“You didn’t come here to talk about the dead,” she said when he hesitated too long. “This is about those who are still alive, isn’t it?”
“There were three that night. The idea was Stefan’s. Daniel was pretty drunk, but went along. Then he fell asleep on the floor at my house, and that was when the fire was burning the most.”
“And the third one was Rasmus, is that right?”
Sebastian nodded. “He’s almost the worst. He laughs when people die.”
“Like in Hökarängen the other day?”
“Not just that.”
Ann recognized the signs of when they were starting to approach the core, when the words became important, but so hard to say. That applies to most, but for some it was like opening the floodgates completely, everything came rushing, where sometimes it was hard to understand what was important and what was surplus information. Sebastian was not that type, he struggled with the words.
“I was thinking about the guy with the rabbits, Lovisa’s brother.”
“What do you mean?”
“He died.”
“And then Rasmus laughed?”
Ann wondered what Sebastian wanted to say, but was not really sure what this was all about.
“There was a gang there stealing animals. I wasn’t with them.”
“He got really sad, I heard.” Ann was fishing, but Sebastian did not take the bait. He stood up from the table.
“Cheese,” said Ann. He took a deep breath, as if to gather strength, gather courage, and make a decision in which direction he would go.
“Cheese is life,” she resumed.
He smiled faintly, and Ann answered it.
“What’s his real name?” he asked.
“Sam. Sam Rothe.”
“I probably need to talk with the police.”
“I’ll call right away,” said Ann.
“Rasmus bragged that they killed him.”
Ann took out the phone and entered the speed-dial number to Sammy, before what he’d said sunk in.
“Who?”
Sebastian shook his head.
“Hi,” said Ann, happy to hear Sammy’s voice even though it was marked by stress and fatigue. “I’m at the creamery. There’s a guy here you need to meet. Are you already on your way? Good!”
Fifty-Five
One thing he’d learned during the training in Ludvika about staying hidden: Move as little as possible. Often you did the opposite, under the illusion that movement made it more difficult for a pursuer. But that only increased the risk of being observed, the course leader had drummed into them. The idea of turning toward Skyttorp was good, in itself that was an evasive maneuver where he lost time but avoided possible roadblocks on Route 290. He drove by way of Viksta, and at Björklinge reached the old E4 and took it south.
He drove straight to Boländerna in Uppsala. First he disconnected the camper, parking it outside a store that sold sporting equipment. It was too conspicuous and attracted attention, he reasoned, which was why it was necessary to get rid of it. He parked the Saab on the outer edge of the agreed area on the IKEA parking lot. From there he had a good view of the approaches and could also see how several curious people stopped by the “camper egg,” walking around it and trying to peek in through the small windows. Maybe someone was thinking about stealing it, the hitch was unlocked. It would be a blessing if a camper thief came by.
He leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes, and thought through the day. He had acquitted himself well, the flight from the cabin filled him with a bit of pride. He fell asleep within a couple of minutes. From outside he looked like a worn-out laborer or mechanic who was taking a nap.
An hour later he woke up. He pulled out the phones, first the temporary prepaid one, which showed nothing, and after that his own, with a long series of missed calls. It was not particularly surprising. He went through the numbers, three known, including Sigge from Landskrona; in other words he knew he’d been used as a cover. Mirjam had called eleven times, which wasn’t strange.
Exactly at the agreed time Frank Give’s car drove onto the parking lot. It cruised slowly in the middle row, made a turn farther up toward the IKEA colossus, and cruised back. Two rows farther down the Saab was parked. It struck Erland that he could curl up and hide. Give would never suspect that he was camping in a vintage Saab, but instead was certainly keeping an eye out for a Volvo. Give must have heard the reports on the radio about the hunt for Erland, and it didn’t require much imagination to picture that Erland was hiding out somewhere in the forest, and for that reason couldn’t make it to the meeting place. It was an enticing thought to make himself invisible. It could end right then and there. He hadn’t been involved in Hökarängen, but the fact that he’d shot the policeman at the cabin could never be explained away. If he was dead, many years behind bars awaited him. Murdering a policeman wasn’t popular, but he could not be convicted for little Jonathan’s death.
Give’s car approached. Nyström the bomb expert was with him. Erland slid down on the seat. He pictured Li’l Erland before him, and in a sudden insight he understood that the boy was lost, the great love in his life was thrown away. There was no forgiveness for what he’d been involved in. His posthumous reputation would be merciless. He reached down and fumbled under the plastic bag on the floor on the passenger side, where the AK-5 was hidden. A new magazine was in place. Thirty shots would be enough if he wanted to put a stop to the two psychopaths who were approaching. He slid farther down on the side. If he did put an end to his two companions now, which was an easy match, what would he do then? Put the barrel in his mouth? Roar off in the old Saab? Where to?
Give turned between the last two rows of cars. The Saab was parked almost farthest south, flanked by a Ford and an Audi, in an otherwise sparsely used parking lot. There was still time to quickly slip over into the backseat and curl up on the floor.
When they had a few car lengths left he opened the door to make himself known. At the same moment it struck him that maybe they wanted to kill him. After the police raid in the cabin he was a burden, a possible snitch. He pulled the automatic weapon to him, but concealed it behind the car door.
Give was leaning back nonchalantly with his left arm resting on the window, smiling his infernal smile. It was as if nothing affected that guy. Beside him Nyström’s indifferent mug was visible.
“Traded up, I see,” Give observed.
Shoot him, an inner voice whispered. Li’l Erland would remember that, and nothing else, that it was his father who killed the bombers.
“My dad had one like that.”
“Have you ever had a dad?” said Erland, and it was the closest to a protest he had ever made against the leader of the group.
“What happened?”
“The cops came. It must have been that fisherman who snitched.”
“He didn’t snitch, you do that if you belong to the organization. He was just doing his civic duty.”
“Is he dead, the cop I mean?”
“Not as far as I know. They said on the radio that he was alive, but in critical condition.”
Kill that bastard!
“But you can check the news on the phone.”
“I forgot that,” said Erland, who in reality had been afraid of listening to any news.
“Have you talked with your buddy?”
Erland shook his head.
“But you know where he lives?”
Erland nodded.
“Then let’s go,” said Give, jerking his head to show that Erland should get into the van.
“I have to get something,” said Erland, bending down and sheathing the AK-5 in the plastic bag, pulled on the backpack, an old Fjällräven that could hold ninety liters, and pushed the gun down. His pistol was already there, a toiletry kit, and a change of clothes. He looked around the inside of the car. He would miss that old Saab. It felt as if the car, the brand and year itself, the décor, the panel and upholstery, were the last contact with a life that had
been lost, a life that he now definitively said goodbye to.
“Nice outfit,” Give said when Erland was done with the farewell and closed the door behind him. Erland looked down at his overall. He liked that too, the slightly sweaty and oily odor.
“What do you have in the backpack?”
“Some clothes and a few things I’ve prepared for escape.”
“Is the AK-5 in there?”
Erland didn’t need to say anything, the answer could be read on his face.
“Take the gun out and leave it behind in the car. We can pick it up later.”
* * *
They parked by a gas station on Årstagatan, which was next to a McDonald’s. Erland saw people coming out with hamburgers in hand, thought he detected the aroma in the air. He was really hungry.
“Can’t you buy something?” said Erland. “I don’t want to show myself unless I have to.”
“Okay,” said Give, and Nyström left the car without a word. He came back with three bags. They ate in silence. Erland observed the customers at the outdoor tables. They were living, laughing, and chiding their kids. When had he last laughed? Only a week ago he’d been there with Mirjam and Li’l Erland. At the table where they’d sat was another family with kids.
Give broke the silence. “What happened?” Erland told them about the arrival of the police, the exchange of gunfire, the flight on the motorcycle, and where and how he acquired the old car. They neither interrupted nor commented on his detailed account. Give hummed a little and smiled a few times. Erland took that as approval. The disturbed Nyström showed no reactions at all. He had probably murdered Taliban and civilians in Afghanistan with the same indifferent visage.
“Smart to shave off the mustache” was Give’s only comment.
* * *
They left the car. Give and Nyström each carried a sports bag, Erland brought his backpack. He felt vulnerable, exposed, while they waited for the green light. They made their way across heavily trafficked Vaksalagatan and into an area where the streets had weather-related names: there was rain and storm as well as sunshine and thaw. And then Molngatan, where Justus lived. Nyström was sent off to look for patrol cars and plainclothes police. He came back and mumbled something that Erland understood as a military term for “the coast is clear.” The army veteran was getting more and more ridiculous.
Erland took the lead and guided them to Justus’s entry. It was open, as if they were expected. A cleaning woman was mopping the entry level. She looked up in fear, as if she instinctively understood that the three of them could be a threat. They walked up the two flights of stairs. It said Jonsson on the door. Erland remembered the housewarming party. There had been complaints. The next day Justus went around to the nearest neighbors with flowers, and in that way turned a bad thing into a good one.
“We’ll go up one flight while you ring the doorbell.”
“Is that smart? The cops can be waiting inside the door.”
“Yes, and then you’re caught,” Give observed.
* * *
Justus Jonsson was tired of cops. Actually he always had been, that was probably implanted since childhood. In his family the legal system had not played a positive role. You should always avoid, always fear, and sometimes despise cops, he’d heard from his father, Little John, and his uncle Lennart. They’d both had scrapes with the law. It was basically their own fault, they realized that, rarely blamed anyone else. There was the whole scale of misdemeanors, from youthful sins such as shoplifting and public intoxication, to more serious matters: car theft, a couple of minor assaults, fencing, resisting arrest, and threatening behavior. They had calmed down with the years, but the suspicion remained. The only police officer that Justus could come to terms with was Ann Lindell. Maybe it was something she’d said during the investigation of the murder of his father, he didn’t remember exactly, or else it was simply her whole attitude that he liked.
Now he was thinking about contacting her, stood with the phone in his hand, entering the number he’d received.
Instead his doorbell rang. He was convinced that it was the police who’d come back, with new frivolous questions. He opened the door with the hope that someone would get it in the forehead.
“What the hell!”
“Are the cops here?” Erland asked.
Justus’s bewilderment was answer enough. If the police were hiding in the apartment, his expression would have been different. “We have to come in,” Erland said. Give and Nyström came down the flight of stairs.
“Let us in,” said Give, exploiting his psycho look to underscore the order.
Fifty-Six
A creamery. The break room at a creamery, a somewhat less common type of interview space. The smell was different too. The coffee fumes were basically the same as at the police station, but the slightly tart smell of cheese was new and a bit odd to Sammy.
“The cheese folks,” he said. He felt relaxed for the first time in quite a while. Maybe fatigue played a part, but more significant was the feeling that the Tilltorp tangle could be unraveled. The village had been an open wound for six months, with the terror of New Year’s night and then the fire at the smithy, topped with what was probably the murder of a harmless young man.
“Do you understand that I have to record this? No one’s going to come later and say that I made things up. It’s your own words that matter.”
“It’s cool.”
“And one more thing: I thought you were part of the Nazi gang, but I was wrong.”
“It’s cool,” Sebastian repeated.
“Tell us about Rasmus,” Sammy encouraged him after having turned on the recorder and stated the time and place, and who was present.
“He’s at my house. I don’t want him to be, but he’s out of his mind.”
“Have you told him that you don’t want him at your house?”
“He doesn’t give a damn about that.”
“Do you feel threatened?”
“Not exactly, but if he knew that I talked with you he’d go crazy.”
“He didn’t go to Thailand, even though it was all paid. You had to drive him back here instead, is that so?”
“Yes, he wanted to stay at home for his brother’s sake.”
“Because we brought Björn Rönn in for questioning?”
“Questioning,” said Sebastian. “That sounds good.”
“Tell me what happened on New Year’s.”
He repeated what he’d said to Ann, but this time in more detail. Three of the partyers, whom he listed without hesitation, set fire to the old school. “I wasn’t drunk. It was Granddad’s house after all.”
Sammy milked out even more details, not least that there were others who had witnessed the same thing. Sebastian listed half a dozen names. Sammy recognized them all from the list of the partygoers. He wondered whether they used any flammable fluid to get the fire going, and Sebastian thought that maybe they had retrieved a can of gasoline from one of the cars, but he hadn’t seen anything.
“You said something to me about Sam Rothe. That Rasmus laughed when he died. Why is that?”
Ann’s interjection made Sammy jump. Obviously she didn’t know about the medical examiner’s report.
“He’s sick. And Stefan too. They went there, said that they were going to break him.”
“Do you think they killed Sam?” said Sammy.
“Rasmus said that they did. He said that Rothe pissed on himself.”
“Why would they kill him?”
“Stefan said that Lovisa’s brother killed Daniel.”
Sammy sat silently a moment, tried to digest this.
“Where did he get that from?”
“Daniel’s brother told Stefan.”
“Andreas Mattsson said that Sam Rothe killed Daniel Mattsson, have I understood that correctly?”
“Yes, Stefan said so anyway.”
“Did Andreas see that with his own eyes, or hear it?”
“I don’t know.”
Sammy gave Lindell a look.
“Have you told us everything?”
Sebastian Ottosson nodded. Sammy pointed at the tape recorder.
“Yes! Now I just want to be left alone.”
“One last question: Where is Stefan Sanberg?”
“No idea. Maybe out on a job with his dad. Maybe in Österby, where he hangs out with a girl.”
“What’s her name?”
“Madeleine. I don’t know her last name. She works in a store, I think.”
“In Österby?”
“I think so.”
“Thanks,” said Sammy, reaching over to turn off the tape recorder.
“Wait!” said Sebastian.
“Yes? Was there something else?”
“I regret that party. I want everyone to live, but now it’s too late.”
He stood up, gasping for breath. Sammy thought that he would burst into tears, but Sebastian steeled himself. Sammy turned off the recorder, gave Ann a look, nodded. The fatigue came again like a blow to his head. He closed his eyes. He could see Angelika, Jutland, and the whole mess. How strange it is, he had time to think, before Ann took hold of his neck, as if he were a kitten.
Fifty-Seven
“What the hell are you doing here? And who are they?”
Erland sank down on the living room sofa. “Nyström and Give,” he answered at last. The former was making a round of the apartment, while the one with the scar on his face stood by the window facing the street.
“Your buddies from Hökarängen?”
The one called Give laughed. A sound that didn’t make Justus a bit calmer.
“We’ll be here a couple of days.”
“Never,” said Justus. “You’re leaving now. Erland, for Christ’s sake, what do you have to do with these idiots? Think about your boy.”
“Are you working tomorrow?”
The question was so out of context that Justus automatically answered yes.
“Call in sick,” said Give. “You’re going to help us.”
“With what?”
The Night of the Fire: A Mystery Page 34
