The Scent of Almonds: A Novella. Camilla Lackberg
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 the 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