Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  Embla shook her head. She’d been wondering about Milo’s new car.

  “Why buy a great big Audi SUV when you’ve already got a top-of-the-line Merc?” she asked.

  Göran took a swig of his beer before he answered. “I’ve checked out the Audi, and it’s a company car, registered to a brand-new firm, STAV Property Ltd. All three brothers are listed as owners. The company has just bought up a number of buildings in Vasastan. Big business. I’ll take a closer look when I have time. There’s also another Audi—an A6—registered to STAV Property.”

  It would take a while to disentangle the Stavic brothers’ affairs, while investigating the homicides of two of them. The questions were piling up, but the biggest puzzle was still what the hell he’d been doing in Herremark.

  Göran turned a page in his notebook. “I’ve been looking into Milo’s history, and I found out a couple of things I didn’t know before. For example, he’s actually Kador and Luca’s half-brother. Those two are full brothers.”

  “I didn’t know that either,” Embla said in surprise.

  “Milo was forty-five years old. He was born in Dubrovnik; his mother, Maria, was a Croat, and his father, Milan, was a Serb. When Milo was six, his father drowned in a boating accident. Two years later Maria married Ivan Stavic, a fellow Croat, and they moved to Gothenburg. She must have been pregnant on her wedding day, because Kador was born six months later.”

  “Was that when the Bosnian War broke out?”

  “No, this was several years before the war.”

  “So why did they move?”

  “I have no idea. Luca arrived three years later, so the two youngest were born in Sweden.”

  Göran turned another page and quickly scanned the text. “Ivan Stavic started working at a pizzeria and kebab shop in the city center. After a year the owner died of cancer, and Ivan took over. Soon he acquired two more places, and Milo joined him in the business as soon as he left school. Together, they picked up more and more establishments—restaurants, nightclubs, pizzerias and bars, casinos. Even back then they were laundering money for various gangs in the city, but the police never managed to prove anything. Ivan died of a heart attack twenty-three years ago. By then Milo was more than capable of running things on his own. Today he’s regarded as one of Gothenburg’s—one of Sweden’s—most powerful mafia bosses. Needless to say he’s well-paid for laundering money; his latest ‘client’ is a luxury hotel in the city. Apparently it’s all going very well.”

  Göran paused to catch his breath, and Embla took the opportunity to ask a couple of questions.

  “It sounds to me as if Ivan knew what he was doing—it didn’t take him long to become a player. Did he have contacts in Gothenburg before he came here? Was the owner of the first pizzeria a relative?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “And the police have never managed to pin anything on Milo?”

  “No—apart from tax infringement, for which he was fined.”

  “Ivan must have taught him well.”

  “Yes, and Milo was a willing student. Street smart, intelligent, tough, ruthless. Ivan must have seen those qualities in his stepson.”

  Embla thought for a moment before she responded.

  “So he earmarked Milo as his successor, not Kador or Luca.”

  “Exactly—they were probably too young. Kador was fourteen and Luca was only eleven when their father died. But Milo has always taken care of his half-brothers, and they’ve worked well together over the years.”

  It was a lot of new information.

  “Come to think of it, I haven’t heard anything about Kador since I started monitoring the Stavic brothers,” Embla said after a while.

  “That’s hardly surprising. He’s lived in Split for a long time. He’s married to a Finnish woman and they have three children. According to our colleagues dealing with organized crime in Gothenburg, he’s responsible for smuggling prostitutes, drugs, and guns from the Balkans. Access to illegal weapons has increased significantly in Sweden in the recent past. They’re pretty sure Milo is a major player when it comes to bringing arms into the south and west, and Kador is Milo’s man in the Balkans. The Stavic brothers are also heavily involved with human trafficking. The victims are moved around and distributed in a steady stream all over Europe. We’re talking about vast amounts of money—which also have to be laundered.”

  “So we’re looking at a huge international organization?”

  “Absolutely. Globalization works to the advantage of many, especially criminal networks.”

  Embla hadn’t been aware of the scale of the operation until now. To be honest, she’d concentrated on Milo and Luca and their activities in Gothenburg, and they didn’t often feature in the media. Except when Luca got shot outside the nightclub.

  “So Kador is married and has children. How about Milo?”

  “No children, but he was married to a Swede for almost eight years. Her maiden name was Carolina Karlsson. They parted as friends, and the divorce settlement was very generous. She doesn’t live in Sweden anymore; she runs a restaurant in London with her new husband. They have two kids.”

  “So does Milo pay alimony even though she’s remarried?”

  “Apparently.”

  Göran looked up from his notes and gave her a sly smile.

  “I guess she knows too much.”

  “You could be right,” Embla said, smiling back.

  Deep down, she wasn’t sure. If she was right about Milo, he wouldn’t have hesitated to get rid of Carolina if she’d tried to blackmail him when they split up. A man like Milo never pays up without good reason. He must have thought she was worth more to him alive than dead.

  “How old were they when they got married?” she asked, mainly out of curiosity.

  Göran switched on his tablet and searched online. Within a very short time he nodded, looking very pleased with himself.

  “Okay, so Carolina was twenty-one and Milo was twenty-nine. Married for eight years, as I said, so she was twenty-nine and he was thirty-seven when they divorced.”

  “That’s a long time ago. No new woman or live-in partner?”

  “Plenty of women and aspiring partners, but he never let any of them move in.”

  More information to absorb. Embla was beginning to feel as if her hard drive was full.

  “Have you found anything about Luca?” she asked.

  “Not much. He’d just turned thirty-four when he was shot yesterday morning; his birthday is February tenth. No criminal record, apart from speeding tickets fifteen years ago and twelve years ago. Nothing else in our database until the shooting outside La Dolce Vita. The investigating officers at the time thought the doorman who was killed was the actual target. He’d refused to let a group of young men in earlier in the evening, and there had been some trouble. It was assumed that the perpetrator was in that group, but they all had watertight alibis. No one was ever charged with the homicide.”

  “No other suspects?”

  “No. But as I said, there was a rumor that it could be a rival gang wanting to take over the Stavic brothers’ lucrative operation. That rumor was strengthened when they fished that body out of the river down below the Opera House, the one I mentioned before. He turned out to be a Serbian citizen, Damian Pacic´. According to the Serbian police, he had an extensive criminal record, and was a professional hit man.”

  “In which case he wouldn’t have missed,” Embla pointed out.

  “Not everyone is as accurate as you. But the theory is that Pacic´ made a mistake. Luca and the doorman were pretty similar. Same height and age, same dark hair cut in the same style. The doorman came out first, closely followed by Luca. When the shot that killed the doorman was fired, Luca had just enough time to throw himself backward. He was hit, but it was only a superficial wound; the bullet didn’t enter his body. His guardian angel was
watching over him that night.”

  “I guess the doorman’s and the Serb’s guardian angels were off duty,” Embla said dryly.

  Göran didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be sizing her up, then he made a decision.

  “There was another rumor circulating at the time. A suggestion that Luca and the doorman were together. That they were a couple.”

  Embla was surprised. The idea that Luca was gay didn’t fit with her theory; she was convinced he was the guy Lollo had fallen in love with. Of course he could have pretended to like her, or he could have been bisexual. Suddenly her head was full of fresh questions.

  “However, that was just a rumor in the immediate aftermath of the shooting,” Göran added.

  “I expect we’ll find out more in the course of the investigation into his murder.”

  “I’m sure we will. I plan to be hands-on, and I’ll be bringing you down to Gothenburg when the time is right. I’ll speak to Tommy Persson; I should think quite a few of your colleagues will be involved. However, right now you’re needed up here in case anything new turns up.”

  “Okay, but I’m confused. Are you going to be my boss, or is Tommy Persson?”

  “Good question. Since you and I have already started looking into Milo’s murder, it makes sense for us to carry on together. Tommy will be leading the investigation into the shooting of Luca Stavic. We’ll obviously be sharing information, because it seems more than likely that the two deaths are connected. I’ll speak to Tommy in the morning and let you know how things are going to work.”

  Göran’s tablet pinged, and he couldn’t hide his surprise as he read the message.

  “There’s an international alert out for Kador Stavic. Let’s see . . . He’s been missing for almost two weeks. So he’s not a suspect—they think he might be the victim of a crime. Must be unusual for him. No indication that he had any reason to disappear. His relatives are concerned.” He looked up at Embla. “With good reason, I’d say, given what’s happened to his brothers.”

  “Missing for almost two weeks . . . Could he be in Sweden?” Embla wondered.

  “Anything’s possible. I’ll contact our colleagues in Split right away. Officially Kador runs a number of restaurants and nightclubs over there—and a couple of hotels, I think. But the Croatian police might know more. Something that could be useful to us.”

  It was essential to act fast before the media picked up on the murders and any possible trail went cold. Speaking of cold . . . Embla looked out at the moonlit landscape. Nothing was moving, and the stars were twinkling in a clear sky. According to the forecast, the temperature was due to drop to minus four degrees Fahrenheit during the night. She shivered and turned back to Göran.

  “I need to make a couple of calls.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  On the way up to her room, Embla realized they’d forgotten dessert.

  Her first call was to Elliot’s father, Jason, to explain what had happened during and after the unfortunate hunting expedition. She wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, but it was best to get it out of the way. As she’d expected, he was furious that she’d even considered taking his son hunting.

  “He’s only nine years old! Are you crazy?” he yelled.

  “I know, and I was against the idea, but he really wanted to go,” she said feebly.

  “That’s irrelevant—he’s only nine years old!”

  “I’m well aware of that, but he’s been nagging me for weeks, and Nisse thought—”

  “Don’t blame your senile uncle! You’re the one who’s responsible for Elliot!”

  Making a huge effort to remain calm, Embla replied, “I know that, too, and I take full responsibility for the decision. I wasn’t actually there. My mother’s cousin called; he rents out cottages to tourists, and he found a dead man in one of them.”

  That silenced Jason, but not for long.

  “You are fucking unbelievable! You’re supposed to be looking after my son, but instead you hand him over to an old man, who takes the kid hunting while you go chasing after a murderer!”

  Enough.

  “And what have you been doing this week?” she asked, shards of ice clinking in her voice.

  This time the silence was considerably longer. Presumably he wasn’t sure how much she knew, whether he dared to lie. In fact she knew everything; Elliot had spilled.

  During the drive up to Dalsland, he’d suddenly said: “Do you think I call too often?”

  He sounded a little down, but she couldn’t work out why.

  “No. Sometimes maybe . . . No. Why do you ask?”

  “Dad said I wasn’t to call him so much this week.”

  “Why not?”

  “He and . . . Tanya, I think her name is . . . are going away somewhere,” he said with a deep sigh.

  Embla got the picture. Jason didn’t want to be disturbed by phone calls from his son while he was enjoying himself with his new girlfriend. Same old, same old, in other words, she thought, unconsciously pursing her lips as she waited for Jason’s response.

  “That’s none of your business. My concern is the lasting damage this experience has inflicted on my son . . .” He was doing his best to recapture his initial outrage.

  “There is no lasting damage. Right now he’s at Karin’s, playing computer games with her two daughters. She cooked him his favorite dinner, which he really enjoyed. He’s as happy as can be. He’s with people who care about him; it’s good for him to experience the security and love of a family environment.”

  The last comment was a deliberate jab; Embla knew exactly what she was doing.

  “If you’re insinuating that I don’t love Elliot . . .”

  “I’m sure you do. In your own way. But some people might wonder why you didn’t take him away for the spring vacation.”

  “Because you and he had already decided you were going up to Nisse’s. The two of you always spend the February break with him.”

  “That’s very convenient for you. I guess you were able to devote yourself wholeheartedly to your new girlfriend. Everyone’s happy!”

  It was all spiraling out of control, as their quarrels always did, but Jason was bright enough to realize where this could end up. If he pushed any further, he would have to stop Embla from taking care of Elliot. That would cause huge problems, both for him and the boy. As a jazz musician he toured a great deal, and Embla always tried to step up. Jason valued the opportunity to live his life without having to bother about his son from time to time.

  Time for a tactical retreat.

  “Okay, so I’m not happy that Elliot had such an upsetting experience, but let’s draw a line under it now. We’ll need to keep an eye on him. I’m sure he’ll get over it, as you said, but I don’t want him going hunting again.”

  “You have my word—at least not without asking you first. And to be honest, I don’t think he’ll want to go.”

  “Sounds good. By the way, did you say Nisse’s bringing him home?”

  “Yes. They’re leaving straight after breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Okay. And Embla”—he cleared his throat a couple of times—“thanks for being there for him.”

  “No problem,” she said, ending the call.

  Relief flooded her body. The conversation had been tricky, but it was clear that Jason relied on her to be around and to take care of his son. For the first time she wondered what would happen in the future, as Elliot grew up. Would Jason take more responsibility, or would he continue to dodge his obligations?

  In spite of everything that had happened on Saturday, Embla slept deeply, with no bad dreams. The alarm on her phone woke her at seven-thirty the following morning, and she was astonished to realize that she’d slept for almost nine hours. That was unheard of. Was it because Milo was dead, because she felt safe now tha
t he could no longer threaten or hurt her? And Luca was out of the picture, too. Now there was only Kador to worry about. Where could he be? Two weeks is a long time to be missing. Was he in Sweden? Had he murdered his brothers? Even though such a course of action would give him greater power in the organization, she didn’t think it was very likely. The network was too extensive for one man to lead. Then again, maybe Kador had a different view of power and leadership.

  She still didn’t feel she was in any real danger from him. If he was in the country, then no doubt he had his hands full with other matters.

  Her thoughts returned to Lollo. Where was she? She’d contacted Embla after almost fifteen years, but the call had ended abruptly. Had it been a cry for help? For the first time in many years she was filled with hope that they would find Lollo alive.

  She stretched out in the comfortable bed. The radiator made a ticking noise; it was doing a wonderful job of warming the room. The windows were still covered in snow and ice; she hadn’t pulled down the blinds. It was cold outside, just as the weather forecast had promised.

  The wooden floorboards creaked as she made her way along the hallway. A stern gentleman was staring down at her from an old, dark oil painting; his eyes seemed to follow her. A small brass plaque on the frame informed her it was Baron Gustaf Adolf Holze af Falkeclou (1795–1866). He could well be the original owner of the manor house, Embla thought.

  To her surprise there were only a few guests at the tables laid for breakfast. Monika came hurrying over with a steaming pot of coffee.

  “Good morning! Not many people up yet, I see,” Embla said.

  “Morning! No, most prefer to have breakfast in their cabins. About half come in for lunch, and almost everyone for dinner,” Monika explained.

  “So they don’t have to book half or full board?”

  “Not at all, but as I said, most book dinner. It’s an important part of the Herremark experience.”

  Embla asked Monika about something that had occurred to her the previous day. “Are the cottages cleaned while the guests are here?”