The Fire Witness

  Although the results from the National Forensic Laboratory are not part of this report, Joona realizes that the results themselves are clear: the fingerprints are Vicky’s. The highest level of certainty, grade 4+, has been noted.

  There is nothing in the crime scene analysis to contradict anything he observed when he was there. However, many of his observations are not there. For instance, there’s nothing about how the blood that had coagulated on Vicky’s bed must have soaked into the sheets for at least an hour. The report also does not state how the blood spatter changed angle after the first three blows.

  Joona reaches for his coffee and takes a sip. He studies the photographs again. He flips through them slowly until he’s gone through the entire stack. Then he pulls out two pictures from Vicky’s room, two from the isolation room where Miranda Eriksdotter was found, and two from the brewery room where Elisabet Grim was found. He moves his coffee cup to one side and places the six photographs on the table. He stands up so that he can look at all six at once. He’s looking for a pattern.

  After a while, Joona turns over all the photographs except one. He studies this photograph carefully. He remembers how this scene looked when he was in the room. He puts himself into the emotions and aromas of the murder. In the photograph, Miranda is lying on the bed. She’s wearing cotton panties and her hands are over her face. The flash of the camera makes her panties and the sheets blaze white. The blood from her crushed head is a dark, formless shape on the pillow.

  Joona sees something he didn’t expect.

  He takes a step backward, hastily putting his mug on the floor by his feet.

  The girl with the silver ring through her lower lip watches him and smiles to herself.

  Joona leans over the photograph of Miranda but he’s thinking of his visit to Flora Hansen. He’d been irritated about wasting his time talking to her. As he was leaving, she’d followed him into the hallway, trying to show him the drawing she’d done of Miranda, but he’d pushed her hand away and it had fallen to the floor. Still, he’d caught a glimpse of it as he stepped over it on his way out the door.

  Now, as he’s looking at Miranda’s arranged body, he’s remembering the drawing. It looked like it had been done in two stages. Flora had first drawn a stick figure and then filled in the limbs. The girl in the drawing had shaky contours in certain areas, but other parts of her body were still as thin as thread. Her head was disproportionately large. Her straight mouth could barely be seen, since her unfinished skeletal hands were over her face. The drawing was similar to what had been described in the newspapers.

  What the newspapers hadn’t revealed was that Miranda had been hit in the head and that the blood had run into the pillow. No photographs from the crime scene had been released. The press had speculated about what the hands over her face meant, but no one outside the police and the justice system had known about the injury to the head. Strict confidence had been kept and will be kept until the moment the court process begins.

  “You figured it out, didn’t you?” the girl in the next booth says.

  Joona meets the girl’s glittering eyes and nods before he looks back at the photograph on the table.

  What he realized while looking at Miranda’s body in the photograph was that Flora had drawn a dark heart next to the girl’s head right where the blood had been in reality. The same size, the same place.

  It’s as if she’d seen Miranda lying on her bed.

  It could just be a coincidence, but if he remembers Flora’s drawing clearly, the similarity is striking.

  142

  The bells in Gustav Vasa Church are tolling when Joona meets Flora outside Carlén Antiques on Upplandsgatan. She looks terrible. She’s tired and washed out. A fading bruise is visible on her right cheek. Her eyes are heavy. On a narrow door next to the store, there’s a small sign declaring that a séance will be held there that evening.

  “Do you have the drawing with you?” Joona asks.

  “Yes,” she says as she unlocks the door.

  They walk down the stairs to the basement. Flora turns on the ceiling lamps and goes into the room on the right, which has a small window near the ceiling facing the street.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” Flora says as she rummages in her purse. “I didn’t really feel anything with that key ring, but I—”

  “May I just see the drawing?”

  “I did see Miranda,” she says as she gives him the sheet of paper. “I don’t believe in ghosts and yet … there she was.”

  Joona unfolds the paper and looks at the childish drawing. A girl is lying on her back, holding her hands over her face and her hair is undone. There’s no furniture or bed. He’d remembered correctly. Next to the girl’s head is a heart, shaded in, right where Miranda’s blood had run from her head and had soaked into the pillow.

  “Why did you draw a heart next to her?”

  Flora looks down at the ground and blushes.

  “I don’t know. I don’t even remember that I did it … I was scared and shaking all over.”

  “Have you seen the ghost since?”

  She nods and her blush deepens.

  Joona is trying to understand how this fits. Could Flora have guessed her way to the truth? Could she have guessed the rock as well? If she had, she somehow knew she’d guessed right. Because if the rock was right, it would be logical for her to assume that it had been used to hit Miranda in the head and that there’d be blood on the bed.

  But she drew a heart, not blood, he thinks. That wouldn’t be right if she were trying to deceive.

  It doesn’t fit.

  She must have seen something.

  She somehow saw Miranda in the bed, but she didn’t see her clearly, or she saw her for a brief moment, and then she drew what she remembered without thinking too much about it.

  He has a vivid mental image of the photograph of Miranda with the bloodstain next to her head.

  She sat down and drew what she’d seen. She remembered a body lying down with hands over her face and that there was something dark beside her head. A dark shape.

  When she drew the picture, she interpreted the shape as a heart. She didn’t think about any connection or even logic.

  Joona knows that Flora was far away from Birgittagården when the murders took place. He knows she has no connection to any of the people involved or to what has happened.

  He looks at the drawing again and is struck by another thought.

  Perhaps Flora learned about the crime from someone who was actually there. Perhaps a witness to the crime described it to her and told her what to draw.

  A child witness who saw the shape of a heart.

  Perhaps all this talk about a ghost is Flora’s way of protecting the witness.

  “I would like you to contact the ghost,” Joona says.

  “No, I can’t—”

  “How does it usually work?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it here.”

  “You must ask the ghost if she saw what happened.”

  “I don’t want to,” Flora says. “I can’t take much more of this.”

  “I can pay you,” Joona offers.

  “I don’t want to be paid. I just want you to listen to what I’ve seen.”

  “I’ll listen,” Joona says.

  “I’m beginning to think that I’m really going crazy,” she says.

  She looks at him while wiping tears from her cheeks. Then she stares into space and swallows hard.

  “I’ll try,” she says. “But I don’t really believe—”

  “Go ahead and make an attempt.”

  “You’ll have to wait there,” she says, and points to the pantry. “Miranda only comes when I’m completely alone.”

  “I understand,” Joona says. He gets up and leaves the room.

  143

  Flora is sitting absolutely still, watching as the detective closes the door behind him. A chair creaks as he sits down in the pantry, and then there’s silence. She doesn’t hear a
nything, not even the sound of a dog barking or a car driving past and nothing more from the room where the inspector is sitting.

  Now she can feel how exhausted she is.

  Flora does not know what to do. Should she light a candle or burn incense? She closes her eyes for a moment. Then she looks at the drawing.

  She remembers how her hand shook as she drew what she’d seen and how she had trouble concentrating. She glances around the room to see if the ghost has come back and looks at her picture again. She’s not good at drawing, but she can see that the girl is lying on the floor. She sees the small crosses and realizes she was trying to draw the fringe on the bathroom rug.

  Her hand had been shaking, so one of the girl’s legs was as thin as a bare bone. The fingers are just lines. She can see part of the straight mouth behind them.

  She hears the chair in the pantry squeak.

  Flora blinks and stares at the drawing. It seems as if the fingers have spread. Flora can see one of the eyes.

  The girl is looking at her.

  Flora jumps when there’s a rattling in the pipes overhead. She looks around the room. The sofa is black with shadows and the table is hidden in a dark corner.

  She looks back at the drawing. The eye is gone. A crease in the paper runs over the face.

  Flora’s hands are shaking as she tries to smooth the drawing. The girl’s thin fingers are hiding her face and she can only see part of the mouth on the grid paper.

  The floor creaks behind her and Flora whirls around.

  No one is there.

  She looks back at the drawing and tears come to her eyes. The heart next to the girl’s head is becoming blurry. She looks at the tangled hair and then again at the fingers in front of the face. Flora jerks her hands back from the drawing when she sees that the mouth is open. She can tell it’s screaming.

  Flora stumbles to her feet as she stares at the screaming mouth and is just about to call for the detective when she really does see the girl.

  She’s climbed into the cupboard and is trying to shut the door behind her, but it won’t close while she’s inside. It swings open. The girl is standing still and her hands are in front of her face. Then her fingers glide open and she looks at Flora with one eye.

  Flora stares at the girl.

  She’s saying something but Flora can’t make out the words.

  Flora walks closer and says, “I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

  “I’m pregnant,” the girl says. She takes her hands away from her face. She touches the back of her head in surprise, brings her hand back, and stares at the blood. She sways. Blood has started to flow from her head down her back and onto the cupboard floor.

  She opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, her head shakes and her thin legs give way.

  Joona hears something crash in the room next door. He rushes in and sees Flora lying on the floor in front of a cupboard that has fallen over. She sits up and looks at him in confusion.

  “I saw her. She’s pregnant.”

  Joona helps Flora to her feet.

  “Did you ask what happened?”

  Flora shakes her head and looks at the cupboard.

  “Nobody is allowed to see anything,” she whispers.

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Miranda said she was pregnant.” Flora is crying now and starts to walk away.

  She dries her tears, looks back at the fallen cupboard, and abruptly leaves the room.

  Joona takes Flora’s coat from the chair and follows her. She’s already halfway up the stairs to the street.

  144

  Flora is sitting on the steps in front of Carlén Antiques. She’s buttoning her coat. Color is coming back to her face, but she says nothing. Joona has his cell phone to his ear and has just called Nils Åhlén, the head of forensic medicine at Karolinska Hospital.

  “Wait a sec,” Joona hears The Needle say. “I’ve just gotten a smartphone.”

  There’s static in Joona’s ear.

  “Yes? What can I do for you, Joona?”

  “I have a short question,” Joona says.

  “By the way, Frippe’s in love,” The Needle says in his nasal voice.

  “How nice,” Joona says.

  “I’m afraid that he’ll be miserable if things don’t work out,” The Needle continues. “You know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So what was your question?”

  “Was Miranda Eriksdotter pregnant?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You remember, the girl who—”

  “I remember everyone,” The Needle says.

  “You do? You never told me that.”

  “You never asked.”

  Flora has gotten to her feet and is smiling anxiously.

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Absolutely,” The Needle says. “She couldn’t even get pregnant.”

  “She couldn’t?”

  “She had large cysts on her ovaries.”

  “All right. Now I know. Thanks. Oh, and say hi to Frippe.”

  “Will do.”

  Joona ends the conversation and looks at Flora. Flora’s smile starts to fade.

  “Why do you do things like this?” Joona asks in a serious tone. “You told me the murdered girl was pregnant, but she couldn’t even get pregnant.”

  Flora gestures back to the door to the basement. “I remember that she—”

  “But it isn’t true,” Joona says. “She wasn’t pregnant.”

  “I meant to say,” Flora whispers. “I meant to say she thought she was pregnant. She wasn’t pregnant, but she thought she was. She believed it.”

  “Jumala,” Joona swears in Finnish. He starts to walk along Upplandsgatan toward his car.

  145

  The food is just a touch too expensive. Daniel is embarrassed as he looks through the wine list. He asks Elin if she wants to choose, but she shakes her head with a smile. He clears his throat weakly and asks the waiter about the house wine, but before he gets an answer, he changes his mind and asks the waiter to recommend a red wine. The young man looks through the wine list and offers three wines in three different price categories. Daniel chooses the cheapest, saying that the South African pinot noir would be perfect.

  The waiter thanks him and takes the menus and the wine list. There’s a family eating at another table.

  “You didn’t have to invite me for dinner,” says Elin.

  “I wanted to,” he says, smiling.

  “It was very nice of you,” she says. She sips some water.

  A waitress comes and changes their silverware and wineglasses, but Elin continues to speak as if she’s not there.

  “Vicky’s lawyer has resigned from the case,” she says in a low voice. “But my family lawyer, Johannes Grünewald, has agreed to take it on.”

  “It will all work out,” Daniel says in a calming manner.

  “There won’t be any more interrogations because she’s confessed,” Elin says. She clears her throat carefully. “I can also see how Vicky’s background fits. Foster homes, institutions, running away, violence—everything points to her. Still, I don’t believe she’s guilty.”

  “I know,” Daniel says.

  Elin lowers her face as her tears start to run. Daniel gets up and gives her a hug.

  “Sorry I keep talking about Vicky,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s just that you’ve said that you don’t believe she did it. I mean, otherwise I wouldn’t have … But it seems as if you and I are the only ones who believe she’s innocent.”

  “Elin,” he says, “I don’t believe anything at all. It’s just that the Vicky I knew was not capable of this.”

  “May I ask you a question? Tuula seems to have seen Vicky and Miranda together,” Elin says.

  “That night?”

  “No, earlier …” Elin falls silent and Daniel holds her shoulders and tries to catch her eyes.

  “What is it?”

  “Vicky
and Miranda played some game, where they held their hands over their face,” Elin says. “I don’t want to tell the police because that would add to their evidence.”

  “But Elin—”

  “Perhaps it doesn’t mean anything,” Elin says quickly. “I’m going to ask Vicky when I have a chance. She should be able to explain what they were doing.”

  “What if she can’t?”

  He falls silent as the waiter returns with the bottle of wine. Elin dries her tears and Daniel returns to his seat. He places his napkin on his knee and then tastes the wine. His hand shakes.

  “Good,” he says, a little too quickly.

  They are silent while the wine is poured. They thank the waiter and look carefully at each other when they’re left alone.

  “I want to foster Vicky again,” Elin says in a serious tone.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Do you think I’m not up to it?” She smiles.

  “It’s not that, Elin,” he says. “Vicky is suicidal. She’s gotten better but she still has a great deal of self-destructive behavior.”

  “Does she cut herself?”

  “She cuts herself and she overdoses. In my opinion, she’ll need twenty-four-hour care.”

  “So you wouldn’t recommend me?”

  “She needs professional help,” Daniel says. “I mean, I don’t think she got enough care at Birgittagården, actually. We didn’t have the money for it, but—”

  “What does she need?”

  “People to care for her around the clock.”

  “And therapy?”

  “I only had one hour a week with each student, sometimes two. It was much too little if you—”

  Elin’s cell phone rings and she excuses herself as she looks at the display. It’s Johannes Grünewald, so she answers right away.

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  “I’ve looked into the matter and the prosecutor has decided that the girl will be arraigned without further interrogation,” the lawyer replies. “I’m going to talk to the court about the time for arraignment, but we’ll need a few more hours.”