The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Twenty-Eight

The call was received at two twenty-two in the afternoon. The fire-fighting unit at the Viktoria fire station, just east of the city, arrived on the scene seven minutes later, but at that point there was not much more to do other than keeping the fire from spreading into the adjacent areas.

The closest neighbor, who had discovered the fire when he returned from a mushroom-picking trip in the forest, had hauled his garden hose over, which did not reach more than halfway. If he pinched the nozzle, however, he was able to drizzle water onto the shed.

The firefighters thanked him for his efforts but then asked him to move out of the way.

“Do you know if there are people inside?” the fire chief asked him.

“I don’t think so,” the neighbor said.

The cottage, which had been constructed with sugar crates, burned down in about twenty minutes. The shed was saved but a shower of sparks lit a few fires at the edge of the woods. These were quickly extinguished.

“Just as well that piece of shit burns down,” the neighbor said and gathered up his hose, “but it’s lucky it didn’t explode. I think they have kerosene in there.”

The fire chief reacted immediately by ordering all onlookers to stand at least one hundred meters back. He physically shoved the neighbor away and did not let him collect his hose.

“How fucking stupid can you be?” he said to his coworker.

The patrol unit, which had arrived ten minutes after the firefighters, went around methodically questioning the onlookers who were gathered in a group on the road. No one turned out to have any useful information to contribute that could explain how the fire had started. No one had seen or heard anything. People rarely came out to the cottage. No one was sure who owned it.

“It must be one of the dynamiter’s sons,” an older man said. “The Rosenbergs, there are quite a number of them. Try Åke, I think he’s the oldest.”

“Have you seen him here lately?” the police officer asked.

“He came out when the chimney sweep was here, but that was at least a year ago. We exchanged a few words. He’s in the explosives business, just like his father.”

The fire chief walked up and took the police officer aside.

“It’s arson,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Fairly. The house isn’t wired so it can’t be electric. And we saw a ten-liter container in there. We haven’t checked it carefully yet because it has to cool down first. Apparently there’s a kerosene tank in there. That’s what the neighbor thought. But the container was the first thing we saw. It was located in full view on the metal plate in front of the woodstove.

“Could it be someone who simply wanted to start a fire in a hurry?”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” the chief said, “but why start a fire in this weather?”

“To put on a pot of coffee?”

“According to the neighbor they cooked on a kerosene stove.”

The officer nodded.

“I’ll call forensics,” he said. “Are you sure no one was left in there?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think so.”

Åke Rosenberg was contacted. He was in the middle of a blasting job in Mehedeby in north Uppland. He confirmed that he was the one who owned the cottage but said he had not been there since the spring.

“I come out twice a year to rake leaves and do basic maintenance.”

“Does anyone else have access to the cottage?”

“No,” Åke Rosenberg lied. “It must be some young devil who did it. I’ll come by tomorrow when I get back to town.”

As soon as they finished, he called his brother Konrad. Åke was angry, but also pleased. The cottage was insured and now he was spared the task of pulling it down-something he had been planning to do for years. He had toyed with the idea of building a house and moving out there.

“When were you there last?” he asked Konrad.

“Where?”

Konrad sensed that something was up and had a deep fear of his brother.

“Answer the question!”

“It must have been awhile,” Konrad said.

“It’s burned down. According to the cops only soot is left. I thought you might have set it on fire. It wouldn’t have surprised me in any case.”

Konrad Rosenberg sank down on the hall floor. A fortune up in smoke.

“I said nothing to the cops about you spending time there. I thought that was best. One never knows what you get up to with your drinking buddies. So keep your mouth shut, otherwise there can be problems with the insurance company.”

“Sure,” Konrad said faintly and hung up.

It took him an hour to work up enough courage to call Slobodan Andersson.