Hunting Game

by Helene Tursten

  He cleared his throat and sipped a little coffee before he looked at Embla.

  “I want you to contact Sixten Svensson and check whether all three were at the moose hunt the year Camilla Hansson disappeared. I think he keeps lists of who participates.”

  “That’s right. I’ll talk to him,” she said.

  “Good. What is interesting is that the year after Camilla’s disappearance, none of the three took part in the moose hunt. Ola Forsnaess and his father moved to Oslo because his mother died over the summer. Anders von Beehn went to the US and studied at a university in New York for two years before returning to the School of Economics for his final year. What is really interesting is that Jan-Eric Cahneborg interrupted his studies not long after the weekend Camilla disappeared. Actually just a few days later. What caught my interest was a picture from a gossip magazine taken right before Christmas that year that shows him walking through the gates to a private rehabilitation center that specializes in drug abusers. And he really looks out of it. According to the story, Jan-Eric Cahneborg, heir to Sweden’s largest media empire, was admitted for several weeks of rest due to ‘over-exertion’”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“but he stayed there for several months. He wasn’t allowed to leave the center until almost spring. And in the fall he resumed his studies. It seems the three musketeers didn’t return to the moose hunt for three years after Camilla’s disappearance. Embla, can you check if that’s true?”

  She nodded.

  “But there are quite natural explanations for why they didn’t hunt,” Hampus said. “I mean, studying both abroad and in Sweden, moving to Oslo, a stay at rehab . . . they had a lot going on.”

  “I agree. But three years is a long time. And I found some other things, too. Two years after the move to Oslo, Ola Forsnaess was charged with rape and assault—and it was brutal. The woman admitted that she went along with it to start with, but then he started slapping and strangling her. And she took a few punches as well. She said she lost consciousness toward the end of the assault. Pictures were taken at the hospital show she had been seriously battered. In short, Ola was never convicted. One of Norway’s best defense attorneys acknowledged that the sex acts had been a little sadistic, but he asserted that the woman had participated voluntarily and that both of them were under the influence of drugs and the whole thing had gotten out of control. No one was surprised when the woman withdrew her report. The rumor was that daddy Forsnaess had taken out his wallet and given her a tidy sum. But the interesting thing for us is that rumors continued to circulate about Ola Forsnaess. He’s mentioned on quite a few strange online forums and his name is linked to some really kinky sites. I found him both by name and by photo. It’s safe to say the guy liked sadistic sex.”

  “Your reputation is created in cyberspace,” Hampus said.

  “And there it will be for eternity. Amen,” Göran added. He laughed and continued. “People can try to create a facade of themselves on various social media platforms, but people like me always scare up their secret traces. It’s impossible to hide anything.”

  He raised his coffee mug in a joking toast just as Hampus’s phone started playing the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. With a dissatisfied grimace he read the name on the display.

  “Filippa,” he announced and stood up.

  He didn’t answer until he was out in the living room. As usual they heard his monosyllabic, curt responses. A few seconds later he came rushing back into the kitchen.

  “I have to leave! Greta has been admitted to the hospital with appendicitis! She’s going to have surgery . . . emergency . . . it can burst at any moment! I have to go home . . . have to take care of Ester!”

  He was so upset that he stumbled over his words. Greta was four and Ester had just turned two. Of course he had to go home and take care of the younger one.

  “It’s okay. You can take the Veteran,” Embla offered, placing a soothing hand on his shoulder.

  “Not on your life! That scrap heap could fall to pieces anywhere on the road. I have to get home.”

  Offended on behalf of her car, she withdrew her hand. Scrap heap, my ass! But she had to admit that the old vehicle could be a little tricky. “Listen, I’ll call Nisse. I’m sure you can use his car. They have Ingela’s,” she said.

  She called Nisse, who promised to bring the car right away.

  “No, I’ll drive Hampus over to you. I’m going out anyway to talk with Sixten.”

  “I can go with you if you want.”

  “Thanks, please do.”

  She felt relieved. She never felt quite comfortable with Sixten; he could be extremely temperamental at times. Having Nisse along would surely facilitate contact with the old hunting leader.

  They watched Hampus roar off in the red Mazda and disappear in the direction of Gothenburg.

  “I hope he doesn’t drive off the road. I’ve never seen him so stressed,” said Embla.

  “I actually like that car,” Nisse said with a sigh.

  As they got into the Veteran something occurred to her that she hadn’t thought of asking before.

  “Has Sixten ever had a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend, for that matter.”

  “Boyfriend? Sixten? No. But he lived with a woman named Britt-Marie for a few years. That must have been in the early seventies. He was drinking quite a bit even then. She got fed up with it and left him.”

  “Does Britt-Marie still live here?”

  “No. She got married and moved to Trollhättan, got a job at Saab. But she must be retired by now.”

  “And since then there’s never been another woman?”

  “No. Nothing lasting anyway. It’s sad because once upon a time he was a good-looking, conscientious guy. But now . . . well, he runs the hunting party. That’s something, anyway.”

  They turned onto the road to Sixten’s farm. Their teeth rattled in their jaws as the car jolted along over the poorly maintained, potholed farmyard. Mud splashed around the tires.

  The whole farm was dilapidated. The buildings didn’t just lack a fresh coat of paint, they were all in crying need of a thorough renovation.

  The rusty old tractor had stood in the same place in the middle of the farmyard for as long as Embla could remember, its wheels long concealed by brush and tall weeds. The doors to the stable were open, and in the darkness she could just make out Sixten’s old green Toyota, which looked to be just as old as the Veteran. There were piles of trash everywhere, making the space resemble a small garbage dump.

  “Why can’t he keep things in order at his place?” Embla asked.

  “You think it’s messy out here? You should take a look in the barn and the old stable. And inside the house,” Nisse said dryly.

  She had never been inside Sixten’s house; there had never been any reason. She parked the Veteran in front of the cement steps that led to the front door. Large pieces had broken loose from the steps, which would certainly be hazardous when there was snow and ice. A depressing disrepair marked the whole farm.

  The same applied to its owner. When Sixten opened the door after they had knocked intensely for a long time, he looked pitiful. Thin, gray wisps of hair stuck to his head and streaks of snus were hanging in his beard stubble. He had on a soiled undershirt and a pair of dirty long underwear. His toes stuck out through thick, worn socks. The heavy stench of a hangover clung to the air. Embla felt a small shock and didn’t know what she should say.

  “Hi there, Sixten! Big party yesterday?” Nisse said a little teasingly.

  He looks sick, Embla thought. His chest was sunken and she could see his collar bone clearly outlined under the skin. This was not the Sixten she had seen during the moose hunt, even though she had thought he smelled a little unhealthy then as well.

  “What the hell do you want?” he croaked.

  The gaze from his narrowed eyes was dismissive and angry. He had only cracked the door open a little.

  “The police need to check the meat lists. You’re known for keepi
ng exemplary order of those.”

  Nisse maintained a light tone. Perhaps due to the flattery, Sixten opened the door a little more. But the surly expression did not leave his unwashed face.

  “Why is that?” he snarled.

  Despite the dismissive tone there was something in his body language anyway that started to change. He stuck his head out and his gaze became more present.

  “It concerns who attended various hunts over the years,” Nisse said evasively.

  “Police secrecy,” Embla quickly interjected.

  Sixten’s bushy eyebrows shot up and the small, bloodshot eyes reflected strong distrust. At the same time he could not really decide what this was all about, but at last curiosity took over.

  “Come in then. I’ll get the binders,” he said.

  “We’ll help you carry them. There may be several,” Nisse said.

  “Yes? How far back do you want to go?”

  So as not to reveal too much he answered deliberately vaguely. “From the mid-seventies.” Then he interrupted himself, “What the hell will you . . . ?” He snorted audibly, then on unsteady legs he started walking into the house. They stepped quickly over the threshold and closed the door before he had time to change his mind.

  A strong odor of cat piss and stale cooking fumes struck them. On the hall floor was a worn piece of rug that had once probably been striped in various shades of green before it had faded to gray. They went through a kitchen where all the surfaces were loaded with unwashed saucepans, china, empty TV dinner trays, cans of cat food, and empty bottles. The soles of their boots made a smacking noise as they walked across the sticky floor. None of them had taken off their footwear, which was otherwise the custom in the countryside. It was clear to Embla that he needed supervision and cleaning help, but she knew him well enough to know he would never allow anyone into the house to clean or repair anything.

  They followed him into the living room, which was a faded museum of interior design from the late sixties. Almost half a century had gnawed on the sofa group’s orange-brown fabric, and the tabletop had countless rings from glasses and bottles, as well as black holes from glowing cigarettes.

  Sixten opened a door and gestured for them to follow him in. Embla stopped at the threshold in surprise. It was a study, furnished with an old, dark oak desk and a matching chair with curved back and velvet-covered cushion. On the desktop was a red leather blotter, an antique brass pen holder with associated inkwell, and a Facit typewriter under a dust cover. One wall was covered by a bookcase that extended from floor to ceiling. It was dusty in the room, but an order prevailed there that was not found anywhere else on the farm.

  “I work on everything that I have to take care of before the hunts in here.”

  Embla detected a ring of pride in Sixten’s voice. Only then did she realize that the hunt was his whole life. Not in the hunting and killing itself, but in the community of the hunting party and all the work around it, the responsibility and his important task as hunting leader. He was the one who planned the hunts, and everyone had to pay attention to him and obey his orders. Maybe those were the only occasions during the year that he really got to associate with other people.

  He went over to the big bookcase. “Here’s where I keep the lists.” His hands were shaking noticeably as he took out three thick binders. “These are from 1975 and on,” he said.

  “That was when you became the hunting leader,” Nisse observed.

  “That’s right. One of the youngest ever. I took over when Pops died.”

  Again, she could hear the pride in his voice. He had been so young when he was shown that trust. He must have hunted a lot and been really skillful, she thought. Even if he still was a good hunting leader, it was safe to assume that now he was only a shadow of the hunter he had once been.

  Sixten pointed at the desk and said, “You can sit here and look at the lists.”

  “We’ll probably want to borrow the binders. There may be pages we have to copy. I promise you’ll get everything back no later than the day after tomorrow,” Embla said.

  His whole face contracted with displeasure but he did not object.

  “I’ll bring a couple of pilsners with me when we return them.” Nisse patted his old friend on the shoulder and Sixten’s expression lightened.

  It did not take long to read through the meat lists, which had been meticulously kept over the years. In orderly columns Sixten had written the hunting participants’ names and their allocation of meat in neat handwriting. Göran had been right in thinking that the three friends had not participated for three consecutive moose hunts in the years immediately following Camilla Hansson’s disappearance.

  Göran and Embla discussed whether it meant anything or if it was a coincidence. The musketeers, as they had already determined, had been occupied with other things. They agreed their absence didn’t prove anything, but that they should keep it in mind during the course of the investigation.

  At lunchtime Embla drove off to the only pizzeria in the area, Pizzeria Amore, which was adjacent to the ICA grocery store. A Vegetariano, as it had been christened on the menu on the wall, was always edible with a double portion of cabbage salad.

  When the pizzas had been eaten, Göran declared that he intended to lay down for a while. Embla took the opportunity to answer several text messages from Elliot. He was starting to get impatient and thought it was the longest hunt she had ever been on. That wasn’t true; she was always gone for two weeks in connection with the moose hunt, but he could hardly remember that. She wrote back and consoled him by saying that the Water Palace in Lerum was the first place they would go when she returned to Gothenburg.

  Then she tried to call Hampus, but his phone was turned off. Presumably he was at Queen Silvia’s Children’s Hospital with his family. keeping our fingers crossed for greta! hugs to all of you! embla and göran she wrote to him.

  According to the police union contract she had the right to exercise during working hours, and right now she felt it was high time for a workout. It turned out to be an intense twenty-minute conditioning session with jump rope, followed by a serious round with Nisse’s punching bag and speed ball.

  As always after a really hard workout she felt energetic and positive. When she came down to the kitchen after taking a shower, Göran had woken up and was making coffee and boiling water for tea. They took a break and returned to their work assignments.

  Now she could no longer avoid it. She had to write the report about everything that had happened since Cahneborg’s death and von Beehn’s disappearance. The dates in question may span less than a week, but so much drama was involved that it felt like it had been at least a month. There was a transcription of the recording she had made when she reported to Roger Willén in Trollhättan. To save time she called the police station and got ahold of a colleague who immediately promised to send the file with her report. And because she had Trollhättan on the line anyway she asked to speak with the superintendent. After a few minutes the switchboard had found him.

  “Superintendent Roger Willén.”

  “Hi, Embla Nyström here. I was wondering if any new lab results or other information has come in.”

  “Yes, actually a strange thing came in just now. In the location where we found the impression of the ring on the ground, one of the techs saw several long strands of hair hanging on a bush. The strands are evidently extremely long, and according to the techs they come from a wig,” he said.

  It took so long for her to respond that Willén reacted. “Hello? Are you still there?” he shouted.

  “Yes, well . . . I . . . There’s something that I didn’t include in the report that I submitted to you.”

  She took a deep breath before she started telling him about her nocturnal encounter with the Lady in White. When she was done it was Willén’s turn to be silent for a long time.

  “I’ll be damned if that’s not the fishiest thing I’ve heard . . . And that strand of hair you found was definitely fr
om a wig?” he said at last.

  “Yes. But you see I didn’t write anything about it in my report.”

  “Ha ha, drunk young policewoman staggers home in the night and starts seeing ghosts . . . Well, I can understand why you didn’t mention it.”

  “I wasn’t drunk. Of course I told Göran and Hampus about the Lady in White, but we didn’t think it had anything to do with what happened to von Beehn and Cahneborg. But now I’m starting to wonder. We also think we know who the M on the notes may be.” She told him about Göran’s connection between Camilla and the nicknames Milla or Millan.

  “The rhythm of a rainy night . . . Yes, I’ve danced to that song many times. Millas Mirakel. Milla. M. You may have something there. The problem is we don’t know where this Camilla Hansson is—or if she’s even alive,” said Willén.

  Embla considered mentioning the evasive answer she had gotten from Peter when she asked him about his sister, but she stopped herself. “The only one who might know anything is her brother, Peter. I’m going to see him this evening. Because he works during the day, we decided to meet a little later,” she said in as casual a tone as she could muster.

  “Good. But it would surprise me if he knows anything about her. There are no reports that she has shown up, dead or alive, anywhere. Camilla Hansson’s disappearance is now a cold case, but the case was never closed,” said Willén.

  After quickly deliberating with herself, Embla said, “There are actually a number of strange things that happened over the past week or so. They probably don’t have anything to do with Cahneborg’s death and von Beehn’s disappearance, but just in case . . .”

  She told him about the viper in the outhouse and the foot-hold trap the fox was caught in along the path. She also mentioned Frippe’s sudden illness, which the vet determined was poisoning.

  “Yeah, it’s not certain that any of these things are connected, but I agree: it’s strange it all happened during this particular hunt. We’ll have to take all of that into account if anything else along those lines happens,” said the superintendent.