Many years’ experience had taught Thomas that his first impression wasn’t always accurate. But his gut feeling told him that he was talking to a perfectly ordinary father, not a cold-blooded killer.

“The day before Kicki Berggren died, she was asking about a man with a name similar to yours. Can you think of any reason why she might have wanted to speak to you?”

Graaf looked concerned. He bent down and kissed his son’s forehead; the child had clambered up onto his knee and settled down. The little brown body with the white-blond hair looked exactly like the picture on matchboxes available everywhere.

“No reason at all. I have absolutely no idea who she was or why she was on Sandhamn. I hope you believe me, because I don’t know how to prove it. The first I heard of Kicki Berggren was when I read about the murder in the paper, as I said.” He looked at his watch, which also showed the date. “That must have been about ten days ago.”

“You’re quite sure you’ve never met her?” Thomas asked.

“As far as I know, never.”

“You live near the Mission House.”

“True, but so do lots of people. And I wasn’t even here the weekend she died.”

“Where were you on Easter? That was when her cousin, Krister Berggren, disappeared,” Thomas clarified.

“I was in Åre; we went skiing and stayed at Fjällgården.” He looked slightly worried. “I’ve never had any contact with these people. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you spend much time here in the winter?” Thomas asked.

“No, none at all. We close up the house in October and come back at the end of April. We’re only here in late spring and summer.”

Margit cleared her throat. “Do you know anyone who works at Systemet?”

“Not really. Why?”

She explained that Krister Berggren had worked at Systemet until his death, and that they were interested in any possible connection between Berggren and Sandhamn.

“I usually go there on Fridays,” Graaf said. “I stand in the line along with everybody else, wishing I’d gone earlier in the week.” The comment was accompanied by a wink.

“Do you have anything to do with Systemet through your work?” Margit asked.

“Not at all; none of our clients are public companies. We work mainly with small or medium-size enterprises. In the private sector.”

Thomas didn’t say anything.

Graaf smiled and spread his hands wide. “I’d really like to help if I could, but I don’t think I have anything useful to contribute.”

Thomas decided to change the subject. “What about Jonny Almhult? Did you know him?”

Graaf looked puzzled. “Who’s he?”

“He’s the person who was found dead in the water just off Trouville beach last week. He was a permanent resident on the island who made his living as a carpenter. He was an artist, too, a painter.”

“Sorry, I never met him. We haven’t been coming here all that long, and we haven’t really had much to do with the locals. The house was pretty well-maintained when we bought it, so we haven’t needed any work done so far.” He tapped the table with his index finger. “Knock on wood.”

The little boy on his knee was obviously starting to get bored with the conversation; he was wriggling like a worm. “Play ball, Daddy. I want the people to go.” He tugged at his father’s shirt. “Go now,” he said again.

Thomas smiled at the child. “We won’t be long,” he promised. “Just one more thing.” He contemplated the man for a few seconds. “Do you have any rat poison here?”

“Rat poison?” Graaf looked perplexed.

“Rat poison,” Margit said. “We’re wondering if you have any rat poison on the premises.”

Graaf thought for a moment, then gently lifted his son down and stood up. “I’ll have to ask my wife,” he said. “We might.”

He went over to the open door and shouted. A slim woman with her hair in a thick plait appeared in the doorway. She looked at her husband and the two strangers sitting in her garden.

Graaf quickly explained the situation. “They want to know if we have any rat poison.”

“There might still be some down in the cellar,” she said. “In that little cupboard?” She turned to Thomas and Margit. “The previous owner left a bunch of stuff down in the cellar and told us to take what we wanted. There might be some down there; I’ll go check.”

She disappeared indoors and returned after a few minutes with a plastic container marked with a warning triangle. “Mouse and Rat Killer,” it said in big black letters. She handed it to Thomas, who carefully opened the childproof cap. The container was full of blue granules.

After a few more questions about Graaf’s contacts on the island over the summer, they brought the interview to a close and left. The little boy had grown tired of the adults and was playing with his ball again. At the moment he was fully occupied with trying to sit on it.

“That didn’t get us very far,” Margit said as soon as they were out of earshot. “There’s no obvious connection, he has no motive, and he has an excellent alibi. What more can you ask? The only thing that counts against him is the rat poison.”

“I agree,” Thomas said. “And having rat poison in the house doesn’t make you a murderer.”

He wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. The air was ferociously hot. The wind had died away, and it would be a long time before there was any prospect of a cooling evening breeze.

Thomas looked at Margit. “Are you ready to tackle Philip Fahlén?”

“Absolutely. Lead the way.”

CHAPTER 49

They headed off in the direction of Fläskberget and the churchyard, passing a number of more modern houses built from the sixties onward. They looked like typical summer cottages, far removed from the traditional style that characterized the village.

Thomas already had sand in his shoes; it was unavoidable.

There was no mistaking the fact that it was almost the end of July. The lilacs had long since finished flowering and had been replaced by dark-yellow sunflowers and currant bushes laden with fruit. Here and there the odd wilting tuft of grass was sticking up through the sand, evidence of brave efforts to put down roots in an impossible environment. The occasional feeble attempt at a lawn could be seen in a few gardens, but most people made do with flower beds surrounded by the ever-present sand.

Philip Fahlén lived on the northwest side of Sandhamn, where the spit of land was so narrow that you could see right across the island.

All the way to the beach where the unfortunate Krister Berggren had been washed ashore just a few weeks earlier.

They were only ten minutes’ walk from the harbor, busy with boats and visitors, but this side of the island was quiet and peaceful. They could hear birds singing, and the sunlight filtered down through the tops of the pine trees. The blueberries were beginning to ripen; the bushes were full of fruit.

Fahlén’s house was in a beautiful spot on the rocks, just a few yards from a wide jetty that extended a long way out. A splendid Bayliner day cruiser was moored there, and a huge hot tub made of dark wood stood by the water’s edge, with a perfect view over the sea. On the other side was a boathouse with two small square windows; Thomas could just glimpse several fishing nets hanging on hooks inside.

The flag was flying, a sure sign that the owner of the house was on the island.