The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [27]
Haver was surprisingly tense. He was usually dispirited by the sight of so many people gathered around the table, which could only mean that some atrocious act of violence had been committed. Not that he was sick of his work, but he—like his colleagues—realized that a murder investigation drained resources from the other cases. Some people would go free as a result of the fact that they were all sitting there. That was just the way it was. Violence begets violence, as the saying goes, he thought, and that was literally true in this context. Maybe it would be a case of wife-beating or a downtown brawl that would suffer and only encourage the perpetrators to continue.
The chief talked about sending “the right signals.” A murder investigation signaled an escalation of crime. Haver had always known this, but the insight struck him with new force this morning, perhaps because Sammy Nilsson had been complaining as they were walking into the conference room. He was taking part in a new project involving street crime, started after a number of “incidents”—as the chief put it—three assault cases involving youth gangs, the last on the evening of the Santa Lucia celebration.
Now Sammy was forced to leave this work in order to assist in the Little John case. Haver had seen the dejection in his colleague’s face and he understood it completely. Sammy was their youth man, more so than anyone else on the squad. Assisted by colleagues from Drug Enforcement, he had made large inroads in dissolving the gangs, talking sense into the young men who descended upon the town and outlying suburbs like a pack of wild animals. Those were Sammy’s own words.
“They’re like a pack of animals driven from their hunting grounds,” he had said, without specifying exactly where these hunting grounds were located, or who it was who was driving them. Haver had the impression that it was the gangs who were driving other, more peaceful citizens from the streets.
Ottosson asked for silence and almost immediately everyone around the table stopped talking. The chief paused for a few seconds while the whole room sank into stillness. It was as if he wanted to hold a moment of silence for Little John. Everyone was aware of the fact that Ottosson had known the deceased over the course of his entire adult life. Perhaps that was why everyone, as if in wordless agreement, stopped their chatter and their rustling of papers. A few looked at Ottosson, others stared down at the table.
“Little John is dead,” Ottosson began. “There are probably those of us who don’t think that’s much of a loss.”
He paused again, and Haver, who again cast a quick glance at his boss, sensed his doubt as to how he should continue—or was he wondering how his words were going to affect the assembled officers? Ottosson was always concerned about maintaining an upbeat atmosphere, and Haver expected that he would be very careful not to say anything that might have a negative impact.
“That would be a pity, however,” Ottosson said in a forceful voice. “Little John was once a young kid who took a wrong turn, a hell of a wrong turn. Many of you know his big brother, Lennart, and there you have part of the reason why. I have the advantage of having met their parents, Albin and Aina. Fine, decent people.”
How is he going to pull this off? Haver thought, feeling an almost physical discomfort. Fine people was a phrase Ottosson sometimes used, a note of approval that implied more than adherence to a lawful lifestyle.
Haver looked at Bea, who had spoken to John’s mother to test her reaction, but she sat with her head lowered.
“I know they tried to steer their boys right, but it may have been beyond their power. We know very little of what determines a person’s course of action,” Ottosson said thoughtfully.
Bea lifted her head at this outburst of philosophical speculation. Ottosson looked around with slight embarrassment, as if he had committed