The Fire Dance (26 page)

“I couldn’t find the light switch,” Irene said simply. She turned toward her daughter. “Please, Katarina, please just give me the key so I can go home. I’ve really had a terrible day.”

Without saying a word or even looking at her, Katarina took the house key from her key ring and handed it to Irene.

“I’ll hang it back on the inside door of the garbage room,” Irene said as she tried to catch her daughter’s eye.

“Sure,” Katarina said without emotion. She took Felipe’s arm and practically pushed him out of the room.

Irene turned back to Frej. “I’m sorry things have come to this. But as a matter of fact, I
am
investigating the death of your sister. You have to accept that part of my job is snooping around, as you put it.”

“Like it’s part of your job to put diabetics into comas? Is it part of your job to enter a house where there’s a private party? Is it? Is it?”

“No, that was … unfortunate.” Irene swallowed, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation was taking. To change the subject, she nodded toward the photographs. “So, you like fires?”

Frej stared at her with hostility. It seemed he didn’t intend to answer, but then he surprised her by turning to look at his photographs and saying, after a moment, “No, that was Sophie. She wanted inspiration for her
Fire Dance
.”

“Where did you take them?”

“Here and there. Walpurgis Night. Some real fires.” He shrugged as if he weren’t interested in where they were taken.

“How did you locate the real fires?”

“Followed fire trucks and stuff.”

“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.

“Y
OU LIED
!” K
ATARINA
accused Irene.

Katarina 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 … 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.

M
ONDAY 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.

O
N
T
UESDAY 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 startled and looked up at Irene through his odd glasses. He yanked them off in irritation, but he 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 clicked 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
.

J
UST 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.”