by Karin Nordin
‘I’ve just been sent the preliminary results from the body on the Nygaard property,’ Gunnar said.
‘And? Is it him?’
‘It’s still too early to say.’ Gunnar paused. ‘But there are a lot of similarities.’
* * *
A quick Google search confirmed everything Kjeld had already assumed about Erik Norberg. He was an attorney who started off his career in family law and then, presumably realising the devastating effects that could have on a person’s psyche combined with the menial pay, changed to international business with a focus in contract law. He had his own firm, Norberg & Associates, which was situated in Stockholm, and according to their website most of their connections were in the big business fields – health, engineering, financial services, logistics and transportation, and oil and gas. By law they weren’t allowed to list their clients directly, but based on the sleek layout of their homepage and the tailored cut of Norberg’s suit in his business profile photo, it wasn’t hard for Kjeld to guess.
So why Varsund? And why his father?
Kjeld compared the photo from the tackle box to the one on the law firm website. He had more hair on his upper lip than he did on his head today, but there was no arguing that short stature and those bulging eyes. Kjeld was certain he was the man in the picture, standing off to the side of the group and staring straight on. He looked like the least interesting person at the party. Like the odd kid out during an after-school football match. The kid who was forced to sit on the bench and wait for someone else to get tired or hurt before he could play. Even the way he held that glass of champagne in his hand made him look awkward. The others, Kjeld’s mother included, appeared well practised in the art of elegance. Norberg hadn’t yet reached their level of well-bred sophistication. He was still learning.
N.M. Christmas Party 1978. Kjeld tried to think of any local Varsund residents with those initials, but no one came to mind. Then it occurred to him that it was entirely possible that the party wasn’t in Varsund. It wasn’t like the Kommun was teeming with wealthy elite. And there were only so many houses that could support the inner decor that he was seeing on the walls behind the group of partygoers. Maybe it was somewhere else. But why would his mother, a simple Norrland girl, be there?
Kjeld shoved the Christmas photo into his back pocket. Maybe it was time to look closer at Erik Norberg.
Chapter 22
Tisdag | Tuesday
Nils shouted something at him that Kjeld couldn’t understand. Kjeld raised his service weapon, finger close to the trigger. It started to rain. Nils aimed his gun as well, but this time it wasn’t directed at Kjeld. It was pointed at his daughter. At Tove.
She stood just a few feet from him, her light red curls matted down by the sudden shower. Tears, like raindrops, streamed down her face. Her eyes pleaded with him to do something. To help her. To save her.
It wasn’t real. It was a dream. Kjeld knew that subconsciously, but it didn’t stop him from fearing what he saw. It didn’t stop him from believing it.
The sound of the rain against the shipping containers filled his head with an overpowering din.
Nils said something that Kjeld couldn’t understand and laughed. Kjeld looked back and forth from his friend to his daughter and back to his friend again. He was waiting for Esme to shout. That’s when the gun would go off. That’s when he would wake up. But Esme wasn’t there. Instead Tove reached out to him with a pale arm.
‘Daddy?’
The gunshot silenced the sound of the rain.
Kjeld rolled over in bed and stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. The room was awash in the scent of cigarettes, sweat, and Hanna’s perfume, which must have had essence of lavender in it because his nose tickled. Lavender always made his nose tickle.
‘What time is it?’ he mumbled against her back.
Hanna reached for the mobile phone on the nightstand and pushed the power button. The sudden glow in the pitch-black room was blinding. Kjeld winced.
‘Almost seven o’clock,’ she said.
‘Seven? In the evening?’
‘Morning.’
‘Shit.’ Kjeld sat up and searched through the covers for his shirt. ‘I’ve gotta go.’
‘Late for a hot date?’ Hanna teased, turning over onto her back so she could watch him fumble around the dark room for his clothes.
‘I left Dad alone at home.’
Kjeld cursed himself for being so careless. He’d been so angry with his father that he’d left without thinking. Then he and Hanna started talking and the time simply got away from him.
Kjeld’s toes hit his belt buckle on the floor, causing it to clink. He reached down and pulled up his pants. Socks. Shoes? They were probably at the front door. He stumbled into a dresser.
Hanna turned on the bedside lamp, illuminating enough of the room for Kjeld to find his way to the door.
‘Sorry I’ve got to run out on you.’
Hanna sat up and shrugged. ‘I’ll try not to cry too hard into my pillow after you leave.’
She stretched her arms up above her head and climbed out of bed.
Kjeld paused in the doorway long enough to watch her slip a T-shirt on and step into a pair of lace panties. Her breasts, small but firm, held up the shirt and he could see the hardness of her nipples through the fabric. A nagging voice in the back of his head told him his father could wait another fifteen minutes, but the guilt of their argument drew him out of those thoughts.
‘You know, if you wanted to come by later—’
‘I have to work late. And I need to get up early the next morning. Trying to get in as many extra hours as possible before it all goes to shit. The word on the street is that we’re all going to get sacked when the Norrmalm merger goes through.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I could promise not to keep you up too late,’ Kjeld said. He smiled. It was genuine. He wouldn’t argue that she was a distraction from a lot of the stressors he was experiencing then, but he did enjoy her company.
She snorted a laugh. ‘I don’t trust that promise.’
‘Tomorrow then? When you get off work?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.
‘I’ll try not to think about it,’ Kjeld replied.
‘You really need to stop being so slick. It’s just going to depress me when you leave again.’
Kjeld sensed she was only half joking. As far as options for a good time went, Varsund was considerably limited. It made him wonder what prevented her from moving to Örebro to be closer to her children, but it wasn’t his place to ask.
‘Well you know where to find me,’ he said, turning towards the living room and the front door.
He was zipping up his coat when Hanna hurried out of the bedroom with something in her hand.
‘Must have fallen out of your pocket,’ she said, holding out the photograph of his mother at the Christmas party.
Kjeld took it from her and nodded. ‘Thanks.’
‘She’s a looker.’ Hanna grinned.
‘She’s my mother.’
‘Explains where you got your good looks from.’ Hanna leaned closer to his arm to get a better look at the photo. ‘God, Erik always looked like a zombie.’
Kjeld blinked. ‘Erik Norberg? You know this man?’
‘Sometimes I wish I didn’t,’ Hanna said. ‘Nothing against him really, but that guy has the creepiest eyes. I feel like they just follow you around the room. But he’s nice. Kind of stuffy, but you know how lawyers are. Roland looks good though. I mean, damn. He’s in good shape for a man his age, but in this photo? I’d be eyeing him up, too.’
‘Who?’
‘Roland Lindqvist. The man your mother is giving the googly eyes to.’
Kjeld brought the photo closer to his face. Sure enough it did look like his mother was smiling at the man on the other side of her. Not the tall one giving her the friendly hug, but the slightly shorter man with the smug grin.<
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‘Wait. How do you know these people?’ Kjeld asked.
Hanna tilted her head to the side and looked at him as if to say, “are you serious?” ‘Because I’ve been working for them since I quit college and came back to Varsund.’
She pointed to Roland Lindqvist. ‘He’s my boss.’ Then she pointed to the man with his arm around Kjeld’s mother. ‘And that’s his brother, Peter.’
Kjeld frowned. He felt like there was a piece to the puzzle he still wasn’t quite seeing. ‘And where is this?’
‘Well, that’s easy. The Norrmalm company Christmas party. They have it every year. Still do. The speeches are boring as hell but they serve the best champagne. It’s when they pass out the employee bonuses. But they definitely scrimped last year. I didn’t get as much as I did two years ago.’
N.M. Norrmalm Industries. Of course. The largest mining company in the area. Not to mention the place that employed most of Varsund and ensured its continued existence. Without Norrmalm, Varsund would be another deserted mining town, leaving its residents to seek employment in either the timber industry or one of the nearby paper mills. Kjeld couldn’t believe he didn’t put those initials together sooner. Still, he didn’t know why his mother would be at one of their Christmas parties. Then he recalled the photo of his father during his military service with the other man. The man with his arm around his mother’s shoulders at the Christmas party. Peter Lindqvist.
‘And Peter Lindqvist – he’s still in town?’ Kjeld asked.
‘No, not exactly. He took a break from the company a few years back. I think it was due to stress or his health. I can’t really remember all that much about it except that it seemed kind of sudden. Then again, I’m sure his family knew what he was planning. After he left it was his brother, Roland, who took over.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
Hanna brushed a chunk of curly hair away from her face. ‘Years. Probably on his last day when he stopped by the office to say goodbye to Roland.’
‘Where did he go?’
Hanna gave a nervous laugh. ‘What’s with the interrogation, Kjeld? You think the Lindqvists had something to do with what we found in your dad’s barn?’
Kjeld didn’t know what he thought. He was grasping for straws. But when he thought about that photograph of his father and Peter as young men he felt like he was missing something important. ‘I feel like there’s a connection I’m not seeing.’
‘Look, the Lindqvists are just your typical ridiculously wealthy and slightly overbearing family. Is Roland hard to get along with sometimes? Of course. And everyone knows his kids are selfish twits. But I can’t imagine that they’d be involved in a murder. And I’m certain someone knows where Peter is. He’s probably enjoying his retirement on a beach somewhere. Greece or maybe one of those islands in the Caribbean where rich people fly to in their private jets.’
‘You’re probably right. After all, if Peter Lindqvist were missing then someone would be looking for him.’
People didn’t just ignore the disappearance of someone important.
‘What about this man here in the back?’ Kjeld asked. It was a figure that Kjeld hadn’t noticed the first time he’d looked at the image. Initially he’d thought Norberg looked the most unrefined, but on closer examination the man on the far right, directly behind Norberg, appeared even more out of place. He wore a shabbier suit coat, which stood out against the smart dinner jackets of the other men.
Hanna frowned. ‘You know, this is going to sound really strange, but that looks like the Bear.’
‘The Drunken Bear? Valle Dahl?’
‘Yes! The man who used to sit outside of the supermarket looking for handouts. It’s difficult to say though without the beard. And he looks really young here. But you see that mark on his forehead?’
‘I thought that was a smudge in the photograph.’
Hanna shook her head. ‘The Bear has a big purple birthmark on his forehead in the shape of a bear. That’s how he got his nickname.’
Kjeld brought the picture closer to his face. Sure enough, Hanna was right. It was a mark on his face. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen that earlier.
‘Did she work for Norrmalm?’ Hanna asked. ‘Your mother?’
‘No. She didn’t.’
‘Your dad?’
‘He worked for the National Forest Agency. I can’t for the life of me figure out what she would be doing with these people. They were exactly the kind of crowd I remember my parents avoiding.’
‘Well, she must have been someone special. I’ve never known the Lindqvists to invite just anyone to their business parties. They must have been close.’
Chapter 23
Kjeld arrived at home, expecting to find the place in disarray and his father unmanageable. Instead he found him sitting in his reading chair, lucid and calm, incognisant of the fact that Kjeld had been gone at all. His father had even managed to make himself breakfast and was quick to point out that Kjeld had forgotten to pick up the groceries. Kjeld was almost offended. When he tried to ask his father about his relationship to the people in the photograph, however, his father grew irritable and tight-lipped. And when Kjeld mentioned the silver Mercedes behind his great-grandfather’s hunting cabin, his father absolutely refused to speak at all. He wasn’t going to get any answers this way. He needed to find a more reliable source. He needed to talk to Roland Lindqvist.
From the outside, the offices of Norrmalm Industries weren’t much to look at. The front face of the building was made from old limestone and shale that had turned yellow with age and jutted out between the discoloured mortar.
A modern addition was attached on the western side of the building, beyond which Kjeld could catch a glimpse of the retired steel conveyors and ventilation flue from the original mining plant. It had been out of service since the late Nineties when Norrmalm converted the old building to their corporate headquarters and relocated the plant to the northern end of the Kommun. Kjeld vaguely recalled a community uproar from local miners who hadn’t been pleased with the fact that they would have to leave their homes earlier to account for the longer travelling time. He supposed, however, that the need for a paycheque outweighed the inconvenience. After all, the further north one went, the fewer options there were for work.
The interior of the building was more streamlined and metropolitan than Kjeld anticipated. In place of that earthy scent of rock and dust, which he’d come to associate with Varsund, was the unnaturally sterile odour of industrial cleaning supplies and modern fixtures. Austere like a financial institution. The sleek rectangular design, inconsistent with the untamed woodland around it, belied Kjeld’s perception of what belonged in Varsund. This was too contemporary and fresh for the town he remembered. It gave him the same disquieting sensation of displacement that he had whenever he attended a formal event. This was a company built on the backs of sweaty, dirt-stained labourers, and Kjeld felt underdressed in his jeans and lace-up work boots.
After checking in at the visitors’ desk, he was directed to sit in a waiting room decorated with black-and-white photographs detailing Norrmalm’s progression from its seemingly low-brow roots in the late 1800s to the operational giant it was today. Almost thirty minutes passed before a young receptionist led him wordlessly to the elevator and then down a long corridor to a corner office.
The name on the office door, however, did not belong to Roland Lindqvist.
The receptionist knocked and slowly pushed the door open. The man on the other side was on the phone and held up a waiting finger to her and Kjeld.
David Lindqvist was a striking man. His hair was a light, almost icy shade of blond that was perfectly parted on the right. His skin had a warm, tanned glow of someone who had just returned from a tropical vacation, but without that red undertone that came with being subjected to direct sunlight. Kjeld assumed the man got his vitamin D from a salon or a bottle, although the evenness of the colouring seemed to discredit the latter. His eyes we
re a soft shade of green and he had one of those faces common to men’s fashion magazines. Square jaw, high cheekbones, and a nose that looked as though it had been carved by a sculptor in the Italian Renaissance. He was tall, close to Kjeld’s own height, with the physique of a cyclist. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him spending his mornings on a Peloton bike. Overall, he was immaculate. Pristine in appearance from the cut of his suit to the gleam in his shoes.
Kjeld sensed almost immediately that he wasn’t going to like this man.
‘Do you know what day it is? I don’t have time to go over this with you again,’ David said to the caller. ‘I don’t care about fluctuating market returns and quarterly goals. I just want to be notified the minute my father gets out of his meeting with the MineCorp representative.’
He placed his hand over the speaker and shot a glare at both Kjeld and the receptionist. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Herr Lindqvist,’ the receptionist said. ‘But this man is here from the police.’
David stared at Kjeld before returning to his call. ‘I’ll get back to you later. Keep me updated.’
He rang off and dropped his mobile on the desk. ‘I assume you have some identification?’
Kjeld took his formal police card and badge out of his back pocket and held it up for the other man.
‘Nygaard,’ David read off the card, purposefully elongating the second syllable more than was necessary. ‘Danish?’
‘A few generations back,’ Kjeld replied.
‘Gothenburg? You’re a long way from home, Inspector.’
‘I was hoping to speak with Roland or Peter Lindqvist.’
‘Roland is in a meeting and Peter is indisposed,’ David replied. ‘But I’m a Lindqvist. Perhaps I can help?’
There was something about the way David referred to himself as a Lindqvist that bothered Kjeld. Still, he kept his cool, as he should have done during his meeting with Gunnar, and held out the old photograph of the Norrmalm Christmas party.
David looked at it, his lips pursing into an agitated grimace. Then he nodded before turning his attention to the receptionist. ‘Thank you, Lena. That’ll be all.’