The Fire Dance (3 page)

At the back of the folder, there were three short reports as appendices. The first one touched on a fire in a haystack during April of 1985. The owner of a riding field had mucked out bad hay into an area behind the stable. The plan was to burn it at a later date. At nine the same evening, a neighbor had called to say that the hay was on fire. The neighbor’s house looked out over the owner’s field, so he’d spotted it, and by the time the fire trucks arrived, the fire was already under control and could be put out quickly.

The fire investigators determined that it had been arson. The technicians had found two bottles of igniter fluid nearby. They were so close to the fire, unfortunately, that they’d actually started to melt, so no fingerprints could be lifted from them.

There was a report from a witness who said that someone on a bicycle had been seen in the vicinity shortly before the fire broke out. The witness was the same neighbor who’d called the owner. He was an elderly man and his eyesight was no longer the best, but he was absolutely sure that there was a person outside the stall. He wasn’t sure whether it had been a man or a woman; he could only say that the bicyclist had black pants and a dark, long-sleeve shirt or coat.

The second report concerned a more serious fire that had broken out at a summer cottage early in September
1989. The cottage was somewhat isolated and it took a while before the fire was discovered by a couple walking their dog. The cottage had burned to the ground. The technicians were able to determine fairly quickly that it had been arson. Someone had piled rugs, bedcovers and other textiles in the center of the floor and set them on fire. Chemical analysis determined that the suspect had used igniter fluid as well.

The newspapers had picked up on this one. P
YROMANIAC IN
B
JÖRLANDA
. People began to fear another arson would be committed by the alleged pyromaniac. Still, all remained quiet on the arson front until the beginning of November, when Magnus Eriksson had died in the Björkil cottage fire.

The last report concerned a case of smoking in bed. It dated back to Christmas 1988, at 7:47
P
.
M
. The fire department had been called to the Malmborg-Eriksson cottage. According to the report, there was a hysterical woman screaming into the phone: “It’s on fire! He’s on fire!”

By the time the ambulance and the fire trucks arrived, the fire had already been put out. Magnus Eriksson had an ugly burn on his right hand and lower arm, but was otherwise not injured. According to the report, he’d been heavily intoxicated, and his wife wasn’t sober, either. Their seven-year-old son had also been in the house.

Magnus Eriksson had been taken to the hospital for treatment of his arm. His wife said that her husband had felt tired and decided to go upstairs to rest. When she’d gone upstairs an hour later to tell him that the movie he wanted to see on television was about to start, she saw that the room was on fire. She yelled and was able to wake up her husband, then showed great presence of mind and rushed to get a plastic bucket in the bathroom, where a pair of dirty shoes had been soaking. She threw the water on the fire. The bed itself had not started to burn, just the shag rug
beneath it. The investigation determined that Magnus Eriksson had fallen asleep after he’d lit a cigarette. His arm had been dangling from the bed and the cigarette had fallen down onto the rug.

Irene noted that Sophie Malmborg was not mentioned in the report—probably because she had been spending Christmas with her father, Ernst Malmborg.

T
HE FIRST TWO
fires had been arson and had been set within a one-kilometer radius of the Malmborg-Eriksson home in Björkil.

It could be a coincidence, however statistically improbable it might seem. Or, as Superintendent Andersson had written in his barely legible handwriting:
One fire—perhaps. Two fires—hardly. Three—absolutely not
.

Irene had to agree with her boss. Three fires within half a year and within such a small area was hardly a coincidence.

“I
CAN HONESTLY
say I’m nervous. We hardly ever question children, and when we do, it’s usually in cases where we suspect that the child is the victim of a crime. This case is different.”

Irene and Tommy were drinking coffee together in their shared office.

“Do they seriously think that she set the fire?” asked Tommy.

“The home started to burn shortly after she left on her bike. Perhaps it really is a coincidence. Magnus Eriksson could have fallen asleep with a burning cigarette and set fire to the rug or the bed. It happened before, less than a year ago. But that it would happen twice …”

Irene sighed and shook her head.

“It doesn’t appear all that believable,” Tommy agreed. “Have the technicians found the cause of the fire yet?”

“No, and they were not able to determine where the fire started. The house burned to the ground. There are two reports concerning arson in the vicinity of the house during the past six months. In those cases, plastic bottles containing igniter fluid were found. That would not have been needed here. The technicians found a huge number of bottles with high-proof alcohol. They were all over the place. All the arsonist would have had to do was pour some alcohol onto the floor and throw a match in it.”

“Was he a drunk?”

“Don’t know. In the report concerning the bed fire, they stated that he was heavily intoxicated. Still, it was Christmas and it’s not unusual for people to overindulge—add some more vodka to the glögg and the like.”

“Maybe he was celebrating Gustav Adolf’s Day on the sixth of November and bought a cake and a bottle in honor of the king who founded our city of Göteborg,” Tommy joked as he imitated drinking straight out of the bottle.

Irene grimaced to show what she thought of the combination of cake and strong spirits. “A terrible way to celebrate. But still, we don’t know for sure that he was an alcoholic. There’s nothing else about it in the material, but that could be something to check up on.”

“Maybe so. I’ll go ahead and take this on—dig up something on that Eriksson guy. Something tells me you’re going to have a tough time with Sophie and her mother.”

“You’re right about that.”

“Are you going to use the large interrogation room?”

“I think so. We can use the video camera then. I can always start by talking to the mother … Angelika.”

“Is someone going to be in the adjoining room?”

“Yes. Probably someone from Child Protection or Social Services. They’ve been observing all the interrogations so far. So has her mother. Sophie has been determined to have psychological damage of some kind. After all, she’s only eleven—twelve next month.”

Tommy looked at Irene thoughtfully. Finally, he sighed and said, “It’s not like we’ve been trained to question children.”

“No, and it’s not like we have experience with it, either. Social Services usually handles it whenever the suspect is underage.”

“The suspect … so you think she’s a suspect?”

“I have no idea. I should meet her first. It would be best if I didn’t jump to conclusions beforehand.”

“What are you going to do if she refuses to speak?”

Irene raised her palms. “No idea!”

She got up to head to the bathroom before she had her meeting with Sophie and her mother. As she walked, she realized that she should have worn a different set of clothes. She had on jeans and a hoodie. It made her look a little childish. It didn’t help that her hoodie had the emblem of the Swedish Police Sport League on it. Should she put her hair up to make her appear older and more proper? She studied her appearance in the mirror over the sink and decided just to use barrettes to pin her hair back behind her ears. She tried smiling at her mirror image. Perhaps the girl would prefer to talk to a young woman instead of two middle-aged men, she told herself encouragingly. She certainly hoped so.

S
OPHIE LOOKED ESPECIALLY
pale and thin in her all-black outfit. Her large boots, her tights and her cotton sweatshirt, emblazoned with a college logo, were all washed-out shades of black. She was unusually tall for her age. In fact, she was just as tall as her mother. They both wore the same dark eye shadow and had dark hair, but that was where the similarities ended. Angelika Malmborg-Eriksson was tiny and thin-boned. She rattled on quickly and nervously, gesturing a great deal.

According to the reports, Angelika was thirty-one years old, but she appeared much younger. Her bright red angora turtleneck sweater was burled, and its wide shoulder pads revealed it had been around for a few years. Still, the color suited her. She’d managed to find glossy lipstick to match. Beneath her sweater, she wore tights that disappeared into her black high-heeled boots.

Sophie sat and watched them. Her stillness so penetrated the air around her, that it felt like the molecules had stopped swirling and started to vibrate in place. Irene became intensely aware of the temperature shift around the girl. It was hard to tell if it was warmer or colder, but something was there that Irene would later describe as an “energy field.” The phenomenon was so unusual that Irene started to wonder if it was due to her own nervousness about the interrogation.

Irene introduced herself and offered her hand. Angelika’s small, thin hand felt hot and tense but otherwise lifeless. Sophie gave no indication that she wanted to greet Irene. Irene picked up the girl’s right hand gently. It was fragile and cold, like a thin pane of glass, and it lay in Irene’s hand passively. Irene shuddered. She felt uncomfortable in the girl’s presence. Sophie’s unusual gaze revealed neither fear nor nervousness, neither sorrow nor joy. In fact, it showed nothing at all.

How could a mere girl be so disengaged? She did not appear to be totally withdrawn, as from time to time she would look at the person speaking. But for the most part, she looked straight ahead or at her hands, loosely clasped on her lap. Irene noticed that her nails were bitten all the way to the quick, but there was no other sign of nervousness. Was this disengagement Sophie’s way of channeling her inner tension? Perhaps, but Irene had never seen it before, nor heard anyone mention experiencing anything like this.

Angelika perched herself graciously on the edge of the chair, and began chattering before Irene could even formulate her first question.

“Sophie and I have been talking. The truth is that Sophie did not know whether Magnus was home or not that day. He must have gone to sleep before she came home from school, because the whole house was dark. Nothing was on fire when
Sophie left the house. She didn’t smell any burning odor. There must have been an electrical issue.”

“Is this true, Sophie?” asked Irene. She peered directly at the girl.

Instead of meeting Irene’s gaze, Sophie turned her head slightly to look at the point in the room where the video camera had been set up, offering Irene only a view of her face in profile.
If there was a change in her facial expression, perhaps the video tape will show it
, thought Irene. When Sophie turned her head back, her face was as expressionless as a porcelain mask.

Irene decided to concentrate on what Angelika was saying. At least Angelika was talking. Perhaps Sophie would relax and react to Angelika’s words.

“I understand that your husband was a journalist. Which newspaper did he work for?”

“Different ones. He was a freelancer.”

“Where did he write?”

“At home for the most part.”

“So it’s not impossible that he was home when Sophie returned from school,” Irene stated.

“Well … there were times when he wasn’t home.”

Angelika gave Irene a quick glance. Her beautiful eyes betrayed something, but what? Before Irene could analyze it, the look was gone.

“Where would he be if he wasn’t at home?”

“Out. Working. Journalists have to investigate places and figure things out. Meet people. That kind of thing.”

They’d deviated from the line of questioning Irene had intended to follow before the meeting and she was now improvising. The whole idea had been to get Sophie to talk. Still, Irene felt that there were many other questions in this investigation that still needed answers. With each response, a whole new bevy sprang up. Perhaps Irene would still get a few pieces of the puzzle from the mother.

“What kind of journalist was Magnus?” asked Irene.

“What kind?” Angelika repeated, confused.

“Well, did he write about sports or movies or food or news?” Irene clarified.

“He … he wrote about anything … anything going on. And then he’d sell the article to a paper or a magazine.”

“Which ones?”

“Different ones.
GT
and
GP
. Other magazines.
Norra Hisingens Nyheter
. And
Björkils Bulletin
.”

“Those two are locals, right?”

“Yeah, though the
Bulletin
is more like an advertising supplement.”

Irene was beginning to realize that Magnus Eriksson had not exactly been a shining star in the lofty skies of journalism. Perhaps she was mistaken, but Angelika’s nervous shifting position on her chair seemed to indicate that Irene was on the right track.

“How long had you been living in the Björkil cottage?”

“Three … almost four years.”

“Where did you live previously?”

“On Linnégatan.”

“That’s a nice, central location. Was it in one of the newer buildings?”

“No, an older one. It was a really comfortable apartment. High ceilings and large rooms. The kitchen was old, but it was really beautiful. And it had a gas stove and stuff.”

“Why did you decide to move?”

Angelika looked away and then back at Irene.

“They scheduled it for renovation. They were showing us other apartments in the area, but they were too expensive.”

“So you bought the cottage.”

“No, we rented it from Magnus’s sister. It’s on her property. We were only going to live there for one year.”

“But you’ve been there for almost four years,” Irene observed.

“That’s how it turned out. Rents closer to town were just too high.”