Hunting Game

by Helene Tursten

  Also by Helene Tursten

  Detective Inspector Huss

  Night Rounds

  The Torso

  The Glass Devil

  The Golden Calf

  The Fire Dance

  The Beige Man

  The Treacherous Net

  Who Watcheth

  Protected by the Shadows

  An Elderly Lady Is Up to No Good: Stories

  First published in Swedish under the title Jaktmark

  Copyright © 2014 by Helene Tursten. Published in agreement

  with H. Samuelsson-Tursten AB, Sunne, and

  Leonhardt & Høier Literary Agency, Copenhagen.

  English translation copyright © 2019 by Paul Norlen.

  All rights reserved.

  First English translation published in 2019 by

  Soho Press

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Tursten, Helene, author.

  Norlen, Paul R., translator.

  Hunting game / Helene Tursten ;

  translated from the Swedish by Paul Norlen.

  Other titles: Jaktmark. English

  I. Title

  PT9876.3.U55 K3513 2018.839.73’8—dc23.2018016750

  ISBN 978-1-61695-650-9

  eISBN 978-1-61695-651-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my dearest Hilmer and Cecilia

  After nine rock-hard rounds, the sweat was dripping from both combatants and their movements were noticeably slower. The boxer in the red-and-white top tried a few attacks against the opponent’s stomach but couldn’t make a solid hit. The boxer in blue and yellow immediately rallied and answered with a quick series of short jabs against the red-and-white’s leather helmet to the heated shouts of the spectators. A few of the hits landed solidly, and one made the opponent stagger. The match was even and the outcome uncertain.

  When the gong sounded the referee blew the whistle, and the fighters went to their respective corners of the ring. They spit out mouth protectors, and the trainers gave them dry towels to wipe themselves with. Both drank some water but poured most of it over their faces to revive themselves.

  The boxers were called up and stood on either side of the referee. He took their hands and held them along his sides until the three judges reported their scores. When he raised the victor’s arm toward the ceiling, an ear-splitting cheer broke out.

  “Embla Nyström is the new Nordic light-welterweight champion!” a voice announced, barely audible over the audience’s ovations.

  All the new gold medalist heard as she raised her arms toward the ceiling was the acclaim of the crowd. In the rush of victory, she felt neither fatigue nor pain. Smiling happily, she stood in the middle of the ring and let the cheers wash over her.

  After a glance at her face, the trainer started carefully guiding Embla in the direction of the locker room. She was bleeding above one eye and had to wipe blood away several times with the towel. It didn’t bother her in the least; she was radiantly happy.

  The secretary slipped quietly through the doorway with a small tray in her hands and set it down discreetly on the antique mahogany desk. Beside it she placed the day’s mail in a neat pile before slipping out again. Anders von Beehn nodded curtly in thanks and continued his phone call.

  For a long time he listened to the voice from the other side of the Atlantic. Finally he stretched in his chair and said, “Yes, I’m looking forward to seeing you in New York, too. Bye.”

  When he hung up his smile faded. Doing business with Americans was quite different than it was with Europeans. Yankees may sound easygoing, but he knew not to let himself relax. After many years at the top of the Swedish business world he was no fledgling and felt rather certain that he would succeed in pulling off the deal. In just a few more months, Scandinvest would be at the top of the list of Sweden’s most successful family-owned companies.

  A few days off during moose-hunting season felt well deserved; he had been working hard on this cooperation agreement. The low-key trip to the hunting cabin was just what he needed to wind down and get a fresh burst of energy before the final negotiations.

  He always opened his personal mail after morning coffee, and a small padded envelope caught his attention. He picked it up and assessed its weight in his hand. He squeezed it carefully. Hard and lumpy. How strange.

  He set it down gently on the desk and pressed the intercom. “Was the padded envelope X-rayed?” he asked.

  “Yes. It’s a key chain.”

  Anders von Beehn slit open the envelope and peeked inside. He reached in and fished out a key ring with no keys. He recognized the BMW logo inside the plastic ring at once.

  He sat there a long time, looking at the key ring. What was the meaning? Advertising? A joke? He had a hard time seeing what was funny. Over the years he’d had several BMWs. And a lot of other makes, too, for that matter. Right now the family owned four cars, one of which was actually a new BMW, which his wife, Linda, drove.

  When he turned the envelope upside down and shook it, a slip of paper came floating out and settled on the shiny desktop. He read it several times without understanding a thing.

  I remember. M.

  M? He noted that the text on both the note and the envelope was printed, not handwritten.

  Who was M? Suddenly he felt the coffee churning in his stomach. M. That wasn’t possible, was it? Was someone trying to mess with him? Trying to scare him? Who knew about M? Jan-Eric, naturally. But he would never do anything like this. He had never even wanted to talk about it. No, not Jan-Eric. Who? Ola. But Ola was dead.

  The automatic gates slowly closed behind the heavy motorcycle. The driver braked with the engine on idle. He unlocked the mailbox on the inside of the wall and emptied it. He stuffed the letters inside his motorcycle jacket before he stepped on the gas and continued down the lane with its newly planted trees.

  Whistling, he unlocked the door that led into the house from the garage. Purposefully he guided his steps toward the kitchen. Or rather the refrigerator. Sitting with a couple of beers in the warm Jacuzzi was part of his usual evening routine. If he had the energy he would also swim a few laps in the big pool. Nowadays his body got stiff after a longer motorcycle ride. You’re starting to feel that you’ll be turning fifty in a few months, he thought, grimacing at his reflection in the glass door to the patio. Money can take care of many things, but the passage of time can’t be stopped. He carefully drew his hand across his thinning hair.

  No, he wasn’t going to get gloomy now. It was Friday evening, tomorrow he would pack for the moose hunt and later in the afternoon drive to Dalsland. He was truly looking forward to Saturday’s traditional hunting dinner.

  He tossed the mail on one of the gleaming stone counters. He opened the brushed-steel refrigerator, took out a can of Czech beer, and opened it. As always just hearing the fizzing sound filled him with pleasure.

  He opened the patio door wide and went out onto the large deck. With a deep breath he drew the fresh autumn air into his lungs. When he went in to get another beer his eyes fell on the letters. Might as well open them before he got into the Jacuzzi along with a few more beers.

  From the magnetic holder over the stove he took down a sharp Japanese steel knife and quickly slit open all the envelopes. One of them gave him pause. It was a small, square, padded envelope. His name was printed on a label: Jan-Eric Cahneborg. He turned the envelope over, but there was no return address.

  Puzzled, he pulled out a thin, black piece of fabric that was inside. It took a few seconds before he realized
what it was. A bandanna? He peeked into the envelope to see if it contained anything else. At the bottom he glimpsed a small slip of paper. With some difficulty he managed to coax it out. The text was printed out from a computer.

  I remember. M.

  Jan-Eric Cahneborg gasped. His facial color changed to a sickly grayish white, and he had to support himself against the granite counter.

  Sunset turned the white facade of Dalsnäs Manor a shade of pink. A clear, sunny autumn day was coming to an end. Anders von Beehn looked at the weather forecast for the next three days. Temperatures below freezing were predicted at night, with some chance of sun during the days but no warmth, three degrees above freezing max. Cold, but promising. It was important that the hunt be successful, especially since Volker Heinz was coming. Heinz was the owner of DEIGI, one of Germany’s largest investment companies and Scandinvest’s most important European partner. Besides that, he was a key player in the negotiations with the US because he had been landing deals with the Americans for a long time. Von Beehn had also invited Scandinvest’s lead attorney, Lennart Folkesson. He was a smart strategist and together they could probably handle the good Heinz.

  Within half an hour three new luxury cars were gleaming on the well-raked gravel roundabout in front of the manor. A short distance away was a Hummer H3 Alpha. The big car was von Beehn’s pride. He had imported it directly from the US. The Hummer was extended, classified as a limousine, and could take eight passengers with no problem. The back seats could be laid flat when you needed extra room for your baggage. As he liked to say, the engine drank gas as if someone had fired a hail of large-bore buckshot into the fuel tank, but the heavy car could go anywhere and was built like a small tank, which was a prerequisite for navigating the roads up to their destination: the Hunting Castle, as they had taken to calling it. The Hummer was used only for transport during the hunt; otherwise it was parked in the garage at Dalsnäs. Now his new Jaguar XJR was parked there instead. It would have been nice to have it out on the yard, too, simply to show off its beauty, but it would have been a bit cramped.

  Last of all Greger Liljon skidded in front of the steps with his new Maserati. The young man, who was recently appointed as CEO of one of Scandinvest’s smallest companies, was hanging on a slender thread. Greger was surely aware of his standing, but von Beehn intended to speak with him about it after the hunt. The most recent quarterly reports had been catastrophic. Actually it was Greger who was the catastrophe. Incompetent, von Beehn thought, but he did not let his face betray his thoughts. With a warm hug, he welcomed his nephew.

  The host escorted his guests through the hall and up the broad stairs to the upper floor, where the doors to the terrace were open. They stepped out to admire the view of the lake. The last rays of the sun glistened on the slightly rippled surface. Here and there a bright red maple blazed among the deciduous trees ringing the lake.

  As beautiful as an ad, von Beehn thought contentedly. Smiling, he handed a glass of champagne to each of the guests. Once everyone was holding a glass he said in impeccable English, “Dear friends, welcome to Dalsnäs. Cheers to a good moose hunt!”

  He raised the champagne flute and the sun’s last streak of light reflected in the cut crystal. The others followed his example, nodded to each other, and toasted.

  When everyone had taken a sip von Beehn cleared his throat.

  “Last year the three musketeers were on the scene. We’ve stayed together for more than forty years, Jan-Eric, Ola, and me. This year Ola is no longer with us.” He turned to Volker. “To fill you in, he died in a car accident as he was driving home to Oslo after last year’s moose hunt here at Dalsnäs. Our friend leaves behind a big hole that is impossible to fill. I want to make a toast to the memory of our friend and comrade Ola Forsnaess. To the memory of Ola!”

  Everyone raised their glasses again, this time with serious expressions. They sipped the champagne, and the conversation was subdued for a few minutes. Volker Heinz was the only one of the men on the terrace who had never met Ola Forsnaess. Obviously he, too, was moved by the emotional speech, but after a while he started talking with the others about things more near at hand, like the impending hunt. His enthusiasm and hopes were contagious, and an expectant mood spread on the terrace. When the last drop of champagne was swallowed and the sun had long since disappeared behind the hills, they went in and sat down to dinner.

  After dinner the gentlemen moved to the library. The fire had started to die down but Anders fed it some sturdy logs, and soon a blaze was roaring in the open fireplace. The flickering light from the flames made the gold foil on the leather spines shine behind the glass doors of the bookshelves. Sated and content, they sat comfortably submerged in the English Chesterfield furniture. The whiskey they drank had been aged for eighteen years. Excellent, they were all in agreement about that, especially Jan-Eric Cahneborg, who enthusiastically requested refills several times.

  When Anders went out into the kitchen to get another bottle, Jan-Eric followed him on unsteady legs.

  “Anders . . . listen . . . we need to . . . talk.” He spit out the words as he stumbled.

  “Not now, Janne.”

  “It’s im . . . important!”

  The desperation in Jan-Eric’s voice was clear. He swayed as he stood in the middle of the kitchen.

  “A bandanna . . . a fucking ban . . . danna . . . who sent . . . who would send . . . such a thing?” he said, hiccoughing.

  Anders almost sobered up when he heard what his friend was saying. “Did you get something in the mail?” He started to feel the burning pain in his stomach again. He recalled the key ring with the BMW logo and the little slip of paper that had floated out of the padded envelope.

  “Of course you . . . understand. An envelope . . .”

  With the new bottle in one hand Anders went up to his friend and took firm hold of his upper arm with his free hand and guided him toward the library. “We’ll talk about this later,” he hissed in his friend’s ear.

  The gravel sprayed around the tires of the Volvo 245 as Embla did a donut on the farmyard before coming to a stop, as she always did when she pulled into Nisse’s place. It was her way of signaling she had arrived. The move always made her uncle chuckle with delight, saying, “Here comes hot-rod girl” as she barged into his otherwise peaceful existence. The first time he had said that, Embla had been fifteen and had “borrowed” her brother’s moped and driven all the way from Gothenburg. En route she had spent the night with a cousin and his family outside Vänersborg. She never would have made it otherwise. The soreness in her rear padding had persisted for several days. When she was going home again, her uncle had lowered the back seat in his Volvo 245, loaded the moped into the cargo space, and driven her home to Gothenburg.

  Three years later he had given Embla that car when she got her driver’s license.

  She’d had the car for ten years, and at this point it had almost three hundred thousand kilometers on it. Even though the car was starting to show a few signs of old age, Embla loved it. The most serious complaints were that the speedometer was unreliable and the fuel gauge didn’t work. After running out of gas a few times in the middle of nowhere, she always had a full can of gas with her when she drove long distances.

  As Embla got out of the car she heard Seppo’s loud barking coming from the back of the house. Because he didn’t come rushing around the corner she figured the Swedish elkhound must be in the dog run.

  The front door opened wide and Nisse came out on the steps with a broad smile and outstretched arms.

  “Hey there, hot-rod girl!”

  He gave her a bear hug. She drilled her nose into his blue checked flannel shirt and took in the scent of barn and sweat. The smell of Nisse, her beloved uncle who was made of the same robust stuff as her mother, Sonja, and herself. Like his sister, he’d had a red, curly mop of hair in his youth. Nowadays only Embla and the youngest of her three brothers retained the family’s striking hair color. Sonja’s and Nisse’s hair ha
d turned gray, and as far as her uncle was concerned, there was almost nothing left on the top of his head. It hardly bothered him because he kept it cut short with his electric razor. It suited him and gave him a tough look.

  “And the Veteran keeps on chugging,” he said, giving the car a tender pat on the hood.

  “You bet. Runs like a clock!”

  That wasn’t quite true but Embla knew that was what her uncle wanted to hear. The Volvo was the apple of his eye. He was also the one who had christened the car. At first she thought it sounded silly, but now she referred to it as the Veteran, too.

  “Settle in while I take a shower and tidy up. As usual we’re going to see Karin and Björn,” he said.

  Karin was the only one of her cousins who was still living in the village. She is Nisse and Sonja’s older sister’s daughter. Her aunt and uncle had lived in Uddevalla for almost twenty years now. There they had worked in their one son’s retail nursery, but now they were both retired. They felt at home on the coast and intended to stay there.

  Even though Karin was five years older than Embla, the two cousins had spent quite a bit of time together on summer vacations. Karin also had older brothers—though only two—so over the years, they each became the sister the other had always wished for.

  Nisse had been a widower for three years. He and Ann-Sofie had been happily married, but they never had any children, which had been a source of grief. During summer vacations Embla and her three brothers compensated for that properly. The boys got tired of rural life in their teens but she loved it. Maybe to some degree it was because she got to escape her brothers, but mostly it was because she felt at home with life in the countryside and on the farm.

  For a while she had seriously considered becoming a farmer but hesitated because she knew what drudgery the job entailed. The farm could not even support Nisse and Ann-Sofie; he worked at the sawmill and she delivered newspapers.