The Princess of Burundi

Thirty-eight

Sagander’s house sat on a small hill. If the circumstances for their visit had been different, Lindell would have commented on how idyllic it looked. It was a traditional red-and-white-painted house in two levels with a covered porch that also functioned as a balcony to the upper story. Two small Christmas trees had been put out on the balcony, covered in a string of lights just like the tall one out in the yard that was eight meters or more. A few smaller buildings on either side with cozy lights in the windows completed the look of a well-established farm on the Uppland plains.

“Is it for real?” Haver asked as they drove up the small road to the house.

“He probably owns just the farmhouse, and not the farm proper,” Berglund said.

On either side of the road someone had placed ornamental arrangements of juniper twigs. Small Santas peeked out from between the branches.

“Isn’t it a little out of control?” Haver snorted.

“I think it looks nice,” Berglund said.

Lindell didn’t say anything, keeping an eye out for a red pickup truck.

“No car,” she said.

They understood what she meant although three cars were parked in front of the house. Haver parked behind a run-down Nissan and the patrol car stopped behind Haver. Everyone got out at the same time. Six police officers, of which five were in uniform and armed. Even Haver was carrying his gun, which surprised Lindell.

The three patrol officers waited outside. A ragged dog ran over and sniffed their legs but disappeared as quickly as it had come. Lindell wondered if she should hang behind too, but an almost imperceptible gesture from Berglund told her it was all right to come along.

A woman in her sixties opened the door. She tried hard to appear relaxed and friendly but her eyes betrayed her. They fluttered between the three police officers, resting for a few seconds on Lindell as if hoping to find a show of support, woman-to-woman.

“Mrs. Sagander?”

Berglund’s gentle voice, in contrast to his somewhat grumpy demeanor, made her attempt a weak smile as well as a nod.

“You must be looking for Agne,” she said and stepped aside.

Lindell smiled at her as she crossed the threshold.

“Ann Lindell,” she said and put out her hand.

“Gunnel,” said the woman and smiled back.

The large hall was filled with the rich scent of Christmas baking. Lindell looked around. The door to the kitchen was open and inside Lindell could see a whole wall covered with copper wares, but above all it was the floor of the hall that drew one’s gaze. It consisted of broad pine planks that shone from varnish and daily polishing. A gigantic bureau in the Swedish country style and a pair of antique Östervåla chairs, as well as homemade rugs in bold colors, underscored the rustic character of the home.

In one of the windows Lindell saw a glowing small-scale Advent church surrounded by cotton wool and a few Santas. Mrs. Sagander followed her gaze and told her that her father had made the model church and the gnomes sometime in the 1940s. This talk about everyday things enlivened her.

“Christmas is such a festive time,” Lindell said.

Agne Sagander received them from his easy chair, one leg supported by an ottoman. Haver, who had first met him at the metalwork shop, thought he looked ill at ease in the comfortable room. It was evident that he did not like his current state. He sighed heavily as they came into the room.

“Here I am sitting like a goddamn cripple,” he said, dispensing entirely with the polite formality of introductions.

“Agne, please,” his wife said, submissive and tired.

“What the hell does it matter?” he asked.

“Pity about the shop,” Berglund said.

“This is quite a delegation,” Sagander said and looked at Lindell. “I know you from the papers. Murder and mayhem, is it really all that fun?”

Lindell walked up to him, stretched out her hand, and introduced herself. Sagander squeezed her hand forcefully. Lindell smiled.

Berglund also walked up and introduced himself.

“Do you hunt?” he asked.

“Yes, I bagged that one in Jämtland,” Sagander said and looked up at the enormous elk head above the fireplace. “Eighteen points, as you can see. Ström’s valley. There’s an abundance of elk there. Or was,” he added with a satisfied smile. “What about you, do you hunt?”

“I used to,” Berglund said.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourselves? Do you have any leads? It feels like ape shit to be sitting here, I can tell you that much.”

“Agne is in a great deal of pain,” his wife inserted. “They operated on his back and now something seems to have gone wrong.”

“It’s those damned butchers at Akademiska,” Sagander said. “Butchers.”

“I think you have an infection,” Gunnel Sagander said in a firmer voice. “You should go in.”

“And be stuck there over Christmas? Not if I can help it.”

“If it’s an infection they’ll give you antibiotics,” she said. “Would you like some coffee?” she said, changing the topic and turning to Lindell.

“Thanks, that would be nice,” she said. Mrs. Sagander left the room. Her husband gazed after her thoughtfully.

“The shop has burned to the ground,” Haver said ruthlessly. “It’s a fucking wasteland.” He seemed to have adjusted his language to Sagander’s own.

“So I’ve been told.”

“Are you upset?” Lindell asked.

“Upset? What the hell kind of question is that?”

“We think someone put a match to it,” Berglund said.

“Can’t you sit down? From down here it feels as if you’ve come to pay your final respects.”

The three officers sat down. Lindell felt like she was paying a visit to a sick, bad-tempered relative.

“Put a match to it,” Sagander said. “Who would do that?”

“Are you on bad terms with anyone?”

“That would be the tax authorities, but I don’t think they resort to arson. Hardly Ringholm, minister of finance, either, that yellow-bellied sap.”

“We’ve been thinking,” Haver said and leaned forward. “Recently one of your former employees was murdered and now your shop has burned down. Is there a connection?”

Sagander shook his head.

“What did you do on the seventeenth of December?” Berglund asked.

Sagander looked at him for a second before answering. Lindell thought she saw a brief look of disappointment on his face, as if Sagander thought that Berglund was letting down a fellow hunter.

“I can tell you that. That was the day I lay under the knife,” he said and gestured to his back.

“You recovered quickly,” Haver said. “When I met you in your office on the nineteenth you seemed very fit.”

“I was operated on for a slipped disk and they send you home as quick as the devil.”

“When did you come home?”

“The afternoon of the eighteenth, my birthday.”

“What kind of car do you drive?” Berglund asked.

“The Volvo out there,” Sagander said quickly. It was obvious that he was in pain and that he hated it, not for the pain itself, Lindell sensed, but because of the inactivity it imposed.

“How did you get home?”

“My wife picked me up.”

“In the Volvo?”

“Yes, how else? In a limousine?”

Mrs. Sagander came into the room with a tray covered with cups and plates, buns and cakes.

“Let’s see,” she said and turned to Lindell. “Maybe you could push those newspapers aside?”

The cups rattled. Lindell helped to set them out.

“This is beautiful china,” she said, and Gunnel Sagander looked at her as if she were drowning at sea and was being thrown a lifesaver.

“I hope you aren’t sick of gingerbread yet,” she said.

I would be enjoying this if it weren’t for Agne Sagander, Lindell thought.

“The coffee is brewing,” Mrs. Sagander said.

“I saw some pretty copper pots in your kitchen on the way in. Do you mind letting me have a closer look?”

“Of course not. Come with me.”

They walked out to the kitchen and Lindell felt Agne Sagander’s eyes in her back.

“He gets a little brusque,” Mrs. Sagander said when they were in the kitchen. “It’s the pain.”

“I can see that,” Lindell said. “He seems like the kind of person who thrives on being up and about.”

Together they viewed the pans and pots. Gunnel told her that she had inherited most of it but also bought some things at auctions.

“He goes crazy when I come home with more stuff, but then he thinks I make the house look nice.”

“That’s so like a man,” Lindell said. “You picked him up at the hospital, I heard.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Gunnel said, and her eyes lost some of their spark.

“That was the eighteenth?”

“Yes; it was his birthday, but there wasn’t much in the way of a celebration. He was in a bad mood mostly and wanted to get back to work.”

“I can’t believe they send people home so soon. He had been operated on the day before.”

“It must be the budget cuts, but he wanted to come home. It’s worse for those who are alone.”

“The ones who don’t have ground service, you mean?”

Gunnel smiled.

“Ground service,” she said slowly. “I don’t think of my role in that way. I like making things nice around the house, and he’s not as impossible as he seems.”

Lindell thought that Gunnel Sagander had aged attractively, and there was a warmth in her voice that indicated that she had seen and heard a great deal but forgiven and made her peace with that which hadn’t gone her way. Was she happy? Or was she simply making the best of her role of homemaker and wife to that grumpy old man?

Lindell had seen too many of these women who subordinated themselves, but could also feel the temptation of giving in to a more traditional woman’s role. It would be so easy to be like her mother. So seemingly secure. She wanted to talk to Gunnel Sagander about this but realized that it wasn’t the right time and would probably never be right either.

The coffee in the percolator gurgled a last time. Gunnel gave Lindell a hasty glance as if she had read her thoughts.

“Are you married?” she asked and poured the coffee into a big Thermos.

“No, single with a little Erik.”

Gunnel nodded and they walked back out into the living room.

Lindell could see from his face that Haver was disappointed-or was it the exhaustion? He sat slouched back in his seat and looked at his hands. He glanced at Gunnel Sagander and Lindell when they walked back in. Agne Sagander was talking. Berglund was listening attentively.

“Little John was good at his work. A singular man,” Sagander said. “It was too bad I had to let him go.”

“You fired him,” Berglund corrected him.

“I had no choice,” Sagander said. “I have a business to run. Employees-such as yourself, I might add-never understand.”

“Of course,” Berglund said and smiled.

“Another cup?” Gunnel asked and held the Thermos aloft.

“Thank you, I’ve had enough,” Berglund said and got to his feet.

Haver looked up at the sky. The clouds pulled back like a curtain at the theater and revealed a starry sky. He moved his mouth as if to say something but changed his mind.

“Thank you for the coffee,” he said to Gunnel Sagander. She didn’t say anything in reply, just nodded. Berglund shook her hand. Lindell lingered for a moment.

“You must have known John,” she said.

“Of course. He worked at the shop for years. I always liked him.”

“His son, Justus, has run away. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

Gunnel shook her head.

“He ran away? The poor boy.”

A car engine started up. It was the patrol car. Lindell shook Gunnel’s hand and thanked her. Haver and Berglund were about to get into Haver’s car when he stiffened, as if his back suddenly hurt. Lindell saw him leave the car and walk a few meters to the side, crouch down, and shout something to Berglund. The latter reached into the car for something.

“What is it?” Gunnel Sagander said anxiously.

“I don’t know,” said Lindell.

“I just thought of something, where Justus may have gone. John and Erki Karjalainen, his former coworker, were very good friends.”

Lindell had trouble concentrating on what Mrs. Sagander was saying. The outside lights only weakly illuminated the spot where Haver and Berglund were crouched. Berglund turned on his flashlight. She saw Haver’s excitement in the way he turned to Berglund. The latter shook his head, looked up at the house, stood up, and took out his phone.

“Erki was almost like a father to John, especially in the beginning,” Gunnel Sagander was saying. “When John needed advice. He could be a little impetuous but that never had an effect on Erki.”

Lindell craned her neck.

“What are they doing down there? Have they dropped something?”

“Maybe they found something,” Lindell said. “What were you saying about Erki?”

“Maybe Justus has gone to Erki. I know he likes him.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“He lived in Årsta before, but now I think he’s moved out to Bälinge.”

Haver straightened up, put a hand to his lower back, and said something to Berglund.

“I can ask Agne. We could call Erki.”

“Yes, ask Agne. I’ll call,” Lindell said.

Gunnel went in and Lindell hurried over to her colleagues. The temperature had fallen noticeably and it was sparklingly cold. She tightened the scarf around her. Their breath formed puffs of smoke.

“What is it?” she asked.

Haver looked at her and all trace of tiredness had left his eyes.

“Tracks,” he said and pointed to the ground by his feet. Lindell thought she could see a smile on his face.

“Explain,” she said.

Haver told her about the snow dump in Libro where they had found John.

“Do you think it’s the same car?”

Haver nodded.

“Eskil is on his way,” he said, and now Lindell saw how nervous he was.

“Should we ask Mrs. Sagander which visitors they’ve had lately?” Lindell asked. At the same time her cell phone rang. It was her mother, wondering where she was. Erik had woken up once and they had given him the baby porridge, he had fallen asleep again, but now he had woken up again.

“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.”