Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  “So hunting is your main hobby?”

  “I guess so, but I spend a lot of time training, too. Mainly boxing.”

  A smile played around the corners of Olle’s mouth. “I know, I googled you. Nordic light welterweight champion. I’d better behave myself.”

  “If you know what’s good for you,” Embla replied in her deepest voice.

  Olle laughed and glanced at her. “That’s when I understood what Göran Krantz meant when he said I hadn’t realized how dangerous it could have been when I . . . drew my gun on you.” He sounded uncomfortable. “You could easily have disarmed me, couldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  She had no intention of telling him how close she’d come to directing a roundhouse kick at his wrist.

  He swallowed hard. “I’d like to apologize for that. It was dumb. But I was kind of shaken up, and you didn’t have any ID . . .”

  It was nice of him to say sorry.

  “I can understand that. It’s forgotten,” she assured him with a smile.

  They sat in companionable silence for a while, then he asked: “Do you compete much?”

  She hesitated before answering, even though it was a perfectly reasonable question.

  “I suffered a concussion back in the fall, and now I’m not allowed to compete. The doctors say the risk of permanent brain damage is too great. But I train as much as I can, and I can’t help hoping that one day I’ll fully recover and be able to start competing again.”

  She had no intention of going into detail about the incident that had cost her so much almost six months ago. The truth was that she still suffered occasional headaches and bouts of dizziness, especially if she was tired and stressed.

  Olle pulled in front of a gray two-story property with white eaves and window frames and parked the car. Together they walked up to the dark-blue front door and rang the bell. They heard the sound of running footsteps, and the door was opened by a boy around the age of eight.

  “Can I sit in your car?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid not. That’s only allowed when we visit schools to give talks,” Olle explained.

  Disappointment was written all over the child’s face.

  “Pigs!” he yelled and ran back into the house.

  “Don’t say that, darling,” a female voice remonstrated gently. High heels came tip-tapping across the floor, and Mikaela’s mother held out a hand with long scarlet nails; diamond rings sparkled on several fingers. Embla and Olle introduced themselves.

  “Siri Malm.” Her bright red lipstick emphasized the whiteness of her teeth. She was tall and slim, probably in her early forties, but she was trying hard—not without success—to look ten years younger. Her black dress clung to her slim figure and ended just above the knee. She was also wearing a short cream wool jacket. Her makeup was impeccable, and her thick, shiny bleached-blonde hair was beautifully cut and styled. No comfortable slippers for Siri Malm, but black pumps with a low heel. The way she moved suggested that she might have been a model.

  “Come on in. I guess you’re here to speak to Mikaela. She’s sleeping at the moment, but it’s time I woke her. Would you like coffee? There’s a pot already made,” she said with a warm smile.

  The smile was directed only at Olle; Embla might as well have been invisible.

  In order to make her presence known, Embla quickly said: “No thanks, we’ve just had lunch.” It came out a little more brusquely than she’d intended.

  Siri Malm’s eyes flicked toward her for a second, as if she’d heard something but wasn’t quite sure what it was and didn’t really care. Then she turned the full beam of her smile on Olle once more.

  “I can offer you fresh pastries, too.”

  Somehow she made it sound like a sexual proposition.

  If he accepts I’m going outside, Embla thought. This woman was a parody of the classic vamp. Was it deliberate, or did she just need affirmation from every man who crossed her path? Embla had to admit that Olle was good-looking, but he was at least fifteen years younger than Siri, who was now giving him a teasing look from beneath lowered eyelashes.

  “Thank you, but no,” Olle said. “We’d like to speak to Mikaela now, and of course you’re welcome to sit in, as she’s underage.” He didn’t respond in any way to Siri’s body language; he didn’t glance at her décolletage or give the slightest wink to show that he was interested. Embla let out a long breath.

  “Please take a seat,” Siri said.

  They each chose a gray leather armchair. Between them and a dark-gray sectional sofa there was an oval glass coffee table with a vase of drooping white tulips. A wool rug in gray, white, and red provided the only pop of color in the room. There was an enormous home theater screen on the wall opposite the sofa, with tall speakers on either side. A corner bookcase contained a surprising number of books, and photographs of the children at different ages were displayed on one wall.

  Embla turned her head at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Mikaela was neither as tall nor as slim as her mother. To Embla’s surprise, she was wearing makeup. Hadn’t Siri said she was sleeping? She wore her thick blonde hair loose; it almost reached her waist. She reminded Embla of the pictures in a book of fairy tales illustrated by John Bauer that she’d had when she was a child. The princesses had had beautiful hair, just like Mikaela. Embla, too, had had long, thick, curly hair, but none of the lovely heroines had ever had her bright chestnut-red color. One of the little trolls, maybe.

  The girl also had long nails, but hers were painted black. She was wearing tight jeans, a black scoop-neck T-shirt, and a gray hoodie. Embla could see a tattoo of a red rose just above the neckline of the T-shirt, along with the upper part of a red heart. On her feet she wore neon-pink fluffy socks. She slumped down on the sofa and looked morosely at the two police officers.

  “Hi, Mikaela. My name’s Olle Tillman, and this is my colleague Embla Nyström.” Olle held out his hand, but Mikaela didn’t seem to see it; her eyes filled with tears.

  “Do we have to talk about . . . Robin?” she whispered in a shaky voice.

  “Only as much as you feel up to,” Olle reassured her with an encouraging smile.

  Mikaela leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling. She rubbed her index finger gently under each eye; when she sat up and focused on him, her mascara was still perfect.

  “Could you tell us what happened at the party on Friday?” Olle began.

  She nodded, her expression filled with sorrow, then sighed deeply. “I mean . . . it’s all so terrible. I just want to, like, forget the whole thing. We got there shortly after eight and everyone had already started eating. There was, like, a taco buffet. It was nice, but these old guys kept giving speeches. It was some kind of anniversary, I think. Me and Robin sat together.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but weren’t he and Ida together?” Olle interjected.

  Something glinted in Mikaela’s eyes. Only when she began speaking again did Embla realize what she’d seen: contempt.

  “He dumped her a week ago, but she refused to accept it. She was furious when he ignored her. She’s such a fucking loser!”

  Olle ignored her scornful tone.

  “So you and Robin were together before the party?”

  “Yes. Not many people knew about it, but it became clear during the evening. We made it pretty obvious, if you know what I mean. And when the music started, we danced together and had a great time while Ida was in a corner sulking.”

  She made no attempt to hide her smug satisfaction.

  “So she didn’t take it well, the fact that Robin had dumped her?”

  “Nope! She was really upset! And then that idiot Anton came along and tried to persuade her to go to Gothenburg with him. Let’s go to Gothenburg. What a waste of space. Anyway, she went in the end—she probably thought Robin would be jealous because Anton�
��s got a cool car.”

  “A red Toyota,” Olle said.

  “Yes—his dad bought it for him when he turned eighteen, but it doesn’t make anyone like Anton. Not even Ida.”

  The thin smile Mikaela unexpectedly directed at Embla sent an icy shiver down Embla’s spine as her own memories from school rose to the surface.

  “Did Robin hear Anton ask her to leave with him?”

  “Oh yes—we just laughed at them! Robin couldn’t have cared less. He even waved to them when they left. Like, bye-bye, losers!”

  The smile still lingered on her lips and in her tone of voice.

  “So this was before he went outside to pee,” Olle said, managing to look genuinely interested.

  “Yes, at least a quarter of an hour before.”

  “So they left before Robin was stabbed,” Olle stated calmly.

  To Embla’s great satisfaction, that wiped the smile off Mikaela’s face. The girl was smart enough to realize that she’d just provided Ida and Anton with an alibi.

  Without giving the slightest hint that he’d noticed her reaction, Olle continued. “So what time did Robin go outside?”

  “I’m not sure . . . after twelve. I know that because the DJ made everyone give a cheer for Herremarks indoor bandy club at the stroke of midnight. It was maybe fifteen minutes after that, maybe a little more, when Robin said he was going . . .”

  She fell silent and stared into space, then suddenly she buried her face in her hands and cried out, “That was the last time I saw him!”

  Siri placed a protective arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “This is very difficult for Mikaela,” she said quietly.

  Olle nodded sympathetically. “I understand that. I think she’s been very strong.”

  Embla was impressed. This guy has potential. Her intention was to stay in the background. This was Olle’s investigation, not hers.

  Without removing her hands from her face, Mikaela said in a trembling voice, “After about ten minutes I got worried, so I went outside to look for him. It was such a shock . . . I tripped over him!” She slowly lowered her hands and gazed at Olle, her eyes brimming with tears. “I screamed . . . I just remember screaming. I ran inside to get some help.”

  “Do you remember if you saw anything suspicious? Anyone behaving strangely, that kind of thing?”

  “No, I . . . I’m not sure.”

  Olle kept his gaze fixed on her, wondering whether he ought to rephrase the question. Embla understood perfectly; right now they were talking to the person who was most likely to have seen the killer.

  “Was anyone near Robin when you found him?”

  “I don’t remember—” She broke off and looked him straight in the eye. “Yes, there was someone . . . near the barn, over by the wall. I didn’t look, because I assumed one of the boys was peeing.”

  “Any idea who it was?”

  She shook her head.

  “What happened next?” Olle asked after a brief silence.

  Mikaela’s eyes filled with tears again. “I just remember screaming. Some people came running out from the kitchen, then I ran inside. I wasn’t thinking, I was just like screaming. Suddenly there were people everywhere, it was chaos.”

  She rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. The neckline of her T-shirt slipped to the side, revealing the tattoos of the red rose and the heart. There were two large Ms between them, one upside down. Embla had only three small tattoos and was no expert, but she thought Mikaela’s were amateurish and clumsily executed. The upside-down M in particular looked crooked. It was a shame on such a young girl, and it would be difficult if she changed her mind and wanted it removed, because it was quite big.

  Olle changed tack.

  “How did you get home?”

  “One of the trainers, Petter Lewinsson, was really kind. He drove several of us home.”

  “I’ve already thanked Petter; it was so good of him. I had some of the neighbors over, and we’d had wine with dinner, so none of us could drive,” Siri explained.

  “It was like a farewell party. We’re moving to Åmål,” Mikaela said, sounding much more cheerful.

  Siri smiled and stroked her daughter’s hair. “I’ve got a new job, starting at the beginning of next month.”

  Olle smiled. “Congratulations. May I ask what the job is?”

  Both he and Embla were trying not to show how curious they were.

  “Chair of the Dalsland community council. I chair the local council up here at the moment, so my jurisdiction will increase significantly.”

  Embla wasn’t surprised, but now it was time to ask the question that was her reason for being here. With what she hoped was a sympathetic smile, she leaned toward Mikaela. “Do you remember seeing anything when you were on your way home from the Lodge? A car you didn’t recognize, or a person wandering along the road?”

  Mikaela thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, everything was just chaotic. And it had started snowing. I couldn’t see a thing.”

  “Talk about a drama queen!” Olle said with a laugh. Embla managed a somewhat strained smile in return; she had no intention of telling him she’d gone to drama school in Gothenburg. The sound of her phone ringing made them both jump. She checked the display.

  “Hi, Göran.”

  “Hi—any luck?”

  “Not really—no one seems to have seen anything.”

  “I haven’t got much to report either. Of course it’s Sunday today; the Audi will be examined tomorrow. I have meetings all morning, then I’m conducting interviews after lunch, until about three. After that I’d like you to come with me to take a look at Milo’s and Luca’s apartments. We’re short-staffed—no one else can get there before Wednesday at the earliest.”

  “That suits me fine. I’ve promised to interview someone in Nuntorp just outside Brålanda tomorrow, so I can do that on my way down.”

  She smiled at Olle, who gave her the thumbs-up.

  “I’ve been in touch with the chief of police in Split; he’s going to update me on Kador Stavic’s disappearance,” Göran said.

  “Do you know anything else about his family?”

  “No, but I’m sure my Croatian colleague will be able to help with that.”

  “In that case I’ll see you about three o’clock.”

  “Excellent—we’ll have time for coffee before we leave.”

  Embla and Olle managed to track down Petter Lewinsson in the afternoon. He was nineteen, and explained that he was taking a year off before starting a teacher training course in Gothenburg. He played for the Herremark indoor bandy club and trained the junior girls, from ages thirteen to sixteen. He was also a member of the Swedish Christian Missionary Society and was a teetotaler. It would have been hard to find a more reliable witness to the events of Friday night.

  Like most of the others, he’d been on the dance floor when Mikaela started screaming. Because the music was so loud, he hadn’t heard her until she came rushing in. She was completely hysterical, and it took a while before he realized someone was badly hurt.

  He and his girlfriend, Malin, ran outside. It was dark behind the Lodge because the external light was broken. They could just make out Robin lying on the ground; he was in the fetal position with his hands pressed to his belly. Before Petter and Malin reached him, they saw Wille Andersson and a boy named Gustav trying to turn him onto his back. Malin shouted to them not to touch him. She was in her final year of nursing school and knew quite a bit about first aid and dealing with emergencies.

  Wille, who was clearly drunk, had insisted on administering CPR, and had started pressing down on Robin’s bloodstained chest. Malin had yelled at him to stop. Gustav had struggled to his feet at that point, but Wille had continued his violent attempt at resuscitation.

  Together Petter and Malin had dragged Wille away, then Wille and G
ustav had staggered off toward the open kitchen door. As the light spilling out from the kitchen was the only source of illumination in the yard, it was hard to see exactly how Robin was.

  “We checked for a pulse, but I couldn’t find anything. Malin said she thought there was a flutter in the carotid artery, but I’m not sure . . .” He fell silent and swallowed hard.

  “Was it you who called an ambulance and the police?” Olle asked.

  Petter shook his head. “No, that was Malin. While we were waiting we covered Robin with a curtain and a tarp that someone found. We didn’t dare move him . . . He was bleeding so heavily.”

  “Did he regain consciousness at all?”

  “No. He was completely out of it.”

  It was clear that Petter had been deeply affected by the experience. He and his girlfriend had done everything they could.

  “Did you notice anything strange? I mean, before and after you found Robin,” Olle clarified.

  Petter pursed his lips before answering. “To be honest, most of the people who were there were behaving strangely. A lot of them were very drunk, like Wille and Gustav. That wasn’t the kind of party we’d had in mind; it all got completely out of hand.”

  The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Okay, but has anything occurred to you since? Something someone said, someone acting out of character?”

  Once again Petter shook his head.

  “Things were pretty chaotic. The ambulance came and took Robin away, then the police arrived. They made a note of names and addresses, asked a few questions, then we were allowed to leave. Mikaela and Malin were already waiting in my car. They wanted to go home; Mikaela was beside herself. Then Wille and Gustav insisted on squeezing themselves in, too.”

  “You must have been covered in blood, all of you,” Olle said.

  “Yes, although Wille was the worst—he’d spent quite some time kneading Robin’s chest. Fortunately Malin had spread a blanket over the backseat to protect the upholstery.”