Nora placed a consoling hand over his. “You’ll get another chance to have a family of your own. Trust me, you’re a real catch. You’re bound to meet someone new and have children.”

Thomas gave a wry smile, then shrugged. “At the moment it doesn’t seem all that important. I’m happy with my own company. I get by. And you and your family have been a great support for me, just so you know. I really do appreciate it.”

“You’re always welcome here,” Nora said, topping off their glasses with the last of the wine. “So how’s the investigation going?”

“No luck so far,” Thomas said. “It seems so strange. Two people turning up dead within a few weeks. It’s as if one of those English detective TV series has suddenly become a reality. The only thing missing is an English inspector with a pipe.” Thomas laughed but quickly became serious again. “We don’t actually know if both of them were murdered. Kicki Berggren was killed by another person, but the only thing we know about her cousin is that he drowned. We can’t jump to conclusions.”

“There has to be a connection. The question is, why should someone want to murder two cousins? They must have been mixed up in something illegal, don’t you think?” Nora waved her spoon to underline her point. “And I can’t stop thinking about the fishing net. How does that fit in?”

“No idea. It might have been sheer coincidence. There isn’t even a guarantee that the net belonged to someone on Sandhamn. It could belong to someone from one of the other islands.”

Nora nodded. “What did it look like, by the way?”

“Torn—a mess. But it had been in the water for months, so that’s hardly surprising.”

“What if it was old? Nets can be used for years, if you look after them and mend them when they tear,” Nora said. “It could be a really old net, one that belonged to a different generation.” She was struck by a sudden thought and leaned eagerly toward Thomas. “There was actually someone on Sandhamn who had the initials GA. Someone I didn’t put on the list. Do you remember Georg Almhult, Jonny’s father? Jonny lives on the island—he’s a carpenter, and he also paints pictures. He helped us out the other week when the fence needed mending. Jonny’s father’s initials were GA. What if it was his dad’s net, even though he’s dead?”

“You mean Jonny might have had something to do with Krister Berggren’s death?”

Nora waved the question aside. “I’ve no idea, but if you could trace the net, it would at least be a start. It’s worth looking into, isn’t it?”

She gazed at him and leaned back in the white garden chair, pulling her jacket more tightly around her. There was definitely an evening chill in the air, and a cool breeze blew in off the sea.

Nora pictured Jonny Almhult.

When Nora was twelve years old, Jonny was one of the cool teenagers who hung out down by the harbor. He was a talented artist, and in seconds he could produce a pencil sketch that bore an almost creepy resemblance to his subject. He had been painting watercolors for years and had probably dreamed of going to art school in the city. There was a long-standing artistic tradition on Sandhamn; both Bruno Liljefors and Anders Zorn had spent time on the island, and Axel Sjöberg had been a permanent resident.

But Jonny never did get away. He remained on Sandhamn with his parents. As the years went by, he got stuck in a rut. Like many other lonely bachelors, he drank too much and never managed to find a steady girlfriend. He made a living as a carpenter and general handyman, working for the summer visitors, and from time to time he sold the odd picture, featuring an archipelago motif. Nora remembered Georg, his father, clearly. He had been Sandhamn’s stonemason. He had looked exactly like his son: wiry build, medium height, not particularly striking.

He had been fond of the bottle, too.

When he died, his widow, Ellen, had only Jonny left. There was an older sister, but she had left the island long ago. She was married to an American and lived overseas, if Nora remembered correctly.

Thomas interrupted her train of thought. He had also met Jonny over the years. “I find it difficult to imagine Jonny as the brains behind some sort of criminal enterprise,” he said.

“But as somebody else’s sidekick?” Nora asked. “Someone who needed a hand to deal with a person who was causing problems? A person who needed frightening into keeping their mouth shut, for instance?”

“I think you might have watched one too many crime shows.”

“Seriously,” Nora insisted. “Everyone knows he has a problem with booze. Maybe he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to get money. What if there’s some kind of link? Surely it’s worth having a word with him, isn’t it? And at least you know where he lives.”

Thomas thought for a moment, then he looked at his watch. “Time I made a move. I’ll go to Jonny’s. If I leave now, I can be there before it’s too late.” He gave Nora a brief hug. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll call you.”

CHAPTER 26

Jonny Almhult’s house was dark and deserted. Thomas decided to knock on Ellen’s door; she lived in a larger house right next door. It wasn’t uncommon in the archipelago to build more houses on the same plot as the family increased.

Jonny’s mother opened the door wearing a fleecy pink robe. She looked surprised to see him.

“Good evening, Ellen, do you remember me? Thomas Andreasson. I’m with the Nacka police now,” he said.

She stared at him.

“Sorry to disturb you at this late hour. I need to talk to Jonny, but he doesn’t seem to be home.”

Ellen still looked surprised but not quite so alarmed. “He might be at the bar,” she said. “Or asleep. He’s not that easy to wake. Would you like me to go and see?”

“That would be great, since I’m here.”

Ellen picked up a key, and they went over to the smaller house.

Thomas looked around. The compact house was painted Falu red, like so many in the archipelago. White eaves and wooden cladding. There was a pile of unused wood in the garden, along with several defunct boat engines.

Two tubs of glorious pelargoniums stood by the door, and a pot containing a big lilac petunia was hanging in a birch tree.

“Do you do the gardening?” Thomas asked.

“No, that’s Jonny’s job,” Ellen said. “He’s got green fingers, believe it or not. He even reads those gardening magazines. He’s all grown up now.”

She shook her head. Thomas couldn’t work out whether she was proud of her son or worried about him.

Ellen opened the door and went inside. “Jonny,” she shouted. “Jonny, are you home?”

Thomas followed her. It was a typical island bachelor pad. Sand on the floor on the porch, wet-weather gear hanging on the wall. 1950s kitchen. More beautiful pelargoniums on the windowsill. Jonny had a knack for flowers, that much was clear.

A huge television dominated the sitting room; presumably it helped to pass the long, dark winter evenings when the village was deserted and the summer cottages long since closed up. Several attractive watercolors hung on the walls; they were signed JA.

A row of empty beer cans were on the table, along with an ashtray full of cigarette butts. Thomas noticed that several bore the marks of lipstick.

The house smelled stale and stuffy. Nobody seemed to have aired the place out for several days. There were beer bottles on the dish rack, and even more cans next to the fridge.