Winter Grave

by Helene Tursten

  “Okay, let’s cover the whole lot. I’ll call Trollhättan and they can get the CSIs over here in the morning,” Göran said.

  Hampus fetched a tarp from the trunk of the Volvo, and together they spread it over the remaining contents of the dumpster. It was essential to protect any traces of blood or other key evidence.

  “I suggest we all drive to Gothenburg together. I’ll go straight to the lab; I want this done by the book.”

  “You mean tonight?” Embla asked.

  “Yes. If that’s okay.”

  Embla was slightly surprised, but it would be useful to go home, check out her mail and her two pot plants. They were a particularly hardy variety called Zanzibar Gem, which was apparently capable of surviving in challenging conditions. Hers had certainly lived up to their reputation during the year they’d spent on her windowsill; they were still alive despite the fact that they were badly neglected. The thought of spending a night in her own bed was also appealing, even though the one in the guest room at the Shore House was comfortable.

  “We’ll meet back at the house at ten tomorrow morning. I’ll call Willén right away and ask him to send a team to search the area around Sandgrav. We’ll need the dogs, too.”

  Paula went with Göran in the little white car. She lived in Trollhättan, so it was obvious she was planning to spend the night with him. Embla and Hampus exchanged a meaningful glance, but neither of them said a word.

  They stopped by the Shore House to pick up anything they needed to take with them. As far as Embla was concerned that was her iPad, her toiletries, and her dirty laundry. When she emerged from her room Hampus was on his cell phone. He had lowered his voice, but she could still hear every word.

  “. . . you can park across the street . . . No, don’t do that. She’ll see you . . . Behind the house would be better.”

  What was he up to? Was he meeting someone he didn’t want Filippa to see? Interesting. Never try to keep a secret from a cop because that arouses her interest. Hampus ought to know that. He mustn’t suspect that she’d overheard a fragment of his conversation.

  The apartment smelled familiar when she opened the door: slightly stuffy, a hint of her perfume, a whiff of the liniment she’d used after her latest training session, and dry dust, of course. There was a pile of mail on the mat, mostly junk and the odd bill. She read her newspapers online.

  The first thing she did was go into the bathroom and load the washing machine. It was a little late, but it would be fine. The guy in the apartment below was in his first year at the Chalmers Institute of Technology. When he wasn’t studying for exams he liked to stay up late partying—a common reaction to moving away from home and escaping the watchful eye of one’s parents. He could hardly complain about her washing; he had disturbed her plenty of times.

  She decided to make herself a sandwich: sliced hard-boiled egg with fish roe. She went into the kitchen and put on a pan of water and filled the kettle. A cup of herbal green tea with lavender would help her sleep.

  A short while later she was sitting on the leather sofa she’d inherited from her brother Atle—or rather his wife, Sanna, who was the one with an eye for décor—eating her supper and thinking about Hampus.

  He was up to something, and it wasn’t just the new apartment. He was constantly fiddling with his cell phone, there was the conversation she’d overheard, plus his peculiar behavior earlier that evening.

  Embla had offered to drive. They hadn’t chatted much during the journey, but as they drew closer to the tower blocks that housed the police station, the custody suite, the courts, and a number of other organizations associated with the law, Hampus had glanced up from his phone.

  “You can drop me outside the station.”

  Without even trying to hide her surprise, Embla had said, “You’re not going home?”

  “No. I need to pick up something.”

  She had pulled over outside the police station without another word, and he’d jumped out.

  “See you here tomorrow morning at seven-thirty,” he’d said.

  Then he closed the door and practically ran to the main doors. He went inside, swiped his pass card, and disappeared down the security corridor. Okay, so he didn’t want her to pick him up outside the house in Björkekärr as usual. Strange! Then again, maybe the atmosphere between him and Filippa wasn’t so great after all. But in that case, where was he going to spend the night?

  She had decided to hang around, and had walked to the 7-Eleven store on the corner. She bought milk, eggs, and whole-grain rolls, then hurried back to the illegally parked car. She kept the bag containing her purchases in plain sight; she didn’t want him to realize she was spying on him. She took her time placing the bag between the seats while keeping a watchful eye on the main entrance to the police station. People came and went, but there was no sign of Hampus. She took out her phone and held it to her ear, faking a call. The minutes crawled by, and one or two of her colleagues glanced at the car on passing. She couldn’t stay here, it was too embarrassing. And she couldn’t possibly tail him; if there was one car he was bound to recognize, it was the great big black Volvo. Plus there were plenty of other exits from the building. If he thought she suspected something, he’d choose a different way out.

  Her curiosity still piqued, she’d given up and driven home.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her phone. Her heart leaped when she saw nadir on the display, and her blood suddenly began to fizz. The reaction surprised her, but it was far from unpleasant.

  “Hi, Nadir.”

  “Hi. Embla, I . . . where are you?”

  She could hear tension in his voice.

  “At home, sitting on my sofa, drinking tea, and . . .”

  “So you’re in Gothenburg.”

  It was hard to interpret his tone. He sounded surprised, but there was a sharpness there, too.

  “Yes. We found something and wanted to drop it off at the lab tonight. It has to do with Amelie’s case. But we’ll be back in Strömstad at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  There was a brief silence then, “Listen, can we meet up? I . . . we need to talk.”

  She took a quick shower, brushed her teeth, put on clean clothes, a couple of dabs of mascara, and a few sprays of Chanel Chance. She wound her hair into a messy bun on top of her head and secured it with a barrette. That would have to do. But why was she feeling so nervous? Or maybe it was anticipation? It wasn’t just the sex; Nadir was a great guy in every way. Shit! She didn’t want to get tangled up in a relationship with a married man. One of her best friends, Malin, had made that mistake and it had broken her. In the end the guy had naturally decided to stay with his wife and their two small kids. Embla had frequently tried to warn Malin; when you were standing on the sidelines, it was easy to see where things were heading. After the breakup it had taken almost a year before Malin even began to recover. Two years had passed now, and she was still brooding over what had happened. Embla had tried to listen and offer words of consolation, and she had promised herself that she would never get involved with a married man.

  And now here she was, dangerously close to walking into the same trap with her eyes wide open. But it takes two to tango! He had a responsibility, too . . . At that moment the doorbell rang. Her heart rate increased and her head began to spin.

  Afterward they lay in her bed, holding each other.

  I want to stay in this moment. But soon he’ll leave, and go home to his family. To his wife and daughter.

  It was as if the cold shock of reality sobered her up. She moved away a fraction.

  “Time to talk, Nadir.”

  He gave an involuntary start and immediately tried to hide it with a smile. “Why? This is lovely.”

  Embla sat up and stared at him. “Is it?”

  Before he could respond she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She stood up
and put her hands on her hips.

  “Get dressed and come into the living room.”

  On her way into the bathroom, she wondered if she was about to scupper the whole thing. Possibly, but it was a sexual adventure with no long-term prospects, she reminded herself. And it was built on one partner’s dishonesty. She washed up in the bathroom, then went back to the bedroom to get dressed. Nadir had already gone into the other room.

  She grabbed a bottle of mineral water and two glasses from the kitchen. She poured them both a drink; neither said a word until she was done. Embla curled up in one corner of the sofa, leaning on the armrest. Nadir got the message and took the red floral-patterned armchair, bought for a hundred kronor at an auction in Dalsland. It was as good as new, and very comfortable. A real bargain. However, Nadir looked anything but comfortable.

  Embla broke the silence, totally in control and determined not to sound bitter.

  “I know you’re married. When were you planning on telling me?”

  To her surprise, he smiled.

  “When I called you earlier and asked if we could meet up. It’s true. But something got in the way . . .”

  Okay, so he was blaming their sexual encounter. She realized to her surprise that he was starting to annoy her.

  “So what were you going to say?” Her tone was brusque, and it was exactly what he deserved.

  “I understand if you feel I’ve deceived you. But you never asked. And I . . . I couldn’t resist.”

  That little smile was playing around the corners of his mouth again. Smug bastard!

  “You couldn’t resist the chance of getting laid. Me neither. It was only meant to be a one-night stand. Then it turned into two. And just now . . .”

  A glance at his face silenced her; his expression was deadly serious.

  “That’s not how it was for me. The minute I saw you in Strömstad . . . I felt something so powerful. Here!”

  He gently placed his hand on his heart and looked her in the eyes. She was dumbstruck, but at the same time a voice in her head snapped: Pull yourself together! He’s only saying what he knows will make you melt.

  “Even though you’re married.”

  He grimaced, resignation etched on his face. He slumped in the armchair and seemed to shrink.

  Here we go with the usual litany, my-wife-doesn’t-understand-me. So predictable! She didn’t say a word, just carried on staring at him. After a little while he cleared his throat a couple of times.

  “My parents and Soraya’s parents fled from Iran together. Our fathers were colleagues, and politically active. They finished up here in Gothenburg, and always said their children should marry each other. I have two younger sisters and Soraya’s an only child. Our marriage was arranged many, many years ago.”

  He fell silent and looked down at his hands, which were linked together in his lap. Embla didn’t move.

  “Neither Soraya nor I gave it much thought when we were kids, but when I was a teenager I started to worry. I fell in love with other girls, but my mom and dad were implacable: Soraya and I were meant for each other, and that was the end of the matter.”

  He glanced up at her, not a trace of a smile there now.

  “I have to tell you that Soraya was . . . is beautiful. Very beautiful. There were plenty of boys who envied me, but I was never in love with her. She was like a sister, and she felt the same way about me. We’ve never put it into words, but that’s still true today.”

  He took a sip of his water, then continued. “I started to study law, while she read archaeology and Arabic history. The pressure from our parents increased. They kept telling us it was time for the wedding. I managed to postpone it for a while, blamed my studies, but once I was qualified, there was no escape. We got married. But I’ve longed for love . . . and then there you were.”

  He stood up and walked over to her. Hesitantly he held out his hand. She took it and got to her feet. He gently drew her close.

  “I want to be with you.”

  All her good intentions and convincing arguments disappeared in an instant, leaving nothing but this moment. They shared a deep, intense kiss, as if they were determined never to give each other up.

  At 7:35 on Monday morning Embla pulled up outside the main door of the police station. Hampus was waiting for her, the collar of his jacket turned up as he shivered in the bitter wind. The temperature was around freezing, and lead-gray clouds pressed down on the city. His face brightened when he saw her. She hadn’t seen him smile like that since they embarked on the investigation in Strömstad; he looked both happy and relaxed. They’d always started the day with the same question when they were a permanent team:

  “Hi—did you sleep well?”

  His smile grew even broader. “I did. But not for very long.”

  It took a few seconds for the penny to drop. So she wasn’t the only one who’d had a good night! But who had Hampus . . . ? Best not to ask. He might draw the same conclusions about her, and if he decided to ask questions, things could get tricky. Instead they simply chatted all the way to Strömstad, and he glanced down at his phone only a couple of times.

  When they reached the Shore House and got out of the car, it was immediately clear that the whole team, Paula included, had had a great night. She and Göran were standing close together by the Nissan. In spite of the drizzle and the strong wind, they didn’t look cold at all. They were smiling at each other, and were surrounded by a kind of aura. They tried to adopt a more professional air as Embla and Hampus approached, but their sparkling eyes gave them away.

  “Morning—we just arrived,” Göran said. “The CSIs from Trollhättan called; they’re on their way, and the dogs will be here any minute. A team from Strömstad will help with the search, too, but not until after eleven.”

  They unlocked the door and switched off the alarm.

  As Göran was hanging up his jacket in the hallway, he said over his shoulder, “I can confirm that the blood on the windshield was human, and the same blood group as Amelie’s. They’re running DNA tests right now. The quantity was so minute that I didn’t dare do them myself; one of the girls in the lab is an expert in that kind of thing. I suspect the shield has been wiped, but not very thoroughly. Fortunately. The fibers have been secured.”

  He looked tired but satisfied.

  “Coffee!” he demanded.

  Paula and Embla exchanged a glance and went into the kitchen to fulfill his order, while the men headed for the living room to get the fire going. The standard allocation of tasks between the sexes since the Stone Age . . .

  A while later they were all gathered around the table in front of a crackling blaze. As expected Göran complained that no one had remembered to buy cookies, but Paula quietly pointed out that he’d had breakfast less than two and a half hours ago.

  Hampus asked the obvious question:

  “So where do we start searching?”

  “This is a big area, and he could have thrown her in the sea,” Göran pointed out.

  “Wouldn’t she have drifted ashore somewhere by now?” Embla asked.

  Göran shook his head. “Not necessarily. The temperature of the water is very low at the moment, which slows down the process of decay, so less gas is formed. I assume there are strong currents offshore, so she could be a long, long way from here.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, all visualizing that little body being carried out to sea by the current.

  “But is that a reasonable assumption?” Embla wasn’t convinced. “If Olof threw her in here and she was found nearby, he would have immediately become a person of interest. Who else comes here in the winter? By road, I mean.”

  Göran nodded as he held out his cup for a refill.

  “There’s something to what you say, but remember he’d been drinking, and no doubt he was in a panic. He might not have been thinking clearly.” />
  “We need to search without any preconceptions,” Paula said.

  “So where do we start?” Hampus repeated.

  Buoyed up by the sweet coffee, Göran set out his plan. “The CSIs are going to Breidablick first to examine the dumpster. The dog team will come straight here. I want them to search the area, moving outward from the house. The four of us will split up. Paula and I will take the house, the shed, and the boathouse. You two start over at the store. It’s closed for the season, but I spoke to Eva this morning, and she said the key is in the cupboard in the hallway. The alarm code is the same as for this house, but with an extra six on the end. And don’t forget your gloves and shoe protectors.”

  They got to their feet and prepared to set to work.

  There were several keys in the pale-blue cupboard with white flying gulls painted on the door. In the bottom right corner were the initials A. S. Maybe Ann Sjöberg was the artist, Embla thought. She rummaged around and found a small bunch of keys labeled Store + shed. They were underneath a stubby key marked Lobster trap.

  “Must fit the padlock Göran tripped over,” she said.

  “Is his foot okay now?” Hampus asked.

  “Seems to be.”

  She replaced the stubby key and followed Hampus out into the rain.

  The air in the shop was stale and damp, and there was a faint smell of sour milk. Hampus found the light switch. The place was divided into two rooms. In the smaller one were empty shelves and a substantial chill counter. Next to the chill counter was a freezer with a transparent lid. Hampus strode over. “Empty.”

  Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. Embla looked carefully to see if there was any sign that someone had been in since the closure three months earlier, but she found nothing.