Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  Embla cleared her throat discreetly. “When you were driving the kids home, did you see anyone? A car or a person that caught your attention?”

  Petter frowned. “I saw lots of cars and lots of people. Some of the kids had called their parents to come and pick them up, and those who had a ride tried to get away as quickly as possible. As I said, it was chaotic.”

  “I understand that. I’m thinking more along the road,” Embla clarified.

  “No, it was snowing. I had my hands full keeping the car under control.”

  Sitting in on Olle’s interviews had proved pointless so far. Nobody seemed to have seen anything that could be linked to Milo’s murder. Let’s hope the others have more luck, if they even remember to ask, Embla thought morosely.

  Wille Andersson’s friend Gustav wasn’t on Olle’s list; one of the officers from Trollhättan was due to contact him the next day. The same applied to Petter’s girlfriend, Malin.

  Olle and Embla spoke to two more girls and a boy during the afternoon. The girls had the same surname and turned out to be fifteen-year-old twins who lived twenty kilometers from the party venue. The interviews were conducted over speakerphone, so the girls’ mother could listen in, as they were minors. She had picked them up just before midnight, so they didn’t have much to contribute, although one twin said she’d seen Ida Andersson crying shortly before they left the Lodge. Anton Åkesson had gone up to her and put his arm around her shoulders, but the girl didn’t know what had happened next.

  The last person on Olle’s list was Kevin Malm, age eighteen. They had to call him as well, because he worked in a diner in Halden. Olle’s first question surprised Embla.

  “Malm—are you related to Mikaela?”

  “We’re cousins. My uncle is Mikaela’s dad, but we don’t see each other very often,” Kevin said warily.

  Olle didn’t pursue that line of inquiry; it had nothing to do with the investigation. Instead he focused on the evening itself. Kevin insisted he’d been on the dance floor, and hadn’t heard or seen anything that had happened behind the Lodge. After Mikaela ran in screaming, he’d stayed where he was. When he found out what had happened, he left as quickly as possible.

  “I got a ride with someone and jumped out when they turned to go to Bengtsfors. Then it started snowing, so I had to walk home in a blizzard, like two or three kilometers. Fortunately I was wearing my padded jacket.”

  “Did you see anyone along the road—a person, or a car?” Olle asked, glancing at Embla.

  Kevin didn’t answer right away; he was obviously thinking back. “There was something, now that you mention it. When I was almost home I heard a truck engine—or maybe a snowplow, something big. It was driving at full speed.”

  “Could it have been a tow truck?”

  A brief silence, then Kevin said, “Yes, it could have been.”

  “How far away was it?”

  “I don’t know. It was pretty faint.”

  “What time was this?”

  There was no hesitation. “Almost two o’clock.”

  Olle thanked Kevin and ended the call. He and Embla looked at each other.

  “So John Åkesson got there fast and picked up the Toyota around two,” Embla said.

  “Looks that way. The question is, where’s his son now?”

  There was only one thing to do.

  “He must have been injured in the crash. We need to call the hospital.”

  “I tried earlier, but couldn’t get a hold of a doctor who was willing to speak to me,” Olle said. “The nurse cited patient confidentiality.”

  “In that case we need to apply for permission—or see if we can persuade his parents to talk.”

  They decided that was enough for one day. It was time to head back to the guesthouse; Tore needed a walk and something to eat, and both Olle and Embla were hungry, too.

  They soon discovered there was no need to worry about Tore’s dinner. He was fast asleep on his blanket; Monika had given him a bowl of meat and vegetables.

  “I think we’re friends for life; he let me stroke him when I picked up the bowl,” Monika said with a smile.

  “I’m not surprised; I’d roll over on my back for a meal like that,” Olle replied.

  At the sound of his master’s voice, Tore woke up. He leaped to his feet, barking happily.

  “You’ll stay for dinner?” Monika said with an inquiring glance at Olle.

  He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before accepting her invitation.

  Tore was already by the door, quivering with anticipation.

  “How long does he need to be out?” Embla asked.

  “No more than half an hour—it’s only about six degrees out there. He doesn’t care, but it’s too cold for me.”

  “In that case I’ll go up to my room—see you back here in half an hour.”

  Immediately Olle straightened his shoulders and executed one of his perfect salutes. He must have practiced in front of the mirror, Embla thought. As the door closed behind man and dog, Monika turned to her.

  “So you’re having dinner with the best-looking cop in Dalsland—congratulations!” she said with a laugh.

  “I thought it was the other way around,” Embla countered, shaking out her long red hair in a glorious cascade.

  Monika raised her eyebrows. “You’re a very attractive couple,” she said.

  “We’re not a couple. We’re colleagues.”

  “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.” Monika lowered her voice. “Berit, our cook, is related to Olle’s mother. According to her, one of the reasons why he decided to leave Stockholm was that he split up with his girlfriend. His mother was delighted—apparently she was a real city girl and refused to consider moving.”

  Interesting. So the dog hadn’t been his only reason for applying to Åmål. Embla had tried to run away from more than one relationship herself. She had no wish to share those memories with anyone, not even her closest friends. And no one else knew about them. It was best if it stayed that way.

  She decided to change the subject.

  “Could you do me a favor and check if Jan Müller was here at any point between the fourteenth and twenty-fourth of October last year? He had a meal at the Thai restaurant in Mellerud, then drove south. I wonder if he might have come to Herremark to take a look around. He might not have rented a cottage, but there is a chance he ate in the restaurant.”

  “I’m happy to help, but I won’t have time this evening—can it wait until tomorrow morning?”

  “Absolutely—thank you so much,” Embla said, smiling gratefully at her. “I’ll be leaving after lunch tomorrow,” she added.

  “Okay, but I’ll keep the room for you for a few days, in case you come back.”

  Come back? As far as Embla was concerned, her inquiries in Dalsland were complete. It was time to concentrate on the murders of the Stavic brothers, and that investigation was based in Gothenburg.

  After a quick shower, a dab of mascara, a spritz of Clean Warm Cotton and a change of clothes—she chose a blue top that matched her eyes—Embla felt ready to have dinner with the best-looking cop in Dalsland.

  Tore was once again parked behind the reception desk and settled down on his blanket by the radiator. Olle was waiting when Embla came down the stairs, and she thought she saw a glint of appreciation in his eyes.

  “It’s a good thing a uniform is always appropriate,” he said with a smile.

  Embla wasn’t sure that applied to his dark-blue winter sweater, even if it was adorned with the police logo. However, it didn’t really matter; he looked good. His hair had been ruffled by his cap, and she had to quell the impulse to smooth it down with her fingers. Resolutely she tucked her arm under his and led him into the restaurant, where Monika had reserved the same table Embla and Göran had occupied the previous evening.
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  They chose a celery salad with walnuts and a mayonnaise dressing to start, followed by venison cutlets with cherry sauce and potato croquettes. The small cutlets were crisp on the outside and pink inside, and their delicate flavor was perfectly complemented by the slightly sharp sauce. They both drank mineral water.

  During the meal they chatted about anything and everything except the ongoing case. Olle enjoyed his dessert—a fruit gratin with mixed berries and white chocolate, but Embla was too full for something so sweet.

  Olle pushed away his empty plate and gave her a long look. “So what are your thoughts on Robin’s murder after today’s interviews?” he asked.

  Embla gave herself a little time by taking a sip of her mineral water.

  “I want to speak to Wille Andersson tomorrow before I say anything. The fact that he wasn’t home today could mean that he’s trying to stay out of our way, or maybe he’s worried that his drunken attempt at CPR made Robin’s injuries worse. However, my gut says he’s involved somehow.”

  Olle nodded slowly. “What makes you think that?”

  “Wille was the first on the scene after Mikaela Malm ran back inside. His friend Gustav might have been with him, or he might have arrived later—we don’t know yet. It was Wille who decided to do CPR; was that to hide the blood on his hands and clothes? The stab wounds were deep, so the murderer must have been covered in blood. And I remember what he said to you: that it was Robin’s own fault he’d been stabbed because he was so cocky.”

  “So fucking cocky,” Olle quickly corrected her.

  Embla rolled her eyes. “Noted. ‘So fucking cocky’ isn’t exactly the kind of thing you say about a dying friend who’s just been taken away in an ambulance. Particularly if you’re standing there with the victim’s blood all over you.”

  Olle nodded again, his expression serious. “Absolutely. We need to take a closer look at Wille.”

  “I’ll make a start tomorrow. Skål!”

  They clinked glasses to toast their decision. They chatted for a while, but eventually Olle said, “I guess it’s time for me to get going. It’s quite far from here to Åmål.”

  Once again, Monika refused to let them pay for their meal.

  “We’re so grateful that you’re here, trying to solve these terrible murders. You seem like such a good team,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears as she took Olle’s right hand between her own trembling hands and squeezed it warmly. Then she turned to Embla and gave her a big hug.

  Embla accompanied Olle and Tore onto the steps, choosing to remain in the doorway so that she could at least feel the warmth of the fire on her back.

  “I’ve really enjoyed this evening,” Olle said.

  “Me too. And we’ve had some constructive discussions on the case as well.”

  “See you at eight-thirty.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  This time Embla was determined to be first; her arm came up and she managed a pretty decent salute.

  Olle drove into the courtyard at exactly eight-thirty. Embla was waiting for him. It had been several years since she’d driven a squad car, and she had no desire to go back to those days. The morning was cold and clear; a few stars still twinkled in the dark sky, but there was a hint of light in the east. The weather forecast predicted snow in the afternoon, with a slight rise in the temperature.

  When the car pulled up, a couple of children in the lobby pressed their noses to the window, shouting out with delight. They’re still young enough to find cops and their cars exciting, Embla thought as she made her way down the steps. She opened the passenger door and got in.

  “Morning. Did you sleep well?” Olle asked with a grin.

  “I did—how about you?”

  “Very well, but I still have a problem with Tore. My sister and her family are no better, and my mom won’t be home until Friday. I don’t have anyone else to take care of him.”

  “You’re wrong there—you’re among friends. I’m sure Monika and Harald will be pleased to see him again, and he seemed pretty happy with them yesterday.”

  “Of course he was—the way to a guy’s heart is through his stomach!”

  Tore’s tail drooped slightly when he realized he wasn’t accompanying his master, but he soon settled on his blanket behind the reception desk.

  The white van with andersson electrical services on the side was gone. Olle rang the doorbell. The woman who opened the door looked haggard. Her complexion was sallow, and the dark rings under her eyes revealed that she hadn’t slept much. She was small and slim, with a blonde bob that was badly in need of a wash. A long black cardigan hung shapelessly over a pale-blue T-shirt and a pair of leggings. Her bare feet were pushed into a pair of blue fluffy slippers. Her bloodshot eyes darted from side to side, filled with both anxiety and exhaustion.

  Olle produced his warmest reassuring smile.

  “Good morning. This is my colleague, Detective Inspector Embla Nyström from Gothenburg, and I’m Olle Tillman, a detective from Åmål. I assume you’re Wille and Ida’s mom?”

  “That’s right. Marie. Marie Andersson.”

  “We’d like a word with Ida,” Olle continued breezily.

  The thin figure in the doorway seemed to shrink, and the answer was almost inaudible. “That’s not possible. She’s really sick.”

  “I’m sure she can manage a little chat,” Olle insisted, the smile still firmly in place.

  Marie Andersson simply shook her head. In the silence, all three of them could hear sobbing. Marie cleared her throat.

  “She’s . . . she’s very upset. Grieving . . . Robin was her boyfriend, and now he’s dead,” she said without looking at either of them.

  Enough already—this was a homicide investigation. Embla took over.

  “We know that Robin ended things with her a couple of days before the party on Friday.”

  Marie gave a start; this was clearly news to her.

  “We heard that Ida left the party before the murder. She went off with Anton Åkesson in his car,” Embla continued.

  “She did not! She would never have gone anywhere with Anton!”

  Marie straightened up and glared at Embla, who was suddenly struck by her resemblance to Lilian Åkesson, Anton’s mother, who had fainted after they’d questioned her. This woman seemed to be made of tougher stuff, but could they be related? Sisters, even? It wasn’t impossible; here in northern Dalsland everyone was related to everyone. She knew that from her own experience.

  Before either of the police officers could say anything, Marie snapped.

  “Robin had promised to drive Ida and Wille home, but then he was stabbed and she and Wille got separated. She had to walk home all by herself through the blizzard—almost two kilometers. She tripped and fell, banged her head. Just imagine, if she’d been knocked out, she would have frozen to death! And now she’s sick.”

  Her body was trembling. Embla and Olle exchanged a quick glance.

  “Our orders are to speak to Ida. Today. It can’t wait any longer. And our instructions are to bring anyone who refuses to cooperate down to Trollhättan for a formal interview,” Olle stated firmly. It was a flat lie, but Embla didn’t contradict him. He paused, keeping his eyes fixed on Marie. “This is a homicide investigation.”

  Marie’s anger gave way to resignation. Without a word she stepped aside to let them in. They took off their shoes, then she led the way up a staircase that opened into a light and airy living room. A generous black leather sofa was positioned in front of a large TV on the wall. On the screen a cheerful young man was whisking something in a bowl while chatting to the show’s female host. The remains of breakfast were still on the coffee table—coffee, eggs, and porridge.

  Marie went over to a door that was slightly ajar and knocked gently. “Ida. There are two police officers here who want to talk to you.”

  She
pushed open the door, and they were met by the acrid smell of sweat with an undertone of honey. The sweat was clearly coming from Ida, and the honey from the untouched cup of tea on the nightstand next to her king-size bed. The black-and-white patterned duvet cover was crumpled; the room definitely needed a good airing.

  The first they saw of Ida was a thin back dressed in a baggy black T-shirt. The sharp angles of her shoulder blades and the outlines of her vertebrae were clearly visible beneath the cotton fabric. The sobs continued with undiminished strength; her whole body was shaking.

  “Darling, you have to speak to them,” Marie said in the same soft tone.

  The narrow back stiffened, and after a lengthy pause, the girl slowly turned and looked at them.

  According to the information they’d received, Ida was sixteen years old, but she looked no more than fourteen, partly due to the state she was in. Her eyes were puffy from all the crying, and her right cheek was swollen and discolored; an angry reddish-purple bruise extended all the way from her eye to her forehead. She had a large bandage over one temple.

  Olle introduced himself and Embla, but there was no response. The tears continued, and occasionally Ida’s body convulsed with a sob. Her gaze was fixed on a point beside the two officers.

  “She’s been given painkillers—only Alvedon though. The swelling has actually started to go down a little,” Marie said.

  It didn’t look good. “Has she seen a doctor?” Olle asked.

  “No. She didn’t want to.”

  “Why not? It must be very painful, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d suffered a concussion. She really ought to be examined by a doctor,” Olle said firmly.

  Ida turned around and clutched her pillow. She didn’t seem to be aware they were talking about her. Embla could see that she was in shock. Because of her parents’ misguided attempt to protect her, she had been allowed to retreat into herself and brood about Robin’s death, which was not good; she needed to come out of the darkness.

  “Ida, can you tell us what happened at the party?” Embla prompted the girl. Ida gave a start, then shook her head.

  “Do you remember anything before the accident when you banged your head?”