The Princess of Burundi

Six

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.

It was the look the sheep gave Beatrice at that moment, that tenth of a second before it happened. The white of the eye glimmered, the expression full of hurt, no suggestion of fear, more as if posing a question. It was as if there weren’t room enough in the world for her despair, although the pen was so spacious, the pastures so rich.

“Murdered,” Berit mumbled.

“Can we call anyone? Do you have any siblings?”

Berit shook her head.

“Parents?”

Another shake.

“Justus,” she said. “I have to get a hold of Justus.”

“Where is he?”

“At Danne’s.”

“Close by?”

“Salabacksgatan.”

I can’t do this, Beatrice thought, but she knew at the same time that as far as she was concerned, the worst was over. The words had been said. She would do everything she could to assuage the woman’s pain and give her the answers she was looking for. A feeling of reverence gripped her. It was a feeling familiar to her from before. Beatrice was far from religious, but she could sense what people sought in the religious messages and rituals. There was so much in her police work that intersected with the big questions, myths, and dreams.

She had noticed that the police often had to play the role of confessional priests, people to whom one could unburden oneself. Even the uniformed police officer, who technically represented authority, power, and the bad conscience of the citizen, could receive these confidences. That had been her experience on the beat. Or was it her personality that had invited these many instances of quiet, breathtaking intimacy? She didn’t know, but she cherished these moments. She had told herself she would never become cynical.

The front door was suddenly thrown open.

“Justus,” Berit gasped.

But it was a man who rushed into the kitchen. He caught sight of Beatrice and halted abruptly.

“Are you a minister or something?”

“No,” Beatrice said and stood up.

The man was panting, his gaze aggressive.

“Who the hell are you, then?”

“A police officer.”

“They’ve killed my brother.”

He waved his right arm in front of Beatrice.

“Lennart,” Berit whispered.

He stopped short in his fierce attack, looking at her as if he had only at that moment registered her presence. He lowered his arms and his whole body deflated like a balloon pierced with a needle.

“Berit,” he said and took a step toward her.

“Bastard,” she said and spat in his face.

He took her outburst with calm, wiping his face with his sleeve. Beatrice glimpsed a tear under the arm of his jacket where the bloodred lining peeked out.

“Was that really necessary?” he asked, and Beatrice could read only confusion and grief in his face.

“It was your fault,” Berit said with teeth so tightly clenched that it was hard to understand how she could utter any sounds, let alone speak. Her voice shot up into a falsetto register. “It’s your fucking fault my John is dead! You always dragged him into your shit. Always you!”

Lennart shook his head. His face was lined and black stubble covered a surprising amount of it. Beatrice would never have been able to guess that the man in front of her had been Little John’s brother.

“I don’t know anything about this,” he said. “I promise.”

Beatrice decided spontaneously to believe him.

“How did you find out that your brother was dead?”

“Your blabbering friends,” he said curtly and looked away. “The whole town knows,” he continued, turned to the window. “If you start shouting over the police radio that Little John is dead, then everyone will hear it.”

Unbelievable, Beatrice thought. The name of a murdered person announced unscrambled on the radio.

“My brother, my little brother,” Lennart Jonsson sobbed, leaned up against the windowsill, his face pressed against the pane.

“I’m going to kill those bastards, you know. I’m going to find the one who did this and torture him to death.”

Beatrice wondered what details of the murder had also been broadcast. Berit had sunk down on the chair again and sat lifelessly with her gaze fixed on some place where Beatrice was unable to follow.

“Will you be staying with her for a bit?” she asked. “She could do with the company.”

It was hard to know if her brother-in-law was the best companion for her, but Beatrice told herself there was a logic to it. A brother and a wife, linked for always with their shared life, the memories, grief.

Lennart turned and nodded in a conciliatory manner. A drop of Berit’s saliva was still caught on his stubbly chin.

She got the address of Justus’s friend and that of John and Lennart’s mother, went out into the hall, and called Haver and told him to make sure the mother was notified.

Lennart was downing a beer when she returned to the kitchen. Maybe just the thing, she thought.

“Berit,” she said, “do you know where John was going last night?”

Berit shook her head.

“Was he running an errand? Was there someone he was going to meet?”

Berit didn’t say anything.

“I have to ask.”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t say anything when he left?”

Berit lowered her head and looked like she was trying to remember the day before. Beatrice could imagine how she was going through those last few minutes before John had walked out the door and disappeared from her life for good. How many times was she going to relive that day?

“He was his usual self,” she said finally. “I think he said something about the pet store. He was going to buy a pump he had ordered.”

“Which store?”

“I don’t know. He went to all of them.”

She started to cry.

“He had a hell of a fine aquarium,” Lennart said. “They wrote about it in the papers.”

Silence fell.

“I thought maybe he was helping with the snow removal. He also talked about trying to get a job at the sheet-metal shop of someone he knew.”

“Micke?” Lennart asked.

Berit looked at her brother-in-law and nodded.

Micke, Beatrice thought. Now we’re getting all the names.

Haver, Beatrice, Wende, Berglund, Fredriksson, Riis, Peter Lundin-no relation to Asta and Anton-and Ottosson had gathered around an enormous box of gingerbread cookies. Fredriksson helped himself to a generous portion and piled the cookies up in front of his cup. Eleven in all, Beatrice noted.

“Think they’ll make a good boy out of you?” she asked, referring to the old folk saying. Fredriksson nodded absently. Ottosson, who must have considered himself good enough already, declined the offer of gingerbread when the tin came his way.

“Go on, take one,” Riis said.

“No, thank you,” the chief said.

“Little John bled to death,” Haver said suddenly. “Someone, or perhaps more than one, stabbed him with a knife or some such sharp object. Blood loss is the official cause of death.”

The group around the table digested this piece of information. Haver paused. He imagined his colleagues creating an inner picture of Little John’s final moments.

“In the stages leading up to his death he was subjected to repeated blows to the head and chest,” Haver continued. “In addition, he has burn marks, probably caused by cigarettes, on his arms and genitals.”

“So we’re looking for a sadistic smoker,” Riis said.

“Aren’t all smokers sadists?” Lundin asked.

Haver gave him a look and continued.

“He probably died sometime between four and eight P.M. yesterday. The exact time of death is difficult to establish because of the preserving effect of the cold on the body.”

“Any trace of alcohol or drugs in his blood?” Ottosson asked.

“He was clean. The only things they found were the beginnings of an ulcer and a liver that could have been in better shape.”

“Alcoholic?”

“No, you couldn’t call him that, but he put his liver to work,” Haver said and looked suddenly very tired.

“Can his death have been a mistake?” Beatrice said. “The fact that he bled to death after so many small wounds indicates an ongoing assault. If your intention is to murder someone, surely you would aim to kill the first time.”

This is absurd, Haver thought.

“Torture,” he said. “Torture is what it is.”

“He was a tough bastard,” Ottosson said. “I don’t think he was an easy one to break.”

“You can’t predict that about someone,” Fredriksson said and had his eighth cookie. “It’s one thing to sound tough from behind a desk when you’re being questioned about a theft, it’s quite another to keep a stiff upper lip when you’re being tortured to death.”

Ottosson wasn’t one to belabor a point, but this time he defended his statement.

“Little John was stubborn and brave. He never gave in even though he was small.”

“But surely you never tortured him?” Riis said.

Ottosson had told them that he had questioned Little John on several occasions. He had been there when John had been brought in the first time at the age of sixteen and he had seen him from time to time during the following five or six years.

“Do we think this is part of some old business or something new?” Ottosson continued. “For my part, I have trouble believing that John would have gotten himself mixed up in something new. You’ve met his wife and kid, Bea, and John seemed to have been getting along well, at least these past ten years. Why would he jeopardize all that now?”

Bea nodded and indicated that Ottosson should keep going. She liked hearing what he had to say. He had a long history that stretched out before she had joined the force or even started school. He was a wise man. He hardly ever lectured them in overly long harangues, and just now she wanted him to keep talking, but he stopped and snatched Fredriksson’s last gingerbread cookie, giving Beatrice a mischievous look.

“His wife seems all right and the boy too. That is to say, he’s been unemployed for a while and that probably caused a few problems but hadn’t led to anything serious. Some partying from time to time, his wife said, but no serious drinking. She may have been putting a good face on things but I think he was keeping to the straight and narrow. He spent a lot of time on his fish tank-it’s the biggest I’ve seen. Four meters by one meter, at least. It takes up a whole wall.”

“Talk about water damage if that thing started to leak,” Riis said.

Ottosson shot him a look as if to say, Enough of your stupid comments. Riis gave him a wry smile.

“It seems to have been his main interest,” Beatrice said. “He belonged to a tropical fish society, was active on the board, and had dreams of owning his own tropical fish store one day.”

Ottosson nodded.

“What about the brother?” Haver asked. “He doesn’t seem completely aboveboard. Could he have gotten John involved in something?”

“I don’t think so,” Beatrice said. “Not consciously anyway. Lennart seemed genuinely surprised. Of course you would be shocked if your brother was murdered, but there isn’t anything that indicates he even sensed that John had been pulled into any kind of trouble.”

“He didn’t look too bright,” Ottosson said. “Do you think he was simply unaware of something he had caused, that it would have these kinds of consequences?”

Beatrice looked doubtful.

“Maybe he’s just putting two and two together now,” Ottosson said.

Morenius, who was the head of KUT, the criminal information service, walked into the room. He threw a sizable folder on the table, sat down, and sighed heavily.

“Sorry I’m late but there’s a lot going on right now.” He underscored this with a new sigh.

“Have some coffee,” Ottosson said. “It’ll pick you up.”

Morenius laughed and reached for the insulated coffee jug.

“Cookies?” Ottosson said.

“Lennart Jonsson is a steady client with us and several other departments,” Morenius started. “He has fourteen counts of traffic violations, three counts of drunk driving, sixteen counts of theft-three of which with aggravated circumstances-one count of assault and probably twenty others unknown to us, one attempted swindle, one count of drug possession, but now it’s too far back in time, three counts of unlawful threats and disturbance in court proceedings. The list goes on. In addition, he has ten financial penalties and a debt of thirty thousand. He receives social welfare and has filed a claim for early retirement.”

“What the hell for?” Lundin broke in.

Morenius looked exhausted after reciting his lengthy list but took a sip of coffee and continued.

“Apparently he has an old injury,” he said. “He fell from some scaffolding about five years ago and has basically been unable to work since then.”

“But he has worked?”

“Mostly construction, but even for Ragnsell’s and as a bouncer for a short time. There have been periods where he’s lived a pretty normal life.”

“Is Lennart our key to the whole thing?”

Ottosson’s question hung in the air. Fredriksson helped himself to a new heap of cookies and kept chewing. Riis looked bored. Lundin looked down at his hands, and everyone expected him to get up and go to the bathroom to wash them. His germophobia was a running joke. The need for paper towels had risen considerably since Lundin had started working.

Haver started to talk about his mapping of the Jonsson family’s circle of friends and acquaintances.

Beatrice listened at first but then her thoughts returned to her visit with Berit Jonsson. She tried to catch hold of something that had nagged at her then, something that came up when they were talking about her son. Was it something Berit had said? A look, or a change of expression? A kind of concern?

Ottosson interrupted her train of thought.

“Hold on, Bea. I just asked you a question. Did Berit say anything about John’s finances? Did the family have a hard time after he lost his job?”

“Not that I know of. It didn’t look as if they were suffering unduly. Berit works part-time as an in-home attendant for social services, and John probably got his unemployment benefit.”

“We’ll run the routine checks,” Ottosson said. “Can you handle that, Riis?”

Riis nodded. It was the kind of assignment that appealed to him.

“I’m planning to go back there tomorrow, talk to Berit and the boy, and search John’s belongings,” Beatrice said. “Does that sound okay?”

“Sounds fine,” Haver said. “Checking the pet stores didn’t give us anything, but we’ll keep at it. There must be other stores with some of this equipment, or people selling it out of their homes. Someone will have to check the tropical fish societies. We need to determine all of John’s activities that day.”

Ottosson ended with some general remarks that no one paid any attention to, though they all waited politely until he was done. Framing these meetings in the right way was important to Ottosson. He wanted them to have a cozy, personable feel.

It was quarter past eight in the evening. The assignment tasks were complete.