Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  Andreas stiffened. It was a barely perceptible reaction, but Embla was watching him closely.

  “No. My wife, Kristina, is . . . was Milo’s housekeeper.”

  “In which case I assume she also has access to a set of keys.”

  For a moment Embla was convinced that Andreas was going to punch her former boss, but he managed to control himself. He clenched and opened his left fist several times; he was still holding the attaché case in his right hand.

  “The keys are kept in our safe,” he snapped.

  Göran stared at him for a long time. “We didn’t find any keys in the cottage where Milo was murdered. Which means the killer must have taken them with him.”

  The corner of Andreas’s mouth twitched. “A locksmith will be here tomorrow. The insurance company insisted that we change the security system immediately.”

  He couldn’t hide his satisfaction at having dealt with the problem already.

  “That’s pretty quick. There’s no guarantee we’ll finish today.”

  “Kristina can let you in. She’s always home.”

  Göran nodded and said with a polite smile, “In that case we’re ready to start. We’ll let you know when we’re done.”

  The smile didn’t fool Andreas; he knew the dumb cop was telling him to fuck off. Embla saw his face turn to stone. He was clearly reluctant to leave the apartment, knew it would look strange if he insisted on staying.

  With a brief nod he stepped back into the elevator. Neither Embla nor Göran spoke until they heard it stop on the floor below.

  “Alone at last,” Göran said with a cheeky grin. He took out his powerful flashlight and shined it into the closet. Apart from a few hangers made of the same dark wood as the sliding doors, it was empty. He opened the mirrored middle door; Embla could see a row of men’s coats and several pairs of well-polished shoes.

  “Nothing here.” The third and final door revealed a high wooden shelf with different-sized drawers beneath it. There were four hats on the shelf: one forest green, one navy blue, one brown, and one black. Embla had seen pictures of Al Capone in which he often wore hats with a tall crown and a wide brim, as fashion dictated in 1930s Chicago. Milo Stavic’s hats reminded her of the notorious gangster’s; had he consciously copied Capone’s style? Or had he chosen the hats, knowing they would add several centimeters to his height?

  The drawers contained soft cashmere scarves, leather gloves, and thick socks. The bottom two were completely empty.

  Embla checked out the chest of drawers: three boxes of matches and a box of candles, nothing else. This ornate piece of furniture served no real purpose.

  Before they continued into the living room, Göran decided they should put on their crime-scene coveralls.

  “We don’t know if the murderer has been here, but given that Milo’s keys are missing, it’s not impossible,” he said.

  “In which case the murderer must have known how to switch off the alarm,” Embla pointed out.

  “True, but there would have been one of those plastic tags on Milo’s key ring; it’s not hard to work out how to use it.”

  Embla wasn’t a fan of the tight, rustling coveralls. She always started sweating within minutes, but she just had to put up with it; it was important not to contaminate the scene.

  The apartment was spotlessly clean; Kristina Acika seemed to be an excellent housekeeper. They moved into the living room, with its heavy leather furniture and Persian rugs. Embla had never been in an English gentleman’s club, but that was the association that came to mind. Next to one of the sofas was a gilded drinks cart, well stocked with bottles of spirits and crystal decanters sparkling in the light from yet another chandelier. A large tiled stove in one corner looked old but was probably brand-new. On the walls, there were some paintings depicting people who were partly or completely naked. They seemed dark and depressing to Embla. Old-fashioned, but no doubt worth a fortune.

  “Do you think he’s robbed a museum?” she said with a giggle.

  To her surprise, Göran didn’t take it as a joke. “It’s not impossible,” he said. “I’ll make sure the CSIs go over the whole place with a fine-tooth comb, and photograph all the paintings.”

  He nodded in the direction of a picture of a group of voluptuous naked women dancing around a sleeping youth, his upper body bare. A flock of sheep stood in the background, gazing at the scene before them. Embla’s interpretation was pretty straightforward: a young shepherd having a wet dream.

  It was surprising that Milo Stavic, the gangster who’d worked his way up from simple beginnings, had turned out to be an art connoisseur. Or a collector, at least.

  As if he’d read her mind, Göran continued, “I find it hard to imagine that Milo knew much about art. I have a feeling he might have bought an entire collection. Or someone helped him acquire these pieces.”

  He spent a little while gazing around the walls of the living room, then he strode back into the hallway. Embla heard him talking on his cell, but he was too far away for her to make out the conversation. She left him to it and went into the kitchen.

  It was super-modern, with a black stone floor, brushed steel appliances, and a large island housing the stove. Some of the cupboards had glass doors. When Embla pressed the switch, lights came on inside those cupboards as well as the spotlights in the ceiling, making the crystal glasses sparkle. A tall cupboard next to the refrigerator was full of wine bottles; it was the kind of wine cooler you’d find in a small bar. Was Milo a wine connoisseur, too?

  A massive oak table with six chairs stood by the window, which offered a spectacular view over the eastern part of the city center, with the three Gothia Towers and Liseberg clearly visible.

  There was a large steel fan hanging above the island. The kitchen was so clean that Embla got the feeling it was hardly ever used. When she opened the refrigerator she found five bottles of Champagne, several bottles of a Czech beer, a box of eggs, a variety of cheeses, and a pack of extra-salted butter. No sign of any meat, fruit, or vegetables.

  A door in one wall led into a large pantry. A walk-in pantry, Embla thought with a smile. The shelves in here were also strikingly empty, apart from bottles of Slivovitz and whisky. There were empty bottles on the floor, along with a case of the Czech beer.

  Finally she checked under the sink to see if there was any garbage. There wasn’t; the various receptacles for recycling and the landfill were clean and empty.

  She met Göran on her way out of the kitchen.

  “Anything of interest?” he asked.

  “Not as far as I can see.”

  “Okay. My team will be here on Wednesday morning, so we’ll see what they can find.”

  They went back through the living room and into a hallway with several doors. A quick check revealed a study, a home gym, three bedrooms, and two bathrooms.

  “We’ll start with the study,” Göran decided.

  Not surprisingly, the room was decorated in the same style: a huge desk, a black leather office chair that was more like an armchair, paintings on the wall, and tall bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes that appeared to have been bought in sets. The gold lettering on the spines caught the light, but like everything else these were accessories aimed at creating the illusion that the owner of this apartment was a cultured and well-educated person.

  There was no sign of any files or folders. However, there were a couple of bottles of fine single malt whisky on one of the shelves. This room also boasted an attractive tiled stove, with two leather armchairs and a small round brass table strategically placed in front of it. The Persian rug on the floor reminded Embla of the one in the hallway.

  Göran went straight over to the desk. On its uncluttered surface was a free-standing computer monitor, a laser printer, a mouse, and a brass lamp with a green glass shade, plus a neatly coiled cable for a laptop.

  “No co
mputer.”

  He quickly opened the drawers one by one, unable to hide his irritation as he slammed the last one shut.

  “Nothing!”

  He stood there motionless, his gaze fixed on the lamp. Only his eyes were visible above his mask, but Embla could see that he was thinking hard.

  “Everything must be on the laptop,” he said at last.

  “And it wasn’t in the cottage.”

  “No, but he could have put it in another room here in the apartment. Or hidden it. Then again, it would be just as easy to take it with him.”

  He contemplated the paintings on the wall.

  “Help me take them down,” he said, heading for the nearest one, a naked woman lying with her back to the observer. Her ass was disproportionately large, and she was busy making it even bigger. Her head was tipped back, and she was eating from a bunch of grapes with her full red lips. A shadowy male figure was holding the stalk, his evil grin and the horns on his forehead clearly visible. Weird, Embla thought.

  She and Göran lifted down the painting. It wasn’t particularly heavy, but they didn’t want to damage it in any way.

  “Bingo!” Göran said as a safe was revealed. They both stared at the combination lock.

  “The laptop could be in there. We’ll have a word with Acika—he might know the combination,” Göran decided. He marched out of the room, his body language showing how disappointed he was. “Let’s take Milo’s bedroom first, then the guest rooms.”

  He pushed open the door and walked into a surprisingly airy space, which wasn’t as over-furnished as the other rooms. However, the décor was much as expected, with a king-size bed in dark polished wood, a shiny emerald-green-and-gold quilt, and matching silk cushions. There were nightstands on either side of the bed, with lamps similar to the one in the study. On the wall opposite was a huge TV screen with impressive speakers.

  A door led into a bathroom, with a jacuzzi instead of an ordinary bathtub. A frosted glass wall concealed a shower, sink, and toilet. The tiles on the walls were navy blue with a dusting of gold, while the floor was black. Thick white towels were draped over a rack. This was the first room that appealed to Embla. It must be wonderful to sink into a warm jacuzzi at the end of a long day. A day like today.

  Göran opened another door and stepped into a walk-in closet. Embla joined him and saw rows of shirts and suits neatly displayed on hangers. The closet was as big as a small bedroom, and was beautifully laid out with clothes racks, cupboards, drawers, and shoe racks. She did a quick calculation; adding in the shoes in the hallway, Milo must have owned at least forty pairs.

  Methodically, Göran began to go through everything. Embla asked if she could help.

  “Yes—you can check the drawers.”

  She knew he had problems with his knees and didn’t like crouching. The top two drawers contained sunglasses, cufflinks, and other bits and pieces. The next three were full of neatly folded underwear and socks. In the bottom drawer lay silk handkerchiefs and bow ties in different colors and patterns. Just as she was about to close this last drawer, she noticed that the base was slightly tilted. When she pressed hard on the lower side, the whole thing lifted. Carefully she removed the contents, then took out the false bottom.

  The space that was revealed was divided into sections and covered in royal-blue velvet. In each compartment lay three spare magazines with ammunition, fifteen cartridges in each magazine. A significantly larger compartment was empty, but the contours of a pistol could be seen clearly.

  “Göran.”

  “Exactly what we were looking for,” he said contentedly when he joined her. He decided they should take the three magazines with them, because it would be a while before the CSIs could document the scene.

  “I’m guessing that a Beretta M9 would sit nicely in that space. The ammunition is 9 x 19 Parabellum, which fits the Beretta. I wonder how many cartridges are missing from the magazine in the gun Milo was holding to his breast,” Embla said.

  “Two shots, one to the head and one to the heart, so at least two should be missing. It’s a shame we couldn’t check while we were there, but of course we couldn’t contaminate the scene. We’ll just have to wait.”

  He paused briefly. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  They went back into the hallway and started to get out their equipment. Göran was the best when it came to handling the camera, a Canon with a round flash. He also took out a small folding floodlight. Embla’s area of expertise was guns, and she quickly gave her former boss a crash course on the Beretta M9. It’s loaded with a 15-cartridge magazine of exactly the type found in the cottage in Herremark, and in Milo’s secret hiding place in the closet. It’s a short-distance weapon; at close range, as in the murders of the Stavic brothers, no one can survive a shot to the head or the heart.

  They photographed the cache from every possible angle. When Göran was satisfied, he carefully placed the three magazines in separate evidence bags. Once again Embla thought about the pistol tucked beneath Milo’s hands.

  “We’ve got the murder weapon, but I’m sure the killer wiped it clean,” she said.

  “You’re right, but there could be prints or DNA traces on both the magazine and the cartridges. We’ll be test-firing the gun as well. And Embla . . .”

  He paused, looking intently at her over his mask.

  “. . . when we speak to Andreas Acika, not a word about what we’ve found in here.”

  When Andreas Acika opened the door, he immediately said it was a bad time because he and his wife were busy putting the children to bed. Göran offered to drive him down to Police HQ instead, but he didn’t seem too keen on that suggestion and reluctantly let them in.

  “Is this apartment as big as Milo’s?” Göran asked.

  “No, less than half the size,” Andreas answered curtly.

  Göran tripped over a pair of small plastic skis, but managed to regain his balance. Beside them was a sled, propped up against the wall. It wasn’t hard to work out why there was a large rubber mat just inside the door, protecting the red-and-white floral-patterned carpet from pools of melted slush. Two snowsuits and two pairs of children’s boots had been dumped on the floor.

  “The boys went to Slottsskogen Park while in day care,” Andreas explained.

  “How old are they?” Embla asked.

  “Four and two.”

  He’d taken off his jacket and tie, and his slim-fitting white shirt revealed a slender, toned body.

  They could hear a woman’s voice from another room; it sounded as if she was reading aloud.

  A boy called out: “Daddy!” Immediately another eager voice joined in: “Daddy, story!”

  Andreas turned to them with a forced smile. “Perhaps you’d like to wait in my study while I put the boys to bed.”

  He led them through a modern kitchen and into a compact room that likely would have provided accommodation for a maid in the past. Andreas nodded in the direction of a small sofa bed along one wall.

  “Please sit down. I’ll be back soon.”

  They obediently did as they were told, but as soon as his footsteps had faded away, they both stood up. Silently and efficiently they searched the room. If you don’t have the necessary warrant from the prosecutor, it’s important not to get caught. The study had been furnished cleverly, making it functional even though it wasn’t large. The style was as far from Milo’s passion for Olde England as it was possible to get. A black desk stood below the window, with a two-drawer filing cabinet on wheels tucked beneath it. On the desk itself was a laptop connected to a larger monitor and a laser printer. A modern LED lamp provided the lighting; it was designed to resemble an inverted L resting on a base. The desk chair was ergonomic. The window overlooked the courtyard, and on the sill were several thriving potted plants and a colorful glass paperweight. Simple shelving covered one wall, housing books and folders. The
books seemed to be mainly related to economics and law, which made Embla yawn. Then again, maybe she was yawning because it had been a long day.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary; they were in a practical home office. They heard footsteps approaching; time to sit down again.

  “The boys have been out all day; they’re having trouble winding down,” Andreas said apologetically when he reappeared. He wheeled the desk chair over to the sofa and sat down opposite them. “How can I help?” His thin smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  Göran smiled back and said pleasantly, “We realize things must be difficult for you at the moment, with the death of your cousins and the implications for Milo’s business affairs. I assume you’ll be dealing with most matters from now on?”

  Andreas grimaced slightly and shrugged.

  “Yes, there’s a great deal to do, and some confusion, but I’m doing my best to keep things on track. And of course there are managers, boards, and legal advisers who can step in until . . . until we know what’s going to happen.”

  Both Göran and Embla noticed the brief pause, but the superintendent simply nodded to show that he understood the situation and sympathized.

  “First of all, can I ask if you have the code for the safe in Milo’s apartment?”

  “No, that’s his personal safe.”

  “Okay—maybe you have some of his papers down here? You mentioned that you also have a safe.”

  “It’s in our walk-in closet, and it contains only our personal effects.”

  Sharpening his tone, Göran said: “But there must be a safe containing Milo’s business papers?”

  “Some documentation will be at the office in Gårda, but Milo deposited his paperwork in various locations—with his lawyers, with the banks, and so on. And I can assure you that everything is above board. We’ve never had any problems with our tax filings,” Acika said firmly, unmoved by the change in Göran’s attitude.

  They clearly weren’t going to get any further, so Göran tried another tack.