Thomas knew from experience that forensics hated sending a report that contained so many question marks. When there was no logical explanation for the injuries found, this was meticulously spelled out. It was then up to the police to conduct a thorough investigation in order to find the cause.
Thomas frowned. Now they would have to wait for Linköping to see if there was an answer in the tissue samples. That would take at least four or five days—if they were lucky.
In his frustration, he managed to knock over his cup of tea, and the hot liquid quickly spread across his desk. As he tried to stem the flow with a napkin that was far too small, he felt more uncertain than ever about where the investigation was heading. He was also worn out. He had slept for a little while on the boat, but it had been hard getting up at five thirty to catch the first ferry back to Stockholm.
It had been almost midnight by the time he got the investigative team over to Jonny’s house, so he hadn’t had much sleep. Admittedly he wasn’t someone who needed eight hours every night, but he could certainly feel how tired he was today.
He went to the washroom and splashed cold water on his face. It didn’t help much, but it made him feel slightly better. He picked up the report and headed for the conference room.
Persson was already in his usual seat, with Carina next to him. She smiled at Thomas when he glanced at her. He was struck by how pretty she was in the sunlight filtering in through the window. She also looked cheerful, in sharp contrast to his other colleagues, whose gloomy expressions no doubt mirrored his own. Kalle was sitting next to Carina, with Erik opposite her.
A speakerphone was in the middle of the table. Thomas guessed that Margit had been called, despite the fact that she had just started her vacation. But at least this meant she didn’t have to abandon her family and travel all the way back to Stockholm.
Persson took a sip of coffee and cleared his throat. “Thomas, can you start us off? What have we got?”
Thomas held up the autopsy report. “We have a woman who has been subjected to physical violence, although not of a particularly excessive nature, according to the report. She received a blow to the back of her head and another to her right temple. The blow to her temple was not fatal and was comparatively light, and since the blood vessels are close to the surface around the eye, the injury looks much more serious than it actually was. She also suffered internal bleeding, which does not appear to have been caused by the assault.”
“So what was the cause of death?” Persson was looking impatiently at Thomas.
“According to the pathologist, she appears to have suffered a brain hemorrhage as a consequence of the back of her head coming into contact with something hard, either because she fell or because someone hit her. It could be a combination of both. The autopsy doesn’t tell us whether death occurred as a result of violence or a fall, for example. And as I said, there is no explanation for the internal bleeding, so a number of samples have been sent to Linköping for analysis.” Thomas fell silent. He had tried to relay the contents of the report as accurately as possible, but it wasn’t easy. “It is highly likely that the injuries were sustained in Jonny Almhult’s house; we found her jacket there, and there were traces of blood on a radiator in his living room. If the blood turns out to be Kicki Berggren’s, that could explain the injury to the back of the head. Somehow she got back to the Mission House, where she was found the following morning.”
Suddenly the telephone crackled to life. Margit was trying to make herself heard. “Have I got this right? Kicki Berggren was assaulted, but we don’t know if it was fatal? She has major internal bleeding which can’t be explained? Can I ask what we actually do know?” Margit snapped.
Thomas tried to provide a chronological account. “We believe Kicki arrived on Sandhamn shortly after one o’clock last Friday. We’ve spoken to one of the girls in the kiosk who remembers her, and according to the timetable, a ferry comes in at that time. Kicki asked about somewhere to stay, and it appeared she had just arrived on the island. The girl suggested the Mission House. Since Kicki’s injuries must have been sustained at a later stage, the person who attacked her must also have been on the island.”
“Are there any witnesses who saw her with anyone?” Margit asked.
For a moment her question was drowned out by the sound of children laughing. She was obviously outdoors, probably on the beach.
“We’ve spoken to the staff in all the cafés and restaurants, and no one recognized her,” Thomas said. “But there are a couple of people who only work weekends, and they won’t be back until Friday. I’ve got their phone numbers. I haven’t managed to get ahold of them yet, but I’ll try again when we finish here.” He flexed his left foot, which boasted a huge blister—the result of tramping back and forth all over Sandhamn. “We’ve also knocked on the door of virtually every house on the island, but we haven’t found anyone who saw her. Not so far, anyway.”
Persson scratched his throat. He had a large, angry red mosquito bite just above his left collarbone. “Do we have any idea why this Almhult might have hit her?” He looked at Thomas.
“We don’t even know if it was Jonny Almhult. He’s disappeared, and we haven’t managed to track him down.” Thomas held up a photograph of Jonny Almhult; it showed a man with weak features and brown eyes. He had a broad nose, and his dark hair needed cutting. His face was tanned and freckled.
“He’s never been violent toward women before, as far as we know. He doesn’t have a criminal record. According to his mother, he’s pretty lonely and a little shy. She’s at her wits’ end; she has no idea what’s going on. The last contact she had with him was on Saturday, when he had either been drinking or had a bad hangover.” Thomas paused. “Erik spoke to Almhult two days ago, on Sunday morning, but he claimed he didn’t recognize Kicki’s photograph—isn’t that right, Erik?”
Erik nodded. “Exactly. I was only there for a couple minutes. He wasn’t looking too good; he seemed pretty hungover. When I asked whether he’d had any contact with Berggren, he said he didn’t know who she was. Then he apologized and said he wasn’t feeling well, so I left.” Erik looked unhappy, as if he were reproaching himself because he hadn’t realized that he ought to have questioned Almhult more closely.
“I’ve known of Jonny Almhult since I was a teenager,” Thomas said, “and there’s never been anything suspect about him. There is no obvious reason why Jonny would suddenly pick up a total stranger and start knocking her around.”
“You say she was a stranger, but we don’t actually know whether they already knew each other,” Persson said as he carried on scratching the mosquito bite, which was now bleeding slightly.
“No, you’re right,” Thomas said. “I’ve checked Kicki Berggren’s apartment, and there’s no trace of anything that might explain what’s happened. We haven’t found anything linking her to Sandhamn or Jonny Almhult, apart from the fact that she visited the ferry company’s website.”
The speakerphone crackled again. “What about her colleagues? Was there anyone at work who had a grudge against her?”
“I’ve spoken to the company that runs the casino. She’d worked there for over fifteen years. They didn’t have much to say—she did her job, didn’t take any more sick leave than anyone else, and was generally regarded as honest and reliable.” He looked down at his notebook where he had jotted down the salient points from his telephone conversation with Kicki Berggren’s boss, a miserable man who had shown little interest, in spite of the fact that one of his employees had been murdered. “The only thing unusual, as I understand it, is that she’d worked there for such a long time. Most croupiers pack it in after five or six years. It’s not the kind of profession people stick with, at least not if they have a family. The hours are terrible—evenings only, and late nights, of course. Nor is the working environment all that great.”