Winter Grave

by Helene Tursten

  Quickly he gathered up his son’s boots and outdoor clothes and stuffed them in a paper bag.

  It was completely dark outside; the clock on the microwave showed 15:12. Time to go. He switched on the light in his and Pernilla’s bedroom to make people think he was home. He didn’t dare turn on the light in Viggo’s room. Not yet. Not until the boy was . . . gone. He went downstairs and made sure the kitchen light was off; he couldn’t risk anyone seeing him carry the child out the back door. The door—he needed to put it on the latch. He had to move fast, nothing must go wrong. He put the bag of clothes next to the Lexus so he wouldn’t forget it. Quick, get a move on!

  The body didn’t weigh much; he was so little. Ted made every effort to avoid looking down at the blanket cocoon in his arms. He made his way down the stairs, through the hallway and kitchen. As he opened the kitchen door the rain and cold air struck them. Good, nobody in their right mind would be out and about in this weather. He pushed up the garage door with one hand—inside, quickly now! He let out a huge sigh of relief as the door slid shut behind him. Clutching his lightweight burden, he moved toward the trunk, then stopped. Putting the kid in there felt wrong. He opened the back door instead and gently laid the blanket and its contents on the seat. He stuffed the bag behind the front seat.

  He slipped out of the garage, ran indoors, and turned on all the lights upstairs and downstairs. He also switched on the TV. It was essential to give the impression that the family was home.

  He had to keep himself in check, make sure he didn’t exceed the speed limit. He couldn’t risk being pulled over by the cops. It was raining hard again, so there was also a danger of hydroplaning. The glow of Strömstad disappeared behind him. There were lights in the windows of isolated houses along the way, but he didn’t meet many cars. The only sound was the monotonous swish of the windshield wipers.

  After a while he saw the streetlights of Skee. His confidence began to grow as he drove through the community. He’d acted with icy composure—he was a smart guy! He’d done everything right. It was all going to be fine!

  His mind felt calm and clear, which was why he was totally unprepared when his whole body started shaking. Great hulking sobs forced their way up through his throat, and he could hardly breathe. Shit, he needed a fix! But he’d forgotten to bring his own coke. In his haste, he’d put it in the Adidas bag along with the rest. What a fucking idiot! The only consolation was that he hadn’t put his bonus packets in the candy jar, but had slipped them into a side pocket. At least he’d had the presence of mind not to mix them up.

  He noticed a parking lot by the side of the road and slowed down. He turned in and slammed on the brakes. The shaking had increased, and he couldn’t stop sobbing. Get a grip, Ted, for fuck’s sake! Get a grip! Air. He needed air. He fumbled with the handle, managed to open the door, and tumbled out into the pouring rain. He walked around to the back of the car taking deep breaths, then blew his nose using his fingers. His dad had taught him that—the only useful legacy the old bastard had left behind. Apart from the house in Strömstad and the cottage, of course. The cottage that would finally serve a purpose. It was lovely out there—at least in the summer. Viggo would be happy there . . . The thought of his son brought on a fresh burst of sobbing. It couldn’t be true! Viggo wasn’t dead! No! He wasn’t dead! It must be . . .

  A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and his heart missed a beat.

  “Hi, Ted—sorry if I scared you, but I can see you’re not feeling too good,” said a familiar voice.

  Ted stood there gasping for air, his brain working overtime. Viktor Jansson. Viktor fucking Jansson, his basketball teammate in high school. Viktor fucking Jansson who was now a cop. Shit! Shit!

  “No . . . not too good,” was the best he could manage.

  Viktor glanced through the side window and saw the bundle on the back seat.

  “And you’ve got the boy with you,” he said with a nod and a smile. “Fast asleep, I see. So where are you two off to?”

  Considerately he pushed up his headlamp to avoid dazzling Ted.

  Fuck! It’s all going wrong! What do I do? Think, think of something to say! Ted had never had any difficulty in lying, but this might just have been the most brilliant lie he’d ever come up with. As if from a distance he heard himself say, “My mom died. I’m on my way to tell Grandma. I didn’t want to break the news over the phone.”

  What the fuck? Viktor would remember that they’d met in the parking lot at a time when Ted and Viggo definitely weren’t supposed to be there. And his mother wasn’t dead. Unlike his grandmother. It wouldn’t take Viktor long to find that out.

  “Sorry for your loss—I can understand why you’re upset. Drive carefully.”

  With another pat on the shoulder Viktor turned away, adjusted his headlamp, and got ready to resume his run. Ted’s paralysis suddenly disappeared. He opened the trunk and took out the tow bar. He was behind Viktor in a second; the idiot never knew what had happened. A few blows to the back of the head, and the cop was out of the picture. Viktor fell facedown into the water-filled ditch. Ted grabbed his legs and pushed him all the way in. No problem.

  He drove off with a screech of tires, but he was feeling much better now. The attack on Viktor had provided an outlet for his pent-up anxiety and filled him with fresh energy. I fixed it! Fucking cop, poking his fucking nose in! Elation carried him through the darkness. One last task—and he could do that, too.

  He’d intended to hide Viggo in the earth cellar, but couldn’t find it in the gloom. It might have collapsed. The cottage itself wasn’t an option. If anyone came along and found the body, suspicion would immediately fall on Ted. It would have to be the neighboring cabin; he knew there was a shed. He drove another hundred yards along the track.

  The darkness was almost tangible, and he hadn’t brought a flashlight with him. The only solution was to direct the car’s headlights at the old building and try to orient himself. The problem was that it was a bit of a walk from the track, and the beam didn’t quite reach. He was also running out of time; he had to get home. It wouldn’t be credible if he claimed the kid had been out on his own after six. The simplest thing would be to put the bundle and the bag of clothes on the shelf in the shed. He could come over in a few weeks and burn the place down. But not tonight; he didn’t have the right stuff with him, not even a box of matches. He was secretly relieved that he wouldn’t have to incinerate his son’s body. The thought was almost unbearable, and he pushed it aside.

  On the way back to Strömstad he called Viggo’s best friend from preschool. His father answered almost right away, and Ted anxiously asked if Viggo was at their house. When he was told they hadn’t seen Viggo, Ted explained that he’d just gotten in the car to go out and look for the boy. Viggo had been playing in the yard with his flashlight, and now there was no sign of him. No more than fifteen minutes without supervision, and now . . . Yes, he’d probably gone to visit one of his friends in the neighborhood. Thanks, I’ll keep searching.

  The dashboard clock showed 17:11. Perfect. Methodically, he began calling friends and neighbors to ask if Viggo was there, or if they’d seen him.

  He put the car in the garage and took the big flashlight inside so that he could fill the battery compartment with his own supply of coke, but first he needed to check that everything seemed normal in the house. He left the flashlight by the door and took off his jacket. Fear gripped him once more. What if he’d missed something? A quick tour of the ground floor revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The plastic bag containing the paper towels he’d used to wipe up the vomit was in the trash can, the mop and bucket were drying in the cleaning cupboard.

  He took the stairs in five strides and went into Viggo’s room. There was still a faint smell of vomit. He opened the window and decided to have another go at the floor with the window cleaner. Ammonia masks every odor. Five minutes later he’d applied a liberal dose of the cl
eaner and scrubbed it energetically with more paper towels. Then he went back downstairs and emptied the trash can.

  One last check. On the bottom shelf of Viggo’s bookcase he spotted the boy’s small LED flashlight. Thank God he’d seen it! If it was found in the house, his entire story would collapse. He went over and grabbed it; he’d be sure to get rid of it as soon as possible.

  Think, Ted . . . There was no trace of the coke anywhere . . . hang on! The bonus coke was still in the Adidas bag. Into the closet, open up the secret compartment. How many should he take out? He decided on three; the remainder could stay in there until it was time to travel back to Oslo. He carefully replaced the piece of wood, then tucked two of the little bags inside his snuff tin.

  With shaking hands, he opened the third and drew up a line on the edge of the desk. He inhaled and immediately experienced the rush in his brain. As his body was suffused with the feeling, he slipped the bag into the pocket of his jeans. He would save the rest for later.

  For appearances’ sake he took a short walk around the local area and asked the neighbors he hadn’t called if any of them had seen Viggo.

  At 17:50 he contacted the police.

  Here we go, he thought.

  Ted Andersson was keen to tell his story in detail. It was important for him to stress the fact that he hadn’t deliberately caused his son’s death.

  “He took the stuff himself!” he exclaimed more than once.

  The traces of blood on the tow bar forced him to confess to the murder of Viktor Jansson. He realized it was pointless to deny his involvement when the police knew he’d been there, en route to hide his son’s body by the lake.

  When Chief Superintendent Willén asked why he and David Hagen had taken Johannes Holm with them to Breidablick to set fire to the workshop and beat up Kristoffer Sjöberg, Ted suddenly looked very tired.

  “It seemed like a good idea,” he said with a weary sigh, “at the time.” Then he clamped his lips shut and refused to answer any more questions.

  His lawyer, Nadir Khadem, certainly had his work cut out for him.

  It was the Friday evening before the February school vacation, and Embla was packing for a trip to Dalsland with Elliot. She’d promised to pick him up at nine o’clock the following morning, and he’d already called twice to make sure that a) she’d set her alarm, and b) she was going to keep her promise to take him hunting. This was Uncle Nisse’s idea. Elliot had been begging to go hunting for years, but he’d always been told he was too little. However, now that he was nine, Nisse thought it was high time to take the boy out into the forest. Embla hadn’t been quite so enthusiastic, but with her two favorite guys united against her, she’d given in.

  After some consideration they’d decided to go for foxes. Their numbers had increased significantly during the previous summer, and a cull was essential. The aim was to track down their quarry. Elliot had a lot of energy, and would soon get bored if they stayed in one spot.

  When her cell phone rang Embla smiled to herself. Third call—she wondered what Elliot had come up with now. Without looking at the screen she answered, “Embla.”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  Her heart skipped a beat when she heard Nadir’s voice.

  “Hi—where are you?”

  She asked the question mainly to give her a moment to pull herself together. They had spoken briefly three days ago, but she’d heard nothing since. Of course he had his hands full with Ted Andersson’s defense, she’d thought.

  “Still in Trollhättan. Ted’s being questioned again tomorrow, but it’ll be over by lunchtime because it’s Saturday. I wondered if we could get together in the afternoon, or on Sunday evening?”

  Without hesitation she replied, “No, Elliot and I are going up to Dalsland to see my uncle tomorrow. It’s the school break.”

  There was a lengthy silence, then he said, “Do you have to go? Can’t you go on Sunday instead?”

  Go on Sunday instead? Both she and Elliot had been planning this trip since before Christmas. No chance! Why should I reorganize my life to fit in with Nadir’s schedule?

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But why? I mean, he’s not your son.”

  That was when she got really mad. She tried to keep her voice neutral, but was finding it difficult to control herself.

  “Listen, I have no intention of reorganizing my life to suit you. I spend a lot of my free time training. Meeting friends. Hanging out with Elliot. And hunting, of course.”

  She could almost hear him thinking.

  “So you’re saying there’s no room for a man in your life.”

  “Not a man like you! Everything has to be on your terms—when you’re free to meet up, when you can sneak away from your work and your wife. I’m not interested!”

  “It didn’t seem to be a problem in Strömstad,” he said sourly.

  “No, because you were meant to be a one-night stand. Then we met up a few more times. But now we’re done.”

  “So you’re finishing with me?”

  “There’s nothing to finish.”

  The silence was even longer this time.

  “Is there nothing we . . . I can do?”

  He sounded almost desperate. At that moment the devil whispered in Embla’s ear. Of course there was something he could do!

  With deceptive calm she said, “The only way we can have a relationship in the future is for you to get a divorce. But given what you’ve told me about your family and Soraya’s, I realize that’s never going to happen. So the answer to your question is no, there’s nothing you can do.”

  She listened to his breathing on the other end of the line, then there was a click as he ended the call.

  Her heart was racing, and she felt a little shaky. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself. She was surprised at what she’d just done, but knew that her true nature had taken control. She felt a certain sorrow—or maybe it was more like emptiness—at having broken up with him, but she knew it was the right thing for her in the long run. They would never be able to build a solid relationship; their lives were too different. He was bound by the ties of family and tradition, while Embla was anything but, and she enjoyed the freedom of her life. Had it been real love? Doubtful. They had both felt an irresistible sexual attraction for each other, which in itself was a huge positive. She had needed that release in order to get back to normal after the difficult months following her attack last fall. Had she used him? Maybe, but if so it had been mutual.

  She quickly finished packing, then decided to make a cup of tea. She opted for a wonderful, soporific herbal tea containing lavender and lemon balm, which felt appropriate after her conversation with Nadir.

  With the steaming cup in her hand she went and sat on the sofa. She downloaded a few tracks by Adele, and as the opening notes of “Hello” flooded the room, she leaned back and closed her eyes, sipping her hot drink.

  She jumped when the sound of her cell phone sliced through the music. Who would call her at this late hour? It had to be Nadir again—why couldn’t he take no for an answer? She glanced crossly at the screen, but the display showed unknown number. Not Nadir, then. Warily she answered.

  “Embla Nyström.”

  No one spoke, but she could hear shallow breathing, with a faint rushing in the background as if the person on the other end was far away, or standing by the sea.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  There was a sharp intake of breath. “Å . . . Åsa? Is that Åsa?”

  Nobody had called her Åsa for years.

  It was only a whisper, but she recognized the voice. It was a good thing she was sitting down, otherwise she would have fainted. Everyone called her Embla these days. That was her given name, but she’d hated it when she was little because it was so unusual. She had managed to persuade all her friends and teachers to use her middle name, Åsa,
but as an adult she had switched back; the name Embla was quite popular now. But someone who hadn’t seen her since she was a teenager would still call her Åsa, of course. And she knew that the person on the other end of the phone hadn’t seen her for fourteen and a half years.

  “Lo . . . Lollo!” she managed eventually.

  There was a gasp, and the connection was broken.

  “No! No no no!” Embla yelled. The shock was too much; she couldn’t control herself. The tears poured down her face and her entire body was shaking. She realized her teeth were chattering, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  When her sobs began to subside, she knew she had to talk to someone.

  For the first time since Lollo’s disappearance she felt ready to tell her story to someone who would understand and be able to help. And she knew exactly who to call. With shaking hands she searched the contacts list on her phone. She found the name; he would see from the display that it was her.

  “Hi, Embla,” Göran said in his calm voice.

  She swallowed, then took a deep breath.

  “Hi. Sorry to call you so late, but . . . I’ve just spoken to . . . a dead person.”

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank my agent, Anneli Høier, for the fantastic work she’s done for me and my books over the years. Anneli, you’re pure gold!

  Heartfelt thanks to everyone at Massolit Förlag, for all your support on this book. Special thanks to Helena Gustavsson at StorySide and to Sofia Hannar, my phenomenal editor.

  I have moved the action to Strömstad with a certain trepidation. The town is well-documented as a classic crime novel setting through Gösta Unefält’s award-winning books about Polisen i Strömstad [The Police in Strömstad], which have also been made into films. I have tried to tread carefully . . .

  I love the landscape of Bohuslän and lived there for a number of years. I also enjoyed sailing along the coast, which I did many times. Strömstad is a wonderfully lively town in the summer but pretty quiet in the winter.