Embla realized what he meant. On top of a thin blue velvet cushion lay two spare magazines of the same type as they’d found in Milo’s drawer. There was no sign of a gun.
It was almost midnight by the time Embla crawled into her own bed after a quick shower. She was so exhausted that her whole body was aching. Göran had been tired, too, but excited at the discovery of the ammunition. He was going to check out the weapon ID on the Beretta they’d found in the cottage where Milo was shot, and he was also going to see if Luca had been issued a firearms license. Then the gun from Herremark would be tested and the cartridges compared with those that had killed the Stavic brothers. Tomorrow would be a busy day for Göran.
“Why don’t you sleep in?” he’d said. “You’ve worked all weekend, and you weren’t even supposed to be on duty.”
With a clear conscience, Embla decided not to set the alarm. She began to relax. Her arms and legs felt heavy, her eyelids closed. Slowly sleep crept up on her.
Then her phone rang.
She grabbed it from the nightstand and looked at the display: Olle Tillman. Should she ignore it? Best not; it might be something important.
“Hi, Olle. I need my beauty sleep, you know,” she said in a weary attempt at a joke.
“Hi—oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late. Tore and I just got home.” At least he had the sense to sound apologetic. “And no, you don’t need your beauty sleep—you already look pretty good to me,” he added with a laugh.
Flattery is always welcome, she thought with satisfaction. He must have had a good day.
“I’ll keep it short. After you called me, Tore and I went to the Lodge. Just as you’d suggested, we searched for an area behind the building where someone could have hidden a knife. And I found it. The knife had been pushed behind an electricity meter box on the wall. It’s a large hunting knife, like you said.”
This was good news. It wasn’t surprising that the police dogs hadn’t sniffed it out earlier, because there had been so much blood at the scene, plus the scents of all the people wandering around in the snow after the murder. A weapon halfway up a wall behind a metal box could hardly be expected to compete with all those other smells.
“Was it Tore who found it?” she asked.
“No, it was me. It was about two and a half meters off the ground. And before you ask, yes, I did remember to put on my latex gloves, and I managed to get it into an evidence bag without smudging any prints.”
Had she been too hard on him at the crime scene in the cottage?
“Great,” she said lamely.
“I know. Then I went to see Mikaela, and you were right again—she and Wille have identical tattoos. Hers is just below the collarbone, and his is on the underside of his upper right arm.”
“A heart and a rose with a circle in the center. There are two letters inside the circle—not two Ms with one upside down, as I first thought, but MW,” Embla said. She was beginning to feel more awake now; this was good news, and it was always satisfying to be right.
“Exactly. They were together for almost a year. They got the tattoos last summer, when they were crazy about each other. But something went wrong over Christmas and Mikaela broke it off. Wille was like totally devastated, of course.”
Olle’s imitation of Mikaela’s dramatic tone was spot-on, and Embla couldn’t help laughing out loud. Then she pulled herself together and tried to sound serious.
“Has anyone spoken to Wille yet?”
“No, but we’ll be bringing him into the station tomorrow. One of the inspectors from Trollhättan is going to interview him. Her name’s Paula Nilsson—she said she knows you.”
“Yes, we met in Strömstad a few weeks ago. She and Göran Krantz are an item, although they haven’t been together long. She’s good at talking to kids and teenagers—she has three of her own.”
“A police mom. Wille doesn’t stand a chance.”
Embla laughed, then grew serious again. “Did Mikaela realize she was dumping her ex-boyfriend in the shit?”
“No, she’s far too self-absorbed. She was perfectly happy to show me the tattoo. And a little more besides.”
Why did she feel a pang of . . . what? Jealousy? The fact that a curvaceous young girl had taken the opportunity to flash her breasts at the best-looking cop in Dalsland shouldn’t bother her at all. But it did, she realized.
“I have to say, well done, Olle!”
“Thank you. I’ll call you tomorrow evening and let you know how the interview with Wille goes.”
“Do that. Good night!”
“Sleep well, Embla.”
With a contented smile on her lips, she put her phone back on the nightstand. It seemed likely that the investigation into Robin Pettersson’s murder had reached its conclusion, and she had made a valuable contribution.
Well done, Nyström.
Now she was wide awake, of course.
The opening bars of the original 1977 Star Wars soundtrack woke her. It took her a few seconds to locate her phone.
“Embla,” she said, still only half-awake.
“Good morning. I hope you’ve slept well and are raring to go. I need you here.”
Göran sounded as if he’d had the weekend off and had slept for at least ten hours the previous night, while Embla felt as if she’d been fed through an old-fashioned mangle. It had taken her over an hour to nod off after her conversation with Olle. He was sweet and funny, and there was definitely chemistry between them. She’d felt it during their dinner at the guesthouse, which had been more like a successful date than anything else.
Her thoughts had gone around and around, keeping her awake, but eventually her sleep had been deep and dreamless, with no nightmares to torment her. She had to admit that ever since Milo Stavic’s murder, she’d slept better than she had for many years. Fourteen and a half years, to be precise.
Gradually, she began to come to life. She made a brave attempt to sound more alert than she actually was.
“Has something happened?”
“Yes, it has to do with Kador. I have a Skype call booked with Boris Cetinski at nine. He has interesting news that could have a bearing on our investigation.”
Embla was wide awake now. “I’m on my way!”
The temperature had definitely risen, and the snow had already melted. A bitterly cold wind came off the sea and howled through the streets. Embla jumped into the Kia, which obligingly started immediately. She’d been in luck last night and had found a parking space right outside the door of her apartment building, which was unusual. Her mother, Sonja, an active member of the Green Party, always said that fit and healthy people who live in cities shouldn’t have cars, but with Embla’s job it was essential.
She wasn’t surprised to find Göran by the coffee machine. He offered her a cup of tea, but she declined. She’d eaten a sandwich in the car and washed it down with a bottle of tepid Ramlösa mineral water she’d found in the pantry.
Göran might have sounded bright and breezy on the phone, but the bags under his eyes gave him away—he hadn’t slept much either. After leaving Luca’s apartment, he’d gone straight to the lab to check the spare magazines for fingerprints. He hadn’t found any on the Beretta that had been used to shoot Milo, but he was still hoping for something on the cartridges in the gun—DNA in the best-case scenario. To reduce the risk of any errors, he’d asked one of their forensic technicians, a specialist in DNA samples, to carry out the tests. She’d promised to get it done the following day if she possibly could.
Göran had already prepared his office for the Skype call by placing a chair next to his own shabby desk chair. He sat down in front of the computer and signaled to Embla to join him.
The screen flickered, and they were able to make out a man removing a large captain’s hat. The images on Skype are always slightly distorted, but Embla could see that
Chief of Police Boris Cetinski didn’t look at all as she’d expected. Unconsciously she’d pictured a man not unlike Milo Stavic, but instead she was confronted with sharp gray-blue eyes behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Cetinski was about sixty, with well-defined features and a long, narrow face. His hair was thick and almost white, as was his small mustache. Embla thought he looked more like a philosophy professor than a police officer. There was so much gold braid on his collar that it was impossible to see the fabric of his uniform jacket.
Göran greeted his Croatian colleague and introduced himself in English. His reference to Embla as “Detective Inspector Embla Nyström, one of my closest men,” made Cetinski raise one eyebrow, but he refrained from commenting. Instead he began to go through the new information that had emerged during the search for Kador Stavic and his family.
Early the previous day, a very agitated member of the public had contacted the police to say that the house he’d grown up in had burned down. It was in a remote area in the mountains to the north of Split, and there were no other properties nearby. The owner was very angry because he’d renovated the old place and turned it into a luxury summer cottage, and it seemed as if the fire had been started deliberately. He’d found several empty gas cans not far away. However, the main cause of his distress was that he’d also found the charred remains of a human body in the ruins.
The CSIs had gathered up what was left of the corpse, a blackened skeleton, and transported it to the lab in Zagreb. The police had contacted Kador’s dentist in Split; apparently Kador had undergone extensive dental work a few years ago, and his dentist had been able to supply a number of X-rays.
In a few days they would know whether they’d found Kador Stavic; he was the only person who’d been reported missing over the past two weeks.
There was still no trace of his family. The police had gone through every list of people who’d left the area by train, boat, or plane. There was no record of a family with three children of the right ages having crossed the border. If they weren’t in hiding in Croatia, they had probably left the country using false passports. The children could have been distributed between two or three adults. It would be nearly impossible to find them if they were traveling under false identities.
The Stavic house had been searched; Cetinski promised to scan and send over some photographs of Kador’s wife and children. It was possible that the family would turn up in Sweden, particularly Gothenburg, since Kador’s brothers had lived there. The police in Finland had already been contacted because Mirja Stavic, née Hervonen, had said that she came from Helsinki. Her family were allegedly Finland-Swedes who spoke Swedish. She’d told her neighbors that both parents had died in a car accident, and that she had no siblings. The Helsinki police would contact Boris Cetinski if they managed to track down any of Mirja’s living relatives.
On the subject of relatives, Milo had called Cetinski every single day to ask if there was any news on Kador and his family.
When Cetinski had finished, Göran took over and told him about the murders of Milo and Luca. Once again Cetinski raised an eyebrow. Göran filled him in on what the police knew so far; it was early days, but the two of them agreed to keep in touch. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Kador and his family had disappeared just before his two brothers were murdered.
“Did you find a computer or cell phone in Kador’s house?” Göran asked.
“No. We looked for those especially, but found nothing. Not even the kids’ phones or laptops.”
“It seems as if the computers are important.”
“Yes—they must hold a lot of interesting information. I’ll get those photographs to you right away. Goodbye.”
“Thank you—we’ll speak again soon. Bye.”
In spite of the shaky picture, Embla thought she could see the hint of a smile lurking at the corners of Cetinski’s mouth. When she turned and looked at her colleague, she could see why. With his uncombed hair standing on end, no tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt undone, Göran was as far from his smartly dressed and richly decorated counterpart as it was possible to get. She herself was wearing no makeup, her hair was piled in a messy bun, and she’d pulled on a faded green T-shirt that didn’t exactly flatter her winter-pale skin. Boris Cetinski must have wondered about the dress code for the Swedish police service. The truth was there were strict guidelines in place; full uniform must always be worn in official situations. Maybe a Skype call could be classed as informal, but Embla wasn’t convinced.
Göran couldn’t have cared less, as he was rubbing his hands with glee. “Things are happening! But if the body in the summer cottage turns out to be Kador, that’s the end of one of my theories. I thought Kador might have come to Sweden and killed his brothers.”
“An internal power struggle.”
“Exactly. But if he was murdered almost two weeks before Milo and Luca, that doesn’t work.”
Embla nodded. There was something nagging at her subconscious; suddenly she realized what it was, and that it could be important.
“Do you think the murder of the doorman and the attempt on Luca’s life four years ago could be related?”
Göran looked as if he was about to answer, but he changed his mind. He thought for a moment, then nodded. “It might be worth taking another look at that shooting. We found a guy in the river a few weeks later; he was supposed to have been a hit man. I’ll have a word with Violent Crimes and see what they know about him and if they can find any connection to Croatia and the Stavic brothers.”
“I can do that,” Embla offered. She had an ulterior motive; it would give her the chance to swing by her locker and change into a cornflower-blue top that suited her much better. She would also have time to brush her hair and put on some mascara. Even if you feel like a wrung-out dishrag, there’s no need to look like one, as her mother used to say.
She quickly changed and freshened up with a quick spray of Clean Warm Cotton perfume. Feeling considerably more alert than when she’d entered the building an hour earlier, she swiped her card and headed down the hall to the Violent Crimes Unit, cheerfully greeting several colleagues on the way to her boss’s door. She hesitated for a moment with her fist clenched in the air before knocking. Chief Inspector Tommy Persson was a good boss, but he had a hard time accepting that she was sometimes drawn into investigations that fell under the jurisdiction of her previous role with VGM. However, her involvement with the Stavic case was purely coincidental, she told herself firmly.
A voice yelled something that might have been “come in.” She opened the door and Tommy peered at her over the top of his reading glasses. His desk was covered in piles of papers.
“Embla! We haven’t seen much of you lately.”
The tone was friendly, but there was no mistaking the underlying message. She pasted on a warm smile.
“Hi. Göran Krantz has asked me to pass on some new information that’s come up in the Stavic brothers’ homicides. It’s possible that Kador, the third brother, is dead, too.”
Tommy looked surprised. He waved a hand in the direction of the visitor’s chair, inviting her to sit down.
Göran had already provided Violent Crimes with a full report on the murder of Milo Stavic, so she didn’t need to go over old ground, and Tommy himself had led the investigation into Luca’s death from the start. She began with the discovery of the narcotics during the search of Luca’s apartment, then told him about the spare magazines they’d found in both apartments. She summarized the conversation with Boris Cetinski in Split, and finally brought up the possibility of a link between the attack on the doorman and Luca Stavic four years ago, and the current situation.
Tommy didn’t interrupt her once. When she’d finished, he gazed thoughtfully at her for a long time.
“We’ll definitely take another look at the shooting. I remember the guy we pulled out of the river turned out to be a well-known hit man;
I don’t recall his name, but we’ll dig it out. He was from Yugoslavia.”
Yugoslavia hadn’t existed since the end of the Balkan War, but Embla didn’t think Tommy would appreciate being corrected. She got to her feet, assuming he’d finished.
“Tell Göran I’d like a meeting with him later—after three suits me best. I’ll text him,” Tommy went on.
“I’ll let him know.” She headed for the door, but before she reached it, she heard his voice behind her.
“See you soon.”
She half-turned and delivered a beaming knockout smile over her shoulder. Her psychologist friend Nicke would have described it as passive-aggressive, or something along those lines. Tommy was completely unprepared, and didn’t know what to do with his face. He responded with a rather sheepish smile. It wasn’t only in the boxing ring that her opponents went down for the count when Embla decided to go for it.
If Göran wasn’t at the coffee machine, he’d be sitting in front of his computer, and that was where she found him. She passed on Chief Inspector Persson’s request for a meeting. He grunted something in response, but she had the feeling he wasn’t really listening. It would probably be best to remind him later, even if Tommy had said he’d send a text.
“The photographs have arrived,” Göran said, looking up from the screen and inviting her to join him.
She saw a dark-haired young man smiling at the camera. Clean, handsome features, white teeth, blue eyes framed by long eyelashes. She’d seen that face before—and yet she hadn’t. The explanation lay in the text beneath: Kador Stavic, age 27. The picture was ten years old. It was the first time she’d seen a professional photograph of Kador. He was very like his younger brother, Luca, which was why he seemed so familiar.
The next picture was from a big wedding. It had been taken outdoors; the sun was shining and the bride’s veil was fluttering in the breeze. Presumably Kador was the groom, but it was hard to tell because the happy couple was standing with their backs to the camera, sharing a toast with their guests. There were at least fifty people in attendance. The text was in English: The wedding with Ms. Mirja Hervonen. The date revealed that the event had taken place almost fifteen years ago, which meant that Kador had been twenty-two when he got married. According to the information they’d received from the police in Split, Mirja had just turned eighteen. A very young couple.
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