He threw down the burger and sat back on his plastic chair, then folded his arms to show off his muscles and tattoos. There was menace in his eyes when he spoke. “He had a fucking high opinion of himself—thought he was so good-looking. He was always bragging about all the girls he’d fucked.” His arms tightened.
“And that’s why you think he deserved to die?”
He sat in silence for some time, staring at his rapidly cooling food. Without looking up, he ground out: “He treated Ida like shit.”
“In what way?”
A quick glance at her, then he lowered his eyes again. “He dumped her.”
“He deserved to die because he dumped Ida?”
“I didn’t kill him.” He unfolded his arms and picked up his drink.
Embla caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the inside of his upper arm that she hadn’t noticed before; her pulse rate increased when she realized what it was. Could it really be possible?
He finished the Coke, put down the cup, and looked her straight in the eye for the first time. “Ida was heartbroken. I was drunk—I don’t remember what I said.”
With those words he got to his feet, grabbed his burger and the remaining ketchups, and walked out.
The movement of his arm was enough for Embla to see the tattoo clearly. With a contented smile, she took out her phone to call Olle.
She’d just passed Partille when her phone rang. She switched to hands-free before she answered.
“Embla Nyström.”
“It’s Marie . . . Marie Andersson. Wille and Ida’s mother.”
Embla was taken aback; she hadn’t expected to hear from Marie so soon. With warmth and interest in her voice, she replied, “Hi, Marie. How’s Ida?”
“Much better, thank you. We’re at the hospital now. They’re keeping her for observation, and I think they might want to do a head scan.”
“I’m glad to hear she’s being taken care of.”
“Thank you for driving us to Primary Care.”
“Of course. It was on our way.”
“It was still kind of you. I’ve tried to contact your colleague, but he’s not answering. I left a message, but . . . I think this might be important, and you did give me your card.”
“No problem—what is it?”
Marie didn’t answer right away; Embla could hear her breathing heavily on the other end of the line. What did she want? Just as Embla began to wonder if she’d changed her mind, Marie cleared her throat.
“Ida told me how the accident happened. She and Anton left just before midnight. He suggested they go to Gothenburg, but she just wanted to go home. He promised to drive her, but instead he parked at the bus stop just past the guesthouse . . . heading south, I mean . . . and he started trying to . . . make out with her. Ida wasn’t interested, and they had a quarrel. Ida was crying, and he got really mad. He pulled out onto the road, and a car quickly came up behind them. Ida says it came from the turnoff for Klevskog—the nature reserve.”
Marie paused and took a deep breath before continuing.
“The other car didn’t have time to slow down; it passed Anton, but skidded. They almost collided. Anton slammed his foot on the brake, but he skidded, too, and drove off the road. Ida thinks the Toyota might have turned over, but she’s not sure. She probably lost consciousness for a while.”
At last—something useful from one of the people who’d been at the party. Ida and Anton had left before Robin was killed, so they had nothing to contribute in terms of that investigation, but it seemed highly likely that they’d encountered Milo’s murderer.
“Did she see what make of car it was? Did she recognize it?”
“I asked her, but she said it all happened so fast. All she remembers is that it was a big, dark-colored vehicle. She said it reminded her of a large Jeep.”
“Did she notice anything about the driver? Or if there were any passengers?”
“No. Again, I asked her—I wondered if it was someone we knew, but she didn’t think so. And she didn’t see how many people were in the car.”
That was disappointing, but at least they’d reduced the time frame for Milo’s murder; it must have happened by 12:10 a.m. at the latest. And the perpetrator had been driving a large dark car that resembled a Jeep.
She thanked Marie for calling and passing on such important information.
As she passed Ullevi and the police station came into view, she tried Olle’s number again.
The job interviews Göran was conducting went long, delaying him by almost two hours, so he and Embla didn’t leave Police HQ until five o’clock. Under normal circumstances, the drive to Terrassgatan took only a few minutes, but now it was rush hour. It had also started snowing, leading to even more problems. One advantage of being stuck in traffic was that it gave them time to update each other.
“I’ve spoken to Tommy Persson and he’s happy for you and me to continue with this investigation, since we started it in Dalsland. I went along to morning prayers to pass on what we’ve found out so far,” Göran said.
A great deal of information would need to be exchanged between the Technical Department and Violent Crimes in a case like this, and Embla didn’t want that responsibility. Chief Inspector Persson preferred her to be in her normal post, where he was her boss these days. He often made barbed comments about the fact that she couldn’t stay away from VGM, “the unit that no longer existed.”
“Are you going to liaise with Tommy?” she asked tentatively.
“Yes.”
She felt as if someone had released an iron grip on the back of her neck.
“I’ve also been in touch with the chief of police in Split, Boris Cetinski. His English isn’t great, but we managed to understand each other. Kador Stavic disappeared two weeks ago after having a drink with some friends in a bar. He left at about eleven, which was early for him. He said he had an important meeting early the next morning and wanted to be well rested. The others stayed out. The bar is no more than three hundred meters from his house, but he never arrived home.”
Embla had never visited Split, but her parents had been there on vacation a couple of years ago.
“Split is a pretty big city, and eleven o’clock isn’t very late. Did nobody see him?” she asked.
“Well, nobody’s come forward. I asked the same question, and Boris said it was a cold, rainy night, so not many people were out and about. Plus there are very few tourists there in February, if any.”
A Nissan King Cab in the lane next to them started signaling and pushed its way in ahead of them. As she slowed to let it in, Embla wondered crossly why people drove such huge gas-guzzling cars in a city. Only then did she realize they were sitting in VGM’s Volvo XC90. They’d taken it because all the forensic equipment necessary for examining a crime scene was in the trunk. Göran muttered something about the “inconsiderate bastard” before he continued.
“Kador’s wife called one of his friends shortly after midnight to ask if her husband was still at the bar. When she found out he’d left over an hour earlier, she got worried. The other guys didn’t think anything of it; they assumed he’d decided to visit one of his girlfriends. According to Boris, he’s definitely a ladies’ man.”
Slowly the line of traffic edged along Södra vägen. They had plenty of time before they got to Milo Stavic’s apartment.
“Does his wife know?”
“Presumably, since the chief of police knew.”
A militant cyclist quickly zigzagged between the cars and was almost knocked over by the King Cab. The driver leaned on the horn and the cyclist gave him the finger before whizzing off through the slush toward Berzeliigatan.
“Nice to see someone doing their part for the environment,” Göran said with a laugh. Embla thought of her colleague, Irene Huss, who cycled all the way home to Guldheden every day. It was a steep, three-k
ilometer uphill climb. On the other hand, she hardly needed to pedal at all on her way down to Police HQ at the beginning of the day. Irene wasn’t exactly a morning person, so that probably suited her.
“Back to Kador. He didn’t show up for the meeting the next morning; apparently it had something to do with the sale of a bar. An Englishman was very keen to buy it, and according to Kador’s lawyer . . . now, what was his name . . .”
Göran began checking his pockets, frowning and muttering to himself. Eventually he found his little notebook. As usual he licked his index finger before leafing through the pages.
“That’s it—Stefan Fabris. He and the Englishman waited for an hour before they gave up. Fabris called Kador’s home number several times, as well as his cell, but no one answered. He got worried then; Kador might be a little slapdash in some ways, but never when it comes to business. He drove to Kador’s house, but there was no one there.”
“So the whole family’s missing?”
“Yes. Fabris reported it to the police. According to Boris, they found a witness, a neighbor who lives opposite. He was woken at about three in the morning by the sound of a car, and he got up and looked out. He saw Mirja Stavic and all three children getting into a large dark-colored vehicle. The driver wasn’t Kador, but a bald man whom the neighbor didn’t recognize.”
A pensive silence filled the car. Embla was considering what Göran had told her while trying to concentrate on the heavy traffic. She finally managed to turn off toward Götaplatsen without any mishaps, and drove past the statue of Poseidon, standing there in all his naked glory. As usual she couldn’t help glancing at his undersized sexual organs. What had the sculptor been thinking of? Although it was cold out, so maybe the penis was the right size for once. Her musings were interrupted by Göran.
“Boris and I exchanged a few ideas. One theory is that Kador fled with his family. Or maybe he left first. Or they were kidnapped. No one knows.”
“And what’s the connection between Kador’s disappearance and the murders of his brothers?” Embla said.
A heavy sigh. “You tell me.”
A few minutes later, they reached Viktor Rydbergsgatan and took the next turn up the hill to Terrassgatan. There were no spaces available, so they parked outside the apartment block. Göran flipped down the sun visor to display the sign västra götaland police. It was a relic of the time before the major reorganization and was no longer valid.
“I hope none of our colleagues lives here,” Embla said with a nod at the sign.
“There are no cops living here,” Göran said with conviction.
He was probably right. Not even one of the top brass. The tall, impressive dark-red brick building afforded views over large parts of the city center, even from the ground floor. There were several exclusive stores along the street, as well as a hair salon and a nail salon. The doorways were richly decorated stone arches, and the doors themselves were made of the finest wood, each with a highly polished pane of glass.
Göran heaved one of the bags out of the Volvo’s trunk. “Can you bring the other?” he said.
The equipment was heavy, but Embla had no problem lifting it. She knew she was stronger than Göran, who grunted with the effort as he staggered across the sidewalk before putting the bag down with a sigh of relief. Embla joined him and checked out the list of residents’ names. She read it several times, but there was no Stavic.
“We’re in the wrong place,” she said.
“No, we’re not.”
Without hesitation, Göran pressed the intercom button next to the top name, A. Acika. After a few seconds, a male voice answered.
“Yes?”
Göran leaned forward and articulated clearly.
“Superintendent Göran Krantz.”
There was a buzzing sound, and the lock clicked open.
“Did Milo call himself Acika?”
Göran looked at Embla with a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“No. Acika is Acika. You’ll see.”
The floor in the foyer and the stairs themselves were made of marble in various shades of green, and the vaulted ceiling was supported by bronze pillars in the shape of the female form. The center of the stairs was some kind of dark-red stone, presumably meant to imitate a carpet. The walls were painted white, with art deco patterns. The style was echoed by the ceiling lights, which had the same pattern etched on the glass surfaces. Embla and Göran hauled their kit into the elevator. Embla couldn’t help feeling slightly claustrophobic in the small space after the steel doors slid shut. Silently they were sucked up to the fifth floor. When the doors opened, a man was waiting for them. In one hand he was holding a slim attaché case in Bordeaux-colored leather. The light from a large crystal chandelier was reflected in his dark, slicked-back hair when he nodded to them. His navy-blue suit hung perfectly over his shoulders. He was elegant and expensively dressed in a crisp white shirt, discreetly patterned blue tie, and shiny black shoes. He was a handsome man, with clearly defined cheekbones and eyebrows and piercing blue eyes.
For one horrible moment, Embla thought Luca Stavic was standing there waiting for them. He stepped forward, holding out his hand with a smile.
“Andreas Acika. Welcome.”
He was approximately the same height as Embla, but the way he held himself made him seem taller.
“My condolences. I believe you’re the person who worked most closely with Milo,” Göran said.
“One of the people. I’m the director of finance.”
He spoke without an accent, and his voice was deep and pleasant, but his eyes were hard to read.
“Someone told me you’re related?” Göran asked, keeping his tone casual.
“We’re cousins.”
“So you were born in Croatia, too?”
There was a slight change in the atmosphere, but only for a fraction of a second.
“No. Gothenburg.”
Interesting guy, Embla thought, but of course Göran couldn’t carry on interrogating Acika. They weren’t here to investigate him.
Andreas Acika unzipped the attaché case and fished out a bunch of keys.
“The other elevator,” he said, turning on his heel. Only then did Embla see that there was just one apartment door on the floor. Opposite that door was another elevator; there was no call button, just a lock. Andreas inserted one of the keys, and the elevator opened with a hum. The sliding doors inside remained closed until he pressed a teardrop-shaped piece of plastic against a small glass panel. There was a beep, and the doors opened. Embla and Göran carried their bags inside; it was cramped, but bearable. Embla picked up the scent of an expensive male fragrance; it was nowhere near as cloying as Milo’s had been. When Andreas reached out to press his card against another panel inside the elevator, she noticed that he was wearing a wide gold ring. Something else glinted in the light, catching her attention. When she realized what it was, she had to make a huge effort to hide her reaction. The sleeve of his jacket rode up, revealing a gold watch the size of an American cupcake. She couldn’t tell whether Göran had noticed as well; his expression didn’t change.
“Does anyone else have keys to Milo’s apartment?” he asked.
“Luca.”
“No one else? Kador, for example?”
“What would be the point of that? Kador lives in Split.”
The surprise in Andreas’s voice was unmistakable, but there was something else—contempt, maybe? Presumably he thought they were stupid.
The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and they stepped out into a large hallway. An alarm started beeping; Andreas used his card once again to silence it. Then he switched on an even bigger crystal chandelier than the one downstairs.
On the floor lay a beautiful Persian rug in glowing shades of blue and gold. Instinctively Embla avoided stepping on it; in her eyes it looked like a work of art that s
hould be hanging on a wall. Then again, the walls were already crowded with paintings—old and gloomy, in heavy gold frames. A curved rococo chest of drawers with a matching mirror stood along one wall. The mirror frame was highly embellished and gilded, as were the two candelabra on the marble top of the chest, which was flanked by two Gustavian armchairs upholstered in gold brocade.
Embla felt as if she’d walked straight into a museum. Or maybe an antiques store.
To the right of the elevator was a door; the lock suggested it was probably a bathroom. She peered inside and saw a generous guest toilet with a shower, the tiles shimmering turquoise and gold. The faucets and towel hooks were gilded, and there were thick white hand towels.
Meanwhile, Andreas opened the closet in the hallway and took out two hangers.
“You might like to take off your jackets. You can leave your shoes here, too.”
“First of all I’d like to check out the closet,” Göran said, pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves. He slipped off his boots and put on blue protective overshoes, puffing and panting. One big toe was protruding through a hole in his sock; Embla noticed a faint expression of distaste cross Andreas’s face. So now we’re not just stupid, we’re also hicks with neither class nor style, Embla thought as she, too, put on gloves and overshoes.
Göran straightened up and gave Andreas a sharp glance. “How many square meters is this apartment?”
“Two hundred and ten, I think.”
His tone suggested that he couldn’t see what this had to do with the police.
“When did Milo move in here?”
“At the same time as Kristina and I moved into our apartment—five years ago.”
“Who lived here before that?”
“No one. Milo bought the penthouse and fixed it up himself.”
“Did he pay to have the elevator installed?”
“Of course.”
“It’s a big place. I assume Milo did the cleaning himself?” Göran said with a hint of sarcasm.
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