The Princess of Burundi

Fifteen

The photograph in the evening paper was of a young John Jonsson. Gunilla Karlsson recognized him immediately, as she would have even if they had used a recent picture of him. She had bumped into him just a few months ago, unexpectedly, at the grocery store. And on top of that she had had Justus in preschool. Actually not in her room, but he was a boy who stood out. It was mostly Berit who dropped him off and picked him up, but sometimes John turned up in the afternoon, straight from work. He had a nice smell. She had wondered what it was for a long time before she had the courage to ask. He had been completely at a loss until he realized she meant the smell of welding smoke. He had exused himself, looked extremely embarrassed, and mumbled something about not having had time to shower. Gunilla had been equally embarrassed and assured him that she liked the smell. There they were, with Justus between them busy putting on his warm things, both blushing furiously and looking at each other. Then they had burst into laughter.

After that time he often smiled at her. He told her about the body shop and offered their services in case the preschool needed any repairs. She had thanked him but said she didn’t think they needed to have anything welded. “But please feel free to stop by more often,” she had added, “we’re short on men around here.”

He had looked at her in the old way, which she remembered so well from their days at school, and felt warm inside. He liked her words-that’s what his look told her-but Gunilla also read something else there, a spark of attraction.

She would have wanted to kiss him, not passionately, just a peck on the cheek to draw in more of that welding smoke that had penetrated all his pores. It was a fleeting impulse that lasted no more than a second, but it returned to her every time they met.

They stood there for a short while, close to each other, and it was as if time had stopped. It occurred to her that John was one of the few people she saw regularly and who had met both her parents while they were still active. Now they were both in homes, unreachable.

She had also met John’s parents, the stuttering Albin and Aina, who used to leave terse notes in the communal laundry facilities urging her neighbors to clean up better after themselves.

A long time ago she had been in love with John. Back in junior high, maybe seventh grade. She had been part of the group that hung out on “the hill,” an empty lot next to Vaksala square. John and Lennart used to go there, as well as thirty or so other teenagers from Petterslund, Almtuna, and Kvarngärdet.

A builder who had gone bankrupt stored leftover lumber and parts at the top of the hill and the youngsters had arranged these in an ingenious series of tunnels and rooms. Gunilla had gone mostly for John’s sake and had been frightened by the heavy smell of paint thinner, trichloroethylene, and other chemicals that hung in the air.

The paint sniffing came and went in waves. At certain times no one was doing anything but then there would be an outbreak that would last for a few months or more. It was mainly a summer and fall activity. The police made occasional raids but no one really took the substance abuse seriously.

Gunilla had often thought about the number of brain cells that must have died on the hill. She was glad she had managed to break away from the group even though it meant she had lost contact with John.

And now he was dead. She read the article, but composed an internal text about his background and life. It struck her how little information there really was about John in the paper, even though the article was three pages long. The reporter had made things easy for himself, had dug out a list of John’s sins and also connected the murder with a crime that had taken place a few weeks earlier when a drug dealer was knifed down in central Uppsala. “A city of violence and terror,” she read. “The standard image of a sleepy, idyllic university town with its lively student life and dignified academic traditions is increasingly being replaced by images of violence. The popular children’s series of Pelle Svanslös and his innocuous feline adventures feels remote when we study the number of reported crimes and the unsettling realization of how many of these crimes remain unsolved. The police, plagued by internal conflicts and budget cuts, seem at a loss.”

“A sleepy, idyllic university town,” Gunilla sniffed. Uppsala had never been that, at least not for her. Even though she had been born and raised here she had never visited any one of the historic student organizations or even watched the graduating class don their caps on the last day of April and listened to them singing spring songs on the slopes of the castle grounds. It had never been an idyll for her. Nor for John.

But what would John have had to do with a drug dealer? She knew he and his brother had been involved in their share of shady dealings but she doubted that it had ever involved drugs. John just wasn’t the type.

She pushed the newspaper away, stood up, and walked to the window. The snow had stopped falling but a strong westerly wind blew it onto the roof of the garages. Her closest neighbor was walking up to the building with bags of groceries.

She walked past the mirror in the hall, stopped, and looked at herself. She had gained weight. Again. While she stood there she suddenly thought of the rabbit. How could she have forgotten? She walked quickly to the patio door, opened it, and saw Ansgar hanging from the railing, just as she had left him this morning, but now his abdomen had been slit. The internal organs that spilled out had a grayish cast.

There was also something white in the cut. She walked closer and looked at the stiff corpse with disgust. The rabbit’s wide-open eyes seemed to be staring accusingly at her. It was a note. She drew it out carefully. It was bloodstained and she shivered as she unfolded the tiny piece of paper, no bigger than a bus ticket.

The handwriting was almost illegible and looked as if it had been done in haste: “Pets are not appropriate in densely populated areas.” No signature.

What a mean-spirited thing to do, she thought. How would she explain this to Malin, the girl next door? She looked back at the rabbit. Incredible, to kill a rabbit. It had to be a very sick person.

Should she notify the police again? Had they been here? Probably not. They had more pressing matters to attend to than a dead rabbit.

She thought of John again and started to cry. People could be so awful. Had the note been there this morning, or had the person who strangled Ansgar returned later? She looked around. The forest that encroached on the buildings was starting to grow dark. The light from the windows was reflected on the tall trunks of the pine trees. The wind sighed in the treetops. Granite boulders lay scattered about like large animals.

Gunilla went back into the apartment. Her feet were wet and she was cold. She pulled the patio door shut and closed the blinds. Her initial fear was starting to give way to anger, and she hesitated as she stood there. Then she decided to get in touch with the head of the building association. He was a curmudgeon, but he needed to be notified about this. Perhaps he had received complaints about pet owners in the area. Maybe there had been another incident that could be connected to Ansgar’s death?

She found his number in the phone book, dialed the number-which was confusingly like her own-but no one answered. She thought about going over to the neighbors to see if they had heard anyone sneaking around outside but she didn’t feel like leaving her apartment. Maybe he was still out there.

Malin and her parents were away and wouldn’t be back until the weekend was over. The neighbors on the other side were recent arrivals. They were an older couple who had sold their house in Bergsbrunna. Gunilla had spoken only briefly with the woman.

The news at six didn’t mention John’s murder. She changed the channel to check the local news program on channel 4, but the top stories were over and the weather was of no interest to her. Not now.

Calm down, she told herself.

It was the work of a madman, a sick human being. Mentally, she ran through the list of other occupants. Was there anyone capable of strangling and disemboweling a rabbit? No. Her neighbor Cattis could be difficult and she certainly had opinions on everyone and everything, but she was hardly so far gone as to do this.

The wind had picked up and Gunilla thought she could hear the rabbit’s body rhythmically smacking against the railing. She knew she should cut him down but didn’t want to go out onto the patio again. And if she called the police again, what would they do? They must have enough on their hands with John’s murder without investigating the death of a pet rabbit.

She heard Magnus Härenstam’s voice on the television as she gently pushed open the door and at the same time turned on the outside light. It didn’t turn on and she tried again with the same result. A branch of the bird-cherry shrub that Martin had planted was dashed against the plastic roof. Why did he plant it so close? she had time to think before she noticed that the rabbit was gone. As it was white, it took a while before she spotted it again. Had it been blown down onto the snow or had someone taken it down?

She looked out toward the trees, holding her breath and crouching down slightly so that she would not be as visible to the outside. The pine trees swayed in the wind. The bird-cherry branch scraped against the roof. She took a few hesitant steps, wearing only thin stockings. Ansgar couldn’t stay down there, people would think she had done it. Malin would never forgive her.

She was terrified, but strangely not very surprised, when a hand covered her mouth and another encircled her waist. She tried to bite her attacker but couldn’t open her mouth.

“Rabbits are disgusting,” a voice hissed in her ear, a voice she recognized but was unable to place.

The man’s breath stank of decay. Gunilla tried to kick back with her legs like a frightened horse but had no strength. The man only chuckled, as if her show of resistance amused him.

“Let’s go in,” he said smoothly.

Gunilla desperately tried to place the voice. She had been so stupid. He must have been hiding behind the door.

He dragged her back into the apartment without allowing her to see him. He turned off the light by pressing his back against the button, then dragged her farther into the room and gave her a shove so that she fell into the sofa.

“Hi, Gunilla,” he said. “I just wanted to drop in for a visit.”

His voice was so familiar. She studied his face, which was narrow, with two deep lines that ran down his cheeks, a black beard, almost bald on top, and with a smile on his lips that frightened and confused her.

“I’m talking to you.”

“What?” Gunilla said.

She had seen his lips move but had no idea what he had said.

“Do you remember me?”

Gunilla nodded. Suddenly she knew who he was. She started to shake.

“What do you want?”

The man laughed. He had bad teeth, disintegrating and covered in tartar.

“Did you kill the rabbit?”

Vincent Hahn’s features stiffened in a mask, a laughing mask.

“I want to see your breasts,” he said.

She flinched as if he had struck her.

“Don’t touch me!” she sobbed.

“That’s what you said before, but now I’m the one who decides.”

He didn’t look so strong, she thought. His shoulders and wrists were thin, but she knew how easily one could underestimate a person. Even mere children could be moved by rage to incredible feats of strength, which their bodies did not seem capable of. They had talked about self-defense at the daycare, once, when one of her colleagues had completed a course. She knew she had a chance to escape if only the opportunity arose. No one was invincible.

“If you show me your breasts I’ll leave.”

He looked tired. Maybe he was on medication.

“Then I’ll leave,” he repeated, and leaned forward so that his sour breath wafted over her again. She had to fight against revealing her disgust.

What was the right thing to say?

“Take off your sweater.”

“It’s certainly been a long time.”

“Or I’ll lay you on the ground.”

She stood up. Suddenly she felt sorry for the man in front of her. At school he had always been the one the other students looked down on or treated as an outsider, someone who never fit in. But he had not been completely without friends, and he actually seemed to manage his schoolwork well. A few years ago, when she was leafing through her yearbook, she had seen a picture of Vincent’s thin figure. She had thought at that time that it was strange how Vincent seemed to have gone through high school virtually unchanged-lanky, acne-ridden, and to all appearances unaffected by the usual emotional and hormonal storms that descended on everyone else, especially the boys. He had simply been there, attentive to the teachers, sometimes with an air of superiority toward the other students, but often ingratiating, wanting to please.

“I need to have a drink,” she said. “I’m so scared. Would you like some wine?”

He looked back at her with a total lack of expression. She wondered if he had even understood what she had said.

“Would you like some wine?”

He grabbed her when she tried to walk past. Her arm hurt. He pulled her over but she managed to keep her balance.

“Let me go. I’m only getting some wine. Then you can see my breasts.”

Don’t show your fear, she thought, as the image of the strangled rabbit with his slit belly made her whimper softly. She pulled off her sweater and saw Vincent sway at the sight of her upper body.

“Okay, one glass,” he said and smiled.

He followed her closely. She could feel his body heat behind her back. He was breathing heavily. The wine bottle clinked against the stand and it was as if the noise startled him, because suddenly he grabbed her shoulder, the way Martin did when her neck and shoulders were tight, but this grasp was much harder and turned her around.

“You remember me, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she said. “But you’ve changed a lot.”

“So have you.”

Gunilla freed herself from his hand and reached for the corkscrew hanging above the counter. Vincent Hahn stood right next to her, his sour, foul-smelling breath filling the entire kitchen, and she was struck by the thought that she would never be able to get it clean again.

“Do you like red wine?” she asked and raised the bottle.

The blow came from nowhere, startling both her and Vincent. Everything happened like a reflex action, the instinctive self-defense of an animal.

The bottle struck him on the side of the head and she finished the attack by thrusting the corkscrew into his chest.

Wine was spilling everywhere. Vincent’s face was twisted with pain and surprise. He teetered, fumbling with his hand against the kitchen table, grabbing the back of the chair, then gliding down onto the floor and pulling the chair along with him. Wine and blood mingled together.

Gunilla stood rooted to the spot for a few seconds, paralyzed, still with the broken bottle in one hand and the corkscrew in her left, leaning over, tense, prepared to attack again, but the man at her feet hardly moved. The pool of blood spread out like a dark rose over the linoleum. The raw smell of the blood mixed with the heavy scent of the Rioja.

“You bastard,” she said and pointed the broken bottle at his face, but then she suddenly dropped the sharp-edged weapon and fled from the kitchen, pulled open the front door, and ran out into the dark night.

The cold outside was intense. She slipped in the snow but ran on. Her cries filled the whole yard and the neighbors said later that it had sounded like a terrified, wounded animal.

Åke Bolinder, who lived in the tower block and had just taken his dog off its leash, was the first on the scene. He came running around the corner of the laundry building to see a woman sink to the ground. He immediately recognized her, not because he knew her particularly well, but because he had seen her at the association meetings and occasionally in the grocery store.

When he reached her he smelled the wine that came from her body and noted the tightly gripped corkscrew in her hand. He commanded his dog to sit and leaned over her, not sure of what to do next. He looked up at the wide-open door to her apartment.

Bolinder was a peace-loving man in his fifties, well-groomed and unmarried. He stared at Gunilla’s breasts, at the black bra that stood in stark contrast to the white snow, kneeled down and pulled away a little of the hair that had fallen over her face. What if she throws up? he thought and prepared to jump back. But her expression was almost calm. In the distance he could hear the footsteps of someone running, a balcony door opened, and someone shouted something he didn’t quite catch.

The dog, who was still obediently sitting a few meters away, growled. Bolinder looked up and followed the dog’s gaze. In the door frame there was now a man, his face distorted with pain and hate. Bolinder could hear the rasping sounds of his exhalations, which formed small white puffs of vapor in the cold night. Blood was dripping from his beard.

Jupiter, the German shepherd, started to bark. Bolinder stood up.

“What is it?” Bolinder asked and at that moment Jupiter attacked. Bolinder didn’t know if his usually so gentle dog had been roused to action because of the note of fear in his master’s voice or the fact that the man in the doorway took half a step forward. The dog’s lunge came without warning.

The man in the doorway lost his balance but managed to pull the door shut at the last moment. Bolinder saw Jupiter jump up, heard the sounds of his heavy body come into contact with the hard door and then saw him be thrown back onto the ground.

The dog was back on his feet again immediately and barked loudly. His first somewhat tentative attempts had turned into full-throttle barking. Bolinder called his dog over but Jupiter took no notice of him. Gunilla moved slightly and Bolinder leaned down over her again. She opened her eyes and flinched when she saw her neighbor, pulling herself up onto one elbow and staring at the apartment and the barking dog.

“He tried to rape me,” she said.

Suddenly she became aware of her almost naked upper body, sat up, and crossed her arms over her chest. Bolinder took off his coat and gently placed it over her shoulders.

Despite the pain and the unexpected turn of events, he had had the presence of mind to grab a towel from the bathroom and wipe the blood from his head. He pressed it against his forehead, which was throbbing, then carefully felt the outline of the cut with his fingers. He didn’t think there was a fracture, but it was an ugly wound. The bottle had caught him right above the brow, which is where the copious amounts of blood had come from. The corkscrew had penetrated his shirt and a few centimeters of his flesh but been stopped by bone and had not hurt him significantly.

Vincent Hahn was bewildered rather than confused by what had happened. He had thought he had her where he wanted her, but she had tricked him. Now he had to escape. He heard furious barking and raised voices outside. He threw the bloody towel onto the floor, picked up a clean one, pressed it against his head, and disappeared out into the night the same way he had come.

He ran. Dizziness threatened to overcome him but he kept on running. He knew the forest well and where the paths led. If he chose the nearest one he could be home in five or six minutes, but he was forced to take a longer route in order to avoid people.

Where should he go? How long could he remain at home until the police would come? Gunilla had recognized him. Of course, he was not registered at the Bergslags’ apartment since he was subletting it, but the police would eventually track him down if they started to look for him. Perhaps through the hospital or his former sister-in-law. She was the only one who had visited him since he had moved up to Sävja.

Who would take him in? There was no one to give him shelter, dress his wounds, and let him rest. And who would take care of Julia? He sobbed and stumbled on. He had to get home to her, get there before the police. No one was allowed to touch her. He could hide her in the forest. She would get cold and wet, but it was better than ending up in the fascist hands of the police.

He reached Bergsbrunna farm in a disoriented state. He had taken walks here before and now he recognized where he was. He heard the horses neighing in the barn. He was freezing. It had to be at least fifteen degrees below zero. The cut in his forehead felt stiff. He hesitated in the yard. Should he go into the barn? He didn’t have anything against horses. They were noble animals, wise, but there were cats in there too. He had seen them before, one white, one brown.

From the distance came the sound of insistent barking and it struck him that the police must have called in dogs to track him down. They would reach him soon. The barn offered no protection.

He ran on past two fields. The snow was deeper here and harder to trudge through. His energy was starting to wane and he was breathing hard. At the end of the road he saw some light. Someone had erected a Christmas tree in front of their house. He had the feeling that he had been through this before, running for his life in the cold. Without friends, able to rely only on himself. His chest burned.

He came out by the railroad tracks and followed them to the north. He would reach the crossing shortly. He had read about hobos in the United States who jumped onto freight trains and traveled across the entire continent in search of work, but here the trains simply thundered by at high speed.

He came to a stop, indecisive. A car came by across the fields on the other side of the crossing. Vincent ran over and threw himself down on the road.

The car came closer. He could hear from the sound that it had a diesel engine. Suddenly the beams from the headlights illuminated him. He closed his eyes but lifted one arm as if he were in distress at sea. He thought for a moment that the car was simply going to drive past him but then it came to an abrupt stop.

The car door opened and a man came running over.

“Are you hurt?”

Vincent moaned.

“I’ve been run over.”

“Here?”

Vincent raised himself on one arm and nodded.

“A car. It took off. Can you help me?”

“I’ll call an ambulance,” the man said and got out his cell phone.

“No, just drive me to the hospital instead.”

The man crouched down and took a closer look at Vincent.

“That doesn’t look too good.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“Don’t be silly. Can you walk?”

Vincent slowly got up on all fours. The man helped him to his feet and into the car.

Viro was momentarily distracted by Jupiter’s smell. Then he dragged himself away and his officer followed, smiling at the dog’s eagerness despite the serious nature of their business.

They reached the railway crossing in fifteen minutes, just as a southbound train rushed by. Here the scent trail ended. Viro looked around, confused, then looked up at his officer and whimpered.

“He either had a car parked here or he was picked up,” Sammy Nilsson said. He had followed the canine unit.

They took a look around. Viro followed the scent back a few meters, turned, and again concluded that the tracks stopped abruptly.

“Where could he have gone?”

“The ER,” said the officer with the dog. “He’s been hurt. There’s even blood on the ground here.”

“I think Fredriksson called them already, and I think he sent a car over there.”

Nilsson took out his cell phone and called Allan Fredriksson, who was still back in Gunilla Karlsson’s apartment.

They were sitting in her living room. Detective Inspector Allan Fredriksson blew his nose. Gunilla felt sorry for him. It was the fifth time he had taken out the multicolored handkerchief. He should be at home nursing his cold.

“He ran down toward Bergsbrunna, at which point the trail goes cold,” Fredriksson said when he had ended the conversation with Nilsson.

He could still see the terror in Gunilla’s eyes.

“We’ll station a unit outside your apartment,” he said and put the handkerchief away.

His calm expression and voice reassured her. The shivering that had come over her a short while after Vincent disappeared, stopped.

“You knew him, you said?”

“Yes, from school. His name is Vincent, but I don’t remember his last name. It’s on the tip of my tongue, it sounds German. I can call a friend of mine, she’ll know.”

“That would be good.”

“Hahn,” she said suddenly. “That’s it.”

“Vincent Hahn?”

Gunilla nodded. Fredriksson immediately called the station and gave them the information.

“Have you seen anything of each other since you left school?”

“No. I’ve seen him in town from time to time, but that’s it.”

“Were you in the same class?”

“No, he was in another class in my year. But we had a few subjects together.”

“Has he ever called you or tried to contact you in any way?”

“No.”

“Why do you think he came here?”

“I have no idea. He was always a little strange, even back in school. He was alone a lot and I think he was religious or something. A bit odd.”

Fredriksson looked down at the floor.

“He said that he wanted to see your breasts?”

“Yes. And that then he would leave.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Of course not. He looked completely wild.”

“And you have never had a relationship with him in the past?”

“Never.”

“Have you ever met him at work?”

“I’m a preschool teacher.”

“He’s never had children at your school?”

“I strongly doubt he has children.”

Fredriksson looked at her. Was she bluffing? Was this a relationship dispute? Why would she withhold such information? He decided to believe her.

“It must have taken some courage to hit him,” he said.

“I thought he was going to die. He was bleeding so much, even though the bottle was in my right hand. I’m left-handed, you know.”

“Did he say anything that would explain his actions? Anything at all. Think carefully.”

Gunilla shook her head after a moment’s thoughtful silence.

“It started with the rabbit,” she said. “That’s all I can think of. He was the one who killed him.”

She told him about Ansgar, how he had been strangled, strung up on the patio, and subsequently disemboweled. How she had reported the crime to the police.

“He didn’t think rabbits should be kept in the city?”

“He said they were disgusting.”

“And so he killed it,” Fredriksson said in a perplexed tone.

Even though he had been in this line of work for a long time he had not ceased to be astounded by his fellow citizens.

Ryde, the forensic specialist, walked in at this point. He said nothing, simply stared at his colleague.

“The kitchen,” Fredriksson said, and Ryde left without a word.

Fredriksson knew there was no point in trying polite conversation or conveying unnecessary information when Ryde had that look.

“It was funny-well, I guess funny isn’t the right word,” Gunilla said. “But I’ve been thinking back on my school days a lot today. That guy who was murdered recently had also gone to school with me. And then this creep.”

Ryde, who had overheard her comment, came out of the kitchen.

“You went to school with John Jonsson?”

His voice was abrupt, not modulated for contact with the public. Gunilla looked sternly at him.

“Are you also a police officer?”

Fredriksson couldn’t help smiling.

“This is Eskil Ryde,” he said. “He’s our forensic expert.”

“The only one,” Ryde added. “But go on about John.”

Gunilla sighed heavily, clearly exhausted.

“I know John better,” she started. “We’ve run into each other from time to time over the years. And I know his wife.”

“Please excuse my forwardness,” Fredriksson said as Ryde snorted, “but have you ever had a relationship with John?”

“No. Why on earth would you say that?”

“You were so quick to put in that bit about knowing his wife.”

“That’s a perfectly normal thing to say. And it’s the truth.”

“What did you think when you heard John was murdered?”

“I was horrified, of course. I liked him,” Gunilla said, and looked at Fredriksson steadily as if to say: Don’t try to make anything of it. “He was the quiet type, very sweet. He never made much noise at school. We met some this fall, actually. He seemed really happy, which was unusual for him. I asked him what was going on and he said he was going to go overseas.”

“Any particular country?”

“No, but I had the impression it was far away.”

“When was he planning to go?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about that.”

“It’s possible sometimes for people to talk about wanting to travel,” Fredriksson said, “without having actual plans to do so.”

“I know, and he mentioned it in passing like a joke, but I still had the feeling he meant it.”

“You didn’t get any details?”

“We were both in a hurry and only said a few words.”

“Did you see him again after that?”

“No, it was the last time,” Gunilla said, and then she started to cry. Fredriksson almost felt relieved.