The Fire Witness

31

The prosecutor Susanne Öst is waiting outside the Hotel Ibis. She’s leaning against a Ford Fairlane. There’s not a trace of makeup on her round face, and her blond hair is gathered up in a messy ponytail. Her shirt collar sticks straight up out of her gray suit jacket.

“Do you mind if I play police officer with you?” she asks, blushing.

“Not at all,” Joona says, shaking hands with her.

“We’re supposed to go knocking on all the doors, looking into each and every garage, shed, and parking lot, et cetera, et cetera,” she says. “We’ll close the net. There aren’t many places where you can hide a car.”

“Right,” says Joona.

“It’ll go faster now that we have a name,” she says, smiling, as she opens the door to the Ford Fairlane. “There are only four people with the first name of Dennis in the area.”

“I’ll follow you,” Joona says, and walks over to his Volvo.

The American car sways as it turns onto the road and starts toward Indal. Joona follows it and thinks about what he knows so far about Vicky Bennet.

Her mother, Susie Bennet, was a drug addict and homeless at the time of her death last winter. Vicky had lived with various foster parents and institutions from the age of six and had probably learned to create and let go of relationships quickly.

If Vicky goes out at night to meet a boy, she must meet him close-by. Perhaps he waits for her in the forest or on the gravel road. Perhaps she walks along Highway 86 until she reaches his house in Baggböle or Västloning.

The asphalt is starting to dry. The rainwater is pooling in the ditches. The skies are brightening although raindrops still drip from the trees.

The prosecutor calls Joona and he can see her glancing at him in her rearview mirror as she talks.

“We’ve only found one Dennis in Indal,” she says. “He’s seven years old. The second Dennis lives in Stige, but he’s working in Leeds in England right now.”

“So that leaves only two,” Joona says.

“Right. Dennis and Lovisa Karmstedt live in a house on the outskirts of Tomming. We haven’t got to them yet. And then there’s Dennis Rolando. He lives with his parents just south of Indal. We’ve just visited the house and there’s no one there at the moment. This Dennis owns a large industrial building in Sundsvall, on Kvarnvägen, which we haven’t entered yet. There’s probably nothing there. At the moment, this Dennis is in his car on the road to Sollefteå.”

“Break down the door,” says Joona.

“Okay,” she says and ends the call.

The landscape opens up and fields line both sides of the highway. Red farm buildings press against the edge of the forest and, behind them, the forest stretches endlessly. Everything is shimmering after the rain.

As Joona passes through the sleepy village of Östanskär, two uniformed police officers in Sundsvall are sawing through the massive iron rail across the steel door of the industrial building with an angle grinder. A cascade of sparks flashes around the walls. Then the bar separates and the officers lever the door with a hefty crowbar. The door bends open and they walk inside. In the beams of their flashlights they can see dark heaps on the floor. They find about fifty ancient video games-Space Invaders, Asteroids, and Street Fighter-beneath dusty plastic sheets.

Meanwhile, Joona observes Susanne Öst speak on the cell phone and then cast him a glance via her rearview mirror. A second later, his cell phone rings. Susanne tells him they now only have one address left to check. It’s not far from where they are, and it should take ten minutes to get there.

Finally she slows down and Joona follows her as she turns onto a road between two waterlogged fields and drives up to a yellow wooden house. Its blinds are drawn. Apple trees are growing in a well-tended yard and a blue-and-white-striped hammock hangs between two of them. They park their cars and walk toward two police offers standing by a squad car.

Joona greets the officers and then studies the house. He says, “We don’t know if Vicky took the car in order to steal the child, or if she just wanted a car and the child happened to be in the backseat. At the moment, we must think of the child as a hostage.”

“A hostage,” the prosecutor repeats in a low voice.

She walks up to the door and rings the bell. No response. She shouts a warning that the police will break down the door if they are not let inside. There’s someone inside. A piece of heavy furniture is being moved. She can hear the floor groan as the piece is turned over.

“I’ll go in,” Joona says.

One of the policemen stays to watch the front of the house and the garage. The other follows Joona around the rear. The back of the house has a small set of concrete steps up to a back door with a window of frosted glass. Joona kicks the door, the window breaks and shards of glass fall onto a blue doormat.

“Stay here,” he tells the policeman, and he slips inside.