Hunting Game

by Helene Tursten

  She leaned against the headboard and stared out into the darkness. Because she was wide-awake anyway she would allow herself to remember and try to go through her memories. Perhaps it would keep the dream from coming back again for a while. She didn’t really think that it would ever go away for good.

  She had been so proud that Lollo, who was a whole year older, wanted to be best friends with her. They lived in the same apartment building and played with each other almost every day. It had been a secure, fun childhood, as she recalled.

  But the year Lollo turned fourteen everything had changed. Her father had met another woman, who was already pregnant. He would be moving to London with his new family. That was when Lollo’s mother started drinking in earnest.

  Lollo didn’t want to talk about it, but she wasn’t always able to hide how sad she was. Her depressed periods alternated with more intense ones. Over the next school year, she became restless and suggested things like smoking in secret or watching R-rated movies. As her best friend, Embla went along with it to make her a little happier.

  It felt like a really cool idea when Lollo decided they should hitchhike to Copenhagen. They didn’t know it at the time, but it would be their last summer vacation together. They were lucky in several senses to be picked up by a nice Danish truck driver, who believed Lollo’s story that they were going to visit her grandmother. Four hours later they were standing unscathed outside Central Station in Copenhagen. From there they went to Nyhavn because the best tattoo artists were there, according to Embla’s big brother, Frej.

  Lollo had a little black lamb tattooed on one shoulder and Embla had chosen a blue butterfly, which she had placed high up on the outside of one thigh, where it could easily be concealed from her parents. The butterfly symbolized Lollo, her graceful figure and flighty manner. The black lamb was an image of how Embla always felt like an outsider in her family.

  There was enough money for a red sausage with chopped onion, served on a paper tray, and a large Coca-Cola. With their legs dangling over the water they sat and looked at the old boats and barges that were moored along the piers. They felt free and lighthearted. And more than a little excited that they had dared to go on this adventure.

  Toward evening they hitchhiked toward home again. They managed to get to Varberg, where they got kicked out of the car for refusing to have oral sex with the driver. Between the two of them, they only had sixteen kronor and fifty öre, which wasn’t enough for either train or bus tickets, and they didn’t dare try to hitchhike again. Dejected, they called Embla’s dad to ask him to come and get them. She would never forget the scolding she got from her usually placid father. He screamed so loudly, it sounded like the phone was on speaker mode.

  It had not been a fun journey home.

  The news that Lollo and her mother had to move came as a cold shower. The rent for their large apartment on Linnégatan was too high. Right after Midsummer they moved to a two-room apartment in public housing in Högsbo. The only good thing about it was that it was close to the streetcar stop by Axel Dahlström’s Square, and the trip was less than fifteen minutes when they wanted to meet.

  It had worked pretty well. During the weeks of summer when she was with her Uncle Nisse and Aunt Ann-Sofie they called each other every day.

  Not until Embla came home from Dalsland did Lollo tell her that she had met the world’s sweetest guy, who was a little over twenty. Lollo herself would turn fifteen in a month; the age difference wasn’t that big a deal, she said with feigned nonchalance. Embla, who had just turned fourteen, thought it probably was but was careful not to say anything; she didn’t want to appear childish. She herself only had her little summer romance with Tobias to offer, and there wasn’t much to talk about. He didn’t even have a moped.

  One Saturday afternoon at the end of August Lollo called and ordered her to dress up for a visit to a nightclub that evening. After a slight panic attack—what do you wear to a nightclub?—Embla decided on a low-cut white tank top, black tights, and white sneakers. Because she hated her red hair at least as much as she hated her first name when she was a teenager, she wrapped one of her mother’s shawls around her head. She told her parents that there was a school disco at Frölunda Cultural Center and that she and Lollo were going to have a sleepover in Högsbo afterward because it was closest. The part about the school disco at the Cultural Center was actually true, but she didn’t tell them that they weren’t planning to go. Nor did she mention that Lollo’s mother was going to a fortieth birthday party with a girlfriend in Jönköping and would be gone for the night.

  They met at Lollo’s place to put on makeup and get ready. In the refrigerator there was a tub of potato salad and grilled chicken. There was also boxed white wine in the fridge, and in the pantry there were another two boxes of Spanish red wine. They chose white. Worldly wise Lollo filled two wine glasses to the brim. She assured Embla that her mother wouldn’t notice anything since the box was almost full. They each had another two generously filled glasses before they left the apartment. Embla still remembered how dizzy and nauseated she had felt. She also remembered how she hoped it wasn’t obvious because she didn’t want to look like a wimp.

  Before they left the apartment Lollo gave her an extra key in case they got separated.

  The bouncers recognized Lollo and called to her. The two girls, who were obviously not twenty and evidently not sober either, got to go ahead in line outside the bar with no problem. In her slinky light-blue dress, Lollo looked like a fairy, even though she sometimes staggered alarmingly on her high heels.

  The area around the bar was packed, and a dark-haired bartender had beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. A blue-haired girl worked with him and both were fully occupied. He was as lithe as a dancer behind the bar, smiling and making wisecracks with the customers while he took orders. He was good-looking, with marked cheekbones and big brown eyes that glistened when he smiled, which he did often with blindingly white teeth. His black hair was long and gathered in a thick ponytail. He was as handsome as a movie star. Lollo managed to squeeze her way up to the bar, and when he caught sight of her he lit up and walked over.

  Embla herself felt lost and remained standing away from the noisy bar, so she didn’t hear what they said to each other. People jostled and shouted around her. When a tipsy older guy—he was at least twenty-five—tried to hug her and insisted on a kiss she got scared and for a brief moment took her eyes off the pair at the counter. After a slight scuffle she managed to shake off the guy and moved a little farther away. When she looked toward the bar, a drunk guy was hanging over the counter, shouting for a beer. Lollo and the bartender had disappeared. The blue-haired girl bustled around alone behind the bar.

  Embla started looking around, she heaved herself up on her toes and made little hops to be able to see better. People around her hissed at her not to move her arms so much. Right before the door with the staff only sign closed, she caught a glimpse of Lollo’s light-blue dress.

  What happened next was the scene that constantly recurred in her nightmare. The shadow that had caught hold of Embla after she followed them through the staff only door was Milo Stavic. She also remembered two threatening silhouettes leaning over the little figure on the floor. Later she understood that these were Milo’s younger brothers, Kador and Luca. She had managed to find their names when she started working as a police officer. She had seen a photo of Luca, who was wounded in an exchange of gunfire on the Avenue, and she had recognized him at once as the good-looking bartender.

  After Milo threw Embla down on the floor and went back to his brothers she lay there, gasping for breath for a long time. Half unconscious, she heard a door open and then close heavily. Somehow she managed to get up on shaky legs and stagger toward the light. All that was there was a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall beside the steel-lined outside door. The door was furnished with several locks and she wasn’t able to open it; the brothers had probably locked it from the outside. She still didn’t know how
she made her way through the dark corridor—only that she opened a door and was swept back up in the sea of noisy, dancing people.

  Somehow she ended up on a streetcar that went to Högsbo, but she had no clear memories of that ride either. Because she had a key to Lollo’s apartment, it was simpler to continue to Axel Dahlström’s Square than to get off at Linnégatan and try to explain to her parents why she and Lollo hadn’t been at the Frölunda Cultural Center as they said. And they would notice that she was drunk. That had been the biggest reason she hadn’t gone home. That and part of her hoped Lollo might be waiting for her back at her mother’s apartment. And if she wasn’t . . . well, Embla needed time to calmly come up with a credible lie about where Lollo was when she disappeared and why Embla didn’t know where her friend had gone. Because she would never dare tell the truth. Milo Stavic’s message had scared her out of her wits: “If you say a word to anyone you’re dead. We know who you are and where you live!”

  She had spent a wakeful night in the apartment on Guldmyntsgatan. She was only able to fall asleep toward morning. When she woke up at lunchtime she had the first hangover of her life and felt terrible.

  When she heard a key in the door a few hours later she felt a wild hope that it was Lollo, but it turned out to be her mother. Crying profusely Embla told her that Lollo hadn’t come home. During the night she had fabricated a story that as far as possible tallied with the truth, but beyond that was a pure lie. Rambling a little she started by saying that Lollo had talked about a guy who lived in the city and that they were going there to meet him instead of going to the disco at the Cultural Center. She said she reluctantly went along, even though she would rather have gone to the disco. When they got off the streetcar Lollo suddenly said that she wanted to go alone to meet the guy. “You’re just going to feel left out,” she said. They had quarreled and she rode back to the apartment to wait for Lollo. But she never showed up. At least the latter was completely true. And no, she had no idea what the guy’s name was.

  She then told the same story to her parents and to the police who spoke with her a day or so later.

  Afterward she rationalized her actions, telling herself she had been young and stupid. And scared. Terribly afraid! Milo had frightened her into silence. And besides, she was trying to save her own skin. There had been quite a bit of foolishness over the summer, considering the trip to Copenhagen and the tattoos. Getting drunk on wine and going to a club would hardly pass as a minor offense. She would be grounded for the foreseeable future, and she wouldn’t see a whiff of an allowance for several years. She had been unable to think clearly. Somewhere deep down she wanted to believe Lollo would come back. That everything would work out.

  But it didn’t. And suddenly everything was too late; too late for the truth.

  Would it have made any difference if she had told someone what had really happened that evening? Yes, without a doubt. But she could not remember exactly where the club was or what it was called; she’d been too drunk. The only thing she knew for sure was that the place was called La Viva something or other. It was only much later that she figured out the club was called La Dolce Vita. She had also seen three men abduct Lollo. That would have been enough for the police to suspect the Stavic brothers because they owned the club. She knew that now, but not then.

  Maybe that was why she had become a police officer. A sort of penance. Clear up all the other crimes, except the one that was already too late to solve.

  Saddest of all, Lollo’s mother had committed suicide the following year, with the help of a bottle of strong liquor and a vial of prescription sleeping pills.

  Lollo’s dad had been active in the search for his daughter to start with, but as time passed and there was no positive news he became more and more silent on the other side of the North Sea. A few years ago the TV show Wanted had taken up unsolved cases, and Lollo’s disappearance was included. No new tips had come in.

  Perhaps this was what she felt she had in common with Peter: a young teenage girl had disappeared from their lives. But it seemed to him as if his sister, Camilla, was alive. What was it he had said when she asked about his sister? “It’s been a long time since we met,” or something like that. That must mean she was alive, even if they don’t have any contact, right? She had to try to dig deeper into that the next time she and Peter met, which if all went well would already be tomorrow evening.

  The thought of him made her smile in the darkness. She crawled down under the covers, and her thoughts continued to whirl until she finally started to fall asleep. Then Peter suddenly showed up again in a waking dream. “We haven’t had contact in a long time,” he said, referring to his missing sister. That was what he had said, but it was a strange way to put it.

  For once Göran looked really tired. He leaned his elbows heavily against the kitchen table, apathetically chewing a sausage sandwich. On top of the sausage he had squiggled mayonnaise, pressed on several slices of cucumber, and topped it with a thick slice of cheese. Hampus always teased him about his Dagwood sandwiches but realized this morning was not the time for jokes.

  “Yes, please.” The superintendent urgently held out his mug as Hampus came with the coffeepot to refill his own.

  “This must be your third cup this morning.”

  “Fourth.”

  Without commenting, Hampus filled the outstretched mug. Embla gave her boss a searching look and noted the bags under his eyes and his uncombed hair. This was not like him. He was usually the one who was most energetic and wide-awake in the morning.

  “Did you sleep at all last night?” she asked.

  A faint smile appeared on his tired face. “Not much. But I have had a rewarding night on the Net.”

  Of course, that’s where your life is, she thought.

  “Can a person get the link to that site?” Hampus said with a grin.

  “I was working,” he said coolly. Göran took a few substantial bites of the sandwich and drank his coffee in big gulps. The other two sat quietly; they knew he needed peace and quiet to recharge.

  As usual Embla filled a plate with natural yogurt and poured her own muesli blend. Her colleagues always found that very amusing because the resulting mixture reminded them of coarse cement mortar. Then she would flex her biceps and say that they could start the day healthier, too. Hampus’s part of the ritual was rolling his eyes and demonstratively spreading a thick layer of butter on a roll, while Göran reported he would go into anaphylactic shock if his poor body were subjected to anything like that.

  That was the normal routine, but this morning there was none of that.

  After five sandwiches and with the fifth mug of coffee in front of him on the table, Göran declared that he was ready to inform his colleagues of the results of his nocturnal labor. He nodded toward Embla.

  “It was that strange sighting of the Lady in White after the hunting dinner that made me start to wonder. You found a long strand of hair at the place where you’d seen her, which you sent to me. I found that it came from a wig. Last night it struck me that we haven’t looked more closely at what actually happened to Peter Hansson’s sister. You said several individuals have mentioned her unusually long, light hair. I’ve scoured the Internet for information about her and haven’t found anything. There isn’t the slightest sign of life from her after she left the party that night when she disappeared thirty years ago.”

  “What was her name again?” Hampus asked.

  “Camilla. Camilla Hansson,” Embla answered quickly.

  This was exactly what she herself had decided to dig into at dinner later this evening with Peter.

  “With a C or a K?”

  “C.”

  “Then she can’t be M,” Hampus observed.

  “Actually, she could be.”

  They looked at Göran with surprise. He really needs to sleep, was Embla’s first reaction.

  “I happened to think of a song that was really popular when I was young. A real summertime hit. It was called “Rhythm
of a Rain” or something like that. The group was called Millas Mirakel. So the girl who sang was called Milla, but her name was Camilla. With a C.” His lips broke into a smile and he looked rather satisfied.

  “You may be right! When I was in middle school there was a girl in the parallel class whose name was Kamilla, with a K, and she went by Millan!” Hampus exclaimed.

  Embla didn’t know what to say. Today Camilla would be forty-six years old and surely very unlike the sixteen-year-old who disappeared. Why would she suddenly murder three middle-aged, successful men thirty years later? She asked Göran the same question. He looked at her for a long time before he answered.

  “That’s what the mystery is. I decided to dig into what really happened with those three musketeers thirty years ago.” In one gulp he emptied his mug and set it down on the table with a bang. “A half cup,” he ordered.

  This time Embla got up and scurried after the coffeepot.

  “And bring a cookie!” he called after her.

  When Göran had his refill and the last oatmeal cookie in the package, he continued.

  “I started checking up on what those guys were up to when Camilla disappeared. Anders von Beehn was serving in the military as a coastal commando right after his university entrance exams. He was in for a year and discharged with excellent references. After that he started at Stockholm School of Economics the same autumn that Camilla disappeared. Jan-Eric Cahneborg was already there because he wasn’t drafted. Ola Forsnaess doesn’t seem to have done anything special during the year that von Beehn was being trained and Cahneborg started his studies. After high school he mostly travelled to various places along the Riviera and partied during the summer. When autumn came he went to Australia for three months and was in the US for the same amount of time.”