The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [108]
“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.