The Fire Witness

‘No.’

‘But obviously it’ll go a bit quicker now we’ve got a name,’ she smiles, and opens the front door of the big Ford. ‘There are four men called Dennis in the area.’

‘I’ll follow you,’ he says, and gets in his Volvo.

The American car sways as it pulls out and sets off towards Indal. Joona follows, thinking about Vicky.

Her mother, Susie Bennet, was an addict, and was homeless before her death last winter. Vicky has lived in various foster families and institutions from the age of six, and presumably quickly learned how to let old relationships go and how to make new ones.

If Vicky has been sneaking out to meet someone at night, he must live fairly close. Perhaps he waits for her in the forest or on the logging track. Perhaps she heads down Highway 86 to his home in Baggböle or Västloning.

The tarmac is drying now, the rainwater is settling in the ditches and shallow puddles. The sky is brighter now, but the forest is still dripping.

The prosecutor phones Joona, and he can see her looking in her rear-view mirror as she talks.

‘We’ve just found one Dennis in Indal,’ she says. ‘He’s seven years old. There’s another one who lives out at Stige, but he’s currently working in Leeds.’

‘Which leaves two others,’ Joona says.

‘Yes. Dennis and Lovisa Karmstedt live in a house outside Tomming. We haven’t been there yet. And there’s a Dennis Rolando who lives with his parents just south of Indal. We’ve paid a visit to the parents, and there’s nothing there. But he owns a large workshop on Kvarnåvägen that we can’t get into … It’s probably nothing, because they’ve spoken to him, and apparently he’s in his car on the way to Sollefteå.’

‘Break the door open.’

‘OK,’ she says, and ends the call.

The landscape opens up and the road is lined by fields on both sides, sparkling from the recent rain. Red-painted farms press up against the forest, which stretches off into the distance behind them.

As Joona is passing through the peaceful hamlet of Östanskär, two uniformed police officers are cutting through the heavy hinges of the workshop’s steel door with an angle-grinder. A cascade of sparks sprays across the wall. The officers insert sturdy crowbars, break the door open, and go inside. The beams of their torches seek their way into the shadows. The workshop contains about fifty old-fashioned arcade games, Space Invaders, Asteroids, Street Fighter, all covered with dirty plastic sheeting.

Joona sees Susanne Öst talking on her phone, then she glances at him in the rear-view mirror. His phone rings. Susanne tells him quickly that there’s only one address left. It’s not far away. They ought to be there in ten minutes.

He slows down and follows her as she turns right onto a road between two waterlogged meadows, then on into the forest. They approach a yellow wooden house with closed blinds in all the windows. There are apple trees growing in the well-tended garden, and a blue-and-white-striped swing seat in the middle of the plot.

They pull up and walk together towards a parked police car.

Joona says hello to the two officers, then looks up at the house with the closed blinds.

‘We don’t know if Vicky took the car to abduct the child, or if she just wanted a car and there happened to be a child in the back seat,’ he says. ‘Either way, we have to regard the child as a hostage under current circumstances.’

‘A hostage,’ the prosecutor repeats quietly.

She walks over and rings the bell, then calls out that the police will force the door open if they’re not let in. Someone moves inside the house. The floor creaks, and a heavy piece of furniture topples over.

‘I’m going in,’ Joona says.

One of the police officers keeps watch on the front door, the gable end facing the grass and the locked garage door, while the other one goes around to the rear of the house with Joona.

Their shoes and trousers get wet in the tall grass. At the back is a small flight of concrete steps leading down to a door with a mottled glass window. When Joona kicks the door in, the frame shatters and fragments of glass fly across the utility-room floor.

32 (#ulink_d1669170-3ee6-55f2-a9ec-500e6d2de973)

Broken glass crunches under Joona’s shoes as he enters a neat utility room containing a hand-driven mangle.

Miranda was sitting on a chair when she was murdered, Joona thinks. Elisabet was chased across the yard in her stockinged feet and into the brew-house, tried to crawl away, but was beaten to death from the front.

He can feel the weight of the new pistol in its holster beneath his right arm. It’s a semi-automatic Smith & Wesson, .45 calibre ACP. It’s heavier than his old one, holds fewer bullets, but is quicker with the first shot.

Joona carefully opens a creaking door and looks into an old-fashioned kitchen. There’s a large ceramic bowl of red apples on the round table, and the fine old stove smells of wood-smoke. A plate of frozen cinnamon buns is defrosting, and a drawer full of sharp knives is open.

He can see the wet greenery of the garden through the blinds.

Joona carries on into the hall and hears the ceiling light tinkle as its glass prisms knock against each other. Someone’s walking across the floor upstairs, making the lamp sway.

He creeps up the stairs, and glances down between the treads. There are clothes hung up in the darkness beneath the stairs.

Joona reaches the first landing and moves almost without a sound along the banister and into a bedroom containing a double bed. The blinds are drawn, and the ceiling light doesn’t work.

Joona goes in, checks possible lines of fire, then moves sideways.

On top of the colourful bedspread is the telescopic sight of a hunting rifle.

He can hear someone breathing, very close to him. Joona steps further into the room and aims his pistol at the far corner. Behind the open wardrobe a round-shouldered man with light brown hair is standing staring at him.

The man is barefoot and wearing dark blue jeans and a white T-shirt with the name Stora Enso on it. He’s hiding something behind his back as he moves slowly to his right, towards the bed.

‘I’m from the National Crime Unit,’ Joona says, lowering his pistol slightly.

‘This is my house,’ the man says in a subdued voice.

‘You should have opened the door.’

Joona sees sweat running down the man’s cheeks.

‘Did you break my back door?’ the man asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Can it be repaired?’

‘I doubt it,’ Joona replies.

There’s a flicker in the smoked mirror on the sliding wardrobe door. Joona sees that the man is concealing a large kitchen knife behind his back.

‘I need to look in your garage,’ Joona says calmly.

‘My car’s in there.’

‘Put the knife on the bed and show me the garage.’