Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  “No,” she whispered.

  Had Ida really lost her memory, or was she reluctant to say anything while her mother was listening?

  “Do you remember what happened afterward?”

  A shuddering sob. Ida looked at Embla for the first time, but only for a second.

  “I was freezing cold. It hurt . . . I wanted to get home . . . I didn’t feel well.”

  “I can see how painful it must have been,” Embla said, her voice overflowing with empathy. She glanced at Olle, who didn’t seem inclined to step in. Ida was suffering, both mentally and physically, and there was a real risk that she might collapse. Maybe it was best to ask the key question now, rather than waiting. She tried to make it sound like a routine inquiry, nothing special.

  “I know there was a blizzard and it was hard to see, but did you notice anyone along the road as you were walking home—a car or a person you didn’t recognize?”

  A barely perceptible nod, then Ida let out a scream and clasped the back of her neck with both hands.

  “Does your neck hurt?”

  Embla immediately realized how ridiculous the question was. Ida didn’t answer; she simply continued to whimper. Olle turned to her mother, his expression deadly serious.

  “She could have injured one of the cervical vertebrae or have sustained whiplash. She needs to see a doctor.”

  Marie’s anxiety was clear. “Maybe you’re right,” she said hesitantly.

  “I have to tell you that she didn’t fall and bang her head,” Olle continued calmly. “She was involved in a car accident. Witnesses saw her leave in Anton Åkesson’s car, which we’ve found hidden on the Åkesson property. It’s been in a crash and is badly damaged. The accident happened in a field between the guesthouse and the road leading to the nature reserve.”

  “And as you may be aware, a man has been murdered in one of the cottages along that road. The murder took place on the same night, and probably around the same time as the crash. That’s why it’s vital that Ida tells us—” Embla was interrupted by a hysterical scream. Ida began to rock back and forth, tears pouring down her face. Embla wondered how many liters of liquid she’d lost from her tear ducts so far.

  Marie sank down on the bed beside her daughter, trying in vain to calm her down. She looked up helplessly at Olle and Embla. “Patrick . . . my husband . . . didn’t think there was any point in taking her to the hospital, but you’re right—she needs to see a doctor. Although I have a problem—my car’s in the shop.”

  “We’ll drive you to the primary-care center in Dals-Ed. If you help Ida get dressed, I’ll call ahead,” Olle said.

  It would only take an extra fifteen minutes to drop them off.

  During the drive Embla managed to persuade Marie to give her Wille’s cell phone number, although it was a struggle. Once again she was surprised at the reluctance of both the teenagers and their parents to help the police investigate the events of the night in question. Was it just a general distrust of the police, or did they know that the murderer was among them?

  When they arrived at the Åkesson property, they saw that the pile of snow by the barn had been cleared, and the Toyota was in the process of being secured on the back of a transporter. The Volvo belonging to the CSIs from Trollhättan was parked a short distance away. One of them was talking to a grim-faced John Åkesson, whose expression didn’t change much when Olle and Embla got out of their car. If anything, he looked even angrier. The only sign of the previous day’s confrontation was the white tape over his eyebrow. Olle greeted the CSIs, who had also been at the crime scene at the Lodge after the stabbing. When he introduced Embla, the guy on the transporter looked down at her. His winter cap, complete with ear flaps, hid part of his face.

  “Hi—Ulf Berg. We met during the moose hunt case back in the fall,” he said quietly. Embla merely nodded; she couldn’t think of a suitable answer.

  “The moose hunt case?” Olle said.

  It was too complicated to explain; Embla chose to pretend she hadn’t heard his question. John Åkesson made no comment on Berg’s remark; instead he stared first at Embla, then at Olle.

  “Just so you know: Anton’s in the hospital. Severe concussion and damage to several vertebrae. But it was me who dug out the car for your colleagues. Lilian and I just want this sorted,” he said brusquely. It was obvious how much it cost him to utter those words. Embla noted that he seemed entirely sober; there wasn’t even a hint of stale booze or a hangover.

  Olle glanced at her, understandably taken aback by the change in Åkesson’s attitude. She felt the same way but quickly pulled herself together.

  “Good,” Embla said in a pleasant tone. “In that case maybe you’d like to tell us why you brought the car here.”

  His eyes slid away, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer. “We wanted to protect the boy. We didn’t want him to be accused of . . . anything.”

  His reluctance was palpable, and he clearly wasn’t telling the whole truth. Embla decided to move on and circle back when he didn’t have his guard up.

  “How did you find out that Anton was hurt?”

  Åkesson swallowed audibly, still refusing to meet her gaze. “Ida Andersson called after the car went off the road. It was in the field, and Anton couldn’t move. Ida managed to get out and called me. I drove her home, but she asked me to let her out a short distance from the house. I brought Anton here, but . . .”

  He fell silent, his cheeks flushed red.

  “We could see that he was in bad shape, so Lilian drove him to the hospital in the Volvo. It’s a V70, so there was room to lay him down in the back. It was quicker than waiting for an ambulance.”

  He stopped speaking abruptly, as if he had no intention of saying any more.

  “If he was admitted that night, I’m sure he was tested for alcohol,” Embla said calmly. “In which case there will be evidence that he’d been driving while under the influence.”

  There was no mistaking the anger in Åkesson’s eyes as he looked at her, but he didn’t attempt to contradict her. The CSIs didn’t hide the fact that they were listening with interest; maybe that was why Olle felt the need to join in.

  “And that’s why you picked up the car—so that no one would start asking questions.”

  “Fucking smartass.” Åkesson turned on his heel and marched toward the house.

  “We can’t get along with everyone in this world,” Ulf Berg said dryly.

  A call to the hospital confirmed that Anton Åkesson was in intensive care. The doctor Embla spoke to thought he would probably be moved to an ordinary ward the following day; there was no chance the police would be able to speak to the boy before then.

  “The boy? He’s eighteen years old, for fuck’s sake,” she snapped when she ended the call. “He’s old enough to vote, and he can marry whoever he likes without his parents’ permission. Why do we mollycoddle adults?”

  Olle gave her a disingenuous smile. “Boys mature later than girls.”

  “At least you’re self-aware,” she replied sourly, making him laugh.

  They drove back to the guesthouse. On the way they discussed the case and the interviews they’d conducted so far.

  “Speak to Ida again—she might remember more when she’s feeling better. And you need to talk to Anton as soon as he’s out of intensive care.”

  “And you’re seeing Wille on the way down?”

  “Yes—I’ll do my best to get a hold of him.”

  Olle parked the police car next to Embla’s Kia. It was almost lunchtime, and several families were heading into the restaurant.

  “I guess I’ll pick up a hot dog in Dals-Ed,” Olle said.

  Embla thought about the Thai restaurant in Mellerud and decided it was time for another visit.

  Tore was ecstatic to see his master again.

  “I’ll take h
im for a quick walk,” Olle said, clipping on his leash.

  “Okay—I’ll go and fetch my stuff.”

  She’d already packed most of her things. She sat down in the comfortable armchair and keyed in Wille’s number. He answered almost right away, his voice deep and mature.

  “Wille.”

  “Hi, Wille. This is Embla Nyström; I’m a police officer, and I’d like to talk to you about the events during the party on Friday night. Where can we meet—I believe you’re at college?”

  There was a long silence; she wondered whether he was about to cut her off.

  “We’re in the shop today,” he said eventually.

  “Okay, where are you? I’ll come and see you,” she replied implacably.

  Another long silence.

  “I’ll be eating in Burger King in Brålanda.”

  “Good—can you be there in an hour?”

  “Okay.”

  Before Embla had time to confirm the arrangement, Wille was gone. So lunch would be a burger in Brålanda instead of Thai food in Mellerud. Oh well.

  When she got back down to the lobby, Olle was already there. He thanked Monika and Harald for taking such good care of Tore, and for the excellent food and hospitality. Embla gave them a hug and expressed her own warm thanks.

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t find a reservation in the name of Jan Müller for last October,” Monika said.

  “It was just an idea—thanks for checking.”

  Olle gave his trademark salute as they said their final goodbyes.

  “I’ll call you after I’ve spoken to Wille,” Embla said.

  “Great—thanks for making time to see him.”

  They waved to each other as they climbed into their respective cars and set off in different directions.

  As Embla walked toward the entrance of Burger King, a sticker in the back window of an old Saab caught her attention. The slogan was very familiar to her: the swedish association for hunting—sweden’s most important hunting club. She’d had the same one on her old Volvo 245. The metallic-blue Saab was well cared for. A smaller sticker bore the word bar; something told her she’d found Wille’s car.

  The restaurant was packed, and the majority of the customers were children. The noise level was high, and the kids who’d finished eating were running around playing. Several were wearing the paper crowns they’d received with their meal.

  A boy who stood a head taller than everyone else was waiting in line to order. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, he was a younger version of his father. Large tattoos—mainly tribal motifs, monsters, and skulls—covered his bare arms. On his head was a baseball cap that had seen better days; obviously he chose to wear it backwards. He was in a T-shirt and a sleeveless hunting vest in spite of the freezing temperature outside. Talk about the need to play macho, Embla thought. She went and joined him.

  “Hi, Wille.”

  He looked at her, surprised at first, but then his expression darkened when he realized who she was. A brief nod was his only attempt at a greeting.

  Embla smiled, handed him a hundred-kronor note, and said, “Get me a veggie burger, will you—I’ll go and sit over there.”

  She pointed to a small table at the back of the room. There were only two chairs, which was probably why it was free. Wille muttered something in response. Embla went and sat down; she watched him order and pay. He was given two huge cardboard cups, but before he picked them up, he pulled up his jeans by the waistband with a well-practiced grip. He filled the cups with Coca-Cola from an automatic dispenser, and Embla groaned to herself; she hated Coke. She should have told him, but all she could do now was accept it with good grace. The most important thing was to get Wille talking.

  He put the cups on the table without a word. His whole attitude was sullen and uncooperative. She had to soften him up somehow before his lunch break was over.

  “I’m starving,” she said with a smile.

  He grunted, refusing to meet her eye. One of the young assistants came over with their plastic baskets containing burgers and fries. Wille dug several packets of ketchup out of his pocket, nodding to Embla to help herself. It was a toss-up as to which she hated most: the burger, the Coke, or the ketchup. She kept the smile firmly in place. “Thank you.” Once again, those years at drama school hadn’t been a complete waste of time.

  Judging by the mound of fries in Wille’s basket, he’d ordered a double portion. He also had a double burger with extra everything. He began to open the ketchups one after another, giving his full concentration to the task of dousing his entire meal. It made Embla think of blood. She was going to have to approach this conversation with care, but first she wanted to confirm something that could be significant. She picked up a couple of fries and put them in her mouth. They were limp and slimy, like worms. She licked the grease from the corners of her mouth, then asked:

  “The Saab 99 out there—is it yours?”

  He looked up from his food in surprise. “What?”

  “The sticker in the back window—the Swedish Association for Hunting. Are you a member?”

  “Mmmhmm,” he mumbled, nodding faintly.

  She could hear the defensiveness in his voice. Of course he was wondering why she’d mentioned the Association, but she didn’t explain. From the beginning, she’d suspected that the weapon used to murder Robin had been a hunting knife—very sharp, and with a long blade. Things were beginning to make sense.

  “Tell me what happened at the party. When did you go around to the back of the Lodge?”

  Wille removed the plug of snuff from beneath his upper lip and placed it next to the pile of fries. He took a big bite of his burger and chewed noisily, then swilled it down with a slug of Coke. He obviously wanted time to consider his answer.

  “Twelve-thirty. Maybe later. I was drunk, so . . .” He shrugged, his expression reflecting his uncertainty.

  “Did you go out alone?”

  “Yes. I needed to pee.”

  He took another huge bite, so Embla thought she might as well try her veggie burger. It was pretty dry and tasteless, but she’d had worse. To her surprise, Wille had something else to say.

  “The light was broken. So I didn’t have to go far.”

  Several witnesses had said that the light above the kitchen door wasn’t working. It had been pretty dark out there.

  “Did you hear anything? Any groaning, or someone talking?”

  “No.”

  “And where were you when Mikaela started yelling?”

  He stared at his fries for a long time, then said, “I was just about to go back inside.”

  “But you changed your mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Went to where Mikaela had come from.”

  “Was that when you found Robin?”

  He nodded, slurping his Coke.

  “And what did you do then?” Embla prompted him. Patience.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched loudly. Embla steeled herself; she didn’t even blink.

  “Tried to stop the bleeding.”

  Without looking at her, he grabbed a fistful of fries and shoved them into his mouth. Embla waited until the chewing subsided.

  “Why did you start CPR?”

  He gaped at her in surprise. “Did I?”

  “Yes, according to two sober witnesses.”

  “Fuck’s sake. Petter and his fucking bitch . . . girlfriend.” His expression was one of disdain.

  “The question remains. Why did you try to give him CPR when you didn’t know how to do it?”

  Slowly he raised his shoulders and spread his hands wide. “It was Gustav’s idea.”

  “But you were the one who actually did it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So Gustav was with you when y
ou went out to pee?”

  He recoiled slightly, thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. I can’t remember.”

  “Do you remember when he appeared?”

  “No.”

  He let out another belch in order to underline his lack of interest. Charming boy.

  Embla realized he was pretending to be unmoved. She leaned forward and said softly, “Was it you rather than Gustav who came up with the idea of CPR?”

  Another fistful of fries. Chomp chomp chomp. Slurp slurp. “Can’t remember,” he said when he couldn’t put it off any longer.

  Time to shake things up. Embla sat back and fixed him with her patented no-more-bullshit stare. She’d had plenty of practice, and it usually worked—particularly on those who weren’t used to being questioned by the police.

  “Why did you tell my colleague that it was Robin’s own fault he’d been stabbed?”

  Wille swallowed hard; now he looked worried. He picked up the burger and opened his mouth to take a bite.

  “Put that down!” Embla snapped.

  He sat there with the burger halfway to his mouth, but didn’t put it back in the basket.

  “Answer the question,” she said icily. It wasn’t easy to switch from good cop to bad cop in a second, but it had the advantage of surprise.

  Wille’s eyes darted around the room as if seeking support from one of the families enjoying their lunch, but there was no help to be found. The children were playing, the parents were trying to eat while keeping an eye on them. The noise level was high; no one was eavesdropping on their conversation.

  “Like I said, I was drunk,” he mumbled eventually.

  “But you told a uniformed police officer that it was Robin’s own fault he’d been stabbed because he was so fucking cocky. Do you not have a sense of what is and isn’t appropriate?”

  His upper body jerked, and the look in his eyes changed from uncertainty to aggression.

  Short fuse, easily offended, Embla thought.

  “If you make a comment like that to a police officer immediately after a homicide, then you need to be prepared to answer questions. Particularly if you’re covered in blood, as you were. So why did you say it was his own fault he’d been stabbed?” she repeated implacably.