Hunting Game

by Helene Tursten

  Embla was completely caught off guard and became tongue-tied. Fortunately Nisse answered without showing the slightest surprise.

  “It went fine. He shot a yearling. Really nice shot.” With a faint smile he turned toward his niece. “Ingela is related to Peter,” he said.

  “Although distantly,” Ingela interjected.

  If she had noticed Embla’s reaction she did not show it in any way.

  “What are you? Second cousins?” Nisse asked.

  “No. My grandmother and Peter’s grandfather were cousins. So I guess we’re third cousins.”

  Darned Nisse hadn’t warned her in advance! But on the bright side, this was a golden opportunity to finally get more information about Peter and his family. Although Embla knew it was crucial not to appear too curious.

  “So did you know Peter’s father?” she asked in her best neutral tone.

  “No, not that well. He was fourteen or fifteen years older.”

  “I’ve heard that something tragic happened . . .”

  Before Ingela answered she gave Embla a searching look. “Yes . . . several sad things actually. First of course there was the boy’s death. I think that was what started it all . . .”

  Embla felt confused and started to wonder if they were talking about the same family.

  “The boy’s death?” Nisse asked, echoing her thoughts.

  “The little boy . . . no, let’s take it from the beginning. So Sven met Henrietta down in Gothenburg. They got married when she was pregnant with Camilla. Three years later a little boy was born. But it turned out that he had a severe heart defect. He only lived a few days. After that . . . it started.”

  A timer rang out in the kitchen and Ingela excused herself and stood up.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Embla whispered.

  “I wanted to see if it was possible to start talking about Peter and his family in a natural way. And then she started to ask about him and I got stuck . . .”

  He stopped talking when Ingela came into the room again.

  “You can come to the table now!” she said.

  The table was beautifully set with a white linen tablecloth and folded blue napkins. She had put the fall asters in a large cut crystal vase.

  They had fried perch filet with pureed garlic potatoes and warm salmon roe sauce. Ingela also served lightly steamed sugar peas that she had grown herself in her garden. Dessert was a crisp apple cake with ice-cold vanilla sauce. It was as if they had a silent agreement not to pick up the conversation about the Hansson family during the meal.

  They had coffee out on the blue sofas. Nisse made a new fire in the stove. Soon the fire was crackling again.

  When she filled the cups and passed around pralines, Ingela sat quietly for a moment before she started speaking again.

  “Peter is very much like his father. Sven was also very stylish when he was young. That he would become such a . . . drunkard . . . probably no one could have imagined.”

  She heaved a long sigh and sipped a little of the hot coffee before she continued.

  “After the boy died, Henrietta suffered from post-partum depression. Sven started drinking even more, but after a year or so he got help from the company health service. He got some kind of medicine and stopped drinking alcohol, and it seemed as if Henrietta had gotten better too. A few years passed before Peter was born. Outwardly everything seemed to be as it should, but . . .” Ingela interrupted herself again and pressed her lips together.

  “So you mean there were things that weren’t so good?” Nisse interjected.

  He would have been an excellent interview leader, thought Embla. I take after him in so many ways.

  “Well . . . there were rumors. Henrietta was . . . silent. Peter was a taciturn boy who mostly kept to himself.” Once again she sighed and drank the last of her coffee, which had now become lukewarm.

  “I’ll go out and get more coffee,” Nisse offered.

  When all three had their refills, Embla asked, “What was his sister, Camilla, like?”

  “She was a lot younger so I didn’t know her. But people did talk . . . afterward . . . when she disappeared. When she was little she was rather demure, but in high school there were problems. She started going out with boys and riding around in hot rods. Normal teenage defiance, of course. But she developed into a real beauty. The boys chased her. Then she started at the high school in Åmål and got involved with an older boy. There was a lot of . . . arguing . . . between her and Sven. No one seemed to be particularly surprised when she disappeared. Everyone assumed she’d had enough and ran away. But over the years I’ve often wondered what really happened. It’s been thirty years now and not the slightest sign of life has turned up.”

  “So Camilla disappeared. Tell me how that happened,” Embla carefully encouraged her.

  Ingela watched the flames dance behind the sooty glass cover of the wood stove for a few moments before she continued her story. “Camilla and her boyfriend were at a party with one of his friends, who lived about twenty kilometers from here. She had strict orders to be home before one a.m. But when it was time to go home, her boyfriend was dead drunk and couldn’t drive. They started arguing. Because Camilla had the Hansson temperament she pulled on her jacket and stormed out of the house. That was the last time anyone saw her.”

  There was silence for a while. The fire crackled cozily and spread a lovely warmth in the room, but Embla was shivering. Peter had a number of heavy things in his baggage.

  “I assume there was a search for her,” Embla said.

  “Of course. Lots of tips came in, but nothing that led to anything. It was an awful time. Especially for the family. It divided them.”

  There were many pieces in Ingela’s story that fell into place in the complicated puzzle around Peter.

  Embla had to ask the question that constantly came up: “Why do you think that Peter came back here?”

  “To be honest I’ve wondered that myself, but I have no idea. It’s odd. He doesn’t really know anyone here, and he doesn’t seem to be doing anything to change that. He keeps to himself for the most part.”

  The fire started to die down and the shadows in the corners deepened. Ingela got up from the sofa and went up to the stove to add more wood to the fire. Then she turned around and remained standing with her back to the stove.

  “Because Camilla was never found, dead nor alive, most people thought she managed to get a lift with someone to Gothenburg. That’s what I heard. Over the years the story faded into obscurity and nothing happened. Until Sven died and Peter returned.”

  When Ingela returned to the sofa, she looked a bit mournful.

  They left the subject of the Hansson family’s tragic history and talked about other things for another hour or so, before Embla said it was time to go. Even though they had already loaded the car, they had to get up no later than four-thirty to make it up to the hunting cabin. At seven o’clock sharp they should be sitting at their stations.

  On the way to the hunt the next morning, Sixten and Nisse were napping in the backseat of the Jeep. Between them lay Seppo, who was snoring the loudest. Embla and Björn sat in the front seat, but didn’t say much so as not to disturb the old men.

  As the Jeep turned onto the yard in front of the cabins, the headlights swept over Tobias and Einar. They were standing next to their big vehicle, talking to a man who was also dressed in hunting clothes. When they got closer, Embla saw that it was the manager, Stig Ekström.

  “Hello there! Up already?” Björn called heartily as he got out of the Jeep.

  None of the men said anything or flashed a smile. All three looked dead serious.

  “Has something happened?” Nisse asked.

  All of his previous tiredness suddenly disappeared and his voice sounded clear and sharp.

  “Don’t know. Stig just arrived. Tell them,” said Einar.

  Nisse looked urgently at the manager. Stig Ekström was a rather taciturn person who kept a low profile. Now h
e stood, squirming self-consciously.

  “I can’t find them,” he said quietly.

  “Who?” Nisse asked.

  “Von Beehn and Cahneborg. They’re . . . gone.”

  “They’re not in the house?”

  “No. Not outside either.”

  There was silence for a while as everyone wondered whether this was a problem or something that could have a completely reasonable explanation.

  Embla looked around. Peter wasn’t there either, she noticed. But maybe he had decided he was done hunting for the week, especially considering the unsatisfactory way the two of them had left things. “When did you last see them?” she asked the group after a while.

  “On Wednesday evening. I was off on Thursday.”

  “And you didn’t come up here yesterday either?”

  “No. Before I left Anders said they needed to take a day off. Relax. They had enough food. I didn’t need to come until today.”

  The information was again followed by silence.

  “That’s damned peculiar! They usually hunt every day they’re here,” Tobias pointed out.

  Stig Ekström shrugged his shoulders but did not reply.

  “Yes, I can’t recall them ever taking a break during the hunt. They usually take advantage of the time,” said Einar.

  The others mumbled in agreement. Embla thought of an important question.

  “Is the car still here?”

  “Yes. It hasn’t been moved.”

  “So where the hell are they?” Sixten asked.

  Now he also seemed wide-awake.

  “I guess we’ll have to find that out,” said Embla.

  Everyone fell silent when they heard the sound of an engine approaching. Then the lights from a car danced between the tree trunks as Peter’s Range Rover turned onto the yard. He braked and was out of the car almost before it had stopped. With long strides he paced up to them.

  “Excuse me for being late. I overslept,” he said.

  He blinked toward the light from the flashlights that were aimed at him and stopped. His coarsely knit blue wool sweater matched his worn blue jeans and suited him perfectly.

  Fresh and sexy, thought Embla. Then she felt the surge in her abdomen. Damn, this was serious. “Tell him,” she said, poking Nisse in the side with her elbow.

  The darkness was still dense as the group walked toward the Hunting Castle. Nisse let Seppo run around on the full extension of the retractable leash. The dog was still sleepy and only nosed around distractedly, dutifully peeing a few squirts from time to time to let the game in the forest know that he was back. He appeared to be comfortable with Tilly, who plodded along at Einar’s side.

  The wind had picked up during the morning hours and the air chapped their faces. At any moment the rain could turn to ice or sleet could start falling. If everything had been as usual they would have been sitting indoors having a good breakfast, but that would have to wait. The highest priority was finding Anders von Beehn and Jan-Eric Cahneborg.

  Perched on the rise above the lake, the Hunting Castle was submerged in darkness, with only one outdoor light on a corner of the house turned on. A short distance away they could see that the lantern by the precipice was also shining. It was almost six-thirty but the dense clouds were blocking any sign of dawn.

  Embla turned toward Stig Ekström. “Was the door to the Hunting Castle locked when you arrived?” she asked.

  The manager looked nervous. “It was open. But closed,” he answered, confused.

  “Unlocked, you mean. Was there a fire in the stove?” she continued.

  “No. It was cold in the house.”

  “And you’ve searched all through the place? The cellar too?”

  “Everywhere. The cellar is just a little food cellar. There’s nothing there.”

  “Did they take the guns with them?”

  “I didn’t think to check,” Ekström said.

  “Then let’s do that. Stig and I will go into the house. We’ll check the outbuilding, too. Nisse and Seppo, you go around the lake. Sixten, Peter, and Björn will search in the other direction. Toby . . .”

  “Who put you in charge?” Sixten interrupted her.

  He was evidently not pleased by the thought of stumbling around in the dark in the company of Peter, even if Björn was with them. Besides, he was the hunting leader and was used to being the one who told people where they should be and in whose company. His entire body language radiated that no little snip of a girl would come here and boss the guys around just like that.

  “I’ve done this many times in my line of work,” Embla cut him off.

  That silenced him for the moment.

  “You can come with me, if you want,” Nisse offered.

  Sixten grunted something that was evidently supposed to represent a yes.

  “Tobias and Einar, bring Tilly with you and take a closer look at the old butchering shed,” Embla continued.

  “Is there anything left of it?” Einar asked.

  “And what the hell would the guys do in that old shack?” his son objected.

  “I don’t know. But it’s there. Every conceivable place has to be searched.”

  She wondered whether there was anything she had forgotten. There probably was, but that would have to be sorted out during the organized search.

  Stig Ekström turned on the switch in the hall as they stepped inside. The air felt cold and raw; apparently there had been no fire in the big fireplace in the main room for a while.

  “We’ll start with the bedrooms,” Embla decided.

  They went up the creaking stairs to the top floor, which she had never seen before. The air felt raw and the small stoves in the bedrooms were also cold. The temperature was set to ten degrees Celsius and it was no more than that in the house.

  When they opened the door to Anders von Beehn’s bedroom, slightly warmer air streamed toward them. She checked the thermostat in the room and saw that it was set at eighteen degrees.

  The dominant piece of furniture in the room was an extra-wide bed. The cover was wrinkled as if someone had been lying on top of it and hadn’t smoothed it out afterward. Some pillows were set up against the headboard. A folded pair of glasses rested on an open book on the nightstand. The other furniture consisted of a wardrobe, a wicker basket equipped with a lock, and a rug with a Persian pattern that looked old and worn. A sturdy dresser beside the window appeared to be of a respectable age. On top of it was a gold watch, a crocodile skin wallet, and an iPhone. She tried to turn on the phone. Dead.

  The things on the dresser worried her. They could mean that von Beehn had not intended to go very far from the house. Carefully she picked up the wallet and looked in it. It was without a doubt Anders von Beehn’s; she found his driver’s license in a transparent plastic pocket.

  There were four five-hundred-kronor bills inside, as well as several credit and debit cards.

  Nothing in the room indicated a struggle. Everything looked tidy.

  “Do you see anything that’s missing from the room or that looks strange?”

  Stig Ekström looked around carefully but then shook his head. “No. But I’m seldom on the top floor during the hunt. Anna and I get the rooms ready before the guests arrive, and we clean when they’ve gone home.”

  “Where does Anders store his guns?”

  “Here.” He went up to a wallpapered door that was recessed in the wall. She hadn’t noticed it until he pulled on a little knob and the door opened. The closet was small. He had to crouch when he stepped in and turn on the flashlight to see anything. “His Carl Gustaf is missing,” he said.

  “That’s the rifle he uses during the moose hunt.”

  “Yes. But his hunting vest is hanging here.”

  “Really? So what does he have on?”

  “Probably his gray wool sweater. With a crocodile mark on the chest. He usually wears it indoors. But I’ll take a look in the wardrobe.”

  He went up to the large wardrobe and opened the door. Ins
ide were neat piles of clean underwear and socks on the side shelves. Two pairs of pants and two jackets were on hangers, one a bit lighter and one of sturdy tweed. Three ironed shirts were also hanging up, but there was no gray Lacoste-brand sweater.

  Ekström raised the lid of the round woven-wicker laundry basket. “The laundry,” he said.

  “Do you usually take it with you when you drive back to Dalsnäs?”

  “Yes, but not every day. Although on Wednesday I took a load with me.”

  Embla also went up to the basket and looked down into it. All that was on the bottom was a pair of black men’s socks and a pair of underwear: the dirty laundry from Thursday’s deer hunt. There was nothing from Friday. It was not a good sign, but she didn’t say that out loud. Instead she asked, “Where does he keep his hunting clothes?”

  “Downstairs. Hanging in the hall by the kitchen entrance. All the hunters usually hang their clothes there after they’re done. There’s a drying cupboard and such if that’s needed. And shoe dryers.”

  Slightly higher accommodations than our cabin, she thought, pursing her lips slightly.

  They went to Jan-Eric Cahneborg’s room, which was farther down the corridor. The rooms between them were empty when they looked in. Stig told her he had cleaned them out already on Wednesday afternoon. The attorney Lennart Folkesson had stayed in one, and Volker Heinz had stayed in the adjacent room. Greger Liljon had stayed in the smallest room at the far end of the corridor.

  It was also warm in Cahneborg’s room, and it was a glorious mess in there. To be fair, the room was somewhat smaller than von Beehn’s, but clothes and things were spread out all over. The closet door was wide open and a pair of jeans was hanging over the closet rod, along with a soiled shirt and a pair of suit pants. The matching jacket was draped over the back of a chair. Almost hidden under dirty underwear, undershirts, and socks that littered the floor was an empty bottle of whiskey. But the bottle on the nightstand was half full. Or half empty, if you were more pessimistically inclined, thought Embla. Two rifle cases were leaning in one corner of the closet.