Hidden in Snow (The ?re Murders, #1)(59)
He sits down, finds the lists from the land registry and the vehicle licensing authority. The number of property owners is nothing compared with the list of registered snowmobile owners in ?re. As of the beginning of the year, there were slightly over 5,000, of which 3,600 were in regular use.
This is going to take a while.
By the time Anton arrives, Daniel has made a note of those who have a cabin, but no snowmobile. Six men and two women, in alphabetical order.
Bergstrand, G?ran
Bj?rk, Stefan
Gr?nvall, Arne
M?kinen, Pentti
Nilsson, Carl-Johan
Pettersson, Torgils
Pihl, Anna-Britta
Risberg, Annika
“Is she some kind of property magnate in Ull?dalen?”
Daniel asks, pointing to the last name, which has come up several times.
Anton shakes his head. “The family has lived in the area for years. She probably inherited the cabin from her father; he died some time ago.”
Daniel puts the sheet of paper to one side and concentrates on the printouts Anton has brought with him— the names and home addresses of those who have a place in Ull?dalen and are registered owners of a snowmobile.
There are lots of them, presumably because it’s not possible to get to a cabin in Ull?dalen without a snowmobile. Eighty percent are men, most but not all live in the local community. They need to go and visit these men. They’re ruling out the women because they believe they’re looking for a male perpetrator.
Hanna was thinking along the same lines, Daniel remembers. The statistics support the view that it is a man.
Daniel scans the home addresses and groans to himself.
They’ll start with those who live close by; property owners farther afield will have to wait. They also need to run the names through their own system, see if anyone has a criminal record.
He decides to pass that task to ?stersund. They’re already doing background checks on everyone in Amanda’s circle of friends.
His phone rings as Anton goes off to collect more printouts. It’s Bosse Lundh.
“How’s it going?” Bosse asks in a friendly tone of voice.
Daniel takes the opportunity to stand up and stretch his spine. “We’re pressing on. There’s a lot to do in the beginning.”
“I can understand that.”
They chat for a few minutes; then Bosse clears his throat. “So . . . the reason I called is the press conference that was on TV yesterday.”
Daniel grimaces; he’d prefer to forget the whole thing.
“I heard some journalists were asking if the police should have worked more closely with Missing People,”
Bosse goes on. “I don’t understand the question. We were contacted by the family and started searching on Saturday morning. I thought we worked very well together.” He pauses. “I wasn’t the one who spoke to the press—I just wanted you to know that.”
Daniel appreciates Bosse’s comments. He had felt under pressure when the reporter questioned him.
“I didn’t think it was you, but thanks for the information.”
“Anything we can do, just let me know,” Bosse says, ending the call.
Daniel goes back to the lists. “Do you recognize any of these names?” he asks when Anton returns.
His colleague studies the documents, picks out familiar names, but nothing sets off alarm bells. This is exactly what Daniel doesn’t want to hear. He continues reading.
“It would help if there were more of us,” Anton says with a sigh after a while. “Have you given any more thought to Hanna Ahlander? Why don’t you ask Grip to see if the City Police will allow her to take up a temporary placement with us?”
Daniel looks up. Hanna Ahlander again. She certainly seems to have made an impression on Anton, and he has to admit that she came across as both competent and experienced. She also seemed comfortable in herself; he would enjoy working with her.
No harm in asking, as Anton quite rightly pointed out over lunch. Daniel takes out his phone, weighs it in his hand.
Should he give it a go?
Why not?
He calls Birgitta Grip’s number before he can change his mind.
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61
Hanna is idly surfing the net in semidarkness at the big kitchen table. The tab with the information about the cleaning company is still open, but she’s reading about Amanda’s murder at the moment. The tabloids have devoted many pages to the case; speculation is rife, and there are dozens of comments.
It’s a juicy story—ideal click bait.
Eventually she decides she’s had enough and pushes her laptop away. She can’t face reading any more about that poor girl.
It is almost six thirty. She glances toward the tall windows. The wind has died down. She pushes back her chair and walks over to the patio doors.
The valley is resting in the shadow of Renfj?llet. The clouds have finally dispersed, revealing a star-studded sky, millions of tiny white dots sparkling at the earth.
She has so many memories from this place, both happy and sad. Mostly from the time after Lydia had left home, when only she and her parents came to ?re for the winter break.
The best times were when she went skiing with her father, when it was just the two of them on the ski lift or in the café. She pictures him now. He always wanted to keep the peace at home; he couldn’t bear conflict in the family.