The cause of the disturbance to the ground was a box of dynamite in the Söderströms’ basement. It had been ignited.
This was how the incident was described—in passive terms, as though it had simply happened. No reason to lay the blame on anyone. The detonation had caused the landslide and the fire that consumed the remains of the Söderströms’ house.
When Siri gazed out over what was left of the village she had been getting to know, her eyes grew moist.
“If only we’d been a little…” she said, then shook her head.“Shit. If we’d just gotten a little further, maybe we could have prevented it.”
“How so?” Gerd asked.
“It’s all connected, right? Mikael, Killian, the explosion—all of it. It has to be.”
“Hmm,” said Gerd. “Yes, maybe. In which case, the question is how?”
And whether we’re up to the task of figuring it out,Siri thought.We might notbe.
They were still searching the area and had arrived at the wreckage of Killian’s cabin.
“What’s that?”
Something was peeking out of the rubble like a white brick. When they got closer, they could see what it was: a white plastic bag with the logo of Sennan Carpentry AB, identical to the bag Bengt Lindell had used to wrap up the family’s savings after withdrawing it from the bank the week before.
They gingerly opened it and found a thick bundle of bills inside.
“Oh my,” said Gerd, and went to secure the discovery.
As it turned out when they got it back from forensic analysis, the bag was covered in Killian Persson’s fingerprints. It seemed to have been hidden under some sort of hatch in the floor.
Siri’s phone rang. It was Sander Eriksson.
52
Mikael Söderström’s poor little brother sat before them, wearing guilt around his neck like a pendant. The room was comfortably cool but, considering the task that awaited, this was of little import. His mother was in the intensive care unit, and it was unclear whether she would survive; his father was a few units away waiting for the alcohol to release its hold on his body and withdrawal symptoms to abate. And his brother was in the morgue.
“How are you doing, Filip?”
“Okay.”
They’d been in touch with social services, since neither of his guardians could be present. A tiny sparrow of a woman carrying a folder full of forms was waiting in the lobby looking anxious when they came down.
Filip had refused to say a word in her presence. Eventually Siri had asked her to wait outside, and now she was standing on the other side of the door and picking at her cuticles.
“We’ll make sure Helén talks to you afterwards. She’s here to help you.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone. Especially not a soc lady.”
“It might still be a good idea.”
“What?”
“Talking to someone, even if you don’t want to.”
“Really?”
“Yes, definitely.”
Filip stubbornly crossed his arms.
“Either way, we need to talk to you about this,” Gerd said, taking out a piece of paper that had been hastily torn from a notebook by Sander Eriksson just a few days ago.
