The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [109]
“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.
Thirty-five
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,