Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

“You told us that John and Anton had gone off to fetch something, but obviously John is here. So now we’d like to speak to Anton,” he said firmly.

  Both parents stiffened.

  “He’s not home—honestly he’s not!” Lilian exclaimed. She glanced at her husband. “I thought they’d both gone, but I guess Anton went on his own.”

  John nodded in agreement, his expression grim. They had clearly decided on a united front.

  “Okay, in that case I’ll come back at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, as I said earlier. If Anton isn’t here, he’ll be required to go to the police station in Trollhättan for a formal interview. And if he doesn’t turn up there, I would be suspicious to say the least, and I’ll send a squad car to collect him.”

  John glared at them from beneath his taped eyebrow, and Lilian looked as if she was about to faint, but neither of them said a word.

  “We’ll see ourselves out,” Olle said with a stylish farewell salute. He was good at it; Embla assumed he’d practiced in front of the mirror. Once they reached the hallway she grabbed his arm.

  “Go back to the Toyota and pick up the joint that’s on the floor under the driver’s seat,” she whispered.

  “A joint? So that’s what Tore—”

  “Yes. Do you need to borrow my flashlight?”

  “No, I’ve got one of my own. What are you going to do?”

  “Ask a few questions,” she said quietly, letting go of his arm. He slipped out the door and Embla turned to go back to the kitchen. Lilian appeared in the doorway, and seemed to deflate when she saw that Embla was still there.

  “We’ve decided to optimize tomorrow’s interview with Anton by asking you and John one or two questions now,” Embla informed her in a pleasant tone of voice.

  “Oh . . .” Lilian’s shoulders slumped. Her husband hadn’t moved, but his expression darkened when Embla walked in. Neither of them asked her to take a seat.

  Embla smiled. No response.

  “First of all, do you have any other children?”

  “Only Anton,” John snapped.

  “And how old is he?”

  “Eighteen.”

  Talk about getting blood out of a stone . . . Embla kept her cool. She’d learned a few things during her years at drama school in Gothenburg.

  “What time did he get home after the party?”

  Lilian and John exchanged a glance.

  “We were asleep,” John said, and his wife nodded in agreement.

  “So you have no idea?”

  “No.”

  Now.

  “Whose car is hidden behind the storage shed?”

  John clenched his fist and slammed it down on the table. “That’s none of your fucking business!”

  Embla’s expression changed from pleasant to unmoved.

  “I’m afraid it is. The car will be examined thoroughly because we’ve found drugs in it. It’s now a crime scene and can’t be touched by anyone except the police.”

  Silently Lilian Åkesson fainted and slipped off her chair.

  Before leaving, Embla and Olle checked out the car once more. They took Tore with them, and the dog reacted in exactly the same way as before.

  “There could be more drugs, or he’s still picking up the smell,” Olle said.

  “Okay, let’s cordon it off,” Embla decided. They wound police tape around the section of the vehicle that was visible above the snow.

  “I’ve called the CSIs, but they weren’t sure if they’d make it out here today,” Olle said.

  Embla checked her phone.

  “Before we go for lunch, let’s speak to the woman who heard something.”

  The contrast between the Åkessons’ well-cared-for property and May-Liz Ström’s cottage couldn’t have been greater. Apparently the place was called Solängen—Sunny Meadow—which sounded idyllic, but it was more or less falling apart. Smoke rose from the dilapidated chimney, and there were large snow-free patches on the roof where the heat from the house had leaked out. Long icicles dangled from the eaves. The paint on the window frames and the front door had almost completely flaked off. The road beyond the hedge marking the boundary had been cleared, but no attempt had been made to shovel the snow in the yard. There were plenty of footprints and pawprints, however. An outhouse next to the main building was at the point of collapse and only appeared to be standing because it hadn’t decided which way to fall. Something resembling a dog kennel with a flat roof had been built inside an enclosure beside the outhouse. There was no sign of any dogs out there at the moment, probably due to the cold.

  They didn’t need to knock. As soon as they started trudging across the yard, they heard a chorus of barking coming from inside the house, along with someone instructing the residents to be quiet. Embla decided that Olle could go first, as he was a dog person.

  The barking abated and the door opened. A sturdy woman in her fifties welcomed them with a smile. Two gray-blonde braids hung down beneath her colorful crocheted beret; she was also wearing a pair of worn-out thermal pants and a moth-eaten gray sweater that looked like it had been knitted for a man originally. A pair of thick socks and worn-down wooden clogs completed her outfit.

  “Hello—come on in!” she said warmly.

  “We heard the welcoming committee,” Olle replied, gesturing toward a closed door.

  “Yes, I have to keep them all indoors when it’s this cold,” May-Liz said apologetically. There were obviously several dogs, judging by the scratching and snuffling and yelping.

  The walls were adorned with miniature paintings of birds and flowers. It struck Embla that May-Liz had probably painted the picture of the bird in the bedroom where Milo Stavic had been murdered.

  “What do you breed?” Olle asked.

  “Wire-haired dachshunds. I’ve got four bitches at the moment; Sascha’s due to whelp in two weeks. Would you like one? The pedigree is excellent. The sire is a Swedish and Norwegian champion, and Sascha is a Swedish champion. The hunting lines couldn’t be better.”

  Her round face broke into a smile once more. A proud grandmother boasting about her wonderful grandchildren, Embla thought. Why have I never thought of getting a hunting dog of my own? Because I don’t have time for a dog, she quickly answered her own question. And Nisse has Seppo, who’s outstanding when it comes to tracking game.

  “Thanks, but I already have a dog,” Olle said. Then, before May-Liz could ask the obvious question, he added: “A Belgian shepherd.”

  “Of course, you’re a police officer.” The smile faded slightly, then she said: “Come on in—I’ll make some coffee.”

  Embla didn’t really want to spend any longer than necessary in this cold house with the barking dogs.

  “Thanks, but we’ve just had a cup,” she said quickly before Olle could accept the invitation. He looked a little disappointed, then nodded in agreement.

  “That’s a shame. Come and sit by the fire anyway,” May-Liz insisted, leading the way into a cozy room.

  There was an unmade sofa bed and a kitchen table surrounded by four wooden chairs that didn’t match. On the table was a tray of watercolors, a jar of grayish water, and a small pad with something sketched on it in shades of blue. In the corner nearest the sofa, a fire burned cheerily in an antique iron stove. Below the window, a portable electric heater was working hard; there were no fixed radiators. An old-fashioned TV was perched on top of a rickety table, and the walls were covered with small paintings.

  “It’s hard to keep the place warm when it’s so cold outside,” May-Liz said. “The girls and I usually cuddle up in here.”

  As if the dogs understood that she was talking about them, they started barking again.

  “Do you mind if I let them out? It’s pretty chilly in the bedroom.”

  “Fine by me,” Olle said.

  “Me too,” Embla hasti
ly agreed; she managed to sound more confident than she felt.

  May-Liz opened the door and tried to calm the excited dogs as they poured into the room.

  “There we go, be good now. Say hello nicely. No, Natalia! Bad girl! No growling!”

  Natalia didn’t seem to care what her mistress said, and she carried on growling and glaring at Olle.

  “Oh, I think I know what’s going on here—is your dog male?” May-Liz asked.

  Olle nodded, looking confused.

  “In that case she’s picking up the male smell—she hates males! Both humans and dogs, but the dogs are the biggest problem. It’s impossible to mate her; she either fights or goes off and sulks until they lose interest. I don’t have the heart to get rid of her, though, so she’ll just have to be a companion for the other three.”

  Embla was beginning to get a little tired of all this doggy talk. She cleared her throat discreetly to attract the attention of both her colleague and May-Liz.

  “Could you tell us what you heard or saw in the early hours of Saturday morning?”

  “Oh . . . yes, of course.” May-Liz sighed; clearly the pleasant chat was over. “Natalia had an upset tummy during the evening. When we went outside at some point between twelve-fifteen and twelve-thirty, it must have been the fifth or sixth time since dinner. I took her out on her own because she wasn’t well; the others went crazy, wanting to come with us, so it was kind of noisy. Just as I opened the door I thought I heard a dull thud. It sounded as if . . .”

  She fell silent and thought for a moment.

  “It sounded as if someone had struck a big bass drum. Or . . . no, it was more of a metallic clang. But muffled.”

  Neither Embla nor Olle interrupted her.

  “I stopped on the top step and tried to listen, but I didn’t hear anything else. Then I thought maybe it was my imagination; the girls were making so much noise, and—”

  “Was it this dull metallic thud that you wanted to report?” Embla asked.

  “Yes, I thought it might be important. It was pretty loud. I wondered if it was a crash.”

  The pregnant dog waddled over to her mistress and whimpered. May-Liz bent down and lifted her onto her lap.

  “Where did the sound come from?” Olle asked.

  “From the direction of the field, I’d say. The far field, I mean.”

  “Can you show us?”

  “Of course.”

  May-Liz put down the dog and went over to the window. She scraped off a patch of frost until she’d cleared a space big enough for two people to look through at the same time. She stepped aside and beckoned them over.

  “There you go,” she said with satisfaction.

  They stood close together and peered out.

  The cottage was on a hill, which meant there was an excellent view of the surrounding area. The property boundary was delineated by a low hedge, which was currently covered in snow with just the odd branch sticking out. On the other side of the road lay a huge field, the virgin snow unmarked. It was at least two hundred meters across, and beyond it Embla saw the tall pine trees that showed where the Klevskog nature reserve began. She could also make out Harald’s three cottages; from this distance they looked like tiny Lego houses.

  “I didn’t realize this place was in sight of the cottages,” she said quietly to Olle.

  He turned to May-Liz. “Did it sound as if the dull thud came from those cottages?”

  “No. There’s a field about the same size on the other side of the road leading to the nature reserve. I think that’s where it came from.”

  Both this cottage and Harald’s were on minor roads, but people drove fast on the main road. May-Liz had mentioned the possibility of a crash; a theory came into Embla’s head, and she decided it was worth testing.

  She turned away from the window and smiled at May-Liz.

  “I think we’ve seen all we need to. Thank you so much for getting in touch.” She picked her way through the dogs and made for the door, with Olle right behind her.

  It was pretty chilly inside the car, but before Olle started the engine, he ran a check to see if Anton Åkesson was the registered owner of a vehicle. In seconds he had the answer: Anton owned a 2014 red Toyota Auris.

  “I think we know what happened to the car we found at the Åkessons’ place,” Embla said, raising her eyebrows.

  “I think you’re right.”

  “It’s worth pursuing, anyway. If Anton crashed and called Daddy, then John could have picked up both him and the car. He’s got a tow truck.”

  “And it would explain why they were both behaving so oddly; they didn’t want us to find out about the crash.”

  “Exactly. And Wille and Ida’s father had a strange attitude, too.”

  “To say the least,” Olle agreed.

  “But where’s Anton? Given the amount of blood in the car, we know he was injured. Do you think he might be in a hospital?”

  “We’ll check that out as soon as possible. But I just thought of something else . . .”

  He paused for effect and gave her a sideways glance. “Both airbags had deployed. Anton wasn’t alone.”

  Olle slowed down after they’d passed the turnoff for Klevskog. Blue lights flashing, they crawled along the main road. Embla peered out across the expanse of snow.

  “There!” she shouted.

  Olle stopped the car but left the blue lights on. They got out and began to examine the area that had caught Embla’s attention.

  Two wide parallel tracks left by a heavy vehicle cut across the otherwise smooth surface. Around thirty meters into the field the ground was churned up over a fairly wide area.

  “About twenty centimeters of snow have fallen onto the tracks, so I’d guess they were made at the height of the storm,” Olle said. “Sometime between two and three in the morning.”

  Embla nodded and took out her phone. “Let’s take pictures.”

  Methodically they worked their way along the tracks, the rhythmic clicking of their cell phones the only sound breaking the silence. A pale sun battled to penetrate the cloud cover, and the wind had dropped completely. It was still chilly, but not quite as bitterly cold.

  As they headed back to the car, a Nissan Navara passed them. Embla recognized it because her hunting companion Tobias had one. It slowed down, and they could just make out two people watching them through the tinted windows. Before they were close enough to see who it might be or to make a note of the registration number, the driver put his foot down and sped away.

  Embla and Olle got back in the car.

  “So now John Åkesson will know we’ve found the spot where the accident took place,” Embla said.

  “Definitely.”

  Olle glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Almost one o’clock. Shall we have lunch before we speak to Robin’s girlfriend, Mikaela Malm?”

  Before they went into the guesthouse restaurant for lunch, Olle took Tore for a long walk. When Harald spotted the dog through the window, he immediately offered to keep him behind the reception desk so that he wouldn’t have to stay in the cold car. The only stipulation was that he had to be tied up, in case any of the guests were frightened of dogs. That was no problem; Olle brought in Tore’s teddy bear blanket from the bottom of his cage and looped his leash around the radiator valve. Harald provided a bowl of water and a dish of chopped-up sausages and vegetables, and Tore was more than happy. He gobbled up the food, had a drink, then settled down on his blanket with a sigh of contentment.

  Embla and Olle enjoyed a Sunday lunch of wild boar cutlets with a potato gratin, followed by chocolate cake and coffee, then headed back to the car. They felt ready to tackle Mikaela Malm now. She was the same age as Ida; they were classmates. According to what Mikaela had said immediately after the murder, Robin Pettersson had dumped Ida to be with her. And also according to Mikae
la, this gave Ida a motive for repeatedly sticking a knife in her ex-boyfriend’s body.

  “The statistics don’t support that theory,” Embla said when they began to discuss the girl they were about to question.

  “Oh?” Olle’s tone made it clear that he wasn’t convinced.

  “Sixteen-year-old girls don’t murder their boyfriends when a relationship ends. They scream and fight and post horrible things on Facebook and other social media, but murder . . . no.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How about teenage boys?”

  “That’s different. Knives are pretty common in acts of violence between older teenage boys, although these days they’re shooting at one another as well, so that’s one of the most common causes of death among men from age sixteen to twenty-five. Girls are killed, too, although that’s unusual, and it tends to be because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thanks to guys like Milo Stavic, there are plenty of illegal guns in circulation.”

  “I’m well aware of that. I saw plenty when I was working in Stockholm,” Olle said with a grimace.

  The comment gave Embla the opportunity to ask a question that had been on her mind.

  “Were you unhappy in Stockholm? Was that why you relocated to Åmål?”

  He didn’t answer immediately; he seemed to be considering his response.

  “It’s a good place in many ways, but it’s tough. And I wanted to be a dog handler. Tore didn’t really like the city, and two posts came up in Dalsland. I never expected to get one of them, but I did. I started in Åmål on January first.”

  “Congratulations on your promotion. As your mother and sister live in Åmål, I’m assuming your roots are here in Dalsland?”

  “That’s right, and my father lives in Mellerud. They divorced a few years ago.”

  He fell silent and Embla decided it was probably time to stop interrogating him. Instead she shared her own story.

  “My uncle Nisse is a retiree. He lost his wife a year or so before he gave up work. It was such a tragedy. He and Aunt Ann-Sofi never had children, but I try to come up as often as I can. We go hunting together; sometimes it’s just the two of us, but we also hunt with other members of the club.”