been … when that shed … with Sophie caught on fire. I was exercising until seven thirty on Friday night. Then I went over to Aunt Ingrid’s place to make sure it was okay. The real estate agent was supposed to come by, like, Saturday or something.”
He fell silent again.
“When did you leave Björkil?” Irene continued her line of questioning.
“Around ten, I guess. I bought a kebab from the pizzeria on Björlandsvägen and ate it when I got home. Then I worked in my darkroom for a while. But I was tired as hell so I, like, went to bed, around midnight, twelve thirty, thereabouts.”
“Where is this pizzeria located?”
“Almost all the way to Brunnsbo. It’s called Pizzeria Napoli.”
It appeared there was nothing else to ask. Nevertheless, Irene thought that Frej had been very helpful. She thanked him for his cooperation and promised to inform him if anything else came up in their investigation.
It was almost six in the evening, but Irene remained sitting in her office to mull over her conversation with Frej Eriksson. Some pieces had fallen into place, but others were still missing.
Frej did not have anyone who could back up his alibi. Even if, against all odds, the employees of the pizzeria remembered he was there that exact evening, there was no one to say what he was doing in the hours when the fire broke out.
Did those two siblings really not see or speak to each other the entire evening? Did they have a difficult relationship? They’d been living in the same house for six months. On the other hand, maybe their relationship was strained, especially after Frej’s father died. Sophie had gone to stay with her father while Frej stayed with Angelika.
And what was Sophie’s real relationship to Marcelo? According to Frej, Marcelo was one renter among many, but most people only stayed for weeks or months. An entire semester, on the other hand? Perhaps it was time to have a closer look at the stylish Brazilian.
H ANNU HADN ’ T REACHED Marcelo Alves the previous day. There’d been a gang murder at the Central Train Station, so Andersson had shifted them to the new investigation. There were a great many people to interrogate, and not all of them were willing to cooperate with the police. They either lied or refused to answer any questions.
Before they went home for the day, Irene told Tommy that she was planning to reach Marcelo. “Good,” Tommy replied. “I’ll try for another chat session with Angelika. It’s about time we meet again—it’s been fifteen years.”
He smiled an odd smile as he said this, and Irene was left with a nagging sense of worry.
T HE NEXT MORNING , Irene headed straight for Högsbo and the House of Dance; it was not that far out of the way from her office. This “Mecca of a dance school,” as the website proclaimed, was an old, red brick school building built in the late fifties not far from Axel Dahlström Square. Then, twenty years ago, a brand new school was built less than a kilometer away since there was no room for expanding the older building. Instead, the House of Dance moved in—and after some time, the School of Dance joined them. The schoolhouse building had been renovated bit by bit. Walls were ripped out, ceilings were raised. The remaining inside walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. There werealso spaces for theoretical instruction, changing rooms and administration. At present, the School of Dance was seen as one of the premier institutions for dance instruction.
It was exactly 8 A . M . when Irene walked through the entrance to the House of Dance. On one side, she saw a coatroom and on the other a large cafeteria. A few young people were hanging around a table with steaming mugs. They did not match Irene’s image of serious dance students. These kids had dyed hair and the same kind of clothes as any other arts students. Irene was reminded of Jenny, who was finishing up her last year of high school as a fine arts major in
He fell silent again.
“When did you leave Björkil?” Irene continued her line of questioning.
“Around ten, I guess. I bought a kebab from the pizzeria on Björlandsvägen and ate it when I got home. Then I worked in my darkroom for a while. But I was tired as hell so I, like, went to bed, around midnight, twelve thirty, thereabouts.”
“Where is this pizzeria located?”
“Almost all the way to Brunnsbo. It’s called Pizzeria Napoli.”
It appeared there was nothing else to ask. Nevertheless, Irene thought that Frej had been very helpful. She thanked him for his cooperation and promised to inform him if anything else came up in their investigation.
It was almost six in the evening, but Irene remained sitting in her office to mull over her conversation with Frej Eriksson. Some pieces had fallen into place, but others were still missing.
Frej did not have anyone who could back up his alibi. Even if, against all odds, the employees of the pizzeria remembered he was there that exact evening, there was no one to say what he was doing in the hours when the fire broke out.
Did those two siblings really not see or speak to each other the entire evening? Did they have a difficult relationship? They’d been living in the same house for six months. On the other hand, maybe their relationship was strained, especially after Frej’s father died. Sophie had gone to stay with her father while Frej stayed with Angelika.
And what was Sophie’s real relationship to Marcelo? According to Frej, Marcelo was one renter among many, but most people only stayed for weeks or months. An entire semester, on the other hand? Perhaps it was time to have a closer look at the stylish Brazilian.
H ANNU HADN ’ T REACHED Marcelo Alves the previous day. There’d been a gang murder at the Central Train Station, so Andersson had shifted them to the new investigation. There were a great many people to interrogate, and not all of them were willing to cooperate with the police. They either lied or refused to answer any questions.
Before they went home for the day, Irene told Tommy that she was planning to reach Marcelo. “Good,” Tommy replied. “I’ll try for another chat session with Angelika. It’s about time we meet again—it’s been fifteen years.”
He smiled an odd smile as he said this, and Irene was left with a nagging sense of worry.
T HE NEXT MORNING , Irene headed straight for Högsbo and the House of Dance; it was not that far out of the way from her office. This “Mecca of a dance school,” as the website proclaimed, was an old, red brick school building built in the late fifties not far from Axel Dahlström Square. Then, twenty years ago, a brand new school was built less than a kilometer away since there was no room for expanding the older building. Instead, the House of Dance moved in—and after some time, the School of Dance joined them. The schoolhouse building had been renovated bit by bit. Walls were ripped out, ceilings were raised. The remaining inside walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. There werealso spaces for theoretical instruction, changing rooms and administration. At present, the School of Dance was seen as one of the premier institutions for dance instruction.
It was exactly 8 A . M . when Irene walked through the entrance to the House of Dance. On one side, she saw a coatroom and on the other a large cafeteria. A few young people were hanging around a table with steaming mugs. They did not match Irene’s image of serious dance students. These kids had dyed hair and the same kind of clothes as any other arts students. Irene was reminded of Jenny, who was finishing up her last year of high school as a fine arts major in
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