Also by Helene Tursten
The Irene Huss Investigations
Detective Inspector Huss
Night Rounds
The Torso
The Glass Devil
The Golden Calf
The Fire Dance
The Beige Man
The Treacherous Net
Who Watcheth
Protected by the Shadows
The Embla Nyström Investigations
Hunting Game
An Elderly Lady Is Up to No Good: Stories
First published in Swedish under the title Sandgrav
Copyright © 2016 by Helene Tursten. Published in agreement
with Copenhagen Literary Agency, Copenhagen.
English translation copyright © 2019 by Marlaine Delargy.
All rights reserved.
First English translation published in 2019 by
Soho Press
227 W 17th Street
New York, NY 10011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Tursten, Helene, author.
Delargy, Marlaine, translator.
Winter grave / Helene Tursten ;
translated from the Swedish by Marlaine Delargy.
Other titles: Sandgrav. English.
I. Title
PT9876.3.U55 S2613 2019 | DDC 839.73/8—dc23
ISBN 978-1-64129-076-0
eISBN 978-1-64129-077-7
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Anneli Høier, with sincere thanks
for your friendship and professional support
PART I
DECEMBER
Her heart was pounding and her stomach contracted with fear. Amelie was on the edge of her seat during the last ten minutes of the lesson. As soon as the bell rang, she leaped to her feet and raced out into the corridor, with Tuva right behind her.
“I’ll come with you to the bus stop!” Tuva shouted.
The girls pulled on their jackets as they ran toward the door, pausing briefly on the stairs to zip them up and put on their hats. It was already dark outside, and the bitter wind blowing in off the sea was icy cold. On top of everything else, it was pouring. Only two weeks to go until Christmas Eve, and not a flake of snow in sight. Horrible! Amelie thought. She would have liked to turn around and rejoin her classmates, but she had to dash home to pick up her Lucia robe and her candle.
The music teacher had said that everyone had to get changed so that it would feel real when they practiced for the last time before the Christmas concert and the Lucia procession. Dress rehearsal, that’s what she’d called it.
Things had been chaotic that morning. As usual her brother, Julien, hadn’t wanted to go to preschool; he was always tired and grumpy when he woke up. Their mom had spent ages coaxing him into his clothes, and they had all been seriously stressed—and very late—by the time they left the house. In the rush Amelie had forgotten her Lucia bag, which was still sitting on the floor in the hallway.
She had her own bus pass because she didn’t want to go to after-school club anymore. There was only one stop between the school and Önnaröd, where she lived, but it was dangerous to walk along the narrow road in the dark. Even though she had reflectors on both her boots and her coat sleeves, Mom insisted that she catch the bus. Tuva lived near school, so she didn’t need a pass. The girls were best friends. Amelie would be ten in two months and three days, and she thought after-school club was for little kids. Tuva agreed, even though her birthday wasn’t until May 5.
The girls could hear the bus pulling up at the stop. Or was it leaving?
“Wait!” they yelled.
They ran down the hill as fast as they could, only to see the red taillights disappearing into the distance. The next bus wasn’t due for twenty minutes. No! She had to be back for the rehearsal in half an hour!
The girls stood at the deserted bus shelter for a couple of minutes, trying to catch their breath. Maybe Amelie should just run home—it would only take ten minutes. But then I’ll stink, she thought. The familiar sound of a chugging engine cut through her thoughts. Kristoffer! He and Tuva were related, although Amelie wasn’t quite sure how. He’d given them a ride on his EPA-tractor several times.
Tuva positioned herself by the side of the road, frantically waving her arms as the slow, short truck approached. Amelie’s heart started pounding as Kristoffer stopped. He wound down the window and gave them an inquiring look. Loud rockabilly music poured from the speakers, echoing around the bus shelter.
“Hi—can you give Amelie a ride? She missed the bus . . . Pleeease, Kristoffer!”
He nodded and Amelie ran around to the other side of the vehicle. She gave Tuva a cheerful wave before opening the door and jumping in. She sank down on the soft seat with a sigh of relief. White leather—cool. Kristoffer’s EPA-tractor, no, A-tractor, was really nice. He was very particular about the names of cars, and apparently EPA-tractor was an old-fashioned term. There was a lovely smell from the fir-tree-shaped air freshener that dangled from the rearview mirror. Or maybe the smell was the gel Kristoffer used to keep his long hair in place? His “Elvis quiff,” that’s what Tuva called it. She thought it looked good, but Amelie wasn’t impressed. She liked One Direction, and none of the boys in the band had that kind of hairstyle. Kristoffer’s hoodie was covered in dirt and oil stains, as were his jeans. Amelie knew that he and his dad fixed up old cars.
She gave Tuva another wave as they set off.
“We’ve got a rehearsal and we have to wear our Lucia costumes, but we don’t need any sparkle, not until tomorrow. It’s the Christmas concert. All the parents come to watch. Me and Tuva are part of the procession. We sing all the time, and the little ones get to be sheep and shepherds, and we’re like angels and . . .”
Amelie chattered away. She knew Kristoffer, after all, though she had never been alone with him since Tuva had always been there when he had given them a ride in the past. But he seemed the same as always, and maybe she kept on talking because she knew he wouldn’t answer. He didn’t say much. Hardly anything, in fact. He was nice, though. He was taking her home. She leaned back in her seat, secure in the knowledge that she’d be back at school in time.
Julien was every bit as difficult in the afternoon when Maria arrived to pick him up from preschool. He flatly refused to go home. He and Malte were in the middle of building something with Legos, and there was no way it could wait until the following day. Maria felt the sweat trickling down her back as she tried to cajole and persuade him. Eventually she grabbed him and forced him into his outdoor clothes. He was cross and overtired. People talked about the terrible twos, but he was five years old now and had been behaving that way ever since he was born, Maria thought irritably. She exchanged a weary glance with the teacher, who had joined them in the entrance hall. Together they managed to get Julien into his jacket and boots, but they gave up on his thick waterproof over-trousers. Needless to say, he tripped and fell in a great big puddle on the way to the car. His jeans were soaked through, and he started whining again.
“We’re just going to collect Amelie, then we’ll go straight home. You can have hot chocolate with whipped cream, and I’ll take some cinnamon buns out of the freezer. I think we’ve earned a treat after a day like this, don’t you?”
She kissed his forehead and lifted him into the car. She had a struggle with the child seat, of course—it was definitely one of those days! Only when she sank down in the driver’s seat did she let out a long breath. Thank goodness they were only a few minutes away from Amelie’s school. She cou
ld use a hot chocolate and a cinnamon bun herself.
Maria looked from Tuva to Therese Jansson, the girls’ music teacher, in confusion. There were only the three of them in the hall where the concert was due to take place the next day. A strong smell of resin was coming from the tall Christmas tree in the corner, its branches weighed down with all the decorations the children had added.
“She didn’t come back?”
“No. I called her like a thousand times, but there’s no answer,” Tuva said.
“I tried calling her, too, both on her cell and your home number, but I had my hands full with the rehearsal . . .” Therese Jansson made an apologetic gesture and swallowed hard. Maria noticed that her hand was shaking as she pushed her large horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. She’s worried, too.
“Amelie wouldn’t just not turn up,” Maria said.
“Absolutely not, and she was really looking forward to singing her solo,” the teacher agreed.
“She always answers her cell,” Tuva said firmly.
She’s right, Amelie always picks up, Maria thought, her anxiety growing.
“I’ll drive you home, Tuva,” she said quickly.
“Can you let me know when you find her? It doesn’t matter how late it is,” Therese Jansson said nervously.
“Sure.”
Maria was already on her way to the car.
They’d searched the house and garden. Julien had been happy to race around hunting for his sister. Hide-and-seek was his favorite game, so he knew all the best places. But he couldn’t find Amelie anywhere.
On the counter there was a glass with a drop of milk in the bottom, and a banana skin was in the sink. Before Amelie left, she had gone to the bathroom to pee, and she’d forgotten to flush, presumably because she was in a hurry. There was no sign of the plastic bag containing her Lucia costume and the little battery-powered candle, so Maria knew that her daughter had been home, eaten something, gone to the toilet, grabbed the bag, and dashed off into the rain and darkness. But she hadn’t made it back to school . . .
Mechanically Maria made hot chocolate and defrosted the promised cinnamon bun in the microwave for Julien. As he settled down contentedly with his snack, she called everyone she could think of. No one had seen or heard from Amelie. She tried her daughter’s cell phone at regular intervals; the signal rang out, but there was no reply. Tuva was right—Amelie always answered her cell. Only recently she’d been given a new model, and she was so proud of it.
Fear constricted Maria’s throat. Eventually she managed to pull herself together enough to contact her mother-in-law. Her hands shook as she keyed in the number. When she heard Iris Holm’s calm voice, Maria’s self-control gave way and she started to cry. She was relieved that Iris was home; she’d always been a reliable support. Between sobs Maria explained that Amelie was missing. She asked Iris if she could come over and look after Julien while she went out to search the area.
“Have you spoken to Johannes?” was Iris’s first question when she arrived.
“No, but I’ve called everyone else I can think of. I don’t want to worry him. He can’t do anything, given where he is.”
“You’re right, of course . . . If you don’t find her within an hour, we’ll contact the police.”
Both personally and professionally Iris had the ability to maintain her composure and think clearly in difficult situations. She was due to retire in six months, but still worked full-time as a librarian. She gently put her arms around Maria and held her without saying another word. When her daughter-in-law’s weeping began to subside, she patted her gently on the cheek.
“Okay. Off you go to find Amelie,” she said.
Shortly afterward Maria hurried into the darkness and the pouring rain. She was carrying a powerful flashlight and set off along the left-hand side of the road, keeping the beam focused on the shoulder and the ditch. The rain was hammering down and the wind was even stronger now, making it hard to see anything. She found nothing out of the ordinary as she covered the short distance to the school. Every couple of minutes she tried Amelie’s cell, but there was still no answer.
Suddenly she had an idea. She stopped and picked out a recent photo of her daughter on her phone: Amelie was smiling, eyes sparkling with happiness, her new barrette holding her hair in place. The picture made Maria start crying again. Her tears mingled with the rain that slashed against her face. With trembling fingers she posted the photo on Facebook, with a message asking people to contact her if they’d seen the girl after three o’clock that afternoon.
On the way back, she passed the recycling center a few hundred yards from the bus stop. Mechanically she tried Amelie’s number yet again. Please, please let her pick up this time! Please, God . . . Her prayers were interrupted by the sound of “Jingle Bells” coming from inside one of the containers. Amelie had downloaded the ringtone a few weeks ago to remind herself and everyone else that Christmas was coming.
“Amelie? Amelie! Where are you?”
Maria’s voice broke as she called out. She ran from one container to the next, her heart pounding. It took only a few seconds to locate the cheerful refrain. She pushed open the flap of the bins and shined her flashlight inside. The containers must have been emptied recently; she couldn’t see any garbage, but the ringtone continued to reverberate. She realized that her child couldn’t be in there, but she couldn’t help shouting through the opening: “Amelie! Amelie!”
The only sound was the echo of her own voice and the mocking, tinny ringtone. Maria stepped back and tried to think. She ended the call just to stop the terrible din.
She keyed in 112, and when a calm female voice informed her that she had reached emergency services, it was as if her vocal chords seized up completely.
“Amelie . . . my daughter . . . she’s missing!” she finally managed to stammer.
“How old is the child?”
“Nine . . .”
“And how long has she been gone?”
Maria tried in vain to work it out, but she couldn’t concentrate.
“She went home from school to collect some stuff . . . there was a rehearsal for the Christmas concert . . . but she never made it back to school!”
“What time was this?”
“Three . . . about three o’clock.”
“So almost four hours. Have you contacted friends and neighbors?”
“Yes, everyone I can think of! And I’ve searched the house, the garden, the area where we live. I’ve just walked along the road from our house to the school. With a flashlight. And—”
“How far would that be?”
“Just over half a mile. Right now I’m at the recycling station. I called her cell and heard her ringtone—it’s coming from inside one of the containers!”
The last few words emerged as an involuntary shriek. There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, then the calm voice spoke again: “What’s your name?”
“Maria Holm.”
“Can you tell me exactly where you are right now?”
“At the recycling center between Önnaröd and Mällby.”
“Nearest town?”
“Strömstad.”
“How far from Strömstad are you?”
“Just to the north—a mile or so.”
“Stay where you are—a patrol car will be with you shortly.”
The police arrived ten minutes later. Maria showed the two officers the picture of Amelie and described what she’d been wearing: red padded jacket, white woolly hat, blue jeans, blue boots. The male officer introduced himself as Patrik Lind. He was in his early twenties and looked like he worked out, though he also seemed to be slightly overweight. He wasn’t very tall and the jacket of his uniform was far too tight, giving him a somewhat stocky appearance.
He gazed at the photograph for a long time, then said, “She’s quite dark-ski
nned. Have you received any threats?”
Maria stared uncomprehendingly at him, then realized what he meant.
“I was born in Guadeloupe—in the Caribbean. My husband is Swedish, he’s from Strömstad. I’ve lived here for ten years, and I’ve had very few negative comments about the color of my skin. Amelie’s never mentioned anything like that.”
“I just thought it might be a hate crime,” the young man said with a glance at his colleague, who was half a head taller than him, her coal-black hair tied up in a ponytail. It was hard to interpret the expression in her dark eyes when he said the words “hate crime.” Patrik knew that Alice Åslund had been adopted from China. For the past year she’d been living with a slightly older woman on a stud farm outside Fjällbacka. With her unmistakably Asian appearance and her sexual orientation, Alice was familiar with every aspect of that particular concept.
Patrik sent the image of Amelie to his own phone and those of his colleagues, then gave the phone back to Maria. He stomped back to the car, arms dangling oddly by his sides, and slumped into the passenger seat. Before they drove off he managed to contact the manager of the company responsible for the recycling center. He explained the reason for the late call, and the manager promised to send someone out to unlock the container.
“We’ll drive around, see if we can spot her,” Patrik informed Maria through the open passenger window. He closed it quickly to stop the rain from getting in. Alice was already at the wheel. She started the car and pulled out onto the road.
Maria spent the next half hour standing alone in the darkness and the pouring rain. She was shaking with cold and fear but didn’t dare move. In some strange way it felt important to keep vigil over the only trace she had of her daughter.
The man from the recycling company arrived just as the police car returned. Patrik and Alice gave Maria the depressing news that they had found no trace of Amelie, but another car was on the way to join the search.
The container was opened in seconds. A cell phone was lying on the bottom. Alice jumped in and carefully slid it into an evidence bag. Maria confirmed that the phone, with its pink case adorned with kittens, was Amelie’s.
Winter Grave Page 1
