Last One Alive

by Karin Nordin

  He had to get up. He had to help.

  The cawing of the ravens drowned out the voices. Stenar hoisted himself up on an old milk crate. The pain in his knee radiated down his calf. He took one hard step forward and his hip popped back into the socket. He winced, wiping his mud and blood-stained hand on his jacket. Then he limped back towards the door. A harsh metallic clang rang out in the night and both the sound of the voices and the birds ceased, leaving behind them an unearthly silence in the dead air. Stenar stopped. A minute passed before he heard the sound of someone shuffling inside the barn. He leaned against the wall to support himself, the wet wood splintering against his coat, and peered in through that same broken window beside the rookery. He wiped at the frost-covered window with his uninjured palm. The ravens sat still on their perches, clearing a view to the main open space of the barn.

  What he saw both shocked and confused him. As he tried to process the image before him, one of the birds nearest the window craned its neck and stared at him with two dark voids for eyes. Its unnaturally hooked bill gave the impression that it was sneering. Taunting. The bird had seen what Stenar had seen, but unlike him it understood.

  It understood and it would never forget.

  Chapter 1

  Onsdag | Wednesday

  Kjeld’s phone rang nonstop from the bustling rain-slick streets of Gothenburg to the winding frost-covered roads of Jämtland county. Even when he stopped at the Shell off the E16 near Mora to take a piss and refill his coffee amid the crowd of tourists scrambling to try an authentic Swedish cinnamon roll and purchase discounted painted horses, his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing in his jacket pocket. A busload of tourists en route to the Dala horse museum caused the queue for the single toilet to curve through the gift shop and outside the front entrance. Kjeld grumbled and relieved himself on the backside of the building beside an industrial waste container.

  His phone continued to vibrate against his chest, but Kjeld didn’t answer. He knew who it was: Detective Sergeant Esme Jansson who had been, until recently, his partner in the Violent Crimes Division at Gothenburg City Police. That was before his suspension. It was temporary, they said. Just until the investigation into the Aubuchon murder was cleared up, but regardless of how that turned out Kjeld didn’t have high expectations of the chief going easy on him. Apparently the line between good police work and breaking the law was finer than Kjeld realised and as far as the police commission was concerned, he’d not only stepped over that line, but completely ignored its existence. He didn’t disagree with them that he’d made mistakes. He had. But there had been circumstances that he thought warranted those mistakes. Esme understood. She was there when the aptly named Kattegat Killer made his final demands. But she wasn’t the ranking officer on the scene. He was.

  His phone buzzed that he had a voicemail. He grabbed his coffee from the ledge of the trash container and retrieved his messages. You have three new voice messages, the soft computerised tone informed him.

  There was a pause and then Esme’s voice, firm and direct, was loud in his ear. But it was the increasing heaviness of her southern Scanian dialect, accented by unnecessary diphthongs and an aggressively rolled “r” that told him she was livid.

  ‘What the hell is this about a temporary leave of absence? Don’t you know we’re facing an inquest in a couple of weeks? And you just up and disappear to leave me with this mess? You’re a fuckin’ arsehole, Nygaard. I’ve got the commission breathing down my neck about my statement, the Special Investigations Division is asking me to provide a witness testimony for your actions covering the entire Aubuchon case, and your neighbour called me about feeding your cat. When did I ever say you could give my number to your neighbour? I’m not your fuckin’ cat-sitter. You can’t just head out of town and expect other people to cover your shit for you.’

  End of first message. New message.

  Esme’s voice was louder this time.

  ‘Pick up your goddamned phone, Nygaard! I’ve got a shit ton of your paperwork sitting on my desk and I am not cleaning it up for you. I don’t care if you’re on a fuckin’ beach in Tahiti, you need to get your arse back here and fix this problem. The chief says you haven’t turned in your deposition yet. I swear to God if I get demoted because you’re an arsehole, I will never forgive you.’

  End of message. Last message.

  ‘Your apartment is a shit mess. You know that? Where do you keep the cat food? Call me back.’

  You have no new messages. To replay these messages, press—

  Kjeld punched the end-call button on his phone and slipped it in his pocket, walking around the petrol station and back towards his car. He felt guilty for avoiding Esme’s calls, but he knew that she would try to get him to open up about everything that had happened during their last case. She would pester him until he shared his feelings and Kjeld didn’t want to share them. He wanted to bury them just like he wanted to bury so many things in his past. But Esme was right. He should have told her he was going out of town. She deserved that at least. Hell, she deserved a lot more than that for covering his arse for the last four years, but Kjeld hadn’t been thinking about her when he got into his car and started driving. If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t been thinking about anything related to the last few months. Not her, not the chief, not the case that got him suspended, not the testimony he was supposed to give, not the possibility that he would lose his job or worse, serve time for impeding the course of a criminal investigation, not the fact that Bengt was threatening to contest his visitation rights to his daughter. Nothing.

  All he was thinking about was the strange call he’d received from his father, a man he hadn’t spoken to in almost twelve years. It was uncanny. Seeing his father’s number pop up on the notification of missed calls was the last thing he’d expected to see that week. And his first thought was that it hadn’t been his father calling at all, but someone else using the phone to give him news of the old man’s death. Then he heard the familiar voice on the recording and was surprised by the severity of his gut reaction – hard disappointment.

  He listened to the message three times, but it didn’t make any sense. The context was unclear and the voice on the other end of the line was disorientated and vague, but it prickled at something in Kjeld that urged him to drive home.

  Whether that prickle was hatred or sympathy, however, Kjeld didn’t know. What he did know was that nothing short of an act of God would cause Stenar Nygaard to break his vow to never speak to his son again. And that act was worth driving almost ten hours across the country to confront.

  ‘Take our picture?’ a middle-aged woman asked. She was bundled up in a thick down coat with a blue and yellow Swedish football scarf wrapped around her neck. When Kjeld didn’t respond right away she waved a large Nikon camera in his face. Behind her were three other women with similar short, cropped haircuts and puffy jackets, smiling with their cinnamon rolls and Daim chocolate bars.

  Kjeld sighed and took the camera. He must have looked like an anomaly standing among them. While his appearance rarely stood out in a crowd of Swedes, at just over six feet, with ruddy unkempt hair, a thin scar above his top lip, and the scruff of what would be a full beard if he didn’t shave soon, he was the physical antithesis of the tourists hovering around the bus. One of the women stared at the side of his head and Kjeld felt a moment of self-consciousness. She said something in a language he didn’t understand. He assumed she was talking about the piece of flesh and cartilage missing from his left ear. He snapped four quick photos with the Shell petrol station in the background. The women thanked him in broken English, nodding their heads enthusiastically before hurrying off to the group conglomerating around a man waving a green flag attached to a long staff.

  Kjeld quickened his pace to his car so as not to be bothered by any more tourists and pulled out of the service station just as another bus turned into the car park to continue the cycle of the never-ending toilet queue. It wasn’t until he took the exit onto t
he E45 heading north that he realised he forgot to remove the lens cap.

  * * *

  November was usually a rainy month in Jämtland, but an early cold front had moved in, glossing the roads with a thin layer of ice. The gravel road that led up to Kjeld’s old family home was unmaintained, interrupted with patches of long grass, fallen tree limbs, and potholes that could snap the suspension of a small car. In truth it could hardly be considered a road at all. It was more a narrow winding path cut out of the surrounding forest with so many sharp turns that Kjeld imagined his great-grandfather must have been three sheets to the wind when he decided to pave the old horse trail connecting his property to the township limits. The story was that his great-grandfather was so enamoured by the beauty of the birch and spruce trees that he refused to chop down a single one to build the drive from the town to his home. But Kjeld’s impression of the story after hearing it ad nauseam during his childhood was that his great-grandfather was either too damn stubborn to cut down any trees or he just wanted to limit the possibility that anyone would visit him.

  And if Kjeld looked to the other men in his family, himself included, for insight into which explanation was more likely, he would put his money on the latter.

  The drive dipped downward just before reaching the house. Kjeld parked his car further up the road on the hill, not wanting to risk the possibility of getting snowed in should the weather take a turn, and walked the rest of the distance to the house. There was a bitter chill in the air that nipped at his neck and he hunched his shoulders against the cold.

  It was a typical Norrland farmhouse with the red exterior and white trim, although much of the paint on the northern side had chipped and peeled over the years. Most of the clay roof tiles were covered in moss and the rain gutter on the right side had fallen and was lying in a pile of uncut brush beside the house. The picket fence that he’d painted as a child was missing some planks and someone had permanently tied the gate to an open position against the remaining pickets where it was overgrown with ragweed and arctic violets whose petals had broken off and withered due to the unnatural wetness of the season. In the distance Kjeld could see a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney of the nearest house, which was at least eight kilometres away.

  He walked around a fallen garden gnome that he vaguely recognised as once belonging to his mother, and up the steps to the porch. When the doorbell didn’t work, he rapped his fist against the metal screen that someone had recently fit over the yellow door. It was loosely hinged to the side of the house and made a hard clanking sound as it hit against the wooden frame.

  Kjeld looked out over the yard. The disarray of weeds, abandoned garden tools buried beneath a pile of broken shutters and rotten firewood, and an overturned wheelbarrow once filled with shattered kitchen tiles caused his face to burn with anger and guilt.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  It was late afternoon and the sun was just beginning to dip towards the horizon, sending an orangish-yellow gleam through the trees. He was kicking himself for leaving Gothenburg in the middle of the night. It had been an impulsive decision. Now he was tired and regretting making the drive at all. If he got back in his car right now, he could probably make it to Östersund before the local businesses closed and get himself a room for the night. If he could find himself a decent cup of coffee then he could probably make it all the way back to Mora. Neither coffee nor desperation would get him back to Gothenburg before tomorrow, but at least he wouldn’t be here, questioning his good sense.

  He was already down two porch steps when the front door opened. Kjeld turned around and looked back at his sister as she stared at him through the mesh of the metal screen. Her expression was rigid, the age lines in her face pulled taut around thin pursed lips. After an uncomfortable pause that seemed to Kjeld to last minutes she pushed open the screen door with her hip and snorted a laugh.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ she scoffed. ‘It must be snowing in hell.’

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  Acknowledgements

  Writing a book at any time is hard. Writing a book during a pandemic is an entirely different animal. Anyone else trying to be creative during a period of uncertainty knows that the real struggle of an artist has very little to do with the art and everything to do with one’s self. The biggest challenge of that process is trusting someone else to be honest and to see the good in your work even when you can’t. So, while there are many names listed here, the one most deserving of my gratitude, is my editor, Sarah Goodey. Her patience, dedication, and belief in the characters made this book possible. Thank you, Sarah. And thank you to the countless others at HQ Digital for bringing this book to readers the world over.

  Dark times often have a silver lining. Over the course of the last year I made many friends in unexpected places, without whom I may never have finished this novel. Thanks to Diana Marie Hall for her optimism, inspiration, and for sharing with me her own story of perseverance. To Darin Nagamootoo for his boundless positivity and encouragement. (All my love to Leia and Rey!) To Terry Holman for taking time out of his busy schedule to support all of my ridiculous Instagram posts and for his kind messages. Thanks also to Katri Soikkeli for her infectious humour, cat videos, and for making me laugh every morning with her memes. Thanks to Niklas Broberg both for answering my questions about life in Gothenburg and for his tireless support of so many writers. (And for helping me choose the location of Kjeld’s apartment!)

  Writers write alone, but very rarely on their own. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my writing group, with particular thanks to Pine Irwin, Lex Snyder, Kasia Grabiec, Rebekah Barkhauer (Jace), and Lemon Beckham, who spent hours workshopping some challenging plot points in this book.

  A very special tack så mycket to Hanna Hattson who not only reminded me of the accomplishments I should be proud of, but for going out of her way to help me clarify some aspects of the Swedish judicial system and for brainstorming Esme’s story. Thanks also to Anne Alcott for her enthusiasm, friendship, and overall zest for life. Also, for reminding me of the importance of the love of writing. I am truly honoured to know both of these incredible women.

  And to my dearest Becky Youtz – thank you for being with me since the very beginning of my writing journey and for challenging me to improve my craft. Words can’t begin to explain how important our friendship is to me. You’re one of the best people and writers I know.

  Readers are the reason authors exist. A huge thank you to the bloggers and early reviewers who have supported this series. I sincerely appreciate your love of these characters and your enthusiasm for their stories.

  To my family for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself. And to all of the friends, colleagues, neighbours, and people from my past who came out to spread the word about my books. It means the world to me.

  Every writer needs someone to remind them to take a break now and again. Thank you, Feiko, for that reminder. And for your love and patience.

  And, of course, thanks to Watson, the cat who always gets the final word.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for taking the time to read my book. I hope you enjoyed solving the crime alongside Kjeld and Esme and that, like them, you were shocked by a few surprises.

  After the release of Where Ravens Roost I received numerous questions from readers wanting to know if Kjeld was going to keep the promises he made to himself and his family. This novel was the first step in answering some of those questions. But as I discovered along the way while writing, some questions don’t have easy answers. And not all promises can be kept. The dynamics of family was a significant theme in Kjeld’s first story and it was
important to me to continue that thread because family, in all its forms, is something that connects each of us. I hope to explore that more thoroughly in the future, particularly as Tove grows up, begins to develop her own identity, and faces the ramifications of both her fathers’ choices on her own life.

  But let’s not forget Esme. I know she’s a reader favourite. She’s one of mine, too! And I hope you enjoyed getting a deeper glimpse into her life outside of Kjeld and the police. Of all my characters in this series she is the most fun to write, but she’s also the most difficult. I see in her a lot of myself and women that I know. It will probably come as no surprise that she has a difficult journey ahead of her. One that will challenge her relationship with Kjeld and determine the future of their partnership. But if anyone is up to the task, it’s Esme!

  And then there’s Nils. Finally, we can put a face to that figure in the background. He’s the kind of character who makes an impact despite remaining offstage. Many people have asked me if we’ll get to see his betrayal first-hand. And I’ll answer that by saying I don’t think this is the last we’ve seen of Nils or of his crimes.

  I love hearing readers’ thoughts on characters and learning what they connect to most in the books they read. I also love hearing their questions. Sometimes they inspire ideas! If you want to get in touch, you can find me on Instagram – where I spend too much time posting silly videos instead of writing – @karinnordinauthor. I’m also on Twitter @KNordinAuthor. And if you enjoyed this book I’d be incredibly grateful if you would consider leaving a review so other readers can meet Kjeld and Esme as well.