The princess of Burundi

by Kjell Eriksson

  “Lately, you mean? Well, we didn’t start big. It was small amounts.”

  “Who was there?”

  “People came and went because games went on for a while. The time goes so fast when you’re enjoying yourself. We would order pizza, that kind of thing.”

  Ljusnemark paused and tried to smile.

  “Cut to the chase.”

  “It’s a little while ago. I don’t remember so well.”

  “We have information that connects you to the murder weapon used in Little John’s case,” Haver said curtly.

  “What?”

  “Who were the people you played with? How much money was involved?”

  “What kind of weapon? I’ve never had a weapon.”

  Haver waited.

  “Give me a break,” Ljusnemark said in English, and at that moment Haver was prepared to put him away on bread and water for twenty years. He opened the binder.

  “It was me and Little John,” Ljusnemark started and then related the whole story with remarkable fluency, including a full account of all the participants. Haver recognized the names of a few of them.

  “You lost?”

  “Five or six thousand at most. I swear. I was forced to back out and Jerry took my place.”

  “Jerry Martin?”

  Ljusnemark nodded, squirming in his seat. Haver stared at him for a few seconds.

  “You can go now,” he said.

  Eight names. Haver sensed that the answer lay here somewhere. Money and passion, that’s where you looked for answers. People came to grief over money and unrequited love.

  Haver leaned back in his chair. Was there any society in which money didn’t rule? He had heard of some tribe in Africa in which violence and theft almost never occurred and there was no concern over measuring time. He longed to join them, but assumed that the tribe was most likely already extinct, or had been driven into a shantytown where the members were dying from alcohol and AIDS.

  Eight names. Haver took the list and went to find Ottosson.

  Twenty-four

  Vincent Hahn woke with a start. He checked his watch. A little after nine. He had been asleep for only a few minutes and had immediately slipped into a dream. A man’s voice was coming from somewhere. It took him a few seconds to understand what it was: the news on the radio.

  He found Vivan in the kitchen by the telephone. She looked up at him with a frightened expression and he knew that she knew.

  “Put down the phone,” he said and took a few steps closer.

  “You’re just like your brother,” she said. “Lying and fighting all the time.”

  “Shut up. Don’t mix him up in this.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  He took the receiver from her and she let him do it. He saw that she was sweating. The piece “Waltz of the Sea-Eagle” by Evert Taube was playing on the radio. He was very close to her. Blood was seeping through the bandage on his forehead.

  “She was a whore,” Vincent said softly.

  “Did you know her?”

  He flinched and ripped the phone cord from the wall.

  “We went to school together. She was nothing but a shit even then.”

  “It’s such a long time ago. Can’t you let bygones be bygones?”

  Vivan knew that Vincent had been unhappy at school, been bullied and shunned. Wolfgang had once said that his brother was the perfect victim.

  “I remember everything,” he said, his voice so low now she could hardly catch his words.

  He pulled the phone cord between his hands.

  “I won’t say anything,” she said.

  “Who were you calling?”

  “Nettan. She’s in the middle of a divorce and wants me to go with her to the lawyer’s office.”

  “Who the hell is Nettan?”

  His outburst came on so suddenly that she pulled back and would have lost her balance if he hadn’t grabbed her arms.

  “Who the fucking hell is Nettan?”

  “You’re hurting me,” Vivan moaned in his grip. His disgusting breath nauseated her. “She’s my best friend.”

  “Friend!” he spat.

  “Why don’t you stay here?” she said. “I need the company.”

  He let go of her suddenly and she started to collapse, then steadied herself against the kitchen counter and straightened up. No crying, she thought to herself. He hates teary women.

  “What do you mean ‘stay here’?”

  She swallowed and chose her words carefully. She had a flashback to Wolfgang’s rages and her attempts to placate him. After years of practice she had become more adept.

  “I’m lonely,” she said and looked away.

  “Lonely,” Vincent repeated.

  “I don’t care about that woman. She hit you, after all.”

  “Yes, she hit me.”

  He paused with a thoughtful look on his face, and Vivan thought she saw the same quality of gentleness that had drawn her to Wolfgang so many years ago. The brothers had both inherited their mother’s rounded and slightly childish features, but also their father’s heavier ones, a mixture that was reflected in their intense emotional vacillations.

  “That blow she gave you could have killed you, if you didn’t have such a strong skull.”

  He sank down onto a chair. She put a hand on his bandaged head. If only he had died, she thought, no one would have missed him. But then she instantly regretted her thought—it was unfair. He was a human being like anyone else.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  He shook his head weakly.

  “A little juice?”

  He nodded. She quickly made up a pitcher of rhubarb juice and poured him a glass. He drained it. The gentle expression returned.

  “Wolfgang says hello,” she said. “He called me a few days ago.”

  Despite their divorce and the years of conflict, Vivan and Wolfgang stayed in touch. He called from Tel Aviv three or four times a year.

  “You haven’t called me.”

  “I’ve tried to, but you aren’t home very much. Anyway, Wolfgang is fine but he complained about all the trouble they’re having.”

  “It’s the fucking Arabs,” Vincent said.

  Vivan was very careful not to get into the subject of the Israel-Palestine conflict. Instead she relayed gossip from Wolfgang. One of their cousins had had a grandchild, and a few other relatives had taken a trip to Poland. Vincent listened with interest. Vivan had discovered that he liked hearing news even about distant relatives, had memorized names and trivial facts about them to a degree that amazed her.

  “I heard that Benjamin got married,” he said, and Vivan pretended to be surprised.

  “Really? I had no idea. Who did he get married to?”

  “Some American girl who bought a house in East Jerusalem.”

  They continued to talk about people they both knew. Vincent grew calmer, drank more juice. Vivan kept him entertained with questions and comments. She suggested they celebrate Christmas together and his face lit up a bit when she said that.

  The attack came out of nowhere. Vivan hardly had time to register what was happening, let alone understand where it had come from. She died unknowing, with a small gurgling sound not unlike that which arises from a plugged drain.

  He laid her on the bed and was somewhat reminded of Julia. They had the same beautiful air of peace. The marks on her neck from the phone cord were like the angry red strands of a necklace. The blue-toned tip of her tongue stuck out a few centimeters. Vincent chuckled at it and poked it back into her mouth, then quickly pulled his fingers away, convinced that she was going to bite him.

  His chuckles gave way to an unarticulated roar, which died away almost at once, and he sat down on the floor to look at his sister-in-law. Almost family, he thought. As close to family as I can get in Uppsala. His feeling of loneliness was intensified by the sound of the clock ticking, as if to say, You are dead, you are dead.

  Vincent reached for the clock, which he remembered
Wolfgang had bought on a business trip. He threw it against the wall. An Argentine tango was playing on the radio in the kitchen.

  He put his hand on hers. It was still warm, and suddenly he felt dizzy. The work of a moment and a person is gone, he thought. He let his hand travel up her arm, he stroked it lovingly. Somewhere in the innermost depths of his confused mind he sensed that he had committed an unforgivable act. Vivan, the one who had smiled at him in the window, the one who had been frightened by his appearance but nonetheless given him shelter, the one who had given him juice. Almost family.

  He sensed that she had been as lonely as he, even though she always talked about her girlfriends. He thought suddenly that he could take his own life, that he should do it.

  He got up, walked into the kitchen, picked up a chair that had been knocked over, and drank some more juice. When he took hold of the pitcher to pour himself yet another glass, he experienced something like an electric shock. A greeting from Vivan. It was her hand that had last held the pitcher. Now she was making her presence known. She would do this as long as he lived, he realized.

  He found a laundry line with the cleaning supplies but could not bring himself to tie a noose. Instead he remained sitting with the green plastic-coated line in his hands, unable to kill himself.

  After about an hour or so—he was unable to determine how long—he let the line glide from his hands and stood up. He ate some leftovers in the refrigerator, went into the sewing room, and fell asleep.

  Allan Fredriksson had traced Vincent Hahn’s brother to Tel Aviv and with the help of Israeli police had managed to reach him on the phone.

  Wolfgang Hahn, who worked as a computer-science instructor, had not been in Sweden for seven years. During that time he had talked to Vincent on the phone a handful of times, most recently a year or so ago. He even claimed not to know his brother’s most recent number. When asked if there was anyone in Uppsala who would be able to provide more information, Wolfgang mentioned his ex-wife, who he knew had sporadic contact with Vincent.

  “How are things back in Sweden anyway?” Wolfgang asked. “I hear you’ll soon have even more Arabs than we do, and look at the problems they make for us!”

  “Maybe that’s because you took their land,” Fredriksson said calmly. “What was Tel Aviv called fifty years ago?”

  Wolfgang Hahn laughed.

  “I see they’ve infiltrated the Swedish police,” he said, but with no hostility in his voice.

  “Will you have a white Christmas?” was Fredriksson’s last question. When he hung up, he realized that Wolfgang Hahn hadn’t even asked why the police wanted to find his brother.

  He looked up Vivan Molin in the phone book. She was listed as a laboratory assistant, living on Johannesbäcksgatan. According to Wolfgang she had been on disability for a while, he was unsure of the exact reason. They had no children together and she lived alone. A few years ago there had been a boyfriend in the picture, but he hadn’t heard anything about him for a while. Vivan Molin did not answer the phone.

  Fredriksson called the health agency. She was not listed as being on disability. No employer was registered by her name either. Her last employment seemed to have been a temporary position with the Uppsala Biomedical Center. That position had lasted until August.

  How likely was it that Hahn had looked her up? According to his brother, they were not on particularly good terms. Fredriksson sighed. Johansson and Palm were going door to door in Sävja, but so far they it had given them nothing. Most of Hahn’s neighbors had not even been able to identify him from the picture. His closest neighbor, a Bosnian from Sara-jevo, had only smiled enigmatically when asked if he associated at all with Vincent Hahn.

  Fredriksson pushed the papers away. He didn’t even want to be working on the Hahn case right now. It was the murder of Little John that concerned him. He was sure they would be able to solve it eventually, not from any concrete knowledge but simply from the years of experience and the sense that a murder in John’s circles would eventually be cleared up. The new information about the poker game and John’s alleged winnings provided them with a motive. They would search for their perpetrator among the poker players—Fredriksson was 100 percent convinced of this. Now they simply had to uncover the whole story.

  Haver and he had discussed potential overlap between Little John and Hahn, but both of them were skeptical. It was most likely a coincidence that they had been classmates. Little John’s murder was no work of Hahn’s. Even though they knew almost nothing about Hahn’s profile, his background and behavior, the fact that Little John’s body had been dumped in Libro made Hahn an unlikely suspect. He had neither a car nor a driver’s license—how would he have been able to carry it off?

  Someone had proposed the idea that Hahn was targeting former classmates with pets. John with his fish, and Gunilla Karlsson with her rabbit. That Hahn saw himself as a freedom fighter for animals. But Fredriksson had dismissed this idea as highly unlikely.

  He called Vivan Molin again, with no result. Should he drive out to Johannesbäck and check it out? The fact was that Vivan Molin was the only name he had. And it was possible that she would be able to provide them with additional names.

  Fredriksson took off his indoor shoes, tied his boots, put on his fur hat, and left.

  December. The sun had barely made it over the horizon that day, but it didn’t matter anymore. The clouds lay heavily over Uppsala and there was snow in the air. Fredriksson paused for a second before he turned the ignition. Christmas party. The words came out of nowhere. He couldn’t remember exactly, but this was probably connected to slumbering childhood memories, boisterous adult voices, the children more quiet, full of anticipation, dressed up, hair slicked down, the Santa Claus with his fake beard.

  In the olden days, Fredriksson would let the words roll over his tongue. Even to say it now sounded outdated.

  “In the olden days,” he said aloud.

  That was something people said. Had it really been better in the olden days? He turned the key and the motor answered with a roar. Too many thoughts, too much gas.

  Two cars had collided at the corner of Verkmästargatan and Apelgatan. Fredriksson thought about stopping but changed his mind when he caught sight of the face of one of the involved parties. Collisions weren’t his thing. When he had worked a beat he had never much liked dealing with traffic accidents, not because of the potential physical injuries and gore but because of the shocking stupidity of the drivers.

  Fredriksson rang Vivan Molin’s doorbell, waited for a few minutes, then rang again. No response. He peeked in through the mail slot in the door and caught a whiff of stale apartment air. There was no mail or newspaper to be seen on the hall floor. When he let the mail slot swing shut he thought he heard a soft click from inside the apartment, like the sound of someone turning on a lamp. He strained to hear anything else, opened the mail slot again, but now all was quiet. Had he imagined it? He straightened his back.

  He took out his cell phone and the slip of paper with Molin’s phone number. He let her phone ring six times but didn’t hear any sound from the apartment. Either her phone wasn’t working or she had turned it off.

  Fredriksson thought hard. He turned and looked at the neighbor’s door. M. ANDERSSON was inscribed on the mail slot. He rang the bell. A woman opened immediately, as if she had been waiting with her hand on the door handle. She was around seventy years of age, with long white hair, braided and pinned in a knot. The hand on the door handle was thin, with large swollen blue veins.

  He introduced himself and said he was looking for Vivan Molin.

  “Something’s not right,” she said immediately.

  “How do you mean?”

  “There were such strange sounds this morning. And a man came by last night.”

  “At what time did you hear these sounds?”

  “Around eleven. I was finishing the Christmas spare ribs—I’m going to Kristinehamn this afternoon. He was out there shouting on the street.”


  “What did he look like?”

  “I didn’t see him so well. He was wearing a hat. Vivan let him in.”

  “Vivan went down and opened the front door?”

  “Yes, it is locked at nine.”

  “These sounds you were talking about, what did they sound like?”

  “Like screams. Something has happened. I almost called the police but I didn’t know if I should get involved in other people’s business.”

  “How well do you know Vivan? Does she often have visitors in the evening?”

  “No, never. This part of the building is very quiet.”

  “Does she go to work?”

  “No, she’s on disability. She was burned out, I think they call it.”

  Fredriksson thanked her for the information and went down to the street. He made a call to the station and eight minutes later a patrol car pulled up. A van from the locksmith company Pettersson & Barr pulled up right behind them. The locksmith was a young man with Rastafarian braids, hardly more than twenty.

  Fredriksson and his colleagues discussed their options. If Vincent Hahn was in the apartment he could very well be armed. It was doubtful that he would have access to firearms, more likely a knife or other object.

  The Rastafarian locksmith worked on the lock for about thirty seconds. He whistled as he worked and Fredriksson asked him to be quiet.

  “Cool,” he said. “Are you Sweden’s answer to Carella?”

  Fredriksson had no idea what he was talking about, but nodded. Slättbrant, famous among his colleagues for his implacability, opened the door.

  “Police!” he shouted before going in. “Anyone home?”

  Silence.

  “Torsten Slättbrant from the police. I’m coming in.”

  He forced the door all the way open and stepped into the apartment, his gun in his left hand. He took another step while looking at what Fredriksson assumed was the kitchen door. Then he stood quietly for ten seconds, as if testing the air like a hunting dog.

  Slättbrant looked back and shook his head.