* * *
The grey layer of fog was still hanging heavily near the tops of the trees as Irene parked on the narrow road.
She buttoned her jacket before she got out of the car. It seemed as if the fog was trying to sneak into her collar as it swirled around her neck. Perhaps it was this just this dismal place that gave her the creeps. She stuck her hands deep into her pockets while she waited for Tommy. A few minutes later, he drove up and parked behind her car.
“Have you taken a look at the fire scene?” he asked as he jumped out.
“No, I was waiting for you.”
They walked together around the abandoned tire manufacturing plant and over to the remains of the old ramshackle shed, now just a heap of blackened boards.
“Unbelievable that there was so much of her left,” Tommy said.
There wasn’t much to look at beyond the sorrowful sight. They stood silently for a minute and took in the desolate atmosphere.
“Now let me show you what else I’ve found,” Tommy said.
He walked back toward the cars, then past them and turned onto a narrow side street. On one side, there was a short concrete building with tiny broken windows. On one of the walls, there was a faded sign: DANIELSSON BROS cement works. Next to the building were piles of abandoned cement pipes.
Approximately ten meters from the former cement works lay the dilapidated remains of a wooden building. Two of its outer walls were still standing, though they were covered in soot, much like the cement foundation.
“This building burned down!” exclaimed Irene.
“Yep. Beginning of June this year. The building had been abandoned years ago, and it was scheduled to be torn down like the other ones around here. Arson. No suspects. And there’s more. Come with me.”
Irene noticed a bulldozer parked alongside the burned building that would obviously soon be gone.
Tommy kept walking a few hundred meters along the narrow streets and stopped before a piece of land that had been scraped clean.
“They’ve already gotten rid of it, but this had been a wooden building. At one time, it was a car mechanic’s shop. It burned down in April. That was also arson. No leads. Suspect unknown.”
“Any more around here the past few years?”
“No, none. Other than the one in which Sophie died.”
“Strange. Three arsons in the space of six months.”
“Does this situation remind you of anything?” Tommy asked, his voice filled with urgency.
Irene tried to think what he was hinting at, but she couldn’t figure it out. She shook her head.
“The arsons at Björkil! There were many other fires about then, and the papers were all writing about a possible pyromaniac,” he said, with triumph.
“But…but it can’t be the same arsonist,” Irene objected, astonished.
“Maybe not. Still, I was thinking about the arsons at Björkil, and I decided to find out if there were others around here, and I found these two. Actually, there were also three container fires in August and September—not here exactly, but on Marklandsgatan. Three in one week. Perhaps they’re not connected with these fires, but it’s not more than a kilometer from here.” Tommy paused theatrically before saying, “They were also arson.”
Irene nodded as she reflected on this new information. Everything would have to be looked at anew. A thought hit her.
“Do you think that Sophie’s killer knew about these other two fires in the area? Perhaps he set fire to the shed hoping that her body would be totally consumed and never found. The remains of the fire would be bulldozed away, just like they’ve done here.” Irene pointed to the empty property, where the contours of a foundation were still visible.
“It’s possible.”
They walked back to their cars, each lost in thought.
They did not run into a single living being. They could hear the noise from the midday traffic on the freeway, but here everything was silent and deserted, waiting for the bulldozers and the final obliteration.
* * *
A relatively new red Renault was parked next to the sidewalk in front of Sophie’s mansion. Probably Frej’s, Irene thought as she pushed open the squeaky front gate. Or, I should say, his aunt’s, she corrected herself.
A weak sun was bravely doing its best to shine through the veils of clouds, but the last horizontal rays of sunshine didn’t lighten the sight of the mansion’s decay. The paving stones leading to the front door were treacherous from fallen leaves and moss. The mansion seemed to loom in a melancholy way as she came nearer the entrance.
She pressed the doorbell by the entrance. The angry sound of the signal echoed behind the door, and a long time passed before she heard the sound of footsteps approaching.
Frej opened the door and could hardly be described as enthusiastic when he saw her. They greeted each other and Irene stepped over the threshold.
The mahogany chest-high dado rail and the sepia carpets gave the impression of twilight in the large entry hall. There were many doorways along the hall, and at the end was a grandfather clock and a chest of drawers made of dark wood.
Immediately inside the entrance reigned an elegant floor-toceiling mirror, covered with a thick layer of grime that gave Irene’s image a matte, indistinct appearance. To the immediate right of the entrance was a closed door leading to the basement—at least as far as the small, bronze sign could be believed. To the left, there was a large hat rack, and a few meters farther along, a staircase to the upper floors. All kinds of clothes were tossed at random onto the hat rack. Since just two men lived in the house now, Irene concluded that the brand new, elegant, light brown jacket with a faux fur collar must have belonged to Sophie. She must have also bought the pointed ankle boots with extra narrow low heels.
They were carefully arranged beneath the shelf, waiting for their owner. The sight of the clothes made Irene feel a little sad. Perhaps Sophie had bought them to wear at the premiere of her Fire Dance.
The house smelled musty and Irene could hear grit crunch under her shoes. The parquet floor, much the worse for wear, creaked and was slightly springy as she walked across it.
“Where do you want to start?” asked Frej.
“You don’t have to lead me around. I can take a look by myself,” Irene replied.
“All right. I’ll be in my apartment. Top floor.”
Frej headed up the stairs and Irene waited until she heard him close a door. Then she stepped to the basement door and opened it. The strong stench of mold and moisture swept up the staircase to her nose. She fumbled for the light switch on the inside of the basement wall.
She found it, but when she pushed down the button, nothing happened. The light bulb was out. She’d have to go back to her car for the flashlight in her glove compartment. Perhaps Frej had another light bulb on hand or maybe she could borrow a flashlight from him. She closed the basement door and walked into the kitchen visible through one of the doorways.
Irene stopped and looked the kitchen over. Without a doubt, this was the original kitchen from the time the house was built. The cabinets reached all the way to the ceiling and had beautifully carved edges and corners. They’d been lacquered in dirty beige, but chips had fallen off in many places. The stove and the refrigerator had been updated—at least the ochre color led to that conclusion.
There was a smooth glass globe hanging from the ceiling and a similar lamp attached to the wall above the stove. There were no countertops and no dishwasher. A glance through the filthy windows showed Irene a few overgrown raspberry bushes straggling in front of a dark green hedge. The kitchen stank of leftovers and rotting food. A stack of dishes was piled in the sink.
Irene opened the refrigerator door and then closed it as fast as she could. It was empty but it smelled like a moldy dishrag. Obviously neither Frej nor Marcelo used this kitchen.
Although it might be considered for landmark status, the kitchen needed to be scrubbed from floor to ceiling. Irene wasn’t exactly a pedantic housekeeper hers
elf, but this was probably the filthiest kitchen she had ever seen.
As she walked over the brown linoleum floor, the soles of her shoes stuck and made a smacking sound each time she lifted a foot.
The next door opened to a bathroom with a fairly new shower. The stench of ground in dirt and urine made Irene gag. How could a woman ever live in such a filthy environment? Irene asked herself. She herself didn’t mind a few dust bunnies or a few spills, but this was something else again. Her mother Gerd would declare it “a trash heap unfit for humans” and sniff. Then she’d get a bottle of bleach, a few huge washrags and a big bucket of steaming hot water.
The door after that revealed a large dining room aligned with the living room. Heavy oak furniture dominated the interior. Gloomy, brownish red carpets did not lessen the depressing effect. The entire room was covered in a thick layer of dust. The furniture must have been chosen by Anna-Greta Lindeman’s parents when the house was new. Except for a few pieces of artwork that were more modern, it appeared that the entire arrangement had stood undisturbed for over a century.
The last doorway in the hall was beneath the stairs to the upper floors. It led to a spacious, well-lit room, which had probably once been a library since there were floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases along three walls. The light from the corner window fell onto a large mahogany desk, on which there was a computer and a printer. Irene knew that the technicians had gone through the computer without finding anything of interest, but this room still gave her some things to explore. The shorter wall had an unmade bed—a simple pine bed from IKEA. The sheets were bright pea green with large yellow flowers and Irene suspected they came from the same store as the bed. A sour smell, a vaguely familiar one, came from the bed, but it was hard to identify. Irene did not find the bed itself of much interest. But the bookshelf behind it was.
Sophie had cleared all the books from the shelves, except for the two uppermost ones. The reason those were left alone was probably because they were too high to reach, even standing on the bed.
Sophie had arranged all her belongings on these shelves.
The lowermost one held all her shoes. There were a number of toe shoes in pink and white silk, as well as black and white ballet shoes in leather and a few pairs of sturdy shoes with heels. Irene realized that these latter shoes were also dance shoes. Closest to the door was a pair of huge black boots. Irene wondered if these were the ones that Sophie had been wearing when she met her fifteen years before. Considering the condition they were in, it was not out of the question.
Above the shoes was a shelf of knit leg warmers in various colors and thicknesses. In a clear plastic box, Irene could see hairbands and bobby pins. On the next shelf, Sophie had placed her tights and socks. Sweaters, leotards and other smaller articles of clothing were on the next level. At the top, there were jeans, pants and skirts.
Every item was neatly folded and stacked in orderly piles.
Each pile of clothes was of a single color: a red pile, a white one, a black one, and so on. Irene contemplated the arrangement with admiration. The woman who couldn’t even clean her toilet had a meticulous way of sorting her dance outfits and accessories.
But where were her other clothes? Irene looked around, but saw no dresser or a wardrobe. On impulse, she walked over to the mahogany desk by the corner window and pulled open a drawer. Inside there was a heap of panties all jumbled together. The drawer next to it had bras and sports bras.
Only one of the drawers had anything remotely connected to what people usually kept in their desks: pens and pencils, dirty erasers and an unusually long ruler at the bottom.
Irene raised her eyes to the wall next to the window where Sophie had taped up large sheets of paper close together to form a surface of almost four square meters. Every sheet had five lines drawn straight across. Between and on the lines were marked points and tracks. The pattern was incomprehensible and appeared completely random. Sophie had placed a banner across the collection, where she’d carefully written THE FIRE DANCE. Obviously, this was part of Sophie’s “saga in dance”.
Perhaps Frej knew what the mysterious signs meant. She decided to head upstairs and visit Frej in his attic apartment.
The stairs creaked loudly beneath each step she took. On the second floor, she decided to go ahead and take a quick look around. The staircase opened up into a light, airy hallway. The only piece of furniture she saw there was an unusually long sofa placed against one wall, what gave the hallway the look of a desolate waiting room in an abandoned train station. Across from the stairway, there was a balcony door between large windows.
There were six closed doors in the hallway. Irene opened the closest one on her left and saw that she’d ended up in Ernst Malmborg’s studio. A huge control board with regulators and buttons, microphones, tape recorders and all kinds of instruments sat there untouched. If it hadn’t been for the thick layer of dust over everything, one could imagine that the musicians had just stepped out for coffee and would be back soon.
The room next to it was smaller, but it held just one grand piano with its bench. The room was also extremely cold. There were no curtains on the windows or pictures on the walls. Perhaps Ernst thought it would disturb his concentration while composing.
She closed this door carefully and opened the door beside it. A large double bed with a faded pink cover dominated the room. Probably Ernst’s bedroom. On one wall, there was a huge oil painting.
Irene took a few quick steps into the room to take a closer look and saw that it was a portrait of Anna-Greta Lidman in her glory days. The actress’s long blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders with a lock of hair reaching down to one of her breasts. The painting ended just above where her nipples would be, and her upper body was nude. Her blue eyes glittered, hinting at the joy of life, and an elusive smile played on her sensual lips.
Alcohol, depression, pills and natural aging had broken her. Irene felt a strong sense of sympathy for the woman in the painting. No one can win the battle against age. It was lost from day one. Irene nodded slightly both at the woman in the painting and at her own thoughts.
A voice from behind made her jump.
“I thought you were coming up to see me.”
Irene whirled around and had difficulty hiding how startled she’d been.
“Did I scare you?” asked Frej, raising one of his eyebrows. He was not able to conceal the pleased tone in his voice.
Irene couldn’t help but smile at him.
“I thought I’d take a look around as long as I was here. Then I wouldn’t have to come back,” she said.
“Okay. Have you looked at Marcelo’s room yet?”
“No, I haven’t.”
He gestured for her to follow him. They walked across the hall. Frej pointed to the room beside the staircase and said, “Toilet’s over there. Has a bathtub, too. The next room is a guest room, but, like, no one has stayed there in the past twenty years or so.”
He continued to the door nearest the balcony and opened it. He swept his arm in an exaggerated gesture of welcome.
Irene stayed put.
“Marcelo’s not home, is he?”
“Who cares? He’s almost never here.” Frej gave Irene’s back a slight nudge.
“Hello? Marcelo?” Irene called out to be on the safe side.
There was no answer, so as long as she had the chance, Irene decided to do a quick look through of Marcelo’s digs.
They stood in a large room functioning as a combination kitchen and living room. On the other side of the room, a door was half open.
The kitchen contained a three-in-one with two cabinets, a refrigerator and two stove plates. Irene recognized the setup since the police break room had one just like it. A small kitchen table and two chairs were set against the wall.
The table was covered by a worn, wax cloth with blue checks. Irene thought again of her mother. If Gerd could see this tablecloth, she’d immediately grab a dishcloth and a spray bottle.
The mi
nimal countertop was covered in dirty cups and saucers, and crumbs crackled underfoot as they walked across the floor. Obviously, Sophie and Marcelo shared the same approach to house cleaning.
Next to the window were a sofa and two mismatched chairs around a coffee table. The table had no cloth to hide its scratched and worn surface. A candle stub had been jammed into a wine bottle there, and melted wax and water rings had permanently destroyed the finish. A number of cigarette burns marred the arms of both the sofa and the chairs.
“Does Marcelo smoke?” asked Irene. She pointed at the burns.
“Smoke? No, why? Oh, the holes. He didn’t make them. That was Ernst’s first wife. The one you saw in the painting. My mom said she used to forget she was smoking when she was drunk. Dangerous, of course. It could, like, set the house on fire…”
He stopped in the middle of his sentence and gave Irene a look from the corner of his eye, before he turned around and pushed the door open all the way.
“His bedroom,” he said shortly.
The blinds had been pulled down to keep the room in darkness. Irene reached for the light switch. The faint light from a rice paper lamp barely illuminated the room. The only furniture was the bed, the same kind Sophie had, a worn pine chair and a small dresser. As Irene expected, the bed wasn’t made. A strong scent of aftershave hung in the room. Frej opened a wallpapered door to reveal a surprisingly large closet. All of Marcelo’s clothes were hanging there.
Shoes and random items were scattered on the floor. In the middle of the mess was a large cardboard box. Irene peered inside and saw miscellaneous papers and photographs. She would have liked to go through the box, but couldn’t with Frej hanging over her shoulder.
As they were about to leave, some photographs pinned to the wall above Marcelo’s bed caught Irene’s attention. She stopped abruptly and Frej bumped into her back.
“What the hell?” he asked, surprised.
“Those pictures,” Irene said. She strode toward the bed and carefully removed them from the wall.
Three photographs. All in color and all showing a large fire.
The Fire Dance Page 14