The princess of Burundi

by Kjell Eriksson

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.

  Sixteen

  The bartender gave him a cursory glance and continued to wipe down the counter. Lennart took a drink of his beer and looked around the bar. One of the city’s most famous lawyers was sitting by himself at a table by the window. Lennart had met him before in some context he couldn’t remember. Now the lawyer was conducting a one-man trial over a glass of whiskey. It was probably not his first drink, because he was talking to himself with his face propped up in his left hand and the glass in his right.

  “Well, well,” Lennart said and turned back to the man behind the counter. Lennart knew that the man’s lack of interest was an act, but right now he had no time for games.

  “It was a while since he was here,” the bartender said.

  “When was it?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Where is he now?”

  The bartender paused, seeming to weigh the bother of keeping up his passive act versus the difficulties he could expect from Mossa if he told Lennart what he knew. He opted for what seemed the most comfortable option.

  “Try him at Kroken,” he said, but the comment was more a test to see how knowledgeable his visitor was.

  Kroken was an illegal gaming club housed in the basement of a building downtown. It had a handwritten sign on the door with the name POS IMPORT and a dozen crates of plastic weapons arranged along one wall, a business supposedly involved in importing toys from Southeast Asia and textiles from the Baltic states.

  “He never goes there,” Lennart said.

  He returned to his beer in order to give the bartender another chance. If he came up with another idiotic suggestion, he would know.

  The lawyer by the window staggered to his feet, threw a five-hundred-kronor note on the table, and walked with assumed nonchalance toward the door. The bartender hurried over to the table, whisked away the money, and cleared the glasses from the table.

  Lennart thought about Mossa. Where could he be? He hadn’t seen him in weeks. Mossa divided his time between Stockholm, Uppsala, and sometimes Denmark. Lennart suspected that gambling was not the only business Mossa had in Copenhagen. There had been talk of drugs, but Lennart didn’t think the Iranian was stupid enough to dabble in narcotics.

  Mossa was a gambler known for his carefulness. He had not gotten himself tangled up with the law over the past few years. This was not because he had kept on the right side of the law, but rather it was a mark of his ability. He had the reputation of being beyond the police and prosecution.

  Lennart had known him for about ten years. He knew that John had sometimes played with Mossa, who had liked his quiet ways. John rarely gambled large amounts and never in the big leagues, but was good when it came to the middle ranks, the enjoyable small-time games, which were not about the money.

  Mossa didn’t play at the clubs except very occasionally a game of roulette, but when it came to card games he played only privately.
r />   Lennart had joined him once or twice but had neither the tenacity nor the funds required.

  “I heard he was in Stockholm these days,” the bartender said. “But he usually comes back to town at Christmas. His mom lives here.”

  That’s more like it, Lennart thought. He knew where Mossa’s mom lived but he could hardly pay her a visit to ask her for her son’s whereabouts. Mossa would go ballistic. But there were other ways.

  “Thanks,” he said and laid a hundred-kronor note on the counter.

  He stepped out onto Kungsgatan and followed St. Petersgatan east. He stopped outside the Salvation Army and lit a cigarette, looking at the building and thinking back to the one time he had celebrated Easter there as a child, dressed up as a wolf cub. It was one of the neighborhood kids, Bengt-Ove, who had talked him into going. He had eaten a ton of Easter eggs.

  One time, in later life, Lennart had stumbled into the Salvation Army drunk out of his mind. Bengt-Ove had been there to greet him. He must have stayed after their wolf-cub days. They had looked at each other for a few seconds and then Lennart had turned on his heel without saying a word.

  He had felt shame that time, ashamed of his drunkenness and filth. Every time he walked past, that feeling of shame returned. It wasn’t Bengt-Ove’s fault. He would probably not have blamed him for his dissolute lifestyle, ratty clothes, stinking breath, or slurred speech. Sometimes Lennart wondered what would have happened if he too had stayed. He had friends who had been saved and left crime and alcohol behind. Would he have managed it? He didn’t think so, but the visit had awakened the thought of another life. He didn’t want to admit it, but secretly he thought of the hasty, unplanned encounter as a wasted opportunity. It was probably just a thought constructed in hindsight, like so many others, but it was an appealing thought, especially in moments of regret.

  He didn’t blame anyone. Earlier he would have done so, but now his worldview was clear enough so he understood that only he was responsible. What good did it do to moan about injustice? He had had the chance. He had met Bengt-Ove’s gaze and he had seen it there, but had chosen to walk away.

  It had been winter then, like today, but the Salvation Army windows were dark and it was quiet. Lennart kept walking.

  The list of names was in his coat pocket. Three names had been crossed off; five remained. He was not going to give up until his brother’s murderer was checked off. These eight guys were going to help him.

  He decided to stop by and see Micke. They hadn’t talked since it had happened. He knew the police had been talking to him and maybe he had picked something up.

  When Lennart arrived, Micke was about to go to bed. The last few days had wiped him out but he had found it hard to sleep.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?”

  He didn’t like Lennart, but he was John’s brother.

  “I’m sorry about John,” he added.

  Lennart walked into the apartment without saying a word, in that presumptuous way that drove Micke crazy.

  “Do you have any beer?”

  Micke was surprised that he even asked. Usually he just walked over to the fridge and helped himself.

  “I hear the pigs have been talking to you,” Lennart said and popped open the can that Micke handed him.

  Micke nodded and sat down at the kitchen table.

  “What did they say?”

  “They asked me about John. He came by here on the day he died, you know.”

  “He did? No one’s said anything about that to me.”

  “He stopped in the late afternoon.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “For Chrissakes, Lennart.”

  The fatigue made Micke irritable.

  “What did he say?”

  “We just talked about normal stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  He knew what Lennart was after, and tried to re-create an image of a living John, not trouble-free exactly, but happy, with bottles of wine and spirits and a family he was eager to get home to.

  “He didn’t say anything?”

  “About what?”

  “About some shit going on, you know what I’m talking about.”

  Micke got up and helped himself to a beer as well.

  “He didn’t say anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Think hard now.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve thought about it? Every damn second since it happened.”

  Lennart looked at him searchingly, as if weighing his words, and took a drink from the can while continuing to gaze at him.

  “Stop staring,” Micke said.

  “Did you two cook something up?”

  “Shut up!”

  “Horses and shit,” said Lennart, who almost never got involved in the gambling parties that were formed and dissolved on a regular basis—mostly because his ability to pay up was generally doubted.

  “Nothing like that,” Micke said in a voice steady and assured but in which Lennart sensed a moment’s hesitation, a look that flickered unsteadily for a tenth of a second.

  “Are you sure? We’re talking about my only goddamn brother here.”

  “My best friend,” said Micke.

  “Fuck you if you’re not telling me the truth.”

  “Was there anything else? I’d like to turn in.”

  Lennart changed the subject.

  “You coming to the funeral?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you understand it?”

  Lennart’s eyes and the gaze he directed straight down into the table—as if the worn Formica surface could offer any explanation for the murder of his brother—revealed the depth of his despair.

  Micke stretched out a hand and put it gently on Lennart’s arm. Lennart looked up, and where Micke had only ever seen alcohol-induced weepiness he now saw the glimmer of real tears.

  “No,” Micke said hoarsely. “I don’t get it. Not John of all people.”

  “John of all people,” Lennart echoed. “That’s what I’ve been thinking too. When there’s so much scum.”

  “Go home and try to get some sleep. You look like shit.”

  “I won’t stop until I get ’im.”

  Micke felt torn. He didn’t want to hear Lennart’s thoughts of revenge, but he also didn’t want to be left alone. The fatigue was starting to wear off and he knew it would be a long night. He recognized the symptoms. He had suffered from insomnia for many years. From time to time it got better and he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep that bordered on an unconsciousness that felt like a gift. But then the wakeful nights returned, the open wounds. That’s how it felt. Burning sores that ravaged him on the inside.

  “What does Aina say?”

  “I don’t think she really understands,” Lennart said. “She’s confused as it is and this will break her. John was her favorite ever since Margareta died.”

  John and Lennart’s little sister, Margareta, had died in 1968 when she was run over by a delivery van outside the grocery store on Väderkvarnsgatan. It was a subject that the brothers had never touched on, and her name was never mentioned. Photographs in which she appeared were put away.

  There were those who said that Aina and Albin had never fully recovered from losing their daughter. Some even hinted that Albin had taken his own life when he slid off the roof of the Skytteanum that day in April in the early 1970s. Others, especially his fellow workers, maintained that he had been sloppy with the safety ropes and hadn’t managed to compensate by gaining a foothold on the slippery roof.

  Albin would never have committed suicide, and even if he had entertained the crazy idea it would never have happened during his work hours, on a roof. But the uncertainty hovered over the family like a cloud.

  “I haven’t talked so much with her,” Lennart admitted. He got up and Micke thought he was getting himself another beer but instead he walked over to the window.

  “Did you watch him as he was leaving? Did you happen to look out the window, or something?”

  “N
o,” Micke said. “I stayed on the couch. Jeopardy was on.”

  “Do you remember Teodor?”

  “You mean Teodor from when we were little? Of course.”

  “I think of him sometimes. He took care of me and John after Dad died. He put us to work.”

  “Do you remember when we played marbles?” Micke smiled. “He was phenomenal.”

  “John was his favorite.”

  “He looked out for all of us.”

  “But especially John.”

  “That’s because he was the youngest,” Micke said.

  “Just think if our teachers had been like Teodor.”

  Clearly, the loss of his little brother was causing Lennart to look back at his Almtuna childhood, and there was no better person than Micke to relive it with. Micke understood Lennart’s need to access these comforting memories of early childhood. He didn’t have anything against it himself either, reveries of the busy playgrounds, the games, bandy matches on Fålhagen ice rinks, and track-and-field practice on Österängen.

  It was the life they’d been given, that’s how Micke felt, and he thought it was even more true for Lennart. After those early childhood days, all hell had broken loose, starting with their attendance at Vaksala High School.

  Lennart had been placed in a remedial class because he had “trouble following standard instruction,” and thus he fell into the hands of Stone Face, whose instruction was not particularly hard to follow since it consisted mainly of playing table tennis. Lennart was good at Ping-Pong from all the matches with Teodor in the boiler room. So good that he creamed Stone Face in match after match.

  But where Teodor had figured as a portal to an adult life with as full a register of emotions as the sentimental janitor could muster, Stone Face was merciless about drumming his particular brand of life knowledge into his pupils.

  Lennart would have none of it. He cut class, or hit back. From ninth grade on he was absent more and more, which had resulted in his poor reading and writing abilities. He knew nothing of history, math made him uncontrollably enraged, and he even cut shop classes.

  The alternatives for Lennart were the pool hall in Sivia, Lucullus restaurant—which made the town’s first pizzas—and Kullen. He stole to survive, in order to finance his pool and pinball habit, to buy cigarettes and soda. He stole to impress, and fought in order to frighten others. If he couldn’t be loved he would be feared, he seemed to reason.