The princess of Burundi (26 page)

Karolina Wittåker’s handshake was limp and clammy.

“But appearances can be deceptive,” Haver later said to Berglund. “She took the lead immediately. I felt like a little boy. She lectured me about personality disorders and—”

“What was her verdict?” Berglund interrupted.

“We’re free to question him, but she would like to be present.”

“I see,” Berglund said curtly and walked off down the corridor.

Haver stared after him, then shrugged and went into Ottosson’s office. The latter sat hunched over a crossword puzzle from the
Aftonbladet
newspaper.

“I need to clear my brain,” he said apologetically and pushed the paper away.

“The psychologist wants to be present when we interrogate Hahn,” Haver said.

“That’s fine by me. Did he make a good impression?”

“It’s a she. She’s thirty-five, attractive, and extremely determined.”

“One of those,” Ottosson said, and smiled. “That’ll be good.”

“What’s up with Berglund?”

“Is something up with him? Are you thinking of what he said in the meeting?”

“He just seems so damned on edge,” Haver said.

“All of us are right now. And it’s almost Christmas, and for Berglund that’s a sacred time. He gathers his clan, eats rich food, lays puzzles, and God knows what. I’ve never met anyone so fond of family and traditions. He wants nothing more than to be at home, making Christmas candy and hanging up ornaments.”

Haver had to laugh. Ottosson looked at him kindly.

“I have every confidence in you and your expertise,” he said. “Just remember that Hahn is sick. He stabbed one of us but he’s a wounded person. Wounded and a human being.”

Ola Haver warmed to Ottosson’s support and belief in him, but he was also angered by his chief’s understanding attitude toward this murderer. Ottosson was like that, understanding and mild, and it was something that made him a good boss, but right now the station was engulfed by grief and anger. Yes, Hahn was a human being, but despicable and hateful.

“Janne had a wife and two kids,” Haver said.

“I know that,” Ottosson said calmly. “But we’re not here to judge.”

Where does he get off talking like a goddamn minister?
Haver thought.

“I know what you’re thinking, but once upon a time Little John and Vincent Hahn were children. You know, little kids, like the ones you see in the street. I thought about that in the fall, when school started. I saw the little boys running down the streets with their backpacks and shorts and thought:
There goes a thief, a wife beater, a drug addict, or a dealer.
Do you see what I’m saying?”

“Not really,” Haver said.

“They were on their way to school, on their way out into life. What do we do with them?”

“You mean somehow it’s already been determined which ones become pimps and murderers?”

“Quite the opposite,” Ottosson said with unexpected sharpness.

“Everyone has a responsibility,” Haver said.

“Yes, we can’t escape that, but I just want you to keep it in mind as you question Hahn. Your task, our task, is to investigate and tell the DA as well as the public what has happened, but we also have to keep an eye out for all the little boys on their way to school.”

Ottosson stroked his beard, looked at Haver, and nodded. Haver nodded back and left the office.

“Can you describe the man you thought was from the military?”

Vincent Hahn sighed. Karolina Wittåker sat to one side, her legs spread as wide as the narrow skirt of her suit allowed. Haver couldn’t help glancing in her direction. She was looking at Hahn.

“He was angry,” Hahn said suddenly.

“He was shouting?”

“Yes, he shouted and carried on. It looked unpleasant.”

Beatrice and Lundin had been down to Vaksala square and talked to the Christmas-tree sellers. No one recalled seeing either John Jonsson or an older military man.

“Why did you call him ‘military’?”

“He looked that way.”

“Do you mean his clothing?”

Hahn didn’t answer right away. He turned to the psychologist and stared at her legs. She looked back at him calmly.

“Who are you?” he asked, although they had been introduced just a few minutes ago.

“Karolina,” she said, smiling. “I’m listening to you and trying to imagine how it felt for you on Vaksala square, when that man shouted and you became frightened.”

Hahn lowered his gaze. An expectant silence fell over the room.

“He looked like Hitler,” Hahn said.

The words came out as if he were spitting.

“Did he have a mustache?” Beatrice asked.

Hahn nodded. Haver felt a rising excitement.

“Tell us more,” he said and leaned over. He was trying to meet Hahn’s eyes.

“I ran over to them.”

“How old was the other one?” Haver asked.

“Sixty-three,” Hahn said quickly.

“Tell me about his clothing.”

Hahn didn’t answer. Thirty seconds went by, then one minute. Haver’s impatience grew. He exchanged a look with Beatrice.

“How did you feel when you were running up to them?” Wittåker asked. “Did you get short of breath?”

Hahn looked at her and shook his head.

“You knew you had to follow them?”

She received a nod in the affirmative.

“Do you think John was afraid?”

“He was never afraid. Not even when the truck ran into the wall and the teacher screamed. He just laughed.”

“Maybe he was scared even though he was laughing,” Wittåker said.

Haver realized that the session was going to take a long time. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the psychologist’s interjections. He had assumed she would be play the role of passive listener, but now she was actively steering the conversation. But she was also getting Hahn to talk. He glanced at Beatrice and she nodded.

“It was a pepper truck. A lot of cans fell out. Cans with little red peppers. Everyone took the cans. I did too. Two cans. My father thought I had stolen them, but I said everyone took them. They were just lying in the street.”

“Did he get angry?”

“Yes.”

“Like the man in the square.”

Hahn nodded.

“What did your father do?”

“He was a Nazi.”

“What sort of work did he do?”

“He was nothing. He screamed into my ears.”

“You didn’t want to be a Nazi.”

“I’m a Taliban,” Hahn said.

Haver burst out laughing and Wittåker shot him an icy look. Suddenly Hahn stood up, and Haver shot out of his chair but sat back down when Hahn started to talk.

“He walked quickly. It wasn’t even a pretty tree. Why do people need those? It just costs money. Think about all the glitter, and those balls. That’s what I said to John. He just laughed. He laughed at everything. The other one laughed too, even though he was angry.”

“Was that in the school yard?” Beatrice asked.

“You shouldn’t keep trees inside.”

“Did the angry one talk to you?”

“He talked to me. I said trees don’t like to be cut down. Then they drove away and I screamed, even though you’re not allowed to scream.”

“What did you scream?”

“I screamed that the trees want to be left alone. Don’t you think they want to be left alone?”

“Yes, I do,” Haver said.

He hadn’t bought a Christmas tree yet. That usually happened the day before Christmas.

“We have to find the angry man,” Beatrice said. “I’m sure you understand that. He may have hurt someone. We have to talk to him.”

It felt silly to speak in such an infantile way but she realized that Hahn was still partially a child. The psychologist would no doubt talk at length about this, but she didn’t care about the medical explanations. Beatrice felt instinctively that it was best to address him in this childish way.

“How was he dressed?” she continued. “Did he have nice clothes?”

“No, no nice clothes. He was wearing ones like on the TV, with pockets.”

“A military uniform?”

“They shoot.”

“A hunter?”

Haver heard from Wittåker’s voice that she was as tense as he was.

“A hunter,” Hahn repeated. “They hunt.”

He sank down on the chair. His inner suffering was etched on his face. He shuddered and touched the wound on his head. Haver sensed that he was reliving yesterday’s events in Sävja. Hahn mumbled something inaudible. Haver leaned over the desk and Hahn raised his head to look at him. It was a remarkable moment, Haver thought, a few seconds as a sudden insight came to the killer:
Why am I sitting here? Have I killed someone?
Haver sensed that Hahn was searching for answers, support, and perhaps understanding in those few seconds. Then the expression disappeared from Hahn’s face and was replaced by the absent gaze that they had seen all morning.

The contact was broken and for the remainder of the session he answered their questions in nonsensical fragments. Wittåker made a few more attempts to break through to him but Hahn remained unreachable.

Justus Jonsson was on his way. Where, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t stay at home any longer. The idea he had had this morning no longer seemed as sensible and justified as it had. There was a person John had trusted. Justus knew where he lived because John and Justus had been there many times. Erki had been like a second father to John. John, who was normally so self-sufficient and sure of himself, softened when he talked to the old Finn. The closed quality in John disappeared. Sometimes Justus had heard John repeat things in conversation that he had picked up from Erki.

Justus had seen them together at work and almost felt jealous at how smoothly they cooperated, as if they were one. Over the noise, the sharp sounds of sheet metal and steel and the scream of the machines, through the smoke, their wordless work had bound them together, the whole shop in fact. It looked so easy when Erki and John worked. A brief moment of thought, then action. Justus had observed, fascinated, that momentary pause before the action was carried out. It wasn’t because they had to sort out what they were doing, but rather it seemed as if they were coming to an agreement with the material in their hands. A look was followed by the smallest of gestures to lower the visor and then the crackling glow of the welding tool. Or the flicker of a finger on the green button and the blade that eagerly cut into the sheet of metal.

Erki would understand. Maybe he had known about John’s plan?

Lennart’s accusations had cut a hole into his heart. Why had Berit, his mom, said John hated Lennart? It wasn’t true! In fact, Lennart was included in the plan. John had said that many times. Together they would make a new life for themselves. John, Berit, and Justus, and Lennart would be there too. John had been evasive only when it came to his mother.

“We’ll see,” he had said, and Justus had heard from his voice that he wasn’t sure what to do about her. “She’s old,” he had added. Maybe John was going to wait until she had died?

Justus passed Erki Karjalainen’s house a second time. An old car was parked in the driveway. There was a decal of the Finnish flag in the back window. He glimpsed a woman in the window, behind some Christmas stars. She looked out and Justus picked up the pace. The street ended about one hundred meters away and beyond that lay a patch of forest. Justus stopped where the trees started. The snow-laden spruce trees reminded him of a walk he had taken with John a few years ago. He felt empty and tired, but the memory of his father’s happiness made him smile briefly. Then came the tears. They had set out to find their own Christmas tree. “We’ll save a couple of hundred, at least,” John said. Justus didn’t know if it was the cheap Christmas tree or the fun of being with his son in the forest that made John so elated, but it didn’t matter. Not then and not now. He had laughed, taken Justus by the hand, and together they had examined more than twenty spruce trees before they found the one they wanted.

A car came by and Justus drew into the side of the road. The car skidded a little on the ice as it turned around. It had a Finnish license plate and it turned into the Karjalainens’ garage.

Justus walked straight into the forest. Snow was falling and even though it was the middle of the day it was already getting dark. At the edge of the forest there were footprints, but after only ten meters the surface of the snow lay undisturbed. He trudged on. The backpack bounced up and down on his back. He was aware of its weight but it didn’t bother him. When he had been walking for a few minutes he came to a clearing and saw an old-fashioned red cottage. There was a light on inside and in the garden there was a straw goat, a traditional Christmas ornament. He walked up to the goat. It was bound with red satin ribbon. He patted it, dusting off some of the snow that had gathered on its back. He started to cry again, although he tried hard to keep the tears back.

The cottage looked like it was straight out of a fairy tale. He thought how strange it was that a cottage like this could be so close to town.
Who lives here?
he had time to think before an older woman opened the door and put her head out.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, and if it hadn’t been for the weight on his chest he would have laughed.

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled. “I think I took a wrong turn,” he added, hastening to explain why he was standing in her garden.

“That depends on where you were headed,” she said and stepped out onto the little porch.

“You have a fairy-tale house,” he said. His hand was still touching the goat’s head.

“Yes, it’s nice, isn’t it?” she said. “Are you on your way to the Christmas meeting?”

He nodded although he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Go out to the road and take a right,” she said. “After a while you’ll get to a sign that says
UKS
. Go in there. It won’t take you long.”

Justus started walking in the direction she had indicated.

“Merry Christmas,” she said again.

He walked a few meters, then turned. The woman was still there.

“You’re not on your way to the meeting, are you?”

He shook his head. For a few seconds all was still. The snow had stopped.

“You’re welcome to come in, if you want to,” she said. “Maybe you’d like something warm to drink.”

Justus looked at her and after a second’s thought he shook his head.

“I have to keep going,” he said.

“It looks like you’ve been crying.”

He almost broke down and told her everything. Her kind voice, the cottage tucked into the snow, a toy house with cotton wool on the roof, and his longing for warmth made him hesitate.

“I thought I was lost,” he said and swallowed.

“Come in and warm yourself for a while.”

He shook his head, managed to get out a “thank you,” and turned. He walked with a long, determined stride. After a while he started to run. The backpack jumped all around. After a hundred meters he went past the sign the woman had been talking about. A car was driving down the badly plowed road. Another car was in the distance. He ran faster and faster until his breath was like a cloud around him and his tears were frozen on his cheeks. Then he stopped abruptly, wiped his cheeks with his glove, and decided never to return to the apartment in Gränby. He kept going at a calmer pace and tried to look carefree, but his despair tightened his muscles like cables. His heart was pounding in his chest like a fist beating on a door.

A third car went by. The driver stared at him in curiosity. Justus gave him the finger and kept walking. When the noise of the car had died away he looked around. He saw a spiral of smoke from the cottage rise over the treetops. Then the road turned.

He knew that all the bad stuff had started when John was fired from the shop. Until then they had been happy. He had never before heard his parents quarrel in earnest, but that was when it started: the night talk that they thought he couldn’t hear. Their low, grinding voices from the kitchen or living room. Sometimes he couldn’t even tell who was talking. But he knew it was about money. He had sneaked up and listened. Once, they had been talking about him.

Justus walked on and quickened his step unconsciously. With every step his longing for his father intensified. How far would he have to go before the pain went away?

He reached an intersection where he came to a stop, not sure of what to do next. One thought he had had was to destroy that which had destroyed John. But suddenly he wondered if everything was Berit’s fault. What if it was true that she had met someone else? Justus collapsed as if a knife had been driven into his body. He sobbed as he thought about the shadow that had turned up in his doorway, when she thought he was sleeping. How she had simply stood there looking at him. Had she betrayed John? Was that why he had died?

He didn’t want to believe it, but the thought pestered him, rearing up like an ice floe inside. Was she the one who deserved to be punished? Had he been right to kill the Princesses? Loneliness drove him down into the pile of snow at the side of the road. The cold crept into his body as he pulled up his knees and leaned his head against them. A car drove by and slowed down, but Justus didn’t have the energy to pay any attention to it. The car stopped, a door opened, and the sound of a radio streamed out. The driver’s footsteps were muffled by the snow but still audible.

This is how Dad died,
Justus thought.
He died in the snow.
Justus wanted to fall back into it. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.