of Stockholmers and tourists disgorging into the square, suitcases being wheeled along the boardwalks to the grand Yacht Hotel or towards boats, bare legs flashing, flip-flops slapping. The place was heaving, a flotilla of sleek, high-masted yachts moored in the deeper waters offshore, the marina already crammed with day-trip speedboats and smaller sailing vessels whose rigging laced the sky like spiders’ webs. A small, rather tatty-looking cabin boat was chugging through the sound towards what appeared to be the only empty berth, its underpowered engine causing barely a ripple of wake behind it.
She headed to the bakery and stocked up on pastries for breakfast for everyone tomorrow, and crispbreads; then on to Westerbergs, the general store that was the focus of island life – food was bought there, services advertised, news exchanged and shared. The place had everything, from batteries to plants; bags of compost were piled up by the steps, potted geraniums and bright watering cans beside them. She caught sight of one of the delivery trikes standing inert in the shade – a rare sight; Kris called them the unicorns. It was sky blue, with rust patches, and had been fitted with a large wooden tray to the front that could take everything from shopping to suitcases. This particular one had also been fitted with an electric motor. There was a problem, though – they couldn’t be pre-booked. It was first come, first served. She’d need to be quick!
She jogged in. The bright, functional arrangement of the stacked shelves was always somehow a surprise, with trays of glossy fruit and vegetables set out like colour-coded Lego bricks. The shop was busy, but no customers were at the till, although the shelves were looking alarmingly scant, as though everyone had already stocked up for their Midsommar parties. Obviously she could ask the others to bring what else they needed from the city, but she would do her best here first. She scooped up two baskets and, with the speed of a seasoned local, quickly filled it with some milk and cereal, pasta, herrings, potatoes, cream, sugar, two punnets of strawberries, some twine and several loops of picture wire. She needed beer, too, but it was impossible to carry with a basket in each hand.
‘I’ve just got to get some beers too,’ she said to the till operator, setting it all down carefully. Someone else was doing the same at the other till, but he had almost nothing in his basket; a small cardboard box would take his shopping. She ran back to the alcohol aisle. There had been three six-packs left of Evil Twin, Kris’s favourite. She had come in for two, but the sight of ‘only’ three put her into panic mode, so she took them all.
The girl at the till was already scanning the barcodes and packing everything into a box for her. ‘And can I hire the bike outside, please?’ Bell said breathlessly, as she set the bottles down and pulled out her bank card.
‘I’m sorry, but the gentleman over there has just rented it,’ the girl said, nodding her head towards the other till. Bell looked over just as the man standing by the register glanced up, as though he had overheard.
Dark hair, faded baseball cap, expensive-looking anthracite-grey metal sunglasses. He looked to be mid-thirties or thereabouts. His face and forearms were incredibly tanned but his upper arms, peeking from the sleeves of his t-shirt, were paler. He gave an unsmiling nod and she looked away – he was one of the proverbial yachtie types that swarmed here in the summer months. No doubt his wife and kids were sitting by the Sea Club pool, or buying Ralph Lauren knits in the expensive boutique that fronted the harbour like a civic proclamation of the island’s good style and stealth wealth.
She looked again at his shopping haul – some bottles of wine, a wriggling bag of pinched lobsters, a carton of juice and the weekend papers. She frowned. Whilst the bag of lobsters might not be much fun to carry, did he really need the trike?
‘That’ll be four hundred and thirty-two kroner,’ the shop girl said.
‘Huh?’ Bell glanced back again.
‘Four thirty-two, please.’
‘Oh.’ She looked down at her shop – the girl had packed everything into a box for her, but with her cuttings basket and the cases of beer too . . . She handed over her card. How the hell was she supposed to carry this all the way home? The extra beer had been