Thomas opened her computer to see if there was anything that might help them, but her e-mails mostly involved chats with girlfriends and the usual Internet jokes. He recognized several of those from his own inbox.

A number of websites were listed as favorites. Thomas flicked through them and noticed that she had recently visited the Waxholmsbolaget homepage, presumably to find a timetable for the ferries to Sandhamn.

None of the other pages provided clues as to the reason for her visit to the island. There were no saved documents or other information that might help them. There was nothing whatsoever on Kicki Berggren’s computer that could shed any light on the matter.

Why did she go over there? Thomas wondered as he perched on the edge of her bed. The duvet cover was pale green with a pile of matching cushions in the middle of the bed. There was an ashtray containing a stubbed-out cigarette on the bedside table.

When Kicki had come to the police station, she hadn’t said anything about the possibility of visiting Sandhamn, and yet she had gone there two days later. So there must have been some reason that she hadn’t mentioned to him—possibly someone she had decided to visit? But why hadn’t she told him? Had she already known what lay behind Krister’s death?

Carina went through her clothes, most of which came from H&M and KappAhl. A number of black skirts and white blouses tied in with her profession as a croupier. The bathroom contained neatly arranged jars of moisturizers and other beauty products. An overflowing laundry basket on top of the washing machine had obviously been left for later. The bathroom cabinet contained a pack of condoms, along with painkillers and lozenges.

There was also a plethora of assorted brands of nasal drops; Carina wondered if it was the poor air quality in the casino that caused problems. She didn’t know much about the life of a croupier but assumed it wasn’t the healthiest working environment. Thomas had no idea.

After a while Carina called Thomas over and showed him a box she had found inside a closet.

“Look at this.”

Thomas bent down; the box was full of photographs, many in black and white. He went through them at random. “Do you know who this is?” He held up a photo of a young woman.

“No.”

“Krister Berggren’s mother—Kicki’s aunt.”

Carina took the photograph and studied it carefully. “She’s so beautiful. She looks like a 1950s film star!” She held up a wedding photo. “I suppose this must be Kicki’s parents. The groom looks as if he’s related to the girl in the other picture, doesn’t he?”

Thomas leaned over to see. The groom seemed less than comfortable in his formal suit, but the bride looked happy and in love. She had a typical fifties hairstyle: neat curls and lots of hair spray. Her dress was simple but lovely, and she was holding a small bouquet of roses.

Thomas took the box into the kitchen and looked through the photographs. Many showed both Kicki and Krister at different ages, from childhood to adulthood. Neither of them had aged particularly well. The pictures of Krister as a little boy revealed a sullen child, usually peering at the camera from beneath his bangs. He rarely looked cheerful.

Kicki had been quite a pretty teenager, with long dark hair in a ponytail and only slightly too much makeup. But the pictures taken in recent years showed a woman who didn’t seem happy. Her cheeks sagged, and instead of laughter lines around her eyes she had developed deep creases by the sides of her nose.

She seemed to have lived a single life for a long time; neither her e-mails nor her apartment suggested any long-term relationship. The freezer was well stocked with Weight Watchers meals for one, and the kitchen was less than well equipped.

A typical single person’s household in the city, where more than 60 percent of the population lived alone and had no family.

Just like Thomas.

He saw himself with Pernilla, back in the days when they were happy and still married. When they were expecting Emily, full of anticipation and plans for the future. He hadn’t imagined that just a few years later he would be approaching forty and divorced, while all his friends were fully occupied building their families. Or that he would be making regular visits to a small gravestone marking an even smaller grave and wondering what he had done wrong.

And who was to blame.

Once again, and for the umpteenth time, he reminded himself that he had to move on, to put the past behind him. He just didn’t know how to go about it.

Carina gently touched his arm, concern in her eyes. “Come on, let’s go. We’re done here.”

As soon as Thomas met up with Kalle and Erik on Sandhamn, they provided him with a brief update, and the three of them then divided up the necessary tasks.

While Erik continued knocking on doors, Thomas and Kalle visited all the shops and restaurants, starting at the north end of the island and working toward the Yacht Club. When they reached Värdshuset, the landlord shook his head. He couldn’t say whether Kicki Berggren had been in the bar or not. Both the bartender and the waitress who had been working on Friday evening were temporary staff who only worked weekends. They wouldn’t be back on the island until the next Friday. Thomas took their numbers but realized he would have to go and see them in order to show them the photograph of the dead woman. With a bit of luck they would be in Stockholm and could meet him at the police station.

He and Kalle carried on talking to staff in the shops and bars in the harbor area. Thomas counted a total of eleven establishments where you could buy or eat something. Not bad for a little island way out in the archipelago.

Just as they were leaving the Yacht Club’s restaurant it struck him that there was one more place: the old hotel by the harbor that had been renovated a few years ago and reopened under the name the Sands Hotel.

He turned to Kalle. “Listen, we’ve missed the Sands; we need to go back and talk to them.”

Kalle bent down and emptied his shoes for at least the tenth time. “How much sand is there on this island?” he said. “Is there no end to it? I thought the Stockholm archipelago was made up of rocks and pine trees. This is a clone of the Sahara.”

“Stop whining; you could be stuck in a boiling hot police station, and instead you get to enjoy the beautiful archipelago,” Thomas said.

“Easy for you to say; you’ve spent every summer running up and down the sand dunes.”

Thomas ignored the comment and set off toward the hotel. “We’ll have coffee when we get there.”

To be on the safe side, they both had a Danish pastry as well, and then it was time to make a start on the door-to-door inquiries. The routine was always the same. Ring the bell, introduce themselves, show the photo of Kicki Berggren, ask the same question over and over.

By the time they had visited some thirty houses, Thomas was beginning to lose heart. Nobody recognized Kicki Berggren. It was as if she had never set foot on Sandhamn. A lot of people weren’t home, which was hardly surprising on a beautiful summer day, but that just made the task all the more time-consuming since they had to make a note of the houses they would have to revisit.

Thomas realized this would take the entire following day. He wished he could call for backup, but the depressing truth was that everyone was on vacation. The moral of the story: try to avoid falling ill or getting yourself murdered in July, he thought. There are no hospital beds and no police officers. All those who could possibly take their annual leave had disappeared. With the possible exception of the press.

Persson had sent a message to say that they would be holding a press conference on Monday. The district commissioner was showing a vested interest in the case and would be attending. The newspapers were desperate for information; the combination of an idyllic locale and a summer murder was irresistible.