The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [34]
“No.”
“Did he ever ask for an advance on his salary?”
“There’s a question for you. It happened, not very often. Now and then.”
“Was he irresponsible with money?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Drugs?”
“No luck there. A little vodka from time to time but nothing that interfered with his work. Maybe when he was younger, but that’s a common story.”
Sagander looked searchingly at Haver.
“You don’t have much, do you?”
“Would you mind if I talked with your men? They’ve probably worked with John.”
“All three, in fact. Of course. Talk as much as you’d like.”
Sagander had returned to his desk and reopened the folder by the time it took Haver to get up and leave the stuffy office. As Haver was closing the door the phone rang and Sagander grabbed the receiver with irritation.
“The shop,” Haver heard him say, as if there were only one metalwork shop in the whole town.
Erki Karjalainen, the man with the angle grinder, looked as if he had been waiting for Haver, because as soon as Haver stepped out of the office he signaled that he wanted to speak with him. Haver walked over to him.
“You’re from the police, aren’t you?” the man asked in a Swedish-Finnish dialect.
“That’s right. It must be written on my forehead.”
The Finn smiled.
“It’s a terrible thing,” he said, and Haver saw that he meant it. He discerned a mere suggestion of shakiness in the man’s face that betrayed his emotion.
“John was a good guy,” he continued, and his accent became more distinct. “A devil of a welder.”
These were the kind of men who beat the Russians, Haver thought.
“And nice.”
He looked over at the office.
“A good friend.”
Haver was touched by his simple words. He nodded. Karjalainen turned his head and looked at the welder. Is he as good as Little John was? Haver wondered.
“Kurre is good but John was better,” the Finn said, as if he had read Haver’s mind. “It’s a disgrace that he had to quit. There were still a few jobs and we knew things were going to get better.”
“Did they get along?”
A thoughtful expression came over Erki Karjalainen’s face, and when he spoke, his words no longer had the succinct assurance of his earlier answers.
“There was something that wasn’t right between them,” he said. “I think Sagge used the lack of work as an excuse to get rid of John.”
“What was wrong?”
Erki took out a pack of cigarettes. He smoked Chesterfields, something that surprised Haver. He thought they had gone out of business.
“Let’s step out,” Erki said. “Do you smoke?”
Haver shook his head and followed him out into the yard. The clouds had filled the patch of blue sky and the construction workers were taking a break.
“They’re building offices,” Erki said.
He inhaled a few times. Haver studied his face in the daylight. He had a narrow, lined face that was marked by hard work. His dark hair was slicked back. Bushy eyebrows and thin lips. Nicotine-stained teeth in poor condition. He reminded Haver of an out-of-work Italian actor from the 1950s. He sucked deeply on the cigarette and spoke with puffs of smoke punctuating his speech.
“Sagge’s a good guy, but sometimes he can be a hard-ass too. We have to put in a lot of overtime and John didn’t like that. He had a family, and the older his boy got, the less John liked to work late.”
“And Sagge took his revenge by firing him, you mean.”
“Revenge,” Erki repeated, as if testing the word. “Maybe that’s taking it a bit far. Sagge is a stubborn bastard, and stubborn bastards sometimes do crazy things, against their better judgment.”
“Like firing a good welder to make a point?”
“Yup. I think he regrets it, but he’d never say anything like that.”
“Did you ever see John after he stopped working here?”
Erki nodded and lit a new Chesterfield with the remains of the first.
“He came by sometimes but he never talked to Sagge.”
“But with you he did?”
“With me he did.”
The Finn smiled sorrowfully and looked even more like a character in a Fellini film.
Before Haver left the workshop he talked to the other two employees, Kurt Davidsson and Harry Mattzon.