The same applied to the other room. A range of chandlery items was displayed on the walls and shelves, all neatly arranged and apparently untouched. Hampus immediately gravitated toward several outboard motors in one corner.
“Wow! A hundred and fifty horsepower! All I need now is the boat!” he exclaimed.
The mischievous look on his face when he turned back to Embla cheered her immensely; he was getting back to his old self. Whoever he’d spent the night with, she was exactly what he needed.
They conducted a thorough search but found nothing of interest. They moved on to the storage shed, which contained even more engines in different sizes, plus skiffs and dinghies in both wood and plastic. Everything the discerning boat owner could possibly need, in fact.
“The contents of this shed alone must be worth a fortune,” Embla said.
“Absolutely.”
Hampus’s voice was slightly muted because he was rummaging among various fenders hanging in a corner. The smallest was about the size of a cola bottle, the largest bigger than a full-grown man. A notice on the wall informed customers that if anyone needed a larger fender, they should speak to a member of staff at the boatyard. Embla heard a huge sneeze from the corner. The shed was very dusty, which made it easier to see if anyone had been there. But once again, nothing.
They reset the alarm on their way out into the wind and sleet. Snow crystals stung their skin like tiny needles. The sound of exciting barking was coming from the direction of the Shore House; the dogs had arrived.
“Now what?” Embla asked.
“How about I take the boatyard and you go in the opposite direction? I don’t think we need to stick together.”
Without waiting for an answer, Hampus set off along the jetty toward the boatyard, which was quiet at the moment. Presumably the men were on a break. Embla turned and slowly went back the way they’d come.
The high tide made it almost impossible to see anything in the water. The waves crashed against the rocks, making them treacherous. Under normal circumstances it would have been hard to make out whatever might be on the seabed; today there was no chance. Still she tried to peer down into the murky depths, even though she knew it was pointless. If Amelie had been thrown in around here over a month ago, she was long gone. Maybe the body had been carried out by the currents, as Göran had said. In which case they would never find her. The sea can be a good place to dispose of a body, especially if it’s as small as Amelie’s. Fish and other creatures would make short work of . . . Other creatures!
She stopped dead and almost slipped down into the icy water. Fortunately she managed to grab hold of a rusty ring embedded in the rock face; apparently larger vessels had anchored in this protected inlet during the war. The waves licked her boots, but her feet didn’t get wet. If they had she wouldn’t have noticed, though. Her focus was elsewhere.
As she approached the jetty down below the Shore House she could see that Göran and Paula were searching the shed. A wheelbarrow and some garden tools had been dumped outside, and she could hear their voices. Their words were carried away on the wind, but their laughter reached her. She went straight into the main house, opened the pale-blue cupboard, and took out the little key marked Lobster trap.
Down on the jetty she noticed that the lid of the wood-fired hot tub was slightly askew; someone must have checked inside. She also caught the back view of one of the dog handlers, heading down the steps to the shore. She couldn’t see the dog, which must have gone on ahead, but it was yapping excitedly, eager to start work.
The padlock Göran had tripped over was hard to open. The bitterly cold, damp air numbed her fingers, but after a while she managed it. The hinges creaked reluctantly as she pulled up the heavy hatch. She took out her flashlight. A steel wire ran into the water from each corner of the trap. On the edge of the hatch was something that looked like a switch with two small levers. One was in the “off” position, the other “down.” She turned the first to “on” and heard an engine begin to throb beneath the jetty. She flicked the other switch to “up” and the wires began to move. Slowly they drew up the trap.
“Embla! What are you doing?” Paula was standing on the top step.
“Just checking out an idea!”
Paula said something over her shoulder to Göran, then came to join Embla.
The trap broke the surface of the water with an audible splash, before coming to a halt on a level with the underside of the jetty. The lid was held in place by a couple of simple clips. In spite of her stiff fingers, Embla managed to undo them. Her suspicions were confirmed as soon as she lifted the lid.
The trap contained a black plastic sack. And there was something inside it. The top was secured with a piece of rope that had been wound around several times and tied tightly. The knots appeared to be the work of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Embla didn’t touch anything else. She and Paula stared down at the contents of the trap, then looked at each other. It wasn’t only the wind that brought tears to their eyes.
They called over Göran, who had his camera with him, and he began to take photographs. He was particularly interested in the knots, and took several close-ups.
“The CSIs are on their way from Breidablick. We’ll wait for them before we open the sack.”
It was essential to keep the rope and the knots intact, so one of the CSI technicians simply slit the sack open.
The collar of the red jacket was torn. Her white Lucia costume peeked out of the top of a red-and-white ICA plastic bag. She was lying with her head turned to one side at an unnatural angle. The white hat was discolored by rusty-brown blood. Embla fought back the urge to lift her out of the icy water in the trap.
But Amelie could no longer feel the cold.
Maria Holm swayed and collapsed on the sofa when they told her they’d found Amelie. Embla and Hampus were with her in the family’s living room. Julien was at a friend’s house, which made it easier for them to talk to her.
After a while Maria stopped crying, and went to the bathroom to dry her eyes. When she came back she seemed surprisingly composed, although one hand was clutching a packet of paper tissues.
“Amelie has come to me in my dreams. She . . . she looked happy. She laughed and hugged me. But I knew she’d come . . . to console me.” Her voice broke. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes with a sodden tissue. “At least I’ll be able to bury my little girl,” she whispered.
Embla’s throat constricted, and she, too, had to blink away the tears. She went and sat beside Maria and put her arms around her. They sat like that for quite a while.
Göran and Paula went straight to the custody suite in Trollhättan to speak to Johannes Holm. They knew his mental state was fragile, and discussed the best way to tell him about Amelie. They had no idea if Johannes was religious, but Paula suggested contacting a priest, who might be able to help him either way since priests were used to comforting those who were grieving. Göran agreed, and Paula put in a call to the custody officer.
No spiritual mentor in the world could have handled the impact the news had on Johannes. He broke down completely and was taken by ambulance to the emergency psychiatric unit.
“So that leaves Viggo,” Hampus said to Göran and Embla.
They were having a late dinner at the Laholm Hotel because none of them felt like cooking. Göran had given Paula a ride home earlier since it was her week to watch her children. When he returned, he insisted they needed a decent meal after the upsetting events of the day, but Embla didn’t feel the least bit hungry. It was always hard to investigate crimes when the victims were children.
“We need to go over everything again. It’s clear that there’s no connection between the disappearance of Amelie and Viggo. Amelie was hit by Olof Sjöberg’s car. He was drunk. Then he panicked and hid her in the lobster trap.”
“You have to wonder what he was thinking—I me
an she couldn’t stay down there,” Embla interjected.
Göran scraped up the remains of his red wine sauce and swallowed it with obvious pleasure before he answered. “No, she couldn’t, but Olof was in the middle of one of his drinking bouts. I think he was intending to go back for her when things had calmed down. Take her far out to sea in his boat and dump the body.”
The body. Little Amelie was just a body now. As a police officer, Embla knew perfectly well that this was a professional way of distancing oneself from people, reducing them to a body, a plaintiff, a witness, a victim. She had to try to suppress the grief she was feeling. Such emotions could cloud an investigator’s judgment, meaning that he or she might miss vital details, become a less effective officer. Although she wasn’t convinced that always applied. When you’re working with people going through some form of crisis, it’s important to pay attention to them and to listen to and follow your inner voice if need be.
It was almost eleven by the time they parked outside the Shore House. The wind was still strong, and it had started raining again. The only dots of light were provided by the external lamps on the gable ends. The place lay before them like a dark, solid mass. For the first time it felt threatening.
A brief flash in her peripheral vision as they walked toward the door made Embla realize why.
“There’s someone in the house!” she hissed.
Both Göran and Hampus stopped dead beside her.
“Are you sure?” Göran whispered.
“Yes—I saw something at the hallway window, a flashlight maybe . . . There!”
A beam swept across the room and disappeared.
“There’s definitely someone in there,” Hampus agreed.
“But what about the alarm?” Embla was confused.
“Did you set it?”
She had to think for a moment. “No.”
“Me neither. Göran?”
“No—the CSIs were still here. I gave them the spare key and the code, but they could have forgotten to set it.”
Things had been a little chaotic earlier. The CSI team had still been on the jetty when Embla and her colleagues left. Once Amelie’s body had been sent down to Gothenburg, the technicians had continued to examine the immediate area. They had found a gray pair of men’s trousers and a thick blue lumber jacket at the bottom of the lobster trap, both marked with large stains that looked like blood. Meanwhile they had been given access to the Shore House so that they could make a hot drink and use the bathroom. They’d left about an hour ago.
“Look—whoever it is has moved to the living room,” Hampus said quietly.
“Okay, you and I will take the front door while Embla goes around the back.”
None of them was armed, but Embla understood Göran’s tactic. If the intruder—or intruders—decided to make a run for it via the patio, she would be able to stop them. The blow would come as a complete surprise out of the darkness. It had worked before.
Did the interloper know they were out here? Possibly, but with a bit of luck the wind would have drowned out the sound of their engines.
The fact that they’d been staying in the house for a couple of days gave them the advantage; they knew the layout. Embla still had to be careful as she made her way around the back; the ground was uneven and slippery with the rain. She was planning to tiptoe through the gap between the shed and the garage, which would give her easy access to the patio. The plexiglass fencing and the glass doors leading onto the sun deck would enable her to see what was going on inside the living room.
The strategy was sound, until she found an SUV parked next to the garage. It had tinted glass, which made it difficult to see if anyone was sitting in the car. Moving as quietly as possible, she crept up behind the vehicle. She reached into her pocket for her powerful little flashlight and held it up to the back window.
Then she switched it on.
Nothing happened.
After a few seconds she looked up; the car was definitely empty. She shined the beam on the trunk: Lexus RX 300. She knew exactly who their uninvited visitor was.
Pernilla Andersson was in floods of tears. There was no point in trying to get anything sensible out of her. Göran was sitting beside her on the sofa with a roll of paper towels, ripping off sheets and handing them to her at regular intervals while trying to calm her down. It wasn’t working; she just kept sobbing. Instinctively Embla went and sat on the other side of her. She gently put her arm around Pernilla’s shoulders and drew her close. The floodgates opened, and she wept as if her heart was breaking. Embla could feel the dampness seeping through her top, but maintained her comforting embrace. Maybe it was the proximity to another person that made Pernilla let go completely, and maybe it was that same feeling that eventually enabled her to pull herself together. It took a while, but she managed to sit up and blow her nose. Her face was streaked with mascara yet again. Why does she insist on putting on makeup when she can’t be bothered to wash her hair or change her clothes? Embla wondered with a certain amount of admiration. Then again, Pernilla had a pretty face; maybe the habit of applying makeup was a desperate attempt to cling to some kind of normality in an existence that had been smashed to pieces.
Hampus appeared with a tray of tea and cardamom crisp rolls, which Göran had bought instead of the usual chocolate Florentines or Ballerina cookies.
They gave Pernilla a cup of tea with milk and sugar, then served themselves. Göran was the only one who took a crisp roll. After some inconsequential small talk he decided it was time to get serious.
“How did you get in? Even if the CSIs forgot to set the alarm, I’m sure they must have locked the door.”
For a second Embla thought Pernilla wasn’t going to answer, but then the other woman took a deep breath.
“The spare key.”
“What spare key?”
“Under the pot.”
Embla remembered the two concrete pots on either side of the door, containing spruce and heather.
“I used to clean this house, and I worked in the store during the summer—before I got the job at the Co-op two years ago.”
“So you looked under the pot and the key was still there.”
“Yes.”
The three colleagues considered this revelation in silence. What was the point of locks and alarm systems if you hid a spare key under a pot by the front door? However, Embla wasn’t particularly surprised. Uncle Nisse always kept a key on top of the door frame.
“What about the alarm? Do you know the code?”
The shadow of a smile passed across Pernilla’s face.
“Of course, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to let myself in to do the cleaning. Olof never changed it.”
So much for security measures.
Adopting his least threatening tone of voice, Göran asked, “So why are you here?”
Pernilla’s expression stiffened, and Embla was afraid she might start crying again. Instead she pursed her lips and suddenly looked angry.
“You’re making stuff up, trying to frame Ted!”
All three officers were equally taken aback by this outburst.
“Making stuff . . . ? What do you mean?” A furrow had appeared between Göran’s eyebrows.
“Planting false evidence! He’s done nothing! It’s that stupid boy you’re all pandering to! He . . .”
Her voice broke and the tears began to flow once more. Another collapse was imminent.
“Pernilla, listen to me. We’re not trying to frame Ted for something he hasn’t done, but we know he was at Breidablick when the fire was started. Olof Sjöberg died and his son was badly beaten. Those are very serious offenses. While we’re investigating what happened, Ted and Johannes will remain in custody,” Göran explained.
Pernilla had demonstratively turned her back on him; now her head jerked around and she stared at him, ey
es blazing.
“Kristoffer Sjöberg abducted both Amelie and our Viggo! He’s the one who should be in a cell!”
The media still didn’t know about the discovery of Amelie’s body.
Göran held Pernilla’s gaze and said slowly and clearly, “We found Amelie today. She’s dead. We know how she died. Kristoffer is not under any suspicion whatsoever. He had absolutely nothing to do with her death.”
Her eyes widened as she grasped what he’d said. Before she jumped to the conclusion that Viggo must have been murdered, Göran continued.
“The person responsible for Amelie’s death cannot possibly have had anything to do with Viggo’s disappearance. It’s out of the question. And as we told you before, Kristoffer has an alibi for the time when Viggo went missing. Five people can confirm that he was at Breidablick.”
The anger in Pernilla’s eyes was just as fierce.
“They’re lying!”
“No. Their statements have been meticulously checked. One of the witnesses has no connection with the Sjöberg family. He’s simply a customer who was picking up his car.”
Pernilla continued to glare at him but didn’t say any more. After a moment Göran went back to his original point.
“So what are you doing here? What did Ted ask you to look for?”
Her lower lip began to quiver, but she remained silent.
“I can see that you’ve switched on my laptop, but it’s password protected. What did he ask you to look for?”
Pernilla’s voice was barely audible when, much to Embla’s surprise, she replied, “He told me to search for false evidence . . . He said you’re all lying, that you’re determined to bring him down.”
Something began to stir in Embla’s subconscious. The sweating, the shaking, the explosive temperament. And now the paranoia.
“Does Ted take drugs?” she asked quietly.
Pernilla reacted as if she’d been slapped across the face. The color drained from her cheeks, and her eyes widened with fear. Embla had seen that same expression when they’d talked to her about Ted back at home. Pernilla turned away and didn’t answer.
Winter Grave Page 20
