The wind soughed gently in the tops of the tall pines. The fog seemed to have lifted slightly; visibility was better, and she could just see the water’s edge.

Nora turned to the right and followed the narrow forest track leading back to the village. As she passed the little churchyard surrounded by a simple white fence, she impulsively opened the gate and stepped inside. She stood there contemplating this tranquil place.

Sandhamn’s churchyard had been established during the great cholera epidemic in the 1830s. Many of the graves were beautiful and elaborate, made of marble and granite. Some were overgrown with lichen, the inscriptions eroded to the point where it was almost impossible to read them. The gravestones could provide a great deal of information about the population in years gone by and about how people had made a living in those days. Every stone carried the name and occupation of the person who was buried there. Many master pilots and customs officers had been laid to rest here, often beside a faithful wife, whose name was always below that of her husband.

Nora recognized many of the surnames; they were families who still owned property on the island, houses that had been passed down from one generation to the next. They were often made up of sections of older houses that had been transported to Sandhamn from other islands.

There was an air of peace about this place, which lay just behind the beach at Fläskberget. The graves were surrounded by sand, its surface covered in needles and cones. Here and there the ground was crisscrossed by the gnarled roots of the pine trees, which gave the impression of an irregular pattern laid out at random, like a skewed chessboard.

A beautiful laburnum tree had been planted next to the modest grave belonging to Avén, the former lighthouse keeper who had been responsible for the lighthouse on Korsö for the latter part of the nineteenth century. People said he was a real gardener, who created an unparalleled display of flowers during his time on the island, with rose bushes and flower beds wherever you looked.

Nora wandered slowly among the graves. She had always loved the atmosphere in this churchyard and the feeling of stillness that came over her whenever she visited.

Up in the left-hand corner there was a memorial grove to commemorate those who had not been laid to rest in a grave of their own. A heavy black chain fenced off the area, and beside the great anchor in the sand there were fresh flowers and candles. For a moment she wondered who had put them there; perhaps it was some kind soul thinking of poor Kicki Berggren, who had recently lost her life on Sandhamn, or a resident wishing to honor the memory of a relative lost long ago.

Nora stopped at the Brand family grave, the resting place of every member of Signe’s family who had passed away since the churchyard was established. The last name on the large gravestone was Helge Brand, Signe’s brother, who had died of cancer at the beginning of the nineties.

Nora didn’t have very clear memories of Helge. He had left the family and spent many years abroad and at sea. By the time he returned home to Sandhamn, he was already marked by the illness that would take his life. Signe cared for him in their childhood home until the end. She had refused to let him go to the hospital, insisting that she could care for him better than strangers.

Nora bowed her head as a mark of respect and slowly walked away, lost in thought.

People’s lives could turn out so differently. One minute out on the seven seas, the next marked by death. Helge Brand had returned to Sandhamn as his life neared its end, while Kicki Berggren had been on the island for such a short time when she died. And Krister Berggren was already dead when he reached the island. None of them could have foreseen what a short time they had left to live.

Would they have done anything different if they had known what was coming? Nora wondered. Would they have appreciated life more if they had sensed how quickly their time was running out?

In a moment of ice-cold clarity Nora realized she wasn’t prepared to compromise simply to appease Henrik. The injustice of the way in which her own wishes had been casually waved aside caused her physical pain. The anger at not being taken seriously felt like a solid lump in her chest. Never before had Henrik spelled out so clearly what really mattered.

She was so preoccupied that she stumbled over a tree root sticking out of the sand and almost lost her balance. The fog had come down once more, and she could taste the fine drops of rain on her tongue. She decided the boys could miss their swimming lessons today. In this weather they might as well sleep in.

CHAPTER 47

Margit and Thomas walked out into the police station parking lot to drive to Stavsnäs, where they would catch the morning boat to Sandhamn. Even though it was only nine thirty, the blazing sun had transformed the interior of the Volvo into something resembling a Finnish sauna. A wave of heat struck them as they opened the doors.

Thomas started the engine, and as he put the car into reverse, he turned to Margit. “Do you remember what work those two property owners on Sandhamn did? I meant to look, but something came up.”

“I can’t remember. I should have checked.”

Thomas pulled out onto the highway heading for Stavsnäs. As they were approaching Strömma, his cell phone rang, and Thomas switched to speakerphone. The sound of Kalle’s voice filled the car. He had new information about the rat poison that had killed Kicki.

“I finally reached somebody at Anticimex, the pest-control firm. Nobody at the hospital in Huddinge was willing to say anything definite, even though I’ve spoken to several different people. They all referred me to some guy who’s a clinical pharmacologist, but of course he’s on vacation abroad and isn’t answering his phone.”

“So what did Anticimex say?” Margit broke in.

“He was very dubious about the idea that someone could die from warfarin. He said anyone who consumes rat poison must either be blind or unusually ready to die. Rat poison consists of quite large granules, usually colored green or blue to show they’re dangerous.”

Margit leaned forward to speak into the phone, which was in a dock below the windshield. “What else did he say?”

“The amount you would need to consume to produce a fatal effect is more or less the equivalent of an entire meal. You have to ingest a significant amount for it to be dangerous.”

“It doesn’t seem credible that a person could consume that much without noticing anything,” Thomas said.

“Exactly,” Kalle said. “And another thing: it usually takes a couple of days to work, according to Anticimex. The idea is that the rats leave the house, so they don’t die down in the basement. Nobody wants to find rotting rat corpses in their house.”

Margit gave Thomas a look as she digested the information. “I presume we can rule out the possibility that Kicki tried to take her own life by eating rat poison,” she said. “If someone wants to commit suicide, there are plenty of ways that are quicker and simpler; a handful of sleeping tablets and a bottle of whisky usually does the job in no time.” She let out a cynical little laugh; it was a typical coping mechanism among police officers, to deal with unpleasant matters by using dark humor.