Where Ravens Roost

by Karin Nordin

  ‘Anything for money, you say?’

  Hanna grabbed a scarf from the coat rack near the door and wrapped it around her neck. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Sounds like a motive.’

  ‘For selling the company?’

  ‘For murder.’

  Chapter 37

  The cellar steps creaked beneath his footsteps. Kjeld ducked his head to avoid hitting the lightbulb that dangled above the stairs and made his way down to the cold dank room below.

  He immediately went back to the box labelled N.M. Miscellaneous, which still sat partially opened on the shelf beside his mother’s vinyl collection. Inside the box Kjeld found much of what he remembered seeing a few days prior. Invoices, half-faded documents that were barely legible, empty folders. It was as though someone had reused the box without changing the writing on the side. There was nothing in the box’s contents that gave Kjeld any indication that either of his parents had a connection to the mining company. Perhaps they had just been friends with the Lindqvists. Nothing more. His father knew Peter from the service, after all. It was possible that they’d stayed in touch afterwards. It wasn’t like Varsund was that big a town. Everyone knew everyone.

  And everyone was supposed to know everyone’s business, too. So why didn’t Kjeld know? Why didn’t Sara? What was his father keeping from him? What didn’t he see?

  He felt stuck. He’d hit a wall as far as this investigation was concerned. If only he could have managed to speak with Roland Lindqvist or gotten more information out of his trip to Norrmalm. If only his father could remember what had happened. If only he’d never decided to drive out to Varsund and dig up a past that had caused him nothing but misery.

  Kjeld tossed the box back on the shelf and shoved it up against the wall. Damn his father. Damn his dementia. And damn himself for ever thinking that he could ever find a reason to explain why his father despised him or why his mother had to die before her time or why someone had buried the body of Peter Lindqvist in his family’s barn.

  He clenched his fist and punched the side of the box in the space between the M and Miscellaneous. The clinking sound of something metal falling out from the worn edges of the box and hitting the concrete floor subsided his anger.

  Kjeld crouched down and peered underneath the shelves. Against the wall was a shiny gleam. He reached under the shelf, decades-old cobwebs tickling at his fingers, until he felt the object.

  A key.

  The key was small, too flimsy for a door, not unlike the kind used for bicycle locks. Attached to the key was a looped piece of thin braided leather as though it had once been worn like a necklace. The number 026 was engraved on a circular piece of metal, like a tag, clipped to the braid. Kjeld had seen one of those before, but not for years. It was a safety deposit box key.

  The key itself Kjeld didn’t recognise, but the braid conjured a memory he had of his mother. His mother had a bracelet that looked similar. It, too, had been braided from thin strips of leather. It stuck out clearly in his mind because Sara had wanted one as well and that was when his mother taught her how to make friendship bracelets. Sara must have made dozens over the course of that week, leaving them all over the house. His father hadn’t been happy about the mess.

  Did this key belong to his mother? As much as Kjeld felt like she wouldn’t have need for one, he couldn’t help but feel like this key, like the photographs in the tackle box, was hers. But if so, why were they hidden, stuffed away in a box left to moulder and rust in the damp cellar? Why would she need a safety deposit box in the first place? His father had a safe in his bedroom where all of the important family documents were kept. If this box belonged to his mother, then what was she keeping in it?

  What could she possibly have to hide?

  There was only one bank in Varsund and it had been there since the town’s conception. Norrmalm aside, the bank was the only business that had never gone out of business. And if this key matched one of the deposit boxes at the bank, it wouldn’t be difficult to find out.

  And if Kjeld got lucky with this discovery, perhaps he’d never have to go into town again.

  Chapter 38

  ‘Technically I shouldn’t be sharing any of this information. But since we’ve received confirmation from the dental analysis, it’s in our best interests to work together to find out what happened to your brother,’ Gunnar said, pouring himself another glass from the whisky decanter in Roland’s office.

  As far as he was concerned, that was the best thing about being Varsund’s only police inspector. Wining and dining with his so-called betters. Not that Gunnar thought Roland Lindqvist was better than him. Richer than him, sure. But better? Gunnar had earned the respect of the community in the years since he’d taken over from his predecessor. Hell, Varsund actually had a police station now, thanks to him. Well, mostly thanks to the Lindqvists who’d paid for the remodelling of the community centre that allowed for the opportunity to convert some of the unused office space into a police station, but also thanks to Gunnar who did all of the promoting and secured enough votes from local residents to pass the initiative.

  Richer, not better.

  Gunnar took a swig from the glass and smacked his lips together. ‘That’ll do it. That’ll put hair on a man’s chest.’

  He set the glass down and leaned back into the leather chair.

  Roland sat at the large mahogany desk across from him, not drinking. ‘I wouldn’t want you to impede the course of justice. Not by any means. But you have to understand how this news has affected my family. Knowing that someone murdered my brother has caused quite a stir. Not to mention the emotional impact. We’d all feel a lot better if we knew whether we should be worried about anyone coming after the rest of the family.’

  Gunnar nodded, his comb-over bouncing atop his head. ‘Naturally. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.’

  ‘That’s why I had some of my own IT specialists look into the email we received. I’ll share the findings with you, of course. The results were concerning.’

  Gunnar pursed his lips. He didn’t like his competency as an investigator called into question. He’d turned in that information about the emails to forensics days ago, but Varsund didn’t have any technical specialists so the request had been forwarded on to Östersund where it took a back seat to their cases. It wasn’t Gunnar’s fault they were slow to respond.

  ‘Concerning?’

  Roland pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘According to the specialist, the email was sent from my brother’s phone, but it was connected to a cell tower in Varsund Kommun at the time.’

  Gunnar scanned the document, but didn’t actually read it. He was thinking about what Roland said, slowly putting the pieces together.

  ‘Well, we already knew that Peter wasn’t the one to send the message. The coroner’s dating of the—’ Gunnar stopped himself before saying “corpse”. Oftentimes the showy process of sounding professional made him forget the personal aspect of who he was talking to. He cleared his throat. ‘The coroner’s results indicate that the deceased had been in the ground since around the time he went missing. Or, in this case, since he presumably went on his sabbatical.’

  It had been a persistent question on Gunnar’s mind. Why had the Lindqvist family not responded earlier to Peter’s disappearance? Why did they seem so content to believe that the man needed time away from the company? And so much time? Even Gunnar could see that didn’t follow a logical pattern of behaviour. Then again, the Lindqvists weren’t exactly “of the people”. Perhaps in the world of the wealthy and extravagant a person’s desire to disappear and cease all contact was considered a normal routine.

  But he doubted it. He imagined that, like everything, it all came down to money.

  ‘Were they able to track the communication to an IP address? Anything to narrow the location?’

  Roland shook his head. ‘It appears that the messages were delivered and then the mobile was turned off. It hasn’t received or transmitted anyth
ing since the day the emails were sent. My specialists explained to me that the window of time was too small to get a more accurate idea of where the phone was during transmission. Varsund Kommun was the best they could do.’

  ‘Which means the likelihood that the killer is a local just increased.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  Gunnar held up the slip of paper. ‘May I keep this?’

  ‘Of course,’ Roland replied.

  Gunnar folded the document in half lengthwise and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He made it a habit of dressing above his station whenever he called on the Lindqvists. When he called on Roland, mostly. Although there had been a time when he used to exchange handshakes with Peter as well. As Varsund’s number-one public servant, Gunnar inherited the invitation to their annual Christmas parties by default, but he liked to believe it was because the Lindqvists also saw something of merit in him. Perhaps even someone who could one day make the profitable leap to the private sector.

  Gunnar didn’t mind playing the long game.

  ‘There’s something else I’d like to discuss with you before you leave,’ Roland said, interrupting Gunnar’s fantasies.

  Gunnar picked up the whisky glass and took a sip. ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s concerning the Nygaards.’

  ‘The Nygaards?’ Gunnar wasn’t surprised by the mention of his old academy friend’s family name. It was natural that they might come up in conversation as a result of where Peter’s body had been discovered, but there was something in Roland’s voice, strained and perpetually serious, that gave Gunnar the impression that a request was about to follow. A request that may not have been entirely above board with respect to the law.

  ‘Tell me about this Kjeld Nygaard. You know him, don’t you?’

  Gunnar heaved an irritated sigh. ‘Yeah. We knew each other growing up. Did our police training together. He thinks he’s a hotshot. Works in Gothenburg these days.’

  ‘Is he an honourable sort?’ Roland asked.

  ‘That’s a loaded question where Kjeld is concerned. He can be counted on. Dependable. But he’s also something of a loose cannon. You’ve heard about the Kattegat Killer?’

  Roland gave a slow nod, his interest in the conversation piquing.

  ‘Well,’ Gunnar continued, ‘that was Kjeld. Not the killer, obviously. But he was the one who caught him.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s a capable investigator.’

  ‘Except that it was his best friend. A colleague he’s worked with for more than a decade. And he didn’t notice. Didn’t put the pieces together until four people were murdered. Hell, maybe even more. From what I read in Aftonbladet they’re still negotiating to find more bodies.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s the people closest to us that fool us best,’ Roland said, clasping his fingers together near his chin.

  ‘There’s a rumour that he didn’t follow protocol when he caught him either. He shot the guy. Almost killed him.’

  ‘Revenge?’

  ‘Or Kjeld was trying to cover up his own involvement.’

  A silence fell between them. Gunnar didn’t actually believe that Kjeld was involved in the Kattegat murders, but he didn’t mind fanning the flames of suspicion. Especially if it made him look better.

  ‘What about his relationship with his father. Good?’

  ‘Rocky, if I recall correctly. Conflicted.’

  ‘I’ve heard that Stenar Nygaard has dementia. Is that correct?’

  ‘The doctor I spoke with did say he was in a later stage of Alzheimer’s. He still has periods of lucidity, but from what I understand it’s progressive.’

  ‘So in the event of a conviction, he wouldn’t serve out a prison sentence?’

  The question took Gunnar off-guard. He hesitated in answering, his mind racing to put together the unspoken pieces of the puzzle while Roland stared him down from across the broad desk. A desk that was probably worth more than a month of his salary. A salary that was a pittance for what he really did for the Varsund community: ensured its safety and longevity.

  He sat forward, adjusting his position on the hard leather cushion of the chair. His sense of discomfort was sudden and difficult to hide.

  ‘If the evidence points to Stenar as the person responsible for Peter’s death, and if the doctors declare that he is incapable of remembering the crime, then no. He wouldn’t serve out a prison sentence. In all likelihood he would be remanded to a state medical facility.’ Gunnar paused. ‘But that’s only if it can be proved beyond a reasonable doubt that he was the culprit.’

  ‘From what I understand, you’ve filed for his arrest,’ Roland said.

  ‘Yes, because there was enough evidence to continue questioning him, if possible. And to further the investigation into other areas of the house and property. But we don’t have enough evidence to charge at this point. There may still be other lines of inquiry.’

  ‘What if there was enough evidence?’

  Gunnar felt his grip on the whisky glass slipping and he quickly finished off the rest of the drink before setting it down with a clink on Roland’s desk. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that it might be beneficial to everyone if Stenar were to be found guilty. He won’t go to prison. His memory is fading so there wouldn’t be any humiliation on his part. And my family could put all of this behind them, quickly and quietly. Without causing any unnecessary stir.’

  Without interrupting the flow of business, Gunnar translated.

  ‘What you’re suggesting isn’t lawful.’

  ‘But you have experience in that.’

  Gunnar frowned, a sour taste building in the back of his throat. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘In breaking the law,’ Roland said. ‘From what I hear, you do it very well.’

  Chapter 39

  Varsund Regional Bank was an old wooden building with a stone foundation. When Kjeld was a young boy it had been painted a dark shade of blue, almost grey, and added a quaint appearance to the tired downtown thoroughfare. Now it was a yellow eyesore and looked more like a kebab shop from the outside than a place one would go to enquire about a loan.

  Hanna had offered to drive Kjeld into town, but he chose to walk. As she was one of the few people who lived close to the town and not out in the hinterlands, like Kjeld’s father, it wasn’t much of a distance to travel on foot. Once she’d driven away, however, he realised his mistake. The temperature had dropped below freezing and he was still wearing the thin autumn jacket he’d brought with him from Gothenburg. But Kjeld didn’t call her to come back. He was too stubborn and she was already late for work.

  The bank didn’t open until ten so Kjeld sat in a small café across the street, drank two cups of mediocre-brewed coffee, ate a pistachio cinnamon roll that he immediately regretted ordering after the first bite, and sent Esme a text to meet him in town as soon as she was up. He’d need her to take him to a garage so he could get a replacement battery for his car. He considered adding a “pretty please” to the text to soften the frustration she was no doubt experiencing after he’d inadvertently left her alone at his father’s house without warning, but knew she wouldn’t fall for it. Instead he sent a second text that consisted of nothing more than an emoji of a cat blowing a kiss.

  Sweet, but shameless.

  Kjeld watched from the window as a bank employee emerged from inside the building and unlocked the main entrance. Then Kjeld finished the rest of his coffee, ignored his urge to pee, and headed back out into the cold.

  A bell jingled over his head as Kjeld entered the bank.

  ‘Good morning,’ the blue-suited man at one of two desks greeted. He stood up and held his hand out to Kjeld. His handshake was firm, but friendly, much like his appearance. He was typical of what Kjeld considered the “young professional”. Clean cut and well groomed. His hair was dark blond, trimmed shorter on the sides than on top, and his suit was tailored to taper towards the waist in order to accentuate what Kjeld imagi
ned to be a well-defined chest beneath his starched shirt. Thin. Probably a runner. Maybe a cyclist. The bank employee smiled, showing off his unnaturally white teeth, and Kjeld knew immediately that he was in the presence of the kind of man who could charm an old lady into an adjustable rate mortgage.

  ‘Morning,’ Kjeld said. ‘I’m here about a safety deposit box.’

  ‘Sure. What size are you looking to rent?’

  Kjeld reached into the pocket of his jeans and removed the key with the thin leather strap. ‘No, I’d like to open one.’

  ‘Of course,’ the bank employee said, smile ever present. ‘What’s the number?’

  Kjeld flipped the key over to look at the faded masking tape. ‘Zero-two-six.’

  ‘And the name?’

  Kjeld faltered in his answer. The bank employee raised a brow expectantly. Kjeld tried to cover his hesitation with a feigned laugh.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kjeld said, dissimulating more awkwardness than he actually possessed. It was a routine that Esme encouraged him to use more often. Better to charm than repel, she would say. ‘This is kind of embarrassing. To tell you the truth, I’ve never opened one of these before. I inherited the key from my parents.’

  The smile slowly began to dissipate from the bank employee’s face. ‘We’re not really authorised to open safety deposit boxes for people who don’t know the name on file.’

  ‘Even with the key?’ Kjeld did his best impression of a pout. He imagined it might have been more successful without his untrimmed beard.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Kjeld sighed, his gaze darting over the man’s desk. Neat. Tidy. Too tidy, really. The only memorable items on the desk were a blue coffee mug with the bank’s insignia on the side, a silver nameplate with the name Sven Larsson, and a framed photo of a Yorkshire terrier.

  People loved to talk about their pets.

  ‘Cute dog,’ Kjeld said.

  Sven’s smile returned, cheeks flushing a shade lighter than his skin before taking on an embarrassed rosy hue. ‘Thanks. She’s a rescue.’