He got up every morning at six a.m., had his breakfast and then took the streetcar to his former residence. Like the rest of the Malmborg family, Ernst had never bothered to get a driver’s license. He would spend the entire day at Änggården with his beloved grand piano, which obviously would never fit in the one-room apartment in Kortedala. So if the mountain could not come to Mohammed, Mohammed went to the mountain. “I have to work,” Ernst would tell Angelika, and though she was against this arrangement and had temperamental outbursts, she couldn’t come up with a better solution.
Strangely enough, Anna-Greta did not attack Ernst with accusations when he was with her. She seemed to become calmer and more secure. She wouldn’t speak much with Ernst, but she would come into the room when he worked and sit down in a chair by the door. She would sit for hours without speaking, which didn’t disturb Ernst in the least. At times, she would doze off, but the main thing for her was just to be in his presence. Ernst would talk to me about this sometimes on the phone. He was grateful she’d not made a fuss.
Angelika, however, was the exact opposite. She seemed to enjoy the spotlight and her prominence in the tabloids. She would go out of her way to get more publicity. Relatively quickly, it was apparent that she was much too young and intellectually unable to understand such a complicated person as Ernst. Although, to tell the truth, Ernst was simple enough. Just leave him alone with his music and he’d be perfectly content.
Angelika’s desire to be out on the town and attending parties was something he didn’t understand. A few months before the child was born, I noticed that Ernst was spending more and more time at his former residence. He only called me up from Änggården, never from Angelika’s apartment. And that’s where he was when Angelika called him and said it was time to go to the maternity ward. She was on her way to Östra Hospital, so it was easy for Ernst to hop on the streetcar for the hour-long ride there. He told me much later that he went to Anna-Greta and told her why he needed to leave. He said she looked at him and her expression showed her mind was clear.
“So, it’s time,” she said, without a trace of her speech impediment.
Ernst thought she meant it was time for the child’s birth and agitatedly replied that is was. Later, he realized she was speaking of her own suicide. So, at the same time Sophie was being born, Anna-Greta died. She took a huge handful of pills and washed them down with vodka. Then she put a plastic bag over her head. Apparently, her death was pain-free and peaceful. She fell asleep. I had to keep pointing this out to Ernst the next few days. He grieved for Anna-Greta although he was not plagued by any feelings of guilt.
“Anna-Greta always used pills and alcohol to escape. Not me,” he said.
His grief over Anna-Greta was tempered with his joy over Sophie. He was truly happy to have a daughter. At the same time, his relationship with Angelika began to improve now that Anna-Greta was out of the picture. Strangely, neither Ernst nor Anna-Greta had ever discussed getting a divorce. Anna-Greta had not written a will, and since he was her only heir, as her surviving spouse he inherited everything. But again, he had to face the torrent of criticism that he was responsible for her death.
I have to agree with Ernst, who said, “Anna-Greta spent fifteen years killing herself slowly.”
I encouraged him to accept his inheritance. Of course, Angelika did too. Her cute little nose had sniffed out a heap of money. She had no compunctions at all about moving into the mansion and becoming Mrs. Malmborg the Second. Ernst had his doubts, however. Although he appeared unable to cope with everyday reality, he was not an idiot. He’d realized a thing or two about Angelika. So, for the sake of his beloved daughter, he agreed to marriage, but not before Angelika signed a prenuptial agreement.
Sophie had barely reached her first birthday when the marriage began to crumble. Ernst found out that Angelika had been having an affair with a French dancer. She denied it, but Ernst refused to be convinced. He knew by then that she could not be trusted. Six months later, she met that dimwit Magnus Ericksson and declared that she wanted a divorce. Ernst said that at that moment he had felt nothing but relief. He was also sad for Sophie’s sake, but decided to make sure that he would stay in the picture.
I advised him to contact one of the best lawyers in Sweden, Antonio Bonetti, who was practicing in Göteborg. There was a bitter court fight. Angelika insisted that she did not understand what she was doing when she signed the prenuptial agreement. She demanded that she receive half of the property. Ernst would then receive sole custody of Sophie. Ernst may have agreed to go along with it, but the lawyer Bonetti pointed out that a child always has the right to custody by both parents. He demolished Angelika’s demands.
The final judgment was split custody and not a single dime to Angelika. She was enraged, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. So things went along fine for a number of years after that. Angelika and her new husband lived on Linnégatan. It only took a few minutes by streetcar for Sophie to go to Ernst in Änggården.
The problems only really began again once that blockhead Ericksson gambled away all the money the family had. They were forced to leave their nice apartment and move to that shack in the sticks—far from the big lights of the city. Sophie had to change schools, and things weren’t going well with the shared custody agreement. She couldn’t stay with Ernst every other week, as she wouldn’t be able to get to school. Finally, they worked out a situation where she spent every weekend with him.
This is how things were up to the night of that fateful fire in 1989. I remember each and every word Ernst said when he called me up and, not even greeting me, exclaimed, “They think she did it!”
At first I didn’t realize it was him. His voice was weak and trembling—not at all his usual calm demeanor.
“Who are they? And who is she?” I asked.
“The police! They think Sophie set fire to the house—on purpose!” He was so upset, his voice failed him. Once I calmed him down, I managed to coax out the story of what happened. You probably know more about this aspect of it than I do, but according to Ernst, Sophie had been called to the police station repeatedly. Angelika had accompanied her, as well as someone from the Children’s Mental Health Department.
Ernst was in despair. He had a long talk with his ex-wife for the first time since the divorce. According to her, the reason for the repeated questioning was that the house had caught fire shortly after Sophie had left it. Sophie refused to say a word. Ernst had said Sophie told him that she was not responsible for the fire.
A few weeks later, Sophie moved in with Ernst and changed schools. She visited Angelika and Frey every other weekend. Angelika complained loudly about this new arrangement, but after a while, she noticed it was working for her, too. She no longer had any costs relating to Sophie. It could be that mother and daughter were able to forge a better relationship via their mutual love of dance.
I would see Ernst and Sophie at irregular intervals. A year or two could pass between visits. Our phone calls also became more sporadic. Ernst no longer had the same need to talk with me. He was content in his life with Sophie. As far as women went, he had a few long-term relationships, but he never lived with another woman again. Mrs. Larsson took care of his household and Sophie was there for companionship. Things were going fairly well. It must have been a shock for Sophie when she found out that Ernst was suffering from advanced colon cancer. He was doubtful of the outcome, but finally agreed to an operation. He refused any radiation or chemo treatments.
“I can feel I’m close to the end, so there’s no need to add any extra suffering,” he told me.
The operation went well, but Ernst could not accept that he had to wear a colostomy bag. He thought it was disgusting. Sophie learned how to take care of him. She and Mrs. Larsson took care of Ernst during the last months of his life. A district nurse came to help them and made sure he had his injections and medicine.
Ernst passed away peacefully in his own home on Midsummer Day in 2002. Sophie and Mrs.
Larsson were by his side. I went to the funeral, which was the last time I saw Sophie before that unfortunate evening last September at the Book Fair. I know you have my testimony regarding what happened that night. The last thing I remember about Sophie is how the ceiling lights made her black hair glisten as she walked toward the stairs. Then the elevator doors closed and I never saw her again.
Neither Sophie nor her father was easy to understand. Still, I believe I knew them better than most. They weren’t aggressive people. They reacted the same way to conflicts: they pulled away. Both you and I must believe that Sophie’s murder is connected to the fire that she was suspected of setting fifteen years ago.
Notice I write: “suspected of”. I believe wholeheartedly that she did not do it. Therefore, I see no logical reason for her to have been held captive and to be killed in cold blood because of it. It could be interpreted as punishment for the arson, but if she didn’t set the fire, there would be nothing to punish. Perhaps it will be shown that her murder had nothing to do with that fire after all.
If you have any further questions, please contact me whenever you need to talk. I know that Viktor Borgsten has provided you with all my telephone numbers and addresses.
Yours sincerely, Max Franke
* * *
“Angelika Malmborg-Ericksson is coming over at two,” Tommy said.
“In that case, I’d like to sit in,” Irene said, too quickly.
Tommy lifted an eyebrow and grinned provocatively. To her annoyance, Irene felt her face redden.
“Here. Read this. Max Franke just sent it to me. There’s quite a bit about Angelika in there, too.”
Tommy took the stack of paper and began to read.
It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Tommy; it was Angelika she didn’t trust. No man should be allowed to be alone with her at any length of time. Irene knew she was being absolutely ridiculous, but she still remembered the pheromone-filled atmosphere of the office the last time Angelika laid eyes on Tommy. Of course, that was fifteen years ago, but Irene had no illusions about Tommy’s vulnerability—he was recently divorced and so far he had no steady partner. Irene had no idea about any of Angelika’s current romances besides the rumor she was involved with a high-level executive from Volvo. Irene knew, however, that that woman was always on the prowl.
Irene stood and decided to go to forensics to see if they had any new information about the fire.
Svante Malm’s freckled face lit up when he saw Irene.
“Hey there! You must be psychic. I was just going to give you a call. Now I won’t have to,” he said happily.
“Anything new?” asked Irene.
“Yes. As far as Sophie’s clothing is concerned, we now know that she was wearing a studded leather jacket when she disappeared. We can say with absolute certainty that she was not wearing it when she died. We found these instead.”
He pulled out the obligatory plastic bags from his desk drawer and laid them on the surface of his desk. Irene could see some long, small items, flat and irregular in form.
“What are those?” she asked.
“Don’t know for sure, but they’re not studs. They were found on the body and we believe they were decorations on a piece of clothing she was wearing. We are going to clean them so it will be easier to guess what kind of clothing they came from.”
Irene tried to think. Clothing decorations? Jewelry? Something stirred in the back of her mind, but she wasn’t able to catch it. She pushed that aside for the moment and instead said, “Perhaps it was a theatrical or dance costume. Her mother is coming this afternoon and she might know what kind of clothing Sophie was wearing.”
“Yes, ask. The analysis of the rest of the scene is clear. Sophie was lying on a polyurethane mattress. The killer had piled a heap of paper and textiles over her. Probably he poured out some gasoline and set her on fire. The course of the fire was quick and explosive. He’d put a thick woolen fabric over the lower half of the body, which, thankfully, saved it from complete cremation. This fabric was badly burned, but parts of it that were beneath the body were not damaged. An authentic Persian-style carpet, actually, according to our carpet expert, Ahmed—extremely valuable. Let’s see…”
Svante flipped through a notebook and his face lit up when he found the information he was looking for. “Here it is! Probably an antique Karabagh. Worth between twenty and thirty thousand kronor, depending on size.”
“So our suspect set it on fire. But of course you use what you have. What other flammable material did you find?”
“Some woolen blankets. They are more difficult to burn than synthetics or cotton. Newspaper and the remains of patterned cotton. Curtains or sheets—most likely sheets.”
“So, we have a quality carpet and expensive blankets. Simple, thin mattress. Cotton fragments that we don’t know much about,” Irene summarized.
“Exactly.”
“Did the tire tracks give any leads?”
“No, unfortunately. We didn’t discover the body until Monday afternoon. The weekend had been a busy one, so a case of arson in an old shed that was scheduled to be torn down anyway was not high on our priorities. The rain was pouring down on Sunday and Monday, so all possible tracks had disappeared in the mud.”
“Too bad. I still need to find out where Sophie had been kept for almost three weeks. Even if she’d been drugged, where could a person be hidden for that long without the neighbors noticing?”
“Look for a place that’s out of the way or abandoned. Preferably both.”
The farm. It hadn’t been searched because it was assumed Ingrid Hagberg was still living there. Not until Irene had talked to Frej had she learned that the place had been empty for three months. There was nothing but fields and forests around the house. Even if people were moving about in the village of Björkil, the house was set off from the road and difficult for the neighbors to see. Once it got dark, the killer could have easily driven to Högsbo Industrial Area with a drugged Sophie, carried her into the building and then set her on fire. And in the wee hours, no witnesses had seen anything suspicious in the area or even noticed the fire. The remains of the fire were discovered the next day.
“You could be right. We should take a look at the farm. The old woman who owned it has been hospitalized for three months. Someone else could have been using her house to keep Sophie prisoner,” Irene said.
Frej. He’d said himself that he watched the place for his aunt. He had a car. What kind of motive would he have? Why would he keep his sister—half-sister—prisoner for three weeks? Why would he drug her and then kill her? At the time of the fire that killed his father, he and Sophie seemed to have a normal relationship. She’d even let him move into her mansion.
Sophie’s murder had been terrible and full of hate. She’d been abused and drugged. Why would Frej do something like that? Money? No, he would not inherit her wealth. Angelika would.
Many people involved with the investigation had stated that Angelika was always on the lookout for money. Could Angelika be behind the murder of her own daughter? She had a car. She had a motive. Would she have been able to carry it out? Not likely unless Frej assisted her. Would he let her use his aunt’s house to keep Sophie prisoner and eventually kill her? It seemed too bizarre, even for Irene, who had investigated a number of horrible cases over the years.
“Hello! Earth to Irene!” Svante said.
Irene started. “Sorry, I was thinking about what you said. I got lost in various theories,” Irene excused herself.
“I’d be glad if I set you on the right course to solve this case. I hope we get this guy.”
“We will. Absolutely.”
Irene tried to sound more confident than she felt.
* * *
During lunch, Irene and Tommy discussed what Svante Malm had found out. Absentmindedly, Tommy stirred his spoon in the cup of watery stuff the cafeteria served under the label minestrone. His only comfort was the apple cake with vanilla sauce for dessert.
“An empty house available to several of the people involved. We definitely ought to investigate the farm. Do we need a search warrant?”
Irene thought about it. “That’ll take some time. I have a better idea. But first, let’s go get some baguettes. This stuff is not going to get us through the day.”
Irene went online and began to search through the names of real estate agents active in the Björkil area. The third agent hit a bull’s-eye. Ingrid Hagberg’s property was for sale and listed at the Berzén Agency.
The advertisement included several color photographs and a description:
Large horse farm. 18ha pasture/fields, 5ha forest. Hunting rights. Home built 1921 and thoroughly renovated 1972–74. 310 square meters living space. Landscaped. New heating system. Kombi for wood/ electricity installed 1998. Ground floor: spacious country kitchen, living room, dining room, TV room, bathroom including toilet. Additions in 1974 include scullery, storage closet, laundry, furnace room and sauna. Second floor: four bedrooms, large hallway with balcony, bathroom with toilet. Other buildings: 520 square meters. Stable with 10 stalls. Large, wonderful orchard. Quiet location close to bus stop and shops. Just 5 miles from Center. Must see! Price: 8 million kronor or best offer.
Ingrid Hagberg would be wealthy once her property was sold. In her present condition, however, she couldn’t take much joy in the money. Frej would probably inherit it before long.
Irene called the real estate agency. A young man with an energetic voice picked up quickly. He introduced himself as Erik Johansson. His voice lost a great deal of its energy when he realized that Irene was not a potential customer. After a bit of negotiation and a little police jargon on Irene’s side, he promised to show her the property. He would not be able to meet her until the next day at the earliest. They agreed on nine a.m. at the house.
The Fire Dance Page 11