Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  Her voice was shaking and she took a deep breath, her heart racing.

  “Crazy?”

  The male voice behind her was deep, and she didn’t recognize it.

  Embla’s reflexes kicked in. It was part of her DNA now. She spun around, half-crouching, fists clenched and raised in the defensive position, and stepped into the other room.

  The man was tall, his cap almost touching the ceiling. A police uniform cap, she noted. Beneath his bulky jacket she could see a dark-blue sweater, and he was wearing uniform pants. He was about the same age as her, and he was standing in the middle of the room, his right hand resting on his holster.

  She should have been relieved, but instead her fear turned to anger as she straightened up and glared at him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped.

  “I was about to ask you the same question,” he replied calmly. He seemed relaxed, but Embla was aware that every muscle was tensed and ready to act if necessary. As a boxer she was sensitive to her opponent’s body language.

  “Detective Inspector Embla Nyström. I’m with the Violent Crimes Unit in Gothenburg,” she informed him brusquely.

  “Can I see your ID?”

  Fuck! It was in her wallet, which she’d left behind at Nisse’s. She realized she’d also driven over here without her driver’s license.

  “The thing is . . . I’m staying with my uncle for a few days. This morning we had a call from Harald Fäldt, who owns the guesthouse. He’s my uncle’s cousin, and he knew I was visiting. He told us he’d found a body in one of his rental cottages—this one—and he was certain the man had been murdered. He asked me to come over because the local police were busy with another homicide that had taken place last night. In the rush I forgot my wallet. And right now you’re contaminating a crime scene!”

  She pointed an accusatory finger at his great big boots; pools of water were already forming around his feet in the warmth of the cottage. He raised his eyebrows at the plastic bags knotted around her own boots.

  “They work!” she said before he could come out with some smart remark. She was on a roll now. “I know who this man is,” she continued. “His name is Milo Stavic, and he’s one of Gothenburg’s biggest gangster bosses. Which means this investigation falls under the jurisdiction of the Gothenburg police.”

  Once again he raised his eyebrows. “You still haven’t provided any ID.”

  He had a point.

  “As I said, I left my wallet at my uncle’s house.”

  It sounded defensive and not entirely convincing. Desperately she tried to work out how she could confirm her identity.

  Got it!

  “Do you have a cell phone?” she asked.

  He nodded, his face expressionless.

  “Google ‘Embla Nyström.’ Or go on Facebook. You’ll find pictures of me. I’m a boxer. And a cop.”

  He shook his head, but produced a phone from his pocket, keeping an eye on her as he tapped the screen.

  “So there’s a dead guy in the bedroom?” he asked while he waited for the search results.

  “Yes. And he’s been murdered. Shot.” Embla stepped aside and waved her hand. “See for yourself.”

  With the phone in his left hand and his right hand still hovering over his gun, he moved toward the door.

  “Don’t go into the room,” Embla warned him. Much to her surprise, he cooperated. He stood perfectly still, taking in the macabre scene. When he turned to face her, she saw that he was several shades paler.

  “Fucking hell,” he said quietly, with real emotion in every syllable.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said it was crazy.”

  How irritating was this guy? Singling out what she’d said at a crime scene where a murder had been committed!

  “And that’s exactly what it is—crazy. You might expect a gangster like this to be gunned down on the street in Gothenburg or taken out by a sniper near his home or in his top-of-the-line car. You wouldn’t expect to find him in bed in the middle of nowhere,” she pointed out irritably.

  “So what was he doing here?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to call my boss and tell him what’s happened. As I said, this is a case for the Gothenburg police.”

  She thought for a moment; who should she contact? Chief Inspector Tommy Persson in the Violent Crimes Unit was her boss these days, but Göran Krantz had been her boss during her time with the VGM. They’d grown close, and she knew him better than Tommy. Plus Göran was the only person she’d told about the circumstances surrounding Lollo’s disappearance, which meant he was the only one who knew about Milo Stavic’s role in the events of that night.

  She decided to call Göran and reached into her pocket for her phone. Just as she got a hold of it she heard her colleague’s voice again, but this time his tone was sharp and authoritative.

  “Stop right there! Keep your hands out of your pockets!”

  For fuck’s sake, she thought. But when she looked up at him to speak her mind, she saw that he’d drawn his Sig Sauer and was pointing it straight at her. He was certainly fast. She realized it would be best not to make any sudden movements. The whole situation was completely surreal.

  “By the way, I haven’t seen your ID either,” she said.

  “That’s not necessary. I found you at the crime scene with no ID. You claim you’re a police officer, but for all I know you could be the perp.”

  She picked up a slight tremor in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Of course he was shaken; she hadn’t thought of that. She was pretty used to seeing dead bodies during the course of her work with the Violent Crimes Unit, but a young officer outside the big city probably hadn’t encountered many homicide victims, if any.

  In addition to being a skilled boxer, she was also a good Thai boxer. She would easily be able to kick his wrist—hard, if he managed to pull the trigger. The bullet would hit the ceiling, and when the nerve paralysis took over he would inevitably drop the gun. It would be an easy victory, but it wouldn’t do much to improve their already-strained relationship. She decided not to go for the kick.

  “Can we calm things down? If you take a closer look, you’ll see from the color of his skin that he’s been dead for several hours. No murderer is dumb enough to hang around after shooting someone.”

  Slowly she raised her hands above her head.

  “Can you get my phone out of my pocket? I have to call this in. The clock’s ticking, and our perp already has a head start.”

  He hesitated, then took a single long stride toward her, his pistol still drawn. She turned slightly to make it easier for him to reach into her pocket. He grabbed her phone, but before he gave it to her he checked the other pocket.

  “Just tissues,” she said, sniffing demonstratively.

  Without a word he handed her the phone, then to her relief he slipped the gun back in its holster.

  “Okay, so I’m calling Superintendent Göran Krantz. I’ll put him on speakerphone.” She scrolled down her contacts list and selected his name.

  “Hi, Embla,” he answered right away. The familiar voice of her former boss immediately made her feel better.

  “Hi, Göran. Sorry to disturb you on the weekend, but something’s happened up here in Dalsland.”

  “Okay . . . How’s your vacation going?”

  “It’s been fine until now, but my uncle Nisse’s cousin Harald Fäldt called a few hours ago and asked me to come over to Herremark, where he and his wife run the guesthouse.”

  She tried to explain the situation as clearly and concisely as possible. When she said that she was sure the victim was Milo Stavic, she heard a sharp intake of breath from the superintendent, but he didn’t interrupt her. She told him about the two bullet wounds and the pistol carefully placed beneath the folded hands.

&nb
sp; “It has to be a homicide,” Göran agreed.

  When she revealed that her colleague at the scene was so suspicious of her that he’d actually drawn his gun on her, Göran burst out laughing.

  “I guess he didn’t realize how dangerous that could be for him,” he said.

  The young officer had grasped that Embla and the man she was talking to really were detectives, but the superintendent’s comment left him totally bewildered. Embla had no intention of enlightening him. The fact was that her former colleagues with VGM, Göran and Detective Inspector Hampus Stahre, used to tease her and call her their pit bull, particularly in situations where her temper gained the upper hand.

  Before she could come up with a cutting response, Göran continued, “That’s remarkable, given what you’ve told me about Milo Stavic.”

  Embla involuntarily took a deep, ragged breath. With a huge effort, she managed not to look at either the dead man or the living man in the room, instead focusing her attention on a small picture on the wall of a brightly colored bird perched on a branch laden with apple blossoms. Or some other kind of blossoms.

  “It was a shock when I recognized him,” she admitted, fighting to keep her voice steady.

  “I can understand that. And you’re absolutely certain it’s Stavic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. In that case I’ll come up and take a look. I’m in Trollhättan at the moment, but I was intending to go home anyway. Paula’s ex-husband is going to a fiftieth birthday party, so she’s having the kids over here tonight.”

  “Thanks—that makes me feel so much better!”

  “I’ll call the Dalsland area chief of police and outline the situation, then I’ll send some of my CSIs. They can get to work straightaway,” Göran added.

  “And I’ll stay here and secure the cottage.”

  Embla felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and she caught herself smiling when the call was over.

  A discreet cough behind her made her jump. She’d forgotten about the uniformed officer.

  “There’s no need for you to hang around, but give me your name before you leave,” she said.

  He immediately straightened his shoulders and gave her a perfect salute. “Inspector Olle Tillman, Åmål police.”

  “Åmål? So what are you doing here?”

  “Ours is the only station that’s manned on weekends.”

  “So you were called out to the stabbing.”

  “Yes—how do you know about that?”

  “Harald—the relative who contacted me—told me the Åmål police couldn’t get here right away.”

  She jerked her head in the direction of the bed. Olle Tillman automatically glanced at the dead man, but quickly looked away.

  “There are only five of us on duty,” he said, “but two detectives from Trollhättan are coming over later. My boss thought it would be a good idea if I checked out the situation. And what did I find? A total stranger in the same room as the body. She claims to be a cop, but can’t provide any ID. Clearly a person of interest.”

  This was obviously meant as an explanation and an apology for drawing his gun.

  “So you’ve been on duty all night?” Embla said, trying to sound a little more friendly.

  “Yes. My shift started at six yesterday evening.”

  Which meant he’d been working for almost sixteen hours.

  “I really think you ought to go home and—”

  “I’m not going to get any sleep today. We tried to question a number of witnesses during the night, but we didn’t get very far. Most of them were drunk and very shaken up, so we’ll have to try again today. And tomorrow and the next day.”

  “How many witnesses are involved?”

  The answer came with no hesitation. “Sixty-two.”

  “That’s going to take some time,” Embla said.

  “Yes, but the organizers have given me a list of those who were at the party, which helps. We’ll divide up the names among us, and, as I said, we’re expecting two detectives from Trollhättan.”

  Embla looked around the room. “Listen, I think we’d better get out of here before the CSIs arrive. They won’t be happy when they find out we’ve contaminated the crime scene. We’ll have to give a DNA sample, and they’ll want to take our footprints. Well, yours, anyway.”

  She gave his size forty-six boots a meaningful glance. Olle Tillman didn’t seem too concerned. It occurred to Embla that Harald might also have gone into the bedroom; she hadn’t asked him. Hopefully he hadn’t crossed the threshold after seeing the bloodbath in the bed.

  The windows were almost covered by deep snowdrifts. The wind was howling around the cottage, rattling the panes.

  “We can’t go outside,” Olle pointed out.

  “No. We’ll go and sit at the kitchen table and wait for Göran and the CSIs.”

  “Okay.”

  He gave her a grateful look. It had been a long shift. They sat down and undid their jackets; it was pretty warm in spite of the weather outside. Olle took off his cap. His fair hair was unusually long; most male police officers either shaved their heads or had very short hair, partly because it was easy to look after, and partly because it doesn’t give an attacker anything to grab. On the other hand, many of Embla’s coworkers had started cultivating impressive beards, which carried the same risk. She thought Olle was sporting three-day stubble rather than the beginnings of a beard.

  He hid a yawn behind one hand and rubbed his eyes with the other. Maybe tiredness was the main reason why he was in no hurry to rejoin his team.

  “It’ll be a while before Göran gets here,” Embla said. “Tell me about the boy who was murdered—what happened?”

  Olle blinked several times before he began to talk.

  “The local indoor bandy team, Herremarks IBK, had arranged a party to celebrate the club’s twentieth anniversary. We got the call about a stabbing at twelve-forty.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but was it snowing when you got there?”

  “Yes, it had just started to come down when we arrived. There were lots of cars around because most of the kids had contacted parents or friends and asked to be picked up. A lot of them were crying—and very drunk. No one was prepared to talk to us; they probably didn’t want their parents to find out how much they’d had to drink.”

  “But the parents were once teenagers themselves.”

  “Exactly.” Olle smiled again, and this time he seemed more present. He was a good-looking guy, with attractive blue-gray eyes. Embla’s thoughts were interrupted as he continued with his account.

  “. . . a place called the Lodge. It’s a converted barn, and these days it’s used for parties, auctions, and all kinds of things. A boy was stabbed outside the Lodge at around half past midnight. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. It had arrived at five to one; we got there about fifteen minutes later, by which time the ambulance had already gone. As I said, it was snowing, and the wind was blowing hard.”

  “Did the victim say anything?” she asked.

  “Not according to those we’ve questioned so far.”

  “Who was he?”

  “His name is Robin Pettersson. He was eighteen years old and in his final year of high school. According to one of the club leaders, he was the star of the bandy team. Apparently his family moved to Åmål a month ago, and he was due to transfer to another team in Säffle after the party.”

  “Any information on the perpetrator?”

  “Not a thing. No witnesses have come forward—not yet, anyway.”

  Embla thought about what he’d told her, then asked, “How far is it from here to the Lodge?”

  “Two kilometers.”

  Closer than she’d thought, which meant there’d been plenty of cars on the move from about 12:45 until at least 2:00. Someone might h
ave seen a car or a person they didn’t recognize, or noticed something unusual, something that might be connected to the death of Milo Stavic. The snowstorm was a problem because it would have reduced visibility.

  Olle Tillman was looking at her and frowning. “So do you think these two murders are connected?” he asked eventually.

  She didn’t answer right away. “I can’t imagine that an eighteen-year-old boy at the high school in Åmål was stabbed by the same perp who shot Stavic. That seems unlikely.”

  “But you can’t rule it out?”

  Once again, Embla considered her response. “I think I probably can, if we look at the victims. Milo Stavic has been a top-level gangster in Gothenburg for many years. He owns several restaurants, hotels, nightclubs and casinos, which he uses to launder the money he makes from smuggling drugs and arms, human trafficking, prostitution—you name it, he’s into it.”

  Olle nodded. “My boss, Chief Inspector Johnzén—with a z—thought this was just some nutjob who’d decided to end it all. But I guess he was wrong,” he said.

  “He was. My first thought was suicide, too, but this was definitely a homicide. You can’t shoot yourself in the head and the heart, then settle down with your hands neatly folded on your chest. I’m certain the gun was placed there after he was killed.”

  Olle glanced toward the bedroom door; Embla knew he couldn’t see the bed from where he stood.

  “What was a guy like that doing here?” he said.

  “Good question. I have no idea.”

  Embla picked up her phone and called Harald Fäldt, who answered almost immediately.

  “Hi, it’s Embla. Sorry I haven’t been in touch until now, but . . . yes, it’s definitely a homicide . . . I’ve contacted my colleagues in Gothenburg, and they’ll be here at any moment to take over the investigation . . . No, it doesn’t have anything to do with the police in Åmål because the victim is from Gothenburg . . . I recognized him. He’s come up in a couple of my department’s investigations.”

  Harald asked a few more questions, which Embla did her best to answer without giving too much away.

  “You and your colleagues are welcome to come here for lunch when you’re done,” Harald offered.