“Sorry to interrupt, but was it snowing when you got there?”
“Yes, it had just started to come down when we arrived. There were lots of cars around because most of the kids had contacted parents or friends and asked to be picked up. A lot of them were crying—and very drunk. No one was prepared to talk to us; they probably didn’t want their parents to find out how much they’d had to drink.”
“But the parents were once teenagers themselves.”
“Exactly.” Olle smiled again, and this time he seemed more present. He was a good-looking guy, with attractive blue-gray eyes. Embla’s thoughts were interrupted as he continued with his account.
“. . . a place called the Lodge. It’s a converted barn, and these days it’s used for parties, auctions, and all kinds of things. A boy was stabbed outside the Lodge at around half past midnight. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. It had arrived at five to one; we got there about fifteen minutes later, by which time the ambulance had already gone. As I said, it was snowing, and the wind was blowing hard.”
“Did the victim say anything?” she asked.
“Not according to those we’ve questioned so far.”
“Who was he?”
“His name is Robin Pettersson. He was eighteen years old and in his final year of high school. According to one of the club leaders, he was the star of the bandy team. Apparently his family moved to Åmål a month ago, and he was due to transfer to another team in Säffle after the party.”
“Any information on the perpetrator?”
“Not a thing. No witnesses have come forward—not yet, anyway.”
Embla thought about what he’d told her, then asked, “How far is it from here to the Lodge?”
“Two kilometers.”
Closer than she’d thought, which meant there’d been plenty of cars on the move from about 12:45 until at least 2:00. Someone might have seen a car or a person they didn’t recognize, or noticed something unusual, something that might be connected to the death of Milo Stavic. The snowstorm was a problem because it would have reduced visibility.
Olle Tillman was looking at her and frowning. “So do you think these two murders are connected?” he asked eventually.
She didn’t answer right away. “I can’t imagine that an eighteen-year-old boy at the high school in Åmål was stabbed by the same perp who shot Stavic. That seems unlikely.”
“But you can’t rule it out?”
Once again, Embla considered her response. “I think I probably can, if we look at the victims. Milo Stavic has been a top-level gangster in Gothenburg for many years. He owns several restaurants, hotels, nightclubs and casinos, which he uses to launder the money he makes from smuggling drugs and arms, human trafficking, prostitution—you name it, he’s into it.”
Olle nodded. “My boss, Chief Inspector Johnzén—with a z—thought this was just some nutjob who’d decided to end it all. But I guess he was wrong,” he said.
“He was. My first thought was suicide, too, but this was definitely a homicide. You can’t shoot yourself in the head and the heart, then settle down with your hands neatly folded on your chest. I’m certain the gun was placed there after he was killed.”
Olle glanced toward the bedroom door; Embla knew he couldn’t see the bed from where he stood.
“What was a guy like that doing here?” he said.
“Good question. I have no idea.”
Embla picked up her phone and called Harald Fäldt, who answered almost immediately.
“Hi, it’s Embla. Sorry I haven’t been in touch until now, but . . . yes, it’s definitely a homicide . . . I’ve contacted my colleagues in Gothenburg, and they’ll be here at any moment to take over the investigation . . . No, it doesn’t have anything to do with the police in Åmål because the victim is from Gothenburg . . . I recognized him. He’s come up in a couple of my department’s investigations.”
Harald asked a few more questions, which Embla did her best to answer without giving too much away.
“You and your colleagues are welcome to come here for lunch when you’re done,” Harald offered.
“That’s very kind of you—I’ll pass it on.”
Olle brightened up when she relayed Harald’s invitation, but one look at his weary face made her wonder if he’d manage to stay awake until lunchtime.
Superintendent Göran Krantz knocked before entering the cottage. As Embla had expected, he stopped just inside the door and quickly scanned the interior. He nodded to the two officers at the kitchen table.
“Good morning! So you’re sitting here shedding DNA.” He smiled at them to take the sting out of his words.
Embla gave Olle Tillman a meaningful glance and whispered loudly, “What did I tell you? We’re in trouble for staying indoors and contaminating the crime scene.”
Göran put on plastic shoe covers before coming over to join them. Olle got to his feet and held out his hand.
“Olle Tillman—I’m a detective inspector from Åmål.”
“Göran Krantz, superintendent with the technical department in Gothenburg. Good to meet you, even if it’s not under the best circumstances.”
“Yes—this is all pretty overwhelming,” Olle replied with a pale attempt at a smile.
“Olle came over because there was another murder last night, only two kilometers from here. He and his colleagues are investigating,” Embla explained.
Any hint of joviality disappeared from Göran’s face.
“Another murder? And was the victim also shot?” he demanded sharply.
“No, an eighteen-year-old high school student was stabbed. The local indoor bandy team was having a party, and something went wrong,” Embla said.
Göran nodded and muttered something.
He pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “My team will be here in about an hour. I’d like to take a look at the scene of the crime, then we can talk.”
“We won’t be able to do much once the CSIs arrive—I suggest we go over to the guesthouse. Harald has offered to provide lunch,” Embla said.
Olle’s phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, glanced at the display, and sighed. “Tillman.”
He wasn’t on speakerphone, but Embla could hear a male voice speaking sharply on the other end of the line.
“Yes, but it’s not a suicide. He was murd—”