The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [119]
“Is it for real?” Haver asked as they drove up the small road to the house.
“He probably owns just the farmhouse, and not the farm proper,” Berglund said.
On either side of the road someone had placed ornamental arrangements of juniper twigs. Small Santas peeked out from between the branches.
“Isn’t it a little out of control?” Haver snorted.
“I think it looks nice,” Berglund said.
Lindell didn’t say anything, keeping an eye out for a red pickup truck.
“No car,” she said.
They understood what she meant although three cars were parked in front of the house. Haver parked behind a run-down Nissan and the patrol car stopped behind Haver. Everyone got out at the same time. Six police officers, of which five were in uniform and armed. Even Haver was carrying his gun, which surprised Lindell.
The three patrol officers waited outside. A ragged dog ran over and sniffed their legs but disappeared as quickly as it had come. Lindell wondered if she should hang behind too, but an almost imperceptible gesture from Berglund told her it was all right to come along.
A woman in her sixties opened the door. She tried hard to appear relaxed and friendly but her eyes betrayed her. They fluttered between the three police officers, resting for a few seconds on Lindell as if hoping to find a show of support, woman-to-woman.
“Mrs. Sagander?”
Berglund’s gentle voice, in contrast to his somewhat grumpy demeanor, made her attempt a weak smile as well as a nod.
“You must be looking for Agne,” she said and stepped aside.
Lindell smiled at her as she crossed the threshold.
“Ann Lindell,” she said and put out her hand.
“Gunnel,” said the woman and smiled back.
The large hall was filled with the rich scent of Christmas baking. Lindell looked around. The door to the kitchen was open and inside Lindell could see a whole wall covered with copper wares, but above all it was the floor of the hall that drew one’s gaze. It consisted of broad pine planks that shone from varnish and daily polishing. A gigantic bureau in the Swedish country style and a pair of antique Östervåla chairs, as well as homemade rugs in bold colors, underscored the rustic character of the home.
In one of the windows Lindell saw a glowing small-scale Advent church surrounded by cotton wool and a few Santas. Mrs. Sagander followed her gaze and told her that her father had made the model church and the gnomes sometime in the 1940s. This talk about everyday things enlivened her.
“Christmas is such a festive time,” Lindell said.
Agne Sagander received them from his easy chair, one leg supported by an ottoman. Haver, who had first met him at the metalwork shop, thought he looked ill at ease in the comfortable room. It was evident that he did not like his current state. He sighed heavily as they came into the room.
“Here I am sitting like a goddamn cripple,” he said, dispensing entirely with the polite formality of introductions.
“Agne, please,” his wife said, submissive and tired.
“What the hell does it matter?” he asked.
“Pity about the shop,” Berglund said.
“This is quite a delegation,” Sagander said and looked at Lindell. “I know you from the papers. Murder and mayhem, is it really all that fun?”
Lindell walked up to him, stretched out her hand, and introduced herself. Sagander squeezed her hand forcefully. Lindell smiled.
Berglund also walked up and introduced himself.
“Do you hunt?” he asked.
“Yes, I bagged that one in Jämtland,” Sagander said and looked up at the enormous elk head above the fireplace. “Eighteen points, as you can see. Ström’s valley. There’s an abundance of elk there. Or was,” he added with a satisfied smile. “What about you, do you hunt?”
“I used to,” Berglund said.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourselves? Do you have any leads? It feels like ape shit to be sitting here, I can tell you that much.”
“Agne is in a great deal of pain,” his wife inserted. “They operated on his back and now something