The Princess of Burundi

Thirty-seven

Justus knew where to go. There was a hole in the fence. The construction site nearby made it even easier since the scaffolding shielded him from the street.

A feeling of power surged through him. No one saw him, no one heard him, no one knew what he was about to do. He stopped by a puddle of oil that shone with metallic darkness against the white ground, and looked back. He had left tracks in the snow but he didn’t care. He was planning to take the same route back and he could erase his tracks then.

A piece of sheet metal sticking out of a container vibrated in the wind and the sound made him stop one more time. He looked up at the familiar building but it was only now that he saw how worn down the place was. When he was little, this had been a palace and John had been king. This was the place of the good sounds and smells. This was where his father grew to a giant in the shower of sparks, handling the black, heavy steel plate with ease. When struck, the metal resonated at a deep pitch and left a distinct smell that stayed on your fingers for days, just like the stainless steel burnished as fine as a mirror and that reflected light all over the blackened shop ceiling.

When John and the other workers took a break in the back room, the shop seemed to rest. Justus would walk around in the silence and touch the welded seams that ran like scars across the metal. He heard voices and laughter from the back room. Often they called his name and he would sample the hawthorn juice from the Finnish archipelago and eat sandwiches with black fingerprints on the cheese.

A car drove by on the street and Justus sneaked in behind the container, continuing on to the back of the building where there were a few windows closer to the ground. He smashed one of these with an iron pipe. He wasn’t particularly afraid of being discovered because a high fence ran along the back of the property and no one was working on the construction site.

He cleared glass and debris from the window and hoisted himself up with the help of a pile of crates. The back room looked like it always did. There was a newspaper on the table where John usually sat. He pushed it to the ground. Where Erki sat there was a book of matches, which he picked up. Now there was no hesitation in his movements. It was as if the sight of the old lunchroom strengthened his resolve. He opened the makeshift plywood door of a storage area and dragged out a few containers of gasoline and oil. There were also jars and bottles filled with various chemicals. He carried the containers to assorted places in the shop. In Sagander’s office he poured out five liters of ligroin.

He did a final walk-through of the shop floor, looking around John’s old workplace. He was getting dizzy from all the smells. He poured out a whole container of gasoline in and all around the lunchroom, squirting some on the table and chairs, and then crawling out the back window.

The wind was picking up. He waited outside the window for a while before he took out the matches. The first match went out immediately, as did the second. He counted the ones that were left and worried that there wouldn’t be enough. He crawled in again and grabbed some newspaper, soaking a corner in the gasoline before he crawled out again.

Before he lit the newspaper and threw it in he thought about John. What was it he had said about dreams?

He heard a whoosh from inside and then came something like an explosion. The remaining window was blown out and Justus was almost hit by the glass projectiles flying through the air. In awe he watched as a pillar of fire shot out from the window. Then he ran. As he was crawling out through the fence, he suddenly remembered about erasing his footprints. He hesitated before crawling back through it and looked around for something he could use to sweep the snow clean.

Many small explosions came from inside the building and he thought about the gas. There were a number of gas bottles inside and he knew how dangerous they were. John had talked about that. He grabbed a piece of metal and ran to the back of the building. It was impossible for him to get all the way to the window, but he wiped the snow as far as he could, then ran dragging the piece behind him until he reached the street. Then he tossed the piece of metal onto a heap of scraps and ran off, laughing.

He ran westward, into the city, but stopped himself after fifty meters. John would have walked calmly. That was smarter.

He worried about the tracks outside the window but suddenly realized that the intense heat would melt all the snow around the building. He had been wearing gloves, so there would be no fingerprints. The man who had put his hand on Justus’s shoulder, the one who had compelled him to get up from the snowbank and who had given him a ride into town, would never connect him with the fire. He had dropped him off on Kungsgatan, probably a kilometer from the shop. Justus had told him that he wanted to go see a friend, had tried to take a shortcut through the forest, and had gotten lost.

The emergency call came at 2:46 P.M. from someone who happened to be driving past the shop. A fire truck was on the scene in seven minutes. Two patrol cars arrived a few minutes later. They immediately cordoned off the area with yellow tape.

“A machine workshop,” the commanding fireman explained succinctly to the police officer who walked over. “Sorry to hear about your colleague, by the way. We lit a candle at the station when we heard the news.”

For a moment the uniformed policeman stood completely still before he picked up his phone and called in to work. The first thing he had seen was a sign saying SAGANDER’S MECHANICAL WORKSHOP. He knew that was where John Jonsson had worked.

“I have an aquarium,” he later explained to Haver.

Ola Haver got the call when he was on his way back from Berit’s, and he arrived on the scene some five minutes later. He had had to negotiate the blockades on Björkgatan.

“It’s burning like hell,” the uniformed policeman had said.

Haver, who was looking at the smoke and sparks rising into the sky, became unexpectedly irritated for some reason and snapped at his colleague that he could damn well see that. The latter had only stared back at him and mumbled something to himself.

The wind was blowing from the east and drove the flames toward the building that was being constructed. A pile of lumber under a tarp caught fire but was immediately extinguished by the firefighters.

Haver stared at the building. The fire had broken through the roof and yellow-orange flames were shooting up. It was a hauntingly beautiful sight. Haver saw the stress and focus in the firefighters’ faces. Haver was unable to do anything to help them and it bothered him. He grabbed the fire commander’s shoulder.

“What do you think? Arson?”

“Hard to say. It appears to have started in the back, but has spread rapidly to the rest of the building.”

“By a series of explosions,” Haver said.

“I think you could safely call them that. Come over here and let me show you something.”

The fireman walked off with Haver hurrying behind. The heat emitted by the burning building was even more intense. Haver was forced to shield his face with his hand.

They stopped at the hole in the fence. The fire commander pointed silently to the swept tracks on either side of the fence. Haver got down on his knee and scrutinized the snow.

“Someone has been here and tried to sweep away their tracks,” he said and got up again.

The sound of another explosion made him jump.

“You’d better go back now,” the fireman said. “There’s gas in there.”

Haver shot him a look.

“What can you do about that?”

“Try to cool it down,” the other one said curtly, and now all of his attention was directed at his colleagues’ efforts to contain the violent blaze.

Haver slowly walked back to the street, went over to the construction site, and placed himself behind a tall steel container. This thing can stand up to a lot of punishment, he thought and fished out his cell phone. Ryde answered right away. Haver started to explain where he was but was interrupted and informed by his colleague that he was already on his way.

Before Haver had time to put the phone back again it rang. It was Ann Lindell, and for a moment Haver felt that everything was back to normal. Ann wanted to explain why she had left Berit’s apartment so suddenly. She told him about the ham and her parents.

“Sagander’s workshop is burning,” he interrupted. “It could be arson.”

He heard her catch her breath.

“Has the boy turned up?”

He sensed what she was thinking.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It could be coincidence,” she said slowly. Haver heard in her voice that she was on edge.

“We have to make sure he’s safe.”

Haver peeked around the corner of the container. A new explosion shook the building, but Haver didn’t think it was from the gas, because then it would have been more violent.

“It’s burning like hell.”

“Where is the workshop? Does it pose a risk to the surrounding area?” Lindell wondered.

“The wind is pretty strong,” Haver said and explained where the workshop was.

“Where do you think Justus is?” Lindell asked. “It’s getting dark now. He’s probably beside himself. I think we should take Berit’s concern seriously.”

“Sure,” Haver said.

He saw Ryde walking in the distance with a firefighter at his heels who was gesticulating and from the looks of it arguing vehemently, but Ryde gave him only a cursory glance and walked on. Haver smiled and told Lindell he had to go.

“One last question,” she said. “Have you checked out Lennart? Justus might have gone to see him.”

“Ryde’s here. See you,” Haver said and hung up.

He waved to Ryde, who looked energized.

“They talk too damned much,” he said, and Haver understood that he meant the firefighters.

“There’s gas in there,” he said.

“Did someone start it?”

Haver told him about the tracks around the fence, and before he was finished, Ryde walked around the side of the container.

“Idiot,” Haver said to himself.

He stuck his head out and saw Ryde kneeling by the hole. He took a camera out of his bag and started to work. Snow started to fall. Ryde worked quickly. Haver sympathized with his eagerness, his energy perhaps bolstered by the fear of a gas explosion.

The phone rang again, but before he managed to answer the signal cut out. He didn’t bother checking to see who had called. At that moment there was an incredible bang and Haver saw how Ryde instinctively threw himself to the ground. One end of the building collapsed completely. Haver watched in fascination as part of the roof hesitated for a moment before it started to sink as if in slow motion, sending off a shower of sparks that transformed the sky into a sparkling show.

“Jesus, Ryde!” Haver shouted as the latter crawled through the hole in the fence and ran hunched over toward the contruction site. Thank God, Haver thought, but was then struck by the thought that several of the firefighters had been close to the explosion. He saw how one of the firefighters’ cranes swung around and a powerful stream of water was directed into the gaping hole. Clouds of steam rose and shrouded the other end of the building completely for a few seconds. Then another fire truck with a sky lift pulled up and Haver saw two men in the cage.

“Amazing,” he mumbled at this display of bravery, and listened to the orders shouted over the din.

Ryde came walking down the street. He stopped under a streetlight and checked his camera. He was bleeding on one cheek but seemed completely oblivious to the fact. Haver ran over to him.

“That was a hell of an explosion,” Ryde said. “But the camera made it.”

“You’re bleeding,” Haver said and made an attempt to check his wound.

“I fell,” Ryde said. “Someone has crawled in and out of that hole, that’s for sure. Hard to say if it’s one person or several, but it’s clear the guy tried to sweep away his own tracks. There’s a strange look about it.”

“Any prints?”

Ryde shook his head.

“Looks like someone dragged a two-by-four behind them. I’ll try to do a more thorough check. Do you think it’s going to blow?”

Haver shrugged. In spite of all the dramatics, he felt calm. He knew the anxiety and shock would make themselves felt later.

The ham was a lost cause, Ann realized as soon as she got into the kitchen. The temperature had reached almost ninety degrees. She turned off the burner and pulled the pot to the side. She resisted the impulse to throw the whole thing away. It was still food. Maybe she could fry it up.

She sighed, sat down at the kitchen table, checked the time, and thought about Justus. Where was he? Berit had called everyone she could think of, even Lennart, but the latter hadn’t answered. Berit knew he had caller ID and perhaps he was deliberately not answering. If Justus was there, he would know that she was worried and he wouldn’t have anything against letting her stew.

Ann got up, checked the time again, and went to Erik. He had been fed and was now sleeping in his bed. The apartment was quiet. It was too quiet for her tastes. The anxiety drove her to the window and she looked out into the late-afternoon dark. A car drove into the parking lot, a man got out, took a number of grocery bags from the trunk, and went to the front door of number 8.

She thought about Edvard, who had called to wish her a Merry Christmas. It was the first time they had spoken since they had said good-bye to each other at the hospital in Östhammar that fateful evening last summer.

She had been forced to pull off onto the side of the motorway, although she knew it was dangerous, but she was unable to talk to Edvard and continue to drive safely. What more had he said? She couldn’t remember. His words were obscured by fog, as if the conversation had taken place decades ago. She had asked him how he was and how his teenage boys were doing. Had he asked about Erik? She couldn’t remember, but she had at least sensed a question about how things were going for her and the baby.

They had ended the conversation after a few minutes, stressed as she was by cars honking as they drove by. He had sounded like himself, thoughtful and warm, the way he did when they had felt so much for each other.

Soon her parents would be here and Ann thought about rushing down to the nearest store to pick up a new ham, but suddenly she didn’t care what they thought. Her parents could eat dry ham. There was enough broth to please her father.

The doorbell rang shortly before four.

“Here we are,” her mother said cheerily when Ann opened the door.

And she was unexpectedly happy to see them. Her mother was carrying several large grocery bags with Christmas presents. Her father was carrying the food.

“And there’s more in the car,” her mother said when she saw her daughter’s look. “Is he sleeping?”

They hung up their coats and looked around. Ann felt a rising sense of unease. It was only now that she realized she would be a captive for the next four days. She wouldn’t be able to get away. But then she felt guilty. They were, after all, her parents, and they had been looking forward to this visit for months. They immediately walked into Erik’s room. Her mother teared up at the sight of the little one in his bed.

“What a darling child,” she said and gently stroked his thin locks.

Her father didn’t say anything but was humming, something that Ann interpreted as approval.

“I cooked the ham too long,” she said, breaking the spell. It was best to get it out of the way.

“How many degrees?” her mother asked.

“Ninety,” Ann said and left Erik’s bedroom.

“Is there any broth?” her father asked.

Ann turned around and smiled at him.

“Lots,” she said.

“In that case,” he said, satisfied.

“Ninety,” her mother echoed.

“Erik was crying and I forgot to check it. I think he has colic.”

“Does he cry a lot?”

“Yes,” Ann said. “But mostly at night.”

She walked out into the kitchen and everything felt wrong. She stared at the ham, which had contracted into a grayish lump. The smell made her step back. She heard her mother still making cooing noises in Erik’s bedroom. She knew she should start to unpack the food they had brought and exclaim delightedly over their spare ribs, herring salad, homemade pâté, cured herring, but she couldn’t bring herself to.

“I’m going out for a while,” she shouted and walked to the front door.

Her mother immediately left Erik’s room, stopped in the doorway, and stared at her with bafflement.

“Going out?”

“There’s something I have to do. If Erik wakes up just give him a little baby porridge. There’s a box on the kitchen counter.”

“But we only just got here.”

“I won’t be gone long, I promise. Maybe I can get a new ham. Is there anything else we need?”

Her mother was hurt but also concerned.

“Is it your job?”

She knew her daughter.

“Not exactly,” Ann said evasively and put her coat on. She pretended to think it over, trying to smooth over her escape by reaching out to her mother in some way, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead she gave her mother a halfhearted smile and opened the door.

“Only give him one bottle,” she said, her body already turning away. “If he has more he gets a tummy ache. He likes a little mashed banana too,” she added and slipped out.

Lindell immediately called Haver, but he didn’t answer. She checked the time and decided to go to Sagander’s workshop. Maybe he was still there.

When she arrived there wasn’t much left of the building. The oldest part, which had been made out of wood, was completely devoured. The two masonry ends and a gable remained as sooty ruins. The snow that had not melted on the ground was no longer white but covered in sooty particles. The firefighting operation was still in process but no open flames were visible.

She looked around for Ola Haver and was beginning to think he had left the scene when she spotted him.

She walked over and stood close to him. He hadn’t seen her. He was talking to the fire chief, whom she recognized. He nodded to her over Ola’s shoulder and Ola turned. He laughed when he saw her.

“Couldn’t stay away, I see.”

“My mom and dad are looking after Erik. Have you heard anything about Justus?”

Haver shook his head. He ended the conversation with the fire chief, who gave Lindell an amused look.

“We’ve called Sagander. We thought he would want to come down but it turns out he’s on bed rest.”

“Bed rest?”

“He had an operation recently and has developed an infection,” Haver said, and his expression shifted so perceptibly that Lindell thought he was wincing in pain.

“What is it?” she asked and touched his arm.

“The crutch,” he said. “I knew there was something. The hospital,” he added, as if that explained everything.

“Tell me more,” Lindell said.

She had seen that look before and knew it must be something important. He drew her aside and she liked the feeling of his hand on her arm.

“Sagander has recently had an operation, probably at Akademiska Hospital. The knife was stolen from a car in the hospital parking garage. Maybe Sagander has a pickup truck. Maybe he’s the ‘angry man’ from Vaksala square?”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” Lindell said.

“I should have thought of it before. When I came down here to question Sagander he was sitting the whole time, zooming around on his office chair. A crutch was leaned up against the wall by the door.”

It was all falling into place. The vague feeling he had around construction sites now had its explanation. The construction site at the hospital and the neighboring site here. He recalled how he had watched the workers for a while and how one of them had waved to him. As the son of a construction worker he had always liked the sight of pits, work sites, and temporary barracks. Construction had been the key word, but his love of construction in general had masked the connection for a while.

“Who is the angry man?” Lindell asked.

Haver gave an succinct account of what Hahn had told them.

“If we accept your line of reasoning for now,” Lindell said, “do you think Justus could have suspected that Sagander was responsible for the murder?”

Haver looked at her thoughtfully. Lindell assumed he was trying to make more connections now that the first pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly and looked around.

Nearby, a fireman was rubbing his face with snow, spitting and grumbling. He straightened his back and turned to look at the burned building as if he fully expected it to burst into flame and smoke again.

“They’re doing a fantastic job,” Lindell said and nodded to the firefighter.

Haver didn’t answer. He had his cell phone in his hand.

“Maybe we should call Berglund,” he said. “And a patrol car.”

Lindell knew what he was thinking: Drive out to Sagander’s house.

“Where does he live?”

“On a farm in the Börje area, I think. I’ll have Berglund check it out.”

He dialed a number and Lindell walked away. She took out her phone and called Berit. The phone rang several times before she picked up. Her voice was muted, as if she was expecting bad news.

“Did Justus know Sagander very well?” Lindell asked.

“Sagge? Why do you ask?”

Lindell thought about telling her that the workshop had just burned to the ground but decided not to.

“I thought that…”

“I can tell you that Sagander was hated in our family. Justus would never have gone out to see him. Why would you think that?”

Lindell told her about the fire and heard Berit draw her breath. She had said it herself: Sagander was hated. Sometimes the step from hate to arson was not so big.

“Do you think Justus did it?”

“No, I’m just asking,” Lindell said.

“Are you at the shop? What does Sagge say?”

“He’s not here. He can’t walk right now. We’re driving out to see him.”

“You too? Where’s the baby?”

“He’s with my mother.”

Lindell left her car at the scene. They picked up Berglund at the station and a patrol car with three officers followed behind.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Berglund said as soon as he got into the car.

“I know,” Lindell said curtly. “But I am.”

“And the baby?”

“Mom and Dad are visiting.”

“And you run out on them? What are you thinking? It’s almost Christmas!”

“That’s why,” Lindell said. “I knew it would drive them nuts.”

Berglund sighed in the backseat.

“I never really believed that Hahn killed Little John,” said Haver, who had paid no attention to the squabble between Berglund and Lindell.

“Sammy was the only one who put his money on Hahn,” Berglund said.

“He always wants to go against the pack,” Lindell said to him. It felt good to be back among her colleagues.

“Does Ottosson know you’re here?” Berglund asked sternly. She shook her head.

“Not even my mother knows I’m here,” she said and gave him her sweetest smile. Haver turned on the car radio, and the Pointer Sisters’ “I’m So Excited” came through the speakers. Lindell gave Berglund a meaningful look and sang along. “…I’m about to lose control…”

“You’re impossible,” Berglund said, but smiled. “Turn it down.”

“I like this song,” Haver said.

“I promise I’ll be completely calm,” Lindell said.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Haver said. He chuckled, but both Berglund and Lindell knew it was from nervous tension.