The Fire Dance

by Helene Tursten

  Three doors lined the hallway. One went to a bathroom and the other two were half open. Irene would not be the person she was if she didn’t glance into the rooms as she walked past.

  The bedroom had a large unmade double bed. Both sides looked slept in. The walls were painted a dull red right over the wallpaper. Above the headboard hung a painting of a couple making love. On the floor there was a shaggy rug, which had been white once upon a time. White tulle was used in place of curtains and Irene had the feeling they were simply wrapped around the curtain rods. In one corner, there was a chair hidden by a huge pile of clothing.

  She glanced into the kitchen. It was large and bright, not necessarily a good thing, as the sunshine mercilessly revealed a sticky floor and crumbs all over the countertops and the stove. The kitchen cabinets were painted a bright orange, which stirred a memory in Irene: her mother had had a coffee pot that color. She had won it at a Red Cross Christmas raffle and she’d hated it from the moment she won it. She’d returned it for the next year’s Christmas raffle and the woman who had donated it had recognized it and gotten angry. This was over thirty-five years ago, and the two women still didn’t speak even though they lived on the same street.

  Irene stopped at the entrance to the living room with the strong feeling she had just stepped back into the seventies.

  Here again, the walls were painted right over the wallpaper, though this time the color was forest green. On the floor was a deep red geometrically patterned rug. At one time, it had probably been brighter. The coffee table was unusually low, but that was practical because the only furniture was a low-slung green divan and a thick mattress placed directly on the floor. The divan had a shiny silk cover with a tapestry pattern and it seemed to be brand new. The mattress was covered with a bright yellow fabric with dark green flowers. Each cushion was either green or yellow. Everything matched, but it still made Irene feel slightly seasick.

  She went over to the mattress and sat down. She had no idea how to sit on the divan. Perhaps it was intended for lying down. She pulled her long legs into the familiar position where she sat on her heels with her legs beneath her, a pose she often used when she visited Mokuso at the dojo. She had taken off her shoes and decided not to worry about the hole in her sock. She was certainly in good company there.

  All the walls were covered with photographs and paintings. Her heart leapt when she saw a black and white picture nailed to the wall over the television. It was an enlargement of the photograph with Sophie’s face in the foreground and the flames shooting up behind her. Without the technical touchup from the police force, it was difficult to recognize Sophie. It was perfect for Irene’s purposes that just that particular photograph was displayed on the wall. She had the police copy of the enlargement in her purse.

  Angelika took her time drying her hair, making sure that Irene knew she was in no hurry. Irene didn’t let it get to her.

  It was fascinating to study all the pictures on the wall. There were shots of dance performances and theater performances in all sizes and styles. Probably Frej had taken a number of them. Irene also recognized Frej’s graduation photo. It was the same one she’d seen at Ingrid Hagberg’s home. There were no other photos of Sophie besides the one over the television set.

  The hair dryer stopped and Angelika came into the room. Gracefully she sat down on the divan with her legs crisscrossed.

  “So what’s so important?” she asked guardedly.

  She appeared nervous, although she tried to hide it with her sullen tone. Irene could understand why, so she went right to the point.

  “I was at the Änggården house last Friday night. I knew that my daughter was going there with Frej and Felipe. I had the bad luck to forget my keys, so I had to find Katarina. It was very late at night when I arrived, and the party was in full swing. I didn’t know whether I should go in or not. I walked around the house to see if I could get a glimpse of my daughter through the windows. I happened upon a couple making love behind the house: you and Marcelo. You didn’t see me.”

  Irene expected Angelika to become angry, but instead her face lit up and she smiled.

  “Oh, that,” she said.

  “Have you been in this relationship with Marcelo for a while?”

  “Relationship? Not at all.” Angelika laughed. She looked at Irene with amusement.

  Her reaction surprised Irene. Angelika showed no signs of guilt—she didn’t even find it embarrassing that Irene had seen them.

  “But you have sex,” Irene said.

  “Yes, we do.” Her eyes had a naughty shine.

  “How often?”

  “It just happens. Not that often. Neither of us takes it seriously. It’s just for fun.”

  “What does Staffan say?”

  “It’s none of his business.” The warm look left Angelika’s face. She turned ice cold. “We’re adults.”

  “Actually, I’m not interested in your relationship with Staffan. I want to know about you and Marcelo. We know that Sophie was also interested in him. Did she know that you and Marcelo were sleeping together?”

  “While she was alive, we didn’t have any kind of ‘relationship’, as you call it.” Angelika sighed, then fell silent for a moment and looked out the windowpane on the balcony door. “And Sophie and Marcelo were never together. He didn’t want to deal with someone so…complicated.”

  “So how long have you and Marcelo had a relationship?”

  “You keep calling it a relationship…what a ridiculous word! We fuck when we want, that’s all. The first time was…” She trailed off and swallowed. “…It was the same evening Sophie was killed. There was a party on Saturday night for a friend who was moving to Copenhagen. I went to it. Of course I was worried about Sophie, but I didn’t know she would die that very night! That she would be…burning…” Tears came to Angelika’s eyes.

  “So the first time you and Marcelo were together sexually was that Saturday night.”

  “Yes,” Angelika whispered.

  “And then you’ve had sex a few times since then.”

  “Yes.”

  Angelika seemed to have no problem with this. How would this influence her relationship with Staffan Östberg?

  Perhaps not at all. They were, as Angelika had pointed out, all adults. Irene thought it was odd that they were even considering moving in together. Angelika had a lover thirty years younger than her next companion. Still, that was between Angelika and Staffan. Irene couldn’t see how it impacted the murder investigation.

  She decided to set aside the lovemaking between Marcelo and Angelika and go back to Sophie herself. She nodded at the picture over the television. “Frej told me he’d taken that picture.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where it was taken?”

  “No.”

  “Why does he take so many photographs of fires?”

  Angelika gave her a quick side-glance and shifted nervously on the silk-covered divan. “Sophie wanted pictures of fire. She wanted them as inspiration for her work, The Fire Dance. I know she used them. If you recall the movements during the performance…when the tower burned. The dancers are moving like tongues of flame.”

  Angelika made some serpent-like movements with her hands and arms in order to illustrate the dance of the flames.

  Irene didn’t remember any special fire-like movements, but perhaps she simply needed more education in the meaning of movement in dance. She went on with her questions.

  “In this specific picture, there’s a blurry human head in the foreground. Do you know who that might be?”

  “No,” Angelika replied, uninterested.

  “Our technicians down at the station are quite good. They’ve run this exact photograph through their computer to see what they could make out. This is what they came up with.” Irene pulled the photograph from her purse.

  She handed it to Angelika, who seemed, again, suddenly nervous. When she clearly saw the person in the photograph, she blanched as if she’d seen
a ghost. On some level, she is seeing a ghost, Irene thought. For a few seconds, she worried that Angelika might faint, as all the color drained from her face. Angelika stared at the photograph and swallowed a few times, but no words managed to come out.

  “As you can see, Sophie is the one in the photograph. She seems very happy. I’ve never seen her like this,” Irene said.

  Angelika did not seem to hear what Irene had said. She kept staring at the photo.

  “Did you know that Sophie was fond of fire? That she really loved fire? That she was, in fact, a pyromaniac?” Irene asked.

  It was a bold statement, but her words sunk in. Angelika screamed and flung the picture away. It slid over the glass table surface and landed on the rug. She kept swallowing, trying to form words. Finally, she was able to speak. “I didn’t know…at times I thought…something!”

  She started to cry and covered her face with her hands.

  Irene said nothing, but let her sit like that for a time. Finally, Angelika slid her hands away and gave Irene a tired look.

  “She was very little when it…started. I noticed she loved to play with matches. She liked the flame.”

  “How old was she when you noticed this?”

  “About five or six. But that she was a pyromaniac…no! I never noticed that!”

  “A few fires broke out in the area the summer of 1989. Did you ever suspect that Sophie might have been setting them?”

  “Never,” Angelika said without emotion.

  “Did you ever suspect that Sophie might have set fire to your home fifteen years ago?”

  “No!”

  Her exclamation seemed like a cry for help. Perhaps that’s just what it was. Her eyes were filled with fear…or terror.

  For a second, the women stared at each other. Then Irene noticed tears brimming again in Angelika’s eyes as sorrow replaced the fear. She looked away from Irene as she quietly said, “Yes, of course, the suspicion was there. But I never wanted to believe that Sophie…” She didn’t finish the sentence, just bowed her head.

  “Sophie never said anything which might hint that she was behind the fire?”

  “No. What she told me I told you.”

  According to what you said, Sophie was incapable of lying, Irene thought. But perhaps she could lie when important things were on the line.

  Angelika raised her head and straightened to regain some balance and her poise. She looked Irene right in the eye and said, “Frej knew nothing. He only did what Sophie asked him to. That’s all he did, take pictures.”

  “I understand,” Irene said, reassuringly.

  She intended to take this up with Frej later that day.

  Frej came just before five thirty.

  While she waited for him, Irene had used the time to reconnoiter the area. First she made a round through the yard with her flashlight to light her path. The strong wind rustled the tops of the old fruit trees and whirled the fallen leaves around her. At the back of the house, she saw Angelika’s panties still in the wet grass, but left them there.

  Instead, she opened the back door to the basement and went in. A brief look into the sauna showed that Hasse was not at home. He had left behind some paper bags; the smell from them indicated leftovers from the Halloween party. He also had a few wine boxes lined up, with maybe a drop or two left in each. Irene touched nothing and left the same way she’d come in.

  It had started to pour while she was in the basement. She hurried back to her car as fast as she could without slipping on the wet grass. She sat and waited for another ten minutes before the red Mégan arrived.

  They stepped out of their respective vehicles at the same time and greeted each other. Frej led the way. The entire house was dark. He unlocked the door and switched on the outside light as well as the one in the hallway. Irene paused before stepping inside.

  No one had cleaned up after the party. There were paper cups strewn about the floor. Cigarette butts were everywhere. All sorts of garbage was pushed into piles. The stench of sour wine and cigarette smoke hung over the entire mess.

  Irene thought she could also smell the slightly sweeter odor of marijuana, but perhaps that was just her imagination, since she’d seen people smoking it there. Frej stepped over a pile of garbage and headed directly to the stairs.

  When they reached his attic apartment, he unlocked the door to his darkroom and said, “Wait here. I’m just going to put my bag in my apartment and use the bathroom.”

  With an exaggerated gesture, he bowed Irene into the room. He turned on the ceiling light before he left.

  The room hadn’t changed. Irene noticed yet again how neat and orderly everything was. Perhaps it was necessary so he could locate what he needed when he was working in the dark. The fire pictures were still up. The picture with Sophie’s blurry face was also there.

  Irene heard the flush of the toilet. A minute later, Frej entered the room. He’d taken off his down jacket, and he had on the light blue sweater Ingrid Hagberg had given him for Christmas. She would certainly be happy to know he was so fond of it.

  “I’m in a hurry. I have to be back at the House of Dance in an hour,” Frej said.

  “This will be fast. There’s just one thing I need to check with you,” Irene replied calmly. She turned her head toward the photographs. “Why do you only take pictures of fires?”

  “I don’t just take pictures of fires!”

  “You don’t? I don’t see anything else here,” Irene stated.

  “No, well, I haven’t taken down Sophie’s pictures yet.”

  “These are all Sophie’s pictures?”

  “Yes. She wanted them up. She wanted to come here and look at them whenever she needed, for inspiration.” His voice was defiant with a noticeably aggressive undertone. He was obviously on the defensive.

  “Was Sophie inspired only by fire?”

  “Yes…well…as far as The Fire Dance was concerned. She had to look at the pictures to see, like, how to describe the movement of the flames.”

  It was the same explanation Angelika had given. It was more than likely that Angelika and Frej had compared notes after Irene’s visit to Angelika’s apartment.

  Irene walked over to the picture showing Sophie’s halfprofile. She pointed at the figure. “Do you know who this is?”

  “Sophie, of course,” he replied calmly.

  He was, in fact, much too calm. He’d been ready for that question. Frej had definitely talked to his mother earlier that day.

  “Why is she at this fire?”

  “Why? She wanted to be there.”

  “Why did she want to be there?” Irene insisted.

  Frej looked at her in irritation. “Because she wanted to be there!”

  “Answer my question, or you’ll have to go through all of this down at the police station. You’ll be talking to my other colleagues and not me.”

  She let her words sink in. It was apparent that Frej was not taken with the idea of going to the police station to talk to other officers. Right now he had the upper hand in his own space.

  “All right, then. Ask me the question again.”

  “Why did Sophie want to be with you when you went to photograph this fire?”

  “She wanted to see fires live. To get, like, the proper feeling.”

  He shrugged and attempted nonchalance, but Irene could tell he was upset. All her police instincts told her there was much more to these pictures than Frej wanted to confess.

  “Did she often go with you when you were taking pictures of fires?”

  “Nah…just once.”

  For the first time, Irene could hear a touch of fear in his voice. He walked over to the large table on the other side of the room and leaned against the edge, crossing his arms as if he were relaxed. His eyes betrayed him. He did not want to look at Irene.

  “You said she wanted to see the fires live. That must have meant she went with you fairly often,” Irene said. She fixed him with her gaze.

  “Yeah, all right, sure…
she came more than once. It was important for her dance,” he confessed lamely.

  “Isn’t it true that she was fascinated by fire? Perhaps unusually fascinated?”

  Frej gave her a hasty glance but looked away again almost immediately. Irene let the silence take up space, and finally it became too much for him. He muttered, “Maybe. Maybe so.”

  Irene chose her next words carefully. “Did you ever suspect that she set things on fire on purpose? That she might be a pyromaniac?”

  He jumped as if she’d slapped him across the face. “Pyromaniac!” he exclaimed. Now he was looking at her directly with naked fear.

  “Look at this picture. Our technicians cleaned it up in their lab. Look at Sophie’s expression,” Irene said, and handed him the photograph.

  He looked at the picture of his sister for a long time then gave a deep sigh and handed it back to Irene. “She really did like to watch things burn. She used to say things like ‘fire purifies’. But a pyro…I doubt it.” He shook his head slightly.

  The sharp sound of a telephone cut through the silence in the house. Frej stood up and headed to his living quarters.

  The ringing stopped. A minute or so later, he returned to his darkroom.

  “I have to get going. That was Felipe. His car broke down and he needs a ride. It takes at least fifteen minutes to get to his place.”

  He opened the door as wide as possible. Irene had no choice but to leave. Nevertheless, she felt she had confirmation of her suspicions. Sophie had been fascinated by fire, and perhaps she was a pyromaniac. The asexual young woman had an unusual turn-on—fire was her passion.

  * * *

  Irene and all her colleagues had to work on the latest knifing. Everything pointed to someone in Roberto’s gang wanting revenge for the attack on Victor Fernandez. The new victim had pulled through the worst of his medical crisis, but he was not up to being questioned yet.

  The investigation was slow and made more difficult because no one wanted to testify or snitch on a gang member. The police were unable to provide witness protection, so the only safe thing to do was to keep as silent as a wall. Or perhaps give false testimony—as long as everyone cooperated, like Milan’s relatives.