The Scent of Almonds: A Novella (3 page)

‘Börje’s right,’ said his wife. ‘A boat would never make it across. The wind is blowing towards the dock, and in a gale of this force, we wouldn’t stand a chance. No, we’re just going to have to wait for the storm to subside.’

‘Then we must ring the coastguard,’ said Martin resolutely.

‘The phone’s not working.’ replied Bernard. His tone of voice clearly signalled that he considered Martin to be an idiot.

‘But we’ve got mobile phones.’ Martin pulled his mobile out of his pocket, but his heart sank when he saw there wasn’t even one bar on the display. No reception.

‘Bloody hell!’ he shouted. It took all the self-control he could muster to keep from hurling his phone against the wall.

‘I told you so,’ remarked Bernard with a barely concealed grin that made Martin want to punch him.

‘Do you mean we’re all stuck here?’ Miranda whined as she clung to Matte’s arm. He didn’t seem to notice her. His eyes were filled with tears as he stared at the dead man slumped over the table.

For the first time it struck Martin that Matte was the only person seated at the table who had not been subjected to the old man’s demeaning questions. He was also the only one who now showed any sign of grief. As if to confirm what Martin was thinking, Matte got up and went over to the old man. He lifted Ruben’s face from the plate and began wiping it with a cloth napkin. Everyone stared at Matte as if hypnotized, but nobody made any attempt to help. When Ruben’s face was clean, Matte gently leaned his body back in the wheelchair and straightened the blanket that covered his lap.

‘Thank you, Matte,’ said Britten, giving her son a warm glance.

‘We need to put him somewhere cold,’ said Martin, trying to avoid looking at Matte. ‘If we’re not going to be able to leave, then we have to preserve … the evidence.’ He was expressing himself clumsily, but for the time being he was the only one who could safeguard the investigation and minimize the damage as much as possible. Someone in this house was a killer, and he had no intention of letting that person get away.

‘We can put him in the cold-storage room,’ said Börje, stepping forward to help.

‘Good,’ replied Martin curtly.

Transporting the victim was made easier thanks to the wheelchair, and Martin was able to push it all the way inside the cold store.

‘Is it possible to lock the door?’ he asked Börje, who nodded and pointed to a padlock hanging on the wall.

‘We don’t want to catch our guests swiping any steaks,’ he explained with a wry smile, which quickly faded when Martin did not respond.

After locking Ruben’s body inside, Martin and Börje returned to the dining room. Everyone was still seated exactly where they had been when Martin left them a few minutes earlier. No one seemed capable of moving.

‘Let’s go into the library,’ said Martin, gesturing towards the room at the other end of the hall. ‘Börje, is there any cognac?’ The hotel owner nodded and went to fetch a bottle. ‘Could you please make a fire in the fireplace …’ He searched his memory for the name of Börje’s wife but realized he’d only heard her referred to as ‘the wife’.

‘Kerstin. My name is Kerstin,’ she told him. ‘And yes, of course. I’d be happy to do that.’

She too disappeared, and Martin turned his gaze to the members of the Liljecrona family. Not one person had so much as moved a muscle.

‘All right. Let’s go. Come with me.’ He led the way, expecting them to follow.

One by one they entered the library and sat down. Kerstin was busy lighting the fire, and by the time everyone had taken a seat Börje came running in with a bottle of cognac. He took cognac glasses from a cabinet and poured a generous amount of the liquor in each one.

‘Is this standard practice for police in the area? Plying the witnesses with drink?’ asked Gustav in a low voice. But he gratefully accepted the glass that Börje offered him, and a moment later he held it out for a refill.

‘I wouldn’t exactly say that,’ replied Martin with a wan smile. ‘But nothing about this situation is standard. We’ll just have to proceed as best we can.’ He wished that Patrik Hedström, his closest colleague at the Tanumshede police station, were present. Martin hadn’t worked with Patrik for very long, but he admired him tremendously. He would have felt more confident if Patrik were here. His colleague would have undoubtedly known what to do. But as things stood, Martin would have to handle the situation on his own. And he had no intention of disappointing Patrik. He told himself it was simply a matter of relying on common sense and taking one thing at a time.

‘Since we can’t get to the police station, I’ll have to take your statements here. I want to speak to each of you individually, and I assume that you’re all willing to cooperate so that we can get to the bottom of what just happened.’ He looked at each family member in turn; no one seemed inclined to offer any objections.

‘Then I suggest you and I begin.’ Martin nodded at Harald.

Her hand shook as she held the glass of cognac. With a worried expression she fixed her eyes on her husband’s broad back as he left the library. She was nervous about his health. Nervous about how he’d handle the pressure. Harald looked so strong, so solid, but Britten knew that it was all a facade. Long years of marriage had taught her that her big, boisterous husband was still just a frightened little boy. And she blamed Ruben for that. He’d been too harsh, demanded too much, expected his sons to be made of the same stuff as he was. Neither of them was. Gustav at least looked weak, and so he tended to get off comparatively lightly. Harald, on the other hand, had always given the impression of strength and power by virtue of his size, and no one had ever realized how weak he was inside. Well, maybe Ruben had done, deep in his heart. But he had chosen to close his eyes to the truth, and for that Britten had hated him.

The job he’d given to Harald was doomed to failure from the very start. And the thought of allowing Gustav and Harald to work together … It was such an absurd idea that she wondered whether Ruben was in his right mind when he proposed the plan. Naturally his sons had taken the bait. They were so eager for approval that their tongues were practically hanging out of their mouths, drooling with the desire to show their father that they were worthy of his trust. All past failures would be wiped away in one fell swoop. This was their chance; finally, after all these years, they would win their father’s respect. Maybe even his love. That was what the two brothers had dared to hope for. Instead, the arrangement had turned out to be a complete disaster. Britten had watched Harald come home from the office, his face turning greyer and greyer each day. Looking more and more defeated. The heart attack he’d suffered a year ago had come as no surprise. Thankfully, Harald had survived. At that point his father should have realized that the job was too much for his son. But he hadn’t. Ruben had sent a bouquet of flowers to Harald’s sickbed and the very next day asked him when he’d be ready to return to work.

‘What do you think he’s going to say?’ Gustav whispered to Britten. ‘Do you think he’ll—’

‘I don’t know, Gustav,’ she replied tersely. There was something about her brother-in-law’s constant whining and timid manner that made her tense up in irritation.

‘I really hope that he doesn’t …’ That plaintive voice again, this time a bit shriller. ‘I really hope that he—’

‘Stop it!’ Britten’s tone, more than her words, made him halt mid-sentence. ‘It doesn’t matter what Harald says or doesn’t say. A line has been crossed, and now it’s as well that everything come out.’

‘But …’ Gustav ventured, his eyes flitting about nervously.

Britten, however, had had enough. She turned her back on him and gazed out of the window at the snowstorm. There was nothing more to discuss.

‘I understand that you’re the older son.’

‘Yes.’ Harald Liljecrona stared straight ahead, his face expressionless. They’d been given permission to borrow the office belonging to Börje and Kerstin, and the two men were now seated on either side of the cluttered desk. Kerstin had helped Martin find an unused notepad and a pen, so he was ready to jot down whatever information he was able to obtain. He would have preferred to use a tape recorder, as they did at the police station, but he would just have to make do with what was available.

‘Yes, I’m the older son,’ Harald repeated, turning to look at Martin.

‘And you are employed by the family business, is that correct?’

Harald laughed. His laugh sounded a bit comical and much too high-pitched for a man of such impressive girth. ‘Right. If you can call a world-wide enterprise dealing in billions of kronor a “family business”.’

‘And what exactly is your role?’ Martin was looking at him intently.

‘I’m the CEO. Gustav is the financial director.’

‘Do the two of you work well together?’

Again that peculiar laugh. ‘It may not have been one of Father’s best ideas to give us overlapping areas of responsibility. My brother and I have never got on well and there’s no use pretending otherwise. I dare say you’ll hear about it from the rest of the family, especially Vivi. Her tongue was made for spreading gossip …’ He paused for a moment and then continued. ‘Maybe Father was hoping that Gustav and I would grow closer if we were forced to work together on a daily basis. Instead, it made the situation worse.’

‘Was there something in particular Ruben was referring to at dinner when he asked you how the company was going?’

This time Harald didn’t laugh.

‘I have no idea what he was talking about. It’s true that Gustav and I seldom agree about anything, and at the office we occasionally throw a few plates at one another – metaphorically speaking, of course. But I don’t understand what Father could have heard that would prompt him to make such a comment.’

‘You have no idea?’

‘No,’ said Harald in a low voice, clearly indicating that he had no intention of supplying any more information pertaining to that line of enquiry. Not even if there were other things he could have mentioned.

‘Do you have any theories as to who might have wanted to kill your father?’ asked Martin, waiting tensely for the answer as his pen hovered over the notepad.

‘Well, you heard for yourself what went on at the dinner table. Which one of those vultures wouldn’t want to kill him?’ The words spilled out spontaneously, but then Harald seemed to regret what he’d said.

‘It’s not really that bad. I mean, we’ve had our family quarrels and arguments – I won’t deny that. But for someone to make the leap to actually murder him? No, I have no idea.’

Martin asked a few more questions before ending the interview when he realized that he wasn’t going to get any further.

Miranda was the next person to take a seat opposite Martin. He had no particular system regarding the order in which he talked to the family members, his primary concern was simply to interview all of them.

She looked small and fragile as she sat across from him. She had pulled her dark hair back into a tight ponytail, which further enhanced her beautiful face.

‘It’s so awful,’ she said, her lower lip quivering. Martin had to restrain an urge to put his arms around her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. He was annoyed with himself. That sort of reaction was totally unprofessional.

‘Yes, it certainly is,’ he said instead as he lightly tapped his pen on the notepad. ‘What can you tell me about who might be a suspect in your grandfather’s death?’

‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing,’ sobbed Miranda. ‘I don’t understand how this could have happened! How could anyone do something so horrible?’

With some embarrassment Martin handed her a tissue from the box on top of the desk. Weeping women always made him uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.

‘From what I gathered at dinner, your grandfather was not especially pleased with the way all of you have handled your finances.’ He could hear how stilted his words sounded.

‘Grandpa has always been so generous towards his children and grandchildren,’ she said, still crying. ‘He loaned me the funds I needed to start my design company, and if only I’d had a little more time … and maybe a little more money, I know I could have made it a success. But I’ve had such terrible bad luck along the way, and the customers have never really discovered my work, and …’ Her words gave way to sobbing.

‘So your grandfather loaned you some money. And now it’s all gone, and you were thinking of asking him for more? Is that correct?’

Miranda nodded. ‘Yes. I only needed a million. That would have given me the necessary time to make a go of things. The fashion industry is tough, and you have to take big risks if you want to succeed.’ She tossed her head, and her lip stopped quivering.

‘So you were planning to ask your grandfather for a million kronor?’

‘Yes.’ Again that stubborn toss of the head. ‘That’s pocket change for him. Do you have any idea how much the old man had in the bank?’ She rolled her eyes but then realized what she’d just said. Again her lip started quivering.

‘But you hadn’t yet asked him for the loan?’ Martin now felt considerably less sympathy for the woman as he watched the crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘No, no,’ she assured him, leaning forward. ‘I was planning to ask him during the weekend.’

‘What about the other family members?’

‘What do you mean? What about them?’

‘Ruben seemed to have strong opinions about them as well. Do you think any of them might have had a more violent response than—’

Miranda cut him off. Her eyes were flashing with anger.

‘Do you seriously imagine I would sit here and accuse a member of my own family of murder? Is that what you think? Is it?’

‘I merely asked whether anyone might have had a more violent response than the rest of the family.’

‘But isn’t that the same thing as asking me who I think killed Grandpa?’ replied Miranda coldly.

Martin had to admit to himself that she was right. He suddenly felt extremely tired. For weeks he’d been dreading coming out here with Lisette, and he could now say that everything had turned out a hundred times worse than he could possibly have imagined. He glanced at his watch. It was gone eleven p.m.