A stain on the snow

The crisp Växjö air, usually filled with the scent of pine and frozen lakes, carried a different, fouler odour from behind the ‘Happy Hound’ pet store. It was a smell of fear, of unwashed animals, and of blood. Inside a hidden, soundproofed basement, a world away from the cheerful squeak toys and bags of kibble upstairs, two Pit Bull terriers, ribs showing and eyes wide with terror, were forced to circle each other. 

A ring of men, their faces hardened by greed and cruelty, barked commands and placed bets. In the centre, orchestrating the brutality with a cold, calm authority, was the store’s owner, Lars Pettersson a man known throughout the community for his gentle way with a nervous puppy. The contradiction was as stark as it was sinister. As the smaller dog went down with a piteous whine, Lars didn’t flinch. He merely noted the winner and reached for the cash. The stain on the snow-white reputation of Småland was deepening.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The call came in just after dawn. A body, found by a dog-walker in the sparse woods near the Kronoberg Castle ruins. Inspector Mats Lundström grunted as he eased his Volvo onto the slushy verge, the ghost of his ex-wife’s voice in his ear telling him he should have bought the four-wheel drive. He was a solid man in his mid-fifties, his face a roadmap of late nights and unsolved cases, his coat perpetually dusted with dandruff from a brand of biscuit his doctor had told him to avoid.

His sergeant, the relentlessly energetic Anja Vikström, was already on the scene, her breath pluming in the icy air. “It’s a mess, Mats. Not a robbery. Wallet’s intact. But someone worked him over pretty good before… well, before they finished it.”

Lundström crouched by the corpse. A man in his thirties, face a pulped mess, but his clothes were good quality. “Identification?”

“Johan Andersson. Works… worked as a veterinary assistant. Lived alone. No record.”

Lundström’s eyes, the colour of a winter sky, scanned the trampled snow. There were other prints. A lot of them. And not just from the victim and his killer. “Get forensics to cast all of these. And look at this.” He pointed with a gloved finger to a torn scrap of fabric caught on a bramble. It was a peculiar, bright blue synthetic fibre, not the sort of thing one usually found in a forest.

The investigation began with Johan’s life. He was well-liked, dedicated to animals. At the veterinary clinic, the staff were distraught. “He was troubled lately,” the head vet confessed. “Secretive. I thought it might be a girl, but he mentioned something about… ‘seeing something he shouldn’t have’.”

The first break came from the fibre. Forensics identified it as a specific type of carpet fibre, treated with a fire retardant often used in commercial premises.

Meanwhile, a separate, quieter thread was tugging at Lundström. His weekly, slightly awkward video call with his son, Tom, in Oxford. Tom, immersed in his history books, asked about the case. “A vet, you say? Dad, isn’t that the second animal professional in trouble? I read a small piece in the local news feed about a dog groomer who was badly beaten a month ago. He never spoke to the police.”

Lundström felt the familiar, grudging pride. Tom had his mother’s mind for patterns. He was right. The groomer, a man named Eriksson, was now too frightened to say a word. But Lundström and Vikström applied pressure. Finally, in a hushed whisper, Eriksson spat out a name: “The Happy Hound. Pettersson. He’s not what he seems.”

Lars Pettersson was the picture of amiable cooperation when they visited his store. The place was a temple to responsible pet ownership.
“Johan? A terrible business,” Pettersson said, shaking his head sadly as a fluffy Bichon Frise yapped at his heels. “He came in here sometimes for supplies. A nice boy. I can’t imagine why anyone would do that.”

But Lundström’s gaze was drawn to the flooring. A thick, industrial carpet. In a vibrant, cheerful yellow. Not blue. He mentioned the dog groomer. Pettersson’s smile didn’t slip. “Poor Erik. A random attack, I heard. This world is getting so violent.”

As they left, Vikström muttered, “He’s clean. Too clean.”

“Or he’s very, very dirty,” Lundström replied, his eyes narrowing. “Check his financials. Quietly.”

That evening, following a hunch, Lundström drove back to the ‘Happy Hound’ after closing time. He parked a distance away and watched. The shop was dark, but shortly before midnight, a stream of cars began to arrive, their drivers slipping into the building through a side entrance. Among them, Lundström recognised a local builder with a reputation for violence and a city councillor known for his moralising speeches.

He called Vikström. “It’s here. The fighting ring. Johan the vet must have found out, maybe through treating a wounded dog off the books. He was a loose end. The groomer, Eriksson, was a warning.”

The next day, the financial check revealed it. Lars Pettersson was living far beyond the means of a simple pet shop owner. Large, regular cash deposits, all coinciding with the weekends.

“We need to catch him in the act,” Lundström said, the final pieces clicking into place. The blue fibre? It must have come from a mat, a blanket, something portable used in the ring itself. Johan must have torn it while being abducted.

The following Saturday night, the police moved. While Vikström led a team to secure the perimeter, Lundström, his heart thumping a rhythm that belied his calm exterior, approached the side door. He could hear the muffled, frantic barking and the roar of a crowd.

He burst in. The scene was a vision from a nightmare. In the stark light of the basement, two dogs were locked in a bloody struggle. The men in the circle froze, a tableau of guilt illuminated. Lars Pettersson stood in the centre, a wad of cash in one hand, his face contorted in a snarl of pure hatred.

“It’s over, Lars,” Lundström said, his voice cutting through the din.

Pettersson’s eyes darted around, looking for an escape that wasn't there. “You don’t understand, Inspector. This is a sport. A test of spirit!”

“This is barbarism,” Lundström countered, his gaze falling on a crumpled blue mat in the corner, its colour a perfect match for their forensic sample. “And murder. Johan Andersson saw your ‘sport’. You couldn’t have that.”

For a moment, Pettersson looked like he would deny it. Then his shoulders slumped in a parody of defeat, before he lunged, not at Lundström, but towards a metal spike used to pry apart the dogs. Vikström was faster, tackling him to the ground with a grunt.

As the raiding party began the slow process of arrests and securing the traumatised animals, Lundström stepped outside, sucking in the clean, cold air. The stain was still there, but it was now contained, exposed to the light.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Later, in his quiet, sparsely furnished apartment, Lundström poured a single malt, the one vice he allowed himself after a case like this. He thought of the rescued dogs, of Johan Andersson, and of the deep, hidden cruelties that festered in the most innocent of places. His phone buzzed. A text from Tom.

‘Saw the news online. Well done, Dad. Knew you’d get your man.’

Lundström allowed himself a small, weary smile. The snow outside was beginning to fall again, slowly, patiently, covering the world in a blanket of pure, untroubled white. For now, it was enough.

END