The Fire Witness

  “There’s a lot of water and a strong current,” Gunnarsson warns.

  “Last spring, she found a body at a depth of a hundred and eighty feet,” Sara replies, and turns red.

  “Well, what the fuck are we waiting for then?” asks Gunnarsson, lighting a cigarette.

  Sara Bengtsson ignores him. She looks over the black, glittering water. She stuffs her hands into her pockets before she says, in a soft voice, “Jackie.”

  The dog leaves her spot immediately and walks up to her. Sara squats down and pats the dog on her neck and behind her ears. She talks encouragingly to the dog and tells her what they are looking for and then they start walking along the edge of the dam.

  The dog is trained to recognize the smells of blood and the lungs of the recently dead. The search dogs are trained by rewarding correct identifications, but Sara knows that Jackie gets nervous and needs to be comforted afterward.

  They walk past the place where Dante’s car seat was found. Sara steers the dog’s nose toward the water.

  “I don’t believe in this crap.” Gunnarsson smiles. He throws the butt of his cigarette into the water.

  Sara stops and gestures for them to halt as Jackie catches a scent. The dog stretches her nose out over the edge of the dam.

  “What did you find?” asks Sara.

  The dog sniffs, moves to the side, and then loses the scent and keeps walking.

  “A bunch of hocus-pocus,” the diver mutters, and adjusts his vest.

  Joona watches the dog trainer and her unusual red German shepherd. They are moving slowly along the railing over the open sluice gates where the current is strongest. Hair has loosened from Sara’s ponytail and is blowing in her face. The dog stops and whines, leans out, licks her nose, becomes agitated, and walks in a tight circle.

  “Is there someone down there?” asks Sara quietly as she looks into the black water.

  The dog does not want to stay there. She walks farther, to the electricity box, and sniffs there, then returns to the first spot and whines again.

  “What is it?” Joona asks.

  “I honestly don’t know,” the dog handler says. “She hasn’t marked a corpse, but she’s acting as if she’s found something.”

  The dog barks and the woman squats next to her.

  “What is it, Jackie?” she asks tenderly. “What is so strange?”

  The dog wags her tail as Sara hugs her and tells her that she’s a good girl. Jackie whimpers again and then lies down, scratches behind her ear, and licks her nose.

  “What are you doing, you little rascal?” Sara asks with a surprised smile.

  67

  There’s a vibration at the dam. Watertight body bags are folded neatly on top of a plastic tub with attached signal buoys to mark the position of any discoveries.

  “I’ll start by the power station and take the area in squares,” Hasse says.

  “No, let’s start where the dog reacted,” Joona says.

  “Are we going to let the ladies tell us what to do now?” Hasse complains.

  Deep below the turbulent surface of the water are the openings of the gates, with heavy grates to catch everything brought downstream by the river. The diver checks his air hose, connects the cable from the camera to the laptop, and then puts on his mask. Joona can see himself on the computer screen.

  “Wave to the camera,” Hasse says, and then he puts in his mouthpiece and slides into the water.

  “If the current is too strong, we’ll call it off,” Joona says.

  “Be careful,” says Gunnarsson.

  “I’m used to diving in heavy current,” Hasse says. “But if I don’t come up again, tell my boy that I should have gone with him instead.”

  “Let’s have a beer at Hotel Laxen when you’re through,” Gunnarsson says, and waves.

  Hasse Boman disappears beneath the surface, which bubbles, then grows calm again. Gunnarsson smiles and flicks his cigarette into the water. The only thing they can see on the computer screen is the rough surface of the concrete as it slips past the camera. They can hear Hasse’s deep breathing in the speaker. On the river, bubbles from his exhalation break the surface.

  “How far down are you now?” asks Joona.

  “Just thirty feet.”

  “How hard is the current?”

  “It’s like someone pulling at my legs.”

  Joona keeps watching the diver’s plunge on the computer screen. The concrete wall slides past. The diver’s breathing sounds heavier. Sometimes they catch glimpses of his hands against the wall. His blue gloves shine in the camera’s light.

  “There’s nothing down there,” Gunnarsson says, and begins to pace back and forth.

  “The dog sensed—”

  “But it didn’t mark the spot properly.” Gunnarsson raises his voice.

  “No, but she sensed something,” Joona replies stubbornly.

  He thinks how the bodies could have traveled with the water, tumbling over the riverbed, getting closer to the midstream current.

  “Fifty feet. The current’s pretty strong here,” the diver says.

  Gunnarsson is letting the lifeline out now. It’s moving swiftly over the metal railing and disappearing below the surface.

  “You’re going too fast,” Joona says. “Fill your vests.”

  The diver begins to fill his vests with air from his cylinders. Usually this is done only when it’s time to return to the surface, but the diver knows that Joona is right—he has to slow down because of all the flotsam in the water.

  “I’m fine,” he says after a moment.

  “If you can, I’d like it if you can take a look at the nearest grate,” Joona says.

  Hasse moves slowly and then is caught in the current, which has sped up, as if the sluice gates have been opened wider. Garbage, twigs, and leaves rush past his face and head straight down.

  Gunnarsson shifts the lifeline and cable as a log approaches and crashes into the dam.

  68

  The strong current is pulling Hasse Boman straight down. He’s going much too fast again. The water pounds against his ears. He knows he could break both legs if he collides with something. His heart races as he tries to fill his vest more, but the dump valve is giving him trouble. He tries to slow down using his hands. Algae loosens from the concrete walls and disappears with the current. He doesn’t tell the police above water that he’s getting frightened. The suction is more powerful than he’d believed possible, and everything beyond the camera light is completely black.

  “How deep are you now?” asks the inspector from Stockholm.

  He doesn’t reply because he doesn’t have time to look at the depth meter. He has to slow his descent. He’s using one hand to work the inflation valve and the other to keep himself upright. An old plastic bag dashes past. He’s plunging straight down. He tries to reach the regulator on his back, but he bangs his elbow against the concrete wall. He sways as he’s buffeted by the fierce current and feels the adrenaline coursing in his blood. He thinks in panic he must control his descent.

  “Eighty-five feet,” he finally pants.

  “You’ll be at the grate soon,” the inspector says.

  As it’s sucked down the concrete wall, the water makes his legs shake uncontrollably.

  Hasse is still falling fast and realizes that he’s at risk of being speared by sharp branches or broken timber. He knows he’ll have to drop some of his weights in order to stop, but he has to keep some so he has a chance of returning to the surface.

  The bubbles from his exhalation now head straight down like a string of pearls. The suction increases and a new current of much colder water hits him in the back. It feels as if the entire river is trying to press him against the wall.

  He sees a large leaf-covered branch coming at him. The leaves shake as the branch tumbles along the concrete wall. He tries to move away, but the branch is caught in his lifeline and hits him—then it breaks free and disappears down into the darkness.

  “What happen
ed?” asks the inspector.

  “There’s a lot of garbage.”

  The diver manages to release some lead weights from his vest and is able to break his violent fall. He hangs, shaking, next to the concrete wall. The view in his circle of light is clouded by sand and soil caught in the streaming water.

  He stops. His feet have reached the upper edge of the grate, where there’s a lip of concrete. Vast amounts of branches, tree trunks, leaves, and garbage have collected in front of the intake grate. The suction is so strong that every movement feels impossible.

  “I’m in place now,” he says, “but it’s hard to see anything. There’s a ton of shit down here.”

  Trying to keep his lifeline free from the branches, he climbs over a vibrating tree trunk. Something is moving slowly behind a misshapen spruce log.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I see something.”

  69

  Bubbles stream in front of the diver’s face while he reaches to brush away a tight mass of pine needles clinging to the grate. He’s standing on the lip above it, holding on tightly with one hand. Suddenly there’s an eye staring straight at him—and teeth, large teeth. In a huge body. Right in front of him, or so it seems. Closeness is an optical illusion of being underwater.

  “Moose,” he reports, and backs away.

  The enormous animal lies directly across the grate, but the throat is stuck between a tree branch and a broken oar.

  “That’s what the dog reacted to,” Gunnarsson says.

  “Shall I come up?” Hasse asks.

  “Keep looking a little longer,” Joona replies.

  “Farther down or more to the side?”

  “What’s that right in front of you?” asks Joona.

  “It looks like cloth.”

  “Can you check it out?”

  Hasse can feel the lactic acid in his arms and legs. He looks slowly at the mass of debris that has collected at the grate. He tries to peer beyond the black spruce logs and between the branches. Everything is shaking. He thinks he’ll buy a new PlayStation from the earnings from this dive. He’ll give it to his son as a surprise when he returns from camp.

  “It’s just cardboard. From a box.”

  Hasse tries to move the cardboard box aside but only rips it in half. The loose piece is caught by the current and sucked up to the grate.

  “My strength is starting to give out. I’m coming up,” he says.

  “What is that white thing?” asks Joona.

  “Where?”

  “In the direction you’re looking right now,” Joona says. “There was something among the leaves, down at the grate, just a bit farther down.”

  “Maybe a plastic bag?” suggests the diver.

  “I don’t think so,” says Joona.

  “Come on up now,” Gunnarsson says. “We’ve found the moose, that’s what the bitch was reacting to.”

  “A search-and-rescue dog can react to any dead thing, but not like she did,” Joona says. “I think she was reacting to more than just the moose.”

  Hasse Boman climbs down just a bit farther and pulls away leaves and intertwined twigs. His muscles are shaking from the attempt. The strong current keeps pushing him forward. He has to fight it with one arm. His lifeline is vibrating.

  “I don’t see anything,” he says, panting.

  “Break it off,” says Gunnarsson.

  “Shall I break it off?” asks Hasse.

  “If you must,” says Joona.

  “Not everyone is like you,” Gunnarsson hisses at Joona.

  “What do you want me to do? Right now?” asks the diver.

  “Go to the side,” Joona says.

  A branch hits Hasse Boman on the neck but he keeps searching. He pulls away the reeds and bulrushes covering the lower corner of the grate. New waste keeps accumulating. He digs more quickly and then he sees it: a shiny white shoulder purse.

  “Wait! Don’t touch it!” Joona says. “Go closer and shine your light on it.”

  “Can you see it now?”

  “Yes. It could be Vicky’s. Be careful how you bag it.”

  70

  The river moves inexorably toward the dam, bearing another large log. A branch is sticking up above the surface of the water. Gunnarsson can’t shift the lifeline in time and there’s a dull thud and some splashing. The digital connection to Hasse is lost.

  “We’ve lost contact,” Joona says.

  “He has to come up.”

  “Pull on the line three times.”

  “He’s not answering,” Gunnarsson says after pulling.

  “Do it again. Use more strength,” Joona says.

  Gunnarsson pulls three more times on the lifeline, and this time he gets an immediate response.

  “He pulled twice,” Gunnarsson says.

  “That means he’s coming up.”

  “The line is getting slack. He’s on the way up.” Gunnarsson looks upstream. “There’s more timber coming.”

  “He has to get up quickly,” Joona says.

  Gunnarsson counts ten huge logs heading swiftly toward the dam. He climbs down the other side of the railing as Joona reels in the lifeline with his good arm.

  “I see him.” Gunnarsson points at the blue wet suit moving like a flag in the current.

  Joona pulls off the sling and grabs the boat hook from the ground as the first log hits the wall two meters away. He manages to keep the second log away. It hits the boat hook and dives beneath the first log. The two logs start rolling together.

  Hasse Boman breaks the surface of the water. Gunnarsson leans over and holds out his hand.

  “Come up! Come up!”

  Hasse looks at him in surprise and grabs at the side of the dam. Joona climbs over the railing with the boat hook and keeps steering the timber away from him.

  “Hurry up!” he yells.

  A huge log with wet, black bark is approaching, almost hidden beneath the surface.

  “Watch out!”

  Joona steers the boat hook between the rolling timber and a few seconds later, the black log hits it, breaks the shaft, and changes direction. It misses Hasse’s head by mere inches and smashes into the dam, then it tumbles over and bangs Hasse in the back. One of its wet branches pushes him back underwater.

  “Try to grab him!” yells Joona.

  The log keeps rolling against the dam, wrapping the lifeline around its girth. Hasse is being dragged down. Bubbles break the surface. Hasse manages to pull out his knife and cut the lifeline. He kicks as hard as he can and grabs Gunnarsson’s hand.

  Another log hits the black one, and just as three more logs loom close, Gunnarsson hauls Hasse out of the water. He lands on his knees and tries to stand, but his legs are shaking. Gunnarsson quickly frees him from his cylinders and Hasse sinks down to the ground. Joona takes the plastic bag from his trembling hands and helps Hasse out of his wet suit. He’s bruised and scrapes the length of his back have stained his sweaty T-shirt red. He’s in pain and cursing loudly.

  “This isn’t exactly the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my life,” he says, panting.

  “But you found something important,” Joona says.

  He’s looking at the clear plastic bag where the purse is floating in scummy water along with a few yellow blades of grass. Joona holds it up to the sunlight. His fingers press on the plastic until he’s touching the purse.

  “We’re looking for corpses and you’re happy with a damned purse.” Gunnarsson sighs.

  Light through the plastic bag casts a gold shadow on Joona’s face. The purse has dark brown stains on it—blood.

  “It’s bloody,” Joona says. “The dog must have smelled it as well as the moose. No wonder she didn’t know how to mark it.”

  Joona turns the heavy bag over, and the purse bobs in the scummy water.

  71

  Joona is standing by the locked gates to the parking lot behind the police station in Bergsgatan, the industrial area of Sundsvall. The technicians there have the purse and he w
ants to talk to them, but no one is answering the intercom at the gate. The parking lot is empty and all the station’s doors are closed.

  Joona gets back in his car and drives to the station at Storgatan. Gunnarsson should be there. In the stairwell, he runs into Sonja Rask. She’s in civilian clothes and her hair is still damp from the shower. She’s put on a bit of makeup and seems happy.

  “Hello,” Joona says. “Is Gunnarsson upstairs?”

  “He can go to hell,” Sonja says. “He feels threatened. He thinks that you’re after his job.”

  “I’m just an observer,” Joona says.

  Sonja’s dark eyes shine. “I heard you dove right into the water and swam to the car.”

  “I just wanted to look at it,” Joona says.

  She laughs and pats his arm, but then turns shy and hurries off down the stairs.

  Joona keeps going up. In the police station, the radio in the lunch room is on, as usual, and through a glass door, he can see several people sitting around a conference table. Gunnarsson is at one of its ends. A woman sitting at the table catches Joona’s eye and shakes her head, but he still opens the door and walks inside.

  “What the hell!” Gunnarsson says when he sees Joona.

  “I need to look at Vicky Bennet’s purse,” Joona says tersely.

  “We’re in a meeting,” Gunnarsson says, cutting him off. He looks back at his paperwork.

  “Everything is with the technicians at the Bergsgatan station,” Rolf says, looking embarrassed.

  “There’s no one there,” Joona says.

  “Give it up, for fuck’s sake,” Gunnarsson growls. “The preliminary investigation has come to an end and as far as I’m concerned, the internal investigators can eat you for breakfast.”

  Joona nods and leaves the room. He goes back to his car and sits there for a while, then starts driving to the provincial hospital in Sundsvall. Something is still bothering him about the murders at Birgittagården.

  Vicky Bennet, he thinks. The nice girl who isn’t always nice. Vicky Bennet, who slashed the faces of a mother and son with a broken bottle. They were seriously injured, but they didn’t go to a doctor. They also did not report the incident to the police.