Snowdrift

by Helene Tursten

The glass complex in Gårda was large and had several entrances, plus two access points to the underground parking lot, so they needed at least four cars to mount a surveillance operation. It was difficult to release so many officers on such short notice, but within an hour there were five of them in the Violent Crimes Unit’s conference room. Göran was leading the briefing, but Tommy Persson was there, too.

  “So we now know that Louise and the children are in Gothenburg, and we know where she’s working,” Göran began.

  Detective Inspector Fredrik Stridh raised his hand.

  “Is there anything to suggest that their lives are in danger? I can understand that they fled from Split when Kador Stavic went missing, but surely they’re safe here?”

  Göran’s expression was serious.

  “We can’t rule out the possibility that they’re still in danger. Thanks to our colleagues in Split, the four men who were killed up in Dalsland have been identified as members of a rival gang from the Zagreb area. Apparently they’re a powerful group with plans to expand across the Balkans and throughout Europe, but in Split the Stavic brothers, represented by Kador, were too strong. Jiri Acika has lived there for the past five years, ever since he was released from Tidaholm prison. We’ve been questioning him for almost two weeks, and we’ve gotten precisely nowhere. He’s been remanded in custody on suspicion of murdering both Milo and Luca Stavic. We have evidence linking him to both homicides, and we also know he’d been recruited to the Zagreb gang because he was with them at the house in Dalsland.”

  “How about his brother?” Irene Huss asked.

  “We haven’t found anything to indicate that he was involved. Andreas Acika was Milo Stavic’s right-hand man—but was Milo nurturing a snake in his bosom? It is possible that both brothers had links to the gang in Zagreb.”

  He looked around the room; Fredrik was waving his hand again.

  “So what does Andreas Acika say? I presume you’ve questioned him, too.”

  “We’ve given him a real grilling, but he maintains he’s innocent. He insists he had no idea that his brother was in Sweden, or that Jiri had anything to do with the Zagreb gang. Then again, we don’t know exactly where Andreas’s loyalty lies. Milo was the spider at the center of a huge international criminal web. How many of his men have gone over to the other side? And how many of them are in Gothenburg?”

  Tommy Persson cleared his throat. “It does seem as if Milo thought the family wasn’t safe in Split since he took steps to get them out of the country just hours after Kador’s disappearance. He also provided Louise and the children with false identities, and he must have had a place to live ready for them. There’s no evidence that they’ve been in his apartment—only in the Audi,” he pointed out.

  Göran agreed. “I’m sure you’re right; he was ready to implement his plan if it became necessary. And a part of that plan was to give Louise a job at STAV Property’s head office.”

  He then went through the surveillance notes. Louise was probably in one of the offices on the top story, where Milo’s parent company, MISTAV Ltd., occupied the whole floor. MISTAV was also part-owner of the building, along with another major construction firm.

  “No night shift, thank goodness,” Fredrik said to Embla as they left the room, firing off a flirtatious smile. He always did that when they met. As usual she merely gave a faint smile and nodded. Sorry, but I don’t date married men, she thought. Nadir’s handsome face flashed through her mind. He still made her heart turn over, but she knew she’d done the right thing in ending things with him. It had been a brief, passionate fling, and she was never going to get involved with a married man again.

  Surveillance began at exactly 11:00 that same day. Half an hour earlier Irene Huss had called STAV Property Ltd. to express an interest in the apartments in Vasastan. As before, Lollo/Louise/Mirja Stavic/Anna Something-or-other had answered.

  In spite of the morning’s promising sunrise, the weather had changed. It was bitterly cold and raining hard, and pedestrians hunched their shoulders against the icy wind. In other words, it was a return to the usual late-winter conditions in Gothenburg.

  A major problem was that the last picture they had of Louise was her wedding photo, which was taken almost fifteen years ago. Embla was pretty sure she wouldn’t have dyed her hair because she’d always been proud of her thick pale-blonde locks. Apart from that, they had no idea what she looked like. Strangely enough, it seemed that Mirja Stavic had never been issued a passport, so the police in Split were unable to supply a current passport photograph.

  At lunchtime, employees came pouring out of the building; there were several blonde women among them, but none who resembled Louise. Maybe she was eating in the in-house cafeteria.

  Fredrik Stridh had made his way down to the underground parking lot, dressed as an employee of the firm responsible for the parking facilities in and around the building. Göran had told him to look for a new Audi A6. He’d found two, but when he checked the owners, only one was really interesting. A brand-new white A6 was registered as a company car with STAV Property. It had been supplied by the same company that had sold the big Audi to Milo, and both cars had been collected at the same time, the week before Milo drove up to Herremark.

  Fredrik quickly returned to the unmarked police car waiting by the ramp that led down to the parking lot. He changed into his own jacket; now it was just a matter of waiting for Louise to leave work.

  Göran and Embla were in a black Volvo XC40, a recent acquisition by the Gothenburg police. The new-car smell was so strong that it made Embla feel nauseated, and she had to open the window in spite of the cold. Her mouth was dry, her stomach churning. She didn’t need her psychologist friend to tell her that she was nervous at the prospect of seeing Lollo again.

  They had a long wait; the Audi didn’t emerge until 4:15 p.m.

  Fredrik informed his colleagues who were dotted around the building in their cars: “The white Audi just left. Female driver, no passengers. Turning onto Levgrensvägen.”

  The other unmarked cars set off in the same direction; Embla made sure the Volvo was last in the line. Louise mustn’t catch sight of her under any circumstances, otherwise the whole operation would fail.

  They traveled north, out onto the E20. Through Partille, past Lerum and Floda. When the convoy left Västra Bodarna behind, Göran spoke for the first time since they’d set off. “She’s heading for Alingsås.”

  He seemed to be right; they drove into Alingsås, coming off a large roundabout and weaving their way through a network of narrow streets. Many of the low wooden houses were pretty old, but they were well-maintained and gave the place a certain charm. There were also some newer areas, which brought a modern dimension to the town. Embla thought it was attractive and realized, to her surprise, that this was the first time she’d been to Alingsås, even though it was only thirty-five kilometers from Gothenburg.

  They eventually reached a smaller roundabout; the Audi signaled and took the road leading to a district called Nolhaga. They continued down a hill with new houses on one side and a park on the other. They passed a series of apartment blocks by a river, then turned right.

  Because there wasn’t much traffic, only Fredrik Stridh and Irene Huss followed in their cars. Embla pulled into a parking lot, turned the car around, and waited with the engine idling. There was a swimming pool opposite, and a group of middle-aged ladies walked in through the doors, chatting away. For a moment Embla envied them. She would have loved to go for a swim, then relax in the sauna.

  Göran’s voice brought her back to reality. “I’ll call Fredrik, find out where they are.”

  Fredrik answered right away, and Göran switched to hands-free so Embla could hear.

  “She stopped at a daycare center and picked up a little boy. It didn’t take long; he was waiting. Now she’s parking the car in a designated spot. I’ll park illegally farther down. Irene’s
driven past; there’s a parking lot up ahead.”

  He ended the call before they could say anything. Embla pulled out onto the road again. On the left-hand side there was a forest, the trees bare. No doubt it was lovely in the spring and summer, but now it looked gloomy. Rain dripped from the branches and rotting, gray-brown leaves covered the ground.

  It’s March; in a month it will be spring. The thought gave Embla a burst of positive energy, which was exactly what she needed.

  Fredrik called again. “Can you see those yellow apartment blocks straight ahead?”

  “Yes,” Göran and Embla chorused in unison.

  “The street is called Lövskogsstigen. Louise Lindqvist has just gone inside. If you go into the courtyard and around the corner, the entrance is there. I suggest you drive to the ICA store and park there, then walk back. It’s around a hundred and fifty meters. Irene and I are waiting on the corner.”

  Just as before, he ended the call before they could respond.

  They drove past the apartment blocks, saw their colleagues on the corner, and continued to the ICA store. The weather was appalling. Embla pulled up her hood as soon as they got out of the car and heard Göran mutter: “A hundred and fifty meters . . . Surely that has to count as exercise . . .”

  He glanced at her sideways and gave her a sly smile.

  Irene and Fredrik looked relieved when Göran and Embla joined them; it was no fun standing in the wind and rain.

  Göran took charge. “Fredrik, keep an eye on the entrance from the outside. Irene, you come with us, but I’d like you to stay on the landing and monitor the courtyard through one of the windows,” he said.

  Fredrik didn’t look particularly happy with his assignment. The only consolation was that there was a low building in the courtyard, possibly some kind of storage facility. It had a decent porch; he would have a good view of the door while being sheltered from the rain.

  They trooped along to the main door and looked at the list of residents’ names. The only possibility was A. Leko on the fifth floor. A for Anna, Embla thought. Maybe Leko was a Croatian surname. There was an A. Sjöström on the same floor, but that sounded too Swedish, given that the children were unlikely to be able to speak the language without an accent. They concluded that A. Leko was their best bet.

  While Göran was deliberating, Irene pressed the button for A. Sjöström. After a moment a woman’s voice said:

  “Yes? Who is it?”

  A. Sjöström was clearly an elderly lady. Irene thought fast.

  “I’m so sorry. I must have pressed the wrong button. My name is Irene Huss and I’m here to see Anna Leko about her children’s home language tuition.”

  Her colleagues exchanged appreciative glances, impressed by Irene’s quick thinking.

  “Could you possibly let me in?” she went on.

  “Of course.”

  The lock buzzed, and Fredrik politely opened the door for them. When they were all inside, he took up his post in the porch across the way.

  Embla, Göran, and Irene crowded together in the tiny elevator, which sped up to the top floor.

  Embla’s heart was racing, and she couldn’t seem to slow down her breathing. Göran thinks I’m going to go in with him and speak to Lollo, but I can’t do it! Her stomach was churning and she felt sick again. And yet she knew she had to do it; she needed answers to all her questions.

  A large window on the landing overlooked the generous inner courtyard. It had a broad marble sill where several potted plants were displayed. Irene moved a wilting weeping fig and sat down.

  “This is perfect,” she said with a smile.

  There were three doors: A. Leko, A. Sjöström, and O. Carlson. Göran pressed the bell for A. Leko, and Embla noticed that the door had extra security locks. They heard the sound of running feet. A woman’s voice called out, but the feet were already there. Someone fumbled with the catch, the woman’s voice shouted “No!” followed by what sounded like a reprimand in a language they didn’t understand.

  The door opened and a little boy with curly blond hair gazed up at them with big blue eyes that were inquiring at first, then filled with fear. Embla recognized Julian, the six-year-old from the Christmas photograph.

  When she looked over his head, she met a pair of equally blue eyes. Lollo’s.

  She knew who Embla was right away and stood there as if she’d turned to stone. The boy didn’t say anything; he simply stared at the tall man and the red-haired woman.

  All the tension and anxiety left Embla’s body.

  “Hi, Lollo. Good to see you again,” she said without taking her eyes off the other woman. As soon as she said it, she knew how true it was. She felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. All the guilt, fear, shame, and sorrow disappeared, and she was filled with an inner calm.

  The boy backed away until he felt his mother’s leg behind him. She placed a hand on his shoulder but didn’t speak.

  Göran took over. “Superintendent Göran Krantz. I know you and Embla were close friends when you were growing up, although she used the name Åsa back then. We’d like to ask you a few questions. As I’m sure you realize, this is linked to the investigation into the murders of your husband, Kador, and your brothers-in-law, Milo and Luca.”

  Every scrap of color drained from Louise’s face and she swayed, but she managed to remain upright by tightening her grip on her son’s shoulder. He winced and twisted free.

  “Kador’s . . . Is Kador . . . ?” she whispered almost inaudibly.

  Only then did they realize she didn’t know her husband was dead.

  Offering no resistance, Louise allowed herself to be steered into the kitchen by the superintendent’s gentle hand beneath her elbow. He pulled out a chair and she sank down onto it. Julian repeated something in Croatian several times. When Göran asked her what the boy was saying, she slowly turned her head and looked at him, as if she’d just become aware of her son’s presence.

  “He’s asking . . . if Daddy’s coming soon. And he wants a sandwich.”

  The table and chairs were in the bay window of the large kitchen. Embla didn’t know who the designer was, but she recognized the white oval table with thin steel legs. There had been an identical one in Luca’s apartment. She thought they might be Myran chairs or something like that.

  “Is it okay if Embla fixes a drink and a snack?” Göran asked.

  Louise gave a barely perceptible nod.

  Embla immediately set to work making tea and coffee. Julian pointed to the box of chocolate milk above the exhaust fan. All the crockery in the cupboards was part of the same Rörstrand design—twelve of everything. The same with the Kosta glasses—a full set of every kind of glass you could think off. There wasn’t a single thing that didn’t match. The refrigerator was full of food; someone had clearly been shopping.

  She set out cups, glasses, bread, milk, butter, and various toppings, keeping an eye on Louise the whole time. Would she have recognized her childhood friend if they’d passed in the street? Hardly. Maybe if their eyes had met because Louise’s eyes were still that same intense shade of blue. The aura of an ethereal elf that had surrounded her as a teenager was completely gone. The long pale-blonde hair that had curled around her fine-featured face and tumbled down over her shoulders was nothing more than a memory. It had been cut to medium length, and those curls had been carefully styled. The platinum-blonde color had come out of a bottle; the roots were considerably darker. She had put on weight; her body could best be described as plump, although she hid it well in a pair of dark-blue jeans and a loose white silk blouse beneath a denim jacket. She was also wearing an intricate pendant on a gold chain, with a large blue stone in the center. Given how the stone sparkled when the light caught it, Embla assumed it was a sapphire. It matched both Louise’s eyes and the stones in the ring on the third finger of her left hand. In fact
she had several rings on both hands, all with different stones. Gold and sapphire earrings completed the look. Slightly over the top, Embla thought, but typical of the friend I remember. Always too much of everything. Never just the right amount.

  The same applied to her makeup. She’d been generous with her eyeliner, and her lashes were thick with mascara. Her full lips shone with glossy pink lipstick. She was still beautiful. As a teenager she’d hardly suffered from acne at all, while Embla had battled away with different soaps and ointments. Now Louise’s skin was concealed beneath a layer of foundation, but Embla could still see how pale she was.

  Julian said something and tugged at his mother’s sleeve.

  “He wants cold chocolate milk,” Louise translated, her voice devoid of any emotion.

  Embla poured a glass of milk and added the chocolate powder according to the directions on the box. Then she looked at Julian, raised her eyebrows, and pointed to the different sandwich toppings on the table. He caught on immediately and pointed first to a packet of salami, then to a block of cheese. Okay, two sandwiches. She made up his order, placed the sandwiches on a plate, and put it in front of the boy. He dug in without looking at the adults around the table.

  “Tea or coffee, Lollo?” she asked.

  Louise gave a start and looked at her in confusion. She swallowed several times before she was able to answer.

  “Coffee.”

  Embla poured her a cup. She didn’t even bother asking Göran; she simply poured him a coffee, too. There was a small bowl with a lid on the shelf next to the cups; she picked it up, assuming it was sugar. When she took off the lid, she saw that the bowl was full of little packets of white powder. She glanced at the table and was relieved to see that Lollo was facing away from her. Without saying a word, she replaced the bowl. She found a box of sugar lumps in the cupboard and handed it to Göran.

  Gently Embla touched her shoulder; the woman jumped as if she’d received an electric shock.

  “Can I make you a sandwich, too?”