The Treacherous Net Read Online Free PDF Page A

asked.
    “Not far away—in Kålltorp.”
    “So you didn’t see anything of the fire three weeks ago?”
    “No, it happened late at night. But Mom and Dad saw it.”
    “Could we have your mother’s address and telephone number? We’d really like to get these questions out of the way as quickly as possible,” Tommy said with a smile.
    Petra nodded and gave him the information.
    The apartment block was made of gloomy dark red brick. It looked solid, resting on its sturdy granite foundations. Above the main entrance was the year 1906. Creaking and protesting, an elevator that had seen better days carried them up to the fourth floor.
    When the apartment door opened, Irene and Tommy were not welcomed by the same pleasant aroma that had met them in the store. This place was impregnated with cigarette smoke. A black miniature poodle jumped around their legs, its shrill yapping echoing in the stairwell.
    Anna Jonsén’s coloring was a little paler than her daughter’s, but she had the same build. Which wasn’t a compliment, given Petra’s advanced pregnancy. But Anna had a pretty face, and she was smartly dressed in a denim skirt and light blue blouse that matched her eyes. Her smile seemed warm and genuine.
    “Come on in. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can be of much help. I didn’t see . . .”
    The end of the sentence disappeared in a murmur as she led the way through a long hallway and into a large living room.
    “Please sit down. I’ve just made some coffee—I’m sure you’d like a cup?”
    They both said yes. Irene thought that it had been a good start to the day in spite of everything; she was about to have her sixth cup of coffee before lunch.
    They sat down on rococo armchairs upholstered in silk. Like the matching sofa, the faded fabric was a dismal vintage rose color. The chairs were hard and uncomfortable. A small chest of drawers with a marble top seemed to be part of the suite; it was cluttered with framed photographs and small souvenir dolls. Through an open sliding door Irene could see a soft leather sofa and a reclining armchair with a footstool. Something told her that was the TV room, where the Jonséns sat when they were alone. She could understand that, because the elegant silk-covered seats were anything but comfortable.
    Anna came in carrying a tray, and placed it carefully on the little table in front of the police officers. The aroma of cinnamon rose from a pile of warm buns on a china plate. They looked very similar to the ones they had seen in the store.
    “According to your old friend Göran Jansson, you’ve lived here all your life, and you know what goes on in the area,” Tommy began.
    “I’m not so sure about that. It’s impossible to keep an eye on things on Korsvägen these days; there’s so much traffic, so many people . . .”
    “Of course. But I was thinking more about the people who live around here. You must know them pretty well.”
    “Well . . . some of them, maybe.”
    “We’re interested in everything you can tell us about the building that burned down, and above all we’d like to find out as much as possible about the old man who died. But please tell us a bit about yourself first.”
    “Goodness me . . .”
    She broke off and thought for a moment, then took a deep breath.
    “We moved here from Annedal when I was five. My father bought the tobacconist’s store, and at the same time my parents got a hold of this apartment. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven—I had my very own room! We’d gone from one room and a kitchen to all this space. Can you imagine?”
    She took a big bite of her bun, munching away with obvious pleasure before she went on. “My father developed heart failure, and died of a heart attack in 1973. I’d already started working in the store a year or so earlier. Mom and I ran it together until she died eleven years ago.”
    She fell silent, biting her lip.
    “Were you living in this apartment at the time?” Tommy asked.
    A gentle