“That sounds like an accident to my ears. Nothing strange at all,” Hampus interjected.
“Sure. But the investigation showed that there were no brake marks on the road. The car’s brakes were completely flawless, so it was assumed that he must have fallen asleep at the wheel.”
“A clear accident.”
“Keep in mind that one of his buddies has died and another has disappeared exactly one year later,” Embla noted.
“There isn’t necessarily a connection,” Hampus maintained.
“True. But I think the watch and note are strange. And the father has no theory at all about who M can be?” asked Göran.
At almost ninety, the father was old, Embla thought. “Does the old man seem clear in the head?” she asked.
“Crystal clear. He still works at his company.”
“Can M have been a woman that Ola dumped? Maybe she sent the watch and the note as a kind of secret message between the two of them?” she suggested.
“A cheap copy of a gold watch and a cryptic note to an ex? High-strung!” Hampus said.
At last Embla felt the fatigue from the past few days kick in. She would fall asleep in her chair if she didn’t go to bed. After mumbling goodnight to her colleagues she went up to her little room.
She was asleep before her head reached the pillow.
At nine o’clock sharp the three officers from VGM strolled into the conference room that Superintendent Roger Willén had reserved for their meeting. At his side he had Constable Sebastian Jelinik and his boss, Ann-Katrin Svantesson. The police chief was a stylish woman in her fifties who was known for being both pleasant and competent. Her dark hair billowed in big, glamorous curls. Her makeup was discreet, as were her thin-framed glasses. Instead of a uniform she was wearing a short, black-and-white tunic, narrow black trousers, and high heels.
“Welcome,” she said before Willén could open his mouth.
He looked a bit prickly at first but quickly recovered and put on a smile. “Hi there!” he said heartily.
A refreshing night’s sleep had done miracles, his eyes radiated energy and his freshly shaved head gleamed in the glow of the fluorescent lights. His light-blue shirt was fresh and crisp.
There were several mugs, two thermoses of coffee, and a plate with a sliced tea ring in the center of the table. Göran got a warm look in his eyes when he saw the pistachio-green almond paste and the roasted almond chips; it was his favorite pastry. While they distributed the mugs and Embla asked for hot water for tea, Ann-Katrin Svantesson started to speak.
“First I’d like to get an update. This case is getting a lot of attention in the media. I’m constantly getting inquiries about whether the investigation has produced any results. So, Roger: Has it?”
Willén cleared his throat a few times before answering. “The mark under Cahneborg’s shoulder blade speaks for itself. He received a hard blow from what we have reason to believe is the butt of a rifle, and he fell down the precipice. According to the medical examiner he died immediately. The cause of death was a broken neck, which likely occurred when he struck his head on the stones below.”
After a little tapping on the computer, an enlarged image of Cahneborg appeared on the wall behind him. There was a clear, violet-red mark a few centimeters below the right shoulder blade, close to the spine. The impression was angled upward, like when the hands of a clock are at five past seven.
The next tap showed a close-up of the rock by the edge of the precipice. Willén pointed at some almost-invisible marks.
“It’s hard to tell in this photo, but we found scrape marks in the lichen there by the edge. Cahneborg tried to get a foothold, but as we know he didn’t succeed,” he said.
After a little fumbling he managed to zoom in on the edge of the cliff, so they could see the scrape marks more clearly. Embla imagined in slow-motion the sturdy Cahneborg getting a shove in the back, flailing, and desperately trying to regain his balance by seeking footing with the rough soles of his boots against the slippery lichen before falling, screaming over the edge, down to a certain death.
It was an agonizing vision and her stomach contracted in discomfort. She hadn’t known him that well, but he seemed to be a fairly decent guy, although a mediocre hunter. But he was a powerful man in the media world, rich and influential. People like that always have enemies.
“Are there no traces at all of Anders von Beehn?” Ann-Katrin Svantesson asked.
“No. None at all. Apparently he went outside sometime Thursday evening or night. He took his rifle with him but not his cell phone or wallet,” said Willén.
“Sounds like he intended to come right back in again,” the police chief observed.
“Yes. But he didn’t. And his thin clothing was hardly ideal for someone who intended to run off. If nothing else he ought to have taken a jacket. And his wallet. Perhaps he didn’t want to take the phone because of the risk of being traced, but . . . Embla has said it several times and I agree with her. Something doesn’t add up.”
Everyone looked at her and she cleared her throat.
“I don’t know von Beehn or Cahneborg that well, but I’ve seen them around during the past few moose hunts. I have never seen anything that can be called animosity between them. On the contrary, they always seemed really tight. And it was the same with Ola Forsnaess when he was alive. They called themselves ‘the three musketeers.’” She wiggled her fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks.
“Has everyone who was there during the hunt been questioned?” Svantesson asked, looking at Willén.
“Yes. It took a little time to get ahold of them. But everyone says the same thing. There were no signs that von Beehn and Cahneborg were enemies.”
There was a moment of silence before Roger Willén looked at Embla and asked, “What do you think happened?”
“No idea. But I can’t believe that von Beehn would push his best friend off the precipice. I’ve started wondering if there was a third person at the Hunting Castle last Thursday evening.”
“It’s possible. But we’ll have to be content with stating that von Beehn got out of bed, set aside his book, took the rifle out of the closet, put on his boots, and went out. After that we don’t know what happened. But here’s one more mysterious picture,” the superintendent said.
A close-up of wet, muddy soil and a damp stone showed up on the wall. At first none of them saw anything noteworthy in the picture, but when Roger Willén pointed to the edge they could make out a circular impression in the muck.
“The circle is exactly seventy centimeters in diameter. There is also an unclear impression here from a sturdy boot, but only an extremely small part of the front of the sole is visible. This person was standing on the rock.”
“But what is that ring?” Hampus asked.
“I don’t know. Something left a very clear impression. A thin ring.” He clicked again and produced a view over the precipice and the surrounding terrain.
“Cahneborg fell here . . . and here is the ring, four and a half meters from the marks on the edge.”
“The lantern post is between them,” Hampus noted.
“Yes. Although . . .”
The superintendent trailed off when there was a knock on the door. Constable Anette Olsson stepped in with a small package in her hand.
“Hi. An express package from the police station in Gothenburg. For you, Göran,” she said.
He stood up, took the package, and immediately started removing the brown wrapping. Before he opened the thin, gray cardboard box, he put on his latex gloves. He fumbled with the tissue paper until he found what he was looking for. With a pair of long tweezers, he took hold of the metal armband and held the gleaming watch up for inspection.
“So this is a worthless copy,” he said.
With some difficulty he opened a plastic bag that was on the table and put the watch in it, then he sent it around so that everyone could take a closer look. Carefully he lifted the tissue paper out of the box. A
t the bottom was the small slip of paper. He grasped one corner with the tweezers and placed it in a small plastic bag with a seal. He inspected the note thoroughly before he let it be passed around.
“Ordinary copy paper. Printed out on a laser printer, but I’ll look more closely at that later,” he said.
The piece of paper was rectangular, about five-by-seven centimeters; the lower edge was cut a bit crookedly. In the middle of the paper it said in rather large letters:
I remember. M.
Embla turned over the package but there was nothing discernable on the back: no marks, folds, or stains.
“I’ll be damned!” Roger Willén exclaimed.
Ann-Katrin Svantesson gave him an astonished look and raised her eyebrows slightly.
Willén’s neck was turning red and he pointed at the note. “The techs found an envelope in Cahneborg’s room. Sent from Gothenburg. The address was printed out on a computer on a self-adhesive label. Self-adhesive stamps, too, so no DNA from saliva on the back side. In the envelope was a piece of fabric of some kind. And a similar note.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the room. Everyone looked at him, waiting for Willén to continue, but he evidently didn’t know any more than that. He feverishly tapped on the computer in front of him and let the images flicker past at a rapid pace.
“There!” he said finally.
The image showed a small, padded envelope. Beside it was a black scarf and a slip of paper. He zoomed in on the paper and everyone could see that it was identical to the one that was on the table in front of them.
“Where did they find this?” Göran Krantz asked.
“In an inside pocket of Cahneborg’s suitcase.” Willén sounded absent. He stood with his gaze fixed on the objects in the picture.
“A black scarf and a fake gold watch. ‘I remember. M.’ What is the sender trying to say?” the police chief wondered out loud. She too looked intensely at the image, as if she was trying to find something they hadn’t seen at first glance.
“Probably only the sender knows that. And perhaps the recipients. That is, Ola Forsnaess and Jan-Eric Cahneborg. And neither of them can tell us anything because they’re dead,” Hampus said dryly.
Göran emptied the last of his coffee cup. “To me it’s clear as day. Cahneborg was murdered. And we’ll have to look at the investigation of Forsnaess’s accident again,” he said.
“Will you take that on?” Willén asked quickly.
“Sure.” Göran reached for the last piece of pastry. It could be a long shift in front of the computer that afternoon, and it was crucial not to let his blood sugar sink too low.
“And what happened to von Beehn? Did he get something in the mail, too?” Ann-Katrin Svantesson looked searchingly at the police officers around the table.
Willén straightened up automatically as he answered his boss. “Right after this meeting I’m going to make contact with our colleagues in Stockholm and ask them to search his house in Djursholm one more time. Those of us who are here in the room will search through the estate and the hunting cabin in Dalsland. It will be easier now that we know what to keep an eye out for.”
“We can check Dalsnäs when we drive back,” said Göran.
“Good. But you can’t very well drive down here every morning, can you?”
“No. It takes too much time. We’ve set up an operating center in a house up there. It’s where Embla’s uncle lives,” he said.
“It was nice of him to make his house available,” Svantesson said, nodding at Embla.
She knew he probably didn’t have much choice, but she didn’t intend to enlighten the police chief about that. Instead she simply smiled in response.
As usual Embla was driving too fast. She did not slow down until they passed a speed camera. Her colleagues let her have her way; both were sitting deeply engrossed in their own thoughts. They had had a major breakthrough during the meeting in Trollhättan.
It was Embla who said what they were thinking out loud.
“I think that Anders von Beehn’s disappearance is a homicide. But there is of course a possibility that he was kidnapped.”
“Murder. They have to die. All three of them,” Hampus stated.
To herself she admitted that he was right. There was nothing that indicated that the perpetrator, or perpetrators, was after money. The front door to the Hunting Castle was unlocked when the manager came on Saturday morning, and von Beehn’s wallet with money and all his credit cards had been lying in plain sight on top of his dresser. The same applied to Cahneborg, whose wallet was found in the drawer in the nightstand. In one of the compartments there were a couple thousand kronor in cash besides. No, this was not about money. It was personal.
“Do we know that this only concerns these three?” Göran asked thoughtfully.
“Not really. But it feels as if the musketeers are the targets,” Hampus said.
Göran nodded and hummed a little. “It’s getting to be lunchtime. What do you say about the Thai restaurant in Mellerud?” he said with a smile.
Hampus and Embla exchanged a look but didn’t say anything. At this point they had learned the signals and what applied: pedal to the metal to whatever serving location was mentioned.
The Thai restaurant served a lunch buffet, which suited them just fine. Hampus preferred meat, Embla was picky about what she ingested, and Göran operated according to the motto “extra everything.” They sat down at a window table where they could keep an eye on the car. It was conspicuous and at least twice someone had tried to break into it.
It was when she got up to fill her glass with lemon water that she noticed the solitary man at a corner table, deeply absorbed in a tabloid paper. It took her a few seconds to register who he was. His hair was considerably thinner, he was about twenty kilos heavier around the waist, and a pair of reading glasses kept slipping down his nose. He wore an elegant suit, no doubt tailor-made, of thin dark blue wool. His shirt was light blue and his silk tie was red with a tasteful white and blue checked pattern. It was many years since she’d last seen him, but this was Milo Stavic. She had no doubt about it.
For a fraction of a second Embla felt incapable of walking the short stretch across the floor over to the refrigerated case where the pitcher of water was. With an extreme exertion of will, she suppressed her sense of panic and started moving as unperturbed as she could. He did not look up from the newspaper and did not seem to notice her. Obviously he couldn’t have recognized her when they came into the place. Or else he already had. The thought made cold sweat break out on her back. Because she was the only one who knew what had happened that night fourteen years ago. Besides Milo and his two brothers. And they knew more than she did.
Before the police from VGM were ready for coffee after lunch, Milo Stavic folded up his newspaper, stood up, and paid at the register. He did not even glance toward them at the window table. He probably didn’t need to; she assumed he had observed them carefully when they came in. With confident steps he went up to a big, dark-blue Mercedes, started the car, and turned onto E45 without a backward glance.
She felt relieved and hoped he hadn’t recognized her. Then she had been a gangly fourteen-year-old with her hair wrapped in a scarf, and she had been wearing far too much makeup. The scarf, which she had borrowed from her mother, was cobalt-blue silk and went amazingly with her eyes. She still had it and wore it often. It had hidden her conspicuous red hair, which she had scooped up in a bun on top of her head. Hopefully he hadn’t made a connection between the gangly teenager and the woman who came in with two men. All three reeked of cop; an old gangster like Milo Stavic would sense that sort of thing. Maybe it was her best disguise.
After a while she managed to relax and talk more or less normally with her two colleagues.
Anna and Stig Ekström were standing outside the entry, waiting for them. The turbulence of the past few days had affected them, and they both looked tired and disheartened. Embla greeted them cheerily and chatted to lighte
n the mood. When she only got monosyllabic responses, she abandoned any attempts at conversation, and they went up to the carved double door.
Anna turned the key and let them in. “Do you want us to go in with you?” she asked.
“No, thanks. We’ll be in touch if we need anything,” Göran answered.
A faint autumn sun struggled to break through the clouds without much success, but the sparse light that filtered in through the tinted windows was sufficient enough for the furnishings in the big hall to stand out clearly: two heavy wardrobes, a large mirror with a gilded frame, a curvy rococo dresser, and a gigantic decorative rug that covered almost the entire floor surface.
“I seem to recall from my latest visit with Hampus that down here there are only rooms for entertaining, a library, and the kitchen. The bedrooms are on the top floor. It’s most likely what we’re looking for is there,” said Göran.
“If he got an envelope or package, too, he certainly would have brought it with him to the Hunting Castle,” Hampus objected.
“Probably. But we have to search here first to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”
Since she was inside Dalsnäs now anyway, Embla decided to look around; neither she nor Nisse had ever been inside the big house. Quickly she walked through an impressive dining room with beautiful furniture and into a smaller living room. The room was light and peaceful, but the air was starting to acquire the smell of an uninhabited house. Tiny silver specks of dust danced in the pale rays of the sun. Big windows and a patio door faced the lake, and outside there was a large tarp draped over what was presumably garden furniture.
The library was also beautiful with its glassed-in bookshelves that hugged the walls from floor to ceiling and the well-worn leather furniture in front of the open fireplace.
Methodically, Embla started looking through the shelves and shaking all the books. The only result was that the dust made her sneeze.
For the sake of completeness she went into the kitchen. The renovation was tastefully done in a retro style.
Nothing in the house was reminiscent of the “presents” that Cahneborg and Forsnaess had received, and they did not find any notes signed M.
Hunting Game Page 13
