Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  “In a war. Yes, I know. I saw a psychologist for a while last year; she talked a lot about post-traumatic stress.”

  Her eyelids felt so heavy. His voice came from far, far away.

  “It’s good that you already have that insight. The question is how we can best help you.”

  “Home. I want to go home. Call my parents. Ask them to come and pick me up.”

  She was practically asleep before she finished speaking.

  Embla was on sick leave for the following week; after that she would be on desk duty until the internal investigation was completed. She was called in to the police station several times to go over her account of the events near Ulvsjön. On each occasion she had to make a real effort not to yell: “Leave me alone! I know I killed two people—but they tried to kill us first!” She realized she had to make a professional and trustworthy impression on her colleagues. It took its toll, but she succeeded in presenting a cool, calm façade.

  Deep down she felt anything but calm. The nightmares that had haunted her after the events of the previous year returned. She was surrounded by men, their heads and limbs shot to pieces, while she was frozen to the spot, incapable of getting away. Her own screams usually woke her when the first zombie reached out his bloody hands to grab her.

  The only positive aspect was that she no longer dreamed of the night when Lollo had disappeared.

  In spite of her poor mental state, she refused all offers of counseling. She just couldn’t bear the thought of probing what had gone on. It wasn’t the battle she wanted to avoid talking about—because it had been a real battle—but the exchange of fire during the previous fall’s moose hunt. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake in that context.

  Before the initial interviews with the internal investigators, she and Olle had been told not to speak to each other. Once their respective accounts had been documented, there was nothing to stop them. Embla took the initiative and made the first call. To her relief he sounded genuinely pleased to hear her voice. From then on they’d spoken more or less every evening, and it felt good to be back in touch.

  Olle was still on sick leave as well. A specialist surgeon had had to remove splinters of bone from the gunshot wound and reposition sinews and bone; the hand was still bandaged. Tore had found it hard to settle for the first few nights, but after a week or so of peace and quiet with his master, he was feeling better.

  On the Monday of the second week, Embla was back at work, on light duties only. She slipped into the conference room where the morning briefing was held and sat in the back, as far as possible from her boss. After a moment, she was joined by Irene Huss, who arrived with a cup of coffee in each hand as usual.

  Tommy Persson was standing at the front by the whiteboard, leading so-called morning prayers. He nodded to Embla. “First a quick update to get Embla up to speed.”

  Everyone turned and looked at her. So much for sneaking in unnoticed, she thought.

  “Two men were shot dead up by Ulvsjön, and two were blown up with hand grenades,” Tommy said. “None of the dead have been identified yet, but we’ve sent photographs, fingerprints, and DNA samples to our colleagues in Split. Something tells me they’ll know who those guys are. The only one we have identified is Jiri Acika; his DNA and prints are in our database from his previous spell in jail. He’s the brother of Andreas Acika, Milo Stavic’s director of finance. They’re both cousins of the Stavic brothers. Jiri is also the only one of the three survivors who’s not in the hospital; he’s being held on remand. The only medical treatment he’s received is a tetanus shot and antibiotics for the dog bite on his wrist. At least the dog who inflicted the injury isn’t required to face an internal investigation.”

  He smiled and gave Embla a meaningful look before continuing.

  “The two guys who turned up just before the police arrived are both in Sahlgrenska Hospital. Their bullet wounds aren’t life-threatening and obviously they’re under armed guard around the clock. They’ve been identified as . . .”

  He clicked on his laptop and Fish Eyes appeared on the whiteboard.

  “. . . Liam Eklund, age twenty-six. He served four years in Kumla for narcotics offenses and complicity in a homicide. Member of the Red Devils, an offshoot of the Hells Angels. He’s mixed up in most of the crap both gangs are involved in.”

  Another click, and Rat Face’s nasty little eyes were staring down at them, overshadowed by the multiple piercings in his eyebrows.

  “This is another old acquaintance. Timmy Johansson, age twenty-five. He’s served two sentences, each for two and half years. The first was for serious narcotics offenses and aggravated assault, the second for human trafficking and multiple rapes. He’s been out for less than six months, and we think he resumed his career. One theory is that he and Eklund had come to collect the two girls we found in the house—and probably drugs and guns. We can’t be sure because neither of them has said a word.”

  Embla didn’t want to draw attention to herself, so she whispered to Irene, “Can you ask what the girl in the bathtub died of?”

  Irene nodded and politely raised her hand.

  Tommy nodded to her.

  “Do we have a cause of death for the girl in the bathroom?”

  His expression was grim as he answered. “The preliminary autopsy report suggests an overdose. The other girl is in pretty bad shape, both mentally and physically. They’d pumped all kinds of different drugs into both girls. The one who died is about fifteen years old, the one who survived a year or so younger.”

  There was a brief silence; several officers shook their heads.

  “Three cans of diesel were found in the Range Rover. It could well be that the two gang members in that car were intending to burn down the house in order to get rid of all the evidence, including the dead girl.”

  “Just like they did with Kador,” Embla murmured, so quietly that only Irene could hear.

  The image on the whiteboard was replaced with a picture of a pistol. A Beretta M9, Embla thought.

  Tommy gazed at his audience, and suddenly his face broke into a broad grin.

  “I’ve actually got some good news! This Beretta was under Milo Stavic’s hands when his body was found. But as we know, it wasn’t his; it belonged to his brother Luca. Göran Krantz has checked all available numbers and registers; he’s also carried out test firing. We now have the facts about the brothers’ two Berettas.”

  Another click, and an identical pistol appeared.

  “This is Milo’s Beretta. Jiri Acika was holding it when he threatened our colleagues Embla Nyström and Olle Tillman. We assume that he swapped the guns after killing Milo because he didn’t want to keep a pistol that could be linked to the two murders. He did, however, want a high-quality Beretta for himself, so he kept the one he found in Milo’s room, which, of course, was a completely idiotic thing to do. We also know that he took Milo’s iPhone and possibly a tablet and a laptop. Those haven’t been recovered. Greed overcame Jiri, and he couldn’t resist helping himself to Milo’s gold watch, which he was wearing when he was arrested. We think he tried to steal a valuable emerald ring, but he couldn’t get it off Milo’s finger. He also had a bunch of keys in his pocket; Göran has established that they’re the keys to Milo’s apartment.”

  He fell silent, pausing for effect.

  “Forensics have lifted a right thumbprint from Luca’s pistol—the murder weapon—and they found DNA on the magazine. Both from Jiri Acika!”

  His face lit up with triumph, and there was a scattering of applause around the room. Human witnesses can be threatened and frightened into silence, but there’s no arguing with strong forensic evidence. It’s often the key to sending a criminal to jail.

  When the hum of conversation subsided, Tommy raised a hand and continued. “So Jiri Acika killed both Milo and Luca, but plenty of questions still remain. We know that Luca had his laptop
and iPhone in the car, so it was easy for Jiri Acika to take them. And we know that Luca was shot first, with his own gun. But how did Jiri get a hold of it? Who gained access to Luca’s apartment, with its security system and alarm?”

  Embla immediately started wondering, then realized her boss was still talking.

  “ . . . involved in an accident. Jiri’s car collided with a motorbike at a junction. No one was seriously hurt, but there was a patrol car on the scene within a minute because the collision happened a stone’s throw from the police station in Split. It was in the middle of rush hour, at a quarter to five in the afternoon. This was the day before Kador disappeared. After that we know nothing about Jiri’s movements. Presumably he traveled under a false name because we have no record of his arrival in Sweden during the past two weeks. Nor any other suspects. New arrivals from the Balkans are of interest, but we’ve found nothing so far.”

  Something was nagging Embla, but she couldn’t quite pin it down. Who could have had access to Luca’s pistol inside his own personal Fort Knox? Suddenly it all made sense. She really didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but this time she had no choice.

  Hesitantly she raised her hand. Tommy gave her an encouraging nod.

  “I don’t think Luca’s killer went into his apartment.”

  “No? So how did Jiri Acika get a hold of the Beretta? He’s not a ghost who can walk through locked doors,” Tommy said. The accompanying smile didn’t reach his eyes. Embla’s uncertainty was replaced by a flare of anger, but she couldn’t let it show. She took a deep breath.

  “Both Milo and Luca knew that their brother Kador had disappeared. They must have realized there was a risk he’d been murdered. Even if they didn’t believe they themselves were in danger, they each owned a Beretta. I’m pretty sure Milo would have told Luca to make sure he was armed, and I’m also pretty sure Luca would have done just that, bearing in mind that he’d been shot four years earlier.”

  Almost everyone was looking at her now. No one tried to interrupt, but she could see that some of her colleagues looked dubious. A couple of people were checking their phones, and one was staring out the rain-streaked window.

  “But Luca was no marksman. He rarely if ever practiced, according to his partner, Stephen Walker. Where does a person who’s not used to being armed put his gun when he’s driving? In the glove compartment, probably. Or on the passenger seat. Then he picks it up when he gets out of the car. The safety is still on, which makes it comparatively easy for an assailant to surprise the owner of the gun and take it. With violence, if necessary, but I suspect there was no need in this case.”

  She had the attention of the room now, which gave her the confidence to go on.

  “So Jiri Acika was waiting inside the parking garage. When Luca got out of his car, Jiri went over to say hi to his cousin. I’m sure Jiri had a gun with him, but when he saw the Beretta in Luca’s hand, he got an idea.”

  She fell silent and looked around the table. Even the guy who’d been staring out the window was with her now. Who would lose patience first and ask the question?

  “So what do you think happened?”

  Tommy, of course.

  “They were cousins. I think Jiri called Luca and said he knew something about Kador. Milo was out of town, so he needed to tell Luca—but not over the phone, they had to meet. In secret—no one was to know that Jiri was in Sweden.”

  Her throat was dry; she’d gotten out of the habit of talking so much. She drank some water and continued. “So Jiri saw the Beretta, and he overpowered his own cousin and shot him twice.”

  No one spoke for a moment, then Tommy said thoughtfully, “It sounds plausible, and it explains how Jiri acquired Luca’s pistol. And his laptop and cell phone. Then when he found Milo’s Beretta in the cottage, he decided to swap them. Maybe he thought one or both guns were unregistered.”

  He looked at Embla with something that might have been respect.

  “Well done, Embla. I think you’re right. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”

  He glanced around the room. “Okay, so Jiri will be questioned again today. We still don’t know why all three brothers were killed, but it could be some kind of apocalyptic battle between different gangs operating across Europe, with their base in the former Yugoslavia.”

  He glanced at his notepad before raising his final point.

  “The issue of Kador’s family remains. I’ve spoken to Göran Krantz, and he’s agreed to coordinate the search because he’s in regular contact with our colleagues in Split.”

  Could Lollo and her children be in Sweden? Göran had said it was possible, because the only people she could turn to were her in-laws in Gothenburg. Imagine seeing Lollo again! The thought made Embla’s stomach contract with nerves, and she felt a shiver of anticipation. However, she was increasingly afraid that the killers were also trying to track down Lollo. Jiri Acika might be in custody, but his associates were still out there. Presumably that was why Lollo had fled from Split. She might have important information about the Stavic brothers’ various activities. She might even know who was behind the murders. The police had to find Lollo—and soon.

  Embla had been back at work for a few days and Olle was on his second week of sick leave when she decided phone calls weren’t enough; she needed to see him. She contacted him on the Wednesday evening, and he immediately asked how she was.

  “I saw the doctor again today; she says I’m still suffering from post-traumatic stress. She could be right—I’m having nightmares. Are you?”

  He hesitated before answering.

  “I did at the beginning, for the first few nights. My hand was really painful, too. It’s getting better, but neither Tore nor I are at a hundred percent yet.”

  He swallowed hard. He sounded unusually serious, and he made no attempt to dismiss what had happened with a joke, which was his usual style.

  “Nobody else can understand what we went through up there,” Embla said quietly. “If that guy hadn’t been driving past along the main road just as one of the grenades exploded, he wouldn’t have contacted our colleagues in Bengtsfors . . . and there’s no guarantee we’d have made it out of there alive.”

  Her final words were no more than a whisper. Tears burned behind her eyelids, and she had a lump in her throat. It was Göran who’d told her about the man who’d been passing at exactly the right moment. He’d realized something serious was going on and had been sensible enough to put his foot down until he reached Strand, where he knew there would be a phone signal, and he had called the police.

  They sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

  Eventually Olle said, “Maybe we should meet. I haven’t heard much about how the investigation’s going, which is kind of frustrating.”

  “I can understand that. I think it would be good to meet up. I have some information, but the picture is far from complete. And of course I’m not directly involved in the events at Ulvsjön because of the internal investigation.”

  It was somehow humiliating that she wasn’t allowed to play an active role, when she was the one who’d taken the greatest risks and made sure the Stavic brothers’ murderer had been caught.

  “I’ve been given the job of looking for Kador’s family. We’re not certain they’re in Gothenburg, but it seems likely. We also know they’re living under a false identity.”

  The driving force in this depressing task was the hope that she would manage to find some trace of Lollo and her children. The clock was ticking, and the risk of someone else tracking them down first was increasing.

  Olle cleared his throat. “Are you doing anything this weekend?”

  Embla had arranged to go out for a meal with friends, but she could easily do that another time.

  “Nothing I can’t rearrange,” she said, keeping her tone light.

  “Where sha
ll we meet?”

  “You decide. You’re the one who’s still suffering with a sore paw.”

  I’m suffering with a sore soul, but that doesn’t show, she thought.

  “I’m not suffering, and it’s not too sore,” he informed her. He sighed deeply and added: “My sister’s family has recovered from the flu, and Mom is back from Tenerife. They’ve all decided they need to take care of little me, and it’s kind of wearing.”

  Embla giggled; she knew exactly what he meant. Her parents and brothers had made an enormous fuss over her, inviting her over for meals and calling every day to see how she was. Not to mention her friends and colleagues . . . It became exhausting after a while, to say the least. It was good to know that people cared about her, of course, but enough was enough.

  “Maybe one of them could watch Tore for the weekend? How is he, by the way?”

  There was a lengthy silence. “He’s doing okay, but I think it’s too early to leave him with someone else. I’ll have to do it when I go back to work, but right now . . .” He broke off, and Embla understood. He was torn between wanting to see her and wanting to stay with his courageous dog, so that Tore could make a full recovery and become his old self again. The question was whether any of them would be able to do that. What had happened was etched on their mind forever; they could never erase it completely.

  She had carefully thought through her plan before she called him, but she managed to make it sound as if it had just occurred to her.

  “Maybe we need to go on a retreat for a couple of days,” she suggested casually.

  “A retreat? What do you mean?”

  “You know the kind of thing—you cut yourself off from the outside world. No phones, no TV, nothing to disturb your inner calm.”

  “You want us to go camping in the mountains?” he said with a laugh.

  “No—I’ve got a much better idea, and Tore can come, too. I need to check on something, then I’ll get back to you.”