The princess of Burundi (11 page)

“So have you.”

Gunilla freed herself from his hand and reached for the corkscrew hanging above the counter. Vincent Hahn stood right next to her, his sour, foul-smelling breath filling the entire kitchen, and she was struck by the thought that she would never be able to get it clean again.

“Do you like red wine?” she asked and raised the bottle.

The blow came from nowhere, startling both her and Vincent. Everything happened like a reflex action, the instinctive self-defense of an animal.

The bottle struck him on the side of the head and she finished the attack by thrusting the corkscrew into his chest.

Wine was spilling everywhere. Vincent’s face was twisted with pain and surprise. He teetered, fumbling with his hand against the kitchen table, grabbing the back of the chair, then gliding down onto the floor and pulling the chair along with him. Wine and blood mingled together.

Gunilla stood rooted to the spot for a few seconds, paralyzed, still with the broken bottle in one hand and the corkscrew in her left, leaning over, tense, prepared to attack again, but the man at her feet hardly moved. The pool of blood spread out like a dark rose over the linoleum. The raw smell of the blood mixed with the heavy scent of the Rioja.

“You bastard,” she said and pointed the broken bottle at his face, but then she suddenly dropped the sharp-edged weapon and fled from the kitchen, pulled open the front door, and ran out into the dark night.

The cold outside was intense. She slipped in the snow but ran on. Her cries filled the whole yard and the neighbors said later that it had sounded like a terrified, wounded animal.

Åke Bolinder, who lived in the tower block and had just taken his dog off its leash, was the first on the scene. He came running around the corner of the laundry building to see a woman sink to the ground. He immediately recognized her, not because he knew her particularly well, but because he had seen her at the association meetings and occasionally in the grocery store.

When he reached her he smelled the wine that came from her body and noted the tightly gripped corkscrew in her hand. He commanded his dog to sit and leaned over her, not sure of what to do next. He looked up at the wide-open door to her apartment.

Bolinder was a peace-loving man in his fifties, well-groomed and unmarried. He stared at Gunilla’s breasts, at the black bra that stood in stark contrast to the white snow, kneeled down and pulled away a little of the hair that had fallen over her face.
What if she throws up?
he thought and prepared to jump back. But her expression was almost calm. In the distance he could hear the footsteps of someone running, a balcony door opened, and someone shouted something he didn’t quite catch.

The dog, who was still obediently sitting a few meters away, growled. Bolinder looked up and followed the dog’s gaze. In the door frame there was now a man, his face distorted with pain and hate. Bolinder could hear the rasping sounds of his exhalations, which formed small white puffs of vapor in the cold night. Blood was dripping from his beard.

Jupiter, the German shepherd, started to bark. Bolinder stood up.

“What is it?” Bolinder asked and at that moment Jupiter attacked. Bolinder didn’t know if his usually so gentle dog had been roused to action because of the note of fear in his master’s voice or the fact that the man in the doorway took half a step forward. The dog’s lunge came without warning.

The man in the doorway lost his balance but managed to pull the door shut at the last moment. Bolinder saw Jupiter jump up, heard the sounds of his heavy body come into contact with the hard door and then saw him be thrown back onto the ground.

The dog was back on his feet again immediately and barked loudly. His first somewhat tentative attempts had turned into full-throttle barking. Bolinder called his dog over but Jupiter took no notice of him. Gunilla moved slightly and Bolinder leaned down over her again. She opened her eyes and flinched when she saw her neighbor, pulling herself up onto one elbow and staring at the apartment and the barking dog.

“He tried to rape me,” she said.

Suddenly she became aware of her almost naked upper body, sat up, and crossed her arms over her chest. Bolinder took off his coat and gently placed it over her shoulders.

Despite the pain and the unexpected turn of events, he had had the presence of mind to grab a towel from the bathroom and wipe the blood from his head. He pressed it against his forehead, which was throbbing, then carefully felt the outline of the cut with his fingers. He didn’t think there was a fracture, but it was an ugly wound. The bottle had caught him right above the brow, which is where the copious amounts of blood had come from. The corkscrew had penetrated his shirt and a few centimeters of his flesh but been stopped by bone and had not hurt him significantly.

Vincent Hahn was bewildered rather than confused by what had happened. He had thought he had her where he wanted her, but she had tricked him. Now he had to escape. He heard furious barking and raised voices outside. He threw the bloody towel onto the floor, picked up a clean one, pressed it against his head, and disappeared out into the night the same way he had come.

He ran. Dizziness threatened to overcome him but he kept on running. He knew the forest well and where the paths led. If he chose the nearest one he could be home in five or six minutes, but he was forced to take a longer route in order to avoid people.

Where should he go? How long could he remain at home until the police would come? Gunilla had recognized him. Of course, he was not registered at the Bergslags’ apartment since he was subletting it, but the police would eventually track him down if they started to look for him. Perhaps through the hospital or his former sister-in-law. She was the only one who had visited him since he had moved up to Sävja.

Who would take him in? There was no one to give him shelter, dress his wounds, and let him rest. And who would take care of Julia? He sobbed and stumbled on. He had to get home to her, get there before the police. No one was allowed to touch her. He could hide her in the forest. She would get cold and wet, but it was better than ending up in the fascist hands of the police.

He reached Bergsbrunna farm in a disoriented state. He had taken walks here before and now he recognized where he was. He heard the horses neighing in the barn. He was freezing. It had to be at least fifteen degrees below zero. The cut in his forehead felt stiff. He hesitated in the yard. Should he go into the barn? He didn’t have anything against horses. They were noble animals, wise, but there were cats in there too. He had seen them before, one white, one brown.

From the distance came the sound of insistent barking and it struck him that the police must have called in dogs to track him down. They would reach him soon. The barn offered no protection.

He ran on past two fields. The snow was deeper here and harder to trudge through. His energy was starting to wane and he was breathing hard. At the end of the road he saw some light. Someone had erected a Christmas tree in front of their house. He had the feeling that he had been through this before, running for his life in the cold. Without friends, able to rely only on himself. His chest burned.

He came out by the railroad tracks and followed them to the north. He would reach the crossing shortly. He had read about hobos in the United States who jumped onto freight trains and traveled across the entire continent in search of work, but here the trains simply thundered by at high speed.

He came to a stop, indecisive. A car came by across the fields on the other side of the crossing. Vincent ran over and threw himself down on the road.

The car came closer. He could hear from the sound that it had a diesel engine. Suddenly the beams from the headlights illuminated him. He closed his eyes but lifted one arm as if he were in distress at sea. He thought for a moment that the car was simply going to drive past him but then it came to an abrupt stop.

The car door opened and a man came running over.

“Are you hurt?”

Vincent moaned.

“I’ve been run over.”

“Here?”

Vincent raised himself on one arm and nodded.

“A car. It took off. Can you help me?”

“I’ll call an ambulance,” the man said and got out his cell phone.

“No, just drive me to the hospital instead.”

The man crouched down and took a closer look at Vincent.

“That doesn’t look too good.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“Don’t be silly. Can you walk?”

Vincent slowly got up on all fours. The man helped him to his feet and into the car.

Viro was momentarily distracted by Jupiter’s smell. Then he dragged himself away and his officer followed, smiling at the dog’s eagerness despite the serious nature of their business.

They reached the railway crossing in fifteen minutes, just as a southbound train rushed by. Here the scent trail ended. Viro looked around, confused, then looked up at his officer and whimpered.

“He either had a car parked here or he was picked up,” Sammy Nilsson said. He had followed the canine unit.

They took a look around. Viro followed the scent back a few meters, turned, and again concluded that the tracks stopped abruptly.

“Where could he have gone?”

“The ER,” said the officer with the dog. “He’s been hurt. There’s even blood on the ground here.”

“I think Fredriksson called them already, and I think he sent a car over there.”

Nilsson took out his cell phone and called Allan Fredriksson, who was still back in Gunilla Karlsson’s apartment.

They were sitting in her living room. Detective Inspector Allan Fredriksson blew his nose. Gunilla felt sorry for him. It was the fifth time he had taken out the multicolored handkerchief. He should be at home nursing his cold.

“He ran down toward Bergsbrunna, at which point the trail goes cold,” Fredriksson said when he had ended the conversation with Nilsson.

He could still see the terror in Gunilla’s eyes.

“We’ll station a unit outside your apartment,” he said and put the handkerchief away.

His calm expression and voice reassured her. The shivering that had come over her a short while after Vincent disappeared, stopped.

“You knew him, you said?”

“Yes, from school. His name is Vincent, but I don’t remember his last name. It’s on the tip of my tongue, it sounds German. I can call a friend of mine, she’ll know.”

“That would be good.”

“Hahn,” she said suddenly. “That’s it.”

“Vincent Hahn?”

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.”