The Fire Dance

by Helene Tursten

  “You must have put in lots of time for it. Most often when fire trucks are called out, it’s for false alarms,” Irene said, thinking out loud.

  Frej shrugged again without saying anything else.

  “Well, it’s time I should be going home,” Irene said and headed for the door.

  “I certainly think so, too,” Frej said sarcastically behind her back.

  I can really understand his indignation, Irene thought as she walked down the stairs. She had forced herself into his domain uninvited and ‘snooped’. Strange. That was the same word his aunt had used.

  On the ground floor, the party was still going strong. Irene pushed her way through the crowd toward the front door. As she passed the kitchen, she was brought to a stop when she heard a rough voice she recognized.

  “I don’t have a single damned painting left,” he was saying. “I sold each and every one at my last exhibition…Do you have any more wine?”

  Her mouth dropped open when she saw Hasse from the sauna enthroned in majesty at the kitchen table. He had a heaping plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes in front of him. He stretched his empty glass toward a witch in white face paint, who pressed the spout of the boxed wine to his glass and said, “Oh, yes, there’s a little left.” As she handed him the filled glass, she asked, “Where was your exhibition?”

  “What? What exhibition?” Hasse’s mouth was full of potatoes and he concentrated completely on his glass of wine.

  “The one you had last summer. When you sold all your paintings.” The witch was patient.

  No one saw Irene as she sneaked out the door and into the November night.

  * * *

  “You lied,” Kastarina accused Irene.

  She looked furious. The two of them were the only ones sitting at the breakfast table. Krister was out walking Sammie in the morning’s clear weather. Jenny had not yet dragged herself out of bed.

  “What do you mean by that?” Irene replied, feeling uncomfortable.

  “How did you know I was going to be at that party?”

  “You mentioned going to a party…” Irene said evasively.

  “No, I did not. I said that Felipe said maybe we’d go to a party. Yesterday morning I had no idea where this party would be. He didn’t tell me until he came to pick me up yesterday evening!”

  “I see…” Irene did not know what to say.

  “And Jenny was home all evening. She was working on a song they’re going to record today. She was still up when I got home.”

  “Maybe she was out with Sammie when I called,” Irene tried.

  Katarina’s glare darkened and she jumped up from her chair. “What are you really up to? Are you looking for a reason to send Frej to jail? He’s a really great guy!” A tone almost of hatred came into her voice.

  Irene sighed and decided to lay her cards on the table. At least most of them. “All right, here’s what’s really going on. My colleagues and I are trying to find out who murdered Frej’s sister. It was a particularly gruesome killing! She was kept prisoner, abused and eventually burned alive. Naturally, our investigation must include the family of a murder victim, and in this case that means Frej and Angelika. I admit I used that bit about the key as a cover. But I did find out some things of vital importance to the case, and I will need to follow up on them.”

  “What kinds of things?” Katarina was not placated.

  “I'm afraid I can’t tell you because of the investigation.”

  “Oh God! The investigation! You always have to be super cop! You can never relax and be just like any other human being! Good God. How embarrassing it must be to sneak into a party just to spy on a suspect!” Katarina was so upset that she started to choke on her own voice. Her cheeks glowed bright red.

  “Please believe me when I tell you that going to the Änggården mansion that night was very productive,” Irene defended herself lamely.

  At least that was true. Katarina gave her a last, mistrustful look and then walked out.

  Yes, indeed, her uninvited visit to the mansion had been very productive. Now she needed to find out how long Angelika and Marcelo had been in a relationship. Secondly, she had to really inspect all those photographs of fires. There had been a fire at Björkil fifteen years ago and there were now a number of fires involved in this investigation as well.

  Also, the same people were involved. Was there someone else in the periphery she’d missed?

  Irene poured her fifth cup of coffee for the morning and stayed at the breakfast table deep in thought. She could hear thumping drums from upstairs, which meant that Jenny was awake. Jenny turned on her CD player the minute her eyes opened. Irene would never be able to do that. She was much too tired in the morning even to choose a song and her fuzzy brain would never let her find the button. It was odd how the buttons on these machines kept getting smaller as the years went by. The text above them was even more microscopic. Krister had already gotten reading glasses. Maybe it was time she looked into it—except that she didn’t want to need reading glasses. They were for old people. Still, she wished this trend toward tiny print would stop.

  Irene sighed aloud. She would just have to make an appointment with the optician. But that would have to wait.

  She had too much work at the moment.

  * * *

  Monday went by in a blur. Everyone was busy with all the ongoing cases. Irene had no chance to discuss the first stage of Sophie’s murder investigation with the Superintendent. She was happy that she’d impulsively gone to the Halloween party. It had spared her a great deal of work, and she’d gotten important information. Thanks to Hasse, she now knew that Sophie had never been held captive in the basement.

  On Tuesday morning Irene went right to Svante Malm at the lab. She found him wearing magnifying glasses and concentrating on a heap of glass splinters that were in a plastic bowl with a low rim. He was using a long tweezers to push the glass around.

  “Hello, Svante,” Irene said, to get his attention.

  He started and looked up at Irene through his odd glasses. He yanked them off in irritation, but smiled as soon as he saw who had come in.

  “So great you’ve stopped by! You must have a sixth sense about when it’s time to contact me! Now I don’t have to try and reach you by phone.”

  He stood up and beckoned her to follow him. They walked into the room next door. Svante began to search through the small, red plastic boxes standing on one of the shelves.

  “Here! Look at these! They’re real silver. I’ve cleaned them up.” He set the open box on the bench in front of Irene.

  The ornate pattern on the clasps reminded Irene of something…What was Sophie wearing when she died?

  “Three of them are hooks and three are eyes, so there were three clasps on the piece of clothing in question,” Svante said.

  Irene nodded and took a good, long look at the silver clasps before she turned to the technician and asked him the question she’d actually come for. “Did you have a chance to look at the three photographs I sent you?”

  “The ones with the fires?”

  “Yes.” Irene had brought the photos she’d taken from Marcelo’s room right to Svante.

  “Jens was the one who inspected them. I think he’s in right now. Let’s go.”

  They walked down the hallway to the last room. Svante tapped a pattern with his fingertips on the door and then opened it before anyone on the other side had a chance to react.

  Jens was new; Irene had not yet met him. His shoulder length black hair reminded Irene of a Beatles haircut, but his baggy jeans and T-shirt put him in the hip-hop trend of the day. He seemed to be very young for the job, but these days all the new employees seemed young. When Irene had brought her mother for an X-ray, she’d thought that the doctor in the X-ray department was fresh from graduation. Another sign that she was getting older.

  Jens began to search through his computer files.

  “Here we have the fires.” He clicked on three pictures. Then he cli
cked a few times on the first picture so it enlarged and filled the whole screen. “Check this shine,” he said and pointed with a pen.

  In the background was a metal reflection unnoticeable on the smaller image. Jens clicked a few more times and the area around it enlarged to show the silhouette of a man wearing a helmet and loose pants and jacket.

  “A fireman,” Jens said.

  “So this photo was taken at a real fire and not a Walpurgis Night bonfire,” Irene said.

  “Obviously,” Jens said.

  “Can you print a copy for me?” asked Irene.

  “Certainly,” Jens replied. “You probably want the others as well. I’ll take care of it.”

  The screen blinked, and they were back at the original three photographs. Jens clicked on the second picture.

  At first all Irene could see were the flames of a raging inferno. Again, Jens pointed with his pen toward the screen.

  “Check this space between the flames. Do you see what’s there? Look closely and you will see a corner.”

  He enlarged the area of the corner and Irene could tell what it was.

  “That’s a window frame. This is a house fire.”

  “Exactly,” Jens said.

  Jens brought up the third picture. Irene could see the fuzzy silhouette of a human head in the foreground while she looked. There was a huge fire behind it.

  “On the enlargement, you can see that it’s a girl’s face. I’ve worked on it a bit and this is the result,” Jens said.

  The screen shimmered for a second and then it was possible to see individual features.

  The girl had her face half in profile toward the camera. The smile on her lips was easy to see. Beyond a doubt Sophie was the girl in the picture.

  Irene studied the picture for a long time. Although the face was half in shadow, the expression in Sophie’s eyes could be easily made out. She wasn’t concerned or troubled. Her eyes showed absolute joy and something else. Life force?

  Then Irene realized what it was: desire. For the first time, Irene saw a visible emotion in Sophie’s expression, and she had no trouble interpreting it. Sophie was not hiding her feelings. She was showing her brother, the photographer, the face of a woman who felt deep inner release and lustful joy.

  “God give me strength. I believe she’s a pyromaniac!” Irene exclaimed.

  “Why do you think that?” asked Svante.

  “Look at her expression. Especially the eyes. I dealt with Sophie fifteen years ago and she was a master at keeping other people in the dark. She had a stone face that revealed nothing—absolutely nothing! But in this picture, she’s almost ecstatic in her happiness.”

  “That could be. She does look happy,” Svante agreed as he took another look.

  “As a matter of fact, there were a number of fires out at Björkil before the one that killed Magnus Eriksson. Sophie was eleven years old at the time. She could have been the pyromaniac in Björlund. And there were a number of fires around Änggården this past summer.”

  Jens had been sitting quietly while he looked at Sophie’s face. “One thing bothers me,” he said thoughtfully. “She’s not the one taking the photographs.”

  “No, that’s her brother. He told us he took them. She gave him the job of photographing fires, which were supposed to serve as inspiration for a dance she was working on,” Irene replied.

  “Isn’t it odd, though? If the girl was a pyromaniac and liked to set fire to houses and the like, isn’t it strange that her brother just hung around taking pictures? Or what?”

  “Absolutely. You have a point. I don’t have an answer yet.”

  But I’m going to find one, Irene thought. Frej has some explaining to do.

  Just as she had done previously, Irene left a message at the office at the School of Photography. When Frej called her back, he did not hide his irritation.

  “What do you want now?” he asked brusquely.

  “I must talk to you again. It would be good if we could meet at your darkroom.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s about the photos. Plus there’s more we need to discuss.”

  “What’s the big deal about the photos?”

  Was she imagining it, or did Frej’s voice sound nervous?

  “They’re very interesting. And they were important to Sophie. You were the one who took them, right?”

  “Of course, but…she was the one who demanded I do it.” Now there was a trace of whining in his voice. He sounded like a little boy who did not want to fess up to what he’d done wrong, but tried to blame someone else.

  “Do you have a cell phone I can reach you on?”

  “No, I lost mine.”

  “How can a young man of today get by without a cell phone?”

  “I haven’t had time…I haven’t had enough money…” he mumbled.

  “So, when can I see you this afternoon?” Irene asked without giving him a chance to find an excuse.

  “After five,” he said petulantly.

  “All right, then, I’ll be there after five.”

  He didn’t hear her last words as he’d already hung up the phone.

  The next person Irene sought was Angelika. She answered on her home phone and she, too, was not enthusiastic.

  “I don’t have time today. I work until eight p.m.,” she said.

  “But that means you don’t start until after lunch. I can be there in a half an hour,” Irene determined.

  “But…I have to go shopping…” Angelika protested.

  “You can go shopping later. This concerns the murder of your daughter.” Irene settled the matter with that. She knew she was turning the screws, but there was nothing Angelika could say against that argument.

  Irene headed into Sven Andersson’s office after her conversation with Angelika. Andersson was at his desk yelling into the telephone. When he slammed down the receiver, he complained half to himself. “Damn bureaucrats. They just don’t get it! Must have inherited their jobs.”

  The deep red of his face forbade bringing up any sensitive matter, but Irene decided to make the attempt anyway. She smiled at her boss and said, “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

  “Well…” The idea seemed to please him and his anger began to dissipate as he thought about it. “That’s not a bad idea at all.”

  “I’ll go get you one,” Irene said, and hurried back into the hallway.

  When she returned a few minutes later, his face had faded to its normal tone. Irene set a steaming cup before him and the other in front of the visitor’s chair, which she took.

  “So what’s happening on your end?” Andersson asked after he’d taken a few sips.

  Irene took a deep breath before she decided to plunge in.

  “It’s the Sophie murder. I’ve found a lot of new information.”

  “What kind?” the Superintendent asked, displeased. He had given direct orders to put the gang murder first, and he wanted to finish up the work to hand it over to the prosecutor.

  “Actually, quite a bit. The technicians examined the photographs Frej had taken at several large fires and were able to find Sophie in one of them. In it Sophie was not the closed, emotionless person you and I knew. She was a sunny, smiling girl. I believe she was a pyromaniac.”

  “A…what? A pyromaniac? So she set fire to that cottage after all? The one where that…what was that idiot’s name…?”

  “Magnus Eriksson, her stepfather, yes. It’s possible that she was behind it after all. I will see Frej this afternoon at his darkroom in the Änggården mansion. Before then, I’ve arranged to meet Angelika Malmborg-Eriksson half an hour from now. More like twenty minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to find out what she might know about her daughter’s possible pyromania. Also, I need to question her about her relationship to Marcelo Alves.”

  “That black guy who dances? Who might have been sleeping with Sophie? Was he sleeping with the mother, too?”

  The Superintende
nt raised an eyebrow, appearing a little more interested. Irene swallowed her discomfort and replied, “Yes, that appears to be the case.”

  “That is all f—” Andersson stopped in the middle of a sentence. He looked toward the door. Someone had just knocked.

  Fredrik Stridh poked his head in and said, “Hi, there. Hannu asked me to inform you that another man has been knifed. He belonged to Milan’s gang. They found him in a shopping mall staircase. He’s been badly injured, but he’s not dead. At least, not yet. It looks like a gang war is breaking out.”

  Before Irene or the Superintendent had a chance to reply, Fredrik’s blond tousled hair was withdrawn and the door closed.

  For Irene, this was the worst possible news. Everyone would be put on the gang war investigation…Andersson interrupted her thoughts.

  “All right. You have today to work on these new leads in the Sophie case. Tomorrow I want you working wholeheartedly on the Milan-Roberto gang case.”

  Irene leapt up from the chair, gave a Girl Scout salute and said, “I do promise—”

  “Oh, just get out of here!” Andersson interrupted her, as he lifted his coffee mug to slurp the last of it. The coffee was still hot enough to burn his tongue. He began to mumble something nasty, sticking out his tongue to cool it. Irene decided to leave quickly. She stopped for a second at the doorway to ask, “Would you like me to get you a glass of cold water?”

  “Get out!”

  * * *

  Angelika could hardly be said to be happy about Irene’s visit. In fact, she was downright surly and made no attempt to be polite. She let Irene in without a greeting.

  Irene was about to take off her shoes before she realized from whom Sophie had inherited her ideas about cleaning. She saw dust mice and dirt all over the hallway and decided to keep her shoes on.

  Angelika had on thin leather ballet shoes. There was a hole in one of the toes and Irene could spy a toenail with bright red polish. A number of runs streaked her black tights. Her knitted long cardigan was in great shape, striped in all the colors of the rainbow, and it reached just past her rump.

  She had apparently just gotten out of the shower, because her hair was dripping wet. She gestured to Irene to make her way through the hall to the living room. She took a hairdryer out of a dresser in the hallway and began to dry her hair in front of the mirror.