Chapter 57
The best place for a private conversation is the study on the lower floor.
Pontus chooses the armchair below the only window, its pane completely covered in snow. He hasn’t managed to change out of his skiing clothes yet; he is still wearing his thermals and thick socks.
“When can I have my computer back?” he says aggressively. “You can’t just take it like that!”
Daniel sits down at the designer desk. “We’ll talk about that later. But actually, we can, given that your friend was found dead outside this house yesterday and your computer could form a significant part of our inquiries.”
Pontus gives him a filthy look.
“You’re very brave, going skiing on a day like this.” Daniel nods in the direction of the window. “When you can hardly see your hand in front of your face.”
“It was William who insisted on hitting the slopes. And then Olivia dragged us to that ravine—Western, or whatever it’s called.”
“You skied the West Ravine today?” Daniel can’t hide his surprise. “That sounds like a bad idea.”
“Olivia was crazy to suggest it.” Pontus practically spits out the words. “If we’d gotten hurt, it would have been her fault. I don’t know what she was thinking.”
Daniel doesn’t ask why Pontus didn’t object, but he takes note of the intense dislike in his voice.
So the group isn’t as harmonious as it appeared on Sunday.
That isn’t necessarily a disadvantage—quite the reverse.
Divide and conquer. Not a bad tactic.
“I have a few questions concerning Filippa’s death. On Sunday you said that you fell asleep on the sofa while Filippa was still in the living room. When you woke up, she’d gone.” He deliberately pauses. “Is that still true?”
Pontus stiffens as soon as he mentions Filippa’s name. Just like Emil did.
Daniel is increasingly convinced that they are both hiding something.
“Yes, it is.”
“Where were you sitting when you fell asleep?”
“On the sofa. I already told you.”
“I’d like to know exactly where you were sitting. There are two sofas—which one?”
“I . . .” Pontus closes his eyes, as if he is trying to remember. Or maybe he needs a breathing space. “The far one. The one with its back to ?reskutan. In the corner.”
“Where was Filippa when you fell asleep?”
“Opposite me, I think.”
“And when you woke up, she wasn’t there?”
“That’s right.”
“So what did you think?”
Daniel leans across the desk, where there is a black leather pot containing several pens. Beside it lies an elegant letter opener made of carved reindeer horn.
“Nothing. Well . . . I thought she’d gone to bed like everyone else, because they’d all disappeared.”
Pontus fills the armchair. He isn’t very tall, but at close quarters Daniel notices how broad-shouldered he is.
Strong.
It wouldn’t be difficult for him to carry a body like Filippa’s. She must have weighed around 130 pounds. If Daniel remembers correctly she was of medium height, maybe five foot four. Pontus is a few inches taller.
“When was the last time you saw Filippa alive?”
“Before I fell asleep.”
“And what time was that?”
“About two o’clock. I don’t remember exactly—I was pretty drunk.”
His tone is truculent; it is obvious that Pontus doesn’t want to talk about this.
Daniel doesn’t react. “And who else was in the room, as far as you recall?”
Pontus inhales loudly through his nose. “Olivia had already gone over to the cabin. Emil had gone to bed, and I think William had gone to his room. Amir was still there, he and Filippa were making out on the sofa, like they’d been doing all evening.”
Filippa and Amir. No one has mentioned this before. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place.
“I don’t remember anything else,” Pontus adds. “Except that the living room was empty when I woke up.”
“And that was the last time you saw Filippa?”
“Yes.”
Pontus bends down and makes a big performance of pulling up his socks, one by one. But Daniel isn’t done yet.
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yes—I told you!”
Beads of sweat have broken out on Pontus’s forehead, by his hairline.
Daniel decides to go for it; there is no point in pussyfooting around with the new information from the autopsy.
“Did you sleep with Filippa on Saturday?”
“What?”
“Did you have sex with Filippa before she died?”
“No, absolutely not! Why would you think that?”
Daniel ignores the question. “Was it you who placed her in the snow where she was found?”
“No!” Pontus shouts the word. Sweat is trickling down his cheeks now, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand.
“And yet you googled things that an innocent person probably wouldn’t search for,” Daniel says.
“Words like murder, manslaughter, causing the death of another person. Which makes me wonder if there might be a crime behind Filippa’s death.
A crime in which you are involved.” Before Pontus can interrupt, he continues: “Please explain why you googled those words if you have nothing to hide?”
Pontus’s eyes are darting all over the place, as if he is hunting for a way out, a reasonable explanation so that Daniel will leave him in peace.
“Well?”
“I haven’t done anything!”
“Why did you enter those search words if you had nothing to do with Filippa’s death?”
Those final words make Pontus slump in the armchair. “I don’t know, I just did.” His voice is rough. “But it wasn’t me who killed Filippa.”