So now it’s in an evidence bag, she thought. Evidence of what?
A major search was organized, with both extra police officers and the military. Several volunteers who had seen Maria’s appeal on Facebook also turned up. Toward morning a helicopter with a thermal-imaging camera began to crisscross the area, with the promise that it would stay in the air until the girl was found.
Much to Maria’s relief, Iris stayed overnight. Her mother-in-law also called Johannes to tell him what had happened, in case he heard about it via social media. Needless to say, he was beside himself, but there was nothing he could do. A helicopter wasn’t due to the oil platform where Johannes had been employed as a cook for the past four years until the following day, when it would drop off the new team of workers and shuttle those who had completed their three weeks back to the mainland. There was no other option. The platform was far out in the Norwegian Sea. The helicopter would take them to Kristiansund, and from there they would fly down to Oslo. Johannes usually caught the bus from Oslo, unless he was in luck and his friend Ted was traveling home to Strömstad from Gardermoen Airport, where he worked, and could offer him a ride. Fortunately, this was one of those occasions.
Maria woke from an uneasy doze when the house phone rang. At first she couldn’t process where she was, or why she was sitting in the armchair, fully dressed. Then she ran into the hallway and almost dropped the receiver in her haste. Had they found Amelie? Please God . . . Please, God . . .
“Maria,” she half-gasped, her heart in her mouth.
“Hi, it’s Evelyn.”
Tuva’s mother. Maria knew her, even though they didn’t really socialize.
“Hi.” Maria could hear the disappointment in her voice.
“Any news?”
“No.” Her response was curt, but Maria couldn’t be bothered to make an effort.
Evelyn hesitated, then said, “Tuva’s so upset—she’s sitting here crying. She doesn’t want to go to school or have anything to do with the Christmas concert. She didn’t say anything yesterday, but this morning she told me . . . Apparently Amelie got a ride with Kristoffer.”
It took a few seconds before Maria remembered Tuva’s car-obsessed relative.
“Kristoffer Sjöberg?”
“That’s right. His mom died a few years ago, but she and I were cousins, so Tuva and Kristoffer are second cousins. We—”
“Hang on—when did he give her a ride?” Maria interrupted. Her head was spinning with a mixture of fear and exhaustion; she couldn’t handle a heap of useless information about family relationships.
“Yesterday, when Amelie was on her way home to fetch her Lucia costume. It was pouring, and she missed the bus. Tuva had gone with her to the bus stop, and apparently Kristoffer drove up. Tuva asked him if he could take Amelie home, and he agreed.”
Maria’s heart began to race. “Thanks for letting me know!” She slammed the phone down and grabbed her cell to call the direct line the police had given her. They’d told her to contact them at any time.
Patrik Lind and Alice Åslund were tasked with bringing Kristoffer Sjöberg in for questioning. Both officers had had only a few hours’ sleep and neither was in a particularly good mood. Patrik’s mouth opened so wide that Alice could hear his jawbones crack when he yawned, and he had to make a real effort to stop his eyelids from closing.
The wind had abated during the night, but the rain showed no sign of letting up. It was still dark, despite the fact that it was nine o’clock in the morning. The only light came from the Advent candles and stars in almost every window, and from the Christmas decorations outside most houses.
“He lives out toward Hällestrand—shortly before you get to the village. On the left-hand side—” Patrik said, but Alice interrupted him.
“I know. Everybody in Strömstad knows that place,” she snapped.
No doubt she was right. Kristoffer’s father, Olof Sjöberg, was something of a personality in and around Strömstad. The property where he and his son lived was a former slaughterhouse that he’d renovated and extended over the years, to the point that it was no longer recognizable; these days it looked like a manor house with two wings. Glassed-in verandas, one equipped with a hot tub and a sixty-foot swimming pool, made it bear more than a passing resemblance to a modern spa. There had been a major “At Home with . . .” feature in the local paper a couple of years earlier. Olof had proudly shown the reporter and photographer around, pointing out all the latest facilities he’d installed. People had reluctantly conceded that the renovation was tasteful, and in keeping with the style of the old house. The addition of the outbuildings, verandas, and pool meant the surface area had more than quadrupled. The only thing Olof Sjöberg hadn’t changed was the name: Breidablick, which was displayed at the roadside on an old-fashioned cast-iron sign, with an arrow indicating the way. The house lay at the top of a steep hill, with a fantastic view in all directions. The road was lined with birch trees, and between the trees were lanterns on sturdy cast-iron posts.
In the middle of the courtyard a huge fir tree twinkled with Christmas lights, and shimmering LED icicles adorned the eaves. Advent candles or stars glowed in every window. Anything that could be lit up was shining.
When the police car drove into the yard, the double doors opened, and Olof Sjöberg emerged at the top of the impressive Bohuslän red granite steps, sparkling in the glow of the external lights on the wall. He turned and closed the door, then waited calmly beneath the portico, which was supported by granite pillars, as the two officers scuttled toward him through the freezing rain. There was no protection from the wind up there, apart from the house itself and a large barn a short distance away.
“Good day to you! Or maybe I should shay good morning?”
Olof Sjöberg had adopted a jovial tone, but Alice noticed a slight slurring—shay? The expansive gesture as he held out his hand to greet them confirmed her suspicion that Sjöberg was far from sober.
Both officers introduced themselves. Sjöberg was a big man, and the hand that squeezed theirs was rough and callused. His steel-gray hair was slicked back but couldn’t quite hide the bald patch at the top of his head. On his feet was a pair of shabby clogs that contrasted sharply with the rest of his outfit: an elegant dark-blue jacket, dark-gray trousers, a dazzling white shirt, a tie, and a matching handkerchief that was tucked into his breast pocket. His clothes suggested that he was heading off to a business meeting rather than tackling everyday chores around the property. He was surrounded by a miasma of exclusive aftershave and gentleman’s fragrance. Possibly an attempt to hide the smell of booze, Alice thought.
“So how can I help our wonderful police service?”
His tone remained genial, but he made no move to invite them in.
Alice got straight to the point. “Are you aware that a little girl went missing in this area yesterday afternoon?”
The pleasant expression was replaced by deep frown lines that made Sjöberg resemble a bulldog. “Yes, I saw it on the news this morning . . . such a tragedy. Have you found her?”
Patrik Lind cleared his throat and said authoritatively, “No, but we’ve discovered that your son, Kristoffer, gave her a ride, so we’d like him to answer a few questions down at the station.”
Patrik unconsciously straightened his shoulders and looked Sjöberg directly in the eye.
Easy, Patrik, Alice thought with a sigh, which she tried to hide.
“Would you indeed?”
There was no mistaking the chill in those words. Any pretense at joviality was gone, and there was nothing in Sjöberg’s voice now to indicate that he’d been drinking. He loomed over them like a dark, threatening shadow, lit from behind by the external lights. Even Patrik realized this wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought.
“We’re just gathering information. It’s not a formal interview or . . .”
Alice did
her best to smooth things over, but Sjöberg’s body language made it clear that he wasn’t interested.
“Not without my lawyer present,” he snapped.
“There’s really no need . . . Kristoffer isn’t suspected of anything . . . As I said, we just want to ask him a few questions . . .”
“My son is not being dragged off to the police station in Strömstad to be interrogated by a fucking gang of incompetent cops unless my lawyer is present!” Sjöberg hissed, clenching both fists. Alice had the sense to keep quiet, but unfortunately the same couldn’t be said of her colleague.
“They’re detectives from Trollhättan. And the investigation is being led by the central regional unit in Gothenburg. Not Strömstad,” Patrik explained, looking pleased at having had the opportunity to correct the pompous idiot. Too late he realized his mistake.
“You’re the most incompetent fucker of the lot! You can tell those assholes from Trollhättan that my lawyer will contact them to arrange a meeting at the station. With me and my lawyer present!”
With those words Olof spun around on his heel and went inside, slamming the double doors behind him. Alice worried that the two beautiful Christmas wreaths might fall off, or that the glass in the leaded windows might crack.
“What the . . .”
Patrik stared incredulously at the closed doors.
“Come on, you incompetent fucker—let’s get out of here,” Alice said with a smile. Patrik didn’t know whether to laugh or get mad.
“So we’re supposed to sit here and wait until that asshole and his son feel like turning up? Why the hell didn’t you stand your ground and bring the boy in?”
Roger Willén, the acting area chief superintendent for Trollhättan, glared at Patrik Lind and Alice Åslund. Before either of them had the chance to formulate a response, their boss, Detective Chief Inspector Sven-Ove Berglund, stepped in.
“Believe me, Roger, Olof Sjöberg isn’t an easy man to deal with,” he said, raising his bushy eyebrows meaningfully.
“What’s the problem? Why does he deserve special treatment?” Willén demanded.
Berglund looked down at his hands, which were resting on the desk. They were wrinkled and marked with age spots. Alice wondered if he was praying to a higher power for strength and energy.
“Olof Sjöberg is what you might call a power player in Strömstad. I know him well; we grew up not far from each other, and we were classmates for many years. He’s always . . . set the agenda, so to speak. We often see each other at various events—this is a small town. Sometimes we play golf together, and we’ve gone sailing several times over the years.”
He glanced up at Willén, who was standing straight-backed in front of his desk. The chief superintendent’s uniform sat perfectly across his broad shoulders, and the creases in his trousers were razor-sharp. His head was virtually clean-shaven, which no doubt contributed to the military impression he made on his subordinates. He appeared to be standing at attention.
Drop the refrigerator act, Alice thought sourly.
“And?” said Willén.
Berglund thought for a moment before he answered. It was obvious that he was choosing his words with care.
“He inherited a flourishing business from his father. I assume Olof takes after him. They’ve made a major contribution to the economic health of Strömstad. Entrepreneurs, both of them. They’ve created many job opportunities.”
“What does Sjöberg actually do?” The chief superintendent’s question carried an implied sneer. Inspector Berglund spread his hands wide and smiled.
“What doesn’t he do? His father started up a large auto repair workshop, then partnered with the town’s biggest car dealership. This was just after the war, but he was far-sighted and ambitious. He bought up as much land as he could and built apartment blocks and houses to rent out. Olof worked with his father until the old man died in the mid-eighties, then he took over. He’s done a good job and expanded the business wherever possible. He sells cars, boats, and property. In recent years the Norwegians have been major clients.”
Patrik coughed discreetly. To Alice’s horror he had decided to say something.
“He was very unpleasant and obviously intoxicated, and it wasn’t even nine-thirty in the morning,” he announced.
Berglund immediately put him in his place, which wasn’t what Patrik had been expecting.
“I’m not surprised. We were at the same Christmas party yesterday—the local branch of the Lions. There was plenty of mulled wine, among other things . . . If you’d breathalyzed me a few hours ago I’m sure you’d have gotten a positive result.” He gave the chief superintendent an amused glance before adding, “It wouldn’t have been a high reading, of course. After all, I had to come to work today. Although I did leave the car at home and walk in.”
Roger Willén narrowed his eyes. “Did you know the girl was missing last night?”
Berglund shook his head. “No. I’m on the Lions’ social committee, and we were at the venue by five. That’s when the station closes, but I left an hour early, at four. The call came in at seven, so it went straight to the regional unit’s central control. They chose to send you over from Trollhättan. Uddevalla has a problem with the stomach flu, plus they still haven’t caught that serial rapist. One woman was almost strangled, so that investigation has top priority.”
Willén was already aware of the situation, but he nodded in agreement. He had arrived in Strömstad that morning with two of his detectives, mainly to join the search for Amelie, but also to get to know the local team. He’d sent the detectives to speak to Amelie’s teacher and classmates; when Paula Nilsson and Lars Engman returned to the station, they would be expecting to question Kristoffer Sjöberg on the events of the previous evening, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen. They would have to wait until it pleased Olof Sjöberg and his lawyer to wander along with Kristoffer.
Willén was annoyed, but he tried to hide it.
“This station isn’t manned on weekends, so Nilsson and Engman can base their operations here over the next couple of days. Is there a spare office they can use if they have to stay on into next week?”
He straightened his back even more. Alice could almost hear the seams of his uniform creaking.
“No problem,” Berglund assured him.
If the inspector and Olof Sjöberg are the same age, that means Sjöberg is sixty-four, Alice thought. But Berglund looks significantly older and more tired. Willén was only about forty, but behaved like some crusty old general. Then again, he was the highest-ranking officer in the room, thanks to the new structure of the Swedish police service.
Following the reorganization a year or so ago, the country’s twenty-one police districts had been brought together into seven regions. Strömstad was part of the Western Region and was under the jurisdiction of Fyrbodal, which also included Trollhättan, Vänersborg, and Uddevalla. The control center was based in Gothenburg and decided which area should be responsible for a particular investigation and which units should be brought in.
One effect of this restructuring was serious turbulence at every level. Units that had worked well for many years were broken up, with team members being dispersed to new departments. The union was highly critical of the reform, and those on the ground were very unhappy. A significant number of older officers had taken early retirement.
Roger Willén was an example of a younger man who had been moved up the promotion ladder, and the fact that he took his role extremely seriously was clear to everyone in the room. According to what Sven-Ove Berglund had heard, he was a good policeman. His former chief in Trollhättan, Ann-Katrin Svantesson, was now in charge at Fyrbodal. Berglund had heard nothing but positive comments about her, too. The new organization might function well in time, but personally he was sick of the whole thing. He had decided to retire at the end of June, but right now that seemed like a lifeti
me away.
The intercom on his desk buzzed, and Kicki on reception informed him that Olof Sjöberg’s lawyer had called to say they’d be there between three and four.
Willén compressed his lips into a thin line. His ice-blue eyes appeared to be covered in a thin layer of frost, and the coldness in his voice was unmistakable when he spoke. “Is everyone at that man’s beck and call?”
Sven-Ove Berglund smiled for the first time that morning. “I guess you could put it that way,” he said.
Willén turned to Patrik and Alice. “You can go.”
They didn’t need telling twice. After they had closed the door behind them, Willén paced for a little while, then stopped in front of Berglund’s desk.
“Why is Sjöberg doing this? Because he can, or because there’s something suspicious about his son?”
Berglund remained silent for a moment, then he took a deep breath and looked up at his younger colleague. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing toward the shabby chair.
Willén grasped the creases in his trousers between thumb and forefinger before cautiously lowering himself onto the rickety seat.
Berglund took his time before he began to speak. “I was at both of Olof’s weddings,” he finally said. “He divorced his first wife about twenty years ago, after he met Ann. She was younger than him, and she’d also been married before. Olof’s daughter was almost grown up, but Ann didn’t have any children. Eventually Kristoffer came along. He was premature and went straight into an incubator. The situation was critical, but he made it. He had to have heart surgery when he was a baby, I remember that. But he also suffers from a number of other . . . problems as a result of what he went through. He doesn’t talk much and tends to keep to himself. He’s phenomenal when it comes to anything mechanical, particularly veteran and old American cars. That’s also Olof’s main hobby, and the two of them spend a lot of time together tinkering around. As I said, for Olof it’s a hobby, but it’s Kristoffer’s job, and his main interest in life. He’s a genius!”
Winter Grave Page 2
