The Fire Witness

Joona knows he doesn’t have the authority to hold interviews, but he needs to know if there’s a witness, he thinks, as he bends down to go through the low door.

17

The floor creaks as Joona walks into the small house, stepping over the threshold. There are three girls in the cramped room. The youngest of them can’t be more than twelve years old. Her skin is pink, and her hair coppery red. She’s sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall watching television. She whispers to herself, then hits the back of her head against the wall several times, closes her eyes for a few seconds, then goes on watching the television.

The other two don’t even seem to notice her. They’re just sitting back on an old corduroy sofa leafing through old fashion magazines.

A psychologist from the regional hospital in Sundsvall is sitting on the floor next to the red-haired girl.

‘My name is Lisa,’ she says tentatively, in a warm voice. ‘What’s your name?’

The girl doesn’t take her eyes off the television. It’s a repeat of the series Blue Water High. The volume is turned up loud, and the screen is casting a chilly glow across the room.

‘Have you heard the story of Thumbelina?’ Lisa asks. ‘I often feel like her. The size of someone’s thumb … How are you feeling?’

‘Like Jack the Ripper,’ the girl replies in a high voice without taking her eyes from the screen.

Joona goes and sits in an armchair in front of the television. One of the girls on the sofa stares at him wide-eyed, but looks down with a smile when he says hello. She’s got a stocky build, her fingernails are badly bitten, and she’s wearing jeans and a black top with the words ‘Razors cause less pain than life’ on it. She’s wearing blue eyeshadow, and has a sparkly hairband around her wrist. The other girl looks slightly older, and is wearing a ripped T-shirt with a horse on it, and a white pearl rosary necklace. She has old injection scars in the crook of her arm, and a khaki jacket rolled up to form a pillow behind her head.

‘Indie?’ the older girl asks in a subdued voice. ‘Did you go in and look before the cops came?’

‘I don’t want nightmares,’ the larger girl says languidly.

‘Poor little Indie,’ the older one teases.

‘What?’

‘You’re scared of nightmares then …’

‘Yes, I am.’

The other girl laughs: ‘So fucking self—’

‘Shut up, Caroline,’ the red-haired girl cries.

‘Miranda’s been murdered,’ Caroline goes on. ‘That’s probably a bit worse than—’

‘I just think it’s nice not to have to deal with her,’ Indie says.

‘You’re so sick,’ Caroline smiles.

‘She was fucking sick, she burned me with a cigarette and—’

‘Stop bitching!’ the red-haired girl snaps.

‘And she hit me with a skipping rope,’ Indie goes on.

‘You really are a bitch,’ Caroline sighs.

‘Sure, I’m happy to say it if it makes you feel better,’ Indie teases. ‘It’s really sad that an idiot’s dead, but I—’

The little red-haired girl hits her head against the wall again, then closes her eyes. The front door opens, and the two girls who ran off come in with Gunnarsson.

18

Joona leans back in the chair, his face is calm, his dark jacket has fallen open in gentle folds, his muscular body is relaxed, and his eyes are as grey as the frozen sea as he watches the girls walking in.

The others boo loudly and laugh. Lu Chu is swaying her hips exaggeratedly as she walks, flicking a V-sign with her fingers.

‘Lesbian loser,’ Indie calls.

‘We could take a shower together,’ Lu Chu replies.

The counsellor, Daniel Grim, comes into the cottage behind the girls. He’s obviously trying to get Gunnarsson to listen.

‘I’d just like you to take it a bit more gently with the girls,’ Daniel says, then lowers his voice before he goes on. ‘You’re frightening them just by being here …’

‘Don’t worry,’ Gunnarsson reassures him.

‘But I am,’ Daniel replies frankly.

‘What?’

‘I am actually worried,’ he says.

‘Well you can sod off, then,’ Gunnarsson sighs. ‘Just get out of the way and let me do my job.’

Joona notes that the counsellor hasn’t shaved, and that the T-shirt under his jacket is inside out.

‘I just want to point out that for these girls, the police don’t represent security.’

‘Yes they do!’ Caroline jokes.

‘That’s good to hear,’ Daniel says with a smile, then turns back to Gunnarsson. ‘Seriously, though … for most of our residents, the police have only featured in their lives when things were going wrong.’

Joona can see that Daniel is well aware that the police officer regards him as a nuisance, but he still chooses to raise another matter: ‘I was speaking to the coordinator outside about temporary accommodation for—’

‘One thing at a time,’ Gunnarsson interrupts.

‘It’s important, because—’

‘Cunt,’ Indie says irritably.

‘Fuck you,’ Lu Chu teases.

‘Because it could be damaging,’ Daniel goes on. ‘It could be damaging for the girls to have to sleep here tonight.’

‘Are they going to stay in a hotel, then?’ Gunnarsson asks.

‘You ought to be murdered!’ Almira yells, and throws a glass at Indie.

It shatters against the wall, scattering water and jagged fragments across the floor. Daniel rushes over, Almira turns away, but Indie manages to punch her in the back several times before Daniel separates them.

‘For God’s sake, control yourselves!’ he roars.

‘Almira’s a fucking cunt who—’

‘Just calm down, Indie,’ he says, blocking her hand. ‘We’ve talked about this – haven’t we?’

‘Yes,’ she replies in a calmer voice.

‘You’re a good girl really,’ he says with a smile.

She nods and starts to pick up pieces of glass from the floor with Almira.

‘I’ll get the vacuum cleaner,’ Daniel says, and leaves the cottage.

He pushes the door shut from outside, but it swings open again, so he slams it, making the framed Carl Larsson print rattle against the wall.

‘Did Miranda have any enemies?’ Gunnarsson asks the group.

‘No,’ Almira replies, and giggles.

Indie glances at Joona.

‘OK, listen!’ Gunnarsson says, raising his voice. ‘I just want you to answer my questions, not start shrieking and messing about. It can’t be that bloody difficult, can it?’

‘That depends on the questions,’ Caroline replies calmly.

‘I’ll probably stick to shrieking,’ Lu Chu mutters.

‘Truth or dare,’ Indie says, pointing at Joona with a smile.

‘Truth,’ Joona replies.

‘I’m asking the questions,’ Gunnarsson protests.

‘What does this mean?’ Joona asks, and covers his face with his hands.

‘What? I don’t know,’ Indie replies. ‘Vicky and Miranda were the ones who did all that—’

‘I can’t handle this,’ Caroline interrupts. ‘You didn’t see Miranda, that’s how she was lying, there was so much blood, there was blood everywhere. And …’

Her voice collapses into sobs, and the psychologist goes over and tries to calm her down.

‘Who’s Vicky?’ Joona asks, getting up from the armchair.

‘She’s the most recent arrival here.’

‘So where the hell is she?’ Lu Chu snaps.

‘Which one’s her room?’ Joona asks quickly.

‘She’s probably sneaked out to see her fuck-buddy,’ Tuula says.

‘We usually store up Stesolid pills, then sleep like—’

‘Who are we talking about now?’ Gunnarsson asks in a loud voice.

‘Vicky Bennet,’ Caroline replies. ‘I haven’t seen her all—’

‘Where the hell is she?’

‘Vicky’s just too fucking much,’ Lu Chu laughs.

‘Turn the television off,’ Gunnarsson says, sounding stressed. ‘I want everyone to calm down, and—’

‘Stop shouting!’ Tuula shouts, and turns the volume up.

Joona crouches down in front of Caroline, looks into her eyes, and holds her gaze with calm intensity.

‘Which is Vicky’s room?’

‘The last one, at the end of the corridor,’ Caroline replies.

19

Joona leaves the small house and hurries across the yard, passing the counsellor with the vacuum cleaner and saying hello to the forensics officers before running up the steps and going back into the main building. It’s gloomy now, the lamps are switched off, but the mats on the floor stand out like stepping stones.

One girl is missing, Joona thinks. No one has seen her. Maybe she ran away in the chaos, maybe the others are trying to help her by withholding what they know.

The crime scene investigation has only just begun, and the rooms haven’t been searched yet. The entire Birgitta Home should have been examined with a toothcomb, but there hasn’t been time, too much has been happening all at once.

The girls are anxious and scared.

The victim support team should be here.

The police need reinforcements, more forensics officers, more resources.

Joona shudders at the thought that the missing girl might be hiding in her room. She could have seen something, and is now so terrified that she daren’t come out.

He hurries into the corridor containing the girls’ rooms.

The walls and timbers are creaking slightly, but otherwise the building is quiet. In the alcove the door with no handle is standing ajar. The dead girl is lying on the bed in there with her hands over her eyes.

Joona suddenly remembers that he saw three horizontal marks in the blood on the edge of the alcove. Blood from three fingers, but not fingerprints. Joona noticed the marks, but was so absorbed in structuring his impressions of the crime scene that only now does he realise that they were on the wrong side. The marks didn’t lead away from the murder, but the other way, further along the corridor. There are faint prints from boots, shoes, and bare feet leading in all directions, but the three streaks of blood lead deeper into the building.

Whoever left the marks was planning to do something in one of the other girls’ rooms.

No more dead bodies, Joona whispers to himself.

He pulls on a pair of latex gloves and walks to the last room. When he opens the door he hears a rustling sound, and stops abruptly, trying to see. The sound disappears. Joona carefully reaches in for the light switch with his hand.

He hears the noise again, it’s an odd, metallic sound.

‘Vicky?’

He feels across the wall, finds the switch, and turns the light on. Yellow light immediately fills the barely furnished room. There’s a creak as the window swings open towards the forest and lake. A sudden noise in the corner draws Joona’s attention, and he sees a birdcage lying on the floor. A yellow budgie is flapping its wings and climbing the roof of the cage.

The smell of blood is unmistakeable. A mixture of iron and something else, something cloying and rancid.

Joona lays out some plastic mats and walks slowly into the room.

There’s blood around the window catch. Clear handprints show how someone climbed up onto the windowsill, took hold of the window frame, and then presumably jumped out onto the lawn below.

He goes over to the bed. An icy shiver runs down his neck when he pulls the covers back. The sheet is covered with dried blood. But whoever was lying in the bed hadn’t been injured.

The blood has been wiped off onto the sheet, smeared across it.

Someone covered in blood has slept in these sheets.

Joona stands still for a while, trying to read the movements.

She really did sleep, he thinks.

When he tries to pick up the pillow he discovers that it’s stuck to the bottom sheet and mattress. Joona pulls it free, to find a bloodstained hammer with congealed brown matter and strands of hair stuck to it. Most of the blood has been absorbed by the sheet, but it’s still glinting wetly around the head of the hammer.

20

The Birgitta Home is bathed in soft, beautiful light, and Himmelsjön is glinting magically between the tall old trees. But just a few hours ago Nina Mollander got up to go to the toilet and found Miranda dead on her bed. She woke the others, panic broke out, and they called counsellor Daniel Grim, who immediately alerted the police.

Nina Molander was so shocked that she’d had to be taken by ambulance to the regional hospital in Sundsvall.

Gunnarsson is standing in the yard with the counsellor, Daniel Grim, and Sonja Rask. Gunnarsson has opened the boot of his white Mercedes and has laid out the forensics officers’ sketches of the crime scene in the back.

The dog is still barking excitedly, tugging at its leash.

When Joona stops behind the car and runs his hand through his tousled hair the other three have already turned to face him.

‘The girl’s escaped through her window,’ he says.

‘Escaped?’ Daniel says in astonishment. ‘Vicky’s escaped? Why would—’

‘There’s blood on the window frame, there’s blood in her bed, and—’

‘Surely that doesn’t necessarily mean—’

‘There’s a bloody hammer under her pillow,’ Joona concludes.

‘This doesn’t make sense,’ Gunnarsson says irritably. ‘It’s can’t be right, because the level of violence was so damn extreme.’

Joona turns back to the counsellor, Daniel Grim. His face looks fragile and naked in the sunlight.

‘What do you say?’ Joona asks him.

‘What? About the idea that Vicky might … It’s insane,’ Daniel replies.

‘Why?’

‘Just now,’ the counsellor says, and smiles involuntarily, ‘just now you were convinced this was the work of a grown man – Vicky’s small, weighs less than fifty kilos, and her wrists are as thin as—’

‘Is she violent?’ Joona asks.

‘Vicky didn’t do this,’ Daniel replies calmly. ‘I’ve spent two months working with her, and I can tell you that she isn’t.’

‘Was she violent before she came here?’

‘I have to obey the oath of confidentiality,’ Daniel replies.

‘And surely you can see that your bloody oath of confidentiality is costing us time,’ Gunnarsson says.

‘What I can say is that I coach some residents to adopt alternatives to aggressive responses … so that they don’t react angrily when they feel disappointed or frightened, for instance,’ Daniel says mildly.

‘But not Vicky?’ Joona says.

‘No.’

‘So why isn’t she here?’ Sonja asks.

‘I can’t discuss individual residents.’

‘But you don’t consider her violent?’

‘She’s a sweet girl,’ he replies simply.

‘So what do you think happened? Why is there a bloody hammer under her pillow?’

‘I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense. Maybe she was helping someone? Hid the weapon?’

‘Which of the girls are violent?’ Gunnarsson asks angrily.

‘I can’t identify them individually – you must understand that.’

‘We do,’ Joona replies.

Daniel looks at him gratefully and tries to breathe more calmly.

‘Try talking to them,’ Daniel says. ‘You’ll soon see which girls I mean.’

‘Thanks,’ Joona says, and starts to walk off.

‘Bear in mind that they’ve lost a friend,’ Daniel says quickly.

Joona stops and walks back towards the counsellor.

‘Do you know which room Miranda was found in?’

‘No, but I assumed …’

Daniel falls silent and shakes his head.

‘Because I’m having trouble thinking it’s her room,’ Joona says. ‘It’s almost bare, on the right, just past the toilets.’

‘The isolation room,’ Daniel replies.

‘Why would someone end up there?’ Joona asks.

‘Because …’ Daniel tails off and looks thoughtful.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘The door should have been locked,’ he says.

‘There’s a key in the lock.’

‘What key?’ Daniel asks, raising his voice. ‘Elisabet’s the only person who’s got a key to the isolation room.’

‘Who’s Elisabet?’ Gunnarsson asks.

‘My wife,’ Daniel replies. ‘She was on duty last night …’

‘So where is she now?’ Sonja asks.

‘What?’ Daniel says, looking at her in confusion.

‘Is she at home?’ she asks.

Daniel looks surprised and uncertain.

‘I assumed Elisabet had gone with Nina in the ambulance,’ he says slowly.

‘No, Nina Molander went on her own,’ Sonja replies.

‘Of course Elisabet went with her to the hospital, she’d never let one of the—’

‘I was the first officer on the scene,’ Sonja interrupts.

Exhaustion is making her voice sound brusque and hoarse.

‘There was no member of staff here,’ she goes on. ‘Just a load of frightened girls.’

‘But my wife was—’

‘Call her,’ Sonja says.

‘I’ve tried, her phone’s switched off,’ Daniel says quietly. ‘I thought … I assumed …’

‘God, this is a mess,’ Gunnarsson says.

‘My wife, Elisabet,’ Daniel goes on in a voice that’s getting increasingly unsteady. ‘She’s got a heart condition, it might, she might …’

‘Try to talk calmly,’ Joona says.

‘My wife has an enlarged heart and … she was working last night, she should be here … her phone is switched off and …’

21

Daniel looks at them desperately, fumbles with the zipper on his jacket, and repeats that his wife has a heart condition. The dog is barking and pulling so hard at its leash that it’s almost strangling itself. It coughs, then goes on barking.

Joona goes over to the barking dog beneath the tree. He tries to calm it down as he loosens the leash attached to its collar. As soon as Joona lets go, the dog runs across the yard to a small building. Joona hurries after it. The dog is scratching at the door, whimpering and panting.

Daniel Grim stares at Joona and the dog, and starts to walk towards them. Gunnarsson calls to him to stop, but he keeps moving. His body is stiff and his face full of despair. The gravel crunches beneath his feet. Joona tries to calm the dog, and grabs hold of its collar to pull it back, away from the door.

Gunnarsson runs across the yard and gets hold of Daniel’s jacket, but he pulls free and falls to the ground, scrapes his hand, but gets back up again.

The dog is barking, tensing its body and pulling at its collar.

The uniformed police officer stops in front of the door. Daniel tries to push past, and calls out with a sob in his voice: ‘Elisabet? Elisabet! I have to …’

The police officer tries to lead him aside while Gunnarsson hurries over to Joona and helps him with the dog.

‘My wife,’ Daniel whimpers. ‘My wife could be …’

Gunnarsson pulls the dog back towards the tree again.

The dog is panting hard, kicking up grit with its paws and barking at the door.

Joona feels a sting of pain at the back of his eyes as he pulls on a latex glove.

A carved wooden sign beneath the low eaves of the building says ‘Brew-house’.

Joona opens the door carefully and looks into the dimly-lit room. A small window is open, and hundreds of flies are buzzing about. There are bloody paw prints from the dog all over the worn floor tiles. Without going inside, Joona moves sideways to see around the brick fireplace.

He can see the back panel of a mobile phone next to a patch of blood.

As Joona leans forward through the door the buzzing of the flies gets louder. A woman in her fifties is lying in a pool of blood with her mouth open. She’s dressed in jeans, pink socks and a grey cardigan. The woman evidently tried to shuffle away, but the upper part of her face and head have been caved in.

22

Pia Abrahamsson realises that she’s driving a bit too fast.

She’d counted on getting away earlier, but the diocesan meeting in Östersund dragged on longer than expected.

Pia looks at her son in the mirror. His head is lolling against the edge of his child’s seat. His eyes are closed behind his glasses. The morning sunlight flashes between the trees and across his calm little face.

She slows down to eighty kilometres an hour even though the road stretches out perfectly straight ahead of her through the forest.

The roads are eerily empty.

Twenty minutes ago she passed a truck loaded with logs, but since then she hasn’t seen another vehicle.

She screws up her eyes to see better.

The animal-proof fencing on either side of the road flickers past monotonously.

Human beings must be the most frightened creatures on the planet, she thinks.

This country has eight thousand kilometres of animal-proof fencing. Not to protect the animals, but to protect human beings. Narrow roads run through these oceans of forest surrounded on both sides by high fences.

Pia Abrahamsson glances quickly at Dante in the back seat.

She got pregnant when she was working as a priest in Hässelby parish. The father was the editor of the Church Times. She stood there with the pregnancy test in her hand, thinking about the fact that she was thirty-six years old.

She kept the child, but not the father of the child. Her son is the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

Dante is sitting asleep in his child’s car seat. His head is hanging heavily on his chest and his comfort blanket has fallen onto the floor.

Before he fell asleep he was so tired that he was crying at everything. He cried because the car smelled nasty from his mum’s perfume, and because Super Mario had been eaten.

There are over two hundred kilometres to go until Sundsvall, and another four hundred and sixty before Stockholm.

Pia Abrahamsson needs to go to the toilet – she drank far too much coffee at the meeting.

There must an open petrol station soon.

She tells herself that she shouldn’t stop in the middle of the forest.

She shouldn’t, but she’s going to anyway.

Pia Abrahamsson, who every Sunday preaches that everything that happens, happens for a deeper purpose, is about to become the victim of blind, indifferent fate.

She pulls gently over to the side of the road by a logging track and stops by the locked barrier blocking the animal fence. Behind the barrier the stony track leads into the forest.

She thinks that she shouldn’t go out of sight of the road, and leaves the car door open so she can hear if Dante wakes up.

‘Mummy?’

‘Try to go back to sleep.’

‘Mummy, don’t go.’

‘Sweetheart,’ Pia says. ‘I just need to pee. I’ll leave the door open, so I’ll be able to see you the whole time.’

He looks at her sleepily.

‘I don’t want to be alone,’ he whispers.

She smiles at him and pats his sweaty little cheek. She knows she’s over-protective, that she’s turning him into a mummy’s boy, but she can’t help it.

‘It’s only for a really short time,’ she says cheerfully.

Dante clings onto her hand and tries to stop her going, but she pulls free and takes a wet-wipe from the packet.

Pia gets out of the car, ducks under the barrier, and walks up the track, then turns and waves to Dante.

Imagine if someone pulled in and filmed her on her their mobile phone while she was squatting with her backside exposed.

The images of the peeing priest would be all over YouTube, Facebook, forums, blogs and chat-rooms.

She shivers, steps off the track, and goes further into the trees. Heavy forestry machinery has churned up the ground.

When she’s sure she can’t be seen from the road, she pulls down her pants, steps out of them, then hoists up her skirt and squats down.

She can feel how tired she is, her thighs start to shake and she rests one hand on the moss that’s growing on the tree trunks.

Relief courses through her and she closes her eyes.

When she looks up again she sees something incomprehensible. An animal has got up onto two legs and is walking along the logging track, staggering and hunched over.