Winter Grave

by Helene Tursten

  According to Ted Andersson, everything had gone well as usual. Before they drove over the Svinesund Bridge, they exchanged a few words with the customs officers on duty. After all those years Ted and Johannes spent commuting between Sweden and Norway, their faces were very familiar.

  Needless to say, Johannes knew nothing about the cocaine in the spare tire compartment in the trunk. Only Ted and David Hagen were aware of their valuable cargo. The fewer people who knew, the better. David didn’t want to cross the border too often in case the customs officers got suspicious. He already had several convictions for drug-related offenses in Norway. He’d never told Halvorsen that Ted took care of the transportation to Sweden and the ensuing rollout along the west coast.

  It worked perfectly, and if Ted cut the cocaine a little more, then he had enough for his own use, too. A well-earned bonus.

  Ted dropped Johannes outside his house in Önnaröd, then drove straight home. Ted had been expecting a quiet Friday evening: put Viggo to bed, then share a couple of bottles of wine with Pernilla. He might even feel like a fuck, although the fat cow wasn’t especially attractive these days. Hanne in the cafeteria at Gardermoen was a lot sexier; the very thought of her made him hard. They’d been together for two months now, and he really wanted to move in with her in Oslo. However, he needed the family as a cover for “The Business.” It gave him cash to spend in Oslo and access to good coke. Pernilla didn’t have a clue. As long as he gave her some money and a quick kiss and cuddle now and again, she was happy. Stupid bitch! But Viggo was a great kid. A bit of a mommy’s boy, of course, but he’d soon grow out of that.

  The evening had gone exactly as planned. Apart from the fuck. She’d crawled off to bed after a couple of glasses of wine. Which was fine because everything depended on the fact that she’d be working the following day.

  On Saturday Pernilla was tired and slow, but she’d caught the bus to the Co-op in time for her shift at midday. She wouldn’t be home until eight-thirty at the earliest, which was perfect.

  As usual she’d made a huge pile of pancakes for Viggo. They were his favorite, and a special treat to make up for her not being around much on the weekends. Ted was going to finish off yesterday’s family-sized pizza and wash it down with a few beers. First, however, he needed to focus on The Business.

  He asked Viggo what movie he’d like to watch later while he was eating his pancakes.

  “The one with the snowman! And the lady who’s cold!”

  The kid meant Disney’s Frost or whatever it was called. He’d seen it hundreds of times. Definitely a girl’s film—Pernilla was ruining the boy. Why couldn’t he choose The Terminator or Jurassic Park instead of this crap? But the important thing was to keep him quiet for a while, so there was no point arguing.

  Viggo was in his room, absorbed in some game on his iPad. It would be stupid to disturb him now.

  Ted decided to make his preparations for The Business. He didn’t want Viggo to hear him and find out what Daddy was doing, so he crept into the closet under the roof and opened up the secret compartment. He took out the Adidas bag and carried it into his bedroom. He carefully removed the items he needed and placed them on the desk in the corner.

  With the empty bag in one hand he went downstairs, through the kitchen, and outside. It was pouring; he got soaked in the short distance between the house and the garage. He should have grabbed his jacket—too late now. He closed the garage door behind him before switching on the light. He opened the trunk of the Lexus and lifted the mat, exposing the compartment where the spare tire should be. In fact it contained several packages, each around the size of a house brick, wrapped in plastic and sealed with duct tape to make sure they didn’t split. That would be a disaster—the whole space filled with cocaine. He smiled at the thought. Oh no, not the smallest pinch of the precious powder would be spilled. He transferred the packages to the sports bag and replaced the mat.

  He hurried back indoors and upstairs. He checked on Viggo, who was lost in his game and didn’t even notice him. Good, he could carry on with his preparations. He closed the door to his bedroom as quietly as possible, then locked it and pulled down the blinds. Made sure there were no gaps . . . the neighbors couldn’t see in, but you never knew . . . the cops could be watching him. The idea that the cops might be onto him had come into his mind more and more recently. Not that anything had happened—it was just a feeling. Better to be on the safe side with the blinds drawn.

  He put the bag on the floor next to the desk. Of course he ought to have his own room from which to run The Business, but there were only two bedrooms. The cellar wasn’t an option; it was filthy and poorly lit. And someone could peer in through a cellar window, so he just had to make the best of things.

  Everything was neatly laid out: a set of digital apothecary’s scales, a Stanley knife, a measuring scoop, and a box of small plastic bags, perfect for one or two grams of cocaine. Plus two tins containing a mixture of bicarbonate soda and something he’d bought online. It was called Dream Dust; he didn’t really know what kind of crap it was, but it looked like cocaine, so it suited his purpose.

  He felt a pang in his stomach—not of hunger, but desire. He picked up the knife and made a hole in one of the larger packets; he couldn’t suppress a gasp of relief. Hands shaking, he measured out a line on the edge of the desk. Careful, careful, not too much. This was strong stuff. Greedily, he inhaled the white powder. An explosion in his chest, a rush throughout his entire body and up into his brain. He was suffused with intense happiness; he felt really good. That was the best thing about coke—it worked fast. If only Hanne were here now! He was so horny! Somewhere deep inside a little voice made itself heard. He had to sort out The Business. It mustn’t take too long. He walked around the room on a total high, trying to pull himself together.

  Through the wall he could hear the plink-plink of Viggo’s computer game. Good. After a while he was able to focus, and sat down at the desk. He scooped some of the powder from the large package and tipped it into one of the small bags. He had no intention of cutting it; he was keeping it for his own use. He sealed the bag by pressing the edges together and moved onto the next. Thirty bags. Thirty grams—that would see him through to the next shipment. He would have liked to take more, but he didn’t dare. Even if Halvorsen was out of the picture, there were others in the organization who might know about the accusations against David Hagen—and indirectly against him. These were dangerous guys to do business with, but who was taking all the risks? Ted, that’s who. Which was why he was entitled to a little bonus from The Business. He’d come up with a brilliant way of taking his own coke back into Norway: he stuffed the bags into the battery compartment of an old flashlight, which he casually left in the side pocket of his car. If anyone started fiddling with it, which had happened on a couple of occasions, he simply said there were no batteries in it, and that was the end of the matter. The ploy had worked perfectly ever since he’d been involved in The Business.

  He placed his own bags on the flat base of the desk lamp; it was important not to mix them up with the rest. Then he began to cut the cocaine in the packages with the mixture in the tins. One measure of coke, one measure of Dream Dust. Fifty-fifty. The customers paid for two grams of cocaine but received only one. He dropped these bags straight into a large plastic jar; he’d asked Pernilla to bring it home from the Co-op when she was working in the candy section. It was full in no time, and the contents would bring in a good profit. He was pleased, very pleased.

  He heard a scrabbling at the door.

  “Daddy I’m hungry!”

  Fuck, the kid needed feeding.

  “Coming!”

  Just as he unlocked the bedroom door he heard a knock on the front door. Who the fuck was that? On a Saturday? The cops? Before Ted could stop him, Viggo raced down the stairs. Ted stiffened, but told himself to relax. No need to be paranoid. He gave himself a little shake and headed
for the hallway.

  “Who are you?” he heard Viggo ask.

  “My name is Staffan Eriksson,” a deep voice replied.

  Ted felt a surge of relief as he realized it was the carpenter who was going to help with the new deck. He stepped forward with a big smile on his face. Eriksson was wearing robust work clothes and didn’t seem bothered by the wind and icy rain.

  “Had you forgotten we were going to talk through the details of your new patio?” he asked.

  That was exactly what Ted had done, but he attempted to play it off. “No, no, but my son, Viggo, is hungry. I’ll just give him something to eat, then I’ll be with you. Come on in.”

  Eriksson stepped inside and dripped quietly onto the rubber mat, a puddle quickly forming around his feet.

  By the time Ted walked into the kitchen, Viggo had piled almost all the pancakes onto his plate and topped them with a small mountain of jelly.

  “Sugar, too,” he said firmly.

  The important thing was to get him back up to his room, then deal with the carpenter as quickly as possible. All this was interfering with The Business. Ted searched the kitchen cupboards, his frustration growing by the second. No sign of any sugar.

  “You’ll have to manage without sugar,” he said crossly.

  “Nooo! I want sugar!”

  Viggo rarely caused any trouble, but he chose that particular moment to throw a tantrum. Maybe he felt safe because Eriksson was there. Don’t lose your temper, not now, stay calm. Breathe!

  “There is no fucking sugar! Get to your room and eat your fucking pancakes!”

  For once Viggo’s expression was defiant, but fuck that. He wouldn’t sulk for long. Fucking baby.

  Viggo stomped upstairs with his plate. Ted thought it might be best to try to look a little more paternal in front of Eriksson.

  “I’ll bring you a can of Fanta!” he shouted up to Viggo.

  He took the stairs in a few strides. Viggo was sitting in his kid-sized armchair from IKEA with the pancakes in front of him on the table. He didn’t say a word when Ted put down the can and opened it with a hiss. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen and started the film.

  Ted ran back downstairs and pulled on his boots and waterproof jacket. They went outside. The rain had eased off, but it was still windy. Eriksson asked if he’d made a sketch of the patio, but of course neither Ted nor Pernilla had remembered. He attempted to describe what they wanted. The window on the gable end was to be replaced with patio doors, giving direct access from the house. He’d already bought plinths and timber for the deck; that was what was under the tarps. Needless to say, he didn’t mention that an old friend had gotten him a good deal. The greenhouse had been ordered but wouldn’t be delivered until the end of March. They discussed the choice of roofing material for a long time. Even though the rain had settled into a steady drizzle, they were both drenched. Before he left, Eriksson said that because it hadn’t been a particularly hard winter, the ground was unlikely to be frozen deep down, so he would aim to start work around the end of March or the beginning of April. They shook hands and Ted hurried back indoors.

  He hung up his wet jacket and kicked off his muddy boots on the mat by the door. He could hear the music from that fucking girlie film. With a sigh, he went into the kitchen to reheat yesterday’s pizza in the microwave.

  With the hot plate in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other, he went up to the bedroom. He mustn’t waste any more time; he had to finish off The Business. He was due to drive to Gothenburg on Monday, delivering this shipment along the way, and on Wednesday he was going back to Oslo. Back to Hanne.

  He paused outside Viggo’s room. The door was closed, and he decided not to open it. The kid was watching his film, eating his pancakes, and enjoying himself. No point in disturbing him and risking another tantrum.

  When he walked into the bedroom it occurred to him that he’d forgotten to lock the door when the carpenter arrived. His heart rate shot up and he felt his chest tighten with fear. There was no room for any slipups. He looked over at the desk in a panic, but everything was just the same as he’d left it. Nothing to worry about. Ted sank down on the bed, ate his pizza, and drank his beer. Okay, he was ready to get back to work.

  The same routine was repeated over and over again: one measure of coke, one measure of Dream Dust, seal the bag, shake it, drop it in the jar. After a while he’d lost all sense of time.

  It was the silence that crept into his consciousness. The film must have finished a while ago, but there wasn’t a sound from Viggo’s room. He must have fallen asleep. So much the better—that meant Ted could get on with his work in peace. Feeling pleased with himself, he glanced down at the jar, which was almost full. One more package to cut, then he’d be done.

  For some reason he suddenly felt the urge to count his own supply. The thirty bags that constituted his little bonus. With a smug smile he began to count.

  Twenty-seven.

  An ice-cold hand gripped him by the throat. Feverishly he counted again.

  Twenty-seven.

  There were three missing. Someone had stolen . . . He tried to think clearly. The only person in the house apart from himself was Viggo. Had he been in here during the twenty minutes Ted had spent in the yard with Eriksson? Ted shot out of his chair so fast that it crashed to the floor. Fucking kid! Just you wait . . .

  He flung open the door of his son’s room, then stopped. It was unnaturally dark and silent. By the light of the streetlamp outside he was able to make out the shape of the child on the floor. Ted’s legs were as heavy as lead. He didn’t want to do it, but he moved slowly toward Viggo’s motionless body. He couldn’t speak. He dropped to his knees beside his son. He leaned forward and put his hand in a pool of vomit. Disgusting! The kid had eaten so much he’d thrown up, made a mess all over the floor! Why hadn’t he come to tell his dad he didn’t feel well? That great big pile of pancakes . . . no wonder he got sick! It might be better to lift him onto the bed. Gently he turned him onto his back.

  He let out an involuntary scream at the sight of Viggo’s face. It was covered in vomit, the eyes half-open. When Ted touched his hands, they were limp and cold. Way too cold. And those empty eyes . . .

  Only then did he realize that Viggo was dead.

  Fear overwhelmed him and for a long time he couldn’t think straight. How was this possible? How? Who could have . . . ? His gaze fell on the low table and the remains of the pancakes. Beside the plate were three small empty plastic bags, neatly arranged in a row. Viggo’s scissors lay on the other side. The scissors he’d used to cut open the bags.

  Viggo must have gone into the bedroom while Ted was out in the yard. He’d thought the powder was sugar! He’d taken three bags and sprinkled the contents over his pancakes. The strawberry jelly had masked the taste of the cocaine. Not the cut mixture, but the good stuff that Ted had put aside for himself. Three grams! That was the equivalent of six grams when it was cut . . .

  Even if he’d thrown up a lot, it was still enough to kill a little boy. Panicking, Ted ran back to the bedroom to grab his cell phone and call an ambulance. Just as he was about to key in the number with shaking hands, he came to his senses. He couldn’t call the emergency services.

  The police would come and start poking around. There was bound to be an autopsy, and they’d find out that Viggo had consumed a large amount of cocaine. That couldn’t happen. The Business would come to light. Several years behind bars . . . An end to the good life in Oslo with his pals. And Hanne.

  He flopped down on the bed. Think, Ted! Think, for fuck’s sake! He sat there whimpering and rocking back and forth. He spent some time bashing his forehead with his clenched fists before the solution became clear: Viggo must disappear. Like Amelie.

  The first job was to pack everything on the desk into the Adidas bag. Nothing relating to The Business must remain in the room. He carried the b
ag into the closet and tucked it away in the secret compartment. He made sure the piece of tongue and groove was securely in place, then went down to the kitchen. He rummaged around in the cupboard until he found what he was looking for: a bottle of window cleaning fluid and a roll of paper towels. Best to start with the room he’d been working in. He sprayed the desk and gave it a good wipe. He did the same with the floor all around the desk. He switched on the main light and surveyed the results with a critical eye: excellent. Not a trace of powder remained.

  Now for the worst part. Don’t think, just do it! This is about your future! Just do it!

  He went back to the kitchen and stuffed the used paper towels in a plastic bag. Behind the bathroom door he found a mop and bucket. He filled the bucket with hot water and soap, then trudged up the stairs to Viggo’s room.

  He wrapped the boy in his comfort blanket, which he’d left on the floor. There was vomit on the blanket, so it had to disappear, too. He avoided looking at the little bundle while he was cleaning the floor. Instead he concentrated on doing the best job he possibly could. It was hard to see if he’d gotten everything because he didn’t dare switch on the light. He’d have to check later. Afterward. When he came home.

  He rinsed the bucket and the mop over and over again. There mustn’t be the slightest hint of vomit left. It would contain cocaine, so if it was ever analyzed, he’d be done for.

  A thought struck him: What was he going to tell people? They’d wonder how Viggo disappeared.

  Outside. He must have been outside. But why would a little boy go out to play by himself in such terrible weather? Think . . . Yes! He’d been out playing with his little LED flashlight, of course. That was one of his favorite things to do when it was dark. Brilliant idea! Ted congratulated himself. He could do this!