Joona looks round at the charred remains of the apartments on that floor. All that remains of the furniture are a few twisted metal shapes, part of a fridge, a bedstead and a sooty bath.
Joona goes back downstairs. The walls and ceiling of the stairwell have been damaged by smoke. He stops at the police cordon, turns round and looks up towards the blackness again.
As he bends down to pass under the cordon tape he sees that the fire investigators had dropped a few zip-lock bags on the ground – bags used to secure fluids. Joona walks through the green marble hall and out onto the street. He starts to walk towards Police Headquarters as he takes his phone out and calls Hassan Sükür again. Hassan answers at once and lowers the volume of a radio in the background.
‘Have you found any traces of flammable liquids?’ Joona asks. ‘You dropped some zip-lock bags in the stairwell, and I was wondering …’
‘Look, if someone uses any sort of flammable liquid to start a fire, then obviously that burns first …’
‘I know, but …’
‘But I … I usually manage to find evidence anyway,’ he goes on. ‘Because often it runs between cracks in the floorboards, ends up in the insulation or in the cavity between floors.’
‘But not this time?’ Joona asks as he walks down Hantverkargatan.
‘Nothing,’ Hassan says.
‘But if someone knew where traces of flammable liquids often get found, it would be possible to avoid detection.’
‘Of course … I’d never make a mistake like that if I was a pyromaniac,’ Hassan replies brightly.
‘But you’re convinced that the iron was the cause of this particular fire?’
‘Yes, it was an accident.’
‘So you’ve dropped the investigation?’ Joona asks.
Penelope feels terror seize hold of her again. It’s as if it had only paused for breath before continuing to scream inside her. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and tries to stand up. Cold sweat runs down between her breasts, and down her sides from her armpits. Her body aches and trembles from the effort. Blood seeps through the dirt on her hands.
‘We can’t stay here,’ she whispers, pulling Björn after her.
It’s dark in the forest, but night is slowly turning to morning. Together they walk quickly down towards the shore again, but far to the south of the house where the party was.
As far away from their pursuer as they can get.
They’re still all too aware that they need help, that they have to get hold of a phone.
The forest opens up gradually towards the water, and they start running again. Between the trees they see another house, perhaps half a kilometre away, maybe less. They can hear a helicopter rumbling somewhere in the distance, moving away.
Björn seems dazed, and whenever she sees him lean on the ground or against a tree she starts to worry that he won’t be able to run any more.
A branch creaks somewhere behind them, as if snapped by someone standing on it.
Penelope starts to run through the forest as fast as she can. She can hear Björn breathing heavily behind her.
The trees begin to thin out and she can see the house again, just a hundred metres away. The lights in the window are reflecting off the red paint of a Ford parked outside.
A hare darts off across the moss and undergrowth.
Panting and wary, they emerge onto the gravel drive.
Their calves are stinging with exertion as they stop and look round. They walk up the front steps, open the door to the porch and go in.
‘Hello? We need help!’ Penelope calls.
The house is warm inside from the sun. Björn is limping, and his bare feet leave bloody prints on the hall floor.
Penelope hurries through the rooms, but the house is empty. The inhabitants probably slept over at their neighbours’ after the party, she thinks, and stands at the window and looks out, hidden behind the curtain. She waits for a while, but can’t detect any movement in the forest or on the lawn or drive. Maybe their pursuer has finally lost track of them, maybe he’s still waiting at the other house. She goes back to the hall, where Björn is sitting on the floor looking at the wounds on his feet.
‘We need to find you a pair of shoes,’ she says.
He looks up at her with a blank expression, as though he doesn’t speak the language.
‘This isn’t over yet,’ she says. ‘You need to put something on your feet.’
Björn starts to hunt through the hall cupboard, pulling out flip-flops, wellington boots and old bags.
Avoiding all the windows, Penelope hunts as quickly as she can for a phone, checking the hall table, the briefcase on the sofa, the bowl on the coffee table, and among the keys and paperwork on the kitchen counter.
There’s a sound outside and she stops to listen.
Perhaps it was nothing.
The first of the morning sun is shining in through the windows.
Crouching, she hurries into the main bedroom and pulls out the drawers in an old chest. She finds a framed family photograph lying among the underwear. A portrait taken in a studio, a husband and wife and two teenage daughters. The other drawers are empty. Penelope opens the wardrobe, pulls the few items of clothing from their metal hangers, and takes a knitted jumper and a hooded jacket that looks like it would suit a fifteen-year-old.
She hears a tap running in the kitchen and hurries in there. Björn is leaning over the sink drinking from the tap. He’s wearing a pair of old trainers on his feet, a couple of sizes too big.
We have to find someone who can help us, she thinks. This is getting ridiculous, there must be people everywhere.
Penelope goes over to Björn and hands him the knitted jumper. Suddenly there’s a knock at the door. Björn smiles in surprise, pulls the sweater on and mutters about them finally having a bit of luck. Penelope walks towards the hall, brushing her hair from her face. She’s almost there when she sees the silhouette through the frosted glass.
She stops abruptly and looks at the shadow through the glass. Suddenly she can’t bring herself to reach out her hand and open the door. She recognises his posture, the shape of his head and shoulders.
The air feels like it’s running out.
Slowly she backs away into the kitchen. Her body is twitching, she wants to run, her whole body wants to run. She stares at the glass window, at the indistinct face, the narrow chin. She feels dizzy as she moves backwards, trampling on bags and boots, reaching out to the wall for support, running her fingers across the wallpaper, knocking the hall mirror askew.
Björn stops beside her, he’s clutching a broad-bladed kitchen knife in his hand. His cheeks are white, his mouth half open, his eyes staring at the window in the door.
Penelope backs into a table as she sees the door-handle slowly being pushed down. Quickly she goes into the bathroom and turns the taps on, then calls out in a loud voice:
‘Come in! The door’s open!’ Björn starts, his pulse is thudding in his head, he’s holding the knife in front of him, ready to defend himself, to attack, as he sees