It was already dark, and the temperature had dropped below freezing. The slush and water had frozen, turning roads and sidewalks into ice rinks. To be on the safe side she held on to the railing as she went down the steps from the parking garage. She was no more than five minutes from La Dolce Vita. If she blamed the treacherous conditions and took tiny, tiny steps, maybe she could stretch it to seven. But there were heating pipes beneath the sidewalk on the Avenue, and her plan was soon foiled. Not a trace of ice.
As usual there were plenty of people around: groups of noisy schoolchildren who’d finished for the day, shoppers, commuters on their way home from work. However, it wasn’t really crowded. That would change in the spring and summer, when visitors from all over the world poured in and were inexorably drawn into the tourist traps. That evening it was mostly the English and Scots who were hanging out in bars like The Dubliner and The Bishop’s Arms, trying to soak in the “genuine atmosphere.” There were a number of restaurants and clubs in the area, and Gothenburg was known as Little London
The closer Embla got to the nightclub, the more hesitant her footsteps became. Outside the double doors made of reinforced glass—according to Göran—she stopped. Her heart dropped like a stone and settled beside the burning cannonball in her stomach. A faint hope that she might not be able to get in was crushed when she saw a man waiting inside, peering down the street. As soon as he saw her he opened the door.
“Good evening—who are you looking for?” he asked politely.
She almost burst out laughing, and some of her nervousness subsided. He spoke and looked like a younger version of Tony Irving, one of the judges on the TV show Let’s Dance—although he was more muscular and significantly taller.
“Hi. Detective Inspector Embla Nyström. I’m looking for Stephen Walker—something tells me that might be you.”
He pushed the door open wide and stepped aside. “That’s correct. Please come in.”
With more assurance than she was feeling, Embla walked up the steps and went in. From the door, she could see straight into the restaurant.
Her memories from the evening when Lollo disappeared were extremely vague, but she’d always thought of the décor as black—walls, floor, ceiling, all painted black. Even the bar had been black. Either she was wrong, or the whole of the interior had been redone. Now the walls were covered in eggshell-colored wallpaper, the floors were pale-gray marble, and the bar, tables, and chairs were made of cherry wood. Heavy white silk curtains framed the tall windows, while lush green plants created a pleasant atmosphere and prevented anyone outside from seeing in. The lower part of the bar was made of mirrored glass, while the counter itself was sparkling white marble. The wall behind the optics and shelves of bottles was also mirrored, as was the ceiling above.
At the far end of the foyer was the staircase leading down to the nightclub.
“This way,” Stephen Walker said.
She followed him down the stairs. This was where it had all happened. Strangely enough, she didn’t remember ever going downstairs with Lollo.
In the basement the lighting was muted. The wallpaper was silver-gray; the floor was marble, but in a darker shade. The atmosphere was sophisticated and international. The bar was the same as the one in the restaurant, but the counter was twice as long. There was a DJ booth in one corner of the large dance floor.
Next to the booth, Embla could see a door, the door that had etched itself on her mind. It was painted the same silver-gray shade as the walls, so that it blended in and was almost invisible. The sign was gone, and there was a keypad beside it.
Stephen Walker quickly entered the code, the lock clicked, and the door swung open. For a moment Embla felt the rising panic from her nightmares, but she managed to pull herself together. She followed him along the hall.
The eggshell wallpaper had been used again here, and there were plenty of brightly colored paintings on display. Pale-gray wall-to-wall carpet completed the décor. They went past several closed doors, each with a keypad. Embla had no memory whatsoever of the doors. In her nightmare there was only a long, dark hallway with a single bulb dangling from the ceiling at the end. That couldn’t possibly have been the case, she realized now. There was nothing claustrophobic about this light space. Or had it been so different on that fateful night?
Stephen stopped at the final door and entered the code.
“Is there a back door?” Embla asked as innocently as she could manage.
“In here,” he replied, politely holding the door open.
In there? That must mean that the far end of the hall had been closed off and converted into a room. She recalled her last sight of Lollo, a small figure lying on the floor in something that resembled a hallway inside the back door. Three men looming over her: Milo, Kador, and Luca. Terrified and drunk, Embla had assumed that they’d drugged her friend, or knocked her down. She had obviously misinterpreted the situation, since Lollo had run away with Kador. Or had she been taken against her will? That possibility still existed.
With the burning cannonball spinning around in her stomach, Embla entered the room. The first thing she saw was the back door—it was covered in steel. The windows up by the ceiling had been replaced with glass tiles. They allowed the light to pass through, but no one could see in or out. Windowless rooms often make people feel uncomfortable. Embla didn’t usually suffer from claustrophobia, but it was creeping up on her now.
The décor was pleasant; the carpet continued from the hall. The office chair was white leather, and on the desk stood a Mac monitor, keyboard, and laser printer, all white. A white sofa and two armchairs were arranged around a glass coffee table. On two of the walls hung large oil paintings in bright colors, one in tones of red, the other blue. Abstract, but attractive. Embla could imagine having one of them in her apartment—if she’d had a wall that was big enough.
“Please take a seat,” Stephen said, gesturing toward an armchair.
Very polite.
He sat down opposite her and leaned back. The light fell on his medium-length blond hair and revealed lines etched by weariness around his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot—was he just tired, or had he been crying? Or both? He didn’t look as if he’d slept much over the past few days.
“Can I offer you something to drink?”
His voice was deep and warm, his gaze steady. However, his hands moved constantly. He rubbed his face, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, clasped his hands on his lap, then immediately unclasped them and grabbed the armrests. This guy was anything but relaxed.
“No thanks—I had a coffee a little while ago.”
“Okay.”
Embla decided to make a cautious start, ask a question to which she already knew the answer. It was also a way of finding out how truthful he intended to be.
“How long have you lived in Sweden?”
“Ten years.”
“Have you always been in Gothenburg?”
“No. Seven years in Stockholm and three in Gothenburg.”
“And how long have you worked here?”
She followed the question with a vague gesture around the room, accompanied by a friendly smile.
“It will be three years in April.”
“So you moved to Gothenburg to work at La Dolce Vita, as Luca’s assistant.”
A brief nod. He picked nervously at his pants, then clasped his hands again.
“My boss asked me to come here—he said you had something to tell us,” Embla continued.
Stephen stood up and went over to a tall cupboard, divided in two across the middle. He pressed the upper door and it swung open to reveal a refrigerator. Embla saw a couple dozen Champagne bottles and pale-blue bottles of mineral water. Stephen took out two of them. The lower cupboard contained a wide range of glasses. He chose two medium-sized tumblers, then closed both doors. He returned to his armchair, placed one bottle an
d glass in front of Embla, and poured himself a drink. After a few sips of the chilled water, he took a deep breath.
“Luca and I saw a great deal of each other. Privately. We were together.”
For a moment his hands stopped moving. When he looked at her with his blue-green eyes, she merely nodded.
“Okay, in that case maybe you’ll understand why I did . . . what I did,” he said quietly, lowering his gaze. There was no point in stressing him; she gave him time to compose himself.
“Luca and I liked to relax on Friday evenings,” he continued after a few moments. “That was our time. We would eat well, drink some wine—cozy Friday, we used to call it.” A tear trickled slowly down his cheek, and he dashed it away with the back of his hand.
“Last Friday we were planning to do the same as always, but just as we were about to leave here, his phone rang. I didn’t hear exactly what he said, but he kept nodding and saying ‘hm-hm.’ Then he told me he had to go and meet someone.”
Embla could hardly breathe. “Did he tell you who it was?”
“No. I asked, but he just said it was business. Confidential matters. Milo was away, so he had to deal with it.”
Confidential matters. Like most of the Stavic brothers’ affairs. The hope of finding out the name of the man Luca was meeting faded away. Embla made one final attempt.
“He didn’t say what kind of business?”
“No.” His fingers started plucking at his impeccable suit once more. He straightened his tie for what must have been the twentieth time. “He walked out. Luca’s never done that before—just left me like that. I wanted to see who he was meeting.”
Embla nodded encouragingly.
“I know Luca. He always wants to freshen up before he sees someone important. As it was business, I was sure he’d go home first, so I drove out to Eriksberg.” He let out a half-sob; he was wringing his hands now. The poor guy was completely devastated. Embla reached into her pocket for a pack of tissues and passed them over. He mumbled his thanks, wiped his eyes and blew his nose, then took a deep breath.
“I got there at about eight. It was sleeting, and of course it was dark, so there was no one around. I parked outside the parking garage; I was waiting to see if he’d come back to pick up his car to drive to his meeting, or if someone was coming to him. In the apartment,” he said, clearly distressed.
“You suspected he was seeing another man,” Embla clarified.
“Yes—what else was I supposed to think?”
That he was heading off to a last-minute business meeting because Milo wasn’t available, she thought.
“Have you had any reason to suspect that Luca was seeing other men?”
He shook his head emphatically.
“No, never. But something didn’t feel right.” He ran his fingers through his hair and adjusted his tie yet again. “I’d been sitting there for five minutes at most when a guy emerged from the parking garage. At first I didn’t really pay any attention to him, because he looked nothing like Luca. The way he was dressed.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Gangster style. You know—a short black leather jacket over a hoodie, blue jeans. Luca would never dress like that. The guy had his hood up, but there was something about the way he moved . . . He was walking straight toward me. I sat perfectly still; I don’t think he saw me. He went over to a black Range Rover that was parked a few meters away. He tossed a bag into the backseat, then pushed back his hood. I had a hell of a shock!”
Stephen broke off and looked Embla directly in the eye.
“At first I thought it was Luca. It was hard to see in the dark and the sleet, although there was a streetlamp nearby. Then I realized it wasn’t him. The face was very similar, but the eyebrows were bushier. And his hairstyle was the same as mine.”
Slicked back, Embla thought.
“He was also shorter than Luca,” Stephen added. He drank deeply from his glass of water. “I’ve been ashamed to tell anyone that I was spying on Luca. When I found out he was lying dead inside the parking garage while I was sitting outside . . . But I think the fact that I saw the man could be important. I think I know who he is.”
The little flame of hope was rekindled in Embla’s breast. Would he really be able to give her the name of the killer? He spoke slowly, emphasizing every word.
“It must have been his brother, Kador. I’ve never met him, but the age fits, and Luca always said they were very much alike.”
The flame went out. Kador was already dead by the time Luca and Milo were murdered. Embla did her best to hide her disappointment. She was suddenly struck by a thought, and glanced over at the desk. Monitor, keyboard, printer—no computer.
“Do you know if Luca took his laptop home from here?”
Stephen nodded. “Always. He often worked at home in the evenings.”
So the murderer had taken it. Presumably it had been in the bag he tossed in the back of the car—along with his phone.
“Thank you so much for telling me this; it could be really important. We’ll be in touch, probably tomorrow. I’m sure my boss will want you to come into the station to work on a police sketch.”
They both got to their feet at the same time. Stephen accompanied her down the hall, through the nightclub, and up the stairs. Faint music was coming from the restaurant; some early diners had arrived. Embla’s stomach contracted with hunger.
Another question occurred to her.
“Were you aware that Luca owned a pistol, a Beretta?”
“Yes, he showed it to me once. He kept it in his safe in the apartment.”
“Did he often practice with it? Was he a good shot?”
Stephen looked surprised.
“Practice? No, I don’t think so. As far as I know, he never fired it once during the years we were together.” He couldn’t help smiling; it was obvious that he found the idea of Luca as a crack shot amusing, in spite of the circumstances.
After brief consideration, Embla decided not to ask him if he’d known about the drugs they’d found in the safe. That could wait until the contents of the bags had been analyzed, and any investigation would be up to Narcotics.
“Call me if you think of anything else,” she said, handing him her card.
“Thanks, I will.”
After a quick meal of whole-wheat pasta with tomato sauce, Embla began to feel more human. She went into the living room with a steaming mug of green tea, curled up on the sofa, and called Göran’s phone.
“Hi, Embla. What did Luca’s executive assistant have to say for himself?”
He was trying to sound alert, but Embla could tell how much of an effort it was. She briefly summarized her meeting with Stephen Walker.
Göran remained silent for a while, then said, “I’m pretty sure it was our murderer that Stephen saw.”
“Me too.”
“We can definitely rule out Kador, but clearly it was a man who reminded Stephen of him and Luca.”
The penny dropped.
“Andreas Acika!”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Okay, so I’m seeing Tommy Persson at eight o’clock tomorrow morning; I’ll pass on what you’ve just told me. And I’ll have Acika brought in for questioning; I want to know where he was and what he was doing on Friday evening and during the night. I’d like you to go to Dalsland and check out the area that Milo had marked on the map—take your good-looking colleague from Åmål with you. If there’s a problem with his boss, just let me know and I’ll have a word.”
“He’s not mine and his name is Olle. Detective Inspector Olle Tillman. Nothing else,” Embla retorted.
She heard laughter on the other end of the line.
“Whatever you say. But I don’t want you going up there on your own.”
The first thing Olle said when she called him was that Wille Andersson
had confessed to the murder of Robin Pettersson.
“He kept on denying it until he was confronted with the evidence from the knife. We found two of his fingerprints in the blood on the shaft, plus we tracked down the maker. It’s signed by a well-known smith in Årjäng who keeps a record of every knife he sells. This one was a Christmas present to Wille from his parents.”
“Congratulations! You did it!” Embla said, genuinely pleased for him.
“Well . . . with a little help from a friend.”
“You were the one who found the knife.”
It was important not to diminish Olle’s achievement; he had solved the case very quickly.
“Yes, but it was you who told me to look for it at the scene. Wille must have hidden it before he started pretending to give Robin CPR; in fact he was just making sure there was a reason for having blood all over his clothes.”
Wille must have thought surprisingly quickly; he gave the impression of being slow and not very bright, but maybe he was cleverer than he looked.
“Smart kid. But not smart enough,” she said.
“Exactly. Not smart enough to get away with murder. His first mistake was using his own knife. His second was to wear a T-shirt on a cold winter’s day. If he’d kept the MW tattoo hidden, you might not have worked out his motive.”
She had to admit he was right. She obviously had more experience in investigating serious crimes than Olle did, but he was sharp and persistent, which were important qualities in a cop.
“Are you sure you want to be a dog handler? I think you’ve got the potential to be a colleague of mine,” she said, keeping her tone light.
His response showed that he was giving serious consideration to what she’d just said.
“Taking an active role in this case has been interesting, but I still feel dog handling is the path that appeals to me the most. I’m going to do the training, anyway; if I change my mind I can apply to Crime later.”
It was a sensible approach, and he was still young. Although he was only two years younger than her. That fact popped into her mind every time she thought of him. Why? Irritating.
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