“They own a village?”
“A ‘village’ here can be nothing more than two abandoned houses at the end of a road,” Hammar said. “The village of Västvall is certainly more than that. The family has holdings everywhere. On our way up ahead we could look at some Voss properties, if you like.”
“Jesus, no—let’s just get back to Stockholm, all right?”
But the Voss name nagged at her as they drove on. Blocks and gaps marked her memory of childhood. There were shadows in the past of her Swedish grandparents. Could one of those shadows have the name “Voss” attached to it? She had an uncomfortable hunch that it might be true. Heavy drinking fueled bitter, screaming arguments between Klara and Gustav. Brand as a young girl overheard them fight while huddled in bed, frightened.
She and Hammar were still trailing behind one of the company’s semi-trailers. The name “Voss” hovered in the fading light of afternoon.
“All right,” Brand said. She wondered if he would pick up the thread and realize she was agreeing to visit one of the Voss clan’s holdings.
Hammar understood. “There is Sofieborg Manor House, not far up ahead. The Vosses own it now. Mid-seventeenth century, built by a Swedish count in honor of his wife. Said to be haunted. I have visited once before. The building is impressive. You will see. It tells a story of Swedish capitalists, past and present.”
◆◆◆
At Hammar’s direction Brand exited off the highway. Whatever traffic there was dwindled in the rear-view. He pointed her along a route that led through several suburban towns. Dense forests covered the slopes above the frozen, snow covered surface of a lake.
Brand was getting used to the traffic roundabouts, the foreign signage, the polite ways of other drivers. Along a stretch of suburban road a small flock of school children stepped onto the pavement in front of the car. Prattling among themselves, they seemed oblivious to the fact that a vehicle bore down on them.
Brand braked abruptly. The Saab stalled. Before Hammar could stop her she leaped out of the car to confront the young jaywalkers.
“What are you doing?” she yelled in English. “Do you want to get yourselves run over? Watch out where you’re going!”
The half-dozen preteens stared at the madwoman. They didn’t seem overly concerned, just puzzled. One of them, a tall girl, echoed Brand’s words. She sounded as though she was puzzling out a phrase from a classroom lesson.
“Watch out where you’re going,” she calmly repeated in accented English.
“We have the right! Not you!” one of the others shouted.
The kids moved on, laughing and talking, not even bothering to look back. Still upset, Brand climbed back into the car.
“Very un-Swedish,” Hammar said. “Here we do not attack our children.”
“I don’t care,” Brand said, starting the car again, jamming it into gear, and pulling away from the intersection.
“You know, there are pills for what you have,” Hammar said.
“Yes? What do I have?”
“Anger issues. I would say Xanor, or some other sort of mild tranquilizer.”
“And now you’re a doctor.” Privately she wondered if Hammar had somehow discovered her habitual use of amphetamines.
Hammar adopted what sounded like his lawyer’s voice: “About twenty years past the law was changed giving pedestrians the right of way over cars. Though I admit it has resulted in more accidents.”
“I neglected to run them over, then, as a favor,” Brand tried to keep a note of annoyance from her voice. She did not appreciate the reference to her anger issues. Even if it were true. Who did the man think he was?
Hammar directed her, turn by turn, through a sparsely built expanse of countryside. Among their many holdings, he told her, the Vosses owned the large country estate that surrounded the historic manor house.
“All this is family property,” he said, gesturing around to the forested terrain.
“How do you know?” Brand asked.
“I know,” Hammar answered simply.
“So do we just drive up to the front door and knock? I mean, what’s our plan here?”
Hammar indicated a private road that slanted off from the public one. “There’s the driveway,” he said. “Let’s go do some investigating, Detective.”
“Whoa, really?” Brand pulled the Saab over to examine the turn-off.
“We can go in and have a look, take direction from what we see,” Hammar said. “As I told you, I have visited here before, and it is often uninhabited. During the summer, tours are sometimes offered.”
The ungated drive featured no identifying signage, simply a wide, well-plowed lane that led through a snowy grove of poplars and birch. Brand ventured forward. A few hundred meters in, the house came into view. Its symmetrical design and façade of cold, yellow render stood it apart from the neighboring traditional red farmhouses. A newly tacked on extension to accommodate multiple cars jutted out from the side, disrupting the original balance of the house. The whole structure was a ostentatious attempt to indicate wealth and power.
Brand slowed the Saab as they approached. Graceful stands of birches suffused the yard with a pale light, which reflected off the residence’s façade of glazed stone. Closer in, the trees gave way to an expansive snow-covered lawn. No one was around, either on the grounds or near the structure. Untracked snow piled up on the walkway at the front entrance. A feeling of limbo emanated from the place, a sense of adjournment and suspended time. Nothing about it looked lived in.
“I don’t think we’re going to have to knock,” Brand said.
“No?” Hammar asked.
Brand gestured to a side door of the building, which hung open. Next to it were the closed bays of the garage. The situation didn’t look right to her. There, a muddle of fresh footprints smashed in the overnight snow. She braked ten meters back from the house. The open door triggered an uneasy feeling. Her cop sense bristled. The deserted manor house offered a perfectly serene tableau, except for the single
