Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  “Did Milo tell you why he was going to northern Dalsland?”

  Andreas shook his head. “No, he just said he’d be away for the weekend. Sometimes he could be a little secretive, and it wasn’t my place to ask. Actually I thought he was traveling down to Split. I’m sure you’re aware that Kador and his family disappeared two weeks ago.”

  “We are. So Milo told you nothing about his plans?”

  “No.”

  The response was firm and emphatic. Göran shifted position on the sofa, and Embla knew that meant a change of direction in his questioning.

  “How long have you worked for Milo?”

  “Ten years.”

  Göran looked at the other man appraisingly. “So you must have been very young when you started.”

  For a second a weary expression came over Andreas’s face, but he quickly pulled himself together. “It was my first job after I graduated from the School of Business at Gothenburg University.”

  “So you’re a Business Administration and Economics graduate?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t easy to find a job, so when Milo made an offer I had to say yes.”

  “Was your apartment a part of the package?”

  Andreas hesitated briefly. “No, I wasn’t married back then. When Kristina and I got together, we bought a two-room apartment in Guldheden. Milo acquired this place at the same time, but then he changed his mind. He felt it was too small and decided to sell it before he’d even moved in. Luca didn’t want it. Then Milo found out that the housing committee were intending to put the whole of the top floor on the market; all the permits were in place. So he made them an offer and built exactly the apartment he wanted.”

  “And does he still own this apartment?”

  “In a way. It actually belongs to one of our property companies, and I rent it from them. As Milo does . . . did with his.”

  Göran nodded once again.

  “You said earlier that you and Milo are cousins, but you also said you were born in Gothenburg. Milo was born in Croatia—what’s the family setup, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Kador and Luca are my cousins. My mother and their father, Ivan Stavic, were brother and sister. Which means my uncle Ivan was Milo’s stepfather.”

  “So you and Milo don’t share any blood ties.”

  Andreas merely shrugged once more, as if to say that this was irrelevant.

  “I need to ask about your gold watch. Where did you get it?”

  Andreas pulled up his shirt sleeve so that they could see the watch more clearly. There was a sparkling diamond at each digit, and the hands were studded with tiny diamonds. There was a lot of gold, not least in the bracelet. It looked heavy and very expensive.

  “It was a gift from Milo for my thirtieth birthday. It’s a limited edition; there are only four like this. He gave one to Kador, one to Luca, one to me, and he kept one for himself. I don’t usually wear it, but I wanted to . . . honor him.” He quickly pulled down his sleeve, as if to indicate that the conversation about the watch was over.

  “I’m asking because we know that Milo was wearing his watch when he checked into the guesthouse. The owners noticed it, because it’s so striking.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I usually save it for special occasions.”

  Göran tilted his head to one side, his eyes fixed on Andreas.

  “What family do you have here in Gothenburg?”

  “What’s that got to do with Milo?” Andreas’s eyes narrowed, and he frowned. “I have my wife and my two sons.”

  “No siblings?”

  An innocent question, but Embla had a feeling that Göran already knew the answer. It took a while, but eventually Andreas spoke.

  “Jiri.”

  Göran raised his eyebrows.

  “Jiri Acika? I recognize that name. Is he still in Gothenburg?”

  Andreas’s jaw tightened.

  “No. He moved to Croatia after . . . after he got out of jail.”

  “I see. And when was this?”

  Göran sounded as if he had no idea, but neither Embla nor Andreas were under any illusions.

  “Five years ago.”

  Göran leaned back and contemplated the man opposite, who was clearly not happy with the turn the conversation had taken. “If I remember correctly, he was sent down for homicide.”

  Andreas swallowed several times before he was able to answer.

  “Yes. He was attacked and shot his assailant in self-defense.” He took a deep breath. “It was an altercation between two youth gangs,” he added.

  “But he was convicted of murder,” Göran pointed out calmly.

  “Yes,” Andreas conceded, pressing his lips together in a thin line.

  “How is he now?” Göran looked genuinely interested.

  Andreas shifted uncomfortably on his chair and gave Embla a quick glance. “Okay, Jiri took a wrong turn. But he came to realize a number of things while he was behind bars, so as soon as he was released he went down to Split and started work in a relative’s restaurant. He’s done really well. He’s married now, with a three-year-old daughter.”

  “This relative—was it Kador?”

  Andreas looked genuinely surprised.

  “Kador? No, it was another uncle—my mother’s older brother. He and his wife have no children of their own, so he’s kind of taken Jiri under his wing.”

  “And where’s your father?”

  A shadow passed across Andreas’s handsome face. “He died in the civil war.”

  “Did he go back to Croatia to fight?”

  A deep sigh. “No. My parents divorced several years before the war broke out. He stayed in Split and she came over here to join her brother Ivan. Jiri was only little; I was born a few months later.”

  “So she left her husband even though she was pregnant.”

  “Yes. My father was a violent man.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “No. My mother couldn’t go back. He’d threatened to kill both her and us if he got the chance.”

  He stopped speaking and looked over toward the door. Footsteps approached from the kitchen, and a beautiful woman with long dark hair appeared. She gazed at them warily without saying a word. A dark red-dress clung to her body; she was heavily pregnant.

  Snowflakes were still drifting down when they emerged onto the street, but not heavily enough to envelop Gothenburg in a white winter blanket. The flakes would simply merge with the mush already lying on the streets. The temperature had begun to rise, and according to the weather forecast it would be even warmer tomorrow. The inner city squares and sidewalks would be covered in slush and water. At least there had been enough snow to allow the kids to go sledding in Slottsskogen Park for a few days. The winter had been unusually mild until the first week in February, just in time for the spring break.

  Dalsland, however, had had a proper winter, and Embla was glad that Elliot had been able to experience it. There was a danger that the memory of the fox hunt would overshadow all the fun things they’d done, but she suspected he’d turn the story of the hunt into a real adventure when he saw his friends again.

  They plodded to the car, congratulating themselves on having parked right in front of the building. They got in and Embla turned to Göran. She knew him well, and was sure he’d acquainted himself with all the available facts in advance, just to see how honest Andreas Acika was.

  “Did he lie about anything?” she asked.

  “Not exactly, but I thought he was evasive when it came to who’s going to take over Milo’s various business interests. Milo must have chosen a crown prince; his work involved considerable risks and a high mortality rate. I’d have expected it to be one or both of his brothers, given that he didn’t have any children.”

  “But now Luca’s dead and Kador is missing.”


  The ensuing silence was interrupted by the loud rumbling of a stomach; Embla realized it was hers.

  “It’s after eight; we need something to eat before we head over to Luca’s apartment,” Göran decided.

  “Have you got keys?”

  He rummaged around in his pockets, dug out a bunch of keys, and shook them. Embla saw a tag like the one that had opened the elevator door to Milo’s apartment.

  “Indeed I have. Luca’s keys were in his coat pocket.”

  “Are there any spares?”

  “Yes. When the staff at the nightclub were questioned, Luca’s assistant said that Luca had put a couple of spare keys in the safe in case he lost his own—apparently that had happened once. They checked, and the spare bunch was there.”

  “So he had his own keys on him. Has his phone been found?”

  “No.”

  Milo’s cell had also been missing from the cottage after his death.

  “Something tells me we’re not going to find Luca’s phone or his computer in his apartment.”

  “Something tells me you’re right,” Göran agreed with a sigh.

  They’d reached the T-junction at Läraregatan. He pointed to the right.

  “Head down to Södra vägen. There are some decent Italian places there.”

  After they’d each eaten a filling plate of pasta—with frutti di mare sauce for Embla, Bolognese for Göran—they drove over Älvsborg Bridge and on toward Eriksberg. They found a parking space on Östra Eriksbergsgatan, right outside Luca’s apartment. The block was pretty new, like most of the other buildings in the area. The façade was red brick, with large windows and generous balconies overlooking the Göta River.

  They hauled their bags over to the door. Göran tried all three keys before finding the right one. In the elevator they discovered there was a lock instead of a button for the top floor. Göran frowned.

  “I wonder if Milo was responsible for the security locks, or if they were here from the start,” he said. He inserted the right key in the lock and the elevator whisked them up to the penthouse. The heavy steel doors didn’t open until he pressed the tag against a plate to the side.

  “Looks like Milo’s signature to me,” Embla said.

  As she stepped out of the elevator, all the lights came on. An alarm began to beep, but Göran pressed the tag against the symbol above the rows of buttons, and the beeping stopped.

  The apartment was open plan, with an ultramodern kitchen to one side: dark-gray cupboards, white marble counter tops, a white oval table with thin steel legs, white wooden chairs with black leather seats. Beyond the kitchen lay the living room, with an inviting sofa upholstered in red and four black leather Jetson armchairs. On the floor was a rug that looked like a gigantic zebra skin, which was exactly what it turned out to be; several skins had been stitched together. The art on the walls was modern. Glass sliding doors led onto a roof terrace, with two abstract bronze statues on granite plinths on either side of the doors. Embla had no idea what they were supposed to represent.

  They could see all this from their position just inside the front door. The hallway consisted only of a black coconut mat and a black coatrack on a white marble base, plus a closet with three mirrored sliding doors. They put on their protective clothing, ready to start work.

  To the left was a closed door, to the right two open doors. Göran signaled that he would take the right.

  Embla opened the left-hand door and found herself in a bedroom. A large round bed stood in the middle of the floor with black silk sheets and pillowcases. A white silk duvet was neatly folded at the foot. Just as in Milo’s bedroom, there was a huge TV screen on the wall opposite.

  Glass double doors led out onto the terrace. The view was spectacular; Embla could see the lights of Majorna and Masthugget reflected in the Göta River. A Stena Line ferry was on its way to the quayside and tooted its horn several times as it passed beneath the Älvsborg Bridge.

  No one could see into the apartment; it was high above the surrounding buildings.

  Over by the glass doors was an attractive reading chair made of black leather and natural-colored canvas, along with a floor lamp resembling a UFO that had crash-landed and a small white marble table with a pile of books on top. Everything was very smart and elegant. What caught Embla’s attention were three drawings displayed on one wall.

  All three featured muscular young men. One was in motorcycle leathers, one was leaning on a car lighting a cigarette while being serviced by a sailor on his knees. The third was looking at the observer from beneath half-closed eyelids. All three had their pants unzipped, and were equipped with unnaturally large sexual organs. Approximately the size of a baguette, Embla thought. She recognized the style; her brother Frej had a very similar picture. It had been a gift from an ex-boyfriend, and he loved it. He’d told her all about it once when she’d visited him in Stockholm. The artist had called himself Tom of Finland because that was where he came from. He didn’t dare reveal his real name for fear of ending up in jail or in a mental institution for “spreading homosexual perversion.” His art became a significant influence within gay culture. His major breakthrough came in the USA in the late 1970s. He died many years ago, but his art lives on and has achieved cult status.

  If these drawings were originals, they were worth a fortune.

  Embla crossed the room to the opposite wall. One door led to a bathroom, the other to a walk-in closet.

  The design and layout of the bedroom reminded her strongly of Milo’s on Terrassgatan. Had he had a hand in this apartment, too?

  The bathroom provided even more evidence of Milo’s involvement, or at least that of his interior designer. In one corner stood a large jacuzzi, screened from the shower and toilet by frosted glass. Black tiles on the floor, white tiles with a dusting of silver on the walls.

  She moved on to the walk-in closet; again, it was almost identical to the one on Terrassgatan, although the wood was darker. The clothes, however, were as far from Milo’s formal suits and shirts as it was possible to get. Admittedly there were a number of suits, but in a range of styles and colors. Luca must have had at least as many shoes as his half-brother; they were exclusive brands, a perfect match for his clothing.

  There was a safe with a combination lock in one corner; it measured approximately seventy centimeters by fifty centimeters. She tried the door, but as she expected, it was locked. Above the safe was a tall mirror; there was another on the inside of the closet door, which meant it was possible to see oneself from the back. Smart and well-planned, just like everything else in this apartment.

  She decided to start with the bottom drawer. It was filled with sports socks; she spent a long time pressing and tapping on the base, but to her disappointment there was no hidden compartment. Methodically, she searched the other drawers but found nothing of interest. There were a few sex toys, but they weren’t particularly noteworthy.

  She went back into the bedroom, convinced she’d missed something. She gazed at the drawings. She’d seen nothing to indicate that more than one person lived there. That didn’t mean Luca never had company, but there was no evidence of anyone else’s presence.

  Göran appeared in the doorway. “Any luck?”

  “No, but there’s no doubt about Luca’s sexual preferences,” Embla said, pointing to the drawings.

  Göran came over to join her. “Hmm—you’re right. No straight guy would have something like this in his bedroom.”

  Embla was about to say Why not? but stopped herself just in time. The stereotypical images could be interpreted as an ironic comment on the male ideal, with the ever-potent giant cock at the ready, but there was no doubt that men were the objects of these erotic fantasies.

  Once again Lollo came to her mind. Luca was the guy she’d fallen madly in love with. Had he already been living as a gay man back then and had simply pretended to be in love with
her in order to lure her into . . . what? Prostitution, trafficking, drug smuggling . . . there were so many criminal activities that a young girl could be drawn into. It was a horrible thought, and she pushed it away.

  Göran glanced around the room. “Any sign of a computer?”

  “No, but there’s a safe in the closet. Locked, of course.”

  Göran went to take a look. He stared at the safe for a moment, then he leaned forward and gently moved the mirror to one side. There was a small piece of paper stuck to the wall with a series of numbers on it: 1-1-9-8-5-6-1.

  “Bingo!” he exclaimed for the second time that evening.

  Why didn’t I think of looking behind the mirror? Embla thought crossly.

  “People always do this; they keep their codes and passwords close to the thing that’s supposed to be protected. Dumb, but human,” he said as he began to key in the digits. The door opened with a loud click.

  Embla couldn’t see what was inside because Göran’s broad back was in the way. Impatiently, she waited for him to move, but he remained in the same position, crouching down in front of the safe. Eventually she’d had enough.

  “Anything interesting?”

  He straightened up with a groan, his knees protesting at the strain.

  “See for yourself.”

  Embla stepped forward and peered curiously into the safe. Nothing on the top shelf apart from a few large envelopes and plastic folders. There were several boxes on the middle shelf; the smaller ones looked as if they contained cufflinks and jewelry, while the four larger ones bore the names of designer watches. She opened the box marked rolex and found Luca’s cupcake watch. Carefully she lifted it out and turned it over; the letters LS were engraved on the back. She replaced it and returned the box to the shelf. As she did so, it felt as if there were something soft behind it. She bent down and took a closer look. She saw three plastic bags containing white powder.

  “Coke,” she said.

  Göran crouched down again with another groan.

  “Probably, although it could be amphetamine; the bags are bigger than the usual portions of cocaine. We’ll test the contents. But the bottom shelf is even more interesting.”