The princess of Burundi (20 page)

He looked around. The kitchen was sparkling clean and everything had been put in its place. The counter gleamed. The only thing that marred the picture was a candle that had burned halfway, and a glass of wine with some dregs left in the bottom. Candle wax had run down in a striking pattern over the verdigris-coated candlestick, an object Haver had inherited from his grandmother. He still remembered how she would light it on family celebrations and special holidays. The wineglass was green and he recalled buying it with Rebecka in Gotland during their first trip together. The wine was a red wine that Haver had bought for New Year’s Eve, which they had been planning to celebrate with Sammy Nilsson and his wife.

He heard her moving around in the bedroom. The roller blind was pulled down, a dresser drawer was shut, and the bedside lamp was turned on. He could imagine what she looked like, the tight-lipped attitude and slightly abrupt movements she made when she was upset.

He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer, then sat down at the kitchen table and waited for the storm to break.

Lennart gave a short laugh and got out of bed. The alarm clock had woken him brutally. He laughed when he imagined how everyone around him would react to seeing the alcoholic, good-for-nothing Lennart Jonsson get dressed, sober, with the coffeemaker going and the Thermos set out, all at a quarter to six in the morning. No beer gripped by shaking hands and no fumbling search for a half-smoked cigarette under piles of dirty dishes. A scene flashed through his mind: a morning he had woken up to see Klasse Nordin drinking from the plastic bags he had earlier vomited wine into.
Fuck those morning-afters,
he thought.

At least he wouldn’t be cold. His father would have envied him his Helly Hansen gear. Albin had often complained about the cold when he came back from work. In the summer he had complained about the heat. The temperature was rarely perfect, but on the other hand Albin almost never complained about anything else. Not even during the worst of Lennart’s teenage years, when he was the most messed up.

“T-t-try t-to act l-l-l-like a human being,” he had sometimes managed to get out. But he had rarely said anything stronger than that.

Lennart wasn’t used to it, but it felt good to be getting up at half past five. He was almost able to convince himself that he was a hardworking man going about his daily business on an early December morning, with the snow coming down even heavier than before. The fact that he was setting out to work with something that fell into his father’s sphere reinforced the sense of importance. He was going to accomplish something today, point to a sign and say,
We’re clearing snow away here, please walk on the other side of the street.
Maybe even add a
please
if it was a civilized-looking person. Most of all he wanted some of his drinking buddies to walk by. Or, on second thought, no. They would just start shooting the breeze and distract him from his work.

He owned a good pair of work boots, snow overalls, and a heavy winter coat. In addition he had the mittens from Fosforos that could handle up to thirty degrees below zero. They lay in the very back of the closet, black, rough, and with matted inner mittens. He was fully equipped.

The vacuum flask—of the brand name Condor, where someone a long time ago had scratched out the final
r
and inserted
m
—was fiery red with a gray mug. Lennart came to think of the tractor driver on Brantings square, the one he had met that night he walked home from talking to Berit. He had been a good guy, that’s what Albin would have said. He knew he would remember the warmth inside the tractor and the sweet coffee for a long time.

Was it being sober that had whet his appetite for work? Since John died he had been mostly sober, drinking only a little beer. He paused by the window. Thoughts of John returned in full force, the memories coming thick and fast. How long would this last? Until the murderer was caught, and then for the rest of his life, was his sense. To lose the person who was closest to you, whose life was so completely tied up in yours, that was a lifelong loss. Never to be able to chat with John in that relaxed way, the way he couldn’t with anyone else. That was an irreplacable loss.

Pull yourself together
, he thought.
You’re going out to shovel some snow, and then hunt down a killer. You can drink yourself to death once that’s done
. He smiled crookedly. Deep down inside he was nursing the idea that he could maybe make a decent person out of himself. Maybe not a worker who toiled from seven to four. He was too lazy for that, and he had a bad back. But maybe part-time or so, help out in Micke’s business from time to time. He knew something about working metal, he was the son of a roofer and welder, for God’s sake. And in the winter there was snow. With the Fosforos mittens he was good to go for the whole day. How he wished people would see him directing old ladies to safety under the falling snow, the shovel in his hand, and an enormous, matted, black, and warm mitten resting on the handle.

Trying to figure out what his brother had done after he left Micke’s apartment had made Lennart realize how little he really knew John. How was he when he met other people? What role did he play in these tropical-fish organizations? A lot of people listened to him when he talked about fish, they saw the expert in him. They didn’t know his story, to them he was just that nice guy who had a passion for African cichlids. In their circle, John was another person interested in fish. In an unarticulated way Lennart now saw this as a betrayal, a betrayal of the life he and John had had together. Earlier he had looked on John’s interest as a hobby, no better or worse than anything else. Other people bowled or went to rally races, but it didn’t change who they were. He had been proud of his brother’s aquarium, of course, gladly accepting part of the glory of having a brother with the largest aquarium in town, but now he realized that John had been the respected expert, the one you called and asked for advice. In short, another man, another role.

And then this poker playing. He would never have guessed that John had won such amounts. Why hadn’t he said anything? John wasn’t one to volunteer information but he could have told his only brother when he won a small fortune. Why this silence? Not even Berit had been in on it. The only one who knew how much money was involved was Micke, even if he didn’t want to say.

What had John been cooking up? This was the question Lennart had been asking himself the past few days. He thought the answer would lead to whoever had murdered John. There was something his brother had been working on, something secret, that had led to his death.

Lennart would have been able to protect his brother. If only John had told him, Lennart would have watched his back like a hawk around the clock. That’s what brothers were for. But John had kept Lennart in the dark on this and that was half the heartache.

Micke was already in place on Dragarbrunnsgatan with the company truck pulled up on the sidewalk. He had already unloaded most of the equipment when Lennart arrived.

“It would make more sense to do this on an early Sunday morning,” Micke said and brought out some red cones.

Lennart didn’t say anything, pitching in to help in silence. It was several years now since he had worn his full winter gear and he felt self-conscious. He concentrated on the work, but it wasn’t complicated. The truck had to be fully unloaded, all the warning signs and blockades set up.

Micke was talking to the building manager, who gave them the keys and helped arrange roof access. Lennart looked up. It was high, not worse than he could manage, but Micke would never let him up there.

His fear of heights had come and gone. When his father had taken him up on rooftops he had never been scared. That had come later. On construction sites he had never liked working on high scaffolding but had never said anything.

The first hour went well. The morning traffic grew heavier and Lennart kept an eye out for people who might walk into the restricted area. It was possible to ignore the cold if you walked up and down slapping your arms across your chest for circulation.

The bus drivers nodded at him as they drove past. An older woman complained about the inconvenience. An old acquaintance from Ymergatan walked by but pretended not to recognize him, or else Lennart really was impossible to recognize in his full gear.

Around nine he grew anxious. That was always the time when the usual suspects, a loose-knit group of substance abusers, gathered around the front doors of the state liqour store. Luckily Micke came down from the roof for a snack and Lennart’s thoughts were interrupted. They drank coffee in the truck. Steam rose from their cups and their breath fogged up the windows immediately.

“The job’s going well,” Micke said. “How are the old ladies?”

“It’s okay. Most of them are in a good mood today. It’s a bit boring is all.”

Micke looked at him. Maybe he sensed what was going on in Lennart’s head. He poured him another cup.

“Do you miss being up on the roof?” he asked.

“No, I can’t say I do.”

“Did you ever work together with Albin?”

“No, not really. Occasionally I’d help out. Now no one would let me up there.”

They sat in silence for the rest of the break. Lennart felt his anxiety return. He should be hunting down a killer, not standing on a street trying to look busy.

The rest of the morning they moved the barricades a few times and worked their way down the street. Pieces of ice broke off and smashed into the street with a delicate yet hard sound. People paused on their way past, fascinated with the beauty of the sparkling icicles and the glittering clouds of ice thrown up as they smashed onto the pavement.

Lennart shoveled both ice and snow off the sidewalk, as he also kept an eye up and down the road. He stopped and rested for a moment, leaning on the shovel. A familiar face appeared, a woman pushing a stroller. Lennart took a few steps closer. Their eyes met.

The woman nodded and slowed down.

“Hi, Lennart. So you’re working out here in the cold?”

“Someone’s got to do it.”

“How is it going? I heard about John.”

Lennart looked up at the building. He walked closer to her.

“Do you know anything?”

“I’m on maternity leave, as you can see.”

“But you must have heard something.”

Ann Lindell shook her head.

“Do you know he gambled and won a lot of money?”

“I heard about it, but don’t know any details.”

“I can give you some leads.”

“Give them to Ola Haver, he’s the one in charge of the investigation. Do you know him?”

Lennart shook his head.

“No, Sammy was the one who came to my place. I don’t like him at all.”

“Sammy may have his quirks, but he’s a good police officer.”

“A good police officer,” Lennart repeated.

A load of snow came off the roof. Lennart took a few steps out into the street. No pedestrians were around. He returned to the sidewalk and again drew close to Lindell.

“I want to talk to you.”

“I’m on leave.”

“Can’t we talk anyway? Have a cup of coffee? I can’t do it right now, I have to make sure no little old ladies get killed.”

Lindell smiled. She looked down at Erik bundled up in the stroller. Only the tip of his nose and mouth were visible.

“I’ll come by your place at five thirty. Okay?”

He nodded. More snow fell. Lindell knew what she was doing was wrong, but Lennart might have some valuable information. He clearly had no confidence in Sammy, and it was possible that he would tell her something he wasn’t willing to share with her colleague. Her desire to work made her willing to bend the rules.

“Are you still at the same address?”

He nodded and returned to the street. Micke’s head could be seen high above them. Despite the distance, Lennart could tell he was irritated. Lennart gestured placatingly with his hands and deliberately walked out into the very middle of the street.

Ola Haver studied the knife. It was roughly twenty centimeters long with a black shaft and a sharp edge. Who used a knife like this? Haver had checked with a few officers who liked to hunt and they had judged the knife too cumbersome for hunting and fishing. The same verdict had been issued by the riffraff in town: the knife was too big to be easily concealed in clothing. It might be a knife some teenager would use to impress his friends, but it would never become something you carried habitually. Berglund had proposed the idea that it was a weapon someone had bought as a tourist. Maybe the sheath, which they had not recovered, was finely decorated and that was what had tempted the owner to buy it in the first place.

Haver turned it this way and that. He had questioned the young man again, the one who claimed to have stolen it from a pickup truck parked in the hospital garage. Haver was inclined to believe him, because he had seen fear and not lies in his eyes. Mattias was no killer, even if he was a small-time thief and troublemaker. You could only hope he would have second thoughts about the way his life was headed after finding himself dragged into a murder case.

Haver had asked Lundin to check who normally parked in the garage, which turned out to yield a daunting number. Hospital employees parked in a reserved area, and the rest was open to patients, friends, and relatives. Hundreds of people parked in the garage every day. Haver remembered that he himself had parked there one day a few years ago when he had seen the orthopedic surgeon.

They had talked about trying to compile a list of all the people who would have had reason to park there on that day, but finally decided it would take too long. The only thing they had to go on was Mattias’s vague recollection of a pickup, maybe red and white. When they had taken him to the parking garage to point out the place where the car had been parked, he had started wavering about whether or not the truck had had a hard or soft tonneau cover. In other words, they were talking about a dozen different possible makes and models. The only thing Mattias had been really sure about was the color red.

Had the killer been wounded and had to go to the hospital? They had checked with the ER and surgery, but that had yielded nothing.

Finding the murder weapon often gave way to more leads, but in this case it seemed like a dead end. The knife would become important only if they fixed on a suspect and could tie the person to the weapon.

Haver put the knife back in the plastic bag and leaned back in his chair, letting his thoughts move alternately from the investigation to Ann Lindell. Their kiss had ballooned into a cloud over his head. A gnawing feeling of uncertainty gripped him. For the first time in his marriage with Rebecka there was real doubt. The squabbles and conflicts of the fall, punctuated by equally wearying periods of silence and unasked questions, had escalated to the level of warfare. Rebecka hadn’t said anything else about his visit to Ann Lindell or the flour on his clothes. She had simply given him a cold look, moved quickly and nonchalantly around the house, avoiding him mainly. She had spent most of the morning in the bathroom, showering for an unusually long time, and in the bedroom. They had not had breakfast at the same time, which Haver was grateful for. At least he didn’t have to face the reproachful looks.

Now he was dreading going home. Should he tell her the truth? She would be furious. She was the jealous type, he knew that from before, not least when it came to Ann. Haver tried not to mention her at home since he knew that Rebecka was threatened by the fact that they were so close. Up till now there had been no grounds for her jealousy, but if he told her about the kiss, all hell would break loose. Even if she accepted his explanation and tried to erase the whole thing from her mind, the underlying suspicion would always be there.

He decided not to tell. It would stop at a sprinkling of flour on his chest, an embrace, and a kiss, but he could not deny the curious mixture of pride and shame he felt at betraying Rebecka. A soft voice inside encouraged him to get in touch with Ann again, to continue the foray into explosive, dangerous territory.

It had been a long time since he had felt attractive. And now someone had wanted to touch him. He wasn’t the one who had taken all the initiative. Ann was just as guilty, if one could call it guilt. Even though they had stopped at an embrace and a single kiss, Haver sensed that Ann would have considered going further, and when he thought about this he was suddenly angry at her. She had tempted him, damn it. She knew very well how jealous Rebecka was—she had used him, his vulnerability had been written in his face.
No, that wasn’t how it was,
he told himself and couldn’t maintain the anger. They were two adults, both in need of human warmth. Ann was the woman, besides Rebecka, whom he felt closest to. They had been brought close through their work, and apart from their mutual respect for each other’s abilities there had always been an undercurrent of sexual attraction.

Now the foundation was trembling. The underground channels were quaking and their hot inner lakes threatened to spill over. Was it love or more a desire for warmth, an expression of friendship where the boundaries had simply become blurred?

So much was broken in his relationship with Rebecka, he could see that now. The passion in Ann’s embrace and in the answer of his body was not only a rush of lust but a yearning for intimacy, evidence of the emotional poverty of his life. Rebecka and he were unhappy together, it was that simple, and Haver had needed only one single kiss to see this clearly.

Could he continue to live with Rebecka? He had to. They had two children together and still loved each other. At least he thought they did.