The Fire Witness

183

Joona leaves the police station and as he’s done many times before walks up the steep path and over to the ancient Jewish burial ground. With practiced hands, he loosens the bar inside the gate, opens it, and walks inside.

There’s a relatively new family grave among the older stones: Samuel Mendel; his wife, Rebecka; and sons, Joshua and Reuben.

Joona places a small pebble on the top of the gravestone and stands there with his eyes closed for a moment. He inhales the smell of damp earth and listens to the breeze soughing in the treetops.

Samuel Mendel was a direct descendant of Koppel Mendel, who opposed Aaron Isaac, the founder of Sweden’s Jewish community, and bought this land for use as a cemetery in 1787. Although the cemetery has not been actively used since 1857, the descendants of Koppel Mendel are still buried there.

Detective Inspector Samuel Mendel and Joona were partners at the National Police, and they became very good friends.

Samuel Mendel was forty-six years old when he died. Joona knows that he is alone in his grave, although the gravestone says something else.

Joona and Samuel’s first case together was also their last.

One hour later, Joona is back in the appeals office of the Public Prosecutor for Police Cases. Mikael Båge, the head of the internal investigation, is there, along with Helene Fiorine, the department secretary, and the prosecutor, Sven Wiklund.

“I will now be deciding whether to start prosecuting your case,” Wiklund says. He runs his hands over a pile of paperwork and adds, “In these documents, there is nothing favorable.”

His chair creaks as he leans back and meets Joona’s eyes. The only sound in the room is the scratch of Helene Fiorine’s pen and her shallow breathing. The yellow light from outside plays over the polished furniture and the glass doors protecting the many leather-bound volumes of law, police regulations, and the writings and binding judgments of the Swedish Supreme Court.

“As I see this,” Wiklund continues drily, “the only way you can avoid prosecution is by giving me a really good explanation.”

“I bet Joona has an ace up his sleeve,” whispers Mikael Båge.

The contrail of an airplane dissipates in the light sky. The chairs creak. Helene Fiorine swallows and puts down her pen.

“Just tell us what happened,” she says. “Perhaps you had a very good reason for warning them of Säpo’s intended action.”

“Yes, I did,” Joona says.

“We know that you’re a good police officer.” Mikael Båge smiles, embarrassed.

“I, on the other hand, must go by the letter of the law,” Wiklund says. “My job is to break people to pieces when they break the rules. Don’t make me break you here and now.”

It’s as close to a plea as Helene Fiorine has ever heard her boss make.

“Your entire future is up in the air, Joona,” Mikael whispers.

“You understand that the decision was entirely my own,” Joona says. “I do have an answer for you, which perhaps…”

Joona’s cell phone rings. He gives it an automatic glance, and his eyes darken.

“Please excuse me,” he says. “I must take this call.”

The three others look at him as Joona listens to the voice on the other end.

“Yes… yes, I know,” he says. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

Joona ends the call and looks at Wiklund as if he’s forgotten why he’s here.

“I have to go,” he says, and leaves the room without saying another word.