The Scent of Almonds: A Novella Read online

  ‘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 th
e 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.’