The Fire Dance

by Helene Tursten

  “Why did Hoffa send these pictures to us?” Jonny began excitedly. “And how the hell did he get them in the first place? How did he or one of his MC bandits just happen to be in the area with a camera the moment Milan attacked Roberto? It seems…”

  “Drugs,” Hannu said quietly.

  “Drugs?” Jonny repeated, as if he’d never run across narcotics before.

  “Of course. Hell’s Angels have been running drugs throughout Western Sweden. Milan is supported by gangs from the Balkans and Poland, who work with the Banditos. According to the Narcotics Division, the Hell’s Angels are angry that the Eastern mafia is dumping cheaper drugs into the market and grabbing a larger share.”

  “What the hell…Hell’s Angels and the Eastern Mafia…Why would Milan kill little Roberto if the battle is on that level? He was just a little fish,” Jonny protested.

  “That’s right,” Hannu said. “A little fish who didn’t know his place. Milan was boastful and was attracting attention to himself. Twenty years old and feeling like he’s king of the hill. Sold drugs in an area he thought was his. Milan wanted to set an example and make sure the other small kings got the message that the Eastern Mafia was nothing to mess with. So Roberto was killed.”

  “Okay, but that means that we are now back to square one. Why was a Hell’s Angels member photographing Roberto’s murder?” Jonny asked stubbornly.

  “They wanted to get rid of Milan. Perhaps they were just following him to kill him later. But then they had a better idea when they managed to get a picture of Milan at just the right moment. It’s much easier to have us send him up the river than to get involved themselves.”

  “Milan fell into his own trap,” the Superintendent said contentedly.

  “With just a little help from our friends Hell’s Angels,” Birgitta added.

  Her comment resulted in a sour look from her boss, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he clapped his hands energetically and said, “All of you know what to do next. Let’s conclude this investigation.”

  Everyone in the room started to get up from their chairs, but Andersson looked directly at Irene. When she caught his eye, he said, “Irene, you stay here. I need to have a little chat with you.”

  Jonny turned in the doorway and said in a stage whisper, “Someone’s gonna get a spanking!”

  With a sneer, he walked out.

  “One of these days I’m going to ring that bastard’s neck,” Irene hissed so quietly that only Tommy could hear her.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Yep. All we need is a place to bury the body.”

  Irene spent Friday afternoon writing a report about her fateful coffee klatch with Ingrid Hagberg. When she was finished, she had to write reports about her meetings with the women in Milan’s family. It would be late before she could go home for the evening. A few days earlier, she’d promised her mother that she would take her to the cemetery to put lights on her father’s grave. “You can at least visit your pappa one day a year. At the very least on All Saint’s Day,” her mother, Gerd, had said. Irene realized that she would not be able to make it. After a great deal of calling around, she finally reached Krister, who promised to bring his mother-in-law to the cemetery before lunch. He was going to work the evening shift, and then he had the rest of the weekend off.

  Irene had spent the entire previous day phoning people.

  Angelika was not all that upset, but seemed distracted as she listened to Irene’s apology about what had happened at Ingrid’s apartment. Frej, on the other hand, ranted about “the fascist police” and was actually pretty nasty about it. However, compared to the nurse at the assisted living facility, he was fairly easy going. The nurse was quite clear about her opinion.

  Irene also had little to say when she was alone with her boss. It did not seem to be the right time to mention the visit fifteen years before at Ingrid’s home. She simply reiterated that she’d just hoped to make the afternoon a bit more pleasant for an old lady by having an old-fashioned coffee date. Andersson snorted and told her very clearly just what he thought about her idea.

  After that, to Irene’s relief, he’d changed the subject to the gang murder. He decided that she and Birgitta would go interview Milan’s female relatives who had attended the Ramadan party the night of the murder. Hannu and Jonny would go interview the male relatives. Meanwhile, Fredrik Stridh was assigned to a new case, which had come in the day before. It was high priority since it dealt with an underage boy of about eight or ten and his sports trainer. The newspapers had already gotten wind of the story and had run a headline in large letters: PEDO TRAINER! Irene could not help but wonder if the headline writers actually double-checked what they wrote. It certainly had an unfortunate double meaning.

  On Friday morning, then, Birgitta and Irene were joined by a female interpreter, and they all headed to an apartment building in the district of Hammarkullen.

  Milan’s relatives were all Bosnian Muslims. He had moved to Sweden with his mother and four siblings during the war that followed the breakup of Yugoslavia. The father of the family had disappeared during the war. The family arrived with two of the mother’s brothers and their families.

  The uncles had started a greengrocery, which became successful as the years went by. As far as the police could determine, they were honest, hard-working small businessmen. Unfortunately, they were probably going to be charged with perjury and had already been informed of the possibility. Both uncles had blanched behind their rather large mustaches, but neither of them changed their testimony. None of the women did, either.

  Milan had been twelve when he arrived at his new homeland. His classmates were afraid of him because he was strong and aggressive. He was “respected” right away.

  According to his teachers, he was intelligent, but not a scholar. During his last year of formal schooling, he rarely showed up in class.

  He’d started with petty theft and vandalism. Before too long, he and his friends became true gangsters and began to bring in some real money for the first time in their lives.

  Milan was clever and could think quickly, a plus in his line of work. He took to his new profession like a fish to water.

  Now he had money, excitement and respect.

  For the past few years, he’d been one of the major players in the Göteborg narcotics scene. He rose quickly in the ranks, especially after he’d made good contacts during a stint in prison. He’d served eight years for assault and battery, and behind bars, he met Slobodon Polanski. They were both let out at about the same time, and their business association took off. In fact they were much too successful in the eyes of their rivals, the Hell’s Angels, whose dominance in the narcotics market was threatened. The Angels must have decided it was high time they did something about it.

  Hannu’s theory was that the Hell’s Angels had started to monitor Milan’s movements, and it was only by chance that their man had found himself at the station at midnight when Roberto was killed. Since there were no witnesses or pictures from the station cameras, they’d decided to take things into their own hands. Perhaps it was Hoffa himself who sent in the photos when, reading the media reports, he realized that Milan was going to be released for lack of evidence.

  Glenn ‘Hoffa’ Strömberg seemed to have disappeared in a puff of smoke. No one knew where he was. Rumor had it that he’d been seen near the Karlstad clubhouse, but the undermanned Värmland police force had not been able to confirm the rumors. On the other hand, it was not illegal to give the police a tip about a murder, so they weren’t exactly searching for him all that hard. As Birgitta pointed out, it was probably the first time Hoffa had ever cooperated with the police voluntarily.

  It was about nine in the evening when Irene left the police station. Jenny had reassured Irene that she would be home to take care of Sammie. She had to study. It was amazing how her daughter had suddenly decided to strive for good grades. How her other daughter was doing in school was much less certain now. At breakfast she’d mentioned something about
‘going to a party’ with Felipe. Irene had no idea where this party was supposed to be taking place since she hadn’t listened closely.

  Irene couldn’t drive her usual route home, since it was closed. The big tunnel-building project had been causing traffic and chaos in Göteborg for the past few years. The routes changed from one day to the next. Somehow, she missed her turnoff and found herself on Göteborg’s main drag, Avenyn. She noticed lanterns by all the entrances to the pubs and restaurants. Many people had carved pumpkins with grinning faces that smiled at pedestrians, lit up from the candles burning inside them. The dreary November dampness drove folks into the warm, cozy pubs. It was the evening before the Day of the Dead, and many restaurants had signs declaring a Halloween Party in English. Numerous pedestrians wore costumes, monster masks or witches’ dresses, although the dresses might just be part of a teenager’s normal Goth wardrobe. It looked to Irene like Morticia Adams was their favorite fashion designer.

  In Sweden, All Saint’s Day was celebrated on the first Saturday of November. This year the date fell on the same day as King Gustav Adolf’s Day, which is especially celebrated in Göteborg, since Gustav Adolf was seen as the founder of the city. A special pastry was baked that day and a torchlight parade was part of the celebrations.

  It was also fifteen years since the day of the fire in Björkil.

  The evening suddenly seemed particularly grim to Irene.

  She longed for home. She turned onto Sprängkullsgatan and drove past Skanstorget. She would have to take Dag Hammerskjöldsleden to western Göteborg this evening.

  As she neared the exit for Änggården, she was hit by an impulse. She had not yet had the chance to ask her boss to request a search warrant. It could take until the end of next week to get one, if she was going to be unusually unlucky.

  Without following her train of thought to its conclusion, she turned onto Storängsgatan and made her way down the side streets until she reached Sophie’s house.

  There were cars lining the streets all around, and she had to circle until she found a parking spot a few blocks away. Before she got out of her car, she took her flashlight from the glove compartment and stuffed it into the inner pocket of her jacket.

  As she started to walk toward the house, she could hear loud, pounding music. As she got closer, she heard voices shouting over the music. She was surprised to see bicycles of all kinds against the stone wall. The gates were wide open. Irene stood in the shadow of the garage to assess the situation.

  Whatever she had been expecting was nothing like what greeted her. The whole house was filled with light and there were candles leading up to the front door. The loud music and the sound of laughter and conversation streamed out of all the open windows.

  There was a party going on at Sophie’s house.

  Irene shivered and not just because of the damp weather. She felt deep inside that Sophie’s memory was being dishonored on All Saint’s Day. The poor girl had not even been buried yet and people were celebrating in her home.

  Irene shook off the sentimental feeling. Perhaps she could make use of this situation to get into the basement. It seemed like the perfect opportunity.

  She buttoned up her jacket and began to walk across the slippery flagstones. She could see a crowd of people right up to the front door. Most of them were dressed up in Halloween costumes: vampires and witches. As she entered the house, she looked around and smiled happily as if she were sending a greeting to the other end of the hallway. Only a few of the young women gave her uninterested glances.

  Then they moved as one toward the kitchen.

  Irene saw her chance and took it. She held her hands behind her and surreptitiously pressed down the door handle to the basement. She walked backwards through the doorway and then carefully closed the door behind her. She held her breath and listened to the darkness. After a few seconds, she dared to breathe again, and she turned on her flashlight.

  She tried to move as quietly as possible, but she also didn’t want to get her clothes too dirty. The sound of music and laughter was diminished down here, but she could hear the floors creaking overhead. The basement was filthy.

  She began to search methodically. Although she had no idea what she was hoping to find, she hoped there might be a clue to Sophie’s death. Perhaps all she really wanted to do was make sure that Sophie had not been kept in the basement.

  There was one large room crammed with old furniture and tons of cardboard boxes. A strong stench of rat turds hung in the air. Generations of spiders had woven webs over the furniture. It looked like the set of a horror film.

  The laundry room had been abandoned for decades. The machines were hardly modern, and the smell of mold came from their plumbing. Next to the laundry room was a door unlike the others. It was carved from boards of fir. Elegant handwriting on a sign proclaimed Sauna. There was one more door with a sign that read W.C. Irene opened it, but shut it again immediately. The stench was unbearable.

  Instead, she pushed open the door to the sauna and stepped inside.

  From the light of her flashlight, she could see it was a good size. There were grey tiles on the floor and white tiles on all the walls. There was a shower at one end. The sauna itself was made of wood and had a small door in the middle as well as a tiny glass window. Irene walked up to the window and shone the beam of her flashlight through.

  She almost screamed aloud. On one end of the sauna bench was a pile of clothes that appeared to be a human body. Her heartbeat sped up until blood started to pound in her ears. She stood still for a minute, her hand on the door handle, and took a few deep breaths to calm herself before she pushed the door open.

  The aroma was indescribable. It was mixed with the smell of unwashed body and dirty clothing. From the bundle at the end of the bench came loud snoring.

  Irene stepped quietly up to the sleeping human being.

  She saw that matted grey hair covered the face in a full beard. The man was on his back and his hands were resting over his stomach. He looked fat, but that could be all the layers he was wearing under his down jacket. He’d used some garden furniture pillows to make his bed more comfortable.

  Irene recognized a homeless person when she saw one.

  For the past decade, they’d gotten more numerous. Well, here was a homeless man living in Sophie’s basement. Perhaps he’d done the same thing she had, and sneaked in after the party started. Irene decided to talk to the man.

  She aimed her flashlight at the ceiling so that she wouldn’t blind him as she gently shook one of his shoulders.

  It was a while before he began to mumble and shift around, and even longer before he opened his eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked angrily.

  His breath filled the small sauna and Irene tried to breathe through her mouth.

  “My name’s Irene. It’s all right if you want to sleep here,” she said calmly.

  “Is it? Then get the hell away. Go on, get out!”

  He turned over on his side as if he were going to go back to sleep. Irene shook him again and said, “I have to ask you a few questions. If you can’t answer them, I’ll tell the owners of the house that you’re down here.”

  He blinked at her with red, swollen eyes and croaked, “Do you have to?”

  “Yes, but if you answer my questions, I’ll stay mum.” She was friendly but firm.

  He sighed heavily and rustled as he sat up. He coughed so that something loosened deep in his bronchial tubes. He cleared his throat and spit a huge wad of gunk onto the floor.

  It landed close to Irene’s shoes. She pretended to ignore it.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hasse.”

  “More than Hasse?”

  “It’s just Hasse.”

  His voice had an aggressive undertone, so Irene decided to skip the business about a last name and go on.

  “Have you been sleeping here for a while?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How often? Every nigh
t or just once or twice a week?”

  “What the hell business is it of yours?”

  “You promised you’d answer my questions or I’ll tell the owners about you.”

  His red eyes glared at her for a while. Finally, he nodded and grumbled something that Irene didn’t catch, and that was probably a good thing. She asked her question again, and Hasse sullenly replied, “Couple times a week. When it’s really cold.”

  “How long have you been doing it?”

  He stared at her, then coughed out, “Doing what?”

  “Sleeping here in this basement?”

  “Couple years. Last winter. Otherwise I’d have frozen to death.”

  As Irene looked more closely at him and realized he was not as old as she’d thought at first. His grey hair had made her think that he was well over fifty, but he was not much beyond forty. His hands were covered with black and blue bruises. He had a pair of old Graninge boots and he’d stuffed the bottoms of his blue jeans into them. At least his feet were protected. His down jacket was torn and much too large, but it was certainly warm. He had several shirts on underneath. They were all kinds of colors and material. The basement was certainly not a warm and dry place. He’d needed extra layers to keep from freezing.

  “How do you get into this basement?”

  “Door at the back. Never locked.”

  He seemed content with this arrangement.

  “Have you been here often the past two months?”

  “Sure, really often, because it’s been raining all the time. Shitty weather!”

  Irene calmly asked her follow-up question, the most important one of all. She could feel her heart rate increase in expectation. “Did you notice anything unusual the past few months?”

  He was starting to shake his matted, hairy head, but stopped himself. “Yeah. The girl is gone.”