all. She was going to put down the cost of the car ride from Sävedalen as “research” on her taxes.
“Do you know that I’ve never been inside a real police station before? And I’ve written thirteen mystery books! My heroine has a flower shop and just has the habit of wandering into criminal investigations,” she confided to Irene before she disappeared through the reception room.
Irene tried to hide her irritation and made a mental note to never buy a single book by Alice Mattson.
I RENE SAT DOWN in her office to think. It felt odd to stir up ghosts from the past. There had been times when the girl had turned up in her dreams: her large, slightly almond-shaped eyes and the emotionless expression. But had she truly been emotionless? Had she just lowered a protective curtain to avoid revealing anything? Irene had thought about Sophie Malmborg’s gaze as the years went by. She never figured out what it meant or what Sophie was hiding.
And now Sophie was dead.
Fifteen years after the house fire out in Björkil.
Irene turned on her computer but couldn’t focus on the screen. She stared out of the one window in her office. The rain had created patterns in the thick dirt. Twilight was falling. She ought to turn on the ceiling light but just kept sitting in her chair as the darkness gathered. Her thoughts went back in time again to try to piece together what had been gathered in the investigation.
She could hear the clattering of china in the hallway. The scent of coffee and cinnamon buns seeped beneath the gap in her office door. Or perhaps it was just her imagination, since she already knew that she’d need something sweet with her coffee.
A CCORDING TO NUMEROUS witnesses, Sophie Malmborg had arrived late, perhaps around twelve thirty, at the bar. She had come to join a group of friends who had arrived at least an hour beforehand. The group consisted of three men and a woman. Everyone knew one another. Around 1 A . M ., Max Franke, Alice Mattson and the publisher, Viktor Borgsten, had joined the young people. The older group was just as drunk as the younger one. According to poet Pontus Backman, Max Franke went up to Sophie’s table and bellowed: “Well, if it isn’t my itty-bitty cousin!” or something to that effect. Then Max had hugged Sophie, who was as stiff as a statue. “A really strange girl, that one,” Pontus concluded at the end of his testimony. The poet had no clear memories about the rest of the evening. The only thing he
did
remember was waking up at the apartment of the sulky blonde. Her name was Kia, and he never caught her last name. He didn’t ever find out what it was, as he hadn’t seen her since September. Kia lived in the Majorna district and was an art student. Pontus stroked his thin goatee tiredly and sighed. “Her apartment reeked of paint and turpentine. If I didn’t already have a headache, I wouldhave gotten one from the smell. And I’m getting another one now.”
He gave this last sentence as half an apology. Irene would be able to swear on a stack of Bibles that Pontus Backman was even now severely hungover. His stinking breath hovered in the air between them—cigarette smoke, garlic and red wine.
He had no recollection of the elevator ride to Max Franke’s suite. Therefore he also had no memory of anything Sophie might have said about taking the stairs instead.
Irene’s conversation with Christina “Kia” Strömborg brought nothing new. As Irene caught a glimpse of her in the reception lounge area, she strongly suspected that Kia was high. Kia wore black clothes and a black blanket with a white pattern that she’d cut a hole in and was wearing like a poncho. She’d tied a grey scarf around her waist to keep it in place. All her movements were jerky and nervous. She was walking close to the wall like a caged animal and appeared unable to make her body pause long enough to sit down.
Kia had hardly known Sophie, it turned out. She only knew her by reputation.
“Do you know that I’ve never been inside a real police station before? And I’ve written thirteen mystery books! My heroine has a flower shop and just has the habit of wandering into criminal investigations,” she confided to Irene before she disappeared through the reception room.
Irene tried to hide her irritation and made a mental note to never buy a single book by Alice Mattson.
I RENE SAT DOWN in her office to think. It felt odd to stir up ghosts from the past. There had been times when the girl had turned up in her dreams: her large, slightly almond-shaped eyes and the emotionless expression. But had she truly been emotionless? Had she just lowered a protective curtain to avoid revealing anything? Irene had thought about Sophie Malmborg’s gaze as the years went by. She never figured out what it meant or what Sophie was hiding.
And now Sophie was dead.
Fifteen years after the house fire out in Björkil.
Irene turned on her computer but couldn’t focus on the screen. She stared out of the one window in her office. The rain had created patterns in the thick dirt. Twilight was falling. She ought to turn on the ceiling light but just kept sitting in her chair as the darkness gathered. Her thoughts went back in time again to try to piece together what had been gathered in the investigation.
She could hear the clattering of china in the hallway. The scent of coffee and cinnamon buns seeped beneath the gap in her office door. Or perhaps it was just her imagination, since she already knew that she’d need something sweet with her coffee.
A CCORDING TO NUMEROUS witnesses, Sophie Malmborg had arrived late, perhaps around twelve thirty, at the bar. She had come to join a group of friends who had arrived at least an hour beforehand. The group consisted of three men and a woman. Everyone knew one another. Around 1 A . M ., Max Franke, Alice Mattson and the publisher, Viktor Borgsten, had joined the young people. The older group was just as drunk as the younger one. According to poet Pontus Backman, Max Franke went up to Sophie’s table and bellowed: “Well, if it isn’t my itty-bitty cousin!” or something to that effect. Then Max had hugged Sophie, who was as stiff as a statue. “A really strange girl, that one,” Pontus concluded at the end of his testimony. The poet had no clear memories about the rest of the evening. The only thing he
did
remember was waking up at the apartment of the sulky blonde. Her name was Kia, and he never caught her last name. He didn’t ever find out what it was, as he hadn’t seen her since September. Kia lived in the Majorna district and was an art student. Pontus stroked his thin goatee tiredly and sighed. “Her apartment reeked of paint and turpentine. If I didn’t already have a headache, I wouldhave gotten one from the smell. And I’m getting another one now.”
He gave this last sentence as half an apology. Irene would be able to swear on a stack of Bibles that Pontus Backman was even now severely hungover. His stinking breath hovered in the air between them—cigarette smoke, garlic and red wine.
He had no recollection of the elevator ride to Max Franke’s suite. Therefore he also had no memory of anything Sophie might have said about taking the stairs instead.
Irene’s conversation with Christina “Kia” Strömborg brought nothing new. As Irene caught a glimpse of her in the reception lounge area, she strongly suspected that Kia was high. Kia wore black clothes and a black blanket with a white pattern that she’d cut a hole in and was wearing like a poncho. She’d tied a grey scarf around her waist to keep it in place. All her movements were jerky and nervous. She was walking close to the wall like a caged animal and appeared unable to make her body pause long enough to sit down.
Kia had hardly known Sophie, it turned out. She only knew her by reputation.
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