He wasn’t particularly fond of water. But he did sometimes go over on the ferry, especially if there was a special deal. We went to Mariehamn together a couple years ago.”

Thomas made a quick note about Krister’s capabilities as a swimmer, then decided to try a different track.

“What about alcohol? Did he drink much, in your opinion?”

Kicki nodded, chewing her nail with even greater intensity. The tissues Thomas had given her were reduced to a pile of shreds. One by one they drifted onto the floor by the leg of her chair. It looked like something a baby bird might have left behind.

“He drank a bit. I mean, he worked at Systemet, so it wasn’t difficult for him to bring home whatever he wanted. Besides, he didn’t have much in the way of hobbies, or friends for that matter. He was perfectly happy in his own company, as long as he had something to drink and a decent show on TV.”

Thomas scratched the back of his neck and gave the matter some thought. If Krister had been drunk, he might have gone outside for a breath of fresh air and tumbled into the water. That kind of thing happened far more often than people thought, but understandably the ferry companies preferred to keep it quiet.

“Is there any reason to think he could have jumped overboard? Deliberately taken his own life?” He thought about the rope looped around the body and gazed at Kicki. His words lingered in the air. It wasn’t an easy question, but it had to be asked. If her cousin had been suicidal, it could explain a number of things.

Kicki Berggren opened her mouth to say something, but she changed her mind and slumped down in her seat. Her mascara had run; she took another tissue from the box and wiped her eyes as best she could.

Thomas looked at her. “Was there something you wanted to say?”

“His mother died in February. He took it really bad. Even though he wasn’t prepared to visit her very often when she was ill, he was really upset afterward. He started drinking big-time.”

“To the extent that perhaps he no longer wanted to live?”

Kicki lowered her eyes. “I find it difficult to believe that he would jump off a ferry. He’s never talked about killing himself, in spite of the fact that he thought he’d had a lot of bad luck in his life. He used to say he’d never had a fair chance.”

Her eyes filled with tears once more, and she shredded yet another tissue.

Thomas felt sorry for her; it was evident that she’d had no idea why he’d wanted to speak to her. “It could have been an accident, of course. I just wanted to know whether you thought he might have been suicidal. It’s by no means certain that he killed himself. It might well have been an unfortunate combination of alcohol and circumstance.”

Thomas ended the conversation by asking Kicki to call him if she thought of anything she wanted him to know. When she had gone, he made notes on the interview and placed a printout in the file.

Kicki walked out of the building with her head spinning. She had been so angry with Krister, but now she understood. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell the detective why they hadn’t been in touch for the last few months. She just couldn’t tell him about the argument they’d had the last time they’d met. She was so ashamed of her outburst that she didn’t know what to do with herself. Her harsh words had been Krister’s last memory of her. Why had things turned out this way?

She stopped and took her cigarettes out of her purse. At last. As the nicotine spread through her body she began to wonder if there might be a connection in spite of everything. Had Krister decided to act on her idea after all? Without saying anything to her?

But surely that couldn’t be possible. He would never have dared to do something like that alone, especially not while she was still away. Or would he?

She took another drag on the much-needed cigarette.

He must have gone on a weekend trip to Helsinki and had too much to drink. She could just picture him. Too many cheap drinks at the bar, his face growing more and more flushed as the evening went on. No doubt he had staggered out on deck to get some fresh air, drunk and overheated, and had lost his balance, just as Thomas Andreasson had said.

A pure accident.

Kicki’s eyes filled with tears once more.

Poor Krister. A messy life, a messy death.

Just like his mother.

CHAPTER 10

“I thought we might barbecue some pork steaks tonight. What do you think?”

Nora looked at her husband, who was sitting on the garden seat splicing a rope. Repairing frayed ropes was almost a forgotten skill. A kind of bobbin lace–making for men. Perhaps it wasn’t an occupation one would normally associate with a radiography consultant at Danderyd Hospital, but it was something Henrik enjoyed doing on those few occasions when he had time to sit quietly in the garden. He was completely focused on the task at hand.

Nora took the opportunity to nip a few wilting leaves off the pelargoniums on the gateposts as she waited for a reply.

Which didn’t come.

“Henrik,” she said again, feeling a surge of irritation. “You could at least give me an answer. Can we barbecue tonight?”

Henrik looked up from the rope in his hand and gazed at her. “What did you say?”

“A barbecue. Pork steaks. Tonight. It would help if we could decide what we’re going to eat before the shops close.”

Henrik suddenly looked guilty. “I said I’d go for a beer with the guys.”

Nora sighed. Henrik would be involved in a yacht race the entire following week. The European Championship was to form part of the Sandhamn regatta, the annual competitive sailing week when the Royal Swedish Yacht Club arranged races for different types of boats.

Henrik sailed as helmsman on a Class 6, a one-design class boat with a crew of four to six. It was a class with long-standing traditions and Olympic status. Fantastic old mahogany boats kept in perfect condition by their owners still took part, but of course the new boats, like Henrik’s, were made of modern material enhanced by technological advances.