The princess of Burundi

by Kjell Eriksson

  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.

  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 ov
er 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.