The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [14]
Beatrice decided spontaneously to believe him.
“How did you find out that your brother was dead?”
“Your blabbering friends,” he said curtly and looked away. “The whole town knows,” he continued, turned to the window. “If you start shouting over the police radio that Little John is dead, then everyone will hear it.”
Unbelievable, Beatrice thought. The name of a murdered person announced unscrambled on the radio.
“My brother, my little brother,” Lennart Jonsson sobbed, leaned up against the windowsill, his face pressed against the pane.
“I’m going to kill those bastards, you know. I’m going to find the one who did this and torture him to death.”
Beatrice wondered what details of the murder had also been broadcast. Berit had sunk down on the chair again and sat lifelessly with her gaze fixed on some place where Beatrice was unable to follow.
“Will you be staying with her for a bit?” she asked. “She could do with the company.”
It was hard to know if her brother-in-law was the best companion for her, but Beatrice told herself there was a logic to it. A brother and a wife, linked for always with their shared life, the memories, grief.
Lennart turned and nodded in a conciliatory manner. A drop of Berit’s saliva was still caught on his stubbly chin.
She got the address of Justus’s friend and that of John and Lennart’s mother, went out into the hall, and called Haver and told him to make sure the mother was notified.
Lennart was downing a beer when she returned to the kitchen. Maybe just the thing, she thought.
“Berit,” she said, “do you know where John was going last night?”
Berit shook her head.
“Was he running an errand? Was there someone he was going to meet?”
Berit didn’t say anything.
“I have to ask.”
“I don’t know.”
“He didn’t say anything when he left?”
Berit lowered her head and looked like she was trying to remember the day before. Beatrice could imagine how she was going through those last few minutes before John had walked out the door and disappeared from her life for good. How many times was she going to relive that day?
“He was his usual self,” she said finally. “I think he said something about the pet store. He was going to buy a pump he had ordered.”
“Which store?”
“I don’t know. He went to all of them.”
She started to cry.
“He had a hell of a fine aquarium,” Lennart said. “They wrote about it in the papers.”
Silence fell.
“I thought maybe he was helping with the snow removal. He also talked about trying to get a job at the sheet-metal shop of someone he knew.”
“Micke?” Lennart asked.
Berit looked at her brother-in-law and nodded.
Micke, Beatrice thought. Now we’re getting all the names.
Haver, Beatrice, Wende, Berglund, Fredriksson, Riis, Peter Lundin—no relation to Asta and Anton—and Ottosson had gathered around an enormous box of gingerbread cookies. Fredriksson helped himself to a generous portion and piled the cookies up in front of his cup. Eleven in all, Beatrice noted.
“Think they’ll make a good boy out of you?” she asked, referring to the old folk saying. Fredriksson nodded absently. Ottosson, who must have considered himself good enough already, declined the offer of gingerbread when the tin came his way.
“Go on, take one,” Riis said.
“No, thank you,” the chief said.
“Little John bled to death,” Haver said suddenly. “Someone, or perhaps more than one, stabbed him with a knife or some such sharp object. Blood loss is the official cause of death.”
The group around the table digested this piece of information. Haver paused. He imagined his colleagues creating an inner picture of Little John’s final moments.
“In the stages leading up to his death he was subjected to repeated blows to the head and chest,” Haver continued. “In addition, he has burn marks, probably caused by cigarettes, on his arms and genitals.”
“So we’re looking for a sadistic smoker,” Riis said.
“Aren’t all smokers sadists?” Lundin asked.
Haver gave him a look and continued.
“He probably died sometime between four and eight P.M. yesterday. The exact time of death is difficult to establish because