The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [107]
She feared her mother’s gaze and comments. Ann couldn’t remember her mother being this way while she was growing up. It was her father’s ill health and passivity that had set off a process where controlling her daughter became her dominating focus. Ann had been judged an unsatisfactory mother. It was as if she were fully incapable of taking care of Erik. And perhaps I really can’t do it, she thought. Maybe I’m not fit to raise a son by myself.
“Because I’m destined to stay single,” she said aloud.
She went into Erik’s room, stood by his bed, and looked at him. He was healthy and developmentally on track. Why was she a worse mother than anyone else? Ann knew it was her own insecurity and low self-esteem that was the source of all this self-doubt.
The phone buzzed. She had turned the ringer off so as not to disturb Erik. It was Berit.
“He’s cut up some of the fish,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s taken up some of the fish out of the tank and cut their heads off.”
Berit drew air into her lungs as if to stop a scream from escaping.
“This morning?”
“Yes. I thought he had ignored them and not fed them, which is true. But he took out all the Princesses and beheaded them. I don’t get it.”
“The Princesses?”
“That’s the name of the fish. The Princess of Burundi. The other ones are untouched.”
“Why these particular fish, do you think?”
Berit burst out into loud sobs that developed into desperate wails. Lindell tried to regain contact with her but had the impression that Berit had walked away from the phone, perhaps collapsing into a chair or onto the floor. Her crying became more distant.
“I’ll be right over,” Lindell said and hung up.
She looked at the time, ran into Erik’s room, put a cap on his head and wrapped him up in a blanket, and left the apartment.
The meat thermometer rose to sixty degrees.
Thirty-four
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