Why had Jan Müller specifically asked for the cottage that was the farthest away? He must have known the area—had he been there before? Was he an ornithologist? However, neither the time of year nor Monika’s description of his clothing suggested this was the case—a smart suit and a gold watch. Then there was the SUV—a brand-new Audi. Expensive and exclusive.
As Embla drew closer to the cottage, she saw a huge pile of snow covering the car. She parked her Kia behind the pile, where Harald’s tire tracks stopped. After turning off the engine she stayed put for a little while, observing her surroundings. The virgin snow in front of the cottage was marked only by a set of footprints leading to the steps, and another slightly different set leading away; clearly Harald had run back to his car.
The blizzard had abated, but there was no sign of the wind dropping. According to the forecast, more snow was expected during the day. Embla took out her phone and checked the weather for the previous night. The snow had begun to fall at around 1:00 a.m. and stopped at about 5:30. It seemed likely that whatever had gone on in the cottage had happened shortly before or early on within that period. Snow and wind can obliterate any traces very quickly. However, as a matter of routine she would check for any possible evidence before she went inside; she was first on the scene, apart from Harald. She put on a pair of latex gloves, slipped on her thick mittens, and got out of the car.
The full force of the wind hit her immediately, making her bend forward. The sharp snowflakes struck her face like tiny needles. She consoled herself with the thought that Elliot and Nisse wouldn’t want to be out in the cold for too long. They’d go home for hot chocolate and Uncle Nisse’s delicious cinnamon buns. That would be enough for Elliot; at least he’d participated in his very first hunting trip.
She set off toward the cottage, stepping in Harald’s tracks. She stopped several times, pulling off her mittens and photographing the ground with the camera on her phone. She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but it was important to document Harald’s tracks.
Harald was right—he hadn’t locked the door behind him. Cautiously she pushed it open. The first thing she noticed was a distinct male fragrance. A bit too strong, in fact. She closed the door behind her, then flicked the switch on the doorframe, and two lights came on—one above the kitchen area and one in the center of the small room. She pushed back her fur-lined hood—the fur came from a fox she’d shot herself—and quickly scanned the interior of the cottage. A wall to her left, with a coatrack and a small closet. There was a dark-blue overcoat hanging on the rack and a neatly folded checked wool scarf on the shelf above, along with a pair of black leather gloves. A pair of black shoes was on the floor—definitely not suitable for the current weather conditions. The walls were covered in white-painted tongue-and-groove paneling, and the floor was pale varnished wood. The kitchenette was modern; there were no dishes in the draining board, and Embla made a mental note to check the dishwasher. By the window was a table and four chairs, and the space was brightened by green-and-white rag rugs. The living room was furnished with a sofa and two armchairs facing a TV on the wall, with an impressive soapstone stove next to the sofa. The plaited-iron basket was filled with logs; it didn’t look like the man had lit a fire.
As Embla was on vacation, she didn’t have her crime-scene kit in the car, but she had brought a couple of plastic bags from Nisse’s. She slipped them over her shoes before moving into the living room. One of the two doors was ajar, and through the gap she could see reflections in the glass of a medicine cabinet. The other door, leading to the bedroom, was wide open.
She decided to check out the bathroom first. She switched on the light, revealing a fully tiled room with a toilet, washbasin, and shower. The smell of male fragrance was strong, almost nauseating. She noticed a black toilet bag on a hook, a thick white bath towel, and a hand towel. Everything seemed fresh and new.
She closed the door and headed for the bedroom. She reached inside, switched on the light, and remained in the doorway, taking in the scene before her.
The raw smell of blood mingled with cologne and alcohol was striking. A double bed dominated the room and had a nightstand on each side. On the one nearest the door stood an empty vodka bottle and a glass. There was a double wardrobe along one wall. On a neat bench below the window lay a closed black carry-on suitcase—an ultra-light, ultra-expensive Samsonite. She turned her attention to the man in the bed.
She understood why Harald had been shocked; it was a horrific sight.
He was lying on his back, his large hands folded on top of the duvet, which created an oddly peaceful impression. He was wearing a gold signet ring with a polished green stone on the pinky of his right hand. She could see a pistol beneath his hands. To her surprise, he appeared to be wearing dark-blue silk pajamas. Who wears silk pajamas in a cottage in the country in the middle of winter? The man in the bed, obviously . . .
The hole between his eyebrows was pretty big. Large caliber. The pillow was sodden with blood, indicating a significant exit wound. Presumably the back of his head had been blown off. Embla stood on tiptoe to get a better look, which wasn’t easy in her heavy boots. Then she saw a bloodstain on the duvet in the vicinity of his heart. Two shots, then. His face had taken on a grayish tone, which suggested that he’d been dead for quite some time.
Given the two bullet wounds from a large-caliber gun, this definitely wasn’t suicide. You can’t fold your hands neatly after you’ve shot yourself in the head and the heart.
The victim was powerfully built, but not overweight. Even though Embla was three meters from the bed, she thought there was something familiar about his features: the bushy eyebrows, the dominant chin, the thinning hair peppered with gray.
She got the shock of her life when she realized who he was.
Milo Stavic, the man in the recurring nightmares that had plagued her for almost fifteen years. The man who, together with his two brothers, had abducted Lollo. The man who had threatened to kill Embla if she told anyone what had happened that night.
Instinctively she took a step back.
“No! That’s . . . crazy!” she said out loud.
Her voice was shaking and she took a deep breath, her heart racing.
“Crazy?”
The male voice behind her was deep, and she didn’t recognize it.
Embla’s reflexes kicked in. It was part of her DNA now. She spun around, half-crouching, fists clenched and raised in the defensive position, and stepped into the other room.
The man was tall, his cap almost touching the ceiling. A police uniform cap, she noted. Beneath his bulky jacket she could see a dark-blue sweater, and he was wearing uniform pants. He was about the same age as her, and he was standing in the middle of the room, his right hand resting on his holster.
She should have been relieved, but instead her fear turned to anger as she straightened up and glared at him.