“Damn farmers!” he yelled for no reason.
The bus driver gestured, car drivers beeped, and Sammy sped up. He had his first doubts as he drove over the Fyris River bridge. Was he doing the right thing in hurrying out to Alsike?
At the crossing with Rosendal some fire trucks came trundling along. Sammy was forced to stop, tried to finesse his way past a truck, but the driver discovered his maneuvering and with a huge grin pulled up a few centimeters and blocked the gap.
The blaring of the fire trucks could be heard long after they had disappeared in toward the city.
The light turned green and Sammy turned left, but then realized he had taken the wrong road. He should have taken the old Stockholm Road, of course. Now he would have to drive through Sunnersta and over Flottsund.
“Shit, shit!” he yelled.
He drove off to the side, looked in the rearview mirror and in line with the Skogskyrkogaarden graveyard made a U-turn with screeching tires. It was ridiculous to waste time on Alsike. The barn with its Italian text would still be standing. He cursed his stupidity.
Instead he headed to Kåbo. If the missing professor had anything to do with the murders then that was where he would have to start looking for Ann.
Seven minutes after the alarm had sounded the first fire truck arrived. It was a pump truck with five firefighters. Thereafter came a ladder truck, and command car.
“There it is!” a man on the street cried out and pointed at the Dream House, as if there was any doubt where the fire was.
“Step aside,” the fireman who had been the driver said. “I’ll connect the hydrant!” he yelled.
Hoses were being rolled out at high speed. Within a minute the firemen were dousing the house with the water they had in the truck. Flames were coming out of all of the windows in the lower story. The windows one floor up were still intact. Smoke was rising from the seams in the metal roof, and a thick pillar of it was coming out of the chimney.
After a couple of minutes the approximately two cubic meters of water in the car were gone but by then the driver had connected the fire hydrant to the truck’s pump.
A patrol car was in place. One of the patrol officers, Hjalmar Niklas-son, was speaking to the neighbor. It was the professor.
“Who lives in this house?”
“The professor, but he’s missing and so is his daughter.”
“Are they at home?”
“The professor is missing,” the professor repeated.
“What do you mean?”
“He disappeared about a month ago.”
The officer knew who he was talking about. He had taken part in the search for Ulrik Hindersten.
“And the daughter?”
“She took off a little while ago.”
“Do you believe the house to be empty?”
“Yes, I guess so,” the professor said, “but…”
“Were you the one who called in the alarm? Two residents, are you certain?”
The professor nodded. He had his gaze fixed on the firemen.
“Will it spread?” he asked, but the officer had already left.
Niklasson’s colleague came running. This was somewhat difficult since Åke Wahlquist was twenty kilos overweight.
“Don’t we have a fourteen out on Lindell, from the crime squad?” he panted.
“Yes, why?”
“I think it’s her car that’s parked around the corner. I slowed down when I caught sight of it and…”
Niklasson pulled out his phone.
“Are you sure?” he asked Wahlquist, who nodded.
Ottosson received the news on his cell phone. He was discussing the Italian lead with Berglund; the interpreter was on her way. Berglund was going to give her a ride out to Alsike in order to have her decipher the inscription on the side of the barn.
“A patrol unit has located Lindell’s car,” Ottosson said.
“Where?” Berglund asked.
“Kåbo. They didn’t say which street but it intersects with Götgatan. There’s a residential fire there somewhere. ‘Tiny’ Wahlquist…”
Berglund ran. He had a feeling he knew what was burning.
Ottosson watched the back of his colleague as he ran from the room and Ottosson was filled with a mixture of pride and a great anxiety. Pride for what he for a second had observed in Berglund’s face before he ran off. Ottosson knew Berglund would go through hell and high water for his coworkers. It was not only because of collegial loyalty, it was something more. Not love in the regular sense, comradeship sounded too army-like, and friendship too trivial. Trust was the word Ottosson thought was closest to describe the ties that knit the good officers together.
But above all he was worried about Ann. Berglund’s expression had illustrated what could be thought to have happened. The unthinkable was thinkable and now perhaps even likely.
He snapped up his jacket and left the room.
When Sammy Nilsson reached the flaming house he spotted “Tiny” Wahlquist, who was waving for him to come over. Next to “Tiny” there was a man of about sixty.
“This guy has a little info,” Tiny said. “He’s a neighbor and he saw a woman, about forty, who was with Laura Hindersten-the woman who lives in this residence.” He pointed to it.
“She said she was a police officer but she sure didn’t look like one and she behaved more like a thug,” the neighbor said.
“Is this the one?” Sammy held up a picture of Lindell. He had been carrying it around in his pocket ever since the report on her disappearance was disseminated.
The man nodded.
“Is she wanted?”
“Shut up,” Sammy Nilsson snarled. “Ann is the best officer we have. When did you see them?”
“This afternoon,” the neighbor said meekly. “She went into the house with Laura Hindersten.”
“Have you seen her leave the house?”
The neighbor shook his head. Now he was pale, suddenly aware of the seriousness of the situation.
“Jesus Christ,” Tiny said.
Sammy drew a deep breath and looked around. A fire commander was stationed a little ways up the street and Sammy ran up to him. They vaguely knew each other from before. Sammy thought his name was Eddie Wallin.
“Hi there,” Sammy said. “It turns out we may have a fellow officer in the building.”
He was near tears but did everything to sound collected.
“What the hell are you saying? You see what this looks like. We don’t have a chance of going in yet,” the fire commander said and gestured with his arm to some smoke divers who were standing at the ready.
Forty-nine
Ann Lindell leaned forward with her healthy hand on one knee and rested for a few seconds. The fire thundered overhead. It occurred to her there might be water in the basement. She had seen an old washing machine and stainless steel rinsing tubs in one of the areas but realized it was too late to make her way there. And what could a thin stream of water do against a raging inferno?
She took out another bottle of wine and did the same thing as before. This time it was red wine. It helped for the moment but the heat was starting to get so unbearable that soon no wine in the world would help her. She would be poached in wine.
She drew farther back into the wine cellar. The floor, walls, and ceiling were lined with brick. She guessed that Ulrik Hindersten had had the area reinforced in order to maintain the right temperature for the wine. This played to her advantage in the short term but she knew it was only a matter of time before the bricks started to rain down.
She turned the bathtub upside down and put some bottles of wine on the floor. She wet a rag with wine and draped it around her face, lifted the side of the tub, and crawled in under it. Now it was dark again. If she had felt the basement was bad the tub was a veritable prison cell by comparison. She lay on her left side with her legs pulled up. There was hardly enough room for her. Her arm ached and the effort of moving the tub had brought her close to fainting. Even so Ann experienced a measure of calm. When they found her they would know she had done what she could. She had not given up. Ottosson, Sammy, or perhaps Bea would tell this to Erik one day when he was old enough to understand.