‘Björn and Penelope don’t live together,’ Anja says.
‘Yes, I’ve worked that out,’ he replies.
‘People can still love each other – just like you and me.’
‘Yes.’
Joona emerges into the strong sunshine. The air is heavy and even more close than it had been earlier.
‘Can you give me Björn’s address?’
Anja’s fingers fly over the key of her computer with tiny clicking sounds.
‘Almskog, Pontonjärgatan 47, second floor …’
‘I’ll head over there before …’
‘Hang on,’ Anja says abruptly. ‘Not possible … Listen to this, I’ve just double-checked the address … There was a fire in the building on Friday.’
‘And Björn’s flat?’
‘That entire floor was destroyed,’ she replies.
An undulating landscape of ash
Detective Superintendent Joona Linna goes up the steps, stops, and stands absolutely still as he gazes into a black room. The floor, walls and ceiling are badly burned. The smell is still strongly acrid. There’s practically nothing left of those internal walls that aren’t load-bearing. Black stalactites hang from the ceiling. Charred stumps of posts rise up from an undulating landscape of ash. In places you can see right through between the beams to the rooms below. It’s no longer possible to tell which parts of that floor of the building belonged to Björn’s flat.
Grey plastic has been hung over the empty windows, blocking off the summer’s day and a green building on the other side of the street.
The only reason no one was injured in the fire at Pontonjärgatan 47 was that most people were at work when it broke out.
At five minutes past eleven o’clock the first call was received by the emergency control centre, but even though Kungsholmen fire station is very close to the building, the fire spread so rapidly that four flats were completely destroyed.
Joona thinks about his conversation with fire investigator Hassan Sükür. He used the second-highest level on the National Forensic Laboratory’s scale when he explained that their findings indicated that the fire had started in the home of Björn Almskog’s eighty-year-old neighbour Lisbet Wirén. She had gone down to the corner shop to exchange a small win on a lottery scratchcard for two new cards, and couldn’t remember if she’d left the iron on. The fire had spread rapidly, and all the indications were that it had started in her living room where the remains of an iron and ironing-board were found.
Joona looks round at the charred remains of the apartments on that floor. All that remains of the furniture are a few twisted metal shapes, part of a fridge, a bedstead and a sooty bath.
Joona goes back downstairs. The walls and ceiling of the stairwell have been damaged by smoke. He stops at the police cordon, turns round and looks up towards the blackness again.
As he bends down to pass under the cordon tape he sees that the fire investigators had dropped a few zip-lock bags on the ground – bags used to secure fluids. Joona walks through the green marble hall and out onto the street. He starts to walk towards Police Headquarters as he takes his phone out and calls Hassan Sükür again. Hassan answers at once and lowers the volume of a radio in the background.
‘Have you found any traces of flammable liquids?’ Joona asks. ‘You dropped some zip-lock bags in the stairwell, and I was wondering …’
‘Look, if someone uses any sort of flammable liquid to start a fire, then obviously that burns first …’
‘I know, but …’
‘But I … I usually manage to find evidence anyway,’ he goes on. ‘Because often it runs between cracks in the floorboards, ends up in the insulation or in the cavity between floors.’
‘But not this time?’ Joona asks as he walks down Hantverkargatan.
‘Nothing,’ Hassan says.
‘But if someone knew where traces of flammable liquids often get found, it would be possible to avoid detection.’
‘Of course … I’d never make a mistake like that if I was a pyromaniac,’ Hassan replies brightly.
‘But you’re convinced that the iron was the cause of this particular fire?’
‘Yes, it was an accident.’
‘So you’ve dropped the investigation?’ Joona asks.
Penelope feels terror seize hold of her again. It’s as if it had only paused for breath before continuing to scream inside her. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and tries to stand up. Cold sweat runs down between her breasts, and down her sides from her armpits. Her body aches and trembles from the effort. Blood seeps through the dirt on her hands.
‘We can’t stay here,’ she whispers, pulling Björn after her.
It’s dark in the forest, but night is slowly turning to morning. Together they walk quickly down towards the shore again, but far to the south of the house where the party was.
As far away from their pursuer as they can get.
They’re still all too aware that they need help, that they have to get hold of a phone.
The forest opens up gradually towards the water, and they start running again. Between the trees they see another house, perhaps half a kilometre away, maybe less. They can hear a helicopter rumbling somewhere in the distance, moving away.
Björn seems dazed, and whenever she sees him lean on the ground or against a tree she starts to worry that he won’t be able to run any more.
A branch creaks somewhere behind them, as if snapped by someone standing on it.
Penelope starts to run through the forest as fast as she can. She can hear Björn breathing heavily behind her.
The trees begin to thin out and she can see the house again, just a hundred metres away. The lights in the window are reflecting off the red paint of a Ford parked outside.
A hare darts off across the moss and undergrowth.
