The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [118]
“Who is the angry man?” Lindell asked.
Haver gave an succinct account of what Hahn had told them.
“If we accept your line of reasoning for now,” Lindell said, “do you think Justus could have suspected that Sagander was responsible for the murder?”
Haver looked at her thoughtfully. Lindell assumed he was trying to make more connections now that the first pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly and looked around.
Nearby, a fireman was rubbing his face with snow, spitting and grumbling. He straightened his back and turned to look at the burned building as if he fully expected it to burst into flame and smoke again.
“They’re doing a fantastic job,” Lindell said and nodded to the firefighter.
Haver didn’t answer. He had his cell phone in his hand.
“Maybe we should call Berglund,” he said. “And a patrol car.”
Lindell knew what he was thinking: Drive out to Sagander’s house.
“Where does he live?”
“On a farm in the Börje area, I think. I’ll have Berglund check it out.”
He dialed a number and Lindell walked away. She took out her phone and called Berit. The phone rang several times before she picked up. Her voice was muted, as if she was expecting bad news.
“Did Justus know Sagander very well?” Lindell asked.
“Sagge? Why do you ask?”
Lindell thought about telling her that the workshop had just burned to the ground but decided not to.
“I thought that…”
“I can tell you that Sagander was hated in our family. Justus would never have gone out to see him. Why would you think that?”
Lindell told her about the fire and heard Berit draw her breath. She had said it herself: Sagander was hated. Sometimes the step from hate to arson was not so big.
“Do you think Justus did it?”
“No, I’m just asking,” Lindell said.
“Are you at the shop? What does Sagge say?”
“He’s not here. He can’t walk right now. We’re driving out to see him.”
“You too? Where’s the baby?”
“He’s with my mother.”
Lindell left her car at the scene. They picked up Berglund at the station and a patrol car with three officers followed behind.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Berglund said as soon as he got into the car.
“I know,” Lindell said curtly. “But I am.”
“And the baby?”
“Mom and Dad are visiting.”
“And you run out on them? What are you thinking? It’s almost Christmas!”
“That’s why,” Lindell said. “I knew it would drive them nuts.”
Berglund sighed in the backseat.
“I never really believed that Hahn killed Little John,” said Haver, who had paid no attention to the squabble between Berglund and Lindell.
“Sammy was the only one who put his money on Hahn,” Berglund said.
“He always wants to go against the pack,” Lindell said to him. It felt good to be back among her colleagues.
“Does Ottosson know you’re here?” Berglund asked sternly. She shook her head.
“Not even my mother knows I’m here,” she said and gave him her sweetest smile. Haver turned on the car radio, and the Pointer Sisters’ “I’m So Excited” came through the speakers. Lindell gave Berglund a meaningful look and sang along. “…I’m about to lose control…”
“You’re impossible,” Berglund said, but smiled. “Turn it down.”
“I like this song,” Haver said.
“I promise I’ll be completely calm,” Lindell said.
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Haver said. He chuckled, but both Berglund and Lindell knew it was from nervous tension.
Thirty-eight
Sagander’s house sat on a small hill. If the circumstances for their visit had been different, Lindell would have commented on how idyllic it looked. It was a traditional red-and-white-painted house in two levels with a covered porch that also functioned as a balcony to the upper story. Two small Christmas trees had been put out on the balcony, covered in a string of lights just like the tall one out in the yard that was eight meters or more.