No one responded, so he returned to his place and went on with his report.
“On the fourth floor of the building there’s a photographer. He lives in the two-room space and has his studio in the larger apartment above von Knecht’s office. The witnesses from the second floor, the retired couple, think he must be out of town at the moment. They haven’t seen him in several days. He sometimes does fashion shoots abroad. For his sake, let’s hope he’s away shooting beautiful women under the palms. Otherwise he’s dead. Grilled. It’ll be several hours before the smoke-eaters can go into the building.”
Lund paused and looked quite stern and serious as he went on. “On the fifth floor they managed to rescue a young woman with the hook and ladder. She was in shock, of course, and refused to climb down the ladder. But the fireman grabbed her and more or less carried her down. When she reached the ground, she suddenly remembered that her boyfriend was asleep somewhere in the apartment. But it was too late. There was no chance of getting back inside. Her apartment was completely engulfed in flames and there was a big risk that the floor would cave in. The lady in the apartment next door had better luck. She came home from work in the middle of the firefighting work. She had evidently heard about the fire, but it was still a shock. She collapsed on the street and the ambulance had to take her to the ER. The sixth floor was empty. Work had just started on renovating it into an apartment that would take up the whole floor.”
“He seemed to have a penchant for that type of apartment building. How did you know that we were still here?” Birgitta Moberg had managed to muster enough nerve to make a comment and ask a question.
“Pure chance. Irene and I met after von Knecht’s little air show yesterday. According to the evening papers, I see that he had some help with it. Interesting. Well, after we were relieved by the swing shift, I called in to Dispatch and asked if any of you were still in the building. According to them, you were sitting here devoting yourselves to orgies of pizza. So I thought I’d drop by and light a fire under the pot with some real red-hot stuff,” Håkan Lund concluded with a satisfied smile.
“I think we all agree you’ve succeeded,” Andersson said flatly. He tried to pull himself together enough to ask some sensible questions. It wasn’t easy.
“How did you get hold of all this information, about von Knecht’s office, the fact that he owned the building, who lives in the various apartments, and all that?”
“Didn’t I tell you? The retired couple on the second floor. They were very well informed, real gold mines of inside information. Let’s see. .”
Lund fished around in the pockets of his new uniform jacket made of heavy leather. “Here’s the note with their name and address. They’re staying with their daughter in Mölndal for the time being. But they’ll probably be in Mölndal Hospital for a few days.”
“Thanks, Håkan. You’re a gold mine yourself. . well, you know what I mean.” It wasn’t the best-formulated remark, but Lund sensed the intended compliment, bowed deliberately, and said, “My pleasure. I’ll be going now and leave you to your theories. Good night!”
With these words he sailed out the door, if a man who weighs a hundred kilos can be said to sail.
Silence settled over the room for a while. Andersson was the one who broke it. The color was rising in his face again as he energetically clapped his hands and exclaimed, “So now we’re going to have to track the progress of the fire! Fredrik and Tommy, get over there. Try to sum up the situation. Report back to the rest of us at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. You can take off right now. Here’s the note with the name and address of the retired couple’s daughter.”
The other six stayed for the better part of an hour but got nowhere. Finally Andersson said, “Okay, let’s wind it up for tonight. See you at seven-thirty on the dot.”
KRISTER WAS still up when Irene got home. It was almost eleven o’clock. Sammie was bouncing around, claiming that no human had paid attention to him all day. But his light, wheat-colored coat was glossy and newly brushed, and his food dish was washed and on the drainboard. He had nothing to complain about. As Irene flopped down in the easy chair in front of the TV, he tried to climb onto her lap. But eighteen kilos of soft-coated wheaten Irish terrier was too much to hold when she was trying to relax; he had to stay on the floor and sulk. A scratch behind the ears had to suffice.
Krister told her about his conversation with Jenny. It seemed to be her dream to play in a real band. And a used electric guitar would make it happen. The leader of the band could arrange to get a good one for a thousand kronor. They decided to think about it for a few more days. Maybe it would be a suitable Christmas present.
“But too expensive! We ought to have a fortune like von Knecht-more than a hundred and sixty million! He must have plenty of pensions and golden parachutes and that sort of thing too,” Irene said glumly.
“Hey, old lady. What good did all his millions do him yesterday when he fell without any parachute?”
Sometimes Krister’s Värmland earthiness was quite refreshing. As was his profession, which asserted itself now as he asked, “Would you like something to eat?”
“No thanks. The pizza feels like concrete in my stomach.”
“What would milady prefer, then?”
“Whiskey. A big one.”
“But of course, my darling. Chivas Regal, Jack Daniel’s, or Famous Grouse?”
“Chivas.”
With a laugh Krister got up and went out to the kitchen. He returned with two glasses and a can of Pripps pilsner. Irene looked disappointed.
“For once I feel the need for a good shot of booze to unwind. Not much. An ordinary whiskey will do,” she complained.
“We could make punch in this can: five centiliters of O. P. Andersson and one deciliter of Amontillado. That’s all we’ve got in the house. I’ll go to the liquor store tomorrow and pick up a few bottles of wine for the holidays. I’m working late on Friday, but I can go early on Saturday. Of course, I know something else that might make you unwind. Just come with uncle, and you’ll get some goodies. .”
Sammie realized what was going on, lowered his tail, and slunk up the stairs to Jenny’s room. He understood that a paltry scratch behind the ears was all he was going to get that evening.
THEY WERE all in place in the conference room at seven-thirty. Tommy Persson sat yawning, while Fredrik looked like he’d slept for eight hours instead of his usual four. And he was the one who had to give the report on the fire.
“Tommy and I were there by nine-thirty. We went around and questioned the people in the building across the street. They confirmed what Håkan had told us. The explosion came at precisely six-twenty P.M. The fire blazed up instantly, and it seems that it spread explosively. Could they have poured gasoline all over the apartment?”
“The neighbors should have smelled it,” Jonny put in.
“Yes, you’re right. But the firefighters are leaning that way. This morning they’re going to go inside because that guy who was asleep in the apartment on the fifth floor is missing. Apparently he moved in with the woman the week before. I guess she hadn’t gotten used to having him there. That’s probably why she didn’t remember him until it was too late. His name is Mattias Larsson, twenty-two years old. A student at the teachers’ college.”
Fredrik looked upset and started leafing through his papers before he went on. “Here it is! The photographer in the apartment above von Knecht’s called Dispatch; they then contacted us. He saw the report on the fire on the late news. What a shock! Imagine, getting comfortable in an easy chair with a beer, turning on the hotel TV, and finding out that your home is burning down! He’s working on an assignment up in Stockholm, he said. But he’s going to come down today and will be in touch with us. His name is Bo-Ivar ‘Bobo’ Torsson. We thought we’d continue with our follow-up on the fire and see if it produces any connections to the murder.”