The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [143]
At the crossing with Rosendal some fire trucks came trundling along. Sammy was forced to stop, tried to finesse his way past a truck, but the driver discovered his maneuvering and with a huge grin pulled up a few centimeters and blocked the gap.
The blaring of the fire trucks could be heard long after they had disappeared in toward the city.
The light turned green and Sammy turned left, but then realized he had taken the wrong road. He should have taken the old Stockholm Road, of course. Now he would have to drive through Sunnersta and over Flottsund.
“Shit, shit!” he yelled.
He drove off to the side, looked in the rearview mirror and in line with the Skogskyrkogaarden graveyard made a U-turn with screeching tires. It was ridiculous to waste time on Alsike. The barn with its Italian text would still be standing. He cursed his stupidity.
Instead he headed to Kåbo. If the missing professor had anything to do with the murders then that was where he would have to start looking for Ann.
Seven minutes after the alarm had sounded the first fire truck arrived. It was a pump truck with five firefighters. Thereafter came a ladder truck, and command car.
“There it is!” a man on the street cried out and pointed at the Dream House, as if there was any doubt where the fire was.
“Step aside,” the fireman who had been the driver said. “I’ll connect the hydrant!” he yelled.
Hoses were being rolled out at high speed. Within a minute the firemen were dousing the house with the water they had in the truck. Flames were coming out of all of the windows in the lower story. The windows one floor up were still intact. Smoke was rising from the seams in the metal roof, and a thick pillar of it was coming out of the chimney.
After a couple of minutes the approximately two cubic meters of water in the car were gone but by then the driver had connected the fire hydrant to the truck’s pump.
A patrol car was in place. One of the patrol officers, Hjalmar Niklas-son, was speaking to the neighbor. It was the professor.
“Who lives in this house?”
“The professor, but he’s missing and so is his daughter.”
“Are they at home?”
“The professor is missing,” the professor repeated.
“What do you mean?”
“He disappeared about a month ago.”
The officer knew who he was talking about. He had taken part in the search for Ulrik Hindersten.
“And the daughter?”
“She took off a little while ago.”
“Do you believe the house to be empty?”
“Yes, I guess so,” the professor said, “but . . .”
“Were you the one who called in the alarm? Two residents, are you certain?”
The professor nodded. He had his gaze fixed on the firemen.
“Will it spread?” he asked, but the officer had already left.
Niklasson’s colleague came running. This was somewhat difficult since Åke Wahlquist was twenty kilos overweight.
“Don’t we have a fourteen out on Lindell, from the crime squad?” he panted.
“Yes, why?”
“I think it’s her car that’s parked around the corner. I slowed down when I caught sight of it and . . .”
Niklasson pulled out his phone.
“Are you sure?” he asked Wahlquist, who nodded.
Ottosson received the news on his cell phone. He was discussing the Italian lead with Berglund; the interpreter was on her way. Berglund was going to give her a ride out to Alsike in order to have her decipher the inscription on the side of the barn.
“A patrol unit has located Lindell’s car,” Ottosson said.
“Where?” Berglund asked.
“Kåbo. They didn’t say which street but it intersects with Götgatan. There’s a residential fire there somewhere. ‘Tiny’ Wahlquist . . .”
Berglund ran. He had a feeling he knew what was burning.
Ottosson watched the back of his colleague as he ran from the room and Ottosson was filled with a mixture of pride and a great anxiety. Pride for what he for a second had observed in Berglund’s face before he ran off. Ottosson knew Berglund would go through hell and high water for his coworkers. It was not only because of collegial loyalty, it was something more. Not love in the regular sense, comradeship