Down along a corridor, back to the front of the house.
He listened for noises apart from the wind, and for a few seconds he thought he could hear a rhythmic banging from the upper floor-a loose shutter, perhaps. Then the house was silent again.
A dark, flat object was lying in a corner out in the hallway. Henrik went closer.
He saw that it was the Ouija board, thrown onto the floor, split across the middle with considerable force. The little glass lay beside the board like a cracked egg.
Henrik went back out to the veranda where the air was cooler. The snow was sticking to the windowpanes, but he could just make out movements in the courtyard.
He bent down in silence and picked up his grandfather’s ax.
Two shadows were moving out there. They slowly came closer through the snow, and Henrik could see that one of them was holding a dark object. A gun?
He wasn’t sure if it was the brothers, but raised the ax anyway.
By the time the outer door was opened, he had already swung it.
34
Tilda staggered forward, heading straight for the blinding wall of swirling snow. Martin was still by her side, but neither of them was talking. It was impossible in the storm.
They were out in a field, but the few times Tilda tried to look up to work out where they were heading, the granules of snow flew into her eyes like burning sparks.
She had lost her police cap; it had been ripped off by the wind and disappeared. She felt as if her ears were frozen solid.
One small encouraging sign was that the storm had briefly carried with it the aroma of burning wood. She guessed that it came from an open fire or stove, and realized they were close to a house-presumably Eel Point.
A rectangular snowdrift appeared in front of them, but when Tilda tried to plow through it, she came to a sudden stop. It was a stone wall.
She slowly clambered over the snow-covered stones, and
Martin followed her. On the other side the ground was flatter, as if they were walking along a little track.
Suddenly Tilda heard a creaking noise further away along the wall, followed by a grinding squeal and a dull thud.
After a minute or so they reached a couple of huge white drifts with square contours. Two parked vehicles were standing there rocking in the wind, half buried in the snow.
Tilda brushed away the snow along the side of the taller vehicle and suddenly recognized it. It was the dark- colored van with kalmar pipes & welding on it.
Further along by the wall lay a boat on a trailer lying on its side. It looked as if it had been picked up and tipped over by the wind.
The boat was still securely tied to the metal frame, but the tarpaulin covering it had split. An extraordinary collection of objects lay scattered in the snow: loudspeakers and chain saws alongside old paraffin lamps and wall clocks.
It looked like stolen goods.
Martin shouted something, but Tilda couldn’t hear what he said. She made her way slowly along the side of the van and tried the doors. The driver’s door was locked, but when she went around to the other side and tried the passenger door, it flew open with a crash.
Tilda climbed in to catch her breath.
Martin stuck his head in behind her, with snow in his hair and eyebrows.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
Tilda massaged her frozen ears and nodded wearily. “Okay.”
The air inside the van was still warm, and she was finally able to breathe normally. She looked behind the seats and saw that the back of the van was full of even more items, all piled on top of one another. There were jewelry boxes and cartons of cigarettes and cases of alcohol.
As she turned back to Martin she discovered that the brown panel inside the passenger door had come loose.
White plastic was protruding beneath the panel-it was a packet of some kind.
“A hiding place,” she said.
Martin looked. Then he got hold of the plastic and pulled, and the whole panel came away and fell off into the snow.
Behind it was a secret cache, full of even more packets.
Martin took out the top one, made a small slit in it with the car key, and put his finger against the gap. He licked the powder off his finger and said, “It’s methamphetamine.”
Tilda believed him-he had taught her group about different types of drugs. She pushed a couple of the packets into her pocket.
“Evidence,” she said.
Martin looked at her as if he wanted to add something, but Tilda didn’t want to hear it. She unfastened her holster and took out her Sig Sauer.
“There are bad guys around here,” she said.
Then she clambered past Martin out into the gale and began to make her way along the track once again.
When she had left the vehicles and the boat behind her, she caught her first glimpse of the beam from the lighthouse: a sweeping glow that only just managed to penetrate through the snowstorm.
They had almost reached Eel Point now. Tilda could see the main house, with faint lights shimmering in the windows.
They were candles, she realized. And Joakim Westin’s car was parked in front of the house beneath a pile of snow.
The family must be at home. In the worst-case scenario they were being held hostage inside by the thieves-but Tilda didn’t want to think along those lines.
The big barn appeared in front of her. She struggled to cover the final few steps to the red wooden wall, and at last found some shelter from the wind. It was a considerable achievement-she breathed out and wiped the melting snow off her face with the sleeve of her jacket.
Now all she had to do was see who was in the house, and what state they were in.
She unzipped her jacket and pulled out her flashlight. With her pistol in one hand and the flashlight in the other, she pressed herself against the wall of the barn, moved slowly forward, and peeped around the corner.
Snow, all she could see was snow. White curtains sweeping down from the roof, and whirlwinds of snow swirling between the buildings.
Martin came up behind her out of the darkness, his back bent, and took shelter by the wall.
“Is this where we were heading?” he yelled.
Tilda nodded and took a deep breath. “Eel Point,” she said.
The main house was about ten yards from the barn. The lights were on in the kitchen, but there was no sign of anyone.
She started moving again, away from the barn and out into the inner courtyard, which was completely covered in snow. It came up to her waist in some places, and she had to force her way through the drifts. She carried on toward the house, her gun at the ready.
There were fresh tracks in the snow here. Someone had recently plodded across the courtyard and walked up the stone steps.
When Tilda reached the veranda, which was in darkness, she looked at the door.
It had been broken open.
She moved slowly up the steps. Then she grabbed hold of the handle, opened the door cautiously, and moved onto the top step.
