Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  Olle spread his hands wide. “It varies. Obedience, seek and find, narcotics . . .”

  A dog.

  “What breed is he?”

  “A Belgian shepherd. He’s passed the aptitude test to become a police dog, and he’s done particularly well in the assessment for sniffing out drugs. I’ve done the dog handling course, and we’ve applied to the center in Karlsborg to do our basic training. It starts in two months; I should hear pretty soon.”

  “So you’re going to be a dog handler.”

  “I hope so. There are plenty of vacancies; far too many dog teams were scrapped when the service was reorganized, so now new ones have to be trained.”

  Embla knew that dog teams were vital when people went missing in the vast forests. During her time with VGM she had been involved in a number of searches where the dogs had played a key role.

  She thanked Olle for the information he’d given her, then they said goodbye and jumped in their respective cars.

  Embla drove back to the guesthouse to see if Göran had heard from the CSIs at the cottage. Just as she’d suspected, he was still hunched over the computer in his room. The CSIs had been in touch, but only to say they wouldn’t be joining him for a few hours.

  “In that case I’ll go over to Nisse’s and pick up my things,” Embla said.

  “Good idea. If we meet here at six, that gives us an hour before dinner. I should have something from Linda and Bengan by then. The body’s on its way to the pathologist, and we’ve been promised a preliminary report by tomorrow. I’ve also spoken to the district chief of police, Marjatta Svensson. She’s happy that we’ve made a start at the crime scene and that we’ll continue the investigation in Gothenburg. She used to be an inspector with Narcotics, so she’s familiar with the Stavic brothers.”

  He turned away and was immediately absorbed in the text on the screen once more.

  When Embla pulled up on the drive in front of Nisse’s house, the first thing that caught her attention was a fox’s pelt nailed to the wall of the woodshed. It was a big one, with thick, reddish-brown shimmering fur. A successful hunt, then. Nisse and Elliot must be pleased.

  As soon as she stepped inside she sensed that something was wrong. There was silence downstairs; the only sign of life was from Seppo, who leaped up from his place by the stove to welcome her. He hurried over, wanting to be petted.

  “There’s a good boy! What have you done with your master?”

  The dog understood the word “master” and let out a bark before going to the foot of the stairs. He turned his head and looked back at her, then stopped wagging his tail and allowed it to droop. Embla joined him and scratched behind his ears. She heard the sound of sobbing from the bedroom, accompanied by the low hum of Nisse’s voice.

  She took the stairs in a few strides; the door of the guestroom was ajar. She tapped gently before she went in.

  “Hello, you two! Congratulations on a good day’s hunting!” she said with excessive cheerfulness.

  Elliot was lying on his stomach with his face buried in the pillow. Nisse was perched on the bed beside him, clumsily stroking the boy’s back. When he heard Embla’s voice he turned and shook his head, but it was too late. Elliot raised his head, his eyes red from weeping. She hurried over, crouched down, and gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “Oh, Elliot . . .”

  “I didn’t want it to DIE!”

  Tears poured down his cheeks, and he buried his face once more. Nisse exchanged a helpless look with his niece, who was equally at a loss.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I’m sure you can work it out,” Nisse said with a deep sigh.

  “You shot a fox. I saw the pelt on the—”

  Loud sobs interrupted her. Nisse made a gesture indicating that she should stop talking about the unfortunate fox.

  It was exactly as she’d feared: Elliot wasn’t mature enough to cope with the hunt. He had no relationship with the tradition of hunting; his father only went after women, Embla thought sourly. The closest Elliot had come was people chasing and shooting one another in movies and computer games, where death is an abstract concept that affects no one because everyone knows it’s only pretend. However, if he saw an animal die in a nature documentary, he would sob as if his heart was breaking. And now he’d seen it for real.

  Killing an animal during the hunt demands respect for nature and for the animal itself, along with knowledge and good judgment. Because death is irrevocable. Embla often felt sad when she shot a fox or a moose, but hunting was necessary. How could she explain that to a devastated child?

  She decided to try, and signaled to Nisse to swap places. His relief was unmistakable as he stood up and made room for her.

  She stroked the boy’s curls and spoke softly.

  “Listen, sweetheart. I know this is hard, but it’s really important that we—”

  “There’s no need to kill animals!” The sentiment was somewhat muffled as he was shouting into the pillow.

  “Actually, there is. You remember those little fawns we saw when we were here last summer?”

  He didn’t reply, but he didn’t move either, which suggested that he was listening. Good. Now it was just a matter of saying the right thing.

  “You remember how sweet they were, scampering around in the meadow? They were only a few days old.”

  “I took lots of photos of them.”

  “You did. Your pictures of the mother deer with her two fawns were fantastic.”

  He turned his head and looked at her with his puffy eyes.

  “I kept them on my phone. Everybody in my class has s-s-seen them.” He hiccupped.

  He sat up and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. In seconds he’d found the images of the little family.

  “Look! That one’s Bambi, and this one’s Prancer,” he said.

  “So sweet,” Embla said. Okay, time to go for it. “Do you know who Bambi and Prancer’s worst enemy is? Who kills the most fawns?”

  He glanced up at her, and she could see the anxiety in his eyes.

  “No . . . a hunter, maybe?”

  “Hunters aren’t interested in fawns. They’re too small. It’s someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “The fox.”

  A long silence followed. “But . . . foxes aren’t very big. They can’t . . .” His voice was shaking.

  “Yes, they can. They love to take baby deer. Yum yum!”

  Elliot stared down at the deer, playing in the sun-drenched meadow on a beautiful summer’s day.

  “That’s why we have to control the number of predators,” Embla continued. “If we don’t, there won’t be any deer left. It’s all about maintaining balance in nature.”

  She realized he wasn’t listening. He wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. He needs a distraction, Embla thought.

  “Nisse, can you call Karin and check if it was this evening she wanted Elliot to come over? I think she mentioned tea and computer games.” She winked to make sure he understood; he smiled and nodded.

  “I think it was, but I’ll give her a call just to be on the safe side.”

  He looked much happier as he left the room to contact his other niece.

  Karin was seven years older than Embla, but the cousins had always been close. They both had older brothers and no sisters, and they were both members of the local hunting club. Karin had qualified as a nurse, then returned to her home village to marry Björn. She’d been working as a district nurse for many years now. They had three children: two girls, ages thirteen and ten, and a four-year-old boy. Both girls had a knack for computer games, and Elliot loved playing with them.

  After a couple of minutes Nisse was back. He looked positively cheerful as he stuck his head around the door.

  “You’re right, it is this evening. Karin’s
cooking moose meatballs with cream sauce and lingonberries for dinner.”

  Elliot’s favorite. Thank God for Karin, fixing that up at such short notice. As long as no one mentioned where the moose meat had come from . . .

  “Yesss!”

  Elliot leaped to his feet and ran into the bathroom to blow his nose and wash his face. For the time being, the fox was forgotten.

  “Go take down that pelt and put it somewhere out of sight,” Embla whispered to her uncle.

  “I will. And tomorrow I’ll drive him back to his father in Gothenburg.”

  “Okay, in that case I’ll take him to Karin’s. That will give us a little time together before I head back to Herremark. It doesn’t feel right to leave him without giving him an explanation.”

  “I understand. Karin’s invited me over as well, so I’ll be there around six. We thought it would be good if the kids had a chance to play before dinner.”

  “Fantastic! You’re the best uncle in the whole wide world!”

  She gave him a big hug, which brought a contented smile to his face.

  Embla had called to warn Göran that she was going to be late, so they’d arranged to meet in the restaurant at the guesthouse.

  Monika welcomed her at reception. When she handed over Embla’s room key, she leaned across the desk and said quietly, “The CSIs came in to eat about an hour ago. The cottage is still cordoned off in case they need to come back, although they said that probably wouldn’t be necessary. If you or Superintendent Krantz want to take another look, just let me know and I’ll give you the key. I checked with the technicians, and they said that would be fine.”

  “Thanks, Monika,” Embla said before running up the creaking stairs. There were only four guest rooms in the main building these days; most visitors preferred the cabins. Embla was grateful that Harald had reserved two for her and Göran.

  Her room was very pleasant, with thick cream-colored cotton curtains and a matching bedspread. In the middle of the polished wooden floor lay a bright rug. There were potted plants in both windows, illuminated by small lamps with frosted glass shades. On the neat desk and the two nightstands, more lamps gave a soft glow. A comfortable-looking leather armchair was by one of the windows, along with an old-fashioned standard lamp, complete with a parchment shade that had a brown fringe around the bottom. She also had her own en suite bathroom; she knew the other guests had to share the bathroom in the hallway.

  She took off her coat and changed into her high-heeled boots. Combined with her black jeans and emerald-green jersey top, she was dressed smart enough for dinner. She let down her long hair and brushed it until it shone, then applied a quick application of mascara and a slick of lipstick.

  The restaurant occupied most of the ground floor and had a large glass veranda with a magnificent view over the lake. The décor was rustic, adding to the cozy, welcoming atmosphere. An open fire was crackling in one corner.

  A female maître d’ guided her to Göran’s table, at the back of the room. As Embla sat down she glanced outside. The wind had dropped and it was no longer snowing. The clouds were beginning to disperse, and as a result the temperature was falling. A full moon spread its ice-cold light over the snow-covered surface of the lake, making it sparkle like a diamond bedspread. Far away on the horizon, a faint yellowish-green shimmer suggested that the northern lights were putting on a show.

  “The CSIs were here about an hour ago and gave me their preliminary report,” Göran said, getting straight to the point.

  “Did they find anything?”

  “The most interesting thing is what they didn’t find—no phone, no laptop. And no big gold watch. However, there was a charger for an iPhone or iPad, which means—”

  He broke off, looking up at a point above Embla’s shoulder. When he smiled, she realized there was someone behind her.

  “Are you ready to order?” their waitress asked.

  “We need a couple more minutes, but I’d like a beer to start with. Embla?”

  “Cider, please.”

  “Coming right up,” the waitress said, tip-tapping away across the wooden floor on her high heels.

  “I guess we’d better see what they have,” Göran said, opening up the menu. The folders were made of tanned moose hide, and Embla knew that Harald had shot the animal himself. The menu itself was printed on thick cream-colored paper. As usual there was a choice of two starters and main courses, plus a vegetarian option. Embla chose homemade tomato soup followed by a hare casserole. Göran went for smoked moose heart with a salad to start with, then decided to try the hare, on Embla’s recommendation. After all, the restaurant was famous for the quality of its game dishes.

  “You can eat fried alpine char at home,” Embla pointed out.

  Dessert was a dark chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce and a Florentine. Her mouth was already watering, and she suddenly realized how hungry she was.

  The waitress returned with their drinks, a basket of home-baked bread, and a dish of whipped butter. The bread was still warm and smelled amazing. Against her strict principles, Embla took two pieces as soon as the waitress had taken their order.

  The restaurant was busy, but three families with small children were just about to leave. After the large group had gone, the noise level dropped significantly. It didn’t make any difference to the two police officers. There was no one close enough to their table to hear what they were saying, but they still instinctively spoke in hushed tones.

  “The body has been transported to the forensic pathologist. According to Linda, Milo Stavic had been shot in the head and heart at close range with a large-caliber weapon. That fits with the gun beneath his hands—a Beretta M9. They couldn’t see any signs of a struggle, or any indication that he’d tried to defend himself. All the evidence suggests that he was shot in his sleep.”

  Göran started searching the pockets of his jacket, which was draped over the back of the chair. Eventually he found his notebook, licked his index finger, and leafed through the pages until he came to the right place. His face lit up.

  “Okay, so . . . No dirty dishes, the dishwasher was empty. An empty wine bottle in the trash can. An unopened bottle of Slivovitz in the closet, plus a bottle of Croatian red wine. A packet of mixed salted nuts and a bag of potato chips, along with an empty box that had contained handmade chocolates from Bräutigams. But no food—he’d booked his meals here in the restaurant. They also found an expensive-looking suit and two shirts. The shirts were handmade in London. There was a wool overcoat hanging up in the hallway. A large bag in the closet contained a winter jacket with matching pants, thick socks, lined gloves, and a pair of long underwear. All from Peak Performance. There was a pair of heavy winter boots, still in their box. Everything brand-new and unused.”

  He fell silent and looked at her over the top of his reading glasses. Why did Milo need an entire set of new clothes suitable for winter conditions? There was nothing to indicate that he’d had the slightest interest in outdoor activities in the past. And since Milo Stavic was involved, this was no impulse buy. He was a man who always knew what he was doing.

  Before Embla could speak, the waitress brought their starters.

  There’s tomato soup, and then there’s homemade Italian tomato soup. It was delicious, and Embla caught herself shoveling it down way too fast. So fast that she scalded the roof of her mouth, but it was worth it. She glanced up when she heard a groan of pleasure from the other side of the table.

  “Oh my God! Smoked moose heart with pickled chanterelles and salad—amazing!” Göran said, rolling his eyes.

  The restaurant had more than lived up to its reputation and their expectations. The service was also outstanding; as soon as they’d finished, their plates were whisked away.

  The French cider was dry and cold, the alcohol content probably higher than in Swedish varieties. As the sparkling liquid cooled her pala
te, Embla felt the tension in her shoulders ease. It had been quite a day; she hadn’t had the chance to process everything that had happened, but now the snow had eased, and she and Göran were sitting in the cozy restaurant enjoying their meal. Her brain felt clearer, and she was sure they could make some progress in the investigation, even if the information they had so far was a little sparse.

  “How did the perpetrator get in?” she asked.

  “Through the door. There are fresh marks on the lock. Forced.”

  “Wouldn’t Milo have heard him?”

  “Not necessarily. The Slivovitz bottle on the nightstand was empty, as was another red wine bottle on the floor by the bed. I think we can assume he was in the habit of drinking quite a lot; he was probably comatose when the killer entered the cottage.”

  “Isn’t that a bit strange?” Embla objected.

  “Why?”

  “I’m surprised he dared to drink so much, given the effect it has.”

  “True, but doesn’t that tell us something important?” Göran held up his index finger to stress just how important that something was. “Milo felt safe in the cottage. He wasn’t expecting any trouble. However . . . the bag containing the new winter clothes had a false bottom, and in the secret compartment was a significant amount of ammunition—9 x 19mm Parabellum, which fits the Beretta. And I’ve checked—Milo had a license to carry a Beretta M9, so that could well be the gun that was found on the body.”

  “So he was shot with his own gun. I’ve been thinking about the fact that he came alone,” Embla said.

  Göran nodded. “You mean you’d expect him to bring one or more bodyguards. Which reinforces what I said before: he didn’t feel threatened.”

  The waitress appeared with their main courses. The hare casserole gave off a wonderful aroma of garlic, spices, and red wine. It was served with Hasselback potatoes and fried apple slices. They ate in respectful silence, then decided to wait a little while before moving on to dessert.

  “Did I tell you that Milo’s car is being taken down to our lab in Gothenburg first thing tomorrow morning?” Göran asked.