Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  “Absolutely. Anyway, what did your charming boss Chief Inspector Johnzén have to say?”

  Olle let out a laugh so loud that Embla had to move the phone away from her ear.

  “Nothing—he’s furious! He kept muttering about the refugees until Paula Nilsson showed him the bloody prints on the knife and told him they were Wille’s prints but Robin’s blood.”

  Embla shook her head, even though Olle couldn’t see her. “That guy has a problem. Do you think he’ll object if I ask you to help me tomorrow? I have to check out something connected to the murders of the Stavic brothers, and Göran Krantz suggested you come along.”

  “If he knew, I’m sure he’d refuse to let me go, but it’s my day off tomorrow, so I don’t need to ask. I’d love to come!”

  Embla explained about the area marked on the map, and they agreed to meet at the harbor in Ed at eleven o’clock the following morning. She ended the call and glanced at the clock. Only nine o’clock. Resolutely she got to her feet. Fifteen minutes later she was heading down the street in her running gear.

  A bitterly cold north wind swept in across the lake known as Stora Le, bringing with it tiny snow crystals that felt like pinpricks against her skin. It could hardly be more inhospitable, but Embla wanted to stretch her legs and get a little fresh air, so she walked over to an ice cream kiosk that was closed for the winter. After a minute she gave up and got back in the car. It was only quarter to eleven; she’d reached Ed in good time. A few minutes later a blue Passat station wagon pulled up next to her Kia. Olle was driving, and she could just see Tore’s head through the bars of his cage in the back. The dog sat up and looked out the side window, ears pricked and an alert expression in his eyes.

  Olle got out and chivalrously opened her car door.

  “Good morning,” she said as she got out.

  “Good morning to you.”

  Before she knew what was happening, he let go of the door and gave her a big hug. She felt enveloped by his warmth, and an unfamiliar sensation spread through her body; she wanted to stay in his arms. To be safe and secure. She didn’t usually allow herself to be drawn into situations where she wasn’t in control, but with Olle she was able to lower her guard for some reason. Not completely, but enough to give her pause.

  Gently she extricated herself and looked at him. No uniform today; he was wearing a dark-blue padded jacket, gray wool hat, jeans, and sturdy boots. His blue-gray eyes looked clearer than she remembered.

  “It’s so good to see you again,” he said, blushing slightly.

  It could be the cold and the snow crystals that had brought color to his face, but she didn’t think so. Impulsively she took off one of her mittens and laid her hand on his cheek.

  “It’s good to see you, too.”

  What the hell was wrong with her? She was standing here and . . . doing what, exactly? Flirting? Or more than that? Definitely more than that.

  But this was neither the time nor the place for romance. For one thing it was freezing cold, and for another they had a job to do. She gently stroked his cheek, then put her mitten back on. She turned away to hide her confusion.

  “I’m glad you’ve brought your top police dog along,” she said.

  “Absolutely. My sister’s family still has the flu, and my mom isn’t back from Tenerife yet.”

  Embla locked the Kia and went around to the passenger side of the Passat. Before getting in she stuck her head in and said: “Hi, Tore!” A brief bark in response made her wonder how much the dog actually understood.

  The temperature had remained below freezing in northern Dalsland, and the snow was still piled high along the roadsides. To be fair, it had only been two days since Embla had gone down to Gothenburg, but so much had happened that it felt as if it had been much longer. They were heading for an area approximately thirty kilometers from Ed, but the road was narrow and it was impossible to travel fast. This gave them time to discuss what had gone on in their respective investigations.

  Olle told Embla they’d had big problems with Wille Andersson’s father. He’d stormed into the police station in Trollhättan where Wille had been questioned, yelling that nothing his son had said was admissible because he hadn’t had a parent or guardian with him during the interviews. He had been informed that the age of majority in Sweden is eighteen, and since Wille was nineteen, there was no requirement to have an adult present. He had also been provided with a public defense counsel, who would support him throughout the process. Unfortunately this hadn’t calmed John Andersson down in any way; quite the reverse, in fact. He’d gone crazy, shouting that he was going to contact the press, his son was innocent, he was going to sue the Åmål police for framing the boy and planting the knife at the scene of the crime. In the end, he had to be physically ejected from the building.

  “Thank God I had a decent camera with me; I took lots of pictures before I removed the knife from its hiding place. And as my personal crime-scene tutor taught me, I was wearing latex gloves and was extremely careful when I transferred the knife to an evidence bag,” he said with a sly sideways glance.

  “So you’re not involved with the case anymore?” Embla asked.

  “No. Trollhättan took over, and of course the prosecutor’s based there, too.”

  “That means you can help me with a clear conscience.”

  “Absolutely—but purely on a hobby level, if I can put it that way. Johnzén would shoot me if he knew what I was up to right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Göran Krantz put him in his place. That’s enough to make Johnzén hate him for the rest of his life.”

  “He bears a grudge, then.”

  “Are you kidding me? He still hasn’t forgiven the midwife who slapped his ass when he was born!”

  Embla laughed.

  “On top of that he’s petty-minded and bad-tempered—the perfect combination.”

  It might have been a joke, but there was a hint of unhappiness, even resignation in his voice. There was no doubt that Chief Inspector Johnzén was a difficult boss.

  Embla went through everything that had emerged in the Stavic brothers’ case. Nothing had leaked to the media yet, so this was all news to Olle. When she told him about Stephen Walker lurking outside Luca’s apartment, consumed with jealousy, and about the man Walker had seen, Olle jumped in.

  “So this guy looked a bit like Luca.”

  “And Kador, but we know it couldn’t be him because he was dead by the time Luca and Milo were killed. However, their cousin Andreas Acika bears a certain resemblance to the brothers.”

  “If it’s not him, it could be a contract killer they’ve brought in, maybe from the Balkans. In which case he’ll be hard to find.”

  “You’re right. If he’s a professional hit man, he’s unlikely to be in Sweden at this point.”

  They hadn’t seen a single building for the past few kilometers, though there was probably the odd summer cottage covered in snow down by the lakeside. They met only one car, a black Range Rover. Not an unusual make in an isolated area like that, where a decent vehicle to tow heavy loads and travel over rough terrain was necessary, but what attracted Embla’s attention were the two men in the front seat. Both drivers had to slow down in order to pass on the narrow road, so she had plenty of time to get a good look at them.

  The driver was heavyset, bordering on fat. He was wearing a camouflage jacket and had a green wool hat pulled down over his ears. He could have been a member of the home guard. His companion was slimmer and bare-headed, but the jacket was the same. His dark hair was sticking out in all directions; maybe he’d just taken off his hat. Both had several days’ dark stubble. Something about their appearance made her think they had nothing to do with the home guard after all.

  Embla kept an eye open for the turn; according to Google Maps it was so narrow that it would be easy to miss.

&nbs
p; To her surprise the snowplow had cleared the dirt road. Olle drove slowly. Eventually they reached a neat red-painted cottage with several outbuildings. The yard was covered in virgin snow, and there was no sign of life.

  “Nice place,” Olle remarked.

  “It was marked on Google Maps.”

  “Were there any more buildings?”

  Embla hesitated. “There’s something that looks like a little cabin farther on.”

  “Someone must be using it. The road’s been cleared. How far is it?”

  “About a hundred meters.”

  Olle braked and pulled into a spot where the snoplow had cleared a space to turn. There was enough room for two cars to pass.

  “I’ll park here and we’ll walk,” he said.

  Embla took out her phone and looked at the screen. Just as she’d feared, there was no coverage.

  “Do you have a signal?” she asked.

  Olle reached into his pocket. After a glance at the display, he shook his head.

  “Nothing.”

  As soon as they got out of the car, Tore started whimpering and moving around anxiously. Olle sighed and smiled apologetically.

  “He needs a comfort break.”

  They always say you shouldn’t work with children or animals, Embla thought.

  Olle opened the back door and Tore jumped out. Just like the time when they went to speak to Anton Åkesson’s parents, he shot under Olle’s arm and raced up onto a bank of snow. And once again he was affected by total deafness, unable to hear his master’s command to COME BACK HERE! Tore scampered happily along on top of the hard-packed snow; the last they saw of him was a wagging tail disappearing around the bend up ahead.

  “Goddamn dog!” Olle hissed, his face red with anger.

  “I’d say he needs a little more training,” Embla teased him.

  Olle didn’t answer, but marched off in pursuit of Tore. The snow crunched beneath their boots and the cold nipped at their cheeks. As they rounded the bend they stopped. At the end of the dirt road lay a dilapidated cottage. There were grubby net curtains at some of the windows. The paint was flaking off the walls and window frames. Impressive icicles hung from the roof, a clear indication that warmth was leaking from the poorly insulated building. Above the door was a frosted dormer window—presumably a bathroom, Embla thought.

  Smoke was rising from the chimney.

  About twenty meters from the cottage was a red building that looked pretty new; it appeared to be some kind of storage shed. There was a window on the gable end facing the road, but the glass was tinted, making it impossible to see inside. A white Mercedes van was parked outside, with its back doors wide open.

  There was no sign of Tore.

  Silently they began to move forward. When they were ten meters from the van, they heard someone whistling loudly and tunelessly inside the shed. The noise was accompanied by the faint squeak of wheels that needed oiling. The door flew open with a crash and a man pushing a fully laden cart stepped out. He stopped whistling as soon as he saw the two police officers. With lightning speed, he let go of the handles of the cart and drew a gun from inside his jacket.

  “Stop!” he yelled.

  “We’re from the police and—” Olle began, but he was immediately interrupted.

  “You’re trespassing on private property!”

  The man spoke Swedish with a barely perceptible accent. The hand holding the pistol was steady; he was clearly used to handling guns. He was wearing a gray hoodie underneath his jacket, and the hood was drawn tight around his face to keep out the cold. Embla saw a pair of bushy eyebrows, well-defined cheekbones, and black stubble. He looked to be between thirty and forty with a normal build and was slightly below-average in height.

  A faint suspicion began to take shape. This could be the man Stephen Walker had seen leaving the parking garage after Luca’s murder. In which case they were standing unarmed in front of a murderer.

  Suddenly Embla caught a movement by the corner of the building. Tore. The dog paused for a second, but when Olle muttered “Go! Go!” he reacted instantly. He’d practiced many times: when someone points a gun, neutralize the threat. He flew toward the man, leaped, and sank his teeth into the man’s right wrist. This guy wasn’t wearing the thick protective pad on his arm that Tore’s target usually wore during training, which made it easier for him to get a good grip.

  A shot was fired. Embla felt the hot draft as the bullet whizzed past her left cheek, immediately followed by a thud as it hit a tree trunk behind them. The man dropped the gun, yelling in pain and anger. He began hitting Tore with his left hand, which simply made the dog sink his teeth even deeper into the soft, yielding flesh. Olle and Embla rushed forward to rescue Tore. Embla grabbed the gun on the way; one glance told her it was a Beretta M9.

  Together Olle and Tore forced the man to the ground. Several times Olle gave the command to let go, but Tore was having none of it and growled menacingly.

  In spite of the fact that Olle was considerably taller than his opponent, he had some difficulty turning the man over onto his stomach because he wouldn’t stop writhing around. Embla stepped in to help, and they finally managed to get the handcuffs on—much to Tore’s disappointment because then he really did have to let go. However, he carried on growling and barking, just to show that he was still involved.

  “Sorry, it’s his first real capture.”

  Embla merely nodded. The dog’s contribution had been invaluable; without him they might have been dead by now. She could put up with a little barking from the hero of the hour.

  Getting the handcuffs on had also been problematic because the man was wearing an unusually large watch on his left wrist. A gold watch, the size of an American cupcake.

  Ignoring the man’s protests, Embla took off his heavy gold watch. It looked exactly the same as the one Andreas Acika had shown them, and the one they’d found in Luca’s safe. Holding it by the clasp on the gold bracelet, she turned it over to see M.S. engraved on the back.

  Olle went through the man’s pockets. He didn’t find any ID—just two spare magazines for the Beretta, the keys to the Mercedes, another bunch of keys, a plastic cigarette lighter, and an almost-empty pack of Marlboros. In the back pocket of the man’s jeans was a wallet containing a few Swedish notes and coins, plus four 500-Euro notes and a photograph of a little girl in a white lace dress and white knee socks. She was holding a doll wearing a similar dress.

  “We’ll lock him in the van,” Olle decided.

  Together they managed to haul him to his feet and bundle him into the back of the van. He was swearing loudly, mostly in Swedish but also in another language. Judging by the tone, it was just as well they didn’t understand everything he said.

  When Olle had locked the back doors, he took the dog leash out of his pocket. Tore obediently stood still, panting slightly.

  “I think I’ll put him back in the car and get some evidence bags to—”

  Before he had time to clip on the leash, Embla hurled herself at him and sent him crashing to the ground. It was a good thing the door of the storage shed was open, otherwise he’d have banged his head on it.

  A bullet whined past over their heads and disappeared into the building.

  “I saw someone poke the barrel of a rifle out the bathroom window!” Embla explained.

  Clearly the man they’d just locked in the van had one or more associates in the cottage. Encouraged by the shot, he started kicking the doors and bellowing with rage. Without wasting any time, Olle crawled into the shed, closely followed by Embla. They each took one side of the doors and pressed themselves against the wall. Olle was pale and looked very shaken. Tore was barking again, responding to the noise the man was making. Fortunately the van was between the dog and the gunman in the bathroom.

  “Tore! Come here!” Olle hissed.

  This time
the dog obeyed, slinking in through the door just as another shot was fired. It slammed into the doorframe, and Olle and Embla moved away from the opening. It wasn’t completely dark inside the shed due to a couple of bare bulbs. Embla positioned herself behind one of the pillars holding up the roof and quickly scanned the room. There was a pile of wooden boxes over by the far windowless wall, and to the right of the door there was a window with heavily tinted glass. She was able to see the gable end of the cottage, but not the bathroom window. She noticed that it was easier to see out than in through the tinted glass.

  Old tools and work clothes hung on nails to the left of the door, and there was a large snowblower in the corner. When Embla spotted a mattock among the tools, she crept over and took it down. Cautiously she edged closer to the door, then dropped to her knees and quietly took a deep breath. She stretched out her arm, hooked the mattock over the side of the door and pulled it shut. A bullet immediately smashed into it, but luckily the door was reinforced with steel on the inside. She sighed with relief. Then she got to her feet and turned off the lights. The small amount of daylight seeping in would have to do.

  “Quick—we need to get those boxes open,” she said.

  Olle, who had sought refuge behind another pillar, looked puzzled.

  “Why?”

  “They might contain guns.”

  “But we’ve got the pistol.”

  “That’s evidence. It’s a Beretta M9, and I’m pretty sure it’s Milo’s.”

  Olle went a little paler as he absorbed the implication of what she’d just said. The man they’d locked in the Mercedes van had murdered the Stavic brothers.

  Embla spotted a short iron bar with a pointed end leaning against the wall below the tools.

  “This will do nicely,” she said, weighing it in her hand. Without further comment Olle took down a small hammer, and together they went over to the boxes. Tore was sniffing around behind them; the gunfire hadn’t bothered him at all. He’d been trained to ignore it and wasn’t in the least bit afraid.