The Fire Dance (27 page)

“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.

• • •

T
HE 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 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 superintendent 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!”

A
NGELIKA 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 bunnies 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 long knitted 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 hair dryer out of a dresser in the hallway and began to dry her hair in front of the mirror.

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 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!”