As expected, Olof Sjöberg was far from pleased to see them. Reluctantly, he let them into the hallway. It was almost midday, but he was still wearing a full-length white bathrobe. His flip-flops made a slapping noise as he walked. He was surrounded by a faint aroma of chlorine; he must have gone swimming. Through the large window in the hallway the two officers could see the glass dome covering the heated pool. The underwater lighting was on, producing a magical glow.
“Don’t you think it’s time you stopped harassing Kristoffer?” Olof said with a hint of menace. The smell of booze on his breath was unmistakable.
Is this guy never sober? Paula thought crossly. The fact that he was under the influence didn’t make their job any easier because he was obviously one of those people who became aggressive when they’d been drinking. Or was he behaving this way because he wanted to protect his son—did he know the boy was actually guilty? Did he know something he hadn’t told them? Paula was far too experienced an investigator to start with the key questions, but she would get around to them in her own good time.
“Chief Superintendent Willén wants us to ask him a few supplementary questions,” she said pleasantly. She deliberately left out “acting” from Willén’s title. Olof glared suspiciously at her.
“What kind of shupp . . . shupp . . . What kind of questions?” he snapped.
“There are always one or two points to follow up on with a witness, and of course we’re happy for you to be present,” Lars said, doing his best to sound calm and matter-of-fact.
The big man stood in the middle of the granite floor tiles, swaying slightly in his fluffy robe. He frowned and peered at them through narrowed eyes before reaching a decision.
“Sit down. I’ll go and get dressed.” He gestured toward two brown leather chairs on either side of a large stove. There was no fire burning behind the glass doors, but it wasn’t necessary: the room was warm, and the temperature outside was above freezing. So far the winter had been surprisingly mild, bringing plenty of rain and wind, but little snow. The sea was warmer than usual for the time of year, which gave energy to the winds coming in from the west, according to the meteorologists on the local news. Climate change had been the subject of several lively debates in the media recently. Too late shall the sinners awaken, Paula thought.
She admired the stove, its upper section made of shimmering green soapstone, and wished she could afford to install something similar in her small terraced house. But it would have to wait; the children were growing up and getting more expensive by the day.
She and Lars took off their jackets and hung them inside the mirrored sliding doors of the closet. When they bent down to remove their shoes, Olof said:
“Don’t bother. I have a cleaner.”
With a squeaking sound he spun around and headed down the hall.
Lars and Paula sat down and gazed around the airy entryway. The high, white-painted ceiling created a wonderful sense of space; it was almost like being in a small church, Paula thought. The impression was reinforced by the wrought iron light fixture suspended from the main beam by a heavy chain. Beyond the glow of the pool she could see a large barn-like structure that must function as the garage and workshop. She went over to the window. Several vintage American cars were parked outside the building.
“The workshop,” she said.
Lars merely grunted in response. His attention was focused on a large driftwood picture of a Bohuslän fishing village, with boats and boathouses. Small ceramic gulls hovered above the roofs or perched on the pilings on the quayside. It was a beautiful piece and fit in perfectly with its surroundings.
After a while they heard heavy footsteps approaching. Olof had opted for a white shirt, a pink knitted golf sweater, and pale-gray chinos. He had swapped his flip-flops for elegant dark-gray loafers. His hair was carefully arranged to cover the bald patch on the top of his head, and he was preceded by a powerful blast of gentleman’s fragrance.
“I’ve called Kristoffer—he’s on his way.”
“Isn’t he home?” Lars asked.
“Yes, but he’s in the workshop. Here he comes.” Olof nodded through the window. In silence the three of them watched as the gangling figure drew closer, hunched against the wind, one hand keeping a firm grip on his baseball cap, the other clutching his hoodie as it flapped around his skinny body. He didn’t appear to be in a hurry. I guess he isn’t looking forward to this any more than we are, Paula thought. His pale-gray hoodie had a large oil stain on one sleeve, and his jeans were covered in oily patches.
The door opened and Kristoffer came in, accompanied by a chilly gust of wind. Olof went over to him.
“Go and get changed. Put on the clothes you were wearing yesterday when we were in town. We’ll be on the veranda,” he said gently.
Kristoffer nodded without looking at any of them. He stomped past in his muddy boots and disappeared. The poor cleaner’s certainly got her work cut out, Paula thought sympathetically.
“This way.”
Olof set off without looking back to see if the two officers were following him. They passed through a spacious living room furnished with several generous sofas and armchairs. On the walls hung huge paintings with maritime motifs. They continued through an inner hallway, where some of the doors stood open. One led to a big kitchen, and Paula caught a glimpse of dark granite counters, dazzling white cupboard doors, and a range of appliances in brushed steel. The kitchen looked bright even on this gloomy December day. Olof opened the door at the far end of the hallway, waving them through with exaggerated politeness.
With glass walls on three sides, the veranda was impressive. The temperature was as pleasant as it had been in the rest of the house. The front wall was made up of folding doors that led onto an extensive patio surrounded by plexiglass fencing.
Both Paula and Lars stood for a moment admiring the vista. The graphite-colored sea did not look particularly inviting, but the view of the rocks and skerries was spectacular, in spite of the mist and rain.
Olof came and stood beside them.
“People often ask why I don’t move into Strömstad. The truth is, this is hard to beat. I never want to leave this place,” he said.
Paula could understand why. But at the same time, sitting here enjoying the view had its pitfalls, she thought: too much booze, for example . . .
“Take a seat”—Olof pointed to the armchairs and sofa facing the sea—“I’ll go track down Kristoffer.”
The furnishings went well with the scenery. The upholstery was a fine cretonne with a floral pattern in blue and lime green. They each sank into a comfortable chair, and a short while later Olof returned and sat down on the sofa. Kristoffer ambled in after a minute or so, and hesitated uncertainly in the doorway.
“Come and sit beside me,” Olof said, patting the cushion next to him. Without a word Kristoffer did as he was told. He was wearing exactly the same clothes he’d had on for his interview at the station the previous day. Paula noticed oil beneath his nails, and his hands seemed to be ingrained with black. Maybe he couldn’t get them clean however hard he scrubbed. Or maybe he just didn’t scrub them.
On the way over in the car, Paula and Lars had decided to start with Kristoffer’s all-consuming interest: cars, and older American models in particular. Since Paula drove around in a ten-year-old VW Passat and had never had much interest in vehicles of any kind, she left it to her colleague.
“Hi, Kristoffer—sorry to disturb you when you’re working. Lots of people have told us how brilliant you are when it comes to renovating old American cars, and that you’re always busy.”
Paula noticed Olof’s face light up, but there was no reaction from Kristoffer.
“So what are you working on at the moment?”
Kristoffer glanced at his father, then mumbled: “Changing a windshield.”
“And what’s the car?” Lars continued, sou
nding genuinely interested.
“Buick Electra. Sixty-seven.”
Kristoffer still hadn’t made eye contact with either Lars or Paula.
Olof cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you came here to chat about cars?”
Paula took over. She smiled and tried to engage the boy’s attention.
“No, we just wanted to clarify a couple of points. Is that okay with you, Kristoffer?”
An almost imperceptible nod.
“So you gave Amelie a ride from the bus stop outside her school to the stop in Önnaröd. That’s what you told us yesterday, so I’m assuming that’s correct?”
To say that Kristoffer had told them was stretching the truth. Olof had done most of the talking, and Kristoffer had mainly given one-word answers or failed to respond at all. Paula hoped the boy would feel more relaxed in his home environment and start to open up.
“I’m wondering whether you drove off right away when Amelie jumped out, or whether you waited for her?”
Kristoffer stared through the glass coffee table at the intricate patterns of the rug.
“Drove off,” he said, looking up at her for a second.
His eyes were clear, but the moment was so fleeting that Paula barely had time to register it.
“You didn’t wait so you could give her a ride back to school?” she went on, keeping her tone friendly.
“No.”
The answer was instant, with no hesitation. Sounds convincing, Paula thought, but she decided to rephrase the question to see if he changed his mind.
“Did you see Amelie again after you’d dropped her off at the bus stop in Önnaröd?”
“No.”
Again, no hesitation.
“Did you find her cell phone? After you drove away, I mean?”
For the first time he looked at her properly, completely taken aback.
“Cell phone?”
“Amelie’s cell phone. It—”
“What the hell are you talking about? Kids lose their phones all the time! Kristoffer has his own cell—he doesn’t need to take anyone else’s!” Olof interrupted her, placing a protective arm around his son’s shoulders.
With a huge effort Paula managed to control her irritation. “I’m not accusing Kristoffer of taking Amelie’s phone, but it’s all we have to go on. It was found, as I’m sure you’ve read or heard, in a bin at the recycling center. But there are no other traces of her,” she said, keeping her voice calm. She took a deep breath before turning back to Kristoffer.
“Did you find Amelie’s phone in your truck? Had she dropped it?”
“No.”
His answer was equally firm, but this time he was staring out the window. No more eye contact.
Both Paula and Lars tried to get Kristoffer to contradict himself, but without success. He was adamant: Amelie had jumped out of the truck, closed the door, and run off toward the house where she lived. Kristoffer had pulled away from the bus stop and driven straight home. When he got back he had gone to the workshop and continued working on the Pontiac that was due to be collected the following day. That was where Olof had found him when he arrived home, along with his friends Anton and Gabriel.
“So that’s the end of the matter. I’d like you to leave us in peace from now on,” Olof said. He had remained surprisingly composed during the interview. Paula had seen his eyelids drooping occasionally and assumed that the constant boozing must make him tired.
She and Lars exchanged a quick glance; they both realized they weren’t going to get much further. They stood up and prepared to take their leave.
Kristoffer remained seated. Suddenly he looked at his father and said, “I almost crashed into Eva.”
Olof frowned, clearly confused. “Aunt Eva?”
The boy nodded.
Olof straightened his back, any trace of drowsiness swept away. He turned to the two officers and said, “Wait here. I need to make a call.”
Kristoffer immediately got to his feet and followed his father out of the room.
“What’s going on?” Lars raised his eyebrows inquiringly, but Paula was equally puzzled and merely shrugged.
A few minutes later Olof reappeared. “You need to speak to Eva! She can confirm that Kristoffer’s telling the truth, that he came straight home after he’d dropped Amelie at the bus stop!”
He looked triumphant; there was no other word for it.
“Who’s Eva?” Lars asked.
Olof seemed surprised, then gave a wry smile. “Of course, you’re not from around here. Eva’s my sister—she lives over there.” He gestured toward the south-facing glass wall. “There. You can see the roof of her house,” he said.
Through the mist and rain, the upper part of a black slate roof was just visible.
“I got ahold of her just as she was leaving Gardermoen—she was in the car. She’s been in Copenhagen. She’ll be home around three.”
“How do we get to her house?” Lars asked.
“You need to go back about a hundred yards, then it’s the first turn on the right. There’s no sign, but there’s a big silver fir at the end of the drive. She lives on a hill, just like me.”
Through the window Paula saw Kristoffer slide in through the door of the workshop. He was back in his dirty clothes, one hand clamped on top of his baseball cap. The wind hadn’t eased—in fact it seemed to have increased in strength. On impulse, she gave Olof her most charming smile. “Mind if we take a look in the workshop?” she asked. “Those fantastic cars . . .”
“Yes, I do mind. You’re not hassling the boy in there,” Olof snapped.
As they didn’t have a search warrant, they had no choice but to leave and head back to Strömstad. They would have to find something else to do before it was time to come back and speak to this new witness, Eva, who had suddenly cropped up. Lars suggested they go and get some lunch, which Paula thought was an excellent idea.
The white brick house seemed to glow in the darkness at the top of the hill. There was a detached garage to one side; they parked in the driveway and walked over to the front door. Despite the fact that darkness was falling and nature was in her washed-out winter garb, Paula could see that the garden was well-cared for. It wasn’t hard to imagine how glorious it would look in the summer. There were fruit trees, raspberry canes, and currant bushes, as well as several beds of roses and perennials that were now unrecognizable. Not that she would have been able to name them anyhow. A short distance away was a large vegetable patch. It was obvious that Eva loved her garden and had a green thumb. However, she didn’t seem to be as keen on Christmas decorations as her brother; the only concession was an Advent candle bridge in two of the windows.
The door abruptly swung open when they reached the steps.
“Welcome—I’m Eva Sjöberg. I believe you’re the officers who interviewed Kristoffer?” the woman in the doorway said. She smiled and stepped aside to let them in. Like her brother, Eva was tall and well-built. Lars and Paula knew she was three years younger than Olof, but she looked to be the same age. The lines on her face were deeply marked, as if she’d spent a lot of time in strong sunlight and hadn’t bothered with sunscreen. She wore no makeup, and her hair was gray. Her body gave an impression of heaviness, although she wasn’t necessarily overweight. Strong was the word that came to Paula; Eva’s handshake was firm—perhaps a little too firm.
The pleasant aroma of coffee and freshly baked Christmas cookies greeted them as they followed her through the house. Paula noticed a harmonious blend of old and new in the décor, with touches from exotic lands. Two long spears with feathers on the shafts were displayed on one wall next to African masks and decorative shields. A collection of drums of various sizes stood in one corner. The African elements carried over to Eva’s clothing and footwear; she wore leather sandals and a beautifully patterned full-length kaftan. She had thick
shoulder-length hair that she wore loose, and her square-cut bangs suggested that she didn’t frequent the salon too often.
“Please take a seat while I go and get the coffee,” she said. Her smile was warm and genuine. There was a sincere friendliness about this woman, with not a hint of her brother’s blunt aggression.
They found themselves in a large living room with enormous picture windows. Even though it was almost dark they could sense that the view was at least as fantastic as the one from Breidablick—although it was just about the only thing the two houses had in common.
Lars and Paula settled into comfortable dark-brown leather armchairs that, like the matching sofa, were smooth and well-used. The coffee table was actually a black wooden chest covered in intricate carvings. With their camels and other animals, the motifs also looked African. The top of the coffee table was protected by a thick sheet of glass, and a red dish containing lit pillar candles sat in the center, spreading an atmospheric glow. Beneath the chest was a zebra skin that also looked somewhat the worse for wear.
“You’re in luck—the cookies are ready. When I heard you were coming I took the dough out of the freezer and did some baking—although the buns were already made. I just had to defrost those,” Eva said cheerfully when she returned carrying a tray.
Paula wasn’t surprised to see the sturdy handmade mugs in different colors. No dainty little porcelain cups here! In a woven bread basket lay saffron buns and a pile of Christmas gingerbread cookies, which smelled amazing. Eva set everything out on the table and urged her two guests to help themselves.
“I only heard about the missing girl today. Olof told me when he called me at the airport. It’s terrible!” Eva said, her expression serious.
“How could you have missed the news? There’s been a hell of a search operation around here for almost forty-eight hours now,” Lars said.
Eva picked at a strand of hair that had fallen over her face and attached itself to the sugar on her saffron bun. She sucked the hair thoughtfully for a couple of seconds before answering. “I’ve been away—a reunion with my old college friends. We graduated just before Christmas 1975. We usually meet once a year to celebrate, and this time it was Berit’s turn. She married a Danish orthopedic consultant almost forty years ago and still lives in Copenhagen even though he died a while ago. Her children live there and—”
Winter Grave Page 4
