Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  Sometimes Embla found Göran’s photographic memory kind of creepy.

  “If we don’t find the watch, we can probably assume that the killer took it, along with his phone and possibly a laptop. We’ll ask for any traffic on his cell phone to be monitored,” he added.

  They both heard the sound of an approaching engine. Göran stood up and peered out through the remaining gap in the snow-covered window.

  “The cavalry has arrived. Time for us to leave.”

  “In that case let’s go to the guesthouse,” Embla suggested.

  They waited until the two CSIs appeared, already dressed in full protective clothing. They stamped the snow off their shoes before coming in. The female technician, who Embla knew was named Linda, came over to the table to say hello. Her male colleague stopped in the doorway with camera equipment and lamps.

  “Is it just the two of you?” Göran asked.

  “Yes, the others are busy with a fatal shooting in Hisingen. A guy who belongs to some criminal gang, as far as I know. It was reported at about six o’clock this morning. Bengan and I were called in when dispatch realized who your victim was,” Linda explained, glancing around the cottage.

  “Those gangland murders swallow up our already-minimal resources,” Göran said with a sigh.

  “Too right.”

  Bengan pointed to the bedroom. “In there?”

  “Yes. We’ll leave you to work in peace. Call me if you need me,” Göran said, getting to his feet.

  “Will do. We’ve requested transportation for the body. We can’t get a hold of a forensic pathologist up here, so we’re taking him to Gothenburg.”

  “Good. We’re going to the guesthouse for lunch; come over for something to eat when you’re done, and we can have a chat. You’re bound to discover things we haven’t been able to see; nobody’s actually entered the room; we’ve only taken a look from the doorway.”

  Embla thought of something important.

  “Two other people have been in here today—apart from the killer. Olle Tillman, a police officer who works in Åmål, and Harald Fäldt, the owner of the cottage. He’s the one who found the body. I don’t think he went into the bedroom, but I’m not sure. I guess you might need their DNA?”

  “We will—thanks for letting us know. You’re already on the register, and I assume Tillman is, too,” Linda said from behind her mask.

  Embla and Göran certainly did justice to the oven-baked salmon stuffed with horseradish and herbs. The fish was served with new potatoes cooked in dill, and a lemon sauce. There was also a dish of freshly grated horseradish for anyone who wanted to intensify the flavor. Göran heaped a generous amount on top of his salmon, and Embla was a little worried about how his stomach would react. Then again, it was well used to such onslaughts. Maybe he’d try to lose some weight now that he was with Paula Nilsson, a colleague from Trollhättan. He looked good, with thick blond hair that had just started to recede at his temples, and kind blue eyes.

  “I’m going to get myself a cup of coffee and a few raspberry cookies. Can I tempt you?” he said.

  “Just a cup of tea, thanks.”

  Göran went over to the table where hot drinks and cookies had been set out. As Embla watched him go, she felt a pang of regret that they were no longer working together. He was the best boss anyone could wish for, and she was genuinely sorry that VGM had been disbanded as a result of reorganization within the police force. The country’s twenty-one police districts had been brought together into seven regions, with a number of national departments and a head office based in Stockholm. One effect of this restructuring was that many experienced and skilled officers had taken early retirement. Units that had worked well for many years were broken up, including VGM.

  The situation in many districts today is pretty chaotic. The police don’t have the resources to investigate all the crimes that are reported; cases pile up, or are immediately written off. Sweden is around one thousand five hundred kilometers long and has significant regional variations when it comes to both climate and population. Sometimes police had to cover vast distances, particularly in the far north. The only advantage was that it was now possible to coordinate investigations across the whole country; this hadn’t worked well when there were twenty-one separate districts.

  The sound of Göran’s phone cut into her thoughts. He put his tray down on the table and fished his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, which was draped over the chair. He answered as he sat down, then listened in silence. Judging by the look on his face, it wasn’t good news. After a minute or so he thanked the caller and hung up. Slowly he shook his head, then met Embla’s gaze.

  “That was Sabina Amir, my new deputy. She was calling about Milo’s younger brother.”

  Embla had met Sabina; Göran had introduced the two of them at the beginning of the previous month, but he’d clearly forgotten.

  “Which one? Kador or Luca?”

  “Luca. He was found at six o’clock this morning. That was the shooting Linda mentioned.”

  Embla’s brain refused to work. This morning had already brought a number of surprises that had reawakened powerful emotions. Eventually she managed to process what Göran had just said: Two of the Stavic brothers were dead. Murdered. She couldn’t speak.

  “He was lying on the ground by his car,” Göran continued, watching Embla’s face closely. “He was behind other parked cars, so several hours passed before his body was discovered. They think he’s been there since last night.”

  Embla tried to pull herself together. She was confused. “Does anyone know when he left La Dolce Vita?” she asked.

  That was the club from which Lollo had disappeared; as far as Embla knew, Luca still worked there.

  “Yes, there’s a camera by the staff entrance; he left just after seven-thirty. Unfortunately there are no cameras in the parking garage where he was shot. Sorry—there is one by the entry ramp, but it’s broken.”

  Over the years Embla had tried to keep herself up to speed on the Stavic brothers, but she’d mostly relied on what was in the media. She didn’t have access to the police database, but she did remember an incident that had made headlines a few years ago. She cleared her throat a couple of times before she was able to trust her voice again.

  “Four years ago, Luca and one of the doormen were shot outside the club. Luca survived, but the other guy died. Then nothing else happened—or did it?”

  “You mean was the gunman arrested, or did the cops know for sure who he was? As in most cases involving gang-related violence, the answer is no. But this isn’t just some suburban crew—this is the Stavic brothers. All I know is that a body was found floating in the water below the Opera House a month or so later. The man was from one of the Balkan countries, and had arrived in Gothenburg the day before the shootings. Rumor had it that he belonged to a rival gang.”

  A power struggle between two gangs would explain a great deal.

  “And was that the case?”

  Göran shrugged. “I have no idea. There’s been no more trouble since then, but now everything’s kicking off. Two brothers, murdered within a few hours. And the two crime scenes were only about two hundred kilometers apart.”

  “Where’s Kador—the third brother?”

  “The last I heard, he’d moved to Croatia. He’d already been there for ten years when Luca and the doorman were shot. I’ll check him out; killings like this are often internal affairs. He’s definitely a person of interest.”

  Embla was beginning to feel exhausted. For almost fifteen years she’d wanted to find out what had really happened on that warm August night. She’d been keen to investigate the brothers thoroughly, but at the same time she had been terrified to get too close to them. But now, with Milo and Luca dead, locating Kador was crucial.

  It would be a few hours before the CSIs were finished with the cottage, so Gör
an decided to go up to the room Harald had reserved for him in the main guesthouse. He wanted to check the police database for the latest information on the Stavic brothers. Embla had also been given a room. At first she’d thought it unnecessary, because she was staying with Nisse, but she knew things would be easier if she and Göran were in the same place. As all police officers know, the first forty-eight hours of an investigation are critical.

  She decided to look into the murder of the teenager at the Lodge. She kept thinking about the fact that the timing of both homicides seemed to coincide. Someone could have seen something relevant to the death of Milo Stavic. It was a long shot, but it might just pay off, and at the moment, she couldn’t think of a better way of starting the Stavic case. She didn’t know anyone in this part of Dalsland, and she wasn’t familiar with the area. There was no point in embarking on door-to-door inquiries because there were no inhabited buildings anywhere near the scene of the crime.

  Two police cars were parked outside the party venue, a standard Volvo V70 and a V70 Cross Country. The latter was the CSIs’ vehicle. The door of the Lodge was open, and the technicians were just coming out. They were from the Trollhättan district and said hi to Embla because they recognized her from the homicide investigation during the previous year’s moose hunt. She was about to go inside when Olle Tillman appeared. His face lit up when he saw her.

  “Hi. We’re done here,” he said.

  Embla nodded in the direction of the CSIs. “So I see.”

  “Have your technicians arrived?”

  “Yes, they’re hard at work, so I thought I’d ask if you’ve got time to show me this crime scene so I can get a feeling for the place. I can’t help hoping that someone who was here last night might have seen something connected to Stavic’s murder.”

  “Of course, if you think it will help.”

  He turned and waved her into the Lodge.

  From the outside, the building looked like a large barn, well-maintained and with decent doors and windows. Once they stepped inside, any resemblance to a barn disappeared. It was a spacious, airy hallway with plenty of hooks and shelves for outdoor clothing. The temperature was pleasantly warm. Olle opened a double door, and they entered a generous venue with white-painted walls. The windows were new, but made to look old-fashioned. There was a small stage at the front, and the floor was clear of chairs and tables, which were stacked along the walls. Black plastic garbage bags were dotted around, filled with plastic plates and tumblers. The tables and floor were sticky with spilled drinks and food. Embla picked up the faint aroma of familiar spices.

  “The club put up a taco buffet,” Olle said. “The invited guests were trainers and players from the men’s and women’s teams in Herremarks IBK, and each person was allowed to bring one guest.”

  “Does the club often throw parties?”

  “I don’t know. This was to celebrate their twentieth anniversary.”

  “Did they provide the drinks, too?”

  “No, everyone brought their own. The kids had put away quite a lot. Most of them were drunk, some virtually incapacitated, but, according to those we’ve spoken to, the atmosphere was good.”

  Embla looked around. “I guess there was dancing?”

  “Yes, a local DJ from Bengtsfors started his set at about eleven o’clock.”

  Embla nodded. A fun party, with teenagers and a few older leaders dancing and having a good time. And yet a boy had been stabbed.

  “No trouble?”

  Olle frowned. “Well, one of the girls . . . Mikaela . . . said she was with the victim. She found him; she was completely hysterical when we got here. She said something along the lines of, ‘It’s that little fucker Ida! She couldn’t cope with being dumped by him!’”

  He rolled his eyes, his voice rising to a falsetto as he imitated the girl. Embla couldn’t help smiling. Even though he was exhausted, Olle could still manage to be funny, which was a point in his favor.

  “Did she or anyone else say anything interesting?”

  “She didn’t; the only other person I spoke to was Wille. He was covered in blood; he’d rushed over and tried to stop the bleeding. At first I didn’t think it was worth questioning him because he was so drunk, but then he said something strange. He was pretty aggressive and claimed it was Robin’s own fault he’d been stabbed. I asked what he meant, and he almost yelled at me that Robin was ‘so fucking cocky.’ When I asked him to explain, he clammed up on me.”

  “You need to talk to him right away,” Embla said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Remind me of the victim’s surname?”

  “Pettersson,” he said, trying to suppress a yawn.

  Embla was becoming increasingly certain that the two homicides were unconnected. The victims were too different in every way.

  “Tell me what you know about the course of events leading up to the stabbing.”

  Olle reached into his breast pocket and took out his notebook. He found the page he was looking for, then glanced through what he’d written. A smile spread across his tired face.

  “That’s it—Mikaela Malm is the girl who said she and Robin were together. And the boy who said it was Robin’s fault is Wille Andersson.”

  “You need to talk to both of them,” Embla reminded him.

  “Of course—tomorrow. We’ve already got people interviewing those who were at the party; we’ve divided the list of names between us, and those two are mine. Along with a few more.”

  “So what happened last night?”

  Olle turned the page, unconsciously clearing his throat before he began to read.

  “Witnesses saw Robin leave through the back door of the kitchen shortly before twelve-thirty. Apparently the boys often go out that way to pee.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes, but people were coming and going through that door the whole time. Most of them were far from sober, so it would have been possible to slip out without anyone noticing. And of course someone could have left by the main door at the front and crept around the back. Or the killer could have been out there waiting for Robin; he was bound to appear sooner or later.”

  “Okay, so Robin went out for a pee at about twelve twenty-five. What next?”

  “No one missed him at first, but after a few minutes Mikaela Malm started looking for him. She said it was pitch dark at the back of the Lodge; apparently the external light is broken. She eventually found him twenty meters from the back door. He was curled up on the ground, unconscious and bleeding heavily. She ran back inside, screaming for help. It was all pretty chaotic, but one of the leaders realized that something serious had happened and went outside with Mikaela. He could see that Robin was badly injured; Wille Andersson was trying to stop the bleeding, along with another guy named . . . let me see . . . Gustav. The leader called an ambulance, which took around twenty-five minutes to arrive. Robin was showing no signs of life by this stage and was pronounced dead in the ambulance. We got here fifteen minutes later.”

  “Do you know what injuries he’d sustained?”

  “Yes—several deep stab wounds to the chest and abdomen, inflicted with a large knife. The blade was long and wide—longer and wider than a Mora knife. According to the doctor, one or more arteries had been severed.”

  “So you already have the report?” Embla said in surprise. That was quick.

  “Only the preliminary, so we know what weapon we’re looking for.”

  “You haven’t found a knife that matches the description?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good.”

  Olle raised his eyebrows. “Good? Why is that good?”

  “Because something tells me you’re not looking for a professional hitman here. A person who kills for the first time usually makes mistakes. A cardinal error is holding on to the weapon. Search for a large kitchen knife or hunting knife
in the homes of those you eventually identify as suspects.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully, then nodded. Suddenly his expression darkened. “We do have one problem,” he said. “Johnzén.”

  “Your boss? Why is he a problem?”

  To be fair, she’d already concluded as much from Johnzén’s phone conversation with Olle and then with Göran.

  “He’s got it into his head that one of the boys from the residential care home is our perp,” Olle said with a sigh.

  This was news to Embla.

  “Where’s this home?”

  “About three kilometers from here. It’s an old school that’s been converted into a home for unaccompanied refugee children. At the moment eight boys from Syria and Afghanistan are living there, but they’re going to be relocated since the place is closing.”

  “Were any of them seen around the Lodge last night?”

  “Not as far as we know.”

  “But Johnzén is sticking to his theory.”

  Olle nodded, then closed his notebook and slipped it in his pocket.

  “Okay—I’m going home to Tore,” he said firmly.

  His son? Or partner?

  “So poor Tore’s been all alone since yesterday evening?” Embla said casually.

  “No, my sister has him when I’m working. But they’re going out tonight, so I need to get back.”

  Not a partner, then. A son?

  “It’s a shame if he doesn’t get to see you on a Saturday when he’s free,” she said in the same tone.

  “Tore’s always free, except when he’s training. Then he works very hard.”

  Training? Works very hard? Given Olle’s age, his son couldn’t be much more than five or six. Why would he drive a little boy so hard?

  “How old is he?”

  “Almost two.”

  Almost two—that’s crazy! She had to make a real effort not to show what she was thinking.

  “So what kind of training is he doing?” She couldn’t quite keep the sharpness out of her voice.