The Fire Dance (21 page)

She drove home in the November darkness. It was good that the traffic was light, because she had difficulty concentrating on her driving.

She was still lost in the performance. It had been as far from a lacy, traditional ballet as it could get. Obviously the fire in Björkil had been the inspiration behind the story. Even if the main characters and the place were not identical, the basic chain of events in real life was the same. Angelika was the Queen, and Sophie and Frej were the royal children. That much was obvious. The fire was the one that had killed Magnus Eriksson. The Guardian and the party guests were add-ons that Sophie had created for color and contrast.

Nevertheless, there were elements of the story that Irene found noteworthy. The Queen and the children were in black
before
the fire. Only after the King was dead were they dressed in colorful clothes. Even if Irene wasn’t an expert in interpreting dance, she could see that the family, shown as unhappy before the fire, became happier afterward, when Magnus Eriksson was dead. But was that true?

Sophie had certainly seemed happier afterward. She had been able to move in with her father and seemed to have been content with that arrangement.

Angelika had griped about money after her husband’s death, but even before, she’d had financial problems. As Irene went over it in her mind, she remembered that Angelika had been mostly concerned about the lack of insurance. She had been freed from her drunken and gambling husband. Still, she didn’t have to wait for his death to be free. She simply could have asked for a divorce.

Frej had lost his father. How had the relationship been between father and son? Irene realized that she had no idea. Angelika had said once that Frej had had emotional difficulties after his father’s death, and so it had been a good idea for Sophie to move to Ernst’s.

Irene contemplated Angelika’s reaction after the performance. It would have been understandable if she’d been moved to tears watching her dead daughter’s work performed. Still, Angelika hadn’t acted the part of a bereaved mother. Her eyes had been wide with fear; there was no grief in them. Her fingers had been stiff from terror, as she’d grappled with the door handle. She’d looked like she’d just seen a ghost.

A
T
T
HURSDAY
’
S MORNING
prayer, Irene brought up the issue of the probe into Sophie’s murder. The superintendent wrinkled his forehead and said sternly, “We have a number of ongoing investigations right now. We have to work on the murder of Roberto Oliviera immediately. We’ve got the suspect in jail, and we don’t have much time to break his alibi.”

“Good luck with that,” Jonny muttered.

“What the hell do you mean?” Andersson growled.

“I mean that this Milan guy is one tough devil. We couldn’t lock him up for the knifing last summer. And this ridiculous alibi—a family party with over thirty people in attendance—yeah, try and break that one.” Jonny’s grin was more a grimace.

Andersson glared darkly at him, but it didn’t help. Jonny was right. It was tough to prove Milan hadn’t been at the family party. Any witnesses to what had really gone down that night wouldn’t spill to the police. Most people have a good sense of self-preservation.

“We still have to try. The more time passes, the easier it will be for that son of a bitch to get away with it,” the superintendent said glumly.

“But we have him on the Central Station security cameras the night of the murder,” Birgitta protested.

“Sure, but he never denied that he and his gang were at
the train station. We don’t have any pictures with Milan and the murder victim in the same shot. We can’t even prove that they ran into each other that night,” Fredrik Stridh said.

“Milan states that at eleven thirty he went straight from Central Station to the party. The murder happened a half-hour later. Milan was with his thirty witnesses by then,” Tommy added.

“His whole damned family! Right! They’re all having dinner after midnight … their religious festival … Ramada … what is it called?” Jonny asked.

“Ramadan,” Tommy said.

“The assault took place right outside the victim’s residence. No witnesses,” Birgitta said.

“One and a half weeks after the murder. Five days since the assault. The trail is starting to get cold. We’re going to put everyone on it today and tomorrow. Except for you, Irene. You have until next week to solve the Sophie murder. Do you have any idea where you’re going to go from here?”

Irene thought about it, then said, “We haven’t talked to Ingrid Hagberg. I think that’s past due.”

“All right, go talk to the old lady. The rest of us are going to be busy with this damn foreign gang and all their relatives.”

The superintendent got up to demonstrate that it was time to get to work. Irene watched him go. Would he call Felipe a “damn foreigner”? Probably. Neither Marcelo nor Felipe were very dark-skinned, but they were definitely darker than the average Swede. Irene had no illusions. They were foreigners, and their children would be foreigners even if they were born in Sweden. Because of the color of their skin, they would always be seen as foreigners.

I
RENE STILL DIDN
’
T
get an answer when she called Ingrid Hagberg. She decided to drive out to the assisted
living facility in Torslanda. According to the phone book, the place was called Happy River Assisted Living. Judging by the address, it was not far from the abandoned airfield.

The identical six-story yellow brick buildings looked brand new. The surrounding area was still mostly countryside, but there was a great deal of construction activity. The politicians had rezoned the area and planned a new center with shops, apartment buildings and social services. The area around Göteborg was expanding quickly, and Torslanda was attractive with its access to the ocean.

Irene parked in a visitor’s spot. She could see small rose bushes huddling in the flowerbeds. They would need a few more years to really come into their own. Narrow sticks that would be trees were planted here and there, held upright by props thicker than their skinny trunks. The entire area had a cold, abandoned look in the November fog. The sound of the foghorns near the sea made a somber chorus.

Irene had a bag of treats she’d bought at the bakery on the way. She buttoned up her jacket to protect against the chill before she got out of the car.

Ingrid Hagberg lived in building 4C. The entrance was on the other side of the building from the parking lot, and it was was locked. All visitors had to use the entrance telephone. Irene found Ingrid’s name on the sign and pressed the button. It took a few minutes and a number of tries before a weak voice came through the speaker.

“Is that you, Frej?”

The shaky voice of an old lady was hard to peg to the image of the strong woman Irene had met fifteen years earlier. After everything Ingrid had gone through, it was not so strange that her voice had changed.

“It’s Irene Huss here. I’m a police officer. Do you remember me? We’ve met before,” Irene said, using her most warm, trust-inspiring voice.

“You are? I see.”

There was a buzzing sound from the door, and Irene pushed it open. The entrance lobby was inviting. Along one of the walls was a large window with open curtains and numerous plants on the windowsill. In front of the window was a small vinyl sofa.
How thoughtful to have somewhere for the old folks to sit while waiting for a ride
, Irene thought.

She entered the elevator and pressed the button. The elevator began to rise slowly and then came to a gentle stop. Irene jumped in surprise as a man’s voice said, “Fourth floor. Fourth floor.”

When her heart stopped pounding, Irene realized that the elevator had been fitted with a mechanical voice to help those who had trouble seeing.
They ought to warn you about stuff like that
, Irene thought.
Maybe with a sign or something
.

She had no time to think about this further, as a door across the hall cracked open.

“Are you the policewoman?” a shaky voice asked through the gap.

“Yes, I am, Mrs. Hagberg. I’m Detective Inspector Irene Huss.”

“So many police officers have talked to me. I don’t want to talk anymore. There’s no point. He’s never going to jail.”

“Who’s never going to jail?” Irene asked, confused, while noticing that the door was starting to close.

“That drunk who crashed into me.”

Irene thought as fast as she could. Apparently Ingrid Hagberg assumed Irene’s visit was about the accident last summer, when she’d been hit by a driver under the influence. “This is not about the accident. I’m here to talk about Magnus and Frej.”

There was no sound of the metal lock being turned in place. Instead, Ingrid pushed the door back open.

“Well, come in, then,” she said.

Irene stepped inside.

She knew that Ingrid would have changed, but she was still shocked by how much. The thin, bent woman clutching a walker hadn’t the slightest resemblance to the hefty farmwoman who’d invited her for coffee fifteen years earlier. The only thing that hadn’t changed was her large hands, although they had grown thinner and more claw-like. Perhaps her hair would have been just as thick, but it was hard to imagine now, as it had all been cut short. Two large scars from an operation ran across her skull. The only hint of her former heft was the loose flaps of skin hanging from her throat and arms. Her weight loss must have happened very fast. Even her short-sleeve zippered tunic was much too large for her, as were her black pants, which hung like sacks around her legs. Long traces of oatmeal ran down her tunic and onto her pants.

Clumsily, Ingrid turned around and, with the help of her walker, began to limp away from the door and into a large living room/kitchen combination. The furniture was brand new and pleasant. The only item that seemed to have traveled from the farm was a huge fir sideboard. The drop leaf was down and was crowded with photographs and knickknacks. Irene could spy a bed through another open door. In spite of the fact that the place was clean, the smell of urine hung in the air.

“Sit down,” Ingrid said, and pointed with a trembling finger at the kitchen table.

Irene chose the chair without the upholstered booster pillow.

Ingrid swayed back and forth as she slowly lowered herself onto the corduroy-covered booster. She exhaled loudly.

“So what do you want to know about Magnus? He’s dead,” Ingrid said gruffly.

“I know. I talked with you shortly after he died. Do you
remember? You were kind enough to offer me coffee and freshly baked cinnamon rolls …”

“You were poking around where you had no business. Snooping,” Ingrid grumbled.

“I was part of the investigation of the fire. We didn’t know what caused it …”

“My brother died.”

To Irene’s distress, tears began to roll down Ingrid’s cheeks. In order to distract her, Irene said, “Should I turn on the coffee pot? I brought something to go with coffee.”

She put the bag of bakery items on the table and began to rustle the paper. Ingrid stopped crying immediately.

“The coffeemaker is on the counter. Filters and coffee are in the cupboard above it. The coffee cups are right there next to them.” Ingrid spoke clearly without a trace of tremor in her voice.

Irene got up and went to the kitchen counter. She filled the coffeemaker and, just to be on the safe side, added a little extra coffee. She wanted the old lady to be as energetic as possible. She discreetly washed the coffee cups and dried them before setting them on the table. It appeared Ingrid hadn’t bothered washing them before putting them back on the shelf.

“You don’t happen to have any sugar, do you?” asked Ingrid hopefully.

“No.”

“I just thought … you see, I’ve run out of it. But I have some of this artificial stuff here on the table. It’ll have to do.”

“Would you like milk in your coffee?” Irene asked.

“No,” Ingrid said.

Ingrid’s bad mood had lifted with the prospect of coffee and something sweet to go with it.
She’s just like a child getting a bag of candy
, Irene thought.
Not much to look forward to in a place like this, even if it is fresh and clean
.

Just to say something, Irene began, “The apartments here are really laid out well. Everything seems so nice and well-maintained. They even have flowers on the windowsill and a little sofa—”

“All the flowers are from residents who’ve died. And the vinyl is just in case someone pees on the sofa. It’s disgusting,” Ingrid said.

An unhappy tone had crept back into her voice, and Irene wondered how to get her back into a good mood. With nothing better to say, Irene asked, “Do you have a plate I can set these on?”

“Top shelf in the same cupboard as the coffee cups,” Ingrid replied promptly.

Irene pulled down a rose-colored, pressed-glass plate and arranged the chocolate cookies, raspberry muffins and cream puffs on it. She’d bought three of each, so that Ingrid could have some left for her evening coffee.

“The coffee’s ready,” Irene said.

She poured it into the mugs. Ingrid took some artificial sugar from a plastic holder and shook it into her coffee. Irene handed her the plate of cookies, and Ingrid grabbed a cream puff. Her eyes were shining as she chewed it.

Irene was glad that she’d thought to bring some sweets with her. “Does Frej often come to visit you?” she began.

“Sometimes.”

“I understand you were close. I remember he was wearing a light blue sweater the day I met him. He told me you’d knitted it for him and that he really liked it.”

Ingrid paused in her chewing and nodded. “The flat-knit one. Gave it to him for Christmas.”

Ingrid pushed in the last bite of the cream puff. She began to eye the plate again greedily. A large drop of vanilla cream had landed on her sweater, but Irene held her tongue for now. Perhaps she’d say something when she was ready to go.

“Have you been in touch with Angelika or Sophie since the fire fifteen years ago?” Irene asked.

“No, why would I be?”

“Well, Angelika was Frej’s mother and …”