Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

  There was a brief silence, then he said: “Sounds promising. And . . .” He took a deep breath. “It will be good to see you again. The day after tomorrow . . . or on Saturday?”

  “Let’s aim for Friday evening.”

  “Fantastic!” There was no mistaking the joy and relief in his voice. Embla thought it was best to let him believe he was the one who’d taken the initiative in arranging to meet up.

  When the alarm woke her on Thursday morning, Embla felt fully rested. She hadn’t had a single nightmare. Presumably it was the thought of the weekend retreat that had made her feel so much better. She’d arranged everything immediately after speaking to Olle; it was all organized.

  The rain had stopped at around midnight; the sky cleared and the temperature quickly dropped below freezing. All the water on the roads and sidewalks froze, covering the city in a sheet of ice. It happens almost every winter in Gothenburg, and it always causes total chaos. People can’t get into their cars, because the doors are frozen shut. There are lots of broken bones thanks to the treacherous sidewalks, and the hospitals’ emergency rooms soon fill up. There are also more road traffic accidents than usual, despite winter tires.

  In light of her previous experience, Embla decided to take the tram. She was wearing her thick-soled hunting boots, which were excellent when it was slippery.

  As she was taking them off in the changing room, her phone vibrated. It was a text from Göran: Think I’ve found something re: Louise.

  Her heart began to beat faster, and once again she felt a confusing mixture of hope and . . . what? Fear? Anticipation? She kicked off her boots and slipped on the ballerina pumps she kept in her locker. She decided to give morning prayers a miss and go straight to Göran’s office. On the way upstairs she sent a text to Tommy Persson: New info from GK re: Louise L. Will report back asap.

  Embla found Göran by the coffee machine talking to the male technician who’d been with them up in Herremark. All she knew about him was that his name was Bengan, and he’d been with forensics forever. Small and skinny with thin gray hair and a lined, sallow face, he looked kind of dried out.

  Both men turned as she approached. Bengan nodded to her, murmured something to Göran, then disappeared with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

  “That guy is worth his weight in gold. He’s almost reached retirement age, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed that he’ll stay on for a while longer,” Göran whispered loudly enough for his aging colleague to hear.

  If Bengan did hear, there was no reaction; he simply continued down the hallway, stooping slightly.

  Göran offered Embla a cup of tea and she accepted, just to be sociable. He jerked his head in the direction of his office.

  “I’ve got freshly baked cinnamon buns.”

  That was an offer she wouldn’t be accepting. Even though she no longer competed as a boxer, her eating habits had stayed with her. They’d been hammered home by her trainer over a period of more than a decade. It was important to eat a nutritious diet and to avoid things like processed meats, sugar, and alcohol. According to her eldest brother, Atle, she was suffering from orthorexia. She’d googled the word and discovered that it was used to define a condition where a person is fixated on a healthy lifestyle and can become obsessed with excessive exercise and a healthy diet. Sometimes it can turn into anorexia. Embla thought Atle was wrong. Besides, he was no expert when it came to nutrition. He was an anesthetist. His patients didn’t eat anything. He put them on a drip and sent them to sleep.

  Göran refused to tell Embla about the search for Louise until he’d eaten her cinnamon bun as well as his own, and fetched another cup of coffee from the machine.

  “Bengan and Linda went through Milo Stavic’s Audi yesterday. They didn’t get around to it before because we have several ongoing homicide investigations. Anyway, Milo picked it up the week before he drove to Herremark. Ten days before, to be precise. There are only five hundred and sixty kilometers on the odometer. Since it’s so new, there aren’t many fingerprints or other traces in the car—which makes the ones they did find all the more interesting.”

  He put on his reading glasses and took a sheet of paper out of his in-tray.

  “As expected, the trunk was almost completely clean. They found prints belonging to staff at the Audi dealership, and to Milo himself. However, on the inside of the back door they also found a set of prints from a small right hand. Those same prints occurred again around the front passenger seat. And there were three different sets of children’s prints in the backseat.”

  As Göran was reading, Embla felt an icy chill creep across her scalp, down the back of her neck and her spine. She had to exercise great self-control to stop her teeth from chattering.

  He looked up at her.

  “We have Louise Lindqvist’s prints on record following her disappearance. Need I say the ones in the trunk are a perfect match?”

  Embla’s tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. She ought to say something, but she couldn’t do it. She nodded mutely.

  Göran peered over the top of his glasses, smiling with satisfaction.

  “Louise and her three children have definitely been in that car.”

  He referred to the sheet of paper once more.

  “We also found strands of hair of different lengths and from different people. They’ve been sent for DNA analysis, which could take some time. However, we do have Louise’s DNA, so we should be able to establish her identity, and the fact that the children are related to her.”

  Embla felt that she was able to breathe normally again. It was true: Lollo really was alive. In a moment of clarity, she realized she hadn’t believed it until now. Those years of feeling guilty about her friend had left their mark. As time went by, the fear that Lollo was dead had grown stronger, along with the conviction that it was Embla’s fault. The revelation that Lollo had left on her own accord and had been living in Split all along had come as an even greater shock. Realizing that Lollo had lied and dragged Embla into her planned disappearance aroused mixed feelings that she couldn’t shake.

  Göran was a genius when it came to computers, and he was very good at finding people, but right now he was busy with a thousand things at once. Therefore he’d asked Embla to continue searching for Louise and the children. When she said she wasn’t sure where to begin, he’d replied: “Use the computer. Contact the authorities. She’s bound to show up somewhere sooner or later. It’s just a matter of getting a hold of the right loose thread and pulling on it.” Then his phone had started ringing and she’d left his office.

  After reporting back to Tommy Persson, she’d headed for the office she shared with Irene Huss. Her colleague was at her desk staring out the dirty window. Somehow she managed to balance her long limbs in a half-seated position on her chair without appearing to be uncomfortable. A faint pink flush had begun to find its way between the buildings, giving the façades a golden glow. Maybe there would be a really beautiful sunrise. It had been a while.

  “Hi—how’s it going?”

  Irene turned to look at her and unexpectedly gave her a big smile.

  “Great! I’m just sitting here trying to recover from the shock.”

  Embla raised her eyebrows. “The shock?”

  “I’m going to be a grandmother!” Irene flung her arms wide, as if she wanted to embrace the whole world.

  It was unexpected, and Embla didn’t quite know what to say. It wasn’t that Irene’s twin daughters were too young to become parents—they were only two years younger than her—but . . .

  “A grandmother . . . Wow! I mean, congratulations!”

  “Thank you! It’s Katarina and Felipe. Katarina emailed me late last night, and I’ve only just read her message. She’s just been to the doctor for her first examination, and she’s in her tenth week. It’s a little early to start cheering, but I think it’ll be fine. S
he’s suffering from morning sickness, but otherwise everything’s going well.”

  “Have they moved back from Brazil?”

  The smile faded slightly.

  “No, they’re still living in São Paulo. Katarina’s got a permanent post at the English girls’ school, and Felipe’s architecture company has plenty of work.”

  “Will she come home when the baby’s due?”

  Irene shook her head. “I don’t think so. They have good health insurance through Felipe’s job. The baby will be born in one of Brazil’s best private hospitals.”

  Embla thought about her friend Agnes. When her contractions had started last summer, there hadn’t been a single maternity bed available in the whole of Gothenburg. She’d had to go to Varberg Hospital, where the poor midwives had been running from one room to another, trying to be there for all the women at different stages of labor. According to Agnes, one mom had had to give birth in an ordinary examination room. That didn’t sound safe to Embla; maybe it was better for Katarina to have her baby in São Paulo.

  “So what are you working on at the moment?” Irene asked, giving her a searching look.

  “I’m trying to track down my childhood friend Louise Lindqvist, also known as Mirja Stavic, and her three children. All we know is that she and the kids have entered Sweden under false names, and that they’ve been in Gothenburg. If we’re lucky, they’re still here.”

  Embla filled Irene in on the forensic evidence from Milo’s new Audi.

  “So now I have a big problem—I don’t really know where to start.”

  Irene nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Start where you know she’s been—with the car.”

  “Okay—thanks.”

  Embla sat down and logged into her computer with her ID card. She stared at the screen for a long time. Computers weren’t her thing, but she wasn’t completely useless; no one under forty-five is these days.

  She went into the vehicle database first and entered all the information Göran had given her about the Audi. It was registered with a company called STAV Property Ltd. A quick check told her that all three Stavic brothers were listed as owners.

  The homepage showed a solid building that dated back to the beginning of the previous century. The copper roof had acquired an attractive blue-green patina and was adorned with several pinnacles and turrets. The balconies had white marble balustrades, and bay windows studded the reddish-brown façade. Around the windows, faces and floral garlands had been carved into the stone. It was charming and beautiful, and appeared to be well cared for.

  The text below was full of breathless enthusiasm.

  This is your chance to realize your dream of an apartment in the heart of Gothenburg! We are pleased to announce the sale of Phase Two in the Vasastan district of the city. The first apartments should be ready to move in to by the end of September at the latest! The next batch will be finished by the end of December, the remainder in May next year. By then the entire building will have been renovated, and we are taking great pains to maintain the period charm of the early twentieth century. Forty-five apartments are available in total, with between two and five bedrooms. They are light and airy, with large windows. The ceiling height is no less than three meters!

  Embla worked her way through lyrical descriptions of parquet flooring, modern kitchens with a retro style, and generous entertaining spaces. Out of sheer curiosity she clicked on “More information” and scrolled down to the prices of the apartments. At first she couldn’t believe her eyes, but there it was on the screen. A place the same size as the one she rented in Krokslätt would cost 4.4 million, with a monthly service charge of 5,350.

  The service charge might be okay, but who the hell can afford 4.4 million for an apartment measuring fifty-two square meters? Not someone earning a police officer’s salary, that was for sure.

  Down at the bottom was a number to call between 9:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. if you were interested. On impulse Embla made the call. It took a while for someone to answer.

  “Good morning, STAV Property Ltd. How can I help you?” said a cheerful female voice.

  Embla felt a faint tremor of recognition, but couldn’t quite work out why.

  “Good morning—who am I speaking to?”

  “Anna in the main office.”

  Then Embla knew exactly who it was. She tried to disguise her voice. “Sorry, wrong number,” she croaked.

  “No problem. Have a good day.”

  Embla’s heart was pounding. She immediately called Göran, and before he could speak she said:

  “I’ve found her!”

  Finding the address wasn’t a problem because the phone number on the homepage belonged to a landline.

  “She’s in Milo’s office block in Gårda—the tall glass complex,” Embla said.

  Göran was studying the website she’d found.

  “So we know where she is at the moment, but not where she lives.” He looked up at Embla. “Are you sure she didn’t recognize your voice?”

  “Absolutely—I disguised it.”

  Göran nodded to himself and turned his attention back to the screen. After a while Embla couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

  “Listen, I’ve got an idea of how we can approach this.”

  “Go on.”

  She decided to come straight out with it; if he didn’t like her plan, they’d have to try to come up with something else.

  “I can’t contact her again—she’d recognize my voice, and she’d disappear in no time. I suggest we put the building under surveillance, then follow her home.”

  He glanced up at her and nodded, which encouraged her to continue.

  “On the other hand, you could call her, say you’re interested in an apartment. Book an appointment.”

  He thought it over.

  “That could work. I can say that my wife and I are selling our enormous mansion in Hovås and are looking for a suitable apartment in the center of town,” he said with an ironic smile.

  “Perfect! That sounds like a typical client.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. The only thing is, I can’t understand why they don’t have a real estate agent dealing with sales.” He read through the text again. “It sounds kind of unprofessional to me. ‘The next batch . . .’ That’s not the terminology I’d expect. And those exclamation marks . . .”

  “Asking who the agent is might be a good opening question,” Embla suggested.

  They talked over their tactics for a little longer, then Göran went off to the lab to pick up a burner phone. Before making the call, he set the phone to record, then switched on the speaker so that Embla could follow the conversation.

  “Good morning, STAV Property Ltd. How can I help you?”

  It was the same woman, and it was definitely Lollo’s voice. Embla gave the thumbs-up to show that he’d rung the right person.

  “Good morning. My name is Gunnar Karlsson. I see from your website that you’re about to start selling apartments in Vasastan. My wife and I would like to know more.”

  “That’s right, you can sign up right now to get more information and register your interest. There will be three releases of fifteen apartments each. You can see the plans by clicking on the tab at the bottom of the homepage. Were you thinking of the first batch in September?”

  “We were. Is there an agent I can contact?”

  A sharp intake of breath.

  “I’m afraid the agent who dealt with Phase One isn’t able to take care of Phase Two because it clashed with another project. The owners are currently negotiating with another agent who will take over sales at a later stage.”

  The owners are currently negotiating . . . The Stavic brothers are dead. Sounds suspicious. Well, of course it does—we’re talking about Milo Stavic’s business affairs. So who’s running the show now? Embla wondered, exchanging a glance with
Göran, who raised his eyebrows in mutual understanding. Lollo—or Anna—had just told him a straight lie.

  “So it’s not possible to view any of the apartments at this stage?” he asked in a pleasant tone of voice.

  “Not yet, I’m afraid. The renovation work is in full swing. Plumbing and . . . that kind of thing. We will have a show apartment ready at the beginning of April, then each apartment will be available to view as soon as it’s finished.”

  Lollo was doing a sterling job. She’d always been good at taking the lead, while Embla had been the admiring friend, providing backup. In hindsight, their roles in the relationship had been very clear. Embla had always gone along with her suggestions, acted as the approving audience who never questioned Lollo’s ideas. She’d always seen Lollo as her best friend, her only real friend, and she’d been terrified of losing her, which was exactly what had happened.

  One advantage of Lollo’s disappearance from her life was that she’d been forced to find new friends. Through boxing and hunting she’d gotten to know like-minded individuals, but she’d also connected to people she’d met in different contexts. Over the years she’d acquired a wide circle of friends and acquaintances whose company she enjoyed.

  “So should I register my interest now, or wait until the new agent takes over?” Göran asked, following the strategy they’d discussed earlier.

  “You can register right now.”

  He winked at Embla.

  “I think I need to speak to my wife first; we’d better take a look at the plans on your website before we make our decision. I’ll get back to you,” he said hesitantly.

  “No problem. You have a nice day,” Anna/Lollo said, still cheerful and friendly.

  “Thanks—you too.”

  He ended the call and looked at Embla.

  “You’re absolutely certain that’s Louise Lindqvist?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Okay. Let’s find out where she lives.”