“Do you still work?” Lars interrupted her.
“No—although I do volunteer for the Red Cross. I’m retired.”
“What did you do?” Paula asked.
The question slipped out involuntarily, but Eva didn’t seem to mind.
“I’m a trained intensive-care nurse, and I’ve worked in both Sweden and overseas for a number of different organizations. I’ve seen a great deal of human suffering, but I’ve also had a lot of fantastic experiences. Met people who . . .” She broke off and grew serious once more. “I loved my job, but ten years ago Kristoffer’s mother died.”
She fell silent and swallowed hard before continuing. “Olof and Kristoffer were devastated. Ann’s death was completely unexpected; she was only forty-three. A stroke. I took care of Kristoffer. He’s never had it easy, not since he was born.”
She stood up and started topping off the coffee cups, offering the buns and cookies around again. She sat down and composed herself.
“He was born ten weeks premature. The doctors discovered a hole in his heart, but it was very small, thank God. He only needed one operation. But as he grew older it became clear that he’s almost deaf in his left ear and has reduced vision in his left eye. He also has Asperger’s syndrome, or high-functioning autism, as it’s called these days. Olof and Ann consulted a series of experts in this type of neuropsychiatric disability.”
She paused and took a bite of her bun.
“You say disability, but he doesn’t appear to be particularly disabled . . . I mean he’s brilliant with cars and so on,” Paula said.
“Absolutely! Olof realized very early on that Kristoffer is phenomenally gifted in that area. I remember when he’d just turned three, and they were here for dinner. I’d recently come back from Somalia, and as we were sitting chatting, Kristoffer sneaked into my guest room, where I had a floor lamp with an adjustable arm so you can change the angle. When we went looking for him he’d taken the lamp apart and neatly laid out all the pieces on the floor. Ann was horrified, but Olof simply asked him if he could put it back together. Kristoffer nodded and got started. In no time the job was done, and the lamp worked! And it still does to this day.”
“Three years old?” Paula said skeptically. At that age her own kids were building with Duplos. They didn’t move on to Legos until they were older, so they wouldn’t put the small pieces in their mouths and choke.
“Yes, and Olof encouraged him. He let Kristoffer tinker with all kinds of things, and he was really good!”
Eva smiled proudly, deepening the lines in her face.
“What about friends?” Paula asked.
The smile disappeared.
“There were a few problems when he started school because he is a little different, but he’s always had friends. Maybe not many, but he’s never been bullied. The other kids admire his technical skills, and for the past few years he’s really focused on cars. Old American cars are Olof’s main passion, and he’s developed that interest along with Kristoffer. People come from all over western Sweden to get their cars fixed up. Kristoffer’s good at paint jobs, too, though he’s not interested in leather or interiors. He only wants to work with metal.”
There was no mistaking the pride in her voice.
“You don’t have any children of your own?” Paula asked tentatively.
A fleeting shadow passed over Eva’s face. “No.”
Lars reached for a third saffron bun. Before he took a bite he looked searchingly at Eva. “So how come you saw Kristoffer on Thursday afternoon? You just said you were in Copenhagen.”
“I didn’t fly out until the evening. It only takes ninety minutes to drive from here to Oslo; I caught a late flight down to Copenhagen.”
“What time did you leave here?”
“Just before four. It was around ten past three when I saw Kristoffer drive away from the bus stop in Önnaröd. The little girl was running up the slope toward her house. Kristoffer’s usually very careful in traffic, but he must have been in a hurry to get home because he pulled out right in front of me. I had to slam the brakes on, and I beeped my horn at him. I wagged my finger at him, too, but he knew I was only kidding. When I got home I changed my clothes, then grabbed my suitcase and headed off to Gardermoen. From Kastrup, I took a cab to my hotel and fell straight into bed. I spent all of Friday with my college friends in Copenhagen. We had a fantastic day, with a traditional Danish Christmas feast in the evening. Today I caught a morning flight back to Oslo and arrived home about an hour ago.”
What an amazing woman—the first thing she does when she gets home from a busy trip is bake cookies, Paula thought. But now it was time to ask the question that had come up at regular intervals; it had to be done.
“Your brother . . .”
Eva looked at her and sighed.
“I can guess what this is about. Everyone notices . . . when he’s like this.”
“We couldn’t help it. He seems to have a problem with alcohol.”
Another shadow passed over Eva’s coarse features, and she looked down at the work-worn hands resting on her lap. When she raised her head, tears glinted in her eyes. She met Paula’s gaze. “Olof is an intermittent alcoholic,” she said quietly. “He always liked to party, but since he lost Ann . . . This time of year is the worst. Ann died on Christmas Day, and he can’t cope. The trigger is all those holiday parties and festive dinners, and from then on he carries on drinking for several weeks. It’s gotten worse over the last couple of years. He also had an episode last summer, though it was pretty short.”
“How does Kristoffer deal with it?”
There was deep sorrow in Eva’s eyes when she answered.
“When he was younger he used to come and stay with me during the worst periods, but Olof has never mistreated his son. Never! He just couldn’t manage to take care of the boy—cook meals, make sure he had clean clothes, and so on. But when he stopped drinking he’d come and pick him up.”
“Does Kristoffer still come here when his father’s drinking? We spoke to him at home earlier today.”
Unconsciously, Eva straightened her back. “He’s perfectly capable of handling the situation these days. He’s old enough to understand that his father’s sick. He turns up and stays the night occasionally, but that’s happening less and less often. Then again, he likes to sleep over now and again even when Olof isn’t drinking.”
“He doesn’t drink at all between episodes?”
“Not a drop.”
Lars and Paula were driving back to the center of Strömstad. The rain had stopped, and it looked as if it was going to be a damp but snow-free Lucia Eve.
“What do you think? Is Eva telling the truth, or have she and her brother cooked this up between them?” Lars asked.
“I don’t know. We need to follow up on this college reunion; she gave us contact info for her friend Berit and the hotel. I’ll take a look at the passenger list for the flight, too, although something tells me it will all check out. She made a very . . . solid impression,” Paula said.
“And she bakes fantastic saffron buns. I don’t need any dinner!”
PART II
JANUARY
With a sigh of relief Detective Embla Nyström sank down onto the seat of her old Volvo 245. The tension across her shoulders eased, and she was filled with a mixture of calmness and anticipation. It had been a hectic week at work, and she really ought to spend the weekend relaxing, but nothing was going to stop her from driving up to her family home in northern Dalsland because it was time for the January wild boar hunt. It was a relatively new tradition, introduced by her hunting club.
Hunting wild boar is easier in winter than during the summer months; it’s more difficult for the boar to hide among the vegetation, and the mosquitoes and blackflies aren’t around. The club had decided to shoot in two specific locations that had been prepped ahead of tim
e, so no dogs were needed.
The two youngest members, Embla and Tobias, were childhood friends. According to tradition they should have taken care of providing food for the animals, but since Embla lived in Gothenburg, Tobias had set up two sites, just over half a mile apart. During the fall he had started putting out food. The whole club had helped gather natural fodder such as potatoes, carrots, seeds, and fruit. Anything processed, like bread or leftover Christmas cakes and cookies had been banned; they wanted only what was good for the boar.
The hunt was scheduled for the beginning of the year because it wasn’t permitted to hunt adult boar between February 16 and April 15, so this would be their last opportunity until late spring/early summer. Until three years ago a winter hunt hadn’t been necessary since there weren’t many wild boar in their area, northwest Dalsland. But now they were everywhere—literally! Their numbers were increasing at an alarming speed, and therefore they had become an important quarry for the hunters.
There was no snow left in Gothenburg. The thin layer that had been covering the ground had been washed away by the rain between Christmas and New Year’s. The first weeks of January had been cold, wet, and windy. Gloomy and depressing. It rained all the way up to Mellerud, but when Embla turned northwest toward Bäckefors, the rain changed to snow.
Thick flakes were falling on the well-cleared yard when she skidded to a halt in front of her uncle’s house. He flung the door wide open before she’d even climbed out of the car. With the light behind him, he looked like a great big shadow.
“Hey there, hot-rod girl!” he yelled.
He’d been welcoming her with the same words for the past ten years, ever since she first drove all the way from Gothenburg on her own in the ’90 Volvo 245 he’d given her. Back then Aunt Ann-Sofi had stood beside him, but she had died almost four years ago, so now he was alone.
Embla ran up the steps and Nisse gave her a great big bear hug. Eventually he loosened his grip and asked the obligatory question:
“How’s the Veteran running?”
Her reply was always the same:
“Like clockwork!”
That was what he wanted to hear, but it wasn’t entirely true. Neither the fuel gauge nor the speedometer were functioning properly. Despite repeated visits to various repair workshops, both instruments were still unreliable. Plus, a banging noise seemed to be coming from the engine. Or maybe it had something to do with the axle. Sometimes the car seemed to pull when she was going around a bend. In all honesty, the old Volvo that had served her so well was starting to reach retirement age since she couldn’t afford to have it serviced. It had just passed 180,000 miles. Occasionally she considered getting a new car, but that would be pure blasphemy. She had no intention of mentioning it to Nisse; she wasn’t sure how he’d take it.
As they walked in the house, Embla inhaled deeply. The house was filled with the wonderful smell of meat and frying onions. “My favorite—moose steaks!” she exclaimed.
“Of course. It’s important to make an effort when there are special visitors. Go on up to your room while I finish making dinner.”
She took the stairs two at a time. Decorated in shades of yellow, the guest room was ready for her as always. Nisse had managed to outfit a former closet with a small toilet and shower. There was just enough space under the sloping roof for Embla to stand up in the shower, but she had to stoop a little when using the sink. An exhaust fan and a tiny window kept the dampness at bay. It was perfect.
She took a quick shower and put on a cornflower-blue long-sleeved T-shirt and a pale-gray fleece body warmer with her tight blue jeans. She left her hair loose to dry.
Nisse came into the hallway as she ran down the stairs. He smiled and shook his head.
“You’re so like Sonja.”
“People often say that.”
“Yes, but I mean when she was young. She used to wear her hair loose, too—all the girls did in the seventies. Everyone admired her long curly hair. And the color . . .”
“Chestnut. And yours was the same shade,” Embla said quickly.
“Chestnut . . . I’d have said dark red. Mine’s long gone, of course.”
He ran a callused hand over his bald head. He had shaved off the small amount that remained around his ears and at the back of his neck; Embla had convinced him that it looked better that way.
“You know she was only eighteen when she went down to Gothenburg to apply to drama school—and she got in!” he said.
Embla had heard the story many times over the years: how her amazing mom had impressed the board and gotten in at her first attempt. She was expected to have a brilliant career. After a year or so she met Örjan, Embla’s father, an arts journalist specializing in theater. They married in a civil ceremony and had a big hippie wedding celebration for family and friends. They had three boys within six years. Seven years after the youngest boy a little bonus came along—Embla. Her mother’s acting career never really got going again after the children began to arrive, but Sonja wasn’t one to complain. She had plenty of other projects. She would soon be eligible for her state pension, but nobody was expecting her to slow down. She still had her organic food store in Haga, which she ran with a friend, and she was an active politician, serving on the town council in Linnéstaden as a representative for the Green Party. She also looked after her retired, absentminded husband and loved spending time with her eldest son’s two children.
Embla had often wondered whether Sonja would have gone back to acting if Embla hadn’t been born—not that her mother ever hinted as much. Embla had never really felt like she fit in with her artistic, creative family. Her choice of profession had been met with bewilderment. A police officer? What sane person wanted to become an officer? As activists who attended demonstrations against the US’s involvement in the Vietnam War, both her parents had come into close contact with police batons on more than one occasion. Not that anyone said anything. In the Nyström family, tolerance was a key word.
They sat down at Nisse’s rustic pine table, where he had set out a tempting array of food. Perfectly fried moose steaks (“You shot it yourself!”) with plenty of fried onions in a delicious sauce, boiled potatoes, and lingonberry conserve (“I picked the berries”). Embla stuck to water while Nisse partied with a low-alcohol beer.
“I’ll need a steady hand tomorrow,” he said with a wink as he poured the beer.
The meal was excellent, and they ate in silence for a while. Eventually Embla leaned back to let the food go down better. As usual when she came to visit Nisse, she’d eaten too much too fast; her uncle was a phenomenal cook. It had to be good, plain Swedish food, though—he wasn’t interested in any fancy French cuisine.
“How’s Ingela?” she asked.
Nisse’s face lit up at the mention of his partner. “Great. She’s got her grandkids over this weekend, so our hunting trip fits in very well.” He emptied his glass, and as he put it down he gave her a sly look. “We’ve booked a trip.”
“Cool—where and when?”
“Gran Canaria—the week after Easter. It’s cheaper then.”
Embla raised her eyebrows. As far as she was aware, her uncle had never set foot outside Sweden. As a young man he had been tied to the farm because of the animals, and just when he and Ann-Sofi had begun to think of retirement, she’d gotten sick and passed away very quickly. Nisse had never flown before—she knew that for certain.
“Fantastic! Who’s going to look after the farm?”
“Tobias—he doesn’t have any animals these days. I’ve only got four youngsters left after the autumn slaughter, but I’m not sure if I’ll bother getting any more in the summer. We’ll see.” He fell silent for a moment, his expression suddenly serious. “Did you know that Tobias is going to buy Hansgården?”
This was news to Embla, and she simply shook her head. She still shuddered whenever she heard the name of that pl
ace. The events of last fall came crowding in; she had almost lost her life there. With an enormous effort she pushed the unpleasant thoughts aside and tried to concentrate on what Nisse was saying.
“It’s on the market for next to nothing. Nobody wants to live there after . . . what happened,” he said grimly.
Embla regained the power of speech, and even managed a small smile. “It’ll be fine. Baby number three will be along soon, so they need a bigger house. And no doubt Tobias will buy the land as well so that he can concentrate on farming full-time.”
“Let’s hope so. He enjoys selling agricultural machinery, but commuting to Åmål every day isn’t easy.”
Despite his words, Nisse looked far from convinced. He felt the same way as Embla about Hansgården: it was haunted by bad luck. No one who’d lived there had been happy. Hopefully Tobias’s growing family would change all that.
Switching to a different subject, Embla said, “I want to fit in a serious session with your punching bag and the speedball tomorrow morning. I’ve only managed to train twice this week.”
“Are you starting to feel better?”
“Absolutely.”
Nisse looked searchingly at his niece. He knew her too well and could probably hear that she wasn’t being entirely honest.
“How about the concussion?” he asked quietly.
Embla preferred not to talk about the injuries she’d sustained while working a case during the previous year’s moose hunt, but at the same time she realized that if there was anyone who would understand, it was Nisse.
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