Winter Grave

by Helene Tursten

  “Hat . . . my hat,” he slurred, then he passed out again.

  A report of a missing boy reached the Regional Crime Center at 5:50. His name was Viggo Andersson, a six-year-old from Strömstad. He had disappeared from the family’s garden just over an hour earlier; he’d been out playing alone. The boy’s father, Ted Andersson, made the call. He was agitated to say the least.

  “I would have gone on looking for a while longer if . . . but Amelie Holm went missing . . . I know her parents . . . And now Viggo . . . What the hell are the police doing? Everyone knows who took her—that kid who’s sick in the head!” he yelled down the phone.

  He had already searched the immediate area and called everyone he could think of, but to no avail, so his distress was understandable. The decision was made to contact Acting Chief Superintendent Roger Willén; he was responsible for the investigation into the disappearance of Amelie Holm before Christmas, so it made sense to pass on Viggo’s details to him.

  The only available radio car was north of Uddevalla and was immediately redirected to Skee in order to relieve the two officers from Strömstad who were there; they were now needed to search for the boy. A team with local knowledge was better suited to the task.

  Willén called the contacts who had organized the search party for Amelie. He explained that another child had gone missing in Strömstad—a little boy this time.

  The Home Guard, a number of volunteers, and the police dog team would start looking for Viggo immediately. Missing People would be there early the next morning if he hadn’t been found by then.

  Willén then called Sven-Ove Berglund to tell him what had happened. Without any great enthusiasm the inspector agreed to drive over to Skee. During their conversation, Willén could hear voices and laughter in the background. Sven-Ove and his wife obviously had guests, but in circumstances like these, all resources must be mobilized as quickly as possible.

  When he’d put the phone down, Willén sent for Paula Nilsson and Lars Engman. They wouldn’t be enjoying a cozy Saturday night at home either.

  They were on the way to Strömstad when Willén’s cell phone rang. He answered immediately, then sat in silence for a long time, listening. Paula was driving; she could hear a man’s voice on the other end of the line, but not what he was saying. Willén ended the call, his expression grim.

  “That was Sven-Ove. It seems as if the guy in the ditch is a cop. And it looks like homicide.”

  Both Paula and Lars were shocked, and couldn’t think of anything to say. The silence in the car was almost palpable.

  “A colleague—who is it?” Paula managed eventually.

  “His name is Viktor Jansson—he’s based in Strömstad. Thirty-four years old, lived in Skee. One of the officers in the patrol car recognized his hat. Either of you know Jansson?”

  Paula and Lars shook their heads. They knew a lot of their colleagues in the four towns, but it was impossible to know everyone.

  After a brief discussion it was decided that Paula would drop off Lars and the chief superintendent at the crime scene in Skee, then she would head over to see Viggo Andersson’s parents to try to get a clearer idea of what had gone on.

  The CSIs arrived at the tiny parking lot at the same time. The ditch at the side of the road was illuminated by the headlights of a blue-and-white patrol car, and three silhouettes could be seen next to the vehicle.

  “The big guy must be Patrik Lind, and the other uniformed officer is Alice Åslund. Sven-Ove is plainclothes,” Willén said. He felt it was important to remember the names of those he was working with. It showed you cared—that’s what he learned on a course after he’d gotten the job of acting area chief superintendent.

  Paula Nilsson had entered the Anderssons’ address into the car’s GPS. The wind picked up as she got closer to the sea, and the rain started to come down even harder. She had to tighten her grip on the wheel as fierce gusts repeatedly took a hold of the car, threatening to sweep it off the road. The darkness was so dense that it seemed to absorb the least glimmer of light. She longed for snow to brighten things up. There was nothing left of the snow that had fallen between Christmas and New Year’s.

  Her thoughts turned to the missing boy. As far as he was concerned, it was a good thing the temperature hadn’t dropnday allped too low. Hopefully he would soon be found. Surely two children couldn’t disappear within six weeks in the peaceful little town of Strömstad. It felt as unreal as the idea that a cop had just been murdered. Plus there had been a serious stabbing on New Year’s Eve, which had now been classified as a homicide. Although according to Willén, that was no longer their concern because the case had been taken over by Oslo.

  She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Viggo had only been gone for around four hours. If it hadn’t been for Amelie, the police might not have reacted so quickly, but the hypothesis that there could be a pedophile operating in the area had come up several times during the course of the investigation. It was good that the search parties were already set up and had been mobilized immediately. If the child was out there in the darkness, they would find him. He must be so frightened . . .

  Paula felt a mixture of sorrow and anxiety when she thought about Viggo. She blessed the fact that her own children were fourteen, twelve, and nine. Amelie and her daughter were the same age . . . What if something happened to Tilde . . . ? A shudder ran down her spine. The danger wasn’t over. It would never be over. You remain a worried mom until the day you die, she thought with a sigh. The children were with their father this weekend. Anders was also a cop, and they’d managed to work out their shifts so that they were free on different weekends. It worked very well, even though his new partner didn’t really get along with the kids. Sometimes Tilde didn’t want to go to her dad’s, which made life difficult for everyone.

  Paula sighed in the darkness. Guided by the GPS, she passed a train station, then Uddevallavägen, heading for the churchyard. After a couple of hundred yards she turned onto a side street and parked outside the address she’d been given.

  There were lights showing in every window of the small two-story house. It was a typical 1950s property, the kind Paula and her siblings had grown up in. The garden was large, with several flourishing fruit trees. In the birch nearest the gate was a wobbly looking tree house, no more than three feet off the ground. Two swings moved to and fro in the wind beside a yellow slide, which had fallen over. A red spade stuck up from the waterlogged sandbox. There were signs of the child who had played there, but no sign of the child, Paula thought gloomily.

  She cautiously made her way up the slippery path to the steps, but before she had time to set foot on the first one, the door flew open. A woman of around thirty stared at her, wide-eyed.

  “Have you found him!”

  It wasn’t a question, it was a cry of anguish.

  “Hi, I’m Detective Paula Nilsson. I’m afraid Viggo hasn’t been found yet, as far as I’m aware.”

  She walked up the steps, holding out her hand. The woman didn’t move an inch, she just kept running her hands through her bleached hair. Her mascara had run, giving her a panda-like appearance, and her eyes were filled with sheer panic. Her foundation was also badly streaked. She was wearing short nylon overalls, which strained over her generous bust, and a name badge that said Pernilla.

  Paula gently placed a hand on the distressed mother’s arm. “We will find him,” she said, “but we need your help, and all the information we can get. May I come in?”

  She wasn’t sure if Pernilla had heard the question, but at least she stepped aside to let Paula pass. The hallway was narrow, the floor cluttered with shoes, bags, umbrellas, and an assortment of toys. Next to the door lay a large old-fashioned flashlight. The coatrack was full, so Paula draped her jacket over her arm as she went into the kitchen. A fairly old countertop dishwasher was humming away laboriously on the draining board, which looked clean. There were tw
o pancakes on a plate on the table.

  “He had pancakes before . . . before he went out.”

  Pernilla stared at the cold pancakes, her eyes full of tears.

  “My kids love them, too,” Paula said.

  “They’re Viggo’s favorite, with lots and lots of jelly and sugar. Way too sweet, but that’s how he likes them . . .”

  Pernilla broke off and went over to the sink. She grabbed a piece of paper towel and blew her nose.

  “Shall we sit down?” Paula suggested, pulling out a chair.

  Pernilla nodded and took a seat opposite her, constantly plucking at the paper towel in her hand.

  “Have you come straight from work?” Paula asked, pointing to the badge.

  “Yes. I don’t finish until eight on Saturdays, but I left as soon as Ted called. I forgot to change.” She tried to smile, but managed only a pale grimace.

  “Is your husband here?”

  “No, he’s out searching. I wanted to go with him, but they called and said a cop . . . a police officer was coming over, so I had to stay home. And someone has to be here in case . . . in case Viggo finds his own way back . . .” Her lower lip began to tremble, and tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

  “Okay, Pernilla, so we’ve been given a description of Viggo. Six years old, blond curly hair, blue eyes. Wearing a camouflage-patterned jacket, green waterproof trousers, green hat. Black Wellington boots. Correct?”

  “Yes . . . yes. He turned six on December nineteenth,” she sobbed in despair.

  Only just six, might be better to regard him as a five-year-old, Paula thought. That wasn’t good, but she hid her concern.

  “Viggo had been gone for about an hour when your husband called us, which means he must have disappeared at around quarter to five.”

  A nod.

  “I’m wondering why Viggo was playing outside alone. It would have been dark by then. And of course it’s been raining all day today—it hasn’t really gotten properly light at all.”

  Pernilla blew her nose again, then she took a deep breath and met Paula’s gaze. “Viggo loves being out in the dark with his flashlight—running around, shining the beam on different things. Ted was out there with him at first, but then Ted started to feel cold and wanted to come in. He tried to get Viggo to come in as well, but he didn’t want to, so Ted told him he could have another fifteen minutes. When he went out to fetch him . . . Viggo was gone!”

  The last sentence unleashed a fresh flood of tears.

  “Was that when Ted started searching the local area?”

  “Yes, and he called everyone we know. He checked with the neighbors . . . drove around in the car . . .” She wiped her eyes and nose, then exclaimed angrily, “Why didn’t you lock up that idiot? He’s a retard! First he took Amelie, and now Viggo!”

  For a few seconds Paula was taken aback by the woman’s aggression and choice of words. She straightened up and said authoritatively, “There is nothing to connect Kristoffer Sjöberg to Amelie’s disappearance. And he certainly isn’t a retard.”

  “But he attacks kids! How many does he have to take before you realize!” Pernilla yelled, lurching forward across the table.

  Paula felt a few drops of saliva land on her cheek. Keeping her tone reasonable, she replied, “We don’t know what’s happened to Viggo. We don’t believe there’s a link to Amelie. It—”

  Pernilla interrupted her with a loud snort. “Johannes thinks it was Kristoffer who abducted Amelie—that’s what he said to Ted weeks ago!”

  Paula realized she was talking about the girl’s father. “You’ve heard Johannes Holm say this?”

  “No. Ted told me.” Pernilla seemed more hesitant now, but she still looked ready for a fight.

  “So he and Johannes are friends?”

  “They’ve known each other all their lives, so I know what Johannes and Maria have been going through. And now it’s happening to us!”

  Pernilla started sobbing again. Paula was at a loss. How could she conduct a sensible interview with this hysterical woman? Pernilla’s anxiety was understandable, but she would have to pull herself together if she was going to be any use in the search. The smallest piece of the puzzle is important, and it’s vital to work fast during the first few hours after a disappearance. Right now, however, Pernilla was in no state to cooperate.

  Both women gave a start when the doorbell rang. Pernilla leaped to her feet and raced into the hallway. Paula heard agitated voices, then Pernilla came back into the kitchen with Amelie’s parents. They nodded to Paula, their expressions grave. Johannes was tall and thin, with wispy fair hair and blue eyes—the polar opposite of his small, dark-skinned wife, Maria, with her halo of frizzy black hair. However, when he put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him, the warmth between them was unmistakable.

  “Where’s Julien?” Pernilla asked, her voice trembling.

  “With my mom. We came as soon as we heard about Viggo. Our neighbor saw it on Facebook,” Johannes said.

  That was one of the advantages of social media: information could be spread quickly, Paula thought. It was time she left, but first she had a question for Johannes.

  “Pernilla tells me you and Ted have been friends all your lives . . .”

  He looked at her suspiciously. “What’s that got to do with the fact that our kids are missing?”

  “The police always look for patterns. Sometimes there isn’t one, but we still like to check things out. It goes with the territory when you’re a cop,” Paula said with a little smile.

  Johannes didn’t smile back. He sized her up for a moment before he answered. “Ted and I have known each other since preschool and went to the same high school, though we took different classes. Now we both work in Norway, but not in the same place. Our families get together occasionally.”

  He gestured toward the two women, who nodded in agreement.

  Paula stood up. “Okay, thank you. Please contact me if you think of anything that might be helpful.”

  She gave her card to Pernilla, who slipped it in the pocket of her nylon overalls. It was obvious that she’d forgotten about it within a second. Johannes Holm refused a card—the family had already been given several by different officers.

  When the door closed behind Paula, she remained standing on the top step. She’d thought of something, but it had slipped out of her mind just as quickly as it had appeared. Could she retrieve it? She made an effort, but nothing popped up; she was probably too tired. Best to wait, see if it came back later. She shivered as the cold crept inside her collar. The wind was even stronger now, and the rain lashed her face as she set off toward the car, her shoulders hunched.

  When she reached the tree house she stopped and shined the beam of her flashlight on it. A rickety little ladder led up to the floor. It was clumsily made, but no doubt it was good enough to allow a little boy to clamber up and down. The weeping birch had three trunks, and the cabin had been built to fit among them. Paula didn’t go any closer because she knew CSI would want to check for footprints. The tree was around three yards from the gate. If Viggo had been playing there with his flashlight, it would have been natural for someone passing by to stop and chat with him. If the boy then came over to the gate, it would have been easy to grab him—a hand over his mouth, maybe a chloroform pad, then into a car. It would have taken seconds.

  Paula started knocking on doors, but no one had seen or heard anything suspicious. Most of the neighbors were elderly and hadn’t been tempted to venture out in the wind and rain. By the time she’d worked her way up and down the small street, she was soaked to the skin and frozen. She decided it was time to liaise with her colleagues at the station, find out how the search for Viggo was going, and get an update on the murder of Viktor Jansson. For at least the hundredth time that evening she wondered how the hell all this could happen at the same time in peaceful litt
le Strömstad. Surely so many terrible things wouldn’t befall the idyllic town by the sea over the course of the entire next decade.

  On Sunday all available officers in Trollhättan and Strömstad were brought in, along with extra resources from Uddevalla. Not only were they dealing with two missing children, but also the murder of a police officer. On top of that, colder weather was forecast. During the day the temperature would drop below freezing, the wind would remain strong with icy gusts, and the rain would turn to snow.

  The Home Guard, dog teams, Missing People, and other volunteers were still searching for the children. The focus was on Viggo, but there was a faint hope that they would find a lead on Amelie. Or her body. No one really believed she was still alive.

  The previous evening Roger Willén had spoken to Patrik Lind at the scene of Viktor Jansson’s murder. Patrik was still feeling dizzy, but Willén wanted to know how Patrik had realized right away that the victim was a colleague.

  “The hat. We play for the same indoor bandy team, Viktor and I. Back in the fall our main sponsor bought a new jersey with our logo and their advertising. The hat . . . with the bobble . . . It’s our . . . the team . . . colors.”

  Patrik fell silent and took a swig of water from the bottle he’d been given by one of the paramedics.

  “But how did you know it was Viktor?”

  “I knew right away. It’s only our team that has those particular colors on the bobble, and Viktor’s the only member of the team who goes running all year round and lives in Skee,” Patrik replied, his voice far from steady. He was deeply shocked and upset by the murder of his friend and colleague. They all were, and the atmosphere at the scene was oppressive. The dog owners had been sent away as soon as Alice had taken their names and contact info.

  When the CSIs arrived they immediately started complaining that any possible evidence on the wet ground had been trampled into oblivion by both humans and their four-footed companions. They erected a tent to protect both the body and themselves from the rain, but they were still working in extremely challenging conditions. The ditch was deep and overflowing with water.