The Fire Dance

by Helene Tursten

  Yvonne Stridner spoke without further ado. “Since I was coming to meet with the Chief of Police anyway, I thought I would inform you of the results of Sophie Malmborg’s autopsy to save us all time.”

  Stridner stared down the auditorium, and Superintendent Andersson shrank as her sharp blue-green eyes bored into his. Most people would have had the same reaction.

  Satisfied with the attention of her audience, Stridner continued. “Sophie was still alive when the fire began. Her nostrils and lungs are filled with soot. The soot particles reach as deep as the alveoli. In the lower lobes of the lung, the concentration of soot is fairly slight, which means that she was breathing shallowly. The cause of death was carbon monoxide asphyxiation. The fire was intense, but the lower body was not totally incinerated since it was covered by a thick rug. Therefore, we were able to run a number of tests. Prior to her death, she’d had a small meal, which consisted of tomatoes, cheese, bread, peppers and olives—probably a slice of pizza.”

  “A capriccioso?” smirked Jonny, who couldn’t hold back a grin.

  The glare Jonny received from the professor would have stopped a tiger in its tracks. They could hear the ice in her voice. “You must order an analysis from the lab if you need to know the kind of pizza in question. That is not my job.”

  She took her glare from Jonny and redirected it at the Superintendent. “I would like to continue without foolish interruptions.”

  All Andersson could do was nod and send a warning glare at Jonny, who, for once, looked down at the floor and kept completely still.

  “The toxicology report showed high levels of various sedatives and other narcotics in the contents of the intestine and in the tissues. Mostly Diazepam and Ketobemidone Hydrochloride, as well as traces of Dextropropoxyphene. The body also suffered from malnutrition. And…”

  Yvonne Stridner stopped for a fraction of a second and a wave of emotion quickly flashed in her eyes. When she started to speak again, there was little indication that she had been troubled, but Irene noticed a trace of tension in her lips that hinted that the professor was trying to keep her cool.

  “Sophie Malmborg had an ugly fracture in her radius—that is, a crack in the bone of her lower arm that dated back to a few weeks before she died. She must have suffered a great deal of pain. So she may have been both abused and drugged. But considering the amount of drugs in her system, she was probably unconscious before she died.”

  Yvonne Stridner paused for a moment. Irene dared to raise her hand and Stridner nodded at her.

  “Was it possible to find out what she was wearing?”

  “Although the body was severely burned and the soft parts of the upper body were basically carbonized, we did find some textile fibers beneath the body. The technicians have them. However, she was lying on a mattress which had melted from the heat, so the analysis was more complicated.”

  “You’re saying textile fibers. Could there have been some remnants of a leather jacket?”

  “No, these were most definitely textile fragments. But please direct those questions to your technicians. They have also examined the remains of the rug.”

  Superintendent Andersson cleared his throat and carefully put his question to Yvonne.

  “Have there been any other signs of abuse? I mean…torture or…”

  “No, though what we have seen so far can be considered torture as far as I am concerned. She may have had that fracture since the day she disappeared. Three weeks is a long time to be in severe pain.”

  Forcing someone to endure that kind of pain and then killing her in such a brutal way! So awful, so inhumane! Mixed emotions of sorrow and wrath began to rise in Irene, and she was surprised by how strongly she felt.

  Andersson found the courage to ask another question. “I meant, are there any signs of sexual…”

  “Not that we can tell, but given the state of the remains, it is difficult to say for sure. I have sent some uterine samples to the lab, but we don’t have the results yet. On the other hand, Ketobemidone Hydrochloride was found in the rectum from Ketogan suppositories.”

  “What is that?” Irene hazarded.

  “Ketogan is a preparation often given for extreme pain, for example, cancer or a heart attack. Of course, as an opiate, it is addictive. Since this was found in high concentration throughout the body, I believe she also received Ketobemidone Hydrochloride in the form of either pills or injections.”

  “And the other medications? What were they for?” Irene asked.

  “Diazepam is found in Stesolid, for example. It’s for anxiety management and cramp reduction. Dextropropoxyphene is found in various analgesic combination preparations. Analgesic means pain reduction.”

  “Is it hard to get these medications?” Irene asked.

  “They are classified as narcotics, except for Dextropopoxyphene, though even the latter needs a prescription. The person who kept her captive probably had to steal these medicines. I advise you to check the reports of recent pharmacy thefts.”

  Stridner wheeled around to lift her fur coat from the chair where she’d draped it. As she put it on, she asked, “Any more questions? None? Then I will let you know later if any other results turn up.”

  Her last words were spoken from the hallway as she disappeared through the door.

  The auditorium remained silent for a long time after the departure of Professor Stridner.

  Finally, Andersson said, with feeling, “Goddammit. Let’s catch this devil bastard!”

  Irene agreed with him wholeheartedly.

  He stood up and continued, “Everyone stick to your assigned task. Dismissed.”

  * * *

  Irene phoned Bergstens Förlag AB in Stockholm and was able to talk to the publisher, Viktor Borgsten, himself. He had a pleasant voice and seemed to be a personable man.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have more information about what happened that night at the Book Fair. We’d had a big party because Hollywood had bought the rights to Max’s last three books, and we’d just signed the paperwork. It’s going to be a big production. One of the best known American directors is going to take it on, so we really had something to celebrate.”

  “I understand. I’m actually calling to reach Max Franke. He was related to Sophie and we’re tracking down more information on the family.”

  In all honesty, Irene didn’t know what she was really trying to find out from Max Franke, so she was intentionally vague. She was just following her instincts.

  The publisher gave her an email address and a few telephone numbers and actual house addresses. Max had two houses in Sweden: one in Stockholm and one on the island of Gotland. He also had a house in Provence.

  Irene decided to call the Stockholm number first and was in luck. Max picked up the phone after just a few rings. Irene introduced herself and began to question Max with some hesitation.

  “We know that you were questioned earlier in connection with Sophie’s disappearance. We have also talked to others who were at the Park bar. According to one of them, you called Sophie ‘fröken flicka’—little miss—or something similar. What exactly did you say?”

  There was complete silence on the other end of the line.

  Irene began to fear that he’d hung up, but after a while he said, “I was going to say that you asked the dumbest question I’d ever heard…but…well, I believe I did say something like fröken franka. I’ve called Sophie that before.”

  “What does franka mean?”

  “It’s an old Swedish word meaning ‘female relative’. She’s…she was my cousin’s child. Ernst and I were first cousins. Our mothers were sisters. They were twins, in fact.”

  Irene was thinking fast. How could she get as much information as possible about Ernst and Sophie? She didn’t have time to travel to Stockholm and meet Franke in person. The department didn’t have the money to cover the cost, either, if Sven Andersson had any say in it. What could she ask?

  Then she had an idea.

  “As you know, S
ophie died in a fire. This has made us take another look at what happened when Magnus Eriksson perished in a fire years earlier. It could be just a coincidence that Sophie’s murderer decided to burn her to death, but we cannot exclude the possibility of a connection. Therefore, we have to look at what happened fifteen years ago, or even further back. In other words, we need information from people who knew the individuals involved back then.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “Anything and everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes. The minutest detail, one that doesn’t even seem important, could turn out to be the key to the entire investigation.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I’ve written crime novels for twenty years.”

  There was another long pause, but Irene could tell that he was thinking hard.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said at last. “I’ll write down everything I know about Ernst and Sophie’s lives—just a synopsis, so don’t expect literary quality. I’ll email it to you when I’m done. This is just between you and me, though. Don’t release it to anyone. I don’t want to see any of this show up in the evening tabloids.”

  Irene promised to hold his information in strictest confidence and then gave him her email address. She felt pleased with herself when she hung up the phone, but her sense of contentment evaporated approximately five minutes later, when Tommy entered their shared office, shaking his head.

  “You had a good idea but it led nowhere.”

  “According to the address records, she should still be living at her farm.”

  “Well, she still owns it, but she’s moved to assisted living in Torslanda and her property is for sale. Would you like to buy a horse farm?”

  “Not really. I can barely manage a townhouse. Too bad things didn’t work out. It was a good theory.”

  “Yep. A farm is another place to keep a prisoner without anyone noticing. But Ingrid Hagberg was hit by a car about three months ago. She was crossing the road to buy something at the little convenience store across the street. Ever since then, she’s been hospitalized with a brain injury and can’t take care of herself. They moved her to assisted living last week.”

  “Maybe we can still speak with her,” Irene said.

  “Maybe. If she can speak.”

  Irene tried to plot their next step. They’d found Ingrid Hagberg to be a dead end and the email report from Max Franke would take a few days. Suddenly Irene knew her next step.

  “There’s one person on the scene fifteen years ago who’s never been questioned.”

  * * *

  Frej Eriksson had testified that he was a student at the College of Photography in Göteborg, and Irene was able to reach the school’s main office and left a message that the police would like to speak with him.

  Frej called Irene’s cell phone after lunch, and they agreed to meet at five p.m. at the police station to give him time to finish up his projects for the day. Irene asked him where he lived, and to Irene’s surprise, he gave Sophie’s address. That meant she had two tenants: her half-brother and Marcelo Alves.

  Frej had to cut the conversation short to rush off to class, but his willingness to talk gave Irene a sense of relief. She’d been afraid he’d be as closed-mouthed as his sister Irene had found a photograph of Magnus Eriksson among the old investigation material on the Björkils fire. It was a passport picture taken three years before his death.

  He had an average-looking appearance, thin, blond hair and regular features, but he had a weak chin that was too small for the rest of his face. According to his passport information, he was 180 centimeters tall and weighed 86 kilos.

  He had blue eyes and wore glasses.

  Why would Angelika fall for a man with such a humdrum appearance? No one during the investigation fifteen years ago had said that he was a pleasant, happy guy. No one said anything positive about him at all. He was an alcoholic and a gambler. Maybe he was a womanizer as well? Irene would have to ask Angelika what she had seen in him.

  Money? He’d had a great deal of it when he met her.

  According to Ingrid Hagberg, Angelika had run through Magnus’s money fairly quickly, but since he was a gambler, he’d probably lost a lot himself. After a few years, all the money was gone. The Eriksson family had to move from their centrally located apartment in Linnéstaden and rent the cottage in Björkil. They’d stayed there for four years, up until the day the place burned down. What had happened to the family during those four years?

  Frej had been fairly young, so the move probably didn’t mean as much change for him. But Sophie had had to change schools and friends, and it was a much longer commute to the dance studio.

  So, during the four years at the cottage, the family’s finances had further deteriorated. Magnus Eriksson had started to drink more and work less. Perhaps he even gambled away whatever money he earned as soon as it came in. His death at age forty-two might have come as a relief for Sophie and Angelika.

  Who had the most to win?

  Angelika. She got no money from his death, but she did get her freedom. However, wouldn’t she have asked for a divorce rather than kill her husband? She also had a watertight alibi for the time of the fire. She had first taught a ballet class between four and five in the evening and then led Sophie’s double-length classical ballet class until seven thirty that night.

  But why would Sophie kill her stepfather? There was no obvious motive. Perhaps his drinking disgusted her? Maybe he threatened her or frightened her? Maybe there was some kind of abuse? It was high time to contact child services.

  It took a long time for Irene to find the right person within the clinic for child and teen psychiatry. Finally, she was connected to a secretary who located Sophie’s file as well as the name of the child psychologist who had been caring for her.

  “Majvor Granath is out on a work-related errand at the moment, but she should return soon. I’ll ask her to contact you,” the friendly secretary said.

  While Irene waited for the return call, she flipped through the old reports from the investigation. It struck her as odd that so much time had passed from the moment Ingrid Hagberg had called in the alarm to when she had appeared with the boy at the site of the fire. It was also strange that she did not try to phone Angelika. Irene decided on a visit to Ingrid Hagberg, hoping there would be a way to communicate despite the brain injury.

  Majvor Granath called at around four in the afternoon. She seemed harassed and her tone was brusque. Irene patiently described what had happened to Sophie and how it might be connected to the fire fifteen years earlier.

  The psychologist was quiet for a long time before she spoke, and her voice shook. “Poor little Sophie.” She seemed truly upset.

  “Yes. It’s a horrible murder,” Irene agreed.

  “I don’t mean just her murder. I mean Sophie’s entire life. She tried, she really did. But the odds were against her from the start.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, I really shouldn’t say anything…patient confidentiality, you know…but perhaps what I know can help you solve this murder. So I do want to talk to you. Of course, I can’t tell you everything, but some things…”

  “I would be very grateful for whatever you could tell us. Sophie was a mystery to us.”

  “And to us as well. She just didn’t let people into her life. Still, I did get to know her a little bit. We counseled her for just about four years. Then her case was handed to the clinic for child neuropsychiatry for further examination. We received the results of that examination, but I never saw her again.”

  “How was Sophie as a child?”

  “You could say that she was an odd child even when she was very little. Her mother said that she had trouble getting close to Sophie even during her first few years. Sophie didn’t start to talk until she was four. She usually played by herself. When she came to us, she already had problems with anorexia. She was healthier when she became a vegetarian, but she was still e
xtremely picky with her food. Even though she was anemic, she refused to take iron pills. She often ate the same thing day after day.”

  “Do you know if she remained a vegetarian?” Irene asked.

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen her in eleven years.”

  The psychologist stopped talking for a moment and seemed to reflect on what she was about to say.

  “Sophie had always had personal quirks, and they intensified after the house fire. She fulfilled the criteria for Asperger’s syndrome, but there was still much that did not fit that diagnosis. She also had her special gift, that is, dance. Sometimes she would dance for me. It was something else to watch her! In dance, she changed. With music, she seemed to be illuminated from within. I can’t really describe it any other way. Usually people with Asperger’s have some motor development challenges, but Sophie absolutely did not. Perhaps because she started so young. Most of her problems were not physical, but social. I’d say that although she displayed some characteristics, she did not fit an actual Asperger’s diagnosis. At the clinic for pediatric neuropsychiatry, they found she had a schizoid personality disorder.”

  “Was she seriously mentally ill?”

  “No. You must not confuse the diagnosis of schizoid personality disorder with schizophrenia. Schizophrenia is a serious psychological illness where the patient loses all contact with reality and often must be hospitalized and medicated. A person who has a schizoid personality disorder can live his or her entire life without needing to have any psychiatric care whatsoever. Nevertheless, Sophie’s disorder created real problems in human relationships. It appears that her father carried similar traits. This condition is often genetic. Sophie was well aware that she was different from most people.”