The echoing calls came from far away, as if someone was standing on a distant hill, crying out over a valley. That was how Ann perceived it before she woke up properly.
“It’s burning!”
She leaped out of bed, glanced at the clock, which said 2:13, pulled on her bathrobe, and hurried downstairs. Erik was standing in the front door.
“Where?” she screamed. “What’s burning?”
When she looked in the direction he was pointing she saw an orange-yellow flickering glow at the edge of the forest, about a kilometer away. The sun had gone down a couple of hours before but you could already sense the first light of dawn.
“Did you call the fire department?”
“I called 112.”
“Did they know there was a fire?”
“I don’t think so. What is it that’s on fire?”
“I don’t know. There’s a farm over there, but it’s more to the left, you can glimpse the silos. What address did you give?”
“I said that they should drive to Tilltorp, the same village where the school burned last winter. From there they would see the fire.”
She reached for the phone, which was on the hall table, and entered Gösta’s number. After a short time he answered in a confused voice. “Friberg here.”
When she explained that there was a fire he let out a moan.
“You have the Mattssons’ number, don’t you? Call them! We’ve called the fire department.” She clicked off.
“We’ll drive there, let me just put some clothes on.”
She suspected that Erik hadn’t gone to bed, but had been sitting in front of the computer instead. Fire extinguisher, it occurred to her as she pulled on a pair of jeans. I don’t have one. There isn’t one in his cabin either. Not even a smoke alarm.
Soon they were on their way. Ann saw that the lights were on at both Gösta’s and Bertil’s. Erik didn’t say anything, but she understood that he was shaken. She herself felt a little of the old excitement, a kind of expectation, even though she knew that something unpleasant, even terrible, was waiting. It was that characteristic a police officer has to have. Ola Haver, a colleague from Violent Crimes, didn’t have it. They’d discussed that issue many times, and finally he had to quit the force, even though he was actually a good investigator.
She had passed the Hamra sign a number of times, but never had any reason to visit the farm. Now she turned onto the recently graded but still bumpy road, even though she was not certain it was the right way to the scene of the fire. Before long they reached the farm, a sizable two-story farmhouse with a couple of smaller buildings as wings. A barn was nearby and what she thought was a pigpen a little farther away.
Everything was dark, except for the farmyard light. Ann honked. “There’s probably no one home,” Erik commented.
A dog started barking, hard to tell from where, but no lights were turned on, and no person appeared. The first light of dawn had gradually scattered the darkness, but the cool night air remained as fog over the fields. They drove on, rounded one of the wings, where the doghouse was, and continued on a narrow gravel road that led into the forest. They saw the glow of fire between the trees. The car bounced on the winding road and the dark tree trunks were much too close. For a moment Ann got a sense of déjà vu. Some time in her former life she had driven in a similar way, too fast, but still not fast enough.
“When we get there you’ll have to stay in the car until I say so.”
With a hundred meters left, as they rounded a grove of trees, for the first time they got an overview of the fire scene. It was a small building. In flames.
Ann drove as close as she dared. She got out, Erik too. She made no attempt to stop him, realized that there was no point.
“It hardly seems to be a residence,” said Ann. “It looks more like an old workshop, maybe a smithy. You see the chimney. They located smithies away from the farmhouses just because of the risk of fire.”
“The things you know.”
“I’ve investigated fires in the country,” Ann said curtly, because now she’d caught sight of something that worried her. A bicycle was leaned against an apple tree, and behind a container a vehicle was visible. It appeared to be an older Toyota pickup.
“What’s making that sound?” Erik asked.
Ann had also heard the whining sound. “It may be that way,” she said, feeling a little stupid, uncertain herself what she meant.
“It’s a dog howling,” said Erik.
“Do you think so?”
“A dog is dying in there.”
Maybe someone will die, she repeated silently to herself. She was seized by the loathsome thought that it could be a person moaning they heard, but told herself that he was right.
“We can’t do anything.”
“I understand that too,” said Erik.
Helplessly they observed the fire for a minute or two. Sparks flew toward the sky. Shouldn’t the fire department arrive soon?
“Wait here, I’ll look around.”
“And what if it’s a crime scene?”
“You’ve watched too much TV,” said Ann. She kept her eyes on the truck and at the same time fished out her phone, using speed dial to make a call. It was a woman who answered.
“Hi, my name is Ann Lindell, a former colleague…”
“I know who you are. My name is Regina.”
“Hi, Regina,” Lindell said, feeling how unnecessarily irritated she got. “I’m at the scene of a fire, it’s all in flames.”
“We’ve gotten a call about that, an Erik Lindell called. If that’s the same fire.”
“It is. Is anyone coming, and when?”
“The fire department is on its way, and a colleague from Östhammar. It’s a ways to drive. Do you live out there in the wilderness? Was it your son who called?”
Lindell overlooked the impertinent questions, thanked her for the information, and ended the call.
The truck was unlocked. She opened the door and was met by a strange combination of smells, heavy and oily mixed with sweet perfume. As she guessed it was a Toyota, at least ten years old. She leaned in, careful not to leave any prints. The backseat was full of boxes, a helmet, various tools, and bags from a hamburger chain. A working vehicle in the countryside, she thought, and backed out into the fresh air.
A car approached. She thought at first it was the police or the fire department’s command car, but it was Bertil who came bumping along. He parked beside Ann’s car and with some difficulty got out of his ancient Simca.
“Hi, Erik,” she heard him call. “Is your mother here somewhere?” She was happy that Bertil remembered his name. They hadn’t met very many times, after all.
Erik pointed toward Ann. Now there was no hesitation in Bertil’s movements. “Does anyone live here?” she asked immediately.
“Yes, Mattsson’s youngest, Daniel.”
“Is that his truck?”
Bertil nodded mutely.
“Does he have a dog?”
Bertil shook his head.
“Not as far as I know. He’s not exactly an animal lover.”
“Where’s the rest of the family? The big house is completely dead.”
“The whole gang was going to Stavby. Gösta forgot to say that when you called. Maybe he was confused. He never called Waldemar. He wanted me to do it.”
“Why isn’t Gösta here?”
“He’s afraid of fire. He hates fire.”
“Is he afraid of Waldemar Mattsson too?”
Bertil observed her for a moment before he replied. “What have you heard?”
“Nothing, I’m just guessing.”
She suddenly became aware of Erik, who had slipped up and was standing right behind her. She ought to let go now, she realized that. He was young, after all, sixteen years old. It was night, perhaps it was arson. Perhaps there was death. But she was forced to go on.
“Bertil, who set this?”
“You think it’s arson?”
“Of course,” said Ann.
“That was an easy calculation,” Bertil said with an unusual sharpness in his otherwise well-modulated voice.
“Who did it?”
Bertil turned his head and observed the fire. At the same moment sirens were heard in the night, such a familiar sound for Ann, but in her new environment so foreign.
“It’s the old smithy,” said Bertil. “My father worked the bellows here when he was young.”
Why must everyone in the village sound like ancient monuments? Ann thought.
“Erik,” she said, suddenly moved by the fire and the darkness that surrounded them. She turned around but didn’t know how to continue, what she wanted to or could explain to her son. I ought to be terrified of the fire too, she thought. She had never told him about the crazy woman in Kåbo, an encounter that nearly cost Ann her life.
“Yes, Mom,” he said, meeting her gaze. She heard that he actually didn’t expect her to go on, but instead wanted more to mark his presence. He rarely said “Mom.”
“We should probably move to our cars.” She wondered how many possible tire tracks they had disturbed. She should be ashamed.
“What did Mattsson say when you called?”
“They’re on their way,” said Bertil, and now his voice had lost its edge. On the contrary, there was something very resigned in his voice, so much that Ann turned around.
“Do you think that Daniel is in the building?”
“I don’t know,” said Bertil. “Waldemar said that he didn’t go with them to Stavby, he was going to see a friend.”
“And stay there?”
“Not a clue.”
“The truck is here,” said Ann.
“That’s just it,” said Bertil.
“There are those who say that Mattsson’s boys were behind the school fire.”
“I understand where you’re going,” said Bertil.
“Stop now!” Erik exclaimed. “You’re not a police officer anymore. Why should you get involved?”
“The stripes never go away,” Bertil observed.
“And the other son, Andreas, right? Where is he, does he live at the farm?”
Bertil turned away, it was obvious that he didn’t want any more questions.
“I think it would be good if you took it a little easy. The world is big, but this is a small village, and there are those who get irritated,” he said without taking his gaze from the fire.
It did not take long for the firefighters to subdue the fire and at last put it out completely. They worked in silence. A handful of curiosity seekers had shown up; they too stood silently. Everyone awaited Waldemar Mattsson with his wife, Wendela. They came at last. If Ann had understood Bertil right, double-W, as he called the farm couple, had a great deal to drink during the evening, and for that reason had to find and waken someone sober who could drive them home. The chauffeur got out and observed the fire for a moment before he got back in the car to return to Stavby.
Ann did not think he was acquainted with the Mattssons. He was sober and a driver and nothing more. She shivered; the early morning hour was damp. Streaks of fog mixed with smoke from the smithy.
Wendela Mattsson was supported by her husband. She gave a fragile impression. They went as close to the burned-down building as they could. By their side were the fire commander and a police officer from Östhammar, Ann thought his name was Åke Brundin. They had met briefly in connection with an investigation of the murder of a young Thai woman in the archipelago, but were not well acquainted. He nodded at her, no doubt a bit surprised at meeting her there. Wendela reached out a hand toward the burned-down building, a gesture of helplessness.
The farmer’s sturdy figure made Ann think about what Astrid had said about Waldemar’s father, Albin, that he was too big for his wife, and she wondered whether it was the same a generation later. They were talking with the fireman. Whether his task was easy or not naturally depended on whether the couple had made contact with their son Daniel. Åke Brundin stood quite still, but observed Waldemar from the side with a strange expression on his face, as if he distrusted the farmer’s words, or in any event was very skeptical about what was said.
“Shall we go?”
Erik nodded. They said goodbye to Bertil. Brundin looked up when he saw that they were leaving. He gestured that he wanted to exchange a word. Ann went up to him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked without further ado.
“I actually live in the area. It was my son who called the fire department.”
“So that’s how it is. What do you think?”
Ann could not keep from smiling. Brundin was a policeman, not the bullshitting type that beats around the bush with small talk.
“Wouldn’t you say it burns a bit too often in this village?” Brundin continued when she didn’t react immediately.
“That it does” was all she had to say.