The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [11]
“Anything interesting?”
“Not much other than that it’s started to snow again.”
“Call me if you find anything exciting,” Haver said, feeling somewhat impatient. Ryde should have found something by now. Something small. Haver wanted fast results.
Please let it go well, he thought, in the hope that the first homicide investigation he was heading would lead to a swift arrest. He was by no means inexperienced. He had worked with Lindell on several cases and believed himself up to the admittedly challenging task, but he also felt bodily twinges of insecurity and impatience.
He grabbed the phone again, called the DA, and thereafter tried to track down a certain Andreas Lundemark, who was in charge of the Libro snow dump. Haver wanted to establish how that operation was managed. A large number of truck drivers had been out there, to which tracks in the giant mounds of snow bore testament. Someone might have seen something. Everyone would have to be questioned.
He tracked down Lundemark’s cell phone number with the help of Information, but when he dialed the number no one answered. Haver left a message.
He hung up and knew he had to do the right thing. He sat with John’s and his brother’s files in front of him. He leafed through the papers. A not insubstantial narrative, particularly in Lennart’s case. Haver made a note of the names that cropped up in the various investigations, fifty-two names in all. Every last one would have to be questioned. Most important was the group in Lennart’s file designated as his “closest associates,” a number of thieves, fencers, drinking buddies, and others whom Lennart was thought to know.
Haver found himself getting lost in thought, his mind drifting back to Rebecka. He was a good investigator but came up short on the home front. He couldn’t really see what was bothering her. She had been home on maternity leave once before and that time everything had been fine. Should he simply ask her? Sit down with her after the kids had gone to bed and essentially interrogate her? Not leave anything to chance, be systematic and try to ignore the fact that he might be the guilty party?
“Tonight,” he said aloud and stood up; but he knew as he did so that he was lying to himself. He would never have the energy to talk to her after coming home from the first day of a homicide investigation. And when exactly would he go home?
“I mustn’t forget to call,” he mumbled.
Beatrice stood for a while in the entrance hall, reading the names of the residents. There were two Anderssons, one Ramirez, and an Oto. Where did Oto come from? West Africa, Malaysia, or some other far-off land? There was also a J. and B. and Justus Jonsson, two floors up.
She was alone in her errand, which pleased her. Delivering the news of a death was probably the hardest task. Beatrice was simply distracted by her colleagues in such situations. Dealing with her own emotions was hard enough, and she was happy not to have to support a colleague who would perhaps start shooting off at the mouth or go completely silent and inject a greater sense of anxiety.
The woodwork around the door had been newly replaced and still smelled of paint. She tried to imagine that she was there to visit a good friend, perhaps someone she hadn’t seen for a long time. Full of excitement and anticipation.
She stroked the pale green bumpy wall. The smell of paint mixed with the smells of cooking. Fried onions. Oto is making his national dish, she thought, in honor of my visit. Oto, how nice to see you again. Oh, fried onions! My favorite!
She took a step but stopped. Her cell phone vibrated. She checked to see who it was. Ola.
“We’ve just received a missing-persons report,” he said. “Berit Jonsson called in to say she hasn’t seen her husband since last night.”
“I’m in the stairwell,” Bea said.
“We told her we’d be sending someone over.”
“And would that be me?”
“That would be you,” Ola Haver said with great seriousness.
Damn it all to hell, she thought. She knows we’re coming. She thinks I’m here to ask her about