Winter Grave

by Helene Tursten

  “I know you’re scared. He’s notorious for his temper. Long-term drug dependency leads to increasingly extreme mood swings.”

  Embla paused to see if Pernilla would respond but got nothing back. Calmly and with as much empathy as she could muster, she said, “I’m sure he’s taken out his anger on you from time to time. Has he ever hit Viggo?”

  Without looking at any of them, Pernilla slowly shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

  “But he has hit you.”

  Pernilla straightened her back, but after a couple of seconds it was as if all the strength had drained out of her. Her shoulders slumped, and she stared down at the floor. “You can’t tell him I’ve said anything!” she said, suddenly getting to her feet.

  She was terrified. Hampus cleared his throat, signaling that he’d like to take over.

  “We won’t, but it’s important for us to know how much he’s using.”

  Pernilla looked at him with her swollen, red-rimmed eyes, then flopped back down on the sofa. Her voice sounded thick and she was mumbling; it was hard to make out what she was saying.

  “Sometimes . . . when he comes home . . . I can tell . . . more often these days . . .”

  “Are you saying he’s using drugs more frequently now than in the past?”

  A weary nod.

  “What does he take?”

  The lead interrogator with the narcotics unit had stepped in, but Pernilla merely shook her head, exhaustion showing in every line of her body. Hampus pushed his glasses up his nose and gazed at her with his kind brown eyes. He lowered his voice, inviting her to confide in him.

  “Cocaine? Amphetamines?”

  Her lips trembled and Embla thought she wasn’t going to respond.

  “Powder,” she whispered.

  “You don’t know what kind of powder?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “Does he ever use a syringe? Does he inject himself?”

  “A syringe? Never! He’s terrified of needles—blood tests, anything like that.”

  That was all they needed to know. Given Ted’s appearance and behavior during his interviews, he could well be suffering from cocaine withdrawal.

  Göran took over. “We’re not going to charge you with illegal entry into this house, Pernilla. We know Ted forced you to do it. This conversation has been very helpful, but Ted won’t find out that you told us about his drug problem.” He got to his feet. “Embla, could you give Pernilla a ride home? Pernilla, is your mother still staying with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good—it’s best if you’re not alone.”

  Pernilla looked up and pointed to Hampus. “Can . . . can he follow us in my car?”

  “Unfortunately both he and I have had a couple of beers, so I’m afraid we can’t drive tonight. We’ll bring it over tomorrow,” Göran assured her.

  They’d all drunk mineral water with dinner, but Embla realized that Göran was interested in the Lexus. He wanted to take a look at it while he had the chance.

  Neither of the two women spoke on the drive to Strömstad. Pernilla was slumped on the passenger seat like a sack of potatoes, staring out the windshield. When the Volvo pulled up at her gate, she opened the door and stumbled out without saying either thank you for the ride or goodbye.

  As she headed back to Sandgrav, it struck Embla that Pernilla hadn’t once mentioned Amelie, or asked where and how the child had been found. Strange. But maybe it was because she was totally focused on her own problems. A missing six-year-old son and a husband on remand under suspicion of arson and serious assault could seriously reduce anyone’s ability to empathize.

  When she parked outside the Shore House there was a light on in the garage. Göran had driven the Lexus inside and was busy checking it over. His legs and butt were sticking out the door on the driver’s side as he examined the floor and seat.

  “Need any help?”

  There was a dull thud and a muttered curse before he straightened up, rubbing the top of his head. He forced a smile.

  “No, it’s fine. You go to bed.”

  Without waiting for a response he returned to the task in hand.

  The last few days had been intense with too little sleep—for a variety of reasons. It was no excuse for oversleeping but it was an explanation, as Göran pointed out when he was woken by a phone call from Chief Superintendent Roger Willén at exactly 8:15 on Tuesday morning.

  “I understand, and I’m very pleased you found Amelie. I’ve just been to the hospital to see her father. I wanted to get the lowdown on his condition. I’m calling from the car—Paula Nilsson and Lars Engman are with me.”

  “Is Johannes feeling better?”

  “He was pretty calm. He’s now saying he must have been drugged when he was in the bar, presumably by Ted Andersson. He remembers Ted calling the other guy ‘David’ several times. Johannes described his shaved head and the tattoos on his neck; he also said he had a misshapen ear. We now know that David Hagen is a former wrestler, and we’ve seen his cauliflower ear.”

  Willén paused, and Göran interjected. “The description and the name certainly fit David Hagen, who’s now being held in Trollhättan for the attempted murder of Kristoffer Sjöberg in his hospital room. Remarkable, to say the least.”

  “Exactly. And that’s not all. The weapon Hagen was carrying is a particularly fine hunting knife, according to Embla. Expensive. She’s an expert in these matters, and made the connection with Robert Halvorsen’s stab wounds. Gilstrup contacted me from Oslo first thing this morning; forensics have confirmed the match. He thanked us for the tip, and is checking to see if there’s any evidence that David Hagen was at that New Year’s party. If so, he becomes a person of considerable interest in that homicide inquiry, too.”

  Göran was wide awake now. Things were really starting to move, on several fronts at the same time. “So we got one over on our colleagues in Oslo,” he said with a brief laugh.

  “You could say that, but Gilstrup did tell me something I didn’t know. Hans Joffsén, the owner of the house where the New Year’s party was held, said a number of items were missing, including a hunting rifle, plus—and I quote—‘a few other bits and pieces related to hunting.’ When he was asked for specific details he became evasive, claimed he couldn’t remember exactly. I’ll make sure we speak to him today. If a hunting knife was taken, that could well be the murder weapon used on Halvorsen. In which case we’ll take a closer look at the knife Hagen was carrying in the hospital.”

  It only took a second for Göran to process the implications. “Jeez!” he exclaimed.

  “Indeed. Going back to Johannes Holm, he’s still saying there are huge gaps in his memory of that night—what happened in the bar, and the drive to Breidablick. He insists it was Hagen who set fire to the workshop, and that Ted Andersson beat up Kristoffer, until he and Hagen managed to stop him.”

  Göran quickly thought about what this new information might mean for the investigation into the arson attack. He decided to tell Willén what he’d been up to last night.

  “We’ve actually made some progress in the case against Ted Andersson. I’ve gone through his car and made some interesting discoveries. I found an Alvedon tube in the glove compartment containing small white tablets—definitely not Alvedon. I also found a removable tow bar in the space where the spare tire should be, and—”

  “Removable? I thought they were always fixed,” Willén said, interrupting him.

  “Not on the Lexus RX 300.”

  “You learn something new every day.” Willén sounded slightly embarrassed over the gaps in his knowledge when it came to cars.

  Göran chuckled. “I’ll go down to Gothenburg today, ask forensics to take a look at the tow bar.”

  “So why is it of interest?”

  “The shape matches the description of the object used
in the attack on Viktor Jansson.”

  “Viktor Jansson!”

  Willén was completely taken aback. He almost yelled out the name. He took a moment to compose himself. “That investigation has gotten nowhere, even though we brought in extra resources. So a tow bar like that could be the murder weapon—but do you really think it was the one you found in the Lexus?”

  “I don’t know; I don’t want to examine it myself, even though I’ve got the equipment here. We could be talking about microscopic traces of blood or brain tissue. There’s a girl at the lab who’s brilliant, and the equipment at her disposal is much more sophisticated. She’s currently working on the windshield we found in the dumpster at Breidablick.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, but Göran thought he could hear the cogs turning in Willén’s brain.

  Eventually he said, “I’ve just remembered a call that came in from a member of the public at the end of last week, an elderly man who lives in Mellerud. He and his wife had been visiting relatives in Strömstad. They were on their way home on Saturday afternoon—the day Jansson was murdered. At first he wasn’t too sure of the time or where he saw the car, which was why he didn’t contact us right away. He says they passed the spot where Viktor was murdered between three-thirty and four—he couldn’t be any more precise. It was already dark, but he caught a glimpse of a car in the beam of his headlights for just a few seconds. It was a large dark vehicle, possibly a van or an SUV, in the small parking lot. He also saw two people standing there talking—he’s in no doubt about that. They didn’t appear to be quarreling; in fact one patted the other on the shoulder. He got the impression they were friends, which was why he didn’t immediately make the connection with Viktor Jansson’s death.”

  “A dark vehicle, possibly a van or an SUV . . . I’m taking that tow bar to the lab in Gothenburg right now!”

  Göran ended the call and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  He usually allowed himself a leisurely and substantial breakfast; he was convinced it laid the foundations for all the energy a person needed during the course of the day. However, this morning Göran grabbed a couple of sandwiches and washed them down with plenty of coffee. He was in such a hurry he forgot his vow to cut back on the sugar. Between bites he told Embla and Hampus about his conversation with Roger Willén, and about what he’d found in Ted’s car.

  Embla had been half-asleep when she staggered down the stairs, but she was wide awake now.

  “Wow—what if it really is the knife that was used to stab Halvorsen?”

  “But seriously—would David Hagen have kept it if he’d killed a man with it? Surely he knows it’s essential to get rid of a murder weapon as quickly as possible,” Hampus objected.

  He’d been at least as tired as his colleagues, but he’d still gotten up first and made breakfast, and now his eyes were bright behind those strong glasses. The three officers around the table were firing on all cylinders, their investigative instincts aroused as they got closer to the truth—and not only in one case. Strangely enough, all the threads seemed to be coming together. Hampus pointed out how vital it was not to miss any key details in the flood of fresh leads and information.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Göran agreed. “Which is why I’d like you two to go and talk to David Hagen. And ask him more questions about what happened at Breidablick; I want him to realize we know he was there. The murder of Robert Halvorsen, arson, serious assault, and attempted murder—all major crimes that will carry a heavy sentence. He has to understand that he’s going to be behind bars for a very, very long time. He needs to start talking.”

  As he got up from the table, his cell phone rang.

  “Göran Krantz . . . Hi, Roger.”

  Embla and Hampus couldn’t hear what Willén was saying, but he was speaking very quickly, and they saw a contented expression spread across Göran’s face. When the call was over he flashed a triumphant smile.

  “We’ve got the bastard! Willén’s just spoken to Oslo. They’d gone through pictures from the New Year’s party that some of the guests had taken on their phones, and David Hagen is definitely in one of them. They’ve been looking for him, but haven’t managed to track him down. Which is perfectly understandable, as he’s safely locked up in Trollhättan. Willén’s sending me the photograph right away.”

  He went and fetched his laptop. He had several unopened messages in his inbox, and immediately clicked on the one from Willén. A picture filled the screen, a large group of people raising their glasses to the photographer. Lopsided grins and slightly dazed expressions suggested that it had been taken pretty late. The date and time were given in the bottom left-hand corner: 1 january 01:53. Less than thirty minutes later Robert Halvorsen was stabbed and never regained consciousness.

  Göran, Hampus, and Embla huddled closer together to examine the image. Hagen’s profile could be seen clearly, his shaven head, tattooed neck, and cauliflower ear slightly above the celebratory group.

  “He’s standing on some kind of step,” Hampus said.

  There were two tall glass doors next to him. He seemed to be talking to another man who’d stuck his head through one half-open door. Göran zoomed in. The face wasn’t clear, but they saw tousled curly hair and the collar of a black jacket.

  “Ted Andersson!” Embla and Hampus exclaimed in unison.

  All three looked at one another.

  “This puts things in a completely different light,” Göran said. “We need to talk it through.”

  On the way to Trollhättan, Embla and Hampus discussed the best way to handle the interview with David Hagen. Willén had been informed they were coming and had immediately offered to question Hagen himself. After some consideration they had agreed. It was unlikely that Hagen would be particularly cooperative with the officers who’d arrested him after his attempt on Kristoffer’s life.

  Paula Nilsson was already waiting in Willén’s light and pleasant office. A faint odor of paint in the air gave away the fact that it had recently been renovated.

  “Okay, so Paula and I will talk to Hagen if you can fill us in on what you’ve found out about him,” Willén said, settling down in his modern office chair, a symphony of chrome and black leather. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the shining surface of his desk; it was clinically clean. He had a computer desk at the side within easy reach; all he had to do was turn his chair. The smell of new leather reached Embla’s nostrils. Willén seemed unaware of the small farting noises that could be heard every time he shifted in the chair. He was, however, noticeably embarrassed when she told him they’d managed to identify Ted Andersson in the photograph from the party. He had focused on Hagen, and hadn’t recognized the man in the doorway.

  “Then again, I only glanced at the picture; I sent it straight over to Göran,” he said by way of explanation.

  As expected, David Hagen refused to answer any questions. The first reaction of any kind came when Willén informed him that the knife he’d been carrying in the hospital was now being examined by the Oslo police in order to see if there was a match with Robert Halvorsen’s injuries.

  “We have photographic proof that you were at the party. If that knife was used on Halvorsen, you have some explaining to do.”

  The only response was a quick glance. Hagen’s expression was difficult to interpret, but Willén thought he saw both surprise and uncertainty.

  “These are new accusations relating to a completely different case from the one for which my client has been remanded in custody. I demand that they be struck from the record on the grounds of irrelevance!” Hagen’s lawyer piped up.

  Fred Lindström was a big man. He wiped his face with a brick-red handkerchief that toned perfectly with his tie and socks. His chocolate-brown tailor-made jacket strained over his substantial belly. He tugged at his tie in an attempt to undo the top button of his shirt and ease the pressure around hi
s neck. With a bit of luck, that might bring down the color of his face.

  Paula Nilsson was sitting next to her boss but chose to keep a low profile and allow him to run things.

  The contrast between the three men was striking. Hagen, the tattooed thug, wore a faded T-shirt with the words fuck you on the front. He drummed his fingers on the table the whole time—very quietly, but loud enough to be a distraction. Which was the point, of course. Lindström’s clothes were definitely expensive, but that wasn’t enough to make him look elegant. The acting area chief superintendent was the one who epitomized style, even though he was in uniform. The pale-blue shirt with the police emblem on the sleeve and breast pocket was freshly ironed, the crowns and stripes on his epaulettes glinted in the light, the creases in his dark-blue trousers were razor-sharp, and his shoes shined as if he were going dancing straight after work. There wasn’t the slightest hint of perspiration on his brow, no sweat marks under his arms. He was completely focused on Hagen and his lawyer, neither of whom seemed entirely comfortable under his gimlet eye.

  The interview was being filmed. Embla and Hampus were sitting in front of a screen in the room next door, carefully observing. No one was expecting Hagen to hold up his hands and start confessing, but there was no doubt that the mention of the knife in connection with the stabbing of Halvorsen had shaken him.

  “It knocked him off balance,” Embla said quietly.

  At that moment Paula asked a question. “How well do you know Ted Andersson?”

  Another noticeable reaction. He stopped drumming his fingers and froze. He didn’t say a word, but his body language spoke volumes. He didn’t want to acknowledge that particular relationship.

  Afterward they gathered in Willén’s office once more.

  “The link to the knife and Ted Andersson came as a nasty shock. He can sit and sweat for a while before we talk to him again.”