The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [101]
He dialed the number and Rebecka answered immediately.
“Oh, God,” she said. “Thank you, God.”
“What is it?”
“I heard it on the radio,” she said.
“It was a patrol officer, I don’t think you knew him.”
“Did he have a family?”
“A wife and two kids. A girl and a boy. Eight and four.”
“Shit,” she said, although she seldom swore.
“I have to go,” he said.
“You’ll be careful, won’t you, Ola?”
“Of course, you know that.”
“I want to—” Rebecka started, but Haver interrupted her.
“I have to go. I’ll see you.”
He was left with mixed feelings. Her concern touched him but also filled him with irritation. They had had a huge fight when he came back late last night. She had been sitting silently at the kitchen table and given him an ice-cold look, a glass and a half-empty bottle of red wine in front of her. When Haver walked into the kitchen all hell had broken loose. Rebecka told him about Ann Lindell calling without leaving her name, but Haver knew it wasn’t the true source of her anger.
It was very late when they finally went to bed and he had lain awake for a long time. Rebecka had tossed and turned, sighed, and shifted pillows around. An oppressive silence had reigned. So much had been said, yet so much remained unsaid. At half past two he had tiptoed out into the kitchen. The bottle of wine was still on the table. That was unlike Rebecka, she was normally so neat. Haver poured himself half a glass. He should sleep. He should love his wife, make love to her, but first he knew they had to talk.
Haver dialed Lindell’s home number on his cell phone. The answering machine came on after four rings. He tried her cell phone but had no luck. He left a short message asking her to call.
Why had she tried to phone him, and why wasn’t she answering now? It wasn’t like her to be unreachable. Her call earlier this evening had to have had something to do with work. She would never have tried him at home to talk about what had happened between them. And what was it that had happened anyway?
Haver kept on thinking, with a growing sense of irritation. The feeling that everything was too late came over him, the same feeling that had been bothering him in the dark, that things had gone too far, both at work and at home. He had fallen into a light sleep. In his dream a woman was bent over him, repeating the words, “Why did my son die?” Over and over. Haver tried to answer but couldn’t make a sound because he was gagged and bound to his office chair. He helplessly listened to the grieving woman’s mournful cry. Rebecka had fallen asleep. Her breathing had become calm and regular and he wished he could snuggle next to her. He fell back into sleep and into the nightmare.
After the meeting everyone went his own way. Haver was irresolute. Ottosson had set up an investigative session with Fritzén, from the district attorney’s office, in ten minutes. Haver called Ann at home again and left a message there too. Then he went into the bathroom and cried.
Ottosson started by talking about Jan-Erik, their collective vulnerability, and also about all the flowers and phone calls from the public that had been pouring in. No doubt people were even more willing to show their compassion because it was so close to Christmas. Liselotte Rask had done an amazing job, Ottosson said. She had stood her ground in the reception area, taking the wind out of the sails of even the most aggressive reporter with a single look, a word.
The chief changed the topic of discussion.
“Now we can start to imagine how Berit Jonsson feels,” he said, and at least Fritzén was taken aback at these words, but Ottosson continued calmly.
“Death comes to us all, that is the only thing we can be certain of. It makes no difference whether it is a thief in a garbage dump or a policeman in the line of duty. When someone dies at the hands of another, the pain for the survivors is the same.”
Haver wondered about Ottosson’s relationship to Little John. He did not mention Vivan Molin, who had been strangled and brutally kicked in under her bed.
“It’s true,” Berglund interrupted, and