The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [15]
“Any trace of alcohol or drugs in his blood?” Ottosson asked.
“He was clean. The only things they found were the beginnings of an ulcer and a liver that could have been in better shape.”
“Alcoholic?”
“No, you couldn’t call him that, but he put his liver to work,” Haver said and looked suddenly very tired.
“Can his death have been a mistake?” Beatrice said. “The fact that he bled to death after so many small wounds indicates an ongoing assault. If your intention is to murder someone, surely you would aim to kill the first time.”
This is absurd, Haver thought.
“Torture,” he said. “Torture is what it is.”
“He was a tough bastard,” Ottosson said. “I don’t think he was an easy one to break.”
“You can’t predict that about someone,” Fredriksson said and had his eighth cookie. “It’s one thing to sound tough from behind a desk when you’re being questioned about a theft, it’s quite another to keep a stiff upper lip when you’re being tortured to death.”
Ottosson wasn’t one to belabor a point, but this time he defended his statement.
“Little John was stubborn and brave. He never gave in even though he was small.”
“But surely you never tortured him?” Riis said.
Ottosson had told them that he had questioned Little John on several occasions. He had been there when John had been brought in the first time at the age of sixteen and he had seen him from time to time during the following five or six years.
“Do we think this is part of some old business or something new?” Ottosson continued. “For my part, I have trouble believing that John would have gotten himself mixed up in something new. You’ve met his wife and kid, Bea, and John seemed to have been getting along well, at least these past ten years. Why would he jeopardize all that now?”
Bea nodded and indicated that Ottosson should keep going. She liked hearing what he had to say. He had a long history that stretched out before she had joined the force or even started school. He was a wise man. He hardly ever lectured them in overly long harangues, and just now she wanted him to keep talking, but he stopped and snatched Fredriksson’s last gingerbread cookie, giving Beatrice a mischievous look.
“His wife seems all right and the boy too. That is to say, he’s been unemployed for a while and that probably caused a few problems but hadn’t led to anything serious. Some partying from time to time, his wife said, but no serious drinking. She may have been putting a good face on things but I think he was keeping to the straight and narrow. He spent a lot of time on his fish tank—it’s the biggest I’ve seen. Four meters by one meter, at least. It takes up a whole wall.”
“Talk about water damage if that thing started to leak,” Riis said.
Ottosson shot him a look as if to say, Enough of your stupid comments. Riis gave him a wry smile.
“It seems to have been his main interest,” Beatrice said. “He belonged to a tropical fish society, was active on the board, and had dreams of owning his own tropical fish store one day.”
Ottosson nodded.
“What about the brother?” Haver asked. “He doesn’t seem completely aboveboard. Could he have gotten John involved in something?”
“I don’t think so,” Beatrice said. “Not consciously anyway. Lennart seemed genuinely surprised. Of course you would be shocked if your brother was murdered, but there isn’t anything that indicates he even sensed that John had been pulled into any kind of trouble.”
“He didn’t look too bright,” Ottosson said. “Do you think he was simply unaware of something he had caused, that it would have these kinds of consequences?”
Beatrice looked doubtful.
“Maybe he’s just putting two and two together now,” Ottosson said.
Morenius, who was the head of KUT, the criminal information service, walked into the room. He threw a sizable folder on the table, sat down, and sighed heavily.
“Sorry I’m late but there’s a lot going on right now.” He underscored this with a new sigh.
“Have some coffee,” Ottosson said. “It’ll pick you up.”
Morenius laughed and reached for the insulated coffee