Winter Grave

by Helene Tursten

  “So it’s because the boy is mentally handicapped that Sjöberg is protecting him from us?” Willén said sharply.

  “Kristoffer isn’t mentally handicapped—quite the reverse. He’s just a bit different,” Berglund replied calmly as he contemplated the bandbox-neat chief superintendent perched on the visitor’s chair. Doesn’t drop his guard for a second, he thought. He decided not to mention that he was Kristoffer’s godfather.

  “There’s a reason for Olof’s protective attitude. Ann died ten years ago. She had a stroke while she was in the shower and collapsed. Dead, with no warning. Since then it’s just been Olof and Kristoffer. They’re very close,” he said.

  Willén gave his colleague a long look. “How old is the boy now?”

  “Seventeen. Olof mentioned at the party last night that Kristoffer’s about to go for his driver’s license. Apparently there shouldn’t be a problem. He reckons he’ll be ready for his test in April, when he turns eighteen.”

  “But until then he drives around in a so-called A-tractor.” Willén fell silent again, his expression pensive. Eventually he stood up. “I’ll come back at three—I want to sit in on the interview. See you later.”

  He left the office, and Berglund heard his energetic footsteps hurrying down the stairs. The inspector remained where he was, contemplating an embroidered picture that had hung in the same spot on the wall ever since his predecessor’s day. Over the years the stiff flowers had taken on a faded, grayish tone and did nothing to lighten the atmosphere in the room. However, the picture had always been there, and there it would stay. Nobody noticed it anymore anyway.

  Berglund sat up a little straighter, took out his cell phone, and made a call. A mechanical voice asked him to leave a message after the tone. When the beep stopped, he said, “Olof—it’s Sven-Ove. Call me on my personal cell as soon as you can.”

  At ten to four Olof Sjöberg parked his specially imported Mercedes-Benz S-Class in the main square outside the police station. That’s almost a million kronor right there, Willén thought, reluctantly admitting to himself that he was impressed. Which, of course, was the point. Charlotta Stark, Sjöberg’s lawyer, had arrived in her bright red Jaguar XE five minutes earlier, so she must have known when her client was planning to turn up. Willén was irritated, but chose to say nothing. Even he knew who she was, and he didn’t want to start off by alienating her. Charlotta Stark had quite an effect on those around her, and she was well aware of it.

  When she walked into a room, she immediately became its center; everyone else faded into the wallpaper. She wasn’t especially tall, but she carried her generous curves with a feminine assurance. Instead of hiding her figure in tent-like kaftans, she always wore close-fitting skirts or pantsuits together with low-cut tops or blouses, often in a silky fabric. It was part of her strategy to reveal just enough of the cleavage between her voluptuous breasts. Sometimes she almost crossed the line, but not quite. She often wore an expensive necklace to draw the eye to her décolletage. She wore high-heeled shoes or boots and had no problem walking in them. She was over fifty, but even the sternest male judge might find his hand trembling as he picked up the gavel. The odd female magistrate’s hands might have trembled a little, too. Charlotta noticed these signs but ignored them, choosing instead to reward everyone with a big smile and the full beam of those sparkling blue eyes before fluffing up her dark-brown curls with practiced fingers. When she began to speak, that was the end of any coquettishness. She was razor-sharp and rarely lost a case.

  “So, where are we?” she asked Inspector Berglund.

  “You can use this office—it’s the biggest. I’ve brought in some extra chairs,” he said, getting to his feet. He gave Willén a little smile and went and stood in a corner, his entire body language making it clear that he was present only as an observer. The chief superintendent remained by the window, where he had positioned himself when he arrived forty-five minutes earlier. He leaned against the sill and tried to look relaxed. The truth was that Charlotta made him nervous, which irritated him even more. At the same time, he was fascinated by her; she was something of a legend in the legal world. And now she would be sitting here while he questioned Kristoffer Sjöberg.

  Father and son entered the room along with one of the detectives from Trollhättan. Paula Nilsson had worked with Roger Willén for almost fifteen years. When they first met, both had been new on the job. After a few years he had been promoted to inspector, and now he was the area chief superintendent. Paula, on the other hand, still had the same rank, a divorced mother of three. God works in mysterious ways, Paula thought, but she no longer had the energy to feel bitter.

  Olof Sjöberg went over to his lawyer and gave her a hug, accompanied by two enthusiastic air kisses. Willén saw her stiffen for a fraction of a second, before she freed herself from Sjöberg’s embrace with a smile and turned to the teenager standing by the door.

  “Hi, Kristoffer! I haven’t seen you since the crayfish party,” she said cheerfully.

  She made no attempt to approach the boy. He didn’t look at her; he just gave a brief nod.

  Kristoffer was wearing a red checkered flannel shirt with a dark-blue T-shirt underneath, blue jeans, and sturdy boots. His clothes looked new and clean. He was skinny and gangly with long arms and legs. His hands were unusually large, and in one he clutched a blue baseball cap. His face was marked by a severe outbreak of acne, but he would probably be pretty good-looking when he was older. He was seventeen, almost eighteen, according to Berglund, but he seemed younger. His dark-blond hair was cut in what Willén would call a typical rockabilly style, with a long piece at the front combed up into a tall quiff and held in place by hair gel. His eyes were darting from side to side, but he kept his head down.

  Olof went over to his son and gently put an arm around his shoulders.

  “Come on, let’s have a chat with these police officers. Then we’ll go home and get back to work on the Pontiac.”

  The mention of the car produced a vague nod, but Kristoffer still didn’t look up.

  After general introductions Willén asked everyone to take a seat. Tentatively he began to ask questions about what had happened almost exactly twenty-four hours earlier.

  It was hard work from the start. Kristoffer gave one-word answers, nodded or shook his head, or didn’t respond at all. He never made eye contact with anyone. He spent most of the time sitting motionless in his chair, staring down at the desk.

  Willén managed to gain confirmation that Tuva, Kristoffer’s second cousin, had waved him down at the bus stop near the school and asked him to give Amelie a ride home because she’d missed the bus. He’d dropped Amelie at the stop near her house, then driven straight home to Breidablick. When asked what he did when he got home, he simply said, “The Pontiac.” Willén asked if he could give a little more detail, but Kristoffer shrugged and repeated, “The Pontiac.”

  Olof cleared his throat. “It’s a Pontiac Firebird ’68. The owner’s coming to pick it up this evening, so we had a lot to do yesterday. We were together in the workshop until around six—that’s right, isn’t it, Kristoffer?”

  The boy nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “Were you home when Kristoffer got back?” Willén asked.

  Olof leaned back, totally at ease, which made the rickety chair creak ominously.

  “No, I arrived just after. He doesn’t have a driver’s license yet, so I was out test-driving a car—a real restoration job. I hurried home to work on the Pontiac with Kristoffer for a while. I was at the Lions’ Christmas party in the evening, but his friends Anton and Gabriel came over to help out before I left.”

  “What time would you say you got home in the afternoon?” Willén asked Olof.

  “Around . . . quarter to four.”

  If that was true, then Kristoffer could hardly have had anything to do with the girl’s disappearance. She’d eaten something and used the
bathroom, which must have taken five or ten minutes. Kristoffer wouldn’t have had time to wait for her at the bus stop and abduct her. Hypothetically he could have offered her a ride back to school, then taken her somewhere else and done something to her before disposing of her—but if he was home by quarter to four, that was impossible. He would have needed at least half an hour.

  Or would he? It was around a mile and a half from Breidablick to the bus stop where Kristoffer had dropped off Amelie. Willén thought feverishly, but he just couldn’t make it work. There just wasn’t enough time. An A-tractor travels way too slowly, no more than twenty miles an hour. If it hasn’t been modified, of course—better check that out.

  “Okay, so we’re done here!”

  Everyone gave a start as Charlotta Stark stood up and smoothed her black skirt with a graceful movement. Her blood-red nails matched the large ruby sparkling in the décolletage of her cream silk blouse. She hadn’t said a word during the interview, but suddenly she was the center of attention. With a regal wave she brought Olof and Kristoffer to their feet.

  “If you wish to speak to Kristoffer again, please contact either me or Olof,” she said before sailing out the door with father and son following in her wake.

  None of the officers in the room managed to come up with anything sensible to say before their interviewee was gone. Eventually Chief Superintendent Willén’s brain started sputtering with rage.

  “Get forensics on that fucking A-tractor—check if it’s been modified,” he barked.

  Paula Nilsson nodded, then asked, “Did you notice that the father smelled of booze?”

  “No . . . no, I didn’t,” Willén admitted. He and Paula knew each other well enough to allow him to do so without losing face.

  “It hit me when we shook hands, and I think that dreadful Stark woman realized it, too, when he gave her a hug.”

  “That dreadful Stark woman.” Yes, maybe. But what fantastic tits! Willén thought, blushing slightly.

  It was almost seven—time to look for a place to eat before driving the seventy miles or so home. Willén stood up and yawned. It would be good to get out of these stuffy offices. Tomorrow he would follow the investigation from Trollhättan; his colleagues here in Strömstad could take over. So far the hunt for Amelie had produced nothing, but it would continue through the night. It was a race against the clock now as the search teams battled to find the child safe and well. Or dead.

  Just as Willén stretched his whole body, the phone on the desk rang. Strange—there was no one else in the building. Everyone had gone home, including the receptionist. Who had put the call through? The incessant ringing sounded somehow challenging, and in the end he decided to pick up: a decision he immediately regretted.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Are you trying to break the kid? Playing fucking mind games!”

  There was no need for the caller to introduce himself. Olof Sjöberg sounded far from sober; it was obvious that he’d poured yet more booze down his throat after the meeting at the police station.

  “Okay, calm down. What do you mean by—”

  “Calm down . . . you have no idea how fucking calm I am. If I wasn’t calm, you’d fucking know about it!”

  A tirade of curses and threats followed before Sjöberg realized the reason he was so upset. Kristoffer’s A-tractor had been collected and transported down to Gothenburg for forensic examination. Kristoffer had also been asked to hand over the clothes he’d been wearing when he gave Amelie a ride—the jeans and hoodie he’d had on in the workshop when the police arrived.

  “He had to strip in front of two fucking dumb cops! And one of them was a woman!” Sjöberg ranted.

  “That certainly wasn’t necessary . . .” Willén ventured, but Sjöberg wasn’t listening.

  “You’re trying to frame him!” he roared.

  Willén had to summon every ounce of self-control he had before he replied. “Once again, please calm down. You’ve got the wrong idea. By examining the vehicle and Kristoffer’s clothing, we can confirm that he’s innocent. We—”

  “He is fucking innocent!”

  “That’s exactly what we want to establish, but Kristoffer was the last person to see Amelie, as far as we know. The gossips will soon have him down as guilty if we can’t prove otherwise.”

  “You’re going to plant evidence, I know it!”

  Fatigue and hunger took over, and Willén knew he couldn’t listen to this drunk any longer. At the same time, he could understand why Sjöberg was worried. As things stood Kristoffer was definitely implicated, and it was possible that he was responsible for Amelie’s disappearance. Deep down Willén hoped forensics would find something. Kristoffer was strange. Who knew what someone like him might do?

  “I’ve spoken to forensics in Gothenburg, and they’ve promised to prioritize this case. Tell Kristoffer he should have his vehicle back just after New Year’s at the latest. Hopefully earlier, but of course it’s getting close to Christmas and—”

  “Exactly! So the poor kid’s going to be without it for fucking weeks!”

  Chief Superintendent Roger Willén had had enough. “Listen to me, and listen carefully. If we don’t carry out this examination and we’re not able to prove Kristoffer’s innocence, then he’s not going to need a vehicle for several years, never mind weeks. He’ll be in jail—for a very long time!”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, then the connection was broken abruptly.

  Willén replaced the cordless phone on its base, then stared at it for quite a while. Something wasn’t right. Suddenly he realized what it was: How come Olof Sjöberg had the number of Sven-Ove Berglund’s direct line? The number wasn’t listed anywhere, and the phone could only be reached via the main line, which was unmanned outside normal working hours. Next question: So how close were Olof Sjöberg and the inspector?

  The intensive search for Amelie was still fruitless. The decision was made to continue at full force over the weekend. A large number of volunteers had turned up and been allocated to various team leaders.

  On Saturday morning Paula Nilsson and Lars Engman were the only two officers in the station at Strömstad.

  “Did you see Kristoffer’s A-tractor?” Lars asked.

  “I did—my boy, Love, would have been drooling. He’s already saying he wants one when he turns fifteen,” Paula said with a sigh.

  “I can understand that. Apparently the kid helped his father build it. Polished wood on either side of the flatbed, white leather seats, red metallic paint, and aluminum hubcaps . . . It’s a long way from the beat-up old Puch Dakota I had when I was a teenager!”

  “Sure, but it enabled you to get around, didn’t it? I had to cycle. On the bright side, I was in really good shape then—emphasis on ‘was.’”

  With a wry grimace she pinched the small spare tire around her waist, while her colleague smiled and patted the rounded belly he had started to develop. He was determined to go on a diet, get himself to the gym. After New Year’s. He’d made that same resolution for the past three years, and it was high time he followed it through. After New Year’s.

  “Okay, so we need to talk to Kristoffer again.”

  It wasn’t something they were looking forward to, but Chief Superintendent Willén had been very clear on that point when he called shortly before.

  “Find out if Kristoffer offered to wait for Amelie at the bus stop and give her a ride back to school. I’ve been wondering if he pulled in at the recycling center and turned his vehicle around. Maybe the girl got scared and took out her cell phone—he grabbed it and threw it in the nearest container before driving away. Bearing in mind that according to his father Kristoffer was home before quarter to four, Amelie should be somewhere along the road between the recycling center and his house. That’s a distance of around a mile and a half. I know it’s already been checked out, but I’m going to
ask for a detailed search of that area today and tomorrow. And a search of every summer cottage and outbuilding anywhere nearby,” he had said.

  The two officers from Trollhättan were driving to Breidablick to speak to Kristoffer and Olof Sjöberg. The rain had temporarily stopped, but the wind showed no sign of abating.

  “One thing occurred to me,” Paula said.

  “What?” Lars asked.

  “We and our colleagues have spoken to just about everyone who lives along that road, or has any connection with Amelie’s school—both children and adults. They all know who Kristoffer is, and they all agree that he’s a bit special, a bit different. But nobody’s had a bad word to say about him. There’s been no suggestion that he’s unpleasant, has ever shown any violent tendencies, or has ever behaved inappropriately toward a child. Quite the reverse—he’s regarded as a nice guy, totally harmless. A genius when it comes to dealing with engines and old cars. One of the mothers told me he helped fix her son’s bicycle when someone accidentally ran over it. Kristoffer got a hold of new parts and spent several days working on it; when he brought it back, it was better than it had been before. As good as new, in fact. And he refused to take any payment. Kristoffer was only eleven years old at the time! Why would this slightly strange and technically gifted boy suddenly decide to abduct a nine-year-old girl?”

  Lars Engman shrugged. “Hormones kicking in, maybe? Who knows what he’s thinking. He’s not exactly talkative—although his father more than makes up for that!”

  “True, but I can understand why Olof Sjöberg is so protective. The boy has issues, and Olof is a single parent, after all.”

  They spent the rest of the journey in silence, mentally preparing for the forthcoming encounter.

  Between the recycling center and Breidablick they saw parked cars all the way along the shoulders, and recognized two as belonging to the canine teams that had now joined the search party combing the area. There were almost four hundred people involved. If Amelie was here, they would find her.