The princess of Burundi (29 page)

“Is he crying?” Lindell asked and walked away from her colleagues.

“No, not exactly,” her mother said, and Ann wondered what she meant.

“I’ll be home soon. Give him some banana, he likes that.”

“He doesn’t need a banana. He needs his mother.”

“He has a grandmother,” Ann said, but she regretted her words at the moment she said them.

There was silence on the other end.

“Just come home,” her mother said and hung up.

Ann Lindell stood there with the phone in her hand, looked at Haver and Berglund, pretended to end the conversation in a normal way, and then returned to their midst.

“The baby-sitter?” Berglund said. Lindell nodded and she saw him give Haver a quick look. Then Ryde’s old car came up the driveway. He braked and seemed to hesitate before driving up all the way to the house.

Lindell walked over to Gunnel Sagander, who was standing out on the porch. She was shivering.

“Should we go in?” Lindell asked.

Gunnel shook her head.

“What is it?” she asked again and looked intently at Lindell.

“Car tracks,” Lindell said. “I have to ask you who has visited you today.”

Gunnel looked away.

“Agne’s brother Ruben,” she said tersely. “He stopped by a few hours ago. He was going off to hunt hare and wanted to borrow a box of ammunition for his rifle.”

“Did he have the rifle with him?”

“He usually does,” Gunnel said. “He is…”

She fell silent. Both of the women watched as Ryde got out of his car, walked over to the other two, and crouched down. Berglund turned the flashlight back on.

“Where does Ruben live?”

“Up the hill,” Gunnel said and pointed to a pair of houses a couple of hundred meters away.

“Where the lights are on, the house with the two chimneys?”

Gunnel nodded.

Lindell walked back to the car tracks. Ryde gave her a disapproving look but didn’t say anything. He took out a folding ruler and measured the tracks.

“Same width,” he said.

Then he took out a camera and quickly took half a dozen pictures. The flash lit up the snow. Haver shivered. Lindell told him that it was most likely Sagander’s brother’s car, that he was armed and lived close by.

Ola Haver looked at her but Lindell sensed that he was far away in his thoughts.

“The knife that Mattias stole was in the car. The car that made the tracks in Libro and now here,” Haver said. “Ruben visited his brother in the hospital the day after the murder.”

“Fucking amateur,” Ryde said.

“Ruben Sagander,” Lindell said, and all four turned north to look at the house with the two chimneys.

“He’s armed,” Haver said.

As if on a given signal they all started walking to Agne Sagander’s house. Gunnel sensed what was going on; they all saw it. She drew the scarf tight around her neck, straightened up, and steeled herself.

“Do you know if Ruben visited his brother in the hospital on the day after the operation?” Lindell asked.

“Yes, we went there together.”

“In Ruben’s car?”

Gunnel nodded.

“Does he have a red-and-white pickup?”

A new nod.

“What’s happened?” she asked, but Lindell sensed that Gunnel Sagander already knew.

“Did Ruben know John?” Berglund asked.

“Yes, certainly.”

They went into the house. Haver made a call. Berglund talked to Agne Sagander, who was sitting where they had left him. Even Ryde took out his phone and made a call. Lindell was left in the hall with Gunnel.

“Could you get Erki’s phone number now?” Lindell asked.

She knew she should go home. In some way she felt that this case no longer interested her. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t taken part in much of the investigation. Was it thoughts of Justus that kept her here?

Haver finished his call and was about to say something when Berglund stepped out of the living room and carefully closed the door behind him.

“We’ll have to send for an ambulance and some patrol officers,” he said. “Sagander refuses to budge an inch. He says he can’t be moved.”

Berglund shared none of Haver’s excitement. The soon-to-be retired police officer wanted to get home to his wife, children, grandchildren, and Christmas tree, but Lindell knew that he would work all through Christmas without complaining, if needed. He was still standing with his hand on the door handle and looked at Gunnel as if to commiserate with her or perhaps hear her comment on her husband’s claimed immovability.

“He’s stubborn,” was all she said.

“How is his brother?” Haver asked.

They saw how she hesitated, choosing her words with care.

“He’s like his brother in many ways—they’re twins—but he’s more hot-blooded, I have to say.”

“Would you describe him as violent?”

“He has a wonderful wife,” Gunnel said, as if this were an answer to his question.

Haver’s phone rang and he picked up after the first ring. Lindell saw that he was sweating. She started thinking about Edvard. She felt a twinge in her stomach as she thought about how they had made love in their wooden palace at Gräsö, sapping the force of the north wind. One night she had tiptoed out of bed before sunrise, walked to the open window, detached the mosquito screen, and leaned out. The birds were singing at their greatest intensity. The sea lay still as a mirror and the temperature was already close to twenty degrees Celsius. When she turned to look at Edvard in the bed she had thought to herself that no person could be happier than this. During the night he had pulled the sheet off and a few beads of sweat glistened on his stomach.

“I guess we’ll go up and see Ruben,” Haver said, interrupting her stream of thought. “Two cars will be here soon. I told them to hurry.”

“Can I borrow your car, Eskil?”

Ryde turned to Lindell and looked at her as if he didn’t understand her question.

“I have to get into town,” she said, as embarrassed as if she had asked to borrow his pants.

“Take mine,” Haver said to save her, tossing the keys over.

“Thanks, Ola,” she said and smiled. “I think you’ve got it sewn up,” she added, using one of Edvard’s expressions.

She stepped out onto the porch, unfolded the note with the phone number, and dialed it. It took five or six rings for Erki to answer. In the background she heard Christmas music and the rattle of plates.

She presented herself, but before she had time to explain why she was calling, Erki Karjalainen broke in.

“He’s here,” he said, and Lindell thought his accent was just like that of the Mumins.

She laughed with relief.

“Have you called Berit?”

“No,” Erki said. “The boy won’t let me.”

“Can I come over?”

“Wait,” Erki said, and Lindell heard how he walked away from the phone.

She tried to imagine how he lived, what he looked like, and how he was talking to the boy. It took a while, and she looked out over the fields in front of Sagander’s house, the road with the juniper decorations and the brother’s house a few hundred meters away. Would Agne call and warn his brother? She didn’t think so. It would be hard for him to get to the regular phone, and even if he had a cell phone nearby he would probably let it stay where it was. It was a feeling based on Gunnel’s reaction. She knew what was going on, even that her husband might be accused of accomplice to murder, but Lindell saw that deep inside she was relieved that the police were taking over. Maybe even Agne in all his grumpiness felt the same.
Twin brothers can be tricky
, Lindell thought, and recalled a case where one twin had raped a woman in Engelska park and where the other twin, although he abhorred the crime, nonetheless hesitated to testify against this brother.

Karjalainen returned to the phone. Lindell was allowed to come by, he reported, but she was not allowed to call Berit.

“I promise,” she said.

Karjalainen lived twenty minutes away, if the shortcut through the forest was passable. She had taken that road with Edvard a few times. It was in those forests that they had made some of their best mushroom finds.

As she was walking to Haver’s car she dialed Berit’s number. She imagined her anxiously pacing around the apartment.

“We’ve found him,” Lindell said right away.

Berit started to cry and Lindell had to wait before she could speak again.

“It will be a while before he comes home,” Lindell said, “but he’s in good hands, I promise.”

Ruben Sagander kicked at a piece of sheet metal hard enough to send it flying.
Lucky the old man is dead,
he thought. He tried to keep himself calm by breathing in through his nose, filling his lungs and chest. Most of all he wanted to scream out his rage over the remains of the building in front of him.

Built in 1951, burned to the ground fifty years later. The sign with the text
SAGANDER’S MECHANICAL WORKSHOP
lay on the ground, still visible. One of the legs of a mobile crane used to fight the blaze had been positioned over it so that only the letters
SAGA
were visible.

Fury, as black as the soot on the only remaining wall, coursed through his body. He had talked briefly to one of the firefighters, telling him who he was and that he and his brother had started working in the shop for their father during the fifties. The firefighter had taken his anger for grief and tried to console him. It was clear that someone was responsible for starting the blaze. A full forensic investigation would be launched into the matter but the police had already found traces in the remains that indicated arson. It appeared that someone had systematically poured out flammable liquids in the building and then set it on fire.

“Who?” Ruben asked.

“The police will have to look into it,” the firefighter said.

Now the very last stage of the fire operation remained. Ruben spotted the safe under a few collapsed beams. There was no money in it. Six months ago there had been almost a half a million there. His money. Agne knew it was black money from Ruben’s entrepreneurial firm and had wavered when Ruben asked him to keep the money in the safe.

Someone had subsequently emptied the safe of the money and it was someone who knew the code. Ruben had never thought for a moment that it was Agne. Together they had tried to figure out who it was. They hadn’t told any of the guys in the shop about the theft or noticed anything unusual in their behavior. They had returned from their vacation and started work as usual.

Their suspicions had fallen on John almost immediately. When Mattzon had mentioned in passing that he had seen John outside the shop one Sunday in August, they had been convinced. John was the one who had stolen Ruben’s hard-earned money. A half million that was supposed to fix up the house in Spain where he and Maj-Britt were planning to retire.

Ruben’s phone rang and he checked the caller ID, but didn’t answer. He didn’t have the energy to talk to his brother again. Instead he sat in the car and wondered what to do next. Half a million gone and the shop in ruins. He wanted to flee. Even from Maj-Britt.

He felt no remorse for John’s fate. He was a thief and he had admitted as much, laughing Ruben right in the face. “Try to prove it,” John had said and laughed even more. What he regretted was having gone about it with so much vehemence. He should have let John go, watched him, maybe threaten to hurt his son, and in one way or another forced John to give back the money. Now it was too late. There was only one avenue of recourse and that was confronting Berit. She would no doubt deny knowing anything about the theft, but he could still use the threat against Justus.

He looked over the ruins of the shop one last time. The spotlights that had been erected around the scene gave off a spooky light. A few of the firefighters were laughing. They were probably pleased at finally having contained the blaze.

He turned the key in the ignition and suddenly felt as if John were sitting in the backseat taunting him. He had to turn around but saw only the rifle and the hunting bag. He let off the parking brake and rolled off toward Gränby.

He felt that he was at a crossroads. This moment was going to determine the rest of his life. He knew he didn’t have so much time left, five or maybe ten years. The doctors had given him some reason to hope, but that was with the qualifications of taking it easy, cutting out all tobacco and alcohol. He had sold his business and stopped smoking but still had a cognac from time to time. He wanted to end his life in Spain. He had slaved for forty years, first in the shop, then as a crane operator and driver on construction jobs, and finally owning his own business with a stable of around twenty machines for hire.

He was proud of what he had built up. It was none of anyone’s business if he had managed to put away some money on the side. He had worked for every last penny. Little John had laughed at him, but who was laughing now? He must have stashed it somewhere. The only sensible course of action was to go to Berit and get it back.

The revolver on the table drew his gaze like a magnet. Lennart walked out into the kitchen again and again just to look at it. He had never owned a firearm of any kind, though he had often had a knife. The idea of going around with a revolver or pistol had never appealed to him. You could never be sure what it would lead to if the going got tough. The courts always looked more harshly on firearms, and they automatically carried higher sentences. A gun in your pocket made you a hard-core criminal, but with a knife you were just another drunk bum in a brawl.

The Belarusian dealer showed no surprise. He had heard what happened to Little John and completely understood Lennart’s need. He even sold it to Lennart on an installment plan, which he normally never did. “Do me a favor and make sure you survive,” the Russian had said laconically, “so you can pay me back my money.”

Sergei had lived in Uppsala for four years. He had had come to Sweden via Estonia and demanded political asylum. If someone like Lennart had been in charge he would have been sent packing, but now he had to admit that he felt a certain gratitude toward him.

Lennart had never wanted to kill anyone, but he needed a powerful weapon. With a revolver in his hand people would know he meant business.

He couldn’t help fingering the weapon. It was beautiful and frightening, threateningly metallic, and it filled him with anticipation, as if his own importance had grown. He wanted to keep it out so he could get used to the idea that he was armed.

Lennart had not had a drop of alcohol, not even a light beer, for thirty-six hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this sober. Maybe when he had been taken into custody by the police that time. But then he had been on the verge of confessing just so he could have a beer.

He felt like a new man, as if the old Lennart had stepped out of his body and was looking at his old shell. He saw himself walk around the apartment, stand in the window, look out at the snow, pick up the gun, and get dressed.

Tonight he wanted to get to the bottom of this. That’s how he felt. He was sure that Berit was involved in some way, and now the truth was going to come out. He didn’t want to hurt her, he couldn’t hurt her. She was after all John’s wife and mother to Justus.

He wanted so desperately to believe the assurances that she had been faithful, but Mossa’s words kept ringing in his ears:
His whore for a wife.
Strong words. He had always trusted Mossa, and why would he lie about this?

Was it Dick? He hadn’t seen him for a long time. Someone had said he was in Holland.
That may be as it is,
Lennart thought.
I can go there. If he thinks he can get out of this he’s wrong. I will track him down to the ends of the world if need be.

He stepped out onto the snowy street, sober as a god and cleansed from his past life. He felt a great calm and strangely enough thought of his father. Was it the short interlude of working with Micke that had brought back these more frequent thoughts of his father? Albin had been good, not only as a welder but as a father. This conviction had grown in Lennart over the years, not least when he saw John with Justus.

He sighed heavily. He was back on Brantings square again. No tractor, no noisy teenagers, just mounds of snow and him. His need for alcohol made his innards contract as if he had a steel wire rigged up inside, a steel wire that was slowly being turned tighter, a fragile center of despair. It could break at any moment. He could run home and have a swig of something, but that would essentially mean giving up on the search for John’s killer forever.

He tramped on with gritted teeth. Christmas stars and blinking colored lights on the balconies lit up his way over Skomakar hill. “Albin and John,” he mumbled quietly. He felt as if Albin were with him, as if his father had stepped down from his roof and his heaven in order to support him. His father walked beside him in wordless sympathy. Occasionally he pointed up and Lennart understood that Albin had once been up there on those rooftops.