so she decided to take a closer look using her telescope. The boat had gone behind Branteskär, and he must have tied it up there, because she didn’t see him come out the other side. According to her report, she’d waited for hours to see him come out. When nothing happened, she got bored and went to bed. When she woke up later, she saw that Nisse’s Cairn, a cairn of stones nearby, had been moved. According to her, the police really must investigate why the cairn had been shifted. It could be a sea hazard.
The detective had written in his report, “Branteskär is marked on the sea chart and is 2.5 kilometers from the witness’s residence on Styresö Island. Considering the late hour, the distance, and the darkness, there is no possibility that the witness could have seen anything through a telescope.”
Irene agreed with her colleague, but at the same time, this was the only report from a witness that had not been checked. She picked up the phone and dialed the number that Annika Hermansson had left three years earlier.
T HERE WERE ABOUT thirty passengers on the lunchtime ferry to the islands in the southern archipelago. Most of them were mothers of young children and retirees who’d been shopping in town. The sun was shining through sparse clouds, and the tops of the waves glittered. Seagulls hovered near the boat’s hull, perhaps in hopes that it was a fishing boat. After a pleasant half-hour journey, Irene could see the settlement of Styresö Bratten.
The contrast from her earlier visit was remarkable. A light breeze drifted through the crowns of the birch trees, giving off the scent of summer despite the fact that one or two golden leaves had already appeared. Irene looked at the ferry thermometer and unbuttoned her coat. It was almost twenty-one degrees Celcius, which was quite nice for the middle of September.
Irene walked the same way she’d gone with Tommy on that windy, cold December day more than three years ago. The address she’d gotten from Annika Hermansson led her to the house with the lovely glass veranda that she remembered from her first visit. The glass was mullioned with small, colored windowpanes in red and green. The large, wooden house resembled many of the other houses on the island; it had presumably been built at the turn of the previous century as a summer home for a wealthy Göteborg family. As Irene camecloser, she saw that the old house was beginning to look dilapidated. The yellow paint was coming off the walls in strips, and the paint around the windows was almost gone. The beautiful downspouts with dragonheads were nearly rusted through, and the grass of the tiny lawn was almost knee-high. A swath of honeysuckle from the overgrown garden wrapped itself around one of the downspouts.
Irene knocked on the cracked door. After a moment, she heard a husky voice yell, “Come on in, the door’s open!”
Irene entered the house and was immediately struck by the odor of the dirty house: cigarette smoke, old wine, and rancid cat food.
“Hello!” Irene called out.
“Hello there! I’m in the kitchen!” a raspy female voice replied.
Irene stepped over the junk that littered the narrow hallway and aimed her feet in the direction of the voice.
The kitchen was large and light. The sun shone through the southern window. It would never be too sunny, though, because it would have to first make its way through a thick layer of salt and dirt.
External blinds, how practical
, Irene thought. The kitchen décor was from the seventies: all pine paneling, the stove and the refrigerator an avocado green. The smell in the kitchen was nauseating, and Irene was thankful she hadn’t stopped for lunch before this visit.
The woman was sitting at the table, scratching behind the ear of the black cat on her lap. It was purring so loudly the sound filled the kitchen. Both the cat and the mistress looked up when Irene entered the room.
“Hi, I’m Irene Huss. I’m the detective who called you
The detective had written in his report, “Branteskär is marked on the sea chart and is 2.5 kilometers from the witness’s residence on Styresö Island. Considering the late hour, the distance, and the darkness, there is no possibility that the witness could have seen anything through a telescope.”
Irene agreed with her colleague, but at the same time, this was the only report from a witness that had not been checked. She picked up the phone and dialed the number that Annika Hermansson had left three years earlier.
T HERE WERE ABOUT thirty passengers on the lunchtime ferry to the islands in the southern archipelago. Most of them were mothers of young children and retirees who’d been shopping in town. The sun was shining through sparse clouds, and the tops of the waves glittered. Seagulls hovered near the boat’s hull, perhaps in hopes that it was a fishing boat. After a pleasant half-hour journey, Irene could see the settlement of Styresö Bratten.
The contrast from her earlier visit was remarkable. A light breeze drifted through the crowns of the birch trees, giving off the scent of summer despite the fact that one or two golden leaves had already appeared. Irene looked at the ferry thermometer and unbuttoned her coat. It was almost twenty-one degrees Celcius, which was quite nice for the middle of September.
Irene walked the same way she’d gone with Tommy on that windy, cold December day more than three years ago. The address she’d gotten from Annika Hermansson led her to the house with the lovely glass veranda that she remembered from her first visit. The glass was mullioned with small, colored windowpanes in red and green. The large, wooden house resembled many of the other houses on the island; it had presumably been built at the turn of the previous century as a summer home for a wealthy Göteborg family. As Irene camecloser, she saw that the old house was beginning to look dilapidated. The yellow paint was coming off the walls in strips, and the paint around the windows was almost gone. The beautiful downspouts with dragonheads were nearly rusted through, and the grass of the tiny lawn was almost knee-high. A swath of honeysuckle from the overgrown garden wrapped itself around one of the downspouts.
Irene knocked on the cracked door. After a moment, she heard a husky voice yell, “Come on in, the door’s open!”
Irene entered the house and was immediately struck by the odor of the dirty house: cigarette smoke, old wine, and rancid cat food.
“Hello!” Irene called out.
“Hello there! I’m in the kitchen!” a raspy female voice replied.
Irene stepped over the junk that littered the narrow hallway and aimed her feet in the direction of the voice.
The kitchen was large and light. The sun shone through the southern window. It would never be too sunny, though, because it would have to first make its way through a thick layer of salt and dirt.
External blinds, how practical
, Irene thought. The kitchen décor was from the seventies: all pine paneling, the stove and the refrigerator an avocado green. The smell in the kitchen was nauseating, and Irene was thankful she hadn’t stopped for lunch before this visit.
The woman was sitting at the table, scratching behind the ear of the black cat on her lap. It was purring so loudly the sound filled the kitchen. Both the cat and the mistress looked up when Irene entered the room.
“Hi, I’m Irene Huss. I’m the detective who called you
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