After a minute or so, while her disgust and agitation had free rein, she wondered whether it was worth the trouble to call Wikman at Forensics. But she abandoned the thought; they had other, more important things to do.
In the kitchen she retrieved garbage bags and plastic gloves. She hesitated a moment before she took hold of the bed linens and rolled the badger up in them, leaving the knife where it was, and consigned the package to the garbage bag. The pillows went into another bag. The mattress was bare. Should she throw it away too? She postponed that decision. She could spend the night in the other room, where there was a bed already made.
She would never tell this to Erik, not to anyone! It was not just the stench, the whole thing was dirty, as if someone had shit on her and her cottage. The danger involved that someone so explicitly threatened her with this Sicilian action receded for the mental assault that had occurred, and she felt shame. She was the one who was ashamed! It was not just a crime, it was also an assault on her peace of mind, on her right to live undisturbed and peacefully in a little village in a backwater.
* * *
That evening she did something she’d never done before. They were sitting in the hammock, the entrecôte was consumed along with some of the vegetables she’d bought. She’d had two glasses of wine, which was the unstated daily ration when Erik was at home. Most often she could hold herself to that. Erik had made popcorn, which he was eating with rare fervor.
“When the school burned,” she started, “most people thought that someone started it.”
“An attack,” said Erik.
“You can say that,” she said, wondering about the choice of words, but found it striking.
She told him what the CSIs had unofficially concluded, that it was arson, and after that about the neighbors and their talk.
“You’ve never talked about your job,” he said. “Not even when I wanted to know.”
“I couldn’t, it was that simple. But now I’m no longer a police officer, and I can gossip as much as I want, with whomever I want.”
He observed her in that penetrating way that Ann somehow found embarrassing, as if he was searching for something unstated, while he carefully ate his popcorn. It lasted a couple of seconds, but it was enough, she recognized the expression in his young face. Then he smiled and tossed another handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“And yet it feels strange, as if I’m doing something wrong.”
“And what do you think? About the fire, I mean?”
“Attack,” said Ann.
“Wonder how it feels to murder a person.”
“One time I asked a murderer.”
“And what did he say?”
“It was a she, and she said that it felt like she’d done humanity a favor.”
“She didn’t regret it?”
Ann shook her head.
“Creepy.”
Ann did not want to mention that she could partly understand the woman, because murder must be condemned, even if the victim was a thoroughly rotten human being, and a violent rapist.
“Maybe the person who set the fire thinks that too, that he was doing humanity a favor,” said Erik, after a long moment of silence. “Someone who hates immigrants. We have a few at school, they’ve started an association, they call themselves National Swedes.”
“National Swedes,” Ann repeated, tasting the words. They didn’t say much.
“You know that the Nazis in Germany were called national socialists,” said Erik.
“Would they be able to burn down a school?”
“Some of them maybe. Sigvard is in it.”
“Sigvard from Årstagatan, your old classmate?”
Erik nodded.
“But he was so nice.”
“Not anymore. If you knew what he says about the police.”
“I don’t want to hear,” said Ann. She didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken.
“They hate everything,” Erik continued, after another load of popcorn.
“You’ll get a stomachache,” said Ann.
“How did she do it?”
It took a moment before she understood what he meant. “With a frying pan,” she said, and remembered with horror the sight that met her and Fredriksson when they stepped into the couple’s bedroom. The woman was sitting straight-backed on a chair in the kitchen, with her gaze stubbornly fixed on the counter, mute before their questions. It was only after a couple of days in jail that it all came out, and she recounted coldly and factually about a fifteen-year marriage which for her entailed mental and physical abuse.
“The strange thing was that her mother was probably an accessory, but we could never prove it. There were two frying pans, one with the mother’s fingerprints. Both she and her mother maintained that they’d been put on the handle after the murder, when her mother was going to hide them.”
“What story did they come up with, that she used both frying pans herself?”
“Just what I asked. She claimed that she struck her husband alternately with two pans, one in each hand. They were of the old model, cast iron, heavy. We have a similar one from Grandma and Grandpa. Both maintained that the mother was asleep in a guest room when the murder happened.”
“They stuck together,” Erik observed.
“That they did, and it was for the children’s sake. The couple had two boys, that the grandmother had to take care of. If she’d been convicted too, well, then there was no one for the kids.”
“How many years did she get?”
“Seven, if I remember right. There were extenuating circumstances, after all. He’d abused her for years. But murder and arson, can’t we talk about something else?”
“I’m going to Berlin, we can talk about that. I talked with Lyset and Viggo yesterday, and there’s room for me too,” Erik said, and Ann understood that this was a reason, perhaps the main one, that he had come out. He wanted to get the plan approved.
“This summer?”
“July.”
It would be the first time he had traveled abroad without her. What did she know about Berlin? Absolutely nothing. She knew that David Lys had an older brother in Berlin.
“How fun,” she said. “But do you have the money?”
“I’ve been saving,” he said with a smile, and that did not surprise her at all. Erik was careful with money, not to say stingy.
She had vacation in July herself, and it struck her that she wanted to travel somewhere. It had been a long time since she’d been abroad.
“I’ve thought about Greece this summer,” she said.
“Alone?”
“We’ll have to see,” she said evasively, unexpectedly embarrassed by the thought of a hotel room with a view of a blue sea, a made bed.
“Oh, how secretive.”
“A little heat would be nice,” she said, mostly not to feel so awkward before his grin.
“You don’t like it when it’s too hot.”
“This woman with the frying pan, I actually saw her not too long ago.”
“Where was that?”
“In the city. Now she’s free.”
“Fifteen years with violence, approximately like you,” said Erik, “and now you’re free. You can even go to Greece.”
Their eyes met. He’d said it with warmth. We allow each other, she thought, we allow each other to live.
Ten
The echoing calls came from far away, as if someone was standing on a distant hill, crying out over a valley. That was how Ann perceived it before she woke up properly.
“It’s burning!”
She leaped out of bed, glanced at the clock, which said 2:13, pulled on her bathrobe, and hurried downstairs. Erik was standing in the front door.
“Where?” she screamed. “What’s burning?”
When she looked in the direction he was pointing she saw an orange-yellow flickering glow at the edge of the forest, about a kilometer away. The sun had gone down a couple of hours before but you could already sense
the first light of dawn.
“Did you call the fire department?”
“I called 112.”
“Did they know there was a fire?”
“I don’t think so. What is it that’s on fire?”
“I don’t know. There’s a farm over there, but it’s more to the left, you can glimpse the silos. What address did you give?”
“I said that they should drive to Tilltorp, the same village where the school burned last winter. From there they would see the fire.”
She reached for the phone, which was on the hall table, and entered Gösta’s number. After a short time he answered in a confused voice. “Friberg here.”
When she explained that there was a fire he let out a moan.
“You have the Mattssons’ number, don’t you? Call them! We’ve called the fire department.” She clicked off.
“We’ll drive there, let me just put some clothes on.”
She suspected that Erik hadn’t gone to bed, but had been sitting in front of the computer instead. Fire extinguisher, it occurred to her as she pulled on a pair of jeans. I don’t have one. There isn’t one in his cabin either. Not even a smoke alarm.
Soon they were on their way. Ann saw that the lights were on at both Gösta’s and Bertil’s. Erik didn’t say anything, but she understood that he was shaken. She herself felt a little of the old excitement, a kind of expectation, even though she knew that something unpleasant, even terrible, was waiting. It was that characteristic a police officer has to have. Ola Haver, a colleague from Violent Crimes, didn’t have it. They’d discussed that issue many times, and finally he had to quit the force, even though he was actually a good investigator.
She had passed the Hamra sign a number of times, but never had any reason to visit the farm. Now she turned onto the recently graded but still bumpy road, even though she was not certain it was the right way to the scene of the fire. Before long they reached the farm, a sizable two-story farmhouse with a couple of smaller buildings as wings. A barn was nearby and what she thought was a pigpen a little farther away.
Everything was dark, except for the farmyard light. Ann honked. “There’s probably no one home,” Erik commented.
A dog started barking, hard to tell from where, but no lights were turned on, and no person appeared. The first light of dawn had gradually scattered the darkness, but the cool night air remained as fog over the fields. They drove on, rounded one of the wings, where the doghouse was, and continued on a narrow gravel road that led into the forest. They saw the glow of fire between the trees. The car bounced on the winding road and the dark tree trunks were much too close. For a moment Ann got a sense of déjà vu. Some time in her former life she had driven in a similar way, too fast, but still not fast enough.
“When we get there you’ll have to stay in the car until I say so.”
* * *
With a hundred meters left, as they rounded a grove of trees, for the first time they got an overview of the fire scene. It was a small building. In flames.
Ann drove as close as she dared. She got out, Erik too. She made no attempt to stop him, realized that there was no point.
“It hardly seems to be a residence,” said Ann. “It looks more like an old workshop, maybe a smithy. You see the chimney. They located smithies away from the farmhouses just because of the risk of fire.”
“The things you know.”
“I’ve investigated fires in the country,” Ann said curtly, because now she’d caught sight of something that worried her. A bicycle was leaned against an apple tree, and behind a container a vehicle was visible. It appeared to be an older Toyota pickup.
“What’s making that sound?” Erik asked.
Ann had also heard the whining sound. “It may be that way,” she said, feeling a little stupid, uncertain herself what she meant.
“It’s a dog howling,” said Erik.
“Do you think so?”
“A dog is dying in there.”
Maybe someone will die, she repeated silently to herself. She was seized by the loathsome thought that it could be a person moaning they heard, but told herself that he was right.
“We can’t do anything.”
“I understand that too,” said Erik.
Helplessly they observed the fire for a minute or two. Sparks flew toward the sky. Shouldn’t the fire department arrive soon?
“Wait here, I’ll look around.”
“And what if it’s a crime scene?”
“You’ve watched too much TV,” said Ann. She kept her eyes on the truck and at the same time fished out her phone, using speed dial to make a call. It was a woman who answered.
“Hi, my name is Ann Lindell, a former colleague…”
“I know who you are. My name is Regina.”
“Hi, Regina,” Lindell said, feeling how unnecessarily irritated she got. “I’m at the scene of a fire, it’s all in flames.”
“We’ve gotten a call about that, an Erik Lindell called. If that’s the same fire.”
“It is. Is anyone coming, and when?”
“The fire department is on its way, and a colleague from Östhammar. It’s a ways to drive. Do you live out there in the wilderness? Was it your son who called?”
Lindell overlooked the impertinent questions, thanked her for the information, and ended the call.
The truck was unlocked. She opened the door and was met by a strange combination of smells, heavy and oily mixed with sweet perfume. As she guessed it was a Toyota, at least ten years old. She leaned in, careful not to leave any prints. The backseat was full of boxes, a helmet, various tools, and bags from a hamburger chain. A working vehicle in the countryside, she thought, and backed out into the fresh air.
A car approached. She thought at first it was the police or the fire department’s command car, but it was Bertil who came bumping along. He parked beside Ann’s car and with some difficulty got out of his ancient Simca.
“Hi, Erik,” she heard him call. “Is your mother here somewhere?” She was happy that Bertil remembered his name. They hadn’t met very many times, after all.
Erik pointed toward Ann. Now there was no hesitation in Bertil’s movements. “Does anyone live here?” she asked immediately.
“Yes, Mattsson’s youngest, Daniel.”
“Is that his truck?”
Bertil nodded mutely.
“Does he have a dog?”
Bertil shook his head.
“Not as far as I know. He’s not exactly an animal lover.”
“Where’s the rest of the family? The big house is completely dead.”
“The whole gang was going to Stavby. Gösta forgot to say that when you called. Maybe he was confused. He never called Waldemar. He wanted me to do it.”
“Why isn’t Gösta here?”
“He’s afraid of fire. He hates fire.”
“Is he afraid of Waldemar Mattsson too?”
Bertil observed her for a moment before he replied. “What have you heard?”
“Nothing, I’m just guessing.”
She suddenly became aware of Erik, who had slipped up and was standing right behind her. She ought to let go now, she realized that. He was young, after all, sixteen years old. It was night, perhaps it was arson. Perhaps there was death. But she was forced to go on.
“Bertil, who set this?”
“You think it’s arson?”
“Of course,” said Ann.
“That was an easy calculation,” Bertil said with an unusual sharpness in his otherwise well-modulated voice.
“Who did it?”
Bertil turned his head and observed the fire. At the same moment sirens were heard in the night, such a familiar sound for Ann, but in her new environment so foreign.
“It’s the old smithy,” said Bertil. “My father worked the bellows here when he was young.”
Why must everyone in the village sound like ancient monuments? Ann thought.
“Erik,” she said, suddenly moved by the fire and the darkne
ss that surrounded them. She turned around but didn’t know how to continue, what she wanted to or could explain to her son. I ought to be terrified of the fire too, she thought. She had never told him about the crazy woman in Kåbo, an encounter that nearly cost Ann her life.
“Yes, Mom,” he said, meeting her gaze. She heard that he actually didn’t expect her to go on, but instead wanted more to mark his presence. He rarely said “Mom.”
“We should probably move to our cars.” She wondered how many possible tire tracks they had disturbed. She should be ashamed.
“What did Mattsson say when you called?”
“They’re on their way,” said Bertil, and now his voice had lost its edge. On the contrary, there was something very resigned in his voice, so much that Ann turned around.
“Do you think that Daniel is in the building?”
“I don’t know,” said Bertil. “Waldemar said that he didn’t go with them to Stavby, he was going to see a friend.”
“And stay there?”
“Not a clue.”
“The truck is here,” said Ann.
“That’s just it,” said Bertil.
“There are those who say that Mattsson’s boys were behind the school fire.”
“I understand where you’re going,” said Bertil.
“Stop now!” Erik exclaimed. “You’re not a police officer anymore. Why should you get involved?”
“The stripes never go away,” Bertil observed.
“And the other son, Andreas, right? Where is he, does he live at the farm?”
Bertil turned away, it was obvious that he didn’t want any more questions.
“I think it would be good if you took it a little easy. The world is big, but this is a small village, and there are those who get irritated,” he said without taking his gaze from the fire.
* * *
It did not take long for the firefighters to subdue the fire and at last put it out completely. They worked in silence. A handful of curiosity seekers had shown up; they too stood silently. Everyone awaited Waldemar Mattsson with his wife, Wendela. They came at last. If Ann had understood Bertil right, double-W, as he called the farm couple, had a great deal to drink during the evening, and for that reason had to find and waken someone sober who could drive them home. The chauffeur got out and observed the fire for a moment before he got back in the car to return to Stavby.
The Night of the Fire: A Mystery Page 6