Fabian turned off Västindiegatan and parked his car behind the Sailing Association’s clubhouse in the Råå Marina. The summer night was dark and it had started to rain, just like on Midsummer’s Eve. Tiny, wet droplets that never seemed to let up.

But despite the lousy weather, Fabian’s heart was light when he opened his umbrella, locked the car and walked across the open, deserted car park in the direction of the dock with its row of pontoons, along which hundreds upon hundreds of boats jostled for space. The afternoon had been an unqualified success and when later in the evening he’d told Sonja he had to go, she’d promised to keep the bed warm until he returned.

When he reached the edge of the dock, he stopped and looked out across the marina, which though it was peak season had a kind of peacefulness to it, as though it were hibernating. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Part of the explanation was, of course, that it was the middle of the night. Also, the weather was so bad all vacationing boat owners were probably huddled in double sleeping bags, shivering to stay warm.

It may have looked peaceful, but it was not quiet. On the contrary, there was a minor cacophony of noise: the whistling of the wind through shrouds and stays, halyards beating against masts and the lapping of the waves. Not to mention all the thousands of fenders being squeezed between the tightly packed hulls.

He pulled out the two blue keys he’d found in Elvin’s drawer and checked the handwritten digits 0388 one last time.

He was sure they were boat keys; if the number did in fact designate a particular slip, the boat must be docked in a big marina, and Råå was the biggest by far near Helsingborg.

Luckily, Fabian didn’t have to go out and check each of the approximately five-hundred-feet-long pontoons, because they were all labelled with exactly the information he needed.

The sign on the first one said 0087–0236. He moved on to the next one, home to slips 0237–0402, and continued out on to the long concrete jetty lined on either side with moored motor- and sailboats, both large and small. Most were facing the jetty, dark and abandoned by an unseasonably chilly summer. But here and there, an inviting glow could be seen through a window; a closer look revealed people inside, drinking wine and playing Yahtzee or watching films snuggled up in bed.

Further out on the pontoon, he passed a large Hallberg-Rassy, moored stern-to. It was a real beauty with a teak deck, aft cabin and a large, inviting cockpit with a table in the middle. The sturdy mast was so tall, it came equipped with double spreaders. Here too, the windows along the hull were bright, spreading a warm light across the water; Fabian had to admit there was something attractive about the whole picture.