Hidden in Snow (The ?re Murders, #1)

Hidden in Snow (The ?re Murders, #1)

Viveca Sten


PROLOGUE

The snow forms a hard, solid covering as Sebbe Granlund turns into the staff parking lot at VM6, the chairlift at the midpoint of the ski resort where he is working for the season.

The temperature is minus twenty, but it feels colder.

The treetops are thick with rime frost, and the mountain known as ?reskutan is barely visible through the snow mist.

The harsh electric lighting creates a black-and-white landscape with long shadows against white snow.

The winter season in ?re has just begun.

It is only a short walk to VM6, but the warmth of the car is gone in seconds. The air freezes the hairs in Sebbe’s nostrils as he unlocks the station. It is just after nine; the resort opens at nine thirty, so everything must be ready by then. As usual the lifts started operating at the beginning of December, but there are few skiers on the slopes so far.

He presses the green button to set the machinery in motion. A loud noise slices through the silence; then VM6

begins to move. It is one of the older lifts, with seating for six people at a time. One chair after another passes before his eyes.

Sebbe takes out his phone to check Snapchat. The seats are covered in snow from last night’s fall; he ought to go out and clear them, but the cold keeps him indoors. It won’t really matter for the first half hour. The sun won’t rise until nine forty-five, and there won’t be many people around before then.

He glances up. A shadow has caught his eye, an unexpected figure on one of the chairs, almost as if someone has come down from the top.

He cranes his neck, tries to see, but it is still dark out there.

The chair is approaching the boarding platform. It does actually look as if a person is half-lying at the far corner, but there’s something weird; the posture is contorted, slumped.

The dark silhouette doesn’t move, even though the chair has almost arrived.

Sebbe acts instinctively, presses the stop button, and hurries outside. The chair comes to a sudden halt, dangling a few yards away. The abrupt movement makes the figure slide down even farther.

Sebbe remains where he is as his brain processes what he is seeing.

It looks like a mannequin—and yet it doesn’t. The human features are there, but every sign of life has been obliterated. The eyebrows and eyelashes are thick with snow crystals, the face has stiffened in an icy grimace.

The skin is blue white, the lips shrunken from the cold.

The chair sways, and the body slides off and lands on the snow at Sebbe’s feet.

He stares openmouthed at the frozen corpse.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Not you.”

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MONDAY, DECEMBER 9, 2019

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1

Hanna Ahlander fails to avoid the slush on the sidewalks as she plods from the subway to her apartment in Solna. The dampness finds its way through her sneakers to her socks, and she swears quietly.

The strap of her purse is cutting into her shoulder, and she swaps it to the other side.

She is trying to stop thinking about this afternoon’s conversation with her boss, Manfred Lidwall, but his words continue to echo inside her head: difficulty in working with others, insubordination, lack of discipline.

Manfred can’t stand her. He made that very clear.

If she doesn’t voluntarily seek a post elsewhere, he will do everything in his power to terminate her employment.

She has been sent home to think things over. He doesn’t want to see her until January, after the Christmas and New Year holidays.

Her throat constricts at the thought of leaving her job with the Stockholm City Police, a job she loves in spite of everything that’s happened.

The rain-soaked asphalt seems to absorb the light; the world is painted in shades of black and gray. In a couple of weeks, it will be Christmas Eve. There should be snow and freezing temperatures, soft snowflakes gently drifting down.

Instead, the sky is weeping.

Not that it matters; Christmas atmosphere is the last thing on Hanna’s mind. She hasn’t given a thought to gingerbread cookies or Advent candle bridges over the past few weeks.

The heavy raindrops plaster her hair to her forehead.

She bends her neck to try to protect her face, but the rain drips down the collar of her jacket, making her shiver. She increases her speed, desperate to get home, and wobbles as she takes a misstep. She’s spent the last few hours knocking back vodka shots in a bar, with the same thoughts whirling around in her mind.

Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? Why couldn’t she do what everyone else did, and toe the line?

She should have dropped the issue of the botched investigation, poor Josefin, who was beaten to death by her husband.

Who just happened to be a police officer.

If only she’d turned a blind eye, minded her own business, she wouldn’t have ended up in this situation.

Her colleagues have closed ranks, and she is no longer a part of the community.

She is almost there. She shares a three-room apartment on the fourth floor with Christian. The light is on in the window, which means he’s home.

She longs for him to hold her in his arms but doesn’t know if she can tell him what’s happened—that the City Police and her boss want to be rid of her at any price.

How is she ever going to be able to say it out loud?

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