The Fire Witness: A Novel Read online

  It appears that the long-haul truck is barely moving. In jerks, the light goes from the grove of trees, over the back wall of the station, and starts to fill the windows with white light.

  The smaller child is looking down and its face is in shadow. The thin girl is barefoot and it looks like she is carrying plastic bags in both hands. The headlights reach them and the girl starts to lift her hand.

  Joona sees that she’s not carrying plastic bags. Her wrists are wrapped in bandages that have partially come undone and are hanging loosely and swaying in the light. Vicky Bennet and Dante Abrahamsson did not drown in the river.

  The digital clock says 2:14 a.m.

  Somehow, the two children managed to get out of the car and cross the river. They reached the other shore and traveled seventy-two kilometers farther south.

  Hair hangs in tangled strands over the girl’s face. Her dark eyes shine and then the two figures move out of the frame.

  They’re alive, Joona thinks. They’re both still alive.

  79

  The head of the National Criminal Investigation Department, Carlos Eliasson, is standing with his back to the door on purpose as Joona walks into his office.

  “Sit down,” Carlos says with odd expectation in his voice.

  “I’ve just driven here from Sundsvall and—”

  “Just a moment,” Carlos interrupts.

  Joona looks at his back, wondering what’s up with Carlos, and then sits down in the leather chair. He lets his eyes wander over the polished desktop, where reflections from the aquarium are shining.

  Carlos takes a deep breath and turns around. He looks different. He’s unshaven. There’s gray-speckled stubble on his upper lip and jaws.

  “So, what do you say?”

  “You’re growing a beard.”

  “A full beard,” Carlos says contentedly. “Well, I think it will thicken up soon. I’m never going to shave again. I’ve tossed my razor in the trash.”

  “Nice.”

  “But I gather you’re not here to talk about my beard,” Carlos says. “The diver did not find any bodies in the river.”

  “No,” Joona says. He pulls out the print of the security camera picture. “We didn’t find the bodies—”

  “Here it comes,” Carlos mumbles to himself.

  “—because there were no bodies in the river.”

  “And you’re sure about that?”

  “Vicky Bennet and Dante Abrahamsson are still alive.”

  “Gunnarsson has already called me about the security film from the gas station and I—”

  “Put out a new general bulletin.”

  “Are you shitting me? You just can’t turn a general bulletin on and off like a light switch!”

  “Vicky Bennet and Dante Abrahamsson are clearly the children in this picture,” Joona says. He points at the printout. “This was taken several hours after the car accident. They are alive and we have to send out another general bulletin!”

  Carlos sticks out one of his legs. “Put the Spanish boot on me if you have to,” he says, “but there is no way in hell I’m issuing another general bulletin.”

  “Look at the picture,” Joona says.

  “The Västernorrland police department went to the gas station today, too,” Carlos says. He folds the picture until it is a small, tight square. “They sent a copy of the hard disk to the National Forensic Lab and two of their best people have taken a look and are in agreement. They say it is impossible to definitively identify the people outside the gas station.”

  “But you know I’m right.”

  “Okay,” Carlos says. “Let’s say you’re right. You turn out to be right in the end, but I am not going to make a fool of myself and put out another general bulletin for people the police believe are dead.”

  “I’m not going to give up—”

  “Wait a second, just wait a second,” Carlos says. He takes a deep breath. “Joona, the internal investigation against you has gone higher up the chain. The head prosecutor has it on his desk.”

  “But it is—”

  “I am your boss. I am taking this report against you extremely seriously, and I want to hear from you that you understand that you are not leading the preliminary investigation in Sundsvall.”

  “I am not leading the preliminary investigation.”

  “And what does an observer do if the head prosecutor in Sundsvall chooses to end the investigation?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then we’re agreed.” Carlos smiles.

  “Not at all,” Joona says as he gets up and walks out.

  80

  Flora lies in her bed and stares at the ceiling. Her heart is thumping. She woke up dreaming that she was in a small room with a girl who did not want to show her face. The girl was hiding behind a wooden ladder. Something was wrong with her. She was wearing only white cotton panties and Flora could see her little breasts. She waited for Flora to come nearer and then she turned away, giggling and hiding her face in her hands.

  That evening, Flora had read about the murders of Miranda Eriksdotter and Elisabet Grim in the newspaper. Now she can’t stop thinking about the ghost who visited her. It already feels like a dream, although she knows she saw the dead girl in the hallway. She didn’t seem to be more than five years old, but in this dream, the girl was the same age as Miranda.

  Flora lies quietly and listens. Every creak in the apartment makes her heart beat harder. People who are scared of the dark are not in charge of their own homes. Fear sneaks through and alerts them to the slightest movement. Flora doesn’t know where she is supposed to go. It’s quarter to eight. She gets up and opens her bedroom door and listens to the sounds of the apartment. No one else is awake yet.

  She sneaks to the kitchen to start the coffee for Hans-Gunnar. The rising sun is casting a few rays on the scratched countertop. Flora takes out an unbleached filter and puts it into the basket. When she hears footsteps behind her, she is terrified.

  She turns and sees Ewa standing in the doorway to her bedroom. She’s only wearing a blue T-shirt and panties. She catches sight of Flora and comes down the hall.

  “What’s going on?” Ewa asks when she sees Flora’s face. “Have you been crying?”

  “I … I have to know. I think I’ve seen a ghost,” Flora says. “Have you seen her? A little girl here at home?”

  “What is wrong with you, Flora?”

  Ewa turns to go into the living room, but Flora places a hand on her strong arm to stop her.

  “But it’s true … I’m telling you the truth. Someone had hit her with a rock on the back of her head—”

  “You’re telling the truth?” Ewa interrupts sharply.

  “I was just … Perhaps there really are ghosts?”

  Ewa grabs one of Flora’s ears and drags her around.

  “I can’t understand why you insist on lying, but you do,” Ewa says. “You always have and you always will.”

  “But I saw—”

  “Shut up!” Ewa says and twists Flora’s ear.

  “Ow!”

  “We don’t tolerate lying in this household!”

  “Let go! Ow!”

  Ewa gives Flora’s ear one more twist and then releases her grip. Flora stands there a few moments with tears in her eyes and one hand on her burning ear. Then she starts the coffee machine and returns to her room. She shuts the door behind her, turns on the bedside light, and sits on her bed for a good cry.

  She’s always thought that mediums just pretended that they saw spirits.

  “I don’t understand anything,” she whispers.

  What if she’s really called out the spirits by doing séances? Maybe it didn’t matter whether she believes in them or not. When she called them and built a circle of participants to welcome them, perhaps the door to the other side did open and the ones waiting could just come in.

  Because I really saw a ghost.

  I saw the dead girl as a child.

  Miranda wanted to show me something.


  It’s not impossible. It must happen sometimes. She’s read that the body’s energy does not completely disappear on death. Many people believe in ghosts without being considered mentally ill. Flora tries to collect her thoughts and go through what happened the past few days.

  The girl came to me in a dream. I know I’ve dreamed about her, but when I saw her in the hall, I was awake. That was real. I saw her in front of me and she was speaking. She was actually there.

  Flora lies down, closes her eyes, and thinks that maybe she passed out when she tripped and hit her head on the floor.

  There was a pair of jeans on the floor between the tub and the toilet.

  I was afraid, I was startled, and I fell.

  She must have been unconscious and dreamed of the girl in the hallway.

  That’s what happened.

  She closes her eyes and smiles to herself. Then she notices a strange smell in her room—the odor of burned hair.

  There’s something under her pillow. She sits up and shivers then picks up the pillow. The large, sharp rock is lying on her white sheet.

  “Why aren’t you closing your eyes?” a voice says.

  The girl is standing in the dark, behind the lamp on her nightstand, and is looking straight at Flora. She’s not breathing. Her hair is sticky and black from dried blood. The light from the lamp interferes with her view, but Flora can see that the girl’s thin arms are gray and her brown veins look like a rusty network beneath her dead skin.

  “You’re not supposed to look at me,” the girl says, and turns off the light. It’s completely dark and Flora falls off the bed. Light blue spots dance in front of her eyes. The lamp drops to the floor beside her and she can hear the rustle of bedclothes and the sound of naked feet running across the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Flora crawls to the door and pulls herself to her feet. She fumbles with the door handle and stumbles into the hall, her lips clamped to keep from screaming. She walks down the hall, holding the wall so she doesn’t fall over. Panting hard, Flora grabs the telephone from the hallway table but drops it on the floor. She crouches down and calls the police.

  81

  Robert had found Elin on her knees next to the smashed china cabinet.

  “Elin, what is going on?”

  Without looking at him, she’d climbed to her feet and started walking over the shards of glass en route to her office.

  “You’re bleeding!”

  Elin had glanced impassively at her cut-up left hand, and kept going. He’d offered to call her doctor. “No, I don’t want him to come. I don’t care.”

  “Elin,” Robert protested, agitated. “You need help.”

  Elin had studied her wrist again, and admitted that it might be wise to have it bandaged. Then she’d walked into her office, drops of blood marking her path, and she’d shut her door.

  Now, she was in front of her computer, searching for the phone number of the National Police. She asked the operator to put her through to the person responsible for the investigation into the murders at Birgittagården.

  A man with a high voice answered. “The preliminary investigation is being headed by the prosecutor’s office in Sundsvall,” he said.

  “Is there a police officer I can speak with?”

  “The prosecutor’s office is working with the Västernorrland police department.”

  “I was visited by a detective inspector from the National Police. A tall man with gray eyes and—”

  “Joona Linna.”

  “Yes.”

  The man read a number and Elin scribbled it on the glossy cover of a fashion magazine. She thanked him for his help and ended the call. She dialed the number for the detective, but he did not pick up, and she couldn’t figure out a message to leave, so she left none.

  Elin was about to call the Sundsvall prosecutor’s office when her doctor arrived. The doctor didn’t ask her any questions. He had known her since childhood and knew quite well when a conversation was over. Elin sat quietly as he cleaned and wrapped her wound. She looked at her cell phone, which was lying on the August issue of British Vogue. Right between Gwyneth Paltrow’s breasts was Joona Linna’s number.

  By the time the doctor had finished and Elin returned to the large salon, the cleaning service had removed all the glass and mopped the floor. The china cabinet had been removed and Robert had spoken to the restorer at the Mediterranean Museum about the broken Seder plate.

  82

  Elin Frank is not smiling at anyone as she walks down the hall to Joona Linna’s office at the police station. Her graphite-gray coat from Burberry is tightly belted and there is a silver silk scarf around her hair. She hides her eyes behind black sunglasses and her wrapped wrist under a long gray cashmere sweater. The wrist throbs. Her heels clack against the scratched floor, and a poster reading IF YOU BELIEVE YOU’RE WORTHLESS AND DESERVE THE BRUISES, COME TALK TO US! flutters in her wake.

  A powerfully built woman wearing a bright red angora sweater and a tight black skirt comes out of an office to wait for Elin.

  “I’m Anja Larsson,” the woman says.

  Elin tries to say that she wants to speak to Joona Linna, but her voice won’t come out. The large woman smiles at her and offers to show Elin to the detective’s office.

  “I’m sorry,” Elin whispers.

  “Not to worry,” Anja says. She leads Elin to Joona’s door, knocks, and opens it. Anja and Joona exchange a glance, and Joona gently pulls out a chair for Elin.

  “I’ll bring you some water,” says Anja, and closes the door behind her.

  The room is silent. Elin tries to calm down enough to be able to speak. She has to wait for a long time. Finally she says, “I know it’s too late. I know I wasn’t helpful when you came to see me a few days ago. I can just imagine what you think of me.”

  She can’t go on. Tears start streaming down her face from behind her sunglasses. Anja comes in with a glass of water and a bunch of grapes on a tray and leaves again.

  Elin collects her thoughts. “I would like to talk about Vicky Bennet now.”

  “Then I will listen,” Joona says in a friendly way.

  “She was just six years old when she first came to me and I had her … I had her for only nine months.”

  “I know that.”

  “What you don’t know is that I … I let her down. No one should disappoint another human being the way that I disappointed her.”

  “Sometimes people do that,” Joona says.

  She takes off her sunglasses and studies the detective sitting across from her: his tousled blond hair, his serious face, and his eyes that mysteriously shift color.

  “I can’t excuse my own behavior,” she says. “But I have an offer for you. I am ready to pay all the costs for finding the bodies … so that the investigation can continue and not be shut down.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Even if things can’t be made right, I can … I mean … What if she’s not guilty?”

  “There’s no evidence pointing that way at the moment.”

  “No, but I just can’t believe that…”

  Elin’s eyes fill until it seems that the whole world is swimming in water.

  “Because she was a sweet and good child?”

  “She was hardly sweet and good.” Elin smiles faintly.

  “So I gather.”

  “Would you be able to continue the investigation if I pay you?”

  “We can’t take your money.”

  “I’ll find a way to solve the legal issues.”

  “Maybe so, but that won’t change a thing,” Joona explains softly. “The prosecutor is ending the investigation.”

  “What can I do?” asks Elin.

  “I am not supposed to say anything, but I will continue the investigation myself because I am absolutely sure that Vicky is still alive.”

  “But the news on television said—” Elin’s hand flies to her mouth.

  “I know for a fact that they did not drown in the ri
ver,” Joona replies.

  “Good Lord,” whispers Elin.

  83

  Elin is crying with her face turned away. Joona gives her time. He walks to the window and looks out. A misty rain is falling and the trees are swaying in the afternoon wind.

  “Do you have any idea where they could be hiding?” Joona asks after a few minutes have passed.

  “Her mother used to sleep in various garages. I did meet Susie once when she was going to try to take care of Vicky one weekend. She’d gotten a place to live in Hallonbergen, but it didn’t work out. Vicky was found in the subway tunnel all by herself between the Slussen and Mariatorget stations.”

  “It could be hard to find her,” Joona says.

  “I haven’t seen Vicky in nine years, but the staff at Birgittagården, they must have talked to her. They have to know something,” Elin says.

  “I agree,” Joona says.

  “So what’s wrong?”

  Joona looks her in the eye. “The only people Vicky talked to were the nurse who was murdered and her husband, who was the therapist. He should know a great deal—or at least something—but mentally he’s not well at all and his doctors think that a police interrogation will worsen his condition. We can’t do anything.”

  “But I am not a police officer,” Elin says. “I could speak to him.”

  She keeps looking him in the eye and realizes that this is exactly what he’s been hoping she’d say.

  Going down in the elevator, Elin feels the heavy exhaustion that comes after prolonged crying. She remembers the detective’s voice and his soft Finnish accent. He had unusual eyes, gray and oddly sharp.

  His colleague in the red sweater had called the provincial hospital in Sundsvall and found out that Daniel Grim had been moved to the psychiatric ward and that his doctor was still forbidding the police to interview him.

  Elin crosses the street and gets into her BMW. She calls the number for the hospital that she’s been given and finds out that Daniel Grim is in Ward 52A but that he’s not allowed to receive phone calls in his room. However, he can receive visitors daily until six p.m.