The Fire Witness. Ларс Кеплер

happening?’ she asks.

      ‘Torrential rain, but not much else. No cars, not a single damn … Hang on, I can see a truck, a bloody big articulated truck heading down Highway 330.’

      ‘He’s the guy who called,’ Mirja says.

      ‘So where the hell’s the Toyota?’ Lasse says. ‘I’ve been here a quarter of an hour, so it’ll have to reach you in the next five minutes, unless some UFO has—’

      ‘Give me a moment,’ Mirja says quickly and ends the call to her colleague when she sees the distant light from two car headlamps.

       26

      Mirja Zlatnek gets out of her patrol car and hunches in the downpour. She squints at the car approaching through the heavy rain.

      With one hand on her holstered pistol she walks towards the car, simultaneously holding her left hand up to make the driver stop.

      The water coursing across the road and into the ditches by the side of the carriageway looks as if it’s bubbling.

      Mirja sees the car slow down, and she sees her own shadow bounce along the road surrounded by the rotating blue light from behind her. She hears a call on the radio in the patrol car, but stays on the road. The voices on the comms radio are tinny, and there’s a lot of crackling, but the words are still clearly audible.

      ‘Hell of a lot of blood,’ a younger colleague is saying as he describes the discovery of a second body at the Birgitta Home, a middle-aged woman.

      The car comes closer, driving slowly, then pulls over to the edge of the road and stops. Mirja Zlatnek starts to walk towards it. It’s a Mazda pickup with muddy tyres. The driver’s door opens, and a large man in a green hunting jacket and a Helly Hansen sweater gets out. He has neatly combed shoulder-length hair, and a wide face with a large nose and narrow eyes.

      ‘Are you alone in the car?’ Mirja shouts, wiping the water from her face.

      He nods, then looks over at the forest.

      ‘Stay back,’ she says as he walks closer.

      He takes a tiny step back.

      Mirja leans forward to look inside the car. Water trickles down the back of her neck.

      It’s hard to see anything through the rain and mud on the windscreen. There’s a newspaper spread out on the driver’s seat. He’s been sitting on it while he was driving. She walks around and moves closer, trying to see what’s lying on the narrow back seat. An old blanket and a thermos flask.

      The radio in the car crackles again, but she can no longer hear the words.

      The shoulders of the man’s hunting jacket are already dark from the rain. There’s a sound of something scraping against metal coming from the vehicle.

      When she looks back at the man again she sees he’s come closer. Just a little, one step, perhaps. Unless she’s imagining it. She’s no longer sure. He’s staring at her, looks her up and down, and then frowns.

      ‘Do you live here?’ she asks.

      She rubs the mud from the licence plate with her foot, makes a note of it, then carries on around the pickup.

      There’s a pink sports bag on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Mirja keeps moving around the vehicle, but keeps the big man in sight the whole time. There’s something on the back of the pickup under a green tarpaulin, held down by thick straps.

      ‘Where are you going?’ she asks.

      He’s standing still, following her with his eyes. Suddenly some blood seeps out from under the tarpaulin, along the dirty grooves.

      ‘What have you got here?’ she asks.

      When he doesn’t answer, she reaches over the back of the pickup. It isn’t easy to reach, she has to lean on the vehicle. The man moves sideways slightly. She managed to reach the tarpaulin with her fingertips without taking her eyes off the man. He licks his lips as she lifts it. She unfastens her pistol, then glances quickly at the back of the pickup, long enough to see the hoof of a young deer.

      The man is standing completely still in the flashing blue light, but Mirja keeps her hand on her pistol as she steps back from the vehicle.

      ‘Where did you shoot the deer?’

      ‘It was lying on the road,’ he says.

      ‘Did you make a note of where?’

      He spits slowly on the road, between his own feet.

      ‘Can I see your driving licence?’ she says.

      He doesn’t answer, and shows no sign of obeying her.

      ‘Driving licence,’ she repeats, aware of the uncertainty in her own voice.

      ‘We’re done here,’ he says, and walks towards the pickup.

      ‘You’re legally obliged to report accidents involving wild animals …’

      The man gets in the driver’s seat, closes the door, starts the engine, and pulls away. She watches him pass the police car with two wheels in the ditch. When he drives up onto the road again Mirja tells herself she should have examined the pickup more closely, should have removed the whole tarpaulin, and looked under the blanket on the back seat.

      The rain is lashing the trees around her, and in the distance a crow calls from a treetop.

      Mirja starts when she hears the sound of a heavy vehicle behind her. She turns around and pulls out her pistol, but can’t see anything except the rain.

       27

      Danish lorry driver Mads Jansen is being reprimanded over the phone by his transport manager. He blushes as he tries to explain the situation. Pia Abrahamsson can hear the angry voice through the phone, and the transport manager goes on yelling about coordinates and fucked-up logistics.

      ‘But,’ Mads Jensen tries to say, ‘surely we have to help other—’

      ‘This’ll be deducted from your wages,’ his boss snaps. ‘That’s all the help you’re getting from me.’

      ‘Thanks a lot,’ Mads says, and ends the call.

      Pia sits beside the driver in silence as the dense forest flies past on both sides. The heavy rain sounds deafening in the cab. In the split wing mirror Pia can see the swaying trailer and the trees they’ve just passed.

      Mads pops some nicotine gum in his mouth and stares ahead at the road. The sound of the engine and the thud of the heavy wheels on the tarmac blur into one.

      She looks at the calendar that sways with the motion of the cab. A curvaceous woman holding an inflatable swan in a swimming pool. At the bottom of the glossy photograph the date is given as August 1968.

      The road slopes downward, and the weight of the cargo of iron bars increases the speed of the vehicle.

      Far off in the groove between the trees a strong blue light is flickering in the grey rain. A police car is blocking the road.

      Pia Abrahamsson feels her heart start to beat hard and fast. She stares at the police car and the woman in the dark blue sweater waving her arm at them. Before the truck has stopped, Pia opens the door. The sound of the engine and the tyres becomes instantly much louder.

      She feels dizzy as she clambers down and hurries over to the waiting police officer.

      ‘Where’s the car?’ the police officer asks.

      ‘What? What are you saying?’

      Pia stares