“It’s dead quiet,” said Nyström. “We have to leave.”
Give looked at Justus. “It’s you,” he said.
“They don’t know that we’re in town, it’s that bastard they want,” said Nyström, pointing at Erland Edman. “We’re leaving!”
Do something, damn it! Justus wanted to scream to Smulan. “There is … You can take my car.”
Give observed him. “You’re dead,” he said. “Maybe not today, but soon. And we don’t need your fucking car. And you stay here, Edman.”
Erland Edman pulled the backpack to him. Justus was surprised at how collected he appeared. “So you’re leaving me here?”
“You killed the cop,” said Nyström.
“You killed that little boy on the square.”
“Bye now,” said Give.
Erland Edman pulled a pistol from the inside of the backpack. “If I’m staying, you’re staying,” he said. Nyström reacted immediately like the trained soldier he was and threw himself forward with arm extended, but tripped over Justus’s outstretched leg.
“Thanks,” said Erland Edman, turning the gun toward Nyström and shooting him in the face. The bullet entered his right eye.
“What the hell!” Give shouted.
“There’ll be no bomb on Vaksala Square,” Erland Edman stated.
It was a macabre feeling, but Justus had a desire to laugh.
“Now you’ll be famous, Smulan,” he said.
Edman shook his head. Nothing seemed to bother him.
“Now it will be hard to sell the apartment.”
“Who said that I want to sell?”
“You said that the last time we met. At the pub, don’t you remember?”
Justus shook his head.
“Now we’re leaving,” said Give, who had collected himself.
Edman smiled. “You think so?” He raised the pistol a second time. “No,” said Give, but Edman was no longer taking orders. He fired two shots in quick succession, both in Give’s chest. The man with the scar was thrown backward against the wall and slumped down in a sitting position. He would be sitting there awhile.
“Go to Africa, like you talked about. That was probably what John would want. Sell the shit here and leave.”
Justus observed his friend. “I’ll make arrangements for Li’l Erland, you know that.”
“Teach him everything you know about fish.”
“Maybe bricklaying too?”
“Fuck that.”
Justus nodded. He understood what would happen. “I’ll call the cop,” he said.
“They’re sure to show up anyway.”
“Would you like a rum before I go?”
“That would be good,” said Erland. “Like before.”
“Like before.”
Justus went out in the kitchen, took out a drinking glass and the bottle that was in the pantry, poured a generous splash.
“You’re not having any?” said Smulan.
“Not today. Berit gets so damned grumpy when I drink during the week.”
He left the apartment. The shot came as he stopped out on the yard. At the same moment his call was connected.
Epilogue
Tram 28 took them from the heights of Graça, skirting Alfama, to make its way creaking and screeching through the overcrowded shopping streets in Chiado up toward new heights. They got off at the end station, Estrela. There was shade under the trees by a modest outdoor café. They’d sat there a few days earlier, studied the pensioners, families with children, gangs of youths, and tourists. A generous, relaxed atmosphere prevailed in the park.
“The city has changed,” said Edvard. Ann didn’t like hearing that. It reminded her that he’d been there with someone else. That artist bitch.
When she suggested Dubrovnik he had immediately countered with Portugal. It turned out that way; for her it didn’t really matter. He could have said Alvesta, Kil, or Älvsbyn. She would have gone along with it.
Now she was sitting in a park in Lisbon. Erik was in Berlin, and if and where he was sitting, she had no idea. The latest text message was consoling anyway.
* * *
“I’m going for a walk,” Edvard said, getting up from the table without awaiting any response. That suited her fine. The message from Sammy had set the machinery in motion. On the park bench she could summarize the events of the winter and spring undisturbed. The investigation of the bomb in Hökarängen was completed. A Patrik Olsson had been arrested at Kastrup Airport for involvement in the bombing. As far as the colleagues in Stockholm and Uppsala could establish, he completed the quintet that was responsible for the crime. Three were dead—Give, Nyström, and Edman—and the fourth, Björn Rönn, was jailed. It had not been possible to establish whether his brother, Rasmus, had been involved in the plans.
In the little pavilion she ordered a glass of white wine. When she came back to the table the grilled ham and cheese sandwich was on the ground. A wild battle was going on over the remnants.
* * *
The man a few tables away was still sitting there. She had already noticed him when they arrived. There was something sly, that was the word that popped up, about him. Nothing threatening, hardly suspicious, simply sly. He was in his sixties, probably not Portuguese.
The pigeons flapped in front of her and she made a motion with one arm. They jumped a few centimeters. Oh how she hated pigeons. But these were Portuguese pigeons and she experienced a happiness that for a long time she hadn’t believed was possible.
She leaned back, stretching out her legs. Her thoughts went to Erland Edman and what Justus Jonsson had told her. It didn’t need to have turned out so badly for Smulan, he thought. Ann had heard that numerous times, but considering the nature of the crime and the fatal outcome there was reason to think a bit harder. She decided to look up Justus again. She wanted to talk. She wanted to know what happened to his childhood friend, what it was that radicalized Edman.
After the drama on Molngatan, Sammy had wanted to discuss what was happening in Sweden, but with a bitterness in his tone that Ann believed made reflection impossible, and she passed. The bitterness arose not least from the fact that his wife had met a British business attorney with a base in Copenhagen. He had already moved into the house in Hørsholm. The divorce papers between Angelika and Sammy were submitted. Moving van ordered. She wanted to leave Sweden. Ann was convinced that it was right, both the divorce and that they put seven hundred kilometers between them.
* * *
In Tilltorp the worst convulsions had subsided, but it was obvious that life would never be the same. The Mattssons would sell their farm and business. Ann did not know whether there were any prospective buyers. Andreas Mattsson was not allowed to leave the country as long as the investigation of the smithy fire and the murder of Sam Rothe was ongoing. Ann had run into him a few days before she left. He was thoughtful, calm in a way that actually was reminiscent of his biological father, Bertil Efraimsson. He was still driving gravel trucks, but wanted to get away as soon as possible. Whether he would be indicted on the grounds that he had not told everything he’d seen and knew about was unclear. He took it calmly and seemed to be the one of the two villagers who came out of this strengthened.
The other was Sebastian Ottosson, who little by little had started his operation. At the creamery a new cheese vat was installed and the goat’s milk had started flowing in. Now new kinds of cheese would be made. Ann had made it a habit on her way home from work to stop by Sebastian’s. He was an optimist. It was as if he’d been relieved of a great burden.
* * *
“What about the village?” Edvard had asked, and she had not immediately understood what he meant, but it was clear that Tilltorp must be reconditioned. A meeting at the historical society was planned for the middle of August. Strong emotions were involved but Ann believed that the biggest loudmouths would lie low. It was as if there was no space for hateful sermons. That quota was filled, and with such a mournful result for the village.
The processing of Omid’s residence permit was put on ice awaiting the trial about the smithy fire. It could go in any direction. Sammy had spoken with him a few times, but that didn’t produce much. Omid was constantly depressed, as if he’d given up all hope.
* * *
She took a sip of the wine, moved her chair a little so that she was in the shade again and at the same time took the opportunity to check whether the sly man was still there. Their eyes met. What was that about? He must have seen that she’d arrived in the company of a man.
Suddenly the stranger was standing behind her. “Excuse me,” he said. She started, a little scared at first, then angry that he had surprised her. “We’ve met before.”
Ann did not say anything. “We’re colleagues,” he continued, apparently unconcerned about the look he got. “Or were. I’m retired now.”
Ann turned her eyes away.
“Folke Åhr, National Homicide,” he said, nodding good-naturedly. Edvard came walking up. He looked amused.
“Yes, here comes your companion. Maybe we can exchange a few words regarding a common concern?”
Edvard sat down without a word. “An old colleague,” Ann felt herself forced to explain.
“And you’re Edvard,” said Folke Åhr.
“Do we know each other?”
“No, not really, but I know who you are. You live in Viola’s house on Gräsö.”
“Summer guest?”
“Norrboda, not far from Nordh, whom you helped cut down a tree, if you recall,” the retired policeman said, smiling broadly. “That pine.”
Stop grinning, thought Ann, more and more embittered. “You said that we had a common concern. What might that be?”
“Cecilia Karlsson’s disappearance from Gräsö.”
“I have no idea who that is,” said Ann.
“She’s been seen here in this park,” said Folke Åhr.
“And you thought that we were here to investigate,” Ann commented. She suspected that the man had seen them in the park a few days ago too. “You put two and two together, a police officer, albeit a former one, and someone from Gräsö, in the same park the missing woman has been seen in.”
The man nodded, pulling out a chair uninvited and sitting down.
“But you counted wrong, made it five,” said Ann. “We’re here on vacation, nothing else, not to search for a missing Karlsson.”
“You mean this is chance?”
“When did she disappear?”
“On June twenty-fourth, 2009,” said Folke Åhr. “It was a Wednesday.”
“We have nothing to do with the case,” said Ann. “We’re leaving.”
“You have wine left.”
“We’re leaving,” she repeated and stood up.
Folke Åhr did not seem at all troubled. He followed her example, took a step back, pushed in the chair, and said goodbye. When he had taken a few steps he turned around.
“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” he said.
Ann Lindell sank back on the chair, took hold of the wineglass, and understood at that moment that it would be that way. They would meet again.
Also by Kjell Eriksson
The Hand That Trembles
Open Grave
Black Lies, Red Blood
The Cruel Stars of the Night
The Princess of Burundi
The Demon of Dakar
Stone Coffin
About the Author
KJELL ERIKSSON is the award-winning and internationally bestselling Swedish author of The Ann Lindell Mystery series. His debut won the Swedish Crime Academy award for Best First Novel and The Princess of Burundi later won for Best Crime Novel. Eriksson is also a gardener, and now living in Brazil. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Epilogue
Also by Kjell Eriksson
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by Minotaur Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
THE NIGHT OF THE FIRE. Copyright © 2020 by Kjell Eriksson. Translation copyright © 2020 by Paul Norlen. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 110271.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photographs: figure standing © Wendy Stevenson/Arcangel; flames © Fluke Samed/Shutterstock.com; snow © Prometheus72/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Eriksson, Kjell, 1953– author. | Norlen, Paul, translator.
Title: The night of the fire: a mystery / Kjell Eriksson; translated from the Swedish by Paul Norlen.
Other titles: Skrattande hazaren. English
Description: First U.S. edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2020. | Series: [Ann Lindell mysteries; 8]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020026247 | ISBN 9781250766144 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250766151 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PT9876.15.R5155 S5813 2020 | DDC 839.73/74—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020026247
eISBN 9781250766151
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First published in Sweden by Ordfront förlag under the title Den skrattande hazaren
First Minotaur Books Edition: 2020
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