“Yes! I’d love that!” exclaimed Katarina. Her face shone like the sun.
“It would be fun, but my dog is in the car, and I don’t want him to get too cold…” Irene started.
“But I’m staying,” Katarina said.
The two young men smiled at her and Irene felt a twinge of worry. Both of these men were extremely attractive—much too attractive.
To recapture the initiative, she said, “So, let’s get right to it. My first question for Marcelo is very personal. Still, it’s extremely important that I have an honest answer.”
She paused to give Felipe the chance to interpret what she just said. Felipe spoke in swift Portuguese. Marcelo raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He nodded as he looked over at Irene.
“Witnesses interviewed about the night Sophie disappeared had the impression that Marcelo and Sophie were together—a romantic couple. Is this true?”
Felipe’s eyes widened a bit, but he quickly interpreted the question. Marcelo laughed softly, but then his expression sobered again. He looked directly at Irene and said something with great emphasis. Felipe did not have to finish interpreting for Irene to understand that he denied this.
“He says that they were, like, good friends, but they weren’t a couple. No bazza. Sophie was a difficult and unusual person. Marcelo didn’t understand her, but they had a good working relationship with The Fire Dance.” Felipe smiled broadly. “Marcelo and I are both in The Fire Dance. You have to come on Wednesday and watch the premiere!”
This was the second invitation to the premiere Irene had received, and she nodded. Her curiosity had been awakened, and now she actually wanted to see it. She had never seen a live dance performance in her life; she’d only watched dance on TV.
“Wednesday? I’m going to skip jiujitsu and come with,” Katarina exclaimed.
“Great! Lots of people will be there!” Felipe said with delight.
Irene wanted to steer the conversation back to the relationship between Marcelo and Sophie, but before she asked a follow-up question, she said to Katarina, “Why don’t you go over to the cafeteria for now. I’ll be done soon.”
“Why?” Katarina protested but reluctantly stood up. Even though she’d enjoyed the capoeira class, she understood that her mother was at the House of Dance to work, nothing else.
Marcelo quickly said something to Felipe.
“Hey, Katarina,” Felipe said. “Marcelo said you can borrow some salsa clothes from us so you don’t have to go home in sweaty clothes.”
“Thanks, that’s really sweet of you.”
She turned at the door and smiled. Her blue eyes were shining in enthusiasm and Irene realized that her daughter was excited about dancing. Irene glanced back at Marcelo and saw that her daughter was not the only one who looked forward to her joining capoeira.
After the door closed behind Katarina, Irene started her line of questioning again. “A few witnesses stated that Marcelo and Sophie were so close at the table that it really looked like they were more than friends.”
Felipe gave Irene a crooked smile. “You just don’t know him…” Then he turned to the Brazilian and interpreted the question.
Marcelo sighed and his dark eyes looked into Irene’s. He ran his fingers through his thick hair, looking worried.
Irene sensed just how disturbing he could be to a woman’s peace of mind. Glad I’m not young anymore, she thought. But a second later, the unwelcome thought came to mind: But Katarina is.
“He says he and Sophie were never in a relationship. They were just really good friends,” Felipe said.
“Did Sophie think so? Did she think they were ‘just friends’?”
Felipe looked at her in surprise, but interpreted the question without comment. Her stomach lurched as she noticed Marcelo’s hesitation before he began to answer. There’s something here, her police instincts told her.
Finally, Marcelo went into a long harangue and Felipe looked completely perplexed. Before he began translating, Irene interrupted to say, “Felipe, I hope you understand that you cannot repeat anything we are talking about in here. It’s all confidential.”
“Of course,” Felipe said, a wounded tone in his voice. “Marcelo is one of my best friends,” he added, as if that added extra weight.
Irene smiled and held up one of her hands in defense. “All right. I realize it was unnecessary for me to say it so directly, but it’s important that I did. It’s part of the regulations when dealing with an interpreter.”
Felipe still looked offended at being accused of being unable to keep things confidential, but he began to interpret what Marcelo had just said.
“He said he never wanted to bazza with Sophie. She was his landlady, you know. They had a good working relationship. He noticed, though, that she wanted more than that. Two times he woke up to find her standing in his room. He never bothered to lock the door, and she’d just walked right in. Nothing happened, though. Both times, she turned and walked back out when she saw he was awake. He did notice that she liked to be, like, say, hugged and stuff.”
“What did he think about it?”
Marcelo was watching her seriously as he answered her question. Even if she did not understand his words, she could tell he was trying to make her understand his complicated relationship with Sophie.
“It was really tough for him. He liked her but he didn’t want…sex. She was attractive and everything, but he didn’t want any trouble. But he could see that she needed…human contact. He believes that Sophie was a very lonely person,” Felipe interpreted.
The door opened and Irene could see Lina and her pink braids. “Can I let them in in five minutes?”
Marcelo held his thumb up and nodded. Irene realized that she was out of time. She thanked Marcelo and Felipe and left.
Katarina was in the cafeteria chattering with her newfound friends in the capoeira group. She didn’t even look up as Irene walked past and out into the darkness.
Sammie was overjoyed when Irene opened the rear door of the car. She let him out for a short break before they drove home. The cold rain soon sent Sammie back into the car. It was definitely much cozier in his warm blanket nest.
The morning fog lay heavy on the fields. At times the fog was so thick the drivers had to creep along the narrow highway heading toward Björkland. Irene was ten minutes late to her meeting with the real estate agent. In spite of the fog she had no trouble finding him—all she had to do was follow the sound. The Hives’ latest album was blasting from the sporty black Toyota. Irene recognized the song and even though his windows were rolled up, she could make out the words perfectly.
Irene parked her Volvo and got out. She walked over to the Toyota and tapped on the window. The guy inside jumped and turned off his stereo at once. He opened his car door and jumped out. His hand was already stretched out to greet her and he had an apologetic smile on his lips.
“Hi, I’m Erik Johansson. I didn’t see you arrive. I was thinking you might have forgotten our appointment.”
“Hello, Irene Huss. I never forget an appointment, but traffic was slowed by the fog.”
Erik Johansson had a firm, quick handshake. His leather jacket was attractive, but not practical in the damp weather. His thin-soled loafers also were not suited for the soggy ground. Irene felt she was properly dressed in her raincoat and rubber boots. Dog owners always keep weatherproof gear close at hand.
Erik Johansson happily made some small talk as he stepped between the puddles. He was just over twenty and barely of average height. His feet were soon going to be soaking wet, a fact he mentioned himself as he happened to slip into a pool of water right in front of the entrance.
He also let loose a few choice words, which he apologized for. Irene laughed and told him she’d heard much worse during the course of her career. She found she liked the good-humored young man, who looked new at his job.
Erik Johansson turned the key in the lock and held the door open for Irene. “Ladies first,” he said.
>
Irene had a feeling of déjà-vu immediately—everything was the same in the large country kitchen; it was even possible that the withered plants on the windowsill had been the same ones sitting there fifteen years ago.
The stale, dusty odors of an empty house hit her.
“We haven’t decorated the interior yet. We haven’t had time. This afternoon we’re going to freshen up the place.”
“Does that mean you haven’t cleaned it, either?”
“Well, of course it needs to be cleaned, too. Nobody buys a house with dead plants and old curtains. We can’t do anything about the wallpaper, but these days the seventies are coming back in style, so maybe it’ll be all right. The floor is in much worse shape. Check it out: scratches from dogs. We really should redo the floors, but the old lady doesn’t want to, even if you’d get the money back after the sale. ‘Just sell the place,’ she told us with a grimace.”
“I see. And how would you redo the interior?” Irene found herself truly curious. She’d never thought of any of this before.
The real estate agent reacted to her question with enthusiasm. He ran his fingers through his blond hair.
“It’ll be a challenge! The old lady is going to have to pay for the cleaning and staging herself, but we’ll take it off her share. The cleaners are coming this afternoon. I’ve gone through the wardrobes and I’ve found some really nice curtains that we can iron and put up. That is, the cleaners will do that. We’re going to replace the broken sink in the bathroom…that might already have been done by now. Then we’ll put some handwoven rugs on the floor. I found them here, too. And on the work counter by the window, I’m going to put a rustic wooden bowl filled with apples. Then the sweet aroma of apples will fill the kitchen and people will think: ‘Oh! A real country kitchen!’” He gestured just like a contented client.
“That’s wonderful!” Irene had to laugh.
“Yes, all that stuff is extremely important these days. In fact, I ended up rebooking the client who was supposed to have come at eleven today. He’s going to come by tomorrow instead. He’ll have a much better impression,” Erik said with a smile.
Something told Irene that this young man would go far in the real estate business.
Before they started the tour of the house, Irene asked, “You haven’t noticed anything odd or out of place here?”
He raised his eyebrows and looked at her, perplexed.
“Odd? Like what?”
“Well, anything…unusually messy, or something that might indicate someone was staying here after the old woman was moved out. Or that just one room was especially clean and free of dust.”
“Oh, I see. Like someone was living here without the old lady knowing about it and then tried to get rid of the traces.” Erik appeared to think about this for a minute, but then he shook his head. “Nope, can’t think of anything unusual in any of the rooms in here. The guy who inherited the place has been checking on it and making sure nothing’s going on—like leaks or a break-in, stuff like that.”
“So you’ve met Frej Eriksson,” Irene stated.
“That’s right, his name was Frej. Yes, he was the one who showed us—that is, my boss and me—the property in the first place. Nice guy. He has no say in what happens to the place because it still belongs to his aunt. He might have agreed to have the floors redone.”
With Erik as her guide, Irene toured the large country home. The interior was characterized by inherited furniture and knick-knacks from the early part of the previous century, as well as a major remodel during the seventies.
Since then, time had stood still. Of course, medallion wallpaper was in style again, at least as far as trendy design magazines had it, but Irene was certain that she was not yet ready to see green velvet wallpaper with gilt impressions on the walls. Perhaps this was a sign that she really was getting older. Fashion and design are not as exciting the second or third time around.
The only item that appeared to be newer was a television. On the bookshelves, there were several photographs of long-dead ancestors, standing stiffly straight in their best black clothes. In the center, there was a large wedding photograph, probably of Ingrid Hagberg and her husband, with the inscription Gefa 52 elegantly printed in a black flourish in one corner. A faded color photo of Ingrid and her husband in their middle age was framed in gold. Judging by the wide shoulder pads and the overflowing frill at her neck, Irene judged that the picture had been taken in the early eighties. The man at her side was tall and strong. Ingrid was smiling happily, while her husband glowered. He had died not long after, and Ingrid had been left to run the farm on her own. At the time of the fire in 1989, Ingrid had already been widowed for years.
Two large color photographs had been placed on the top shelf. One showed a drooling, happy baby and the other a much more serious Frej in his graduation cap. Nowhere in the entire house was there any trace that Sophie might have been held against her will for three weeks.
The stable was large and had been kept in good shape, but the empty stalls gave a feeling of abandonment to the entire building. The other sheds were in much worse condition. There was no sign of anything out of the ordinary.
Irene thanked Erik Johansson for taking the time to show her the farm and wished him the best of luck in making the sale. His whole face lit up.
“It won’t be a problem at all! We have lots of interested parties. We have showings booked for the entire weekend. We’ll just have to hold out until we get the asking price. Or even more!”
“Do you really believe someone will pay eight million kronor for this house?” Irene couldn’t help asking.
“Not for the house itself. It isn’t worth much. But the property is zoned in the city, so the land is extraordinarily valuable. Just think of how many single family homes you could build on twenty-three hectares!”
* * *
On the way back to town, Irene stopped at the Pizzeria Napoli in Brunnsbo. She had two reasons: one, she was hungry and two, she wanted to check out Frej’s alibi about buying pizza the evening that Sophie had died.
The place was small and the aroma of freshly baked pizza hit her the moment she stepped inside. Her stomach growled. There was a table with four high bar stools by the window. If you were a customer, you’d have your back turned to the pizza chefs and have a view of the traffic outside. At the moment, all four chairs were unoccupied. Pizzeria Napoli was not the place you went to enjoy the view. Most of the customers probably bought their pizzas to go.
A man who was twenty-five or so was shoving a pie into the oven with a large wooden paddle. He was as dark as the average Southern European and he was wearing the typical pizza baker uniform: T-shirt and flour-covered jeans. PIZZERIA NAPOLI was printed on the T-shirt in large letters. He smiled widely as he greeted Irene. When Irene asked for the owner, the man yelled “Isthvan!” toward the back of the building.
A deep voice replied and the pizza baker gave Irene a dazzling smile.
“My cousin. Owns here.” He gestured to include the entire contents of the pizza joint.
The man who came out from the back was older and heftier. The man gave his name as Isthvan Gür as he shook hands with Irene. When Irene identified herself as a police officer, the two men exchanged rapid glances, but neither of them said anything.
Irene took out a photograph of Frej, an enlargement of his most recent passport picture. She showed it to the men and asked if they recognized him. Isthvan Gür glanced at the photo and shook his head. The cousin took a good long look and then smiled.
“Him I know. Peppe! It is Peppe!”
“Peppe?” Irene asked, confused.
“Him I joke with. He buy always pizza pepperoni. Him I joke and call Peppe cause of pizza pepperoni.”
The cousin’s happy expression vanished as he caught sight of the owner’s look. In this establishment it was obvious that one should never discuss the customers with the police under any circumstances. Irene decided to ignore the reason behind this attitude and i
nstead get some answers to her questions.
“Do you know Peppe’s real name?” she asked.
“No, I joke call him Peppe. But he tired of pizza now.”
“Doesn’t he come here any more?”
“Yes, but now he buy kebab special. Extra everything!” the cousin said, pointing proudly at the menu plastered to the wall.
Irene read: large pita with extra kebab meat, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, pepperoni, onion, goat cheese. Choice of sauce. 60 kronor. She felt her mouth start to water.
“I’d like to try one of those,” she said.
Isthvan’s gloomy expression eased up slightly. Without saying anything, he began to slice kebab meat from the rotating spit over the oven. He filled a large pita with the condiments promised on the menu. While he worked, Irene continued to question the younger cousin.
“Do you remember the last time he was here?”
The young man seemed to ponder this question before answering. “One, two weeks. Lots people come. Don’t know.” He shrugged in apology.
“But he must come here often if you’re able to recognize him,” Irene stated.
“Sure. Know him, sure. Usual he here, one, two time every week. He like pizza and kebab.”
“Hope you like it, too,” Isthvan interrupted them in his deep voice. He smiled slightly and handed Irene the warm kebab sandwich.
“Could I have a Ramlösa mineral water as well?” Irene asked.
Irene took her food to one of the bar stools by the window. A few customers had come in while she’d been talking to the pizza baker, and now the men were busy filling other orders.
Irene’s cell phone rang after she’d barely eaten half of her sandwich. She saw Tommy’s name on the display.
“Can you come directly to Högsbo?” he asked.
“Sure. What’s up and where should we meet?”
“Let’s meet where Sophie’s remains were discovered. I’ve found out some interesting things about this area.”
The Fire Dance Page 13