The Fire Witness. Ларс Кеплер

seat,’ he says. ‘Either way, we have to regard the child as a hostage under current circumstances.’

      ‘A hostage,’ the prosecutor repeats quietly.

      She walks over and rings the bell, then calls out that the police will force the door open if they’re not let in. Someone moves inside the house. The floor creaks, and a heavy piece of furniture topples over.

      ‘I’m going in,’ Joona says.

      One of the police officers keeps watch on the front door, the gable end facing the grass and the locked garage door, while the other one goes around to the rear of the house with Joona.

      Their shoes and trousers get wet in the tall grass. At the back is a small flight of concrete steps leading down to a door with a mottled glass window. When Joona kicks the door in, the frame shatters and fragments of glass fly across the utility-room floor.

       32

      Broken glass crunches under Joona’s shoes as he enters a neat utility room containing a hand-driven mangle.

      Miranda was sitting on a chair when she was murdered, Joona thinks. Elisabet was chased across the yard in her stockinged feet and into the brew-house, tried to crawl away, but was beaten to death from the front.

      He can feel the weight of the new pistol in its holster beneath his right arm. It’s a semi-automatic Smith & Wesson, .45 calibre ACP. It’s heavier than his old one, holds fewer bullets, but is quicker with the first shot.

      Joona carefully opens a creaking door and looks into an old-fashioned kitchen. There’s a large ceramic bowl of red apples on the round table, and the fine old stove smells of wood-smoke. A plate of frozen cinnamon buns is defrosting, and a drawer full of sharp knives is open.

      He can see the wet greenery of the garden through the blinds.

      Joona carries on into the hall and hears the ceiling light tinkle as its glass prisms knock against each other. Someone’s walking across the floor upstairs, making the lamp sway.

      He creeps up the stairs, and glances down between the treads. There are clothes hung up in the darkness beneath the stairs.

      Joona reaches the first landing and moves almost without a sound along the banister and into a bedroom containing a double bed. The blinds are drawn, and the ceiling light doesn’t work.

      Joona goes in, checks possible lines of fire, then moves sideways.

      On top of the colourful bedspread is the telescopic sight of a hunting rifle.

      He can hear someone breathing, very close to him. Joona steps further into the room and aims his pistol at the far corner. Behind the open wardrobe a round-shouldered man with light brown hair is standing staring at him.

      The man is barefoot and wearing dark blue jeans and a white T-shirt with the name Stora Enso on it. He’s hiding something behind his back as he moves slowly to his right, towards the bed.

      ‘I’m from the National Crime Unit,’ Joona says, lowering his pistol slightly.

      ‘This is my house,’ the man says in a subdued voice.

      ‘You should have opened the door.’

      Joona sees sweat running down the man’s cheeks.

      ‘Did you break my back door?’ the man asks.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Can it be repaired?’

      ‘I doubt it,’ Joona replies.

      There’s a flicker in the smoked mirror on the sliding wardrobe door. Joona sees that the man is concealing a large kitchen knife behind his back.

      ‘I need to look in your garage,’ Joona says calmly.

      ‘My car’s in there.’

      ‘Put the knife on the bed and show me the garage.’

      The man takes out the knife and stares at it. The polished wooden handle is worn, and the blade has been sharpened many times.

      ‘I haven’t got time to wait,’ Joona says.

      ‘You shouldn’t have broken my—’

      Suddenly Joona detects movement behind him. Bare feet running across the floor. He only has time to move sideways slightly without taking his eyes off the knife. A shadow rushes towards him from behind. Joona twists his body, raises his arm, and follows through, adding force to the blow as he hits the rushing figure with his elbow.

      Keeping the barrel of the pistol aimed at the man with the knife, he hits a boy in the chest with his elbow. The boy sighs, and all the air goes out of him, he reaches out for support, and sinks to his knees.

      He breathes in deeply, curls up on the floor, crumpling the rag-rug beneath him, and lies there gasping on his side.

      ‘They’re from Afghanistan,’ the man says quietly. ‘They need help, and—’

      ‘I’ll shoot you in the leg if you don’t put the knife down,’ Joona says.

      The man looks at the knife, then tosses it on the bed. Two smaller children suddenly appear in the doorway. They stare at Joona, wide-eyed.

      ‘You’re hiding refugees?’ Joona asks. ‘How much do you get for that?’

      ‘As if I’d take money,’ the man says indignantly.

      ‘Do you?’

      ‘No, I don’t.’

      Joona meets the boy’s dark gaze.

      ‘Do you pay him?’ he asks in English.

      The boy shakes his head.

      ‘No human being is illegal,’ the man says.

      ‘You don’t have to be afraid,’ Joona tells the older boy. ‘I promise I will help you if you are abused in any way.’

      The boy looks into Joona’s eyes for a long time, then shakes his head.

      ‘Dennis is a good man,’ he whispers.

      ‘I’m glad,’ Joona says, meets the man’s gaze, then leaves the room.

      Joona goes down the stairs, all the way to the garage. He stands for a while looking at the dusty Saab parked there, and thinks about the fact that Vicky and Dante have disappeared, and they have no more places to look.

       33

      Flora Hansen is mopping the shabby linoleum floor in the hall of the flat. Her left cheek still stings from the slap, and there’s an odd buzzing sound in her ear. The floor has lost its shine over the years, but mopping it makes it look better for a little while at least.

      The smell of detergent spreads through the rooms.

      Flora has beaten all the mats, and has already mopped the living room, the cramped kitchen, and Hans-Gunnar’s room, but she’s waiting to do Ewa’s bedroom until Solsidan starts on television.

      Ewa and Hans-Gunnar both watch the series, and would never miss an episode.

      Flora mops the floor energetically, the grey fabric of the mop-head keeps slapping into the skirting boards. She moves backwards, and bumps into the picture she made thirty years ago, when she was at preschool. All the children stuck different types of pasta to a piece of wood, then the whole thing was sprayed with gold paint.

      The programme’s theme tune comes on.

      Now’s her chance.

      Flora feels a jolt of pain in her back as she picks up the heavy bucket and carries it into