Black Ice Read online

  It had been four days since Erik’s disappearance—four days of inconsolable waiting for Sandra. Kerstin knew what that was like and regretted the fact that she had disturbed Sandra with her phone call on Sunday. She had been able to tell from her voice that something was up. The money no longer seemed important now that a life was at stake. Kerstin knew that better than anyone. Six million was a small price for a human life. Whether it was Karl-Erik’s, Peter Norling’s, or Erik’s.

  Kerstin decided that she would rejoin the search party if it was still going the next day. It felt right to show her support to his loved ones—to show that there were still people who hadn’t given up hope. But the boy was three and a half . . . Even if it were possible to find him then he was probably dead.

  It probably wouldn’t be possible to find him. Peter Norling had been so well hidden that it had taken four years for him to turn up. A little child was even easier to hide.

  She needed to push away the thoughts around this. They had gone to the trouble of coming all the way out here, and they weren’t going to leave without having done their best. And Kerstin had a positive feeling in her gut. Not in terms of Erik, but in relation to the cash. If Norling hadn’t got rid of the money the bags would be here. She just knew it.

  As they were done with the house, they needed to tackle the outbuildings, despite the dreadful weather. They peered inside the larger of the two to start with. It turned out to be a slaughterhouse, with a water supply, hooks on the ceiling, a large stainless steel counter, and an impressive slicing machine. Kerstin left Jeanette in the slaughterhouse and went to the smaller of the two buildings, which seemed somewhat less comfortable to search. It was effectively a shed with an odour that Kerstin classified as fairly typical for a poorly maintained outbuilding. No one had been there in years.

  Kerstin jerked open one of the two doors, behind which a wood store was concealed. The wood was stacked from floor to ceiling, and it was most certainly not a dream job to unload the logs to see whether anything had been hidden underneath them or behind them. However, it had to be done. First she wanted to see where the other door led.

  She could have guessed: an outdoor privy. Which reminded her that rather than crouching in the pouring rain, she could use the loo. There was toilet paper too, so she would be sitting pretty, even if the smell in these kinds of places wasn’t especially appealing.

  That was what she thought to herself, but before she’d had time to pull down her trousers, it occurred to her what an ingenious hiding place an outhouse like this would be. Who on earth wanted to dig through human poo?

  Only someone who knew what she was looking for, which Kerstin did. She promptly shelved her plans to relieve herself and instead went out into the rain to find a shovel. A broom. Anything that ensured she wouldn’t have to go overboard in her enthusiasm to dig through excrement.

  A floor scraper was what she eventually found, in the slaughterhouse with Jeanette. Plus a pair of gloves that would come in handy. She started by lifting away the bench containing the toilet seat, so that she had a better view of the two latrine tanks. She shone her mobile phone torch into both of them, but all she was able to conclude was that neither had been emptied in a long time. And that any holdalls there might be were not immediately obvious to the eye, which was hardly unexpected.

  All she had to do was start digging. Or more precisely, rooting around in the tanks. Pressing the shaft of the scraper down into the shit. And there . . . Wasn’t that something offering some resistance at the bottom, something of the wrong consistency that was elevated above the bottom of the tank? Despite the less than agreeable circumstances, she couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face.

  But what was she supposed to do now? Lift up the entire tank and drag it into the woods to empty it? Or try to reach one of the handles of the bag—if that was what it was—and try to prise it out of there somehow?

  She decided to go for the latter. Partly because it felt less hands-on and less disgusting in some way if she didn’t have to grasp the tank, partly because it felt more respectful to the plot and its owner if she didn’t empty a lot of shit onto the land.

  However, it turned out to be more difficult than expected. The scraper itself was fairly weak, and threatened to break if she wasn’t careful. What was more, all sorts of things splashed up out of the tank, making her realise that she had a solid task ahead of her. And it still ended with her having to stick her gloved hands into the excrement, before searching for a handhold and pulling the bag out by hand.

  It was definitely a bag. Carefully wrapped in a black bin liner. Whether it was the right bag was something she would find out when she was outside and could get rid of the gloves. She opened the door with her foot and threw the package out into the rain.

  Since it seemed unnecessary to make a mess twice, she thought she might just as well do the same thing with the next tank. Shortly thereafter, she heaved out another black bin liner with something inside it that definitely felt like a holdall, which she also threw outside.

  She reached for the floor scraper, threw it outside as well and shouted for Jeanette.

  “Jen!” she cried out. “Come here, I think I’ve found the cash!”

  Then she turned around and went back inside, sinking to her knees while she attempted to get the bench back into position. Even though she was filled with anticipation about the contents of the two black packages, she took her time restoring order while she was still wearing the gloves. The bench was awkward—it had been easier to get it off than it was to put it back—but eventually she managed to fit it in between the walls and apply pressure so that it levelled out.

  Odd, she thought to herself as she stood up. Why hadn’t Jeanette answered? Why hadn’t she come running? Kerstin shoved the door with her shoulder, ready to tackle the bags and then finally throw the gloves onto the grass.

  60

  Jeanette

  JEANETTE HAD GOT her hands really dirty, and felt the need to get the worst of it off, so that she didn’t leave conspicuous handprints on everything she touched. Unfortunately, she discovered that the water supply in the slaughterhouse was off, and decided to go outside to get clean. There was hardly a water shortage in the great outdoors.

  She had been planning to rub herself clean in the wet grass outside the door but then she caught sight of a rainwater barrel by the wall of the hunting cabin, so she ran over to it at a crouch. Just as she put her hands in the water, she heard Nanna shout from over by the loo.

  “Jen!” she cried. “Come here, I think I’ve found the cash!”

  Was it that simple? Jeanette thought to herself. Some half-baked ideas about where the money might be, a couple of days’ searching, and they were safely into port. And with what, exactly? What was going to happen to the money? And to Jeanette?

  But it had been pretty good fun while it lasted, she told herself as she dried her hands on her trousers. The search. Now it was over and everything would go back to the same old misery.

  She didn’t get any further than that in her thoughts before she stopped mid-movement. She had taken one step towards the privy before spotting the headlights over by the drive up to the cabin. Then she heard the rumbling of the car engine through the din of the rain.

  It was impossible. A car in the middle of the woods in this weather. At a hunting cabin no one had set foot in for ages. And just when they were engaged in what could only be described as a burglary, even if the intended loot wouldn’t be missed by anyone.

  Jeanette had no intention of being discovered, so she took a step back and curled up behind the rainwater barrel. Things looked less good for Nanna, who had just cried out in joy over all the money she had found. It had to be assumed she didn’t want to go to prison either.

  But there was still the hope that the driver of the car hadn’t heard Nanna’s joyous outburst through the noise of the rain on their windscreen and the engine—and maybe the air vents on full blast too. What seemed more troubling was
that Nanna would wonder why Jeanette wasn’t answering, why she hadn’t come to her, and that she might come marching straight out of the privy with the two bags in her hands.

  Which was tantamount to stepping straight into the spotlight cast by the car while holding six million kronor that could hardly be considered hers.

  61

  Kerstin

  SHE MANAGED TO close the door just as quickly as she had opened it. With her disgusting gloves on, but still.

  There was a car coming up the drive to the hunting cabin.

  Given the speed with which she vanished back into the outbuilding, Kerstin didn’t manage to see the driver’s face behind the rain-spattered windscreen with its frenetic wipers working away. She hadn’t had time to think; all she had known was that this encounter was not allowed to happen.

  Was that why Jeanette hadn’t replied when she had shouted for her? Because she had seen or heard the car? Kerstin hoped that was the case and that she had managed to take cover without being seen. Anything else would be a disaster. Jeanette would be unable to deal with a meeting with a stranger in these circumstances. She was barely capable of taking care of herself, let alone acting instinctively and intelligently in a rapidly unfolding situation like this one. She would break down and give the wrong answer to all the questions.

  If there were even any questions to be asked.

  Because who had any business being right here, right now, having come down those small, winding, remote tracks in the pouring rain? Certainly not Peter Norling’s widow. She hadn’t taken the trouble in over four years, so it was hardly likely she would choose today of all days to have a clear out and get the place sorted.

  No, it was to do with the money—it had to be. And here was Kerstin hidden away in the outdoor privy at Peter Norling’s hunting cabin, with shit up to her elbows and two big bags neatly packaged in black plastic lying on the grass outside.

  Would she have time to get away? Not with the money, that was for sure—but would she have time to run into the woods without it? She carefully nudged the door open a crack once again. No, it wouldn’t work. The driver was opening the car door. They stepped into the rain. Directed their steps straight towards Kerstin. Straight towards the two filthy pieces of luggage she had heaved out of their hiding places.

  It was a matter of seconds before the door would be thrown open and it would all be over. Several people had already died for the sake of this cursed money—Kerstin would be no exception.

  She pulled her mobile out of her trouser pocket and did the only thing she could do.

  62

  Jan

  JAN GOT OUT into the rain and looked around anxiously. Clearly no sane person would be out in this weather. But the realisation that he was now the man on everyone’s lips had driven him to look over his shoulder, even if most of his fellow human beings hadn’t realised it yet. It was only a matter of time. How had things gone this far?

  It was a very painful discovery. Especially the thought of what was to come when his friends, neighbours, and colleagues found out about the disaster that he had caused for everyone involved. Not least his own children, who would definitely pull away from him. He had brought shame and disgrace to his family. The children didn’t know that yet, but they would suffer too. Who wanted a father who had gone from being a successful environmental expert to a criminal in the space of an afternoon?

  And who wanted a husband like that? Gunilla had already dealt with her own shared misery but had fortunately still not given up all hope in him. They had far too much in common, too many memories that would always be theirs, no matter how this turned out. That was why she was sticking it out—he had known that for a long time.

  His shoes squelched and he could feel the water penetrating through the stitching, but he didn’t care. Instead, he remembered how Gunilla had looked at him on that terrible January afternoon in 2014 when he had come home unhappy and anxious. She knew him and could tell how he was feeling. The days had passed and she had become happier, keeping pace with him becoming happier. Until that newspaper article had been published about the man who had died in the awful single-vehicle accident. Jan hadn’t quite been able to conceal his reaction when he had read it, and Gunilla had probably guessed what was going on in his head. But had she held him accountable? No. She had most likely asked herself what he had been doing in such a remote place at such an odd time. A woman, obviously. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But there were no questions, no accusations. She respected and loved him for the man he was, despite his faults and shortcomings.

  A few days later, she was just a few metres away from him in the kitchen when he had opened that letter. He had thought it looked like an invitation to a party, but quickly discovered that the contents were far from what he had expected. He had begun to sweat and sank onto a chair. It hadn’t passed her by, but she had returned to her household chores without comment. Jan had weighed up the situation and then withdrawn to the study where he had examined the photographs with a magnifying glass. This had led to an underdeveloped idea about who had witnessed the accident and was now blackmailing him for money. When dinner was ready, Gunilla had appeared in the study. She had obviously been aware that he wasn’t himself and had asked about the letter. Caught off guard, he had been unable to do anything but seek help in her eyes. That was what you did if you loved someone that much—you looked to each other for support and you got it.

  A normal man in a normal relationship would have denied all knowledge of those pictures from the scene of the accident until he was blue in the face. He would have claimed they were faked or taken out of context. But not Jan. He had been candid with his wife.

  That girl he had given a lift home from XL-Bygg, he had said. He had even helped her carry all her things inside, even though it was late and he really needed to get back to work. She had tried to pay for his petrol, which was adorable in a childish sort of way—as if he needed financial compensation for going a little out of his way into the countryside to help a fellow human being. So, naturally, he had declined. Instead, she had suggested a cup of coffee and a snifter of something stronger.

  A snifter was perhaps not what he had been expecting—young people these days were so proper and health conscious. They went to the gym and did yoga and cycled to work and did bootcamps and played padel tennis, or whatever the hell it was called. But she had got out the whisky bottle, which was in itself scarcely a surprise given that she was quite clearly boycotting the health craze. She had insisted on topping him up once and then twice—granted, just a few drops each time, but still—and he had accepted out of pure courtesy. When all was said and done it didn’t matter anyway, given that the modest intake from lunch was long gone from his system.

  Completely unexpectedly, she had launched a passionate charm offensive, suggesting that she ought to thank him properly for the lift. It wasn’t exactly how he had pictured this side excursion panning out, but given his fondness for the flesh, he had fallen into the trap.

  Then she had suddenly changed strategy and played hard to get. She had said no, all the while smiling and flirting in that tender voice. It had quickly transpired that what she was really after was a firmer touch, to full-on indulge in that Stone Age instinct some girls had—the inclination to be dragged back into the cave by their hair to succumb to a wild beast of a man. One thing had led to another, and there was no doubt that she had liked it. Without a shadow of a doubt, this woman had a powerful sex drive—nymphomaniac was not too strong a word to use in this context.

  And then when he had left to go back to work, the road had been as slippery as an ice rink. He had driven carefully, just as he usually did—even more carefully than usual in fact, precisely because he knew there might be people out on the roads who were less practised drivers using worse tires. This had turned out to be true sooner rather than later. A minute or so after that he had encountered a madman driving straight towards him, who—in an insane attempt to avoid a head-on collision—had pu
t his foot on the brakes, skidding on his worn-out tires. You hardly needed a Nobel Prize to predict that. And he had plunged straight over the edge into the ravine.

  “I saw the wreck and knew the driver was dead,” Jan had said, by way of excuse. “Was I meant to climb down into the ravine to check something I already knew?”

  “It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Gunilla had agreed.

  “I should have called emergency services. Anonymously, if nothing else.”

  “Of course you should have, but he would have died anyway.”

  “He wouldn’t have spent hours there suffering before he did,” Jan had noted unhappily.

  “I doubt he suffered, sweetheart. He probably lost consciousness on impact.”

  Jan had been distraught, but Gunilla had stroked his back and relieved him of his burden of guilt. She appreciated his honesty, and was big enough to accept that people—even Jan—were rarely infallible.

  And it had all settled down, Jan noted as he lumbered forward in the rain. The agitation had levelled out, thanks to the rock in his life that was Gunilla. Since that occasion she had never mentioned one word about the trying experience that he—both of them really—had been through. No stray words, no insidious looks, no bitter reproach, and no self-pity. She had taken him for the person that he was, forgiven him and moved on.

  For four long years. Until this spring when that girl—Sandra—had turned up out of nowhere and stirred up old emotions. Called Jan a “rapist” and claimed that he was the father of her child. A child he would never get to meet—whom he truly had no desire to meet—but that she still wanted him to pay child support for. She had threatened to involve the authorities and the police, which he regarded as a veiled threat to file a report about the rape. For what it was worth, he strongly doubted she would be able to get over the finishing line with that, given the time that had passed, but he really did not want to draw the police’s attention to where he had been at the time of that confounded car accident.