Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

“No—not until they’ve left.”

  “And Jan Müller had booked for one night?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the cottage would have been cleaned yesterday?”

  “No. On weekends our cleaners come on the Sunday, which is when most people check out. No one was scheduled to check in to Müller’s cottage right away, so it was on the list for today.”

  “Had he paid the full amount in advance?”

  “Yes—accommodation for one night, plus dinner on Friday and breakfast on Saturday.”

  It was pure luck that Milo Stavic had requested an early breakfast and stressed that he wanted to eat at seven. The murderer wouldn’t have expected the body to be discovered so soon.

  She saw that Göran had claimed the same table they’d sat at yesterday evening. He was absorbed in something on his laptop. On her way over, Embla helped herself to a glass of orange juice, a cup of tea, a bowl of porridge, and cheese and tomato on crispbread from the buffet. As usual Göran gave her breakfast a disapproving glance. He had gone for several slices of toast with apricot jelly, warm croissants with a generous dollop of Nutella, plus a pot of coffee. He was drinking the coffee from a large cup, having added four sugar cubes. The perfect start to the day, according to the superintendent.

  “Morning! Good news—I just heard that Milo’s Audi is on its way to the lab. I’ve also found out that he picked up both cars only ten days ago. And according to the national vehicle register, he still owns the Mercedes we saw back in the fall. He bought it in June last year, so it’s not even a year old.”

  He paused to attack his toast and have a mouthful of the sweet coffee. Embla nodded and made a start on her porridge; she was hungry.

  Strengthened by the fast carbs, Göran continued. “I’m driving down to Gothenburg as soon as I’ve eaten, but I’d like you to stay on for a while, check if anyone saw anything on Friday night. Not a single witness has come forward. The press said a man was found shot dead up here, but we’ve managed to keep his real identity quiet. The media circus hasn’t arrived yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

  He grimaced; Embla knew everything would kick off as soon as Milo Stavic’s name was released.

  After breakfast she decided to take another look at the cottage. The temperature was around three degrees Fahrenheit, but the wind had dropped. She paused on the steps of the guesthouse and gazed at the cabins, dotted across the land leading down to the lake. A pale sun had begun to peek above the horizon, spreading a faint pink glow over the sparkling snow. The phenomenon lasted only a few minutes, but it was beautiful. It was going to be a clear but chilly day. She didn’t mind the cold, as long as the wind and snow stayed away.

  Monika had given her the key to the cottage. Embla didn’t think the CSIs would have missed anything; she just wanted to make sure that she herself hadn’t overlooked something vital. If her trigger-happy colleague hadn’t come stomping in and disturbed her, she might have been more focused.

  Olle Tillman. She needed to contact him, ask if she could sit in on his interviews with the partygoers on his list. She was interested in the results of the door-to-door inquiries currently underway in the area around the Lodge.

  Her phone rang. She pulled off her mittens and reached into her pocket. The display showed only a number, no name.

  “Embla Nyström,” she said warily.

  “Hi, it’s Olle Tillman. The cop from Åmål, if you recall.”

  She could have acidly pointed out that she usually remembered people who’d pointed a gun at her, but instead she simply replied, “Hi. I was just about to call you.”

  “In that case I’m guessing we’re on the same page. I thought you’d like to sit in on my interviews.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be leaving Åmål in a little while; see you at the Lodge in an hour and a half?”

  “Sounds good. But surely it’s only sixty or seventy kilometers? It doesn’t take ninety minutes to cover that distance.”

  “It does if you have a dog. I have to take Tore out first,” he said with a laugh.

  “Okay. See you at the Lodge.”

  A large rectangular hollow in the snow showed where the Audi had been. Embla stared at it for a while, along with tire tracks of the tow truck that had taken it away.

  Why had Milo bought a car like that? It didn’t fit with his lifestyle at all. And neither did renting a cottage in the middle of nowhere, almost two hundred kilometers from Gothenburg. She couldn’t think of any reason why he would come up here. All his business could be done from his exclusive office in the newly built block in Gårda.

  He must have been aware that Kador had gone missing in Croatia, and yet he had left the security of the city, where he was surrounded by his heavies. Apparently his brother’s disappearance hadn’t worried him too much—or else Milo knew where Kador was. Maybe Kador had been forced to go underground and remain hidden; a man like that could easily have several reasons to stay out of the way.

  So Milo had come alone to the cottage in Herremark. Presumably he’d felt safe with his gun for protection. He had a license for the 9mm Beretta M9. Embla knew that a special version of this model, the Beretta 92FS, was used by the US Marine Corps. It was regarded as one of the best handguns around.

  She herself had used only the standard M9 during her training. She was a good shot, but a rifle was her weapon of choice. The police pistol shooting team had tried to persuade her to join, but she just couldn’t fit it into her crowded schedule: a full-time job with a lot of overtime, boxing, hunting, friends and family—including Elliot. However, following the injury she’d sustained during the investigation into the murders of two hunters during the previous year’s moose hunt, doctors had told her she would never be able to box at national level again since the risk of permanent brain damage was too great. So maybe she would take up competitive shooting.

  But now she had to concentrate on Milo’s Beretta M9. Had he been shot with his own gun? If so, then it must have been lying on the nightstand, already loaded, because he’d been killed while he was asleep. After the murder, the perpetrator had placed it beneath his folded hands and taken Milo’s iPhone or iPad or both. And probably the expensive watch Harald had noticed when Milo checked in, but not the ring on Milo’s little finger. According to Linda, the CSI, it would have been difficult to remove. They hadn’t found any house or apartment keys, only car keys. Could this be a simple robbery? No, because Milo’s wallet had been in the inside pocket of his jacket, its contents untouched.

  The strong wind might have dropped, but the odd icy blast lashed her face. Her nose and cheeks were beginning to feel tight. Her feet were freezing. Time to go into the cottage.

  The metallic smell of blood, mixed with that powerful male cologne, struck her as soon as she walked in. The heat hadn’t been turned down; it was still something like seventy degrees indoors. There was no reason to take off her boots; the CSIs were unlikely to return, and the whole place would be thoroughly cleaned over the next few days.

  The outdoor clothes that had been on the rack had disappeared. That was only to be expected; the CSIs would have taken any personal items that might carry traces of DNA. She moved on to the bedroom; the bed linen was also gone. She took a good look around. There were bloodstains on the wall above the headboard, and a pool of rusty-red coagulated blood on the floor; Milo had bled profusely through the hole in the pillow and the mattress. The drawers in the nightstands were empty. The closet doors were open, revealing only a few hangers. The expensive Samsonite cabin suitcase was also gone, removed for forensic examination down in Gothenburg.

  The guest in this cottage had checked out for good.

  So the killer had picked the lock and crept in. It must have been pitch dark. If he was here before the snowstorm began, then maybe the external lighting would have provided a faint glow. However, conditions had quickly deteriorated, and the
snow later covered the window.

  She positioned herself in the middle of the room, closed her eyes, and tried to think like the hunter she was.

  My task is to kill Milo Stavic. Somehow I’ve found out that he’s coming up here alone, to this isolated cottage. A dream scenario, as far as I’m concerned. How do I proceed? Needless to say, I carry out a detailed reconnaissance in advance to familiarize myself with the surroundings. When I return during the night, I have to be able to see in the dark. Night-vision glasses are the natural solution to this problem. I have my own gun with me. I know that Milo will have his Beretta nearby, and I have to allow for the possibility that he will wake up and grab it. When I’ve done what I came to do, I must have a car so that I can make a quick getaway.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the picture of the bird perched on the blossom-laden branch without really seeing it.

  Her brain was working at top speed. How could the killer get into the bedroom without waking Milo? One thing was clear: he must have known that his victim would be heavily under the influence of alcohol. Milo had probably drunk wine with dinner at the guesthouse, in addition to the bottles of red wine and Slivovitz in the cottage. She must remember to check his bill. Maybe he was in the habit of knocking back a fair amount of booze in order to sleep. If the killer was aware of this, did that mean they knew each other? And why had Milo drunk so much when he was intending to get up early the next day? He must have realized he’d have one hell of a hangover.

  She couldn’t get any further; this was just wild speculation.

  She shuddered, suddenly feeling as if Milo were in the room, about to grab her by the throat and hiss: “If you say a word to anyone, you’re dead!”

  Her heart started pounding and panic sank its sharp claws into her breast. Calm down, he’s dead. Dead! Pull yourself together! She forced herself to take deep breaths, but to no avail. Time to move on.

  Fortunately her phone rang at that moment: Olle Tillman.

  “Hi—we’ll be at the Lodge in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Great—see you there.”

  As she ended the call she smiled. He’d said “we”—apparently they would be working with a future police dog today.

  It was a wide-awake and clear-eyed Olle who met her at the party venue, with Tore by his side. The dog was similar to a German shepherd, but slimmer and with longer legs. His fur was reddish brown with black patches, mainly around the head. His entire body was quivering with excitement.

  “Hi. This is Tore,” Olle said, pointing proudly to his companion.

  Embla held out her hand and Tore gave it a good sniff. He allowed her to pat his back gently, then decided that was enough. He took a few steps away from her and turned his back on her. She had been classified as uninteresting. Olle looked slightly embarrassed.

  “Belgian shepherds tend to be a one-man dog. He’s like this with everyone except me.”

  “No problem. At least he’s accepted me; I’d prefer not to be bitten by a colleague in training,” Embla responded with a smile.

  “He thinks you’re okay, otherwise you’d know about it,” Olle said with a wry smile.

  She didn’t doubt that for a second. There was something about Tore’s body language that told her he didn’t miss much. His ears and nose were twitching, and he was constantly moving his head, all his sharp senses on full alert.

  “Do you always bring him to work?”

  “No, my mom or my sister usually have him, but things didn’t work out today. The whole of my sister’s family has come down with the flu, and Mom’s gone to Tenerife with some friends. So Tore is with me, but it’s no problem. He loves being in the car.”

  Tore turned and looked up at his master’s face, as if he realized they were talking about him.

  “Shall we take the squad car, or mine?” Embla asked.

  After a critical glance at the Kia, Olle shook his head.

  “The Volvo—Tore has to be in his cage in the back.”

  They went over to the squad car and he opened the trunk. Embla saw a flash of reddish brown as Tore leaped into his cage. Impressive, she thought.

  Out of sheer habit she moved toward the driver’s side, then remembered and headed for the passenger seat. She usually drove when she was out on a case with VGM, but this was Olle’s investigation and Olle’s car, not hers.

  “Okay, I thought we’d speak to Wille Andersson first, as you suggested,” Olle said. “He was the one who told me it was Robin’s own fault that he’d been stabbed.”

  “Because he was ‘so fucking cocky.’”

  “Yes. And Wille was first on the scene, and he was covered in blood. He has a lot of questions to answer.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “His younger sister, Ida, was at the party, too; Robin had just dumped her. I’d like to have a chat with her as well.”

  They sat in silence for a while, then Embla said, “These interviews are going to take quite some time.”

  Olle glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as he pulled onto the main road. “Yes, but we’ve got reinforcements—two officers from Trollhättan.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “No, but my boss thinks it’s a total waste of time. He’s interviewing the refugees at the residential care home, although I believe there’s something of a language barrier.”

  A contented grin spread across his face. Olle certainly wasn’t fond of his boss, and from the little she’d heard about Chief Inspector Johnzén, she could understand why.

  At the top of the hill lay three newly built wooden houses. The Anderssons’ pale-gray home was the largest. The window frames, eaves, and the front door were painted cornflower blue. On the drive stood a black Renault van that had been cleared of snow. On the sides and back doors, andersson electrical services was printed in large letters. So Embla and Olle knew what Wille and Ida’s father did for a living. Beside the van was the impression of a car that had been pushed forward, then driven away.

  They parked behind the Renault and got out. A curtain fluttered at one of the windows, and Embla caught a glimpse of a pale face.

  They rang the bell, and a long time passed before they heard heavy footsteps and the entire doorway was filled with a huge man. He was about the same height as Olle, but considerably wider. His thin, sandy hair was standing on end, and his red-rimmed eyes suggested that he hadn’t slept well. His red checked shirt and jeans looked as if he’d slept in them. He held on to the door handle with one meaty fist, the other resting on the frame. He might as well have yelled: “No you can’t fucking come in!”

  Olle introduced himself and Embla, then asked to speak to Wille and Ida. The man simply stared at them, without even giving his name. After a few seconds, Olle tried again.

  “Could we come in and have a word with them? We just have one or two questions . . .”

  “No.” The man wasn’t about to move.

  “Can I ask why not?”

  “Wille’s at a friend’s. Ida’s sick.”

  This was a blow, but Olle had no intention of giving up.

  “So where does this friend live?”

  The man gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “Somewhere near Mellerud.”

  “Okay, and what’s his name?”

  Olle was clearly starting to get annoyed. Embla could only admire his calmness in the face of such intransigence.

  “Micke. That’s all I know.”

  “And why has Wille gone to see this friend? I spoke to him myself last night, after Robin was murdered. He knew I was coming.” Olle had stopped trying to hide his irritation.

  “I don’t know anything about that, but the boys usually travel to college together. In Wille’s car.”

  The look he gave Olle was provocative. Andersson clearly thought he had the upper hand in the battle with this upstart young cop.


  “College? What college?” Olle persisted.

  “The agricultural college in Nuntorp.”

  Embla knew where that was, just south of Brålanda. At least eighty kilometers away, maybe more.

  “When will he be home?”

  “Next weekend.”

  A major setback. For the first time Embla spoke up. She turned to Olle and said, “I can take that interview when I go back down to Gothenburg tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  She could hear the relief in Olle’s voice; he hadn’t lost face in front of Andersson.

  “In that case we’d like to speak to Ida,” he said.

  “You can’t,” her father said firmly.

  “Why not?”

  “Like I said, she’s sick. She’s got a temperature.”

  At that moment Embla heard a sound from inside the house. Someone was crying, while another voice spoke softly and reassuringly. Andersson must have heard it, too, because he said, “She’s very upset by what happened. Imagine seeing your boyfriend murdered. Something like that would be hard for anyone to bear, and she’s only sixteen.”

  Embla had the feeling that they’d come close to something he didn’t want to reveal. She adopted a stern expression and her most authoritative tone of voice. “Okay, listen to me. I’m a detective inspector with the Violent Crimes Unit in Gothenburg. I deal mainly with homicide investigations. This is serious. A young man has been stabbed to death. Your children were at the party, and we need to interview them and everyone else who was there. And I mean everyone! It’s essential to give us a clear picture of the course of events. I would find it very strange if your son and daughter didn’t wish to help us solve the murder of their friend Robin.”

  She held his gaze; it was clear that he hadn’t been prepared for the little red-haired girlie to speak up. And in that tone. Detective inspector. Homicide investigations. Fucking hell! He glared back at her, then looked away. Embla saw a flash of fear in his eyes, reinforcing the impression that he was trying to hide something.

  “We’ll be back tomorrow morning at nine o’clock,” she informed him.