The Scent of Almonds: A Novella
The Scent of Almonds: A Novella
Camilla Lackberg
Closely linked to the Fjällbacka-series, THE SCENT OF ALMONDS is a charming novella in the style of Agatha Christie from No.1 international bestseller and Swedish crime sensation Camilla Lackberg. Perfect for fans of Stieg Larsson and Jo Nesbo.THE SCENT OF ALMONDS – It’s less than a week until Christmas and policeman Martin Mohlin is begrudgingly accompanying his girlfriend to a family reunion on the tiny island of Valön outside of Fjällbacka. The connection to the mainland is cut off by a snowstorm and when the domineering patriarch Ruben collapses during Christmas dinner, Martin is forced to intervene. He soon establishes that Ruben was murdered and since they are completely isolated on the island, one of the family members must be murderer…
CAMILLA LACKBERG
The Scent of Almonds
Translated from the Swedish by Tiina Nunnally
Copyright (#ulink_9122d1eb-cf9d-599f-9c27-a7fa3668704c)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Copyright © Camilla Lackberg 2007
Published by agreement with Nordin Agency, Sweden
Translation copyright © Tiina Nunnally 2014
Cover design layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
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Camilla Lackberg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007479061
Version: 2017-05-19
Table of Contents
Cover (#u35e36c0a-8fa7-503e-ba91-65720f5abc88)
Title Page (#ufa07880e-38d3-59d7-bce6-1d17d8af85fa)
Copyright (#ud5c698ca-7179-55dd-ad3a-a0f1a2dae1aa)
The Scent of Almonds (#u7fc20c62-d03e-5a02-821b-709d5fe4e277)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Camilla Lackberg (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
The Scent of Almonds (#ulink_9603a62e-6a94-5f18-b95a-56ab383b9b01)
Snow drifted through the air. Christmas was only a week away, and December had already racked up a record amount of snow and freezing cold temperatures. The ice had set in several weeks ago, but over the past few days a thaw had turned it brittle and unreliable.
Martin Molin was standing in the bow of the boat as it ploughed its way forward, following in the path forged by the coastguard cutter out to Valö. He wondered what he was doing here, and whether he’d made the right decision. But Lisette had been so insistent. To be honest, she had begged him to come. Family gatherings were not her strong suit, she’d said, and it would be much easier to bear if he were there to keep her company. The problem was that meeting her relatives implied a certain seriousness about their relationship that he, at least, didn’t feel.
But what was done was done. And what was said was said. Now here he was, on his way out to the old summer camp on Valö to spend two days with her family.
He looked back over his shoulder. Fjällbacka was undeniably beautiful, especially in the winter with the small wooden buildings nestled amid all that whiteness. And the way in which the little community was embraced by the grey mountain gave it a unique and aesthetically appealing air of drama. Maybe I should move here from Tanumshede, Martin thought briefly, but then laughed at himself. That would only happen if he won the lottery.
‘Toss me the painter, would you?’ shouted the man on the dock, startling Martin out of his reveries. He leaned down to pick up the line lying at his feet. When the boat got close enough, he threw it over the rail. The man easily caught the line and tied it to the bollard.
‘You’re the last one to arrive. The other guests are already here.’
Martin cautiously stepped down onto the slippery dock to shake hands with the man.
‘There were a few things I had to finish at the station before I could leave.’
‘Right. I heard that we were going to have a police presence out here this weekend. Makes me feel very safe.’
The man laughed and then introduced himself as Börje, the owner of the hotel.
‘My wife and I run the place. So I’m the carpenter, cook, butler and general handyman. All in one.’ Another loud, resounding laugh.
Martin picked up his bag and followed Börje towards the lights that could be glimpsed through the trees. ‘From what I’ve heard, you’ve done wonders with the old camp,’ he said.
‘We’ve put in a lot of work,’ said Börje proudly. ‘And money – I have to admit that. But now it’s doing well. The wife and I have been very pleased. We were actually fully booked all summer and well into the autumn. And we’ve been surprised to see that the Christmas special we’re offering has proved to be so popular.’
‘People like to get away from all the Christmas hubbub,’ said Martin, trying not to pant too much as they trudged up the hill towards the hotel. It was embarrassing; he ought to be in better shape, considering his age and his profession.
He took his eyes off the path and looked up, momentarily stunned. They really had done wonders with the old building. Like most people who had grown up in the area, Martin had come out to Valö on school field trips or to attend summer camp. He remembered a beautiful but somewhat run-down green building situated in the middle of an expansive lawn. Now the green paint had been replaced with white, and the structure gleamed like a jewel. From the windows streamed a warm light that made the white facade glow. Torches burned in front of the entrance, and through the windows on the ground floor he could see a huge Christmas tree. The whole place was incredibly beautiful, and he paused for a moment to take it all in.
‘Quite spectacular, don’t you think?’ Börje had also stopped.
‘Incredible,’ said Martin, and he meant it.
They went in through the main entrance and stomped their feet to shake off the snow.
‘The last guest has arrived!’ called Börje, his voice echoing down the hall. Martin heard quick footsteps as someone approached.
‘Martin! You’re here! It’s so good to see you!’ Lisette threw her arms around his neck, and again he had the feeling that he really shouldn’t have come. She was nice, and he found her attractive. Yet he was starting to think that she viewed their relationship as a bigger deal than he did. But it was too late for regrets. What mattered now was making it through the weekend.
‘Come with me!’ Lisette took his hand and more or less dragged him into the big room on the left. In Martin’s memories from his childhood, this had once been a dorm room crowded with bunk beds. Now it had been meticulously transformed into a living-room-cum-library. In the middle towered the giant Christmas tree, decorated according to the latest artistic trends.
‘Here he is!’ exclaimed Lisette triumphantly. Her relatives all turned to stare at Martin. He resisted an urge to tug at his shirt collar and instead gave a rather comical wave. When Lisette poked him in the side, he realized that something more was apparently expected of him, so he began methodically making his way around the room, moving from left to right. Lisette accompanied him so that she could introduce each person as they shook hands.
‘This is my father, Harald.’ A large man with bushy hair and an equally bushy moustache stood up to shake Martin’s hand with great energy.
‘And this is my mother, Britten.’
‘My name is actually Britt-Marie, but nobody has called me anything but Britten ever since I was five years old.’ Lisette’s mother also stood up to greet him, and Martin was struck by how alike the mother and daughter were. The same trim figure, the same nut-brown eyes and dark hair, even though Britten’s had quite a few streaks of grey.
‘How wonderful to meet you at last,’ said Lisette’s mother as she sat down.
Martin murmured something similar in reply, hoping the white lie wasn’t too obvious.
‘And here is Uncle Gustav,’ said Lisette. It was clear from her expression that this shorter and skinnier version of her father was not among her favourite relatives.
‘My pleasure, my pleasure,’ said Gustav Liljecrona politely, even offering a slight bow. Martin wondered if he was expected to bow in return, but decided that a brief nod would suffice. Gustav’s wife, who was the next person in line, also failed to evoke any genuine regard from Lisette, judging by her tone of voice.
‘My aunt Vivi.’
Martin grasped a dry, shrivelled hand. A hand that was in sharp contrast to the woman’s face, which was so devoid of wrinkles that her skin seemed to be stretched as taut as the head of a drum. He was convinced that he’d see the traces of multiple surgical procedures if he tried to look behind her ears, but he managed to resist the impulse.
Clearly there was more familial affection between Lisette and the man sitting next to Aunt Vivi, since she announced ‘my cousin Bernard’ with both warmth and joy. Yet Martin felt an instinctive dislike for the elegantly dressed man in his thirties. His hair was slicked back in the style that for some inexplicable reason was so popular among members of the financial sector.
‘So, this is Lisette’s policeman,’ he smirked, sounding like a real Stockholmer. Even though the statement was both correct and highly innocuous, Martin sensed that something else was lurking under the man’s nonchalant tone. Something derogatory, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
‘That’s right,’ he replied, shifting his gaze to the young woman next to Cousin Bernard.
‘Bernard’s sister, Miranda,’ Lisette told Martin, who couldn’t help feeling startled as he took her outstretched hand. Cousin Miranda was breathtakingly beautiful. About twenty-five or so, with the same pitch-black hair as her brother, although her tresses were longer, and with dazzling blue eyes that she now fixed on Martin. For a moment he lost all focus. A slight cough from Lisette made him realize that he may have held on to her cousin’s hand too long, and he let go as if he’d burned himself.
‘My brother, Mattias. Although everyone calls him Matte,’ said Lisette with ice in her voice. Martin hurried to shift his attention to Lisette’s older brother. He had an open and pleasant face, and he shook Martin’s hand with enthusiasm.
‘I’ve heard so much about you. Lisette has hardly talked about anybody else since summer. It’s very, very nice to meet you finally.’
A dramatic pause followed, and then Lisette said:
‘Last but not least – Grandpa Ruben.’
Martin found himself standing in front of an elderly man seated in a wheelchair. Ruben had passed on his facial features to both sons, but over time he had shrunk to the size of a child. A checked blanket covered his lap and legs as he sat in his wheelchair. Yet his handshake was surprisingly strong, his eyes alert.
‘So … this is your young man,’ he said with an amused expression. Martin felt like a schoolboy standing before the headmaster. There was something extremely impressive about the old man, and Martin was familiar with his story. Ruben had been born as poor as a church mouse. From nothing he’d built an empire that today earned billions all around the world. It was a story that most Swedes knew.
‘Time for dinner!’ said a woman’s voice from the doorway, and everyone turned in that direction. A woman wearing an old-fashioned white apron stood there, motioning towards the dining room. Martin assumed she was Börje’s wife.
‘Good. I could use some food about now,’ said Harald, immediately heading for the table. The others followed close behind, and Martin watched with amusement as several family members rushed for Ruben’s wheelchair, battling to get there first. Lisette, who was the closest, emerged victorious, casting a triumphant glance at Aunt Vivi. Obviously there were some underlying family conflicts that he, the outsider, knew nothing about. Again he sighed. It was going to be a very long weekend.
Lisette felt the others staring at her as she pushed Grandpa Ruben’s wheelchair towards the dining room. Her successful effort made her cheeks flush, and she hoped that this minor victory was an indication of who would emerge the winner from the bigger battle: the one being fought over her grandfather’s money. Sometimes she felt almost dizzy at the thought of how much money would one day be hers. It wasn’t a question of millions, but rather billions of Swedish kronor. What mattered now was staying close to the old man and hoping that the others would make fools of themselves, one after the other – which wasn’t all that unlikely. She knew for a fact that her father and uncle were on the verge of burning their bridges; neither would prove much of an obstacle. Nor would Bernard and Miranda, for that matter. No, her strongest competitor for the inheritance was Matte. As things stood, she had to admit that he was her grandfather’s favourite. Even more than she was. But she was convinced that was only temporary. All she had to do was bide her time, and Matte would no doubt reveal some weakness that she’d be able to exploit.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ She had just pushed the wheelchair into Martin’s shin, and she stopped to let him pass. For a moment she wondered whether it had been a good idea to invite him. But she’d been so determined to show her grandfather that she was now a mature adult, and having a steady boyfriend who also happened to be a police officer suited the image perfectly. Yet she wished Martin hadn’t behaved in such a clumsy manner when she introduced him to everyone. It took only one glance at Bernard to see what he thought of her boyfriend, and she suspected the others shared his opinion. Martin was a nice person, and very sweet, but it was obvious that he wasn’t exactly a man of the world. Well, she’d simply have to make the best of the situation in order to survive the weekend. She pushed her grandfather’s wheelchair into the dining room.
The sight of all the food piled up on platters on the sideboard was overwhelming. A vast array of mouth-watering offerings: ham, spiced pork roll, herring salad, pickled herring, meatballs, small sausages, and so on. Everything that anyone could want from a Christmas buffet, and Martin was embarrassed to hear his stomach growling loudly.
‘Sounds like the boy is hungry,’ laughed Harald, slapping Martin on the back.
‘You’re right. I suppose I am,’ he replied with a strained smile. He hoped to God that Lisette’s father wouldn’t make a habit of calling him ‘the boy’ and slapping him on the back.
A short time later everyone had filled their plates and then taken seats at the beautifully set dining-room table. Outside the window the snowfall had increased, turning into almost blizzard-like conditions. As Börje moved around the table pouring cold schnapps into everyone’s glass, he seemed worried.
‘It’s not looking good. According to the weather forecast, we’re in for a real storm. It may be difficult for anyone to reach the mainland if they have to,’ he said, nodding at the snow outside.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Ruben in his dry, old-man’s voice. ‘We’re not planning to go anywhere until Sunday, and we’re certainly not going to starve.’
Everyone laughed at his remark. A bit too loudly, a bit too heartily. A disapproving furrow appeared between Ruben’s bushy eyebrows. He’s probably sick and tired of everyone fawning over him, thought Martin. For a second they exchanged glances, and Martin realized that the old man was aware of what he was thinking. He lowered his eyes and focused on spreading a dab of mustard on one of the little sausages that curled up at either end. When he was a kid, Martin had called them ‘permed’ sausages, which was something his parents still reminded him of every Christmas when he visited them.
‘So, Bernard,’ said Ruben, shifting his attention to his grandson. ‘How’s the firm doing these days? I’ve heard a number of rumours lately.’
A few seconds of oppressive silence ensued before Bernard replied.
‘Nothing but spiteful gossip. Business is better than ever.’
‘Is that so? That’s not what I’ve been hearing,’ said Ruben. ‘And my sources – as you well know – are considered highly reliable.’
‘No offence to your sources, Grandpa Ruben, but I can imagine that they may not be in the thick of things any longer. So what would they know about …’
A sharp look from Vivi made Bernard fall silent. Speaking in a somewhat less aggressive tone, he said:
‘All I can say is that your sources are wrong. We’re going to show excellent results in the next quarter.’
‘And what about you, Miranda? How’s it going with your design company?’ Ruben’s eyes were as piercing as X-rays, and Miranda squirmed as she answered the question.
‘Er, well, we’ve had a bit of bad luck. A number of orders have been cancelled of late, and we’ve had to do a few jobs pro bono in order to establish customer references, and—’
Ruben held up his bony hand. ‘Okay, thanks, that’s enough. I get the picture. In other words, there’s not much left of the capital that I invested. Am I right?’
‘Um … well, you see, Grandpa, I was planning to talk to you about that …’ She twirled a strand of her lovely dark hair around her finger as she gave the old man an ingratiating smile.
‘The children are so clever and they work so hard,’ said Vivi, trying to rescue the situation. Tugging nervously at her pearl necklace, she babbled on: ‘Lately, Gustav and I hardly ever see them at home. They’re always working, working, working …’
The bits of sausage started to swell inside Martin’s mouth. The conversation had taken an unpleasant turn, and he tried to catch Lisette’s eye. Like the other family members, she was sitting at the table in tense anticipation, greedily following the exchange of words.
‘Any plans to start working sometime soon, Lisette?’
Lisette found herself stumbling for something to say as her grandfather suddenly focused his attention on her.
‘I’m … I’m … well, you know, I’m studying,’ she stammered nervously as she seemed to shrink in her chair.
‘Yes, I do know that,’ replied Ruben drily. ‘I’m the one financing your studies. And have been for eight years now. I wonder whether it isn’t time for you to put some of that knowledge into practice.’ His tone was deceptively gentle, but Lisette kept her frightened gaze on her lap as she murmured, ‘Yes, Grandpa.’ He snorted and then turned to his sons.
‘Having some problems at work, I hear.’
Martin saw Harald and Gustav quickly exchange glances. A wordless communication that lasted all of a second, but in that moment Martin was able to read both hatred and alarm.
‘What have you heard, Father?’ Harald said at last, accompanying the question with a big but superficial smile. It was his hands that betrayed his true feelings, manically tearing the napkin to shreds as he talked.
‘Everything’s going smoothly, as always. Business as usual, you know. Just like in your day.’
‘My day,’ grunted Ruben. ‘You know quite well that “my day” was no more than two years ago. You make it sound as if a hundred years has passed since I stood at the helm. And if I hadn’t developed these …’ he searched for the right words ‘… health problems, I’d still be standing there. But I have my sources within the company. And I’ve heard some things that are very disturbing.’ He shook his finger as he looked from Harald to Gustav.
Prompted by an urgent glance from Harald, Gustav cleared his throat and spoke. ‘As Harald said, everything is fine. I don’t know what you may have heard—’
Again Ruben grunted and saliva spewed from his mouth as he exclaimed:
‘What a sorry lot you are! All your lives you’ve been holding on to my coattails, spending my money, expecting to receive a silver spoon the minute you open your mouths! And against my better judgement I’ve given you countless opportunities. I’ve handed out more and more money for your enterprises, and I’ve allowed you’ – he indicated his two sons – ‘to take charge of my company, because I wanted so dearly to have the firm stay in the family. But you’ve all betrayed me! You’ve misappropriated and squandered and diminished everything I’ve ever given to you. And now I’ve had enough!’
Ruben slammed his fist on the table, making everyone jump. Martin knew that he should flee from this unpleasant situation he’d found himself in, yet he had the same feeling as if he’d happened upon a traffic accident. He just couldn’t tear his eyes away.
‘It’s my intention to disinherit every single one of you! I’ve rewritten my will, and it’s ready to be signed and witnessed. You’ll get no more than I am legally obliged to give you. A number of carefully chosen charities will thank their lucky stars, come the day I kick the bucket – because they’ll be getting the bulk of my fortune!’
The whole family stared at the man in the wheelchair. It looked as if someone had hit pause and frozen the tableau, because not one person moved. There wasn’t a sound in the room except for Ruben’s laboured breathing and the storm outside that now pounded like a wild animal on the windowpanes.
His outburst must have made Ruben thirsty, because he raised his water glass with a trembling hand and greedily drank every drop. Still no one spoke, no one moved. Ruben set down his glass, looking as if the air were slowly seeping out of him, like a punctured balloon.
A slight tremor in his face was the first warning that something was wrong, followed by a faint twitching on the right side, which rapidly moved to the left. Spasms began rippling through his body. To begin with they were barely noticeable, but they quickly intensified. A guttural sound issued from his throat, and then his whole, wizened frame started shaking as he sat in his chair. At that point the others reacted.
‘Grandpa!’ shrieked Lisette, throwing herself towards him.
Bernard also leapt to his feet, but both of them hesitated, unsure what to do. Bernard gripped Ruben’s scrawny shoulders, but the spasms were so strong that he couldn’t hold the old man still.
‘He’s dying, he’s dying!’ screamed Vivi, yanking so hard on her pearl necklace that the string broke and pearls cascaded all over the floor.
‘Do something!’ shouted Britten, looking around helplessly.
Martin rushed towards Ruben, but no sooner did he reach the old man’s side than the spasms abruptly stopped. Ruben’s body fell forward until his face landed in his plate with a nasty thud. Placing his thumb and index finger on the man’s wrist, Martin felt for a pulse, but after a moment he was forced to say:
‘He’s dead. I’m sorry.’
Vivi screamed again as she fumbled for the necklace, which was no longer in place.
Börje and his wife came running from the kitchen, and Harald shouted to them:
‘Ring the coastguard – we need an ambulance! My father has had some sort of seizure. We need to get help!’
Börje shook his head gloomily. ‘I’m afraid the storm has brought down the phone lines. I tried to make a call a little while ago, but the phone wasn’t working.’
‘Unfortunately, it wouldn’t make any difference,’ said Martin, getting to his feet. ‘As I said, he’s already dead.’
‘But what happened?’ sobbed Britten. ‘Did he have a heart attack? A stroke? What happened?’
Martin was about to shrug, to indicate that he had no idea. But then he caught a whiff of something in the air. A smell that seemed to hover around the old man’s place at the table. A smell that Martin thought he recognized. He leaned over Ruben, whose face was still resting among the herring and meatballs, and sniffed harder. Yes, there it was. Faint, but distinct. The scent of almonds. A smell that should not have been there. Martin reached for Ruben’s glass and held it up to his nose. The clear scent of bitter almonds rose to his nostrils and confirmed his suspicions.
‘He was murdered.’
Her heart was pounding as she stared at the top of Grandpa Ruben’s head. He was so still.
Miranda clutched the edge of the table, unable to take her eyes off the dead man. But the anger she’d felt at his outburst hadn’t yet faded, and she had to fight off an urge to kick him in the shins. How dare he attack her like that! And in front of everyone. Not just her immediate family but also the cousins and her aunt and uncle, who had stared at her like hungry wolves, ready to grab what was left after the alpha-male had eaten his fill.
Why couldn’t Ruben have given her more time? Of all people, he ought to know how long it took to build a company from the ground up. They should have been able to resolve this matter. After all, he still had plenty of money. He wouldn’t have even missed another couple of million kronor – that was pocket change to him. And poor Bernard. He didn’t deserve to be flayed like that either. He worked so hard, and he really had every chance of making a go of things. All he needed was a little more time … And money.
Good Lord! What if the old man had already changed his will? The thought struck Miranda with such force that she had to gasp for breath. Her fingernails dug even harder into the wood of the table, and she felt tears spring to her eyes. He might have contacted his lawyer and made all the changes before the weekend. In fact, that was probably what he’d done. She was convinced that Ruben was sly and malicious enough to have done exactly that. He’d have enjoyed nothing better than watching them fuss over him before delivering the coup de grâce.
He was legally obligated to leave to them a certain amount from his estate, but once the sums that he’d already given them were subtracted, there would be very little left for each family member. Was it possible that they might even end up owing money? And she was up to her ears in debt as things stood! Miranda could feel the air getting harder to breathe. Angrily she glared at the murdered man in the wheelchair.
The rest of the evening proceeded as if in a fog. Initially Martin’s pronouncement caused a deafening silence to descend upon the room. A moment later it unleashed a cacophony of objections. No one wanted to believe him, so Martin had calmly explained that the scent of bitter almonds was a strong indication that cyanide had been present. Moreover Ruben’s seizure matched the effects of that extremely potent poison.
He asked Börje for a paper sack in which he carefully placed Ruben’s water glass so that it could be sent to the lab for analysis. Martin was mortified that he’d handled the glass without a second thought, possibly destroying fingerprints that could be valuable to the investigation.
‘We need to get this over to the mainland,’ Martin told Börje in an authoritative voice. In his mind he’d already started making a list of what measures needed to be taken. Notify his colleagues at the police station. Gather evidence. Ensure that the victim’s body was sent to the pathology lab. And, most importantly, begin interviewing the witnesses. If only they could return to the mainland quickly, the whole process of finding the killer could get underway.
‘That won’t be possible,’ said Börje quietly, indicating the storm raging outside the windows. The snow was now coming down so hard that they seemed to be looking at a wall of white.
‘What do you mean it “won’t be possible”?’ asked Martin, frustrated. ‘We need to get back to the mainland.’
‘Not in this weather. That’s not going to happen.’ Börje threw out his hands helplessly.
‘But it’s not that far.’ Martin could hear how annoyed he sounded, so he told himself to calm down. He, more than anyone else, needed to keep his composure.
‘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.
‘I think we’ll stop here,’ he said. ‘It’s getting late. We’ll continue tomorrow.’
A relieved expression appeared on Miranda’s face. But she merely nodded as she got to her feet. Martin followed her into the library to speak to the others. The mood was so oppressive that he almost felt as if he’d walked into a wall.
‘I’m going to stop the interviews for tonight. I know everyone is tired, and I think it would be more productive to continue in the morning, after we’ve all had some rest.’
No one replied, but everyone looked relieved.
‘Would you like a cognac?’ asked Lisette as she came over to Martin and put her hand on his arm. His first instinct was to decline. In a practical sense, he was officially on duty. But exhaustion and the weight of responsibility had taken their toll, and he found himself nodding as he sank into the nearest armchair. Outside, the snow was still coming down hard. A branch could be heard banging against a windowpane at the other end of the building.
‘Is it true that we can’t get over to the mainland?’ Vivi’s voice broke, and her hand shook as she again raised it to her neck where her pearls had been.
‘Didn’t you hear what they said? It’s impossible!’ Gustav’s voice was a bit too shrill, and he went on in a more muted tone: ‘We can’t do it, Vivi. We’ll have to wait until morning. Maybe by then the worst of the storm will be over, and we can make the crossing.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Harald. ‘The weather forecast says that the storm is going to last until Sunday. So I suppose we’ll just have to sit tight and wait.’
‘But I can’t stay here for two days. Not with a … corpse!’ cried Vivi. Everyone was now looking at her.
‘So what do you suggest we do? Skate across the ice to Fjällbacka?’ Harald yelled.
Gustav sprang to his feet and put his arm around his wife.
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Camilla Lackberg
Closely linked to the Fjällbacka-series, THE SCENT OF ALMONDS is a charming novella in the style of Agatha Christie from No.1 international bestseller and Swedish crime sensation Camilla Lackberg. Perfect for fans of Stieg Larsson and Jo Nesbo.THE SCENT OF ALMONDS – It’s less than a week until Christmas and policeman Martin Mohlin is begrudgingly accompanying his girlfriend to a family reunion on the tiny island of Valön outside of Fjällbacka. The connection to the mainland is cut off by a snowstorm and when the domineering patriarch Ruben collapses during Christmas dinner, Martin is forced to intervene. He soon establishes that Ruben was murdered and since they are completely isolated on the island, one of the family members must be murderer…
CAMILLA LACKBERG
The Scent of Almonds
Translated from the Swedish by Tiina Nunnally
Copyright (#ulink_9122d1eb-cf9d-599f-9c27-a7fa3668704c)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Copyright © Camilla Lackberg 2007
Published by agreement with Nordin Agency, Sweden
Translation copyright © Tiina Nunnally 2014
Cover design layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com)
Camilla Lackberg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007479061
Version: 2017-05-19
Table of Contents
Cover (#u35e36c0a-8fa7-503e-ba91-65720f5abc88)
Title Page (#ufa07880e-38d3-59d7-bce6-1d17d8af85fa)
Copyright (#ud5c698ca-7179-55dd-ad3a-a0f1a2dae1aa)
The Scent of Almonds (#u7fc20c62-d03e-5a02-821b-709d5fe4e277)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Camilla Lackberg (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
The Scent of Almonds (#ulink_9603a62e-6a94-5f18-b95a-56ab383b9b01)
Snow drifted through the air. Christmas was only a week away, and December had already racked up a record amount of snow and freezing cold temperatures. The ice had set in several weeks ago, but over the past few days a thaw had turned it brittle and unreliable.
Martin Molin was standing in the bow of the boat as it ploughed its way forward, following in the path forged by the coastguard cutter out to Valö. He wondered what he was doing here, and whether he’d made the right decision. But Lisette had been so insistent. To be honest, she had begged him to come. Family gatherings were not her strong suit, she’d said, and it would be much easier to bear if he were there to keep her company. The problem was that meeting her relatives implied a certain seriousness about their relationship that he, at least, didn’t feel.
But what was done was done. And what was said was said. Now here he was, on his way out to the old summer camp on Valö to spend two days with her family.
He looked back over his shoulder. Fjällbacka was undeniably beautiful, especially in the winter with the small wooden buildings nestled amid all that whiteness. And the way in which the little community was embraced by the grey mountain gave it a unique and aesthetically appealing air of drama. Maybe I should move here from Tanumshede, Martin thought briefly, but then laughed at himself. That would only happen if he won the lottery.
‘Toss me the painter, would you?’ shouted the man on the dock, startling Martin out of his reveries. He leaned down to pick up the line lying at his feet. When the boat got close enough, he threw it over the rail. The man easily caught the line and tied it to the bollard.
‘You’re the last one to arrive. The other guests are already here.’
Martin cautiously stepped down onto the slippery dock to shake hands with the man.
‘There were a few things I had to finish at the station before I could leave.’
‘Right. I heard that we were going to have a police presence out here this weekend. Makes me feel very safe.’
The man laughed and then introduced himself as Börje, the owner of the hotel.
‘My wife and I run the place. So I’m the carpenter, cook, butler and general handyman. All in one.’ Another loud, resounding laugh.
Martin picked up his bag and followed Börje towards the lights that could be glimpsed through the trees. ‘From what I’ve heard, you’ve done wonders with the old camp,’ he said.
‘We’ve put in a lot of work,’ said Börje proudly. ‘And money – I have to admit that. But now it’s doing well. The wife and I have been very pleased. We were actually fully booked all summer and well into the autumn. And we’ve been surprised to see that the Christmas special we’re offering has proved to be so popular.’
‘People like to get away from all the Christmas hubbub,’ said Martin, trying not to pant too much as they trudged up the hill towards the hotel. It was embarrassing; he ought to be in better shape, considering his age and his profession.
He took his eyes off the path and looked up, momentarily stunned. They really had done wonders with the old building. Like most people who had grown up in the area, Martin had come out to Valö on school field trips or to attend summer camp. He remembered a beautiful but somewhat run-down green building situated in the middle of an expansive lawn. Now the green paint had been replaced with white, and the structure gleamed like a jewel. From the windows streamed a warm light that made the white facade glow. Torches burned in front of the entrance, and through the windows on the ground floor he could see a huge Christmas tree. The whole place was incredibly beautiful, and he paused for a moment to take it all in.
‘Quite spectacular, don’t you think?’ Börje had also stopped.
‘Incredible,’ said Martin, and he meant it.
They went in through the main entrance and stomped their feet to shake off the snow.
‘The last guest has arrived!’ called Börje, his voice echoing down the hall. Martin heard quick footsteps as someone approached.
‘Martin! You’re here! It’s so good to see you!’ Lisette threw her arms around his neck, and again he had the feeling that he really shouldn’t have come. She was nice, and he found her attractive. Yet he was starting to think that she viewed their relationship as a bigger deal than he did. But it was too late for regrets. What mattered now was making it through the weekend.
‘Come with me!’ Lisette took his hand and more or less dragged him into the big room on the left. In Martin’s memories from his childhood, this had once been a dorm room crowded with bunk beds. Now it had been meticulously transformed into a living-room-cum-library. In the middle towered the giant Christmas tree, decorated according to the latest artistic trends.
‘Here he is!’ exclaimed Lisette triumphantly. Her relatives all turned to stare at Martin. He resisted an urge to tug at his shirt collar and instead gave a rather comical wave. When Lisette poked him in the side, he realized that something more was apparently expected of him, so he began methodically making his way around the room, moving from left to right. Lisette accompanied him so that she could introduce each person as they shook hands.
‘This is my father, Harald.’ A large man with bushy hair and an equally bushy moustache stood up to shake Martin’s hand with great energy.
‘And this is my mother, Britten.’
‘My name is actually Britt-Marie, but nobody has called me anything but Britten ever since I was five years old.’ Lisette’s mother also stood up to greet him, and Martin was struck by how alike the mother and daughter were. The same trim figure, the same nut-brown eyes and dark hair, even though Britten’s had quite a few streaks of grey.
‘How wonderful to meet you at last,’ said Lisette’s mother as she sat down.
Martin murmured something similar in reply, hoping the white lie wasn’t too obvious.
‘And here is Uncle Gustav,’ said Lisette. It was clear from her expression that this shorter and skinnier version of her father was not among her favourite relatives.
‘My pleasure, my pleasure,’ said Gustav Liljecrona politely, even offering a slight bow. Martin wondered if he was expected to bow in return, but decided that a brief nod would suffice. Gustav’s wife, who was the next person in line, also failed to evoke any genuine regard from Lisette, judging by her tone of voice.
‘My aunt Vivi.’
Martin grasped a dry, shrivelled hand. A hand that was in sharp contrast to the woman’s face, which was so devoid of wrinkles that her skin seemed to be stretched as taut as the head of a drum. He was convinced that he’d see the traces of multiple surgical procedures if he tried to look behind her ears, but he managed to resist the impulse.
Clearly there was more familial affection between Lisette and the man sitting next to Aunt Vivi, since she announced ‘my cousin Bernard’ with both warmth and joy. Yet Martin felt an instinctive dislike for the elegantly dressed man in his thirties. His hair was slicked back in the style that for some inexplicable reason was so popular among members of the financial sector.
‘So, this is Lisette’s policeman,’ he smirked, sounding like a real Stockholmer. Even though the statement was both correct and highly innocuous, Martin sensed that something else was lurking under the man’s nonchalant tone. Something derogatory, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
‘That’s right,’ he replied, shifting his gaze to the young woman next to Cousin Bernard.
‘Bernard’s sister, Miranda,’ Lisette told Martin, who couldn’t help feeling startled as he took her outstretched hand. Cousin Miranda was breathtakingly beautiful. About twenty-five or so, with the same pitch-black hair as her brother, although her tresses were longer, and with dazzling blue eyes that she now fixed on Martin. For a moment he lost all focus. A slight cough from Lisette made him realize that he may have held on to her cousin’s hand too long, and he let go as if he’d burned himself.
‘My brother, Mattias. Although everyone calls him Matte,’ said Lisette with ice in her voice. Martin hurried to shift his attention to Lisette’s older brother. He had an open and pleasant face, and he shook Martin’s hand with enthusiasm.
‘I’ve heard so much about you. Lisette has hardly talked about anybody else since summer. It’s very, very nice to meet you finally.’
A dramatic pause followed, and then Lisette said:
‘Last but not least – Grandpa Ruben.’
Martin found himself standing in front of an elderly man seated in a wheelchair. Ruben had passed on his facial features to both sons, but over time he had shrunk to the size of a child. A checked blanket covered his lap and legs as he sat in his wheelchair. Yet his handshake was surprisingly strong, his eyes alert.
‘So … this is your young man,’ he said with an amused expression. Martin felt like a schoolboy standing before the headmaster. There was something extremely impressive about the old man, and Martin was familiar with his story. Ruben had been born as poor as a church mouse. From nothing he’d built an empire that today earned billions all around the world. It was a story that most Swedes knew.
‘Time for dinner!’ said a woman’s voice from the doorway, and everyone turned in that direction. A woman wearing an old-fashioned white apron stood there, motioning towards the dining room. Martin assumed she was Börje’s wife.
‘Good. I could use some food about now,’ said Harald, immediately heading for the table. The others followed close behind, and Martin watched with amusement as several family members rushed for Ruben’s wheelchair, battling to get there first. Lisette, who was the closest, emerged victorious, casting a triumphant glance at Aunt Vivi. Obviously there were some underlying family conflicts that he, the outsider, knew nothing about. Again he sighed. It was going to be a very long weekend.
Lisette felt the others staring at her as she pushed Grandpa Ruben’s wheelchair towards the dining room. Her successful effort made her cheeks flush, and she hoped that this minor victory was an indication of who would emerge the winner from the bigger battle: the one being fought over her grandfather’s money. Sometimes she felt almost dizzy at the thought of how much money would one day be hers. It wasn’t a question of millions, but rather billions of Swedish kronor. What mattered now was staying close to the old man and hoping that the others would make fools of themselves, one after the other – which wasn’t all that unlikely. She knew for a fact that her father and uncle were on the verge of burning their bridges; neither would prove much of an obstacle. Nor would Bernard and Miranda, for that matter. No, her strongest competitor for the inheritance was Matte. As things stood, she had to admit that he was her grandfather’s favourite. Even more than she was. But she was convinced that was only temporary. All she had to do was bide her time, and Matte would no doubt reveal some weakness that she’d be able to exploit.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ She had just pushed the wheelchair into Martin’s shin, and she stopped to let him pass. For a moment she wondered whether it had been a good idea to invite him. But she’d been so determined to show her grandfather that she was now a mature adult, and having a steady boyfriend who also happened to be a police officer suited the image perfectly. Yet she wished Martin hadn’t behaved in such a clumsy manner when she introduced him to everyone. It took only one glance at Bernard to see what he thought of her boyfriend, and she suspected the others shared his opinion. Martin was a nice person, and very sweet, but it was obvious that he wasn’t exactly a man of the world. Well, she’d simply have to make the best of the situation in order to survive the weekend. She pushed her grandfather’s wheelchair into the dining room.
The sight of all the food piled up on platters on the sideboard was overwhelming. A vast array of mouth-watering offerings: ham, spiced pork roll, herring salad, pickled herring, meatballs, small sausages, and so on. Everything that anyone could want from a Christmas buffet, and Martin was embarrassed to hear his stomach growling loudly.
‘Sounds like the boy is hungry,’ laughed Harald, slapping Martin on the back.
‘You’re right. I suppose I am,’ he replied with a strained smile. He hoped to God that Lisette’s father wouldn’t make a habit of calling him ‘the boy’ and slapping him on the back.
A short time later everyone had filled their plates and then taken seats at the beautifully set dining-room table. Outside the window the snowfall had increased, turning into almost blizzard-like conditions. As Börje moved around the table pouring cold schnapps into everyone’s glass, he seemed worried.
‘It’s not looking good. According to the weather forecast, we’re in for a real storm. It may be difficult for anyone to reach the mainland if they have to,’ he said, nodding at the snow outside.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Ruben in his dry, old-man’s voice. ‘We’re not planning to go anywhere until Sunday, and we’re certainly not going to starve.’
Everyone laughed at his remark. A bit too loudly, a bit too heartily. A disapproving furrow appeared between Ruben’s bushy eyebrows. He’s probably sick and tired of everyone fawning over him, thought Martin. For a second they exchanged glances, and Martin realized that the old man was aware of what he was thinking. He lowered his eyes and focused on spreading a dab of mustard on one of the little sausages that curled up at either end. When he was a kid, Martin had called them ‘permed’ sausages, which was something his parents still reminded him of every Christmas when he visited them.
‘So, Bernard,’ said Ruben, shifting his attention to his grandson. ‘How’s the firm doing these days? I’ve heard a number of rumours lately.’
A few seconds of oppressive silence ensued before Bernard replied.
‘Nothing but spiteful gossip. Business is better than ever.’
‘Is that so? That’s not what I’ve been hearing,’ said Ruben. ‘And my sources – as you well know – are considered highly reliable.’
‘No offence to your sources, Grandpa Ruben, but I can imagine that they may not be in the thick of things any longer. So what would they know about …’
A sharp look from Vivi made Bernard fall silent. Speaking in a somewhat less aggressive tone, he said:
‘All I can say is that your sources are wrong. We’re going to show excellent results in the next quarter.’
‘And what about you, Miranda? How’s it going with your design company?’ Ruben’s eyes were as piercing as X-rays, and Miranda squirmed as she answered the question.
‘Er, well, we’ve had a bit of bad luck. A number of orders have been cancelled of late, and we’ve had to do a few jobs pro bono in order to establish customer references, and—’
Ruben held up his bony hand. ‘Okay, thanks, that’s enough. I get the picture. In other words, there’s not much left of the capital that I invested. Am I right?’
‘Um … well, you see, Grandpa, I was planning to talk to you about that …’ She twirled a strand of her lovely dark hair around her finger as she gave the old man an ingratiating smile.
‘The children are so clever and they work so hard,’ said Vivi, trying to rescue the situation. Tugging nervously at her pearl necklace, she babbled on: ‘Lately, Gustav and I hardly ever see them at home. They’re always working, working, working …’
The bits of sausage started to swell inside Martin’s mouth. The conversation had taken an unpleasant turn, and he tried to catch Lisette’s eye. Like the other family members, she was sitting at the table in tense anticipation, greedily following the exchange of words.
‘Any plans to start working sometime soon, Lisette?’
Lisette found herself stumbling for something to say as her grandfather suddenly focused his attention on her.
‘I’m … I’m … well, you know, I’m studying,’ she stammered nervously as she seemed to shrink in her chair.
‘Yes, I do know that,’ replied Ruben drily. ‘I’m the one financing your studies. And have been for eight years now. I wonder whether it isn’t time for you to put some of that knowledge into practice.’ His tone was deceptively gentle, but Lisette kept her frightened gaze on her lap as she murmured, ‘Yes, Grandpa.’ He snorted and then turned to his sons.
‘Having some problems at work, I hear.’
Martin saw Harald and Gustav quickly exchange glances. A wordless communication that lasted all of a second, but in that moment Martin was able to read both hatred and alarm.
‘What have you heard, Father?’ Harald said at last, accompanying the question with a big but superficial smile. It was his hands that betrayed his true feelings, manically tearing the napkin to shreds as he talked.
‘Everything’s going smoothly, as always. Business as usual, you know. Just like in your day.’
‘My day,’ grunted Ruben. ‘You know quite well that “my day” was no more than two years ago. You make it sound as if a hundred years has passed since I stood at the helm. And if I hadn’t developed these …’ he searched for the right words ‘… health problems, I’d still be standing there. But I have my sources within the company. And I’ve heard some things that are very disturbing.’ He shook his finger as he looked from Harald to Gustav.
Prompted by an urgent glance from Harald, Gustav cleared his throat and spoke. ‘As Harald said, everything is fine. I don’t know what you may have heard—’
Again Ruben grunted and saliva spewed from his mouth as he exclaimed:
‘What a sorry lot you are! All your lives you’ve been holding on to my coattails, spending my money, expecting to receive a silver spoon the minute you open your mouths! And against my better judgement I’ve given you countless opportunities. I’ve handed out more and more money for your enterprises, and I’ve allowed you’ – he indicated his two sons – ‘to take charge of my company, because I wanted so dearly to have the firm stay in the family. But you’ve all betrayed me! You’ve misappropriated and squandered and diminished everything I’ve ever given to you. And now I’ve had enough!’
Ruben slammed his fist on the table, making everyone jump. Martin knew that he should flee from this unpleasant situation he’d found himself in, yet he had the same feeling as if he’d happened upon a traffic accident. He just couldn’t tear his eyes away.
‘It’s my intention to disinherit every single one of you! I’ve rewritten my will, and it’s ready to be signed and witnessed. You’ll get no more than I am legally obliged to give you. A number of carefully chosen charities will thank their lucky stars, come the day I kick the bucket – because they’ll be getting the bulk of my fortune!’
The whole family stared at the man in the wheelchair. It looked as if someone had hit pause and frozen the tableau, because not one person moved. There wasn’t a sound in the room except for Ruben’s laboured breathing and the storm outside that now pounded like a wild animal on the windowpanes.
His outburst must have made Ruben thirsty, because he raised his water glass with a trembling hand and greedily drank every drop. Still no one spoke, no one moved. Ruben set down his glass, looking as if the air were slowly seeping out of him, like a punctured balloon.
A slight tremor in his face was the first warning that something was wrong, followed by a faint twitching on the right side, which rapidly moved to the left. Spasms began rippling through his body. To begin with they were barely noticeable, but they quickly intensified. A guttural sound issued from his throat, and then his whole, wizened frame started shaking as he sat in his chair. At that point the others reacted.
‘Grandpa!’ shrieked Lisette, throwing herself towards him.
Bernard also leapt to his feet, but both of them hesitated, unsure what to do. Bernard gripped Ruben’s scrawny shoulders, but the spasms were so strong that he couldn’t hold the old man still.
‘He’s dying, he’s dying!’ screamed Vivi, yanking so hard on her pearl necklace that the string broke and pearls cascaded all over the floor.
‘Do something!’ shouted Britten, looking around helplessly.
Martin rushed towards Ruben, but no sooner did he reach the old man’s side than the spasms abruptly stopped. Ruben’s body fell forward until his face landed in his plate with a nasty thud. Placing his thumb and index finger on the man’s wrist, Martin felt for a pulse, but after a moment he was forced to say:
‘He’s dead. I’m sorry.’
Vivi screamed again as she fumbled for the necklace, which was no longer in place.
Börje and his wife came running from the kitchen, and Harald shouted to them:
‘Ring the coastguard – we need an ambulance! My father has had some sort of seizure. We need to get help!’
Börje shook his head gloomily. ‘I’m afraid the storm has brought down the phone lines. I tried to make a call a little while ago, but the phone wasn’t working.’
‘Unfortunately, it wouldn’t make any difference,’ said Martin, getting to his feet. ‘As I said, he’s already dead.’
‘But what happened?’ sobbed Britten. ‘Did he have a heart attack? A stroke? What happened?’
Martin was about to shrug, to indicate that he had no idea. But then he caught a whiff of something in the air. A smell that seemed to hover around the old man’s place at the table. A smell that Martin thought he recognized. He leaned over Ruben, whose face was still resting among the herring and meatballs, and sniffed harder. Yes, there it was. Faint, but distinct. The scent of almonds. A smell that should not have been there. Martin reached for Ruben’s glass and held it up to his nose. The clear scent of bitter almonds rose to his nostrils and confirmed his suspicions.
‘He was murdered.’
Her heart was pounding as she stared at the top of Grandpa Ruben’s head. He was so still.
Miranda clutched the edge of the table, unable to take her eyes off the dead man. But the anger she’d felt at his outburst hadn’t yet faded, and she had to fight off an urge to kick him in the shins. How dare he attack her like that! And in front of everyone. Not just her immediate family but also the cousins and her aunt and uncle, who had stared at her like hungry wolves, ready to grab what was left after the alpha-male had eaten his fill.
Why couldn’t Ruben have given her more time? Of all people, he ought to know how long it took to build a company from the ground up. They should have been able to resolve this matter. After all, he still had plenty of money. He wouldn’t have even missed another couple of million kronor – that was pocket change to him. And poor Bernard. He didn’t deserve to be flayed like that either. He worked so hard, and he really had every chance of making a go of things. All he needed was a little more time … And money.
Good Lord! What if the old man had already changed his will? The thought struck Miranda with such force that she had to gasp for breath. Her fingernails dug even harder into the wood of the table, and she felt tears spring to her eyes. He might have contacted his lawyer and made all the changes before the weekend. In fact, that was probably what he’d done. She was convinced that Ruben was sly and malicious enough to have done exactly that. He’d have enjoyed nothing better than watching them fuss over him before delivering the coup de grâce.
He was legally obligated to leave to them a certain amount from his estate, but once the sums that he’d already given them were subtracted, there would be very little left for each family member. Was it possible that they might even end up owing money? And she was up to her ears in debt as things stood! Miranda could feel the air getting harder to breathe. Angrily she glared at the murdered man in the wheelchair.
The rest of the evening proceeded as if in a fog. Initially Martin’s pronouncement caused a deafening silence to descend upon the room. A moment later it unleashed a cacophony of objections. No one wanted to believe him, so Martin had calmly explained that the scent of bitter almonds was a strong indication that cyanide had been present. Moreover Ruben’s seizure matched the effects of that extremely potent poison.
He asked Börje for a paper sack in which he carefully placed Ruben’s water glass so that it could be sent to the lab for analysis. Martin was mortified that he’d handled the glass without a second thought, possibly destroying fingerprints that could be valuable to the investigation.
‘We need to get this over to the mainland,’ Martin told Börje in an authoritative voice. In his mind he’d already started making a list of what measures needed to be taken. Notify his colleagues at the police station. Gather evidence. Ensure that the victim’s body was sent to the pathology lab. And, most importantly, begin interviewing the witnesses. If only they could return to the mainland quickly, the whole process of finding the killer could get underway.
‘That won’t be possible,’ said Börje quietly, indicating the storm raging outside the windows. The snow was now coming down so hard that they seemed to be looking at a wall of white.
‘What do you mean it “won’t be possible”?’ asked Martin, frustrated. ‘We need to get back to the mainland.’
‘Not in this weather. That’s not going to happen.’ Börje threw out his hands helplessly.
‘But it’s not that far.’ Martin could hear how annoyed he sounded, so he told himself to calm down. He, more than anyone else, needed to keep his composure.
‘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.
‘I think we’ll stop here,’ he said. ‘It’s getting late. We’ll continue tomorrow.’
A relieved expression appeared on Miranda’s face. But she merely nodded as she got to her feet. Martin followed her into the library to speak to the others. The mood was so oppressive that he almost felt as if he’d walked into a wall.
‘I’m going to stop the interviews for tonight. I know everyone is tired, and I think it would be more productive to continue in the morning, after we’ve all had some rest.’
No one replied, but everyone looked relieved.
‘Would you like a cognac?’ asked Lisette as she came over to Martin and put her hand on his arm. His first instinct was to decline. In a practical sense, he was officially on duty. But exhaustion and the weight of responsibility had taken their toll, and he found himself nodding as he sank into the nearest armchair. Outside, the snow was still coming down hard. A branch could be heard banging against a windowpane at the other end of the building.
‘Is it true that we can’t get over to the mainland?’ Vivi’s voice broke, and her hand shook as she again raised it to her neck where her pearls had been.
‘Didn’t you hear what they said? It’s impossible!’ Gustav’s voice was a bit too shrill, and he went on in a more muted tone: ‘We can’t do it, Vivi. We’ll have to wait until morning. Maybe by then the worst of the storm will be over, and we can make the crossing.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Harald. ‘The weather forecast says that the storm is going to last until Sunday. So I suppose we’ll just have to sit tight and wait.’
‘But I can’t stay here for two days. Not with a … corpse!’ cried Vivi. Everyone was now looking at her.
‘So what do you suggest we do? Skate across the ice to Fjällbacka?’ Harald yelled.
Gustav sprang to his feet and put his arm around his wife.
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Камилла Лэкберг
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Триллеры
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Closely linked to the Fjällbacka-series, THE SCENT OF ALMONDS is a charming novella in the style of Agatha Christie from No.1 international bestseller and Swedish crime sensation Camilla Lackberg. Perfect for fans of Stieg Larsson and Jo Nesbo.THE SCENT OF ALMONDS – It’s less than a week until Christmas and policeman Martin Mohlin is begrudgingly accompanying his girlfriend to a family reunion on the tiny island of Valön outside of Fjällbacka. The connection to the mainland is cut off by a snowstorm and when the domineering patriarch Ruben collapses during Christmas dinner, Martin is forced to intervene. He soon establishes that Ruben was murdered and since they are completely isolated on the island, one of the family members must be murderer…