The princess of Burundi (3 page)

She was taken by surprise. She had looked back at the sound of something she thought was a scream. Ann Lindell turned around. A woman’s scream.

When she turned back again he was right in front of her, Santa Claus, with an overabundant beard and a macabre face mask.

“Good grief, you scared me to half to death.”

“Merry Christmas,” the Santa said, trying to sound like a Walt Disney character.

Go to hell,
she thought, but smiled.

“No, thank you,” she said, as if the Santa had been trying to sell her something, which had probably been his intention because he left her in order to turn his attention to a couple with three children.

She walked into the supermarket.
He would do more good shoveling the sidewalk,
she thought.
Then at least you’d be able to get in.
She stamped hard to get the snow off her feet and took out her shopping list. It was long and she was already exhausted.

Candles were first on the list, then an endless number of various food items. She didn’t want to be doing this, but she had no choice. It was the first time her parents were coming to Uppsala for Christmas. Granted, her mother had promised to bring a few Christmas dishes with her, but the list was still daunting.

She was sweating by the time she reached the vegetable aisle.

“Do you have any cabbage?” she asked a passing employee, who gestured vaguely.

“Thank you,” Lindell said pointedly. “Thanks for the detailed directions.”

A hand appeared on her arm. She turned around and saw Asta Lundin.

“Ann, it’s certainly been a long time,” she said.

She kept her hand where it was, and Ann Lindell felt the pressure on her arm. The past flickered in front of her eyes. Asta was the widow of Tomato-Anton, a labor-union buddy who had been friends with Edvard Risberg. Ann had met her a few times through Edvard. They had had coffee in her kitchen and Edvard had later helped her when she moved into town.

“Asta,” she said simply, unable to think.

“I see you have a little one,” Asta said, nodding to the carrier on Ann’s back.

“His name is Erik,” Ann said.

“Is everything all right?”

She wanted to cry. Asta’s hair stood like a halo around her thin face. She recalled Edvard’s saying that Tomato-Anton and Asta were some of the best people he had ever met.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Ann said, but her expression betrayed her.

“There’s a lot that has to go in the shopping cart,” Asta said. “What a chore.”

Ann wanted to ask about Edvard. She hadn’t talked to him in a year and a half, ever since that evening at the Östhammar hospital when she told him she was pregnant with another man’s child. She hadn’t heard anything about him through anyone. It was as if he had been erased from her life. Was he still living on Gräsö island, renting the flat above Viola’s? What was he doing? Was he in touch with his teenage boys? And—this is when she started to lose it—was he seeing anyone new?

“You look good,” Asta said. “Pink cheeked and healthy.”

“Thanks. How about you?”

“My sister’s coming up for the holidays.”

“How nice. My parents are coming up too, they want to see how Erik has grown. Have you…” Ann started, but couldn’t bring herself to finish.

“I understand. Our Edvard,” Asta said, putting her hand back on Ann’s arm.

Ann remembered what Edvard had told her about Asta and Anton, how physically affectionate they had been, how much they had hugged and kissed each other. For Edvard, the Lundins had embodied the principle of fidelity in their relationship to each other and in their lives.

“Maybe you don’t hear much from Gräsö,” Asta said.

“Is he still there?”

“The same place. Viola is a little frail these days, I think she had a stroke in the fall, but she’s back on her feet again.”

“That’s good,” Ann said flatly.

“Should we have a cup?” Asta asked.

They sat down at a small table and drank some of the complimentary coffee from paper cups. Erik whined a little, so Ann took off the baby carrier and unzipped his little coat.

“He looks nice and healthy,” Asta said.

There was so much Ann wanted to ask about, but she held back. It felt strange to sit there with this old woman, as if they had known each other for a long time, and yet they hadn’t. She felt ashamed. She had betrayed Edvard and by extension his closest friends. She had hurt him, caused him pain, she knew that, but she saw no bitterness in Asta, or anger.

“Edvard is doing well,” Asta said. “He came by about a month ago. He looks in on me from time to time.”

So he’s been in town,
Ann thought.
Maybe we’ve passed each other on the street, maybe he saw me?

“He keeps busy with work,” Asta continued. “He works on as before. They’ve all been workaholics, that family. I knew his father and his grandfather before him.”

Ann nodded. She remembered Albert Risberg, the old man who lived upstairs at Ramnäs farm, where Edvard was working when they first met.

“He’s become a real Roslagen boy.”

Asta paused, took a sip of her coffee, and looked at Ann.

“I’m sorry things turned out the way they did,” she said. “It really is too bad.”

“I can’t say it’s been the best time of my life,” said Ann.

“Edvard isn’t a strong man. Anton often said that to me.”

Ann didn’t want to hear any more, and it was as if Asta could tell, because she interrupted herself.

“Life doesn’t always turn out the way you expect,” she said with a crooked smile.

“Has he…?”

“No, he lives alone,” Asta said.

“You’re reading my thoughts,” said Ann.

“Your thoughts are an open book, my dear. Do you still love him?”

Ann nodded. She didn’t want to cry, not in a supermarket with crowds of people. She would let the tears come when she was alone. Of course she still loved him.

“These things take time,” Asta said. “Life will get better again, you’ll see.”

These things take time,
Ann repeated to herself. Had Asta talked to Edvard?
Perhaps he wants to meet with me—to forgive?
She wanted to ask Asta what she had meant but feared the answer.

“Maybe,” she said and stood up. “I have to keep shopping. Thanks for the chat.”

Asta didn’t say anything. She stayed at the table and was still there when Ann walked by a little later on her way to the deli counter. That gray hair, her thin hands on the table. Ann sensed that she was thinking about Anton.

He felt drawn to the moss peeking out from under the snow. If it had been summer he would have stretched out on it for a little while, taken a short rest. He breathed deeply. Once, twice. She had turned on a lamp in the living room. He was able to catch a few brief glimpses of her.

“I am a forest warrior,” he said aloud.

It was an appealing thought, that he was a creature from outside, approaching the warm windows from the moss and the darkness.

Suddenly a light went on in the bedroom. She was naked from the waist up except for a light-colored bra. She opened the closet, took out a sweater, and pulled it on in a motion so quick that he swore. He wanted to see her. How he had dreamed about those breasts!

She remained in the bedroom, turning this way and that in front of the mirror, making some adjustments. She walked closer to the mirror and leaned forward. He had to do the same in order to keep watching her. The distance from the window to the tree he was hidden behind was around five meters. He sniffed the trunk. A smell of moisture, nothing else.

She turned off the light and left the room. He waited for ten minutes before gingerly approaching the patio and crouching down behind the railing. What was his plan? Indecision caused him to hesitate. He’d thought he had it all figured out, but now that he was here, so close to one of his tormentors, it no longer seemed appealing.

Vincent Hahn felt himself going back twenty-five, thirty years. There had been moments of greatness even then, moments when had he decided to turn the tables. These intentions, however, inevitably crumbled in the face of reality. She still had the power to unnerve him, a fact that infuriated him but did nothing to help him throw off these feelings of inferiority and passivity.

A knife,
Haver thought.
What kind of person kills with a knife?
Lacerations to the chest and arms, severed fingers, burn marks—all pointed to a case of torture. He scrawled a few lines on his notepad before he rolled his chair up to the computer and started to write a report. After he had entered the preliminary data, there was a knock on the door. Fredriksson looked in.

“Little John,” Fredriksson said.

“I’ve accessed all our material on him.”

“It’s damned cold out there.”

Fredriksson still looked frozen.

“His brother is still active from time to time,” he said and sat down.

Haver pushed his chair back and looked at his colleague. He wanted to finish the report but realized that Fredriksson wanted to talk.

“It must have been a while.”

“On the contrary. Lennart Albert Jonsson was charged with larceny with aggravating circumstances as recently as last spring.”

“Any consequences?”

“The charges were dropped,” Fredriksson said. “The witnesses backed down.”

“Under threat?”

“I assume so.”

“I guess we’ll have to take a look at this brother.”

“The remarkable thing is that John managed to stay out of trouble for as many years as he did,” Fredriksson said.

He stood up and leaned against a filing cabinet and looked unusually relaxed, as if a murder case were just what he needed before Christmas.

“I assume you know he’s married. I’ve met the wife. A real looker. They have a boy, Justus.”

“How the hell do you remember all these things?”

“There was something I liked about that family. Little John’s wife was something else. A real dame, no doubt about it. Attractive, of course, but not just that. There was something more there.”

Haver waited for him to continue, for an elaboration of the “something more,” but Fredriksson seemed to have moved on.

“So
looker
and
dame
are synonyms?”

“Guess so,” Fredriksson said, smiling.

“Bea is over there right now,” said Haver.

He was happy to have gotten out of it, even though he should have been there. The first meeting with close family members could yield important information.

He remembered the wife of a suicide they had handled. The man had blown himself up behind a barn in the Hagby area, and when Haver and a female colleague, Mia Rosén, had knocked on the door of the newly widowed woman’s house in order to relay the sad news, she had started to laugh. She laughed nonstop for at least half a minute, until Rosén shook her. The woman managed to regain a modicum of control over herself and mumbled something of an apology but could not conceal her pleasure over her husband’s death.

It turned out that the man had been severely intoxicated with a blood alcohol level so high that they could not rule out the possibility that someone else had strapped the explosives to his body. There were car tire tracks on a thin and muddy tractor trail behind the barn. A car had pulled up to and then reversed away from the location, most likely a blue car, which they had determined from collision damage to a young pine tree by the side of the road.

When they questioned the woman a few days later there was a man in the house. He owned a red Audi.

Fredriksson interrupted Haver’s thought process.

“Who kills with a knife?” he asked, picking up on Haver’s earlier thoughts about Little John.

“A drunk involved in a fistfight that escalates into murder or gang violence.”

“Or a calculating bastard who doesn’t want to make a lot of noise,” Fredriksson said.

“He was slashed and tortured before he was killed.”

“What do we make of the fingers?”

“Blackmail was the first thing I thought of,” Haver said. “I know, I watch too much TV,” he said when he met Fredriksson’s gaze.

“I think Little John may have had some information that was very valuable to someone else,” he continued and rolled his chair out from under the table.

“John was a quiet, stubborn kind of guy,” Fredriksson said.

He took a few steps toward the window but turned quickly and looked at Haver.

“Heard anything from Ann?”

“A few weeks ago. She sends her regards.”

“From a few weeks ago, thank you. You’re quite the messenger. How is she?”

“Being a stay-at-home mom isn’t really her thing.”

“How about the kid?”

“He’s fine, I think. We talked about work mainly. I think Ann was involved in charging Little John’s brother once.”

Fredriksson left Haver, who was still thinking about John’s wife. He was curious to hear what Bea had to report. If he knew her, Bea would take her time in getting back to the office. She had the best touch in handling families, friendly without being intrusive or overly emotional, thorough without being finicky. She could take a long time in building up the necessary trust, but consequently often uncovered information that her colleagues missed.

Haver called Ryde on his cell phone. As he had expected, the forensic technician was still out in Libro.

“Anything interesting?”

“Not much other than that it’s started to snow again.”

“Call me if you find anything exciting,” Haver said, feeling somewhat impatient. Ryde should have found something by now. Something small. Haver wanted fast results.

Please let it go well,
he thought, in the hope that the first homicide investigation he was heading would lead to a swift arrest. He was by no means inexperienced. He had worked with Lindell on several cases and believed himself up to the admittedly challenging task, but he also felt bodily twinges of insecurity and impatience.

He grabbed the phone again, called the DA, and thereafter tried to track down a certain Andreas Lundemark, who was in charge of the Libro snow dump. Haver wanted to establish how that operation was managed. A large number of truck drivers had been out there, to which tracks in the giant mounds of snow bore testament. Someone might have seen something. Everyone would have to be questioned.

He tracked down Lundemark’s cell phone number with the help of Information, but when he dialed the number no one answered. Haver left a message.

He hung up and knew he had to do the right thing. He sat with John’s and his brother’s files in front of him. He leafed through the papers. A not insubstantial narrative, particularly in Lennart’s case. Haver made a note of the names that cropped up in the various investigations, fifty-two names in all. Every last one would have to be questioned. Most important was the group in Lennart’s file designated as his “closest associates,” a number of thieves, fencers, drinking buddies, and others whom Lennart was thought to know.

Haver found himself getting lost in thought, his mind drifting back to Rebecka. He was a good investigator but came up short on the home front. He couldn’t really see what was bothering her. She had been home on maternity leave once before and that time everything had been fine. Should he simply ask her? Sit down with her after the kids had gone to bed and essentially interrogate her? Not leave anything to chance, be systematic and try to ignore the fact that he might be the guilty party?

“Tonight,” he said aloud and stood up; but he knew as he did so that he was lying to himself. He would never have the energy to talk to her after coming home from the first day of a homicide investigation. And when exactly would he go home?

“I mustn’t forget to call,” he mumbled.

Beatrice stood for a while in the entrance hall, reading the names of the residents. There were two Anderssons, one Ramirez, and an Oto. Where did Oto come from? West Africa, Malaysia, or some other far-off land? There was also a J. and B. and Justus Jonsson, two floors up.

She was alone in her errand, which pleased her. Delivering the news of a death was probably the hardest task. Beatrice was simply distracted by her colleagues in such situations. Dealing with her own emotions was hard enough, and she was happy not to have to support a colleague who would perhaps start shooting off at the mouth or go completely silent and inject a greater sense of anxiety.

The woodwork around the door had been newly replaced and still smelled of paint. She tried to imagine that she was there to visit a good friend, perhaps someone she hadn’t seen for a long time. Full of excitement and anticipation.

She stroked the pale green bumpy wall. The smell of paint mixed with the smells of cooking. Fried onions.
Oto is making his national dish
, she thought,
in honor of my visit. Oto, how nice to see you again. Oh, fried onions! My favorite!

She took a step but stopped. Her cell phone vibrated. She checked to see who it was. Ola.

“We’ve just received a missing-persons report,” he said. “Berit Jonsson called in to say she hasn’t seen her husband since last night.”

“I’m in the stairwell,” Bea said.

“We told her we’d be sending someone over.”

“And would that be me?”

“That would be you,” Ola Haver said with great seriousness.

Damn it all to hell,
she thought.
She knows we’re coming. She thinks I’m here to ask her about John’s disappearance, and instead I’ll deliver the news of his death.

She remembered a colleague who had been called to the scene of an accident. An older man, hit by car, death was instantaneous. The colleague had recognized the man from his home village. He had been acquainted with the man’s parents and had stayed in touch with both the man and his wife when they moved into the city.

He took it upon himself to deliver the news of the man’s death. The man’s wife was delighted to see him, pulling him into the apartment with words about coffee and how her husband would soon be home, he was just out somewhere momentarily, and then they would all be able to have a bite and catch up.

Beatrice climbed the stairs one after the other. John, Berit, and Justus Jonsson. The doorbell played a muffled melody, a kind she disliked. She took a step back. The door opened almost immediately.

“Beatrice Andersson, from the police,” she said and put out her hand.

Berit Jonsson took it. Her hand was small, warm, and damp.

“That didn’t take long,” she said and cleared her throat. “Please come in.”

The entryway was narrow and dark. A heap of shoes and boots lay right inside the door. Beatrice removed her coat and reached for a hanger while Berit stood passively beside her. She turned around and tried a smile but couldn’t quite pull it off.

Berit’s face was void of expression. She returned Beatrice’s gaze with neutral eyes and they walked into the kitchen without a word. Berit gestured toward a kitchen chair with her hand but remained standing at the kitchen counter. She was about thirty-five. Her hair, sloppily gathered into a ponytail, had once been blond and was now dyed a reddish brown. A shade probably called “mahogany,” Berit guessed. Her left eye was slightly walleyed. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and there was something naked about her face. She was very tired. She gripped the counter behind her back with her hands.

“You must be Berit. I also saw the name Justus downstairs. Is that your son?”

Berit Jonsson nodded.

“Mine and John’s.”

“Is he at home?”

She shook her head.

“You have reported John as missing,” Beatrice said, then hesitated for a moment before continuing, even though she had quietly planned it out.

“He should have come home yesterday afternoon, at four, but he never did.”

She wobbled over the “never did,” freeing one of her hands from the counter and rubbing it over her face.

Beatrice thought she was beautiful even in her present state with all her worry, the large black circles under her eyes and her stiff, exhausted features.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but John is dead. We found him this morning.”

The words settled like a chill over the kitchen. Berit’s hand hovered by her face as if she wanted to take cover, not hear, not see, but Beatrice saw how the realization crept over her. Berit lowered her arm, bringing it forward in an open position, palm up, as if begging for something. Her eyelids fluttered, the pupils grew larger, and she swallowed.

Beatrice stood up and took Berit’s hand again and now it was ice-cold.

“I’m very sorry,” she repeated.

Berit scrutinized her face as if to determine if there was any trace of uncertainty in it. She pulled her hand away and put it in front of her mouth, and Beatrice waited for the scream, but it never came.

Beatrice swallowed. She saw Little John’s battered, beaten, and burned body, in her mind’s eye, dumped in a bank of snow that was dirty from the city’s streets.

Berit shook her head, gently at first, almost imperceptibly, then more forcefully. She opened her mouth very slowly and a strand of saliva ran out of the corner of her mouth. Beatrice’s words were taking root, burrowing into her consciousness. She stiffened, not moving a muscle, unreachable during the time that the message about her John sank in, that he was never going to come home again, never hug her, never walk into the kitchen, never do anything again.

She made no resistance when Beatrice put her arms around her shoulders, led her away to the chair by the window, and sat down across from her. She caught herself quickly taking note of what was on the table: an azalea that needed water and was starting to wilt, the morning paper, an Advent candleholder with three candles that had burned halfway to the bottom, and—farthest in by the wall—a knife and fork crossed over an empty plate.

Beatrice leaned in across the table and grabbed Berit’s hand again and gave it a squeeze. Then came a single tear that traced its way down her cheek.

“Can we call anyone?”

Berit turned her face toward Beatrice, meeting her gaze.

“How?” she asked hoarsely, in a whisper.

“He was murdered,” Beatrice said in a low voice, as if she were adjusting the volume to match Berit’s.

The look she got reminded her of a sheep slaughter she had witnessed as a child. The victim was a female sheep. The animal was taken from the pen, braying, and led out into the yard. She was wild but let herself be calmed by Beatrice’s uncle.