The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [35]
The long-haired Mattzon said something that struck Haver as strange.
“I saw John on the street here last summer. It was the last week of my holiday. I was down here getting a car-roof box I keep at work. My brother was going to borrow it. When I swung out onto the street I saw John coming down this way.”
“In a car?”
“Of course.”
“He doesn’t own a car,” Haver said.
“I know. That’s why I remember it. I thought he had bought one.”
“What kind was it?”
“An old white Volvo 242 from the mid-seventies.”
Haver couldn’t help smiling.
“Was he alone?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was this?”
“Must have been the first week of August. Sunday, I think. My brother was going away and I had promised to get him the roof box, but had forgotten to take it home so I had to come down here on a Sunday.”
“Had he been here at the workshop?”
“It’s hard to say,” Mattzon said, taking a few steps to the door and putting his hand on the handle. Haver realized that the man had burned himself. There were bright red blisters on the knuckles of the left hand. A few blisters had burst and revealed the inflamed flesh beneath.
“Maybe he came down to meet someone here?”
“Like who? Everything was closed, shut down for the summer. Sagander was in Africa, on safari,” Mattzon said and opened the door.
“You should see to that hand,” Haver said. “It looks bad.”
Mattzon peeked into the workshop, then looked at Haver. He didn’t bother checking his hand.
“At least I’m alive,” he said and returned to his work.
Haver caught sight of Sagander in his office before the door shut. He took out his cell phone and called Sammy Nilsson but he didn’t answer. Haver looked down at his watch. Lunchtime.
Eleven
Vincent Hahn woke up at half past nine. Today was bingo day. Even though he was in a hurry he stole a few moments by Julia’s side and caressed her firm buttocks. He would put new panties on her tonight. He’d steal some from Lindex, his favorite place. A dark pair, most likely, but not black.
The mannequin’s rigid posture sometimes bothered him, making it appear as if she were watching him. When it was too much he would tip her onto the floor and let her lie there for a day or two. That took her down a peg.
It had been a bad night. Vincent Hahn did not count true remorse among his arsenal of emotions, but it was the sound that had bothered him and haunted him in the early hours.
He always ate yogurt in the mornings, two helpings. Yogurt was pure.
The bus was thirty seconds late but the driver only smiled when it was pointed out to him. He was known to all the drivers of this route. During his first year in the area he had compiled statistics regarding the various drivers, their punctuality, if they were polite or not, and how they drove. He had sent an analysis of these results, ingeniously displayed, to the Uppsala public transport authorities.
The reply had infuriated him. During the following few weeks he made various plans for his revenge, but, as had been the case so many times before, they came to nothing.
Now he felt stronger and more prepared to follow through. He didn’t know why it was different this time, just that he felt more equipped to deal with it. Now he had not only the justification but the endurance.
He had started last night. A rabbit. Rodents should not be kept in residential areas. He knew that many people agreed with him and that they would silently thank him. He knew this because of the letter he had written to the housing authorities.
Maybe Julia had made the difference? He had acquired her last spring. He had long thought he wanted to share his life with someone, and when he found her in the Dumpster he knew he had found his companion.
She had been dirty and he had spent a whole day cleaning her off and repairing a tear in her groin. Someone had been violent with her. He had saved her from that. Now he guarded her, changed