Winter Grave

by Helene Tursten

  “I . . . I took a really hard blow to the back of the head. The doctors said I must have an unusually thick skull. They’ve done all kinds of tests, run an EEG, and so on. It’s looking much better, but I must never take the risk of receiving another blow like that. Never. I could suffer a brain hemorrhage and end up in a vegetative state.”

  She fell silent and swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump in her throat. She had gone through a severe trauma, and the consequences would affect her for the rest of her life.

  “Does that mean you can’t compete anymore?”

  “Yes.”

  The answer was muffled. Six months ago, she’d become Nordic light welterweight champion. The whole of Scandinavia had bubbled over with jubilation. It had been the happiest day ever, the result of many years of rock-hard discipline and relentless training. And now she wouldn’t be able to defend her title. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but at the same time she was grateful that she’d survived the attack.

  “That’s a shame, but I’m so pleased you’ve managed to recover.”

  As usual Nisse seemed to have read her mind. He stood up and began to clear the table.

  “Time for coffee and a piece of Ingela’s Tosca cake. Did I say she sends her love? If not, I’m telling you now.”

  These days there were only six active members of the hunting club. Former leader Sixten Svensson’s injured shoulder would never be the same again, and he was now living in the local assisted-living home. He was happy there, and his hunting friends visited him on a regular basis. They had reached an agreement allowing the club to lease his land and hunting rights, and after each hunt he would receive a share of the meat. Really, it would be handed over to the cook at the home, who was delighted at the opportunity to prepare a special meal for all the residents. Sixten enjoyed living with people his own age, chatting about times gone by. He realized now how lonely he’d been in that dilapidated house on the edge of the village.

  When darkness fell late on Saturday afternoon, Embla and Nisse began to make their preparations for the hunt. It was a few degrees below freezing, with a light breeze. Ideal conditions—not bitterly cold, and with good visibility. However, they could well be sitting motionless for long periods, so they needed thick socks and long underwear, several tops and sweaters layered beneath their padded jackets, plus warm hats and fur-lined gloves. The worst thing about hunting in the winter was that you always ended up with frozen hands; when it came to shooting, only fingerless gloves would do.

  The club had decided that three or four boar would be enough. This expedition was designed to fulfill their own needs in terms of meat; they weren’t intending to sell any to restaurants. They had split into two teams, one for each feeding site. Embla and Nisse were with Karin Bergström, Embla’s cousin. She was the daughter of Nisse’s oldest sister, Embla the daughter of his youngest. The two of them had been close ever since childhood, despite an age difference of almost seven years. They always enjoyed hunting together. Karin’s husband, Björn, was with Tobias and his father, Einar.

  They parked the car a short distance away on the track, which had been cleared by the snowplow. They moved along silently until they reached a smaller forest track where the ground had been churned up by broad tires. This was where Tobias had driven his Nissan Navara SE when he came to feed the boar. Cautiously, with the wind in their faces, the three hunters edged closer to the site. It was only fifty yards off the track, but it was dark among the fir trees, and they had to be careful where they put their feet.

  Before long they could hear the animals slurping and grunting. Good—they were making enough noise to drown out any sound from the approaching hunters. The site was behind a wall that was tall enough to allow them to stand. As silently as possible they positioned themselves a few feet apart and looked through the night vision sights. They were also able to rest their rifles on the wall, which made life easier.

  Around twenty boar were enjoying the food, squabbling over the tastiest morsels. A large sow had a number of piglets with her. She and her offspring were protected, but there were several yearlings that looked perfect. However, it was hard to get a clear shot. The boar were moving around, close together, and it was against the law to fire if there was a risk that another boar could be hit by the bullet or the ricochet.

  After fifteen minutes, Embla’s fingers had begun to stiffen. The fingerless gloves didn’t stop the cold from penetrating into her bones. It was high time to take out a suitable animal, but they were still crowding together. Suddenly the sow snapped at a yearling. He squealed and skittered away. Embla took aim and fired, and the yearling went down immediately. The others took fright and fled. Nisse seized his chance and shot a small sow that became separated from the others in the confusion.

  Seconds later they heard distant shots from the other site.

  “Yes! At least three, maybe more!” Karin exclaimed delightedly. Her husband and three kids loved their food back home, so a decent share of wild boar meat was more than welcome. However, first they would have to wait for the results of the trichinella or roundworm tests, which they were legally obliged to submit to a lab. Only when the samples yielded a negative result would they be permitted to eat the meat.

  They finished up with four wild boar—three yearlings and Nisse’s little sow. The perfect amount to fill up everyone’s freezer.

  Embla felt both rested and happy when she set off back to Gothenburg. The sense of well-being lasted all the way to just north of Nödinge, at which point the Veteran’s engine seized up. All she could do was call for a tow truck.

  It was definitely time to start thinking about a new car.

  Acting Chief Superintendent Roger Willén was back in Strömstad. Just like before, he was in DCI Sven-Ove Berglund’s office. Also present were detectives Paula Nilsson and Lars Engman, along with officers Patrik Lind and Alice Åslund. Everyone in the room looked serious. Willén took a sip from the mug adorned with the words the eighth wonder of the world. Alice had set out coffee and a plate of cinnamon buns; she couldn’t possibly have known that the chief superintendent would choose that particular seat. A chance occurrence that seemed to be deliberate, Alice thought with a smile. She had ended up with mother’s little helper. You had to wonder what kind of wit had once bought these mugs. Sven-Ove had world’s best grandpa, but that one belonged to him; it had been a Father’s Day present from his three-year-old grandson, Ivar.

  Willén cleared his throat to indicate that he was ready to start.

  “It’s now been almost six weeks since Amelie Holm went missing. We’ve worked intensively, including over Christmas and New Year’s, brought in extra resources, widened the search with additional manpower. We haven’t found a single trace apart from her cell phone, which has only Amelie’s fingerprints on it. In some places the prints are smudged, but that could be because Amelie herself held it with her gloves on. Or because whoever took her was wearing gloves when he or she threw it in the container.”

  He paused and took another sip of coffee. Paula Nilsson also spotted the logo and had to clamp her lips together to hide a smile.

  “No suspicious calls or messages have been found in her phone records. Her computer has also been examined—nothing out of the ordinary there either.” Willén paused to finish his cinnamon bun. “Forensics found nothing unexpected in Kristoffer Sjöberg’s A-tractor, which hasn’t been modified, by the way,” he continued. “The girl was wearing a hat, which is presumably why no hairs were discovered. There’s a small amount of fabric residue from her gloves on the car seat and mud from the shoulder by the bus shelter in the foot well on the passenger side. That’s it. Whatever happened, it didn’t happen inside that vehicle. The question is where he took her.”

  “So you still think it was Kristoffer?” Berglund said. His icy tone escaped no one in the room.

  “Who else could it have been? He’s the only person who was seen with Ame
lie.”

  After a few seconds of extremely tense silence, Berglund took a deep breath.

  “The triangle between the recycling center, Knarrevik, and Hällestrand has been searched with a fine-tooth comb. Every single square foot that’s accessible with an A-tractor has been checked out. Plus the search area has been extended to include every forest glade, every ravine, every empty house . . . We’re talking about several square miles here. We’ve used a helicopter with a thermal-imaging camera, the Home Guard, trained police officers, dog patrols, the organization Missing People, and hundreds of volunteers over the past six weeks. There is absolutely no trace of Amelie. She’s not there,” he said firmly.

  The lines around Willén’s mouth tightened. “So where is she, then?”

  Berglund gave him a sharp glance. “The bus driver and the passengers have confirmed that she didn’t travel back to school on the bus, which means she must have missed it. I think someone picked her up in a car as she was walking along the road—it was pouring, remember. Maybe she waved her arms, just like Tuva did when she stopped Kristoffer,” he suggested.

  “Would a nine-year-old girl really get into a stranger’s car? I can understand her accepting a ride with Kristoffer because she knew him, but hitchhiking . . . I’m not sure,” Paula said.

  “I don’t believe it was a stranger. Either she knew the person, or she was taken against her will. But no one saw or heard a thing. I’m leaning toward the idea that Amelie knew the driver,” Berglund said grimly.

  “You mean someone who isn’t in our database,” Willén said, eyes fixed on his colleague.

  “I know you’re busy checking out every pedophile in western Sweden and Norway. I also know that nothing has come up that can be linked to Amelie.”

  Patrik Lind unexpectedly waved his hand, and Willén gave him a nod.

  “Could it be a hate crime? I mean, she’s pretty dark-skinned . . .”

  Berglund suddenly looked just as old and tired as he felt. The child’s disappearance and the suspicions against Kristoffer had taken their toll. Were they supposed to check every racist in Norway and in western and central Sweden as well as every pedophile? Not to mention Copenhagen—there’s a ferry from Oslo. An investigation of that scale could easily involve around a third of Sweden’s police service, plus colleagues in Oslo and Copenhagen. Impossible! The very idea made his head spin.

  “We can’t rule anything out under the circumstances,” he said vaguely.

  Willén was having none of it. “Before we start speculating,” he said, “I suggest we stick to the lead we have—Kristoffer Sjöberg.”

  Berglund responded with alacrity. “We’ve had both Olof and Kristoffer under surveillance. They hardly left Breidablick over the Christmas and New Year’s period. The boy spent most of his time in the workshop. Olof’s sister, Eva, has been over pretty often, as have Kristoffer’s two friends who also like tinkering with cars. But no one else has been there.”

  He had no intention of mentioning the fact that he’d visited three times over the holiday.

  He could see that Willén wasn’t convinced, although the others didn’t look quite so skeptical. There was absolutely no proof that Kristoffer had had anything to do with Amelie’s disappearance. The case was beginning to look increasingly hopeless. It had swallowed up an enormous quantity of resources, even though so many volunteers had come forward. As if that weren’t enough, there had been a serious attempted homicide on New Year’s Eve: a Norwegian partying in Strömstad had been stabbed. It turned out that the guy had a criminal record a mile long and was well-known to the Oslo police, which meant that Berglund was now under considerable pressure from his colleagues in Norway.

  “By the way, Robert Halvorsen is still in critical condition. He’s been in a coma ever since he was brought in, and the doctors don’t hold out much hope. If he dies we have a homicide investigation on our hands.” Berglund sounded even more weary, if that were possible.

  “In that case you’ll be pleased to hear that the Norwegians have taken over the case,” Willén informed him. “We don’t need to give it another thought.”

  He looked very pleased with himself as he delivered the news, and the smug look lingered as he continued, “I spoke to an Inspector Gilstrup from the Oslo narcotics unit yesterday. They’ve been watching Halvorsen and his gang for a long time. Maybe that’s why they decided to party over here on New Year’s. The house they were staying in belongs to a Swede, Hans Joffsén. He’s made a fortune in finance selling some kind of fund. He’s around forty, no criminal record, but he and Halvorsen obviously know each other, as he rented the house to Halvorsen, and—”

  He was interrupted by the shrill signal of the intercom. Berglund leaned forward and pressed the button.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, but Inspector Gilstrup would like to speak to you,” Kicki’s voice informed him.

  “Okay, put him through.”

  Berglund’s phone rang and he picked up the receiver. His expression grew even grimmer during the course of the conversation. Eventually he thanked his colleague and ended the call.

  “Halvorsen died about an hour ago.”

  What a way to end the work week, he thought.

  The Working Dogs Association in Skee had started its Saturday evening session. That evening the dogs were being trained to track down game with just their senses of smell to guide them. The only light sources allowed were flashlights or headlamps, but the owners were operating under strict instruction not to help their teammates out. To make things even more difficult, the exercise took place on a forest track outside the town. Earlier in the day the trainer had placed tufts of fur from various wild animals in the terrain along the track. The pouring rain—though of course unplanned—added to the challenge.

  At the trainer’s signal, the dogs set off with their owners at regular intervals, a few minutes apart. There were eight dogs of assorted breeds and their masters and mistresses. The clear star of the night was one of the smaller dogs—a border terrier named Baltsar.

  When the pairs reached the end of the track, they continued left on the 164 and followed the road for around a hundred yards in the direction of Skee, before turning right onto a well-lit dirt road that would take them back to the association’s modest clubhouse. They were all familiar with the route, even though they had mostly used it in daylight until then.

  There was a small parking lot where the track met the 164. The first pair to arrive were Baltsar and his master. The dog started pulling on the leash and yapping excitedly, making it clear that he wanted to investigate something interesting in the opposite direction of the clubhouse. His master was cold and wet and just wanted to get indoors, but Baltsar started whining and refused to cooperate. It was unusual behavior, even for the strong-willed terrier, so after a little while, his master gave in and loosened his grip on the extending leash. The dog immediately ran over to the side, still barking like crazy. His master followed and shined his flashlight down into the ditch.

  The report of a dead man in a ditch outside Skee to the east of Strömstad came into the Regional Crime Center in Gothenburg at 5:14 p.m. The caller introduced herself as the trainer with the Working Dogs Association, and she was extremely upset.

  “The whole ditch is full of blood!” she repeated over and over again.

  The only squad car on duty in northern Bohuslän was manned by Patrik Lind and Alice Åslund. They both felt a surge of adrenaline when they heard that a body had been found. They took the name of the person who’d made the discovery, then headed to the scene to cordon off the area in case it turned out to be a suspicious death and wait for backup.

  “The 164 to the west of Skee. No one lives out there—well, hardly anyone,” Patrik commented.

  Nothing was going to stop him. He raced toward the location, blue lights flashing, siren screaming. Neither of them had been first on t
he scene of a death before, let alone a person who had died in unexplained circumstances, as Patrik rather dramatically put it.

  They sped past Skee, traveling way too fast, and were soon out in the country. They could see the flashlights from some distance away, waving back and forth to show them where to go.

  “Shit. Eight flashlights,” Alice muttered.

  They were surrounded as soon as they got out of the car. Both owners and dogs were shocked, and the atmosphere was fraught. The dogs barked and whimpered, making it difficult for Alice and Patrik to get a clear picture of what had happened. Confusion reigned until a powerful woman in a yellow high-vis jacket managed to shut everyone up, enabling her to explain who they all were. Clearly she was the group leader and trainer. The two officers had already worked out that they must be dealing with some kind of dog club. The trainer, who introduced herself as Rigmor, asked the others to move aside so that the police could get to the ditch to look at the dead man. In an authoritative tone she informed them that she was a nurse and used to seeing dead bodies. Because he was definitely dead, there was no doubt about that. She had examined him already and established that the cause of death was a blunt force trauma to the head.

  Patrik and Alice let their flashlights play over the body. A man was lying facedown in the sodden ditch. The water around his head was colored red with his blood. He was wearing dark running shorts and a reflective jacket. His hat might once have been white, with a small multicolored bobble. The back of the hat was drenched with blood, but it was just possible to make out a broad wound.

  “He’s wearing a headlamp,” Rigmor pointed out.

  Alice noticed the beam next to hers wobble, and spun around just in time to see Patrik collapse. With Rigmor’s help, she managed to lay him on his back and raise his feet to get the blood flowing to his head. After a minute or so he began to mumble something unintelligible; it took a while before Alice could make out what he was saying.