The princess of Burundi (21 page)

Allan Fredriksson read through Ryde’s report from Vivan Molin’s apartment. There was nothing noteworthy. The place was full of Vincent Hahn’s fingerprints.

The only thing they had found in the apartment that made Fredriksson raise his eyebrows was a pair of handcuffs that the technicians had found stuffed away in a closet, together with two porn films and a vibrator. Battery-operated with two speed settings, Ryde had noted.

They were still establishing her network of friends and relatives. Her parents were dead and she had no siblings. There was a note in her address book about an “Aunt Bettan” and a phone number with a 021 area code. They had called it, with no results yet. Fredriksson had asked a cadet, a Julius Sandemar, to contact Hahn’s brother again. He seemed to be the only one who would be able to give them more information about possible relatives. He would also need to be informed that Vincent was now wanted for suspected assault and murder.

Someone threw out the idea that Hahn might try to leave the country and look up his brother in Israel, but it turned out that Hahn had never applied for a passport. Nonetheless, officials at Arlanda airport were notified to be on their guard.

Fredriksson had no idea where Hahn might have gone.
Strange
, he thought.
A person without any social network. Where does a person without any contacts go? To a bar?
He had trouble seeing Hahn nursing a drink in a bar.
To the library?
More plausible. Sandemar would have to go down to the public library and show the employees there a photo of Hahn. Was there a branch in Sävja? Fredriksson didn’t think so. Many of the smaller branches were being closed down.

They had checked the clinic in Sävja and the Akademiska Hospital, but no patient had ever registered under the name Hahn. He had been treated for depression at Ulleråker mental institution, but that was eight years ago. The doctor who had treated him had moved elsewhere.

The search of his apartment had also yielded almost no clues. Fredriksson suspected that Hahn would eventually turn up somewhere, but sitting around merely waiting for a killer to turn up was not his style. He wanted to track him down, but he was running out of ideas.

A traditional criminal was easier, his hangouts and associates more predictable. A psychically disturbed individual, a loner, was much more difficult to find. On the other hand, in Fredriksson’s experience, once the ball was rolling they were easier to catch because they were more likely to be careless and make mistakes.

Fredriksson was convinced that they were looking for two different murderers at this point. It was really only Sammy Nilsson who insisted that Hahn had had something to do with Little John’s murder. His theory was that Hahn was taking revenge, maybe even for incidents that happened as long ago as his school days. Sammy didn’t think that the connection between John and Hahn was a coincidence and was still searching for a possible explanation. Ottosson let him be for the moment. Sammy had started looking up old classmates of John, Gunilla Karlsson, and Hahn. As it turned out, most of them still lived in Uppsala, and Sammy had already worked through a number of people on the list, but so far nothing had come out that would indicate that Hahn was on a rampage to revenge himself on them. But there could very well be some event in Vincent Hahn’s mind that would not seem like a motive for revenge in other people’s eyes.

After leaving his former sister-in-law’s apartment, Vincent Hahn had walked to Vaksalagatan and taken the bus into town. The hat he had stolen the night before covered his wound. He had found seven hundred kronor in her apartment and that was the extent of his funds. Now there was only one place for him to go.

The smell of people on the bus confused him and made him angry, but thinking about the rattling sound Vivan had made as he pulled the telephone cord tighter around her neck made him feel bigger. He could feel superior to the other people on the bus. They had nothing to do with him, they were small. He was big.

Vivan had assured him she wouldn’t tell on him, but he had seen in her eyes that she was lying. He had felt a rush of excitement while her body was convulsing under his. She had tried to scratch his face but hadn’t been able to reach. His knees had held her arms down. It was all over in a few minutes. He had pulled her along the floor and in under the bed and left her there to rot. They would find her when she started to stink, but not before. And by that time he’d be long gone.

He smiled. The feeling of satisfaction at having resolved everything so well filled him with an almost painful joy. Painful because he was unable to share it with anyone. But within a week he would get to read about it in the paper. Then people would know that Vincent Hahn was not to be treated lightly.

The headlines of the
Upsala Nya Tidning
at the railway station startled him.
UPPSALA MURDER STILL UNSOLVED
, it said. He stared at the black letters and tried to understand what it meant. Had Gunilla Karlsson died? But that wasn’t possible. Granted, she had collapsed in the yard outside the building, but it was he who had been closer to death. He bought the paper, pushed it down in his pocket, and hurried on. Some event was taking place in the plaza in front of the station. A dozen people or so dressed up as Santa were performing a dance of sorts. The small bells in their hands made tinkling sounds. Suddenly they all threw themselves to the ground and remained there, motionless. Vincent watched them, fascinated. One after another the Santas came back to life and joined hands to form a circle around the thirteenth Santa, who continued to lie on the ground.

“This is the darkness of Christmas,” shouted one of the Santas.

Vincent thought it must be a doomsday sect of some kind. He liked it. The sound of the bells followed him as he walked down Bangårdsgatan.

The bingo hall was unusually empty. He nodded at a few other regulars, but most of them were absorbed in their game. Vincent sat down in his usual spot and unfolded his newspaper. The first thing he saw was a picture of John Jonsson. The reporter summarized what had happened and presented a variety of motives. John’s colorful past was emphasized, the fact that he was a serious gambler alongside his burning passion for tropical fish.

A representative from the tropical-fish society had spoken out and declared John’s death a tragedy and an irreplaceable loss for the society and all cichlid lovers.

The paper, however, was more interested in John’s potential connections with Uppsala’s shady underworld and illegal gambling circuit.

Vincent read with great interest. He remembered John very well. He had been a short, quiet boy who inspired respect with his judicious use of words but was also insecure. He had lived not far from Vincent and in middle school they had often walked to school together. Vincent would walk quietly and sense that John appreciated the fact that he wasn’t chattering away.

Vincent put down the paper. The headache was coming back. He stared at the picture of his former classmate and wondered when he had died. Had he been included in Vincent’s plan for revenge? The bullies had to be punished. He flinched as if being struck. His father leaning over him, his mother’s whimpers from the kitchen, the repeated blows.

“No!” he shouted, and the other bingo players looked disapprovingly at him.

The blows rained down on him and he crouched to ward them off. Once he had struck back, but it had only made things worse. Now his father crawled around in his body like a parasite. John’s picture in the paper reminded him of his father, the blows meted out without words. Why had it been him? He was the youngest, the most defenseless. Wolfgang received the love, he the blows, the humiliation.

Had he murdered John? Vincent looked at the picture in the paper again. Perhaps the time had come for revenge. No one had cared. Where had his father’s rage come from, the rage that drove him to develop increasingly sadistic forms of punishment? In the beginning his fists had been enough, then came the strap, and finally the most horrific, the face forced down into the sink.

Vincent shook. The headache threatened to take over, to transform him into a crawling pile of bone and skin.
You got what was coming to you, John. If it wasn’t me it was someone working in my spirit.
He was sweating in the woolen cap. His head itched. He wanted to cry but knew his tear ducts didn’t work the way they were supposed to. He had stopped crying at the age of thirteen.

He rested his head in his hands and felt the gaze of others in the room. He should start playing. John was close-by. A neutral picture, without expression or clarity.

“You died,” he mumbled. Soon it would be Janne’s turn, or someone else. Vincent could no longer remember the rankings of the list he had drawn up. The picture of John in his mind was replaced by his father’s. He had woken up too late! When the time came for revenge, his father had disappeared into illness, the worms eating away at him until he was just a skeleton. Vincent remembered the thin hand gripping the hospital bed railing. He had taken it and squeezed it as hard as he could. His father had cried out, looked at him with watery eyes, and understood. Then he had smiled his satanic smile, the smile that seduced the women around him, and charmed the world, but Vincent knew better.

The picture in the paper of his father smiled at him and he tried to hit it. One of the bingo hall employees came over to him.

“You’ll have to go,” he said. “You’re disturbing the others.”

The voice was not unkind.

“I’ll go,” Vincent said submissively. “But my head hurts so much.” He pulled off his cap and revealed the makeshift bandage over the wound.

“What did you do?”

“My daddy hit me.”

“Your father did this?”

Vincent nodded.

“And my brother too.”

He stood up.

“I have to go now.”

“You should see a doctor,” the employee said.

“My father was a doctor, or something like that. Mommy spoke mainly German. She was Jewish and he a Nazi. Or communist, maybe. No, that can’t be. They’re red and Daddy was black.”

“Your father was black?”

Vincent staggered out onto the street. Bangårdsgatan was like a wind tunnel where the snow was swept along with a howling sound. People steeled themselves against the wind, pulling shawls, scarves, and hats more tightly around them. The sounds of their footsteps were muffled by the snow. An ambulance drove by. Then a series of trucks obscured the view. He wanted to be able to see farther and made his way to the river.

Lennart Jonsson was exhausted. It was half past four and dark outside as well as in the apartment. He let the apartment remain in darkness while he took off his clothes and let them fall in a pile. He was covered in dried sweat but it was not an unpleasant feeling. He brushed his hand over his hairy chest, across his left shoulder and left forearm. Some of his old musculature remained. He scratched his crotch and felt a stirring sensation of lust.

His back ached but he was so used to it that he hardly noticed it. He had some pills for arthritis relief left and decided to take one. On his way to the bathroom he noticed an unfamiliar scent. He stopped and sniffed. Perfume, an unmistakable smell of perfume.

He looked around. Someone had been in his apartment. Was the person still here? He snatched his pants up and started walking to the kitchen with the idea of finding something to defend himself with. Was he mistaken? No, the smell was undeniably here. Was it the scent of a woman or a man? He remained alert for any sounds.

He tiptoed into the kitchen, carefully pulled out a drawer, and took out a bread knife.

“Put it down,” he heard a voice say, “or you’ll regret it.”

The voice came from somewhere in the kitchen and Lennart realized that someone was sitting at the kitchen table. He recognized the voice but couldn’t place it in his confused state. He judged the threat as serious and didn’t hesitate in throwing down the knife.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I think it’s time you turned on the light.”

Lennart quickly pulled on his pants, then turned and switched on the light. Mossa was sitting at the table, a pistol laid out in front of him.

“You? What the hell—”

“Sit down. We need to talk.”

Lennart did as he was told. He sensed what was coming.

“It wasn’t me,” he said, and the Iranian smiled mockingly.

“That’s what they always say,” he said and took up the gun. “Tell me instead who ran straight to the cops.”

“Not me, in any case,” Lennart said. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Yes,” Mossa said. “Stupid enough to try to win their favor. You thought the cops would help you. I think you are stupid enough for that. I trusted you. We talked about your brother. I liked your brother, but I don’t like you.”

“Someone else must have squealed. Someone who played that night.”

He didn’t want to say what he thought, that Micke had told the police what he knew. But could he have known the names of the players? John might have told him, but it wasn’t likely. He kept quiet about such things.

“Stop giving me lies. You don’t believe it yourself,” Mossa said. “You turned me in. I couldn’t care less about the others, but no one runs to the cops with my name, you understand?”

Lennart nodded.

“I get it, I do, but it really wasn’t me. I want to do this on my own, you know that. That’s why I looked for you.”

“In order to have something to barter with.”

“You have a brother, Mossa. You love him, you should get it. I’m doing everything I can to find the guy who killed John.”

“Don’t mix Ali in this.”

“He is a brother. John was a brother.”

Mossa sat quietly and seemed to weigh his words.

“I think you are
a shit
,” he said finally and stood up, the gun still in his hand. “Put on a shirt. I don’t want to shoot a man with a bare chest.”

“Kill me then, you dumb bastard. Do you think I give a fuck?” Lennart said belligerently and looked at Mossa with defiance.

Mossa smiled.

“You really are stupid, aren’t you?”

“Did you kill John?”

The Iranian shook his head and raised the gun so it pointed at Lennart’s knees.

“It wasn’t me,” Lennart said with sweat running down his face.

In a way he felt relieved. He had experienced this sensation before, one night when his drinking had led to an episode of heart palpitations. That time he had been prepared to die, had made peace with his shitty existence. He had gotten up, drunk some water and looked at himself in the mirror, and then gone back to bed with his heart jumping around in his chest.

Mossa raised the gun a few centimeters.

“You remind me of an Armenian I once knew,” Mossa said. “He also met his death with courage.”

Lennart sank to his knees.

“Plant the bullet in my skull,” he said and closed his eyes.

Mossa lowered his gun, kicked Lennart in the mouth, and leaned over him.

“If you want to play the detective, then go talk to his whore for a wife,” he hissed and left the apartment. Lennart, who had fallen down when he was kicked, lay still on the floor until he started shivering with cold.

Twenty minutes later, Lennart had managed to take a warm shower and wrap himself up in a sheet. The kick had busted his lip and he had to tape it up to stop the bleeding. He jumped when the front doorbell rang. He had forgotten all about Lindell stopping by.

He opened the door, prepared for anything, until he saw the stroller.

“What the fuck?” he said and backed up into the apartment.

They sat down in the living room.

“What happened to you?”

“I slipped at work,” Lennart said. “The shovel caught me right here.”

“You don’t have any Band-Aids?”

“Tape works fine.”

All the air had gone out of him. The early morning, the work in the snow, Mossa’s unexpected visit, and the warm shower had so drained him that he could hardly keep his eyes open. If Lindell hadn’t been sitting there he would have fallen asleep in a minute.

“You said something about a lead,” Lindell said. “Why didn’t you say anything to Sammy Nilsson?”

“Like I said, I don’t care for him. He’s too cocky, comes on too strong.”

“You do too, sometimes,” Lindell said. “For your information.”

Lennart smiled. With his lip taped up it looked like a grimace.

“So now you’re the private eye, huh?”

“Not at all. But you did pique my interest.”

“Why are the cops not spending any time on trying to catch my brother’s killer?”

“I think you’re wrong. From what I understand, this case is top priority.”

“The fuck it is. You think he’s some poor shit who doesn’t matter. If he had been a VIP, things would look a lot different.”

“All murder cases are treated with the same seriousness,” Lindell said calmly. “You know that.”

“So what have you found out? He stopped by Micke’s apartment and then he disappeared. Have you checked Micke’s alibi?”

“I take it for granted.”

“You take for granted—I don’t take shit for granted. Do you know John gambled?”

Lindell nodded.

“Have you checked with his gambling buddies? They’re probably a pack of rats.”

“I’m not officially on this case, but clearly every part of John’s life will be carefully scrutinized.”

“That means you don’t have anything. What happened to the money anyway?”

“What money?” Lindell said, aware of the fact that he meant the poker winnings.

“He won at poker, didn’t you know that?”

Lindell shook her head.

“You don’t fool me,” Lennart said evenly. He was used to cops doing this, playing dumb, and he wondered how he could get her to spill what she knew.

Lindell smiled, got up, and went over to the stroller.

“And what about Berit, the hypocritical cow,” he said. “She doesn’t say shit to me, just talks to Mom and Justus. I’m the one she should be talking to, but no, she’s too fucking good for that. She’s the one sitting on the money.”

Lindell watched him clench his hands.

“I’m his brother and if anyone can sort this out it’s me, and damn if she isn’t keeping something from me.”

He looked up quickly and met Lindell’s gaze.

“But she’s the widow, probably cries all the time, and you treat her with kid gloves, isn’t that right?”

“I’m sure she’s been questioned just like anyone else,” Lindell said. “And even if you are John’s brother, Berit is the one who should be able to give us the most information about John’s movements during his last few days. Why would she need to keep something secret, as you were suggesting?”

“She’s always…,” Lennart began, then stopped. “You can’t trust broads.” Lindell had trouble determining if he was making a little joke or if there was some substance behind the half-articulated accusations against his sister-in-law.

“I’ll get it out of her, whatever it is,” he said, his teeth clenched. “I’m going to get the guy who killed my brother and if it takes her down too I couldn’t care less. She asked for it.”

Lindell sat down again.

“Who hit you?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s blood on the kitchen floor,” Lindell said.

“I started bleeding again after I came home.”

“In the kitchen?”

“Is it against the law?”

His raised voice woke Erik, who started whimpering in the stroller. Lindell walked over and reassured him, rocking the stroller.

“I think you had a visitor,” she said after the whimpering stopped.

“So what?”

“If you want to help us catch your brother’s killer you’d better play with open cards.”

“You’re just like Sammy Nilsson,” Lennart said and got to his feet. The sheet trailed on the floor as he walked into the bedroom.

Lindell heard him moving around and assumed he was putting clothes on. She saw that she was right when he came back wearing pants and a T-shirt. The piece of tape on his lip had come off.

“You should have someone look that over,” she said. “I think you need stitches.”

“I thought you had left already.”

Lennart watched her cross the street with the stroller, aiming for the bus stop.

“Fucking bitch,” he mumbled.

It was only now that Mossa’s final comment fully penetrated his mind. Mossa had used the word
whore,
and that was a strong statement coming from him. He was a tough guy but one who chose his words with care. If he used the word
whore
he meant it, not like how some guys just tossed it out when they were talking about women. Everyone who knew Mossa knew that he was respectful of women, that he worshipped his mother, and that he was always conscientious about sending his greetings to his friends’ sisters and wives.

He had called Berit a whore. That could only mean one thing: she had been unfaithful. “Talk to his whore for a wife,” he had said. The meaning of the words hit Lennart with an almost physical violence. Had she really had someone else?

His tiredness was gone. He put on socks, boots, and outerwear, and was out on the street within minutes. The route he chose was identical to the one he had walked the night he found out that John had died. Instead of tears this time, he was filled with anger and unanswered questions throbbing in his head as he half ran, half walked.

The snow was as deep as it had been that night. There was no snowplow on Brantings square but instead a group of drunk youngsters singing Christmas carols. He stopped and watched them. He had also been here, making noise in the same way, thrown out of the Brantings community center and a drug-free Christmas party, drunk out of his mind on beer, fourteen years old and already an outsider, literally and figuratively, something that still ached in his body, a mixture of shame and hate. God, how he had hated, breaking a window of the public library and throwing bicycles around. The police had arrested him and Albin had had to pay for the damages.

He walked over to the youngsters.

“Anyone have a cell phone?”

They stared at him.

“I need to make a call.”

“Get your own, mister.”

“I need one now.”

“There’s a pay phone over there.”

Lennart grabbed one of the boys.

“Give me a phone or I swear I’ll fucking smash your head in,” he hissed at the terror-stricken boy.

“You can borrow mine,” said a girl and stretched it out to him.

“Thanks,” Lennart said and dropped the boy. “Two minutes,” he said and walked off to the side.

He called Micke, who had just fallen asleep on the sofa and answered incoherently. They talked for a few minutes. Lennart threw the cell phone into the snow and took off half running over Skomakarberget.

Berit had just turned off the TV. For some reason she had become more interested in the news since John’s death. Even Justus joined her in front of the television. Maybe it was to measure their misfortune against everything else happening in the world, to feel that they weren’t alone. Quite the opposite, as it turned out, violence was doubled and reprised many times over on the TV screen.

She threw the remote control onto the table and put her hand on Justus’s shoulder. He was about to get up, but she wanted him to stay on the couch with her a little while longer. He turned his head and looked at her.

“Sit a little longer,” she said, and to her surprise he sank back.

“What’s a Traveler?” he asked.

“The Travelers? Well,” Berit said. “Well, what to say? They were a kind of people who weren’t gypsies but not Swedish either. Dark. There were big Traveler families, or clans. Your father used to talk about them. ‘They’re Travelers,’ he might say about people. He said that explained a lot about a person. Why do you ask?”

“A kid I met outside said that.”

“About who?”

“About Dad,” Justus said and looked at her with that mercilessly direct gaze that would take no half-truths or evasions. “He said Dad was a Traveler.”

“That’s not true,” Berit said. “You know that. Your father was light-haired.”

“But Lennart is dark.”

“Justus, it’s just something kids say. There are no Travelers anymore. Was he mean to you? Who was it?”

“Patrik,” Justus said. “But he’s screwed up. His dad beats his new wife.”

“What are you saying?”

“Everyone knows about it.”

She thought about his words. Of course he would be likely to hear a thing or two, but she wasn’t worried. He was used to standing up for himself. Justus could look delicate but it was a mistake to think he was soft all the way through. Inside, he was as hard as flint, just like John.

She sniffled involuntarily at the thought of John. Justus stared straight ahead but put his hand in her lap.