Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

“We got rid of the fax a few years ago. Out here in the sticks we have to keep up with the latest developments, you know—I’ll scan it and send it to you,” he said, clearly amused by her preconceptions.

  “Fantastic!”

  She gave him her email address, ended the call, and waited by the printer. After a couple of minutes the map arrived, split over two sheets. The first was the flyleaf, with a yellow map on a blue background showing the whole of Dalsland. The northern section was in a darker yellow. The text read: Welcome to northern Dalsland and the municipalities of Dals-Ed and Bengtsfors. On the second sheet was an enlarged map of that area; she studied it closely.

  Ed lies at the southern end of Lake Stora Le, while Bengtsfors is at the southern end of Lake Lelång. The two lakes are long and narrow, running north to south, almost parallel until they meet at the northern end. In the summer it’s sheer paradise for canoeists. The area between the lakes is very sparsely populated, as is the region to the west of Stora Le. The first real settlement is Halden, thirty kilometers across the border in Norway.

  Milo had made a mark high up on the western side of Stora Le, no more than a kilometer from the border, and about six kilometers south of a place called Strand. Between the mark and Strand there was a small lake, Ulvsjön.

  Embla went into Google Maps and zoomed in. All she could see was a narrow dirt road that cut through the spot that appeared to be marked, then continued into Norway. There are countless similar roads along the Swedish–Norwegian border; why had Milo picked that one in particular? It came off the road that runs all the way down the western side of Stora Le. She could see a small house with several outbuildings, but Milo’s mark was nearer the dirt road than the house.

  Time to contact Uncle Nisse.

  As always he sounded happy to hear from her. He probably got lonely sometimes, even though he insisted he never wanted to move. When Embla explained why she was calling, he asked her to wait while he fetched his own map from the Land Registration Authority.

  “The fact is, that place doesn’t actually have a name,” he said when he returned. “People probably just call it ‘the dirt road south of Ulvsjön.’ As you can see, it continues into Norway; it could have been used during the war to smuggle people and essential goods, but those who live on either side of the border have been using these little roads and tracks for hundreds of years. Of course, these days it’s easier to drive up to Strand, then follow the main road to Halden.”

  Which didn’t explain why Milo had marked it on the map. Or had he? Maybe he’d just dropped his pen while he was looking at the map? It wasn’t a proper cross, after all. They carried on chatting for a while, then Embla said she had to get back to work. It was almost time for her meeting with Göran.

  The superintendent was already at his desk with a cup of coffee and a Mazarin cake. Embla put down her hot water and dropped in a bag of lemon-scented green tea. As usual Göran wrinkled his nose as he watched the contents of her mug turn yellowish-green and couldn’t help asking if she’d like something to go with it.

  “My treat,” he offered.

  As always, she replied, “No thanks.”

  With a resigned shrug of his broad shoulders, he began to unwrap the Mazarin. He demolished half of it in one bite, chomping contentedly before washing it down with a swig of sweet black coffee. While he was eating, Embla took the opportunity to tell him about Harald’s discovery. Nods and small grunts told her that he was interested, but he didn’t speak until he’d polished off the whole cake.

  “I think you should have a chat with your cop in Åmål. What was his name again . . . Olle?”

  Your cop? She nearly objected to the choice of words, but Göran had already moved onto something else.

  “We have another Skype call booked with Boris Cetinski in twenty minutes. He emailed me after lunch to say he has new information.”

  So it was time to communicate with the operetta-general again. Although that wasn’t entirely fair; his attitude had been friendly and entirely appropriate. It was just his blinged-out uniform that had been slightly over the top.

  No one could accuse Göran of such a thing. A critical appraisal confirmed her impression that he’d neither combed his hair nor changed his shirt since the previous day. His face had a grayish tone in the harsh lighting, which also revealed a significant growth of stubble.

  “Do you have a uniform jacket in your locker?”

  Her question took him by surprise. “Probably . . .”

  “Me too. In which case I suggest we smarten ourselves up. Make ourselves look a little more official. Wash our faces, comb our hair, put on our uniform shirts and jackets.”

  At first he looked as if he was about to protest, but then he got to his feet.

  “To the locker room! Reconvene in fifteen minutes!”

  Embla stood up and executed an almost perfect salute. Maybe Olle was having more of an influence than she’d thought.

  It seemed that Göran also kept his shaving gear and deodorant in his locker. He reappeared after fifteen minutes, freshly shaved, hair neatly combed, wearing a clean shirt and uniform jacket. Embla was impressed. He’d even dug out a slightly wrinkled tie.

  He pointed to his non-uniform pants. “Unfortunately my uniform pants appear to have shrunk in my locker,” he said apologetically. “But the jacket’s fine. As long as I don’t button it.”

  The top button of his shirt wasn’t done up either, but his tie hid it pretty well.

  Embla had neatly braided her hair and applied a little mascara and lip gloss. She was still wearing jeans, but her shirt, tie, and jacket were immaculate. She knew she looked good in uniform. She thought about the surgical tape on her eyebrow. There wasn’t much she could do about that. She would just have to try to keep the left side of her face off camera, which shouldn’t be too difficult since she was already sitting on Göran’s left. She moved the right side of her chair forward a bit.

  “No one can see our pants on Skype,” she said, and they exchanged a smile of mutual understanding.

  They settled down just as the call came through. Boris Cetinski looked exactly the same as he had earlier. They all said hello, then Cetinski began.

  “A few hours after we spoke this morning, I got an email from the police in Helsinki. They’ve found Mirja Hervonen—the personal ID number fits. Unfortunately little Mirja died of leukemia twenty-nine years ago, at the age of three.”

  Embla thought her green tea was going to come back up again, but with a huge effort of will, she managed to suppress the nausea. She had been living with the trauma for so long. However, she was now struggling with something new: a sense of betrayal. Her so-called best friend had deliberately gotten her to play along, while she had been planning to disappear with Kador all along. Why? Wouldn’t it have been easier if she’d simply slipped away? But that hadn’t been Lollo’s style. She’d always been a drama queen who liked an audience.

  “Embla?”

  Göran’s whisper brought her back to the moment. She mumbled “sorry” and tried to concentrate. He glanced at her, but said nothing. Instead he continued his conversation with Cetinski.

  “It’s good to have confirmation that she’s been living under a false identity. In fact, through pure coincidence, we’ve found out that Mirja Stavic is in fact Louise Lindqvist, who went missing in Gothenburg almost fifteen years ago. Someone recognized her from the wedding photo you sent.”

  Cetinski raised a bushy eyebrow, but to Embla’s relief he didn’t ask for more details. Instead he cleared his throat and continued.

  “Good work. And I can tell you that the skeleton found in the remains of the fire is definitely that of Kador Stavic. The height matches, plus he broke his right forearm in a fall eleven years ago, and the healed fracture is clearly visible. He broke three teeth in his upper jaw and two in his lower jaw on the same occasion, and his dentist here in Split made two c
eramic bridges, which were still in place. Apparently ceramic dentistry withstands heat pretty well.”

  So there was no doubt that Kador had died in the fire. Or was he already dead when someone set fire to the cottage?

  After promising to keep each other updated on any progress in the investigation, they ended the call.

  Göran leaned back and loosened his tie.

  “As I said, there goes my theory that Kador was behind the deaths of his brothers. Time for a rethink.”

  Embla was lost in thought again. Lollo was now a widow with three school-age children. The most natural thing for a woman in her situation would be to turn to her family, but she had no family left in Sweden now that her brothers-in-law, Milo and Luca, were gone. On the other hand, Milo had been rich and influential and had probably helped her and the children to flee. But didn’t the brothers have any relatives left in Croatia?

  “Why didn’t Lollo stay in Split and seek refuge with Kador’s relations?” she said.

  Göran gazed at her, drumming his fingers on the desk. “The only explanation I can come up with is that she knew the family was under threat. Maybe she wasn’t sure who she could trust.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Anything else on your mind?”

  “Mmm. According to Cetinski, Kador was a ladies’ man, and guys like that tend to stay out late—often well into the night. Why would she be worried if he didn’t get home on time?”

  She didn’t mention her own experience of living with a Casanova. Jason had frequently stayed out all night.

  “That’s true, and yet she reacted right away. She contacted Milo within an hour of the time Kador should have been back,” Göran agreed.

  “Which suggests she was expecting something to happen to him.”

  Göran nodded, his expression serious. “Yes—and she knew exactly what to do. I wonder if she’d had some indication of what was going on.”

  The silence that descended on the room felt heavy. Embla thought the air was throbbing, then she realized it was her own heartbeat pulsating in her ears. She took a few deep breaths in an effort to calm down, which helped a little. She tried to focus on the facts. After a while, Göran spoke.

  “If she was involved in Kador’s murder in any way, she would hardly have asked Milo for his help.”

  That sounded reasonable; once again Embla was relieved. She was about to leave, then remembered a key question.

  “Any news on the pistol?”

  Göran’s face broke into a satisfied smile. “Luca had a license for a Beretta M9. I’ve checked the gun that was tucked beneath Milo’s hands, and it’s Luca’s Beretta. It’s also the murder weapon in both homicides.”

  “Luca’s pistol? Both homicides?” Embla repeated, completely taken aback.

  “That’s right—it’s entirely logical when you think about it. Luca was shot first, between eight and ten on Friday evening according to the medical examiner. Unfortunately the body wasn’t discovered until the following morning because it was hidden behind the car.”

  It was all a bit of a mess, but when Embla considered the course of events, no doubt Göran was right.

  “Didn’t anyone hear the shots?”

  He shook his head. “No witnesses have come forward. The parking garage is at least a hundred meters from the nearest house, plus there’s a busy street in between. The weather was terrible, sleet and a cold wind. No one was around.”

  Embla’s brain was hurting.

  “But why did the killer leave Luca’s pistol with Milo? It’s hot, it’s been used in two homicides!”

  Göran shrugged. “Maybe for that very reason—to get rid of the murder weapon. Although I agree it sounds crazy. And another thing—he must have had access to keys. My theory is that our perp visited Luca’s apartment before the murder and took the computer and the Beretta. I assume he took the phone from Luca’s dead body.”

  Embla made a huge effort to think clearly.

  “But if the murderer was in the apartment before the murder, then he must have had a set of spare keys, because Luca’s keys were still in his pocket when he was found. Is there another set, apart from the ones in the safe at La Dolce Vita?”

  “Not as far as we know, unless they’re in Milo’s private safe in his apartment.”

  “And when will that be opened?”

  “Soon, I hope.”

  It was all very confusing. They didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with the keys, so Embla decided to focus on the gun.

  “So once again—why didn’t he get rid of Luca’s Beretta after murdering Milo? And why take Milo’s gun with him rather than leaving it behind?”

  Göran spread his hands wide. “I can’t give you an answer. It’s going to be at least two days before we hear about any possible DNA on the magazines or the gun itself. Lena has her hands full. There have been two new shootings, an internal dispute between two gangs of youths in Biskopsgården. Totally unrelated to the Stavic brothers.”

  Embla’s head was spinning. They could certainly be looking at the same murderer, but his schedule was pretty tight. He must have had help.

  “So after he’d killed Luca, he headed straight up to Herremark and shot Milo?”

  “Yes. Same MO, same murder weapon, so we have to assume it’s the same murderer. But he must have had a hell of a job getting back down to Gothenburg, even if he had a big car. The snow caused chaos overnight, and the E45 across the Dalsland plain was completely blocked.”

  “Okay, so the killer had probably gotten hold of Luca’s pistol before Luca was murdered—but maybe he went into the apartments after the murders to take the computers?” Embla suggested.

  Göran leaned back even farther, ignoring the protests of his chair.

  “That’s not impossible. No guard was stationed at either apartment after the murders; we assumed they were as secure as Fort Knox. Everyone was involved in other ongoing investigations. Linda and Bengan had to travel up to Herremark, and spent the whole of Saturday there. When they got back they went straight to Biskopsgården to help out at the crime scenes following the gang shootings. And you and I didn’t get to the apartments until yesterday evening—three whole days after Luca and Milo were killed.”

  Embla nodded.

  “If someone had access to keys, he or she could have gone to Luca’s place first and taken all his IT equipment and the Beretta, then handed the gun over to the killer. It doesn’t have to be the same person who entered the apartments and carried out the murders. And if we’re looking at a Mafia-style killing, then it’s not unreasonable to assume that several people were involved. Someone could have gone into Milo’s apartment after the murder up in Herremark,” Göran continued.

  “So now we have to find out who might have had access to those keys—although in Milo’s case we already know it was Andreas Acika,” Embla said slowly.

  “Exactly, but he claims he doesn’t know the combination for Milo’s safe, which could contain Luca’s spare keys. Then again, we didn’t have any trouble finding the combination for Luca’s safe,” he said, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

  This meant that the murderer had had no need to struggle back down to Gothenburg in a snowstorm. His only job had been to kill the brothers. His sidekick—or sidekicks—had taken care of the apartments.

  “So where did the killer go after he’d shot Milo?” Embla wondered.

  “Maybe that’s something you and Olle could look into. Why don’t you go back up to Herremark and see if you can find his hiding place?”

  “I think we should also take a closer look at the area Milo had marked on the map.”

  “Good idea. We don’t know if it was a deliberate mark; it might mean nothing, but it’s worth checking out, just to be on the safe side.”

  At that moment, Göran’s phone rang.

  “Hi, Tommy. Yes
, she’s here.”

  Embla got to her feet, but he signaled to her to stay put. She didn’t sit down again, but waited by the chair.

  “I’m sure she can . . . Hold on, I’ll ask her.”

  He covered the mouthpiece and looked up at her.

  “Tommy’s asking if you can go over to La Dolce Vita and have a chat with the executive assistant, which is apparently his proper title. He called Violent Crimes to say he has important information, but no one has time to go over there today. Could you fit it in?”

  The very thought of going to that place made her stomach turn over. She hadn’t set foot inside since the night Lollo disappeared. She had been too afraid of bumping into the Stavic brothers, and she was anxious about confronting the spot where her nightmare had begun.

  She had no intention of admitting any of that to Göran, though.

  “No problem,” she heard herself say.

  “Great. Tommy? That’s fine. By the way, what’s the guy’s name?” He listened for a moment, then said, “Okay, I’ll pass that on,” and ended the call.

  “The executive assistant is Stephen Walker. Age thirty-two, English, but he’s also held Swedish citizenship for the past three years. He’s worked in various bars and restaurants as a waiter and then a maître d’, but for the past three years he’s been Luca’s assistant. According to Tommy, rumor has it their relationship wasn’t just professional.”

  “But they didn’t live together.”

  “No, Luca lived alone.”

  Embla glanced at the clock on the wall; it was almost four-thirty.

  “Is he at La Dolce Vita now?”

  “Yes, he’s waiting for someone from Violent Crimes. The restaurant doesn’t open until five.”

  “Okay, I’ll go right away.”

  As she turned and headed for the door, she felt as if she had a burning cannonball in her stomach.

  For once Embla had no problem parking in the area around the Avenue. There were several empty spaces behind the Concert Hall. Typical. She would have been happy to cruise around for a little longer in order to try to summon up at least a semblance of inner calm.