The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [48]
“He didn’t think rabbits should be kept in the city?”
“He said they were disgusting.”
“And so he killed it,” Fredriksson said in a perplexed tone.
Even though he had been in this line of work for a long time he had not ceased to be astounded by his fellow citizens.
Ryde, the forensic specialist, walked in at this point. He said nothing, simply stared at his colleague.
“The kitchen,” Fredriksson said, and Ryde left without a word.
Fredriksson knew there was no point in trying polite conversation or conveying unnecessary information when Ryde had that look.
“It was funny—well, I guess funny isn’t the right word,” Gunilla said. “But I’ve been thinking back on my school days a lot today. That guy who was murdered recently had also gone to school with me. And then this creep.”
Ryde, who had overheard her comment, came out of the kitchen.
“You went to school with John Jonsson?”
His voice was abrupt, not modulated for contact with the public. Gunilla looked sternly at him.
“Are you also a police officer?”
Fredriksson couldn’t help smiling.
“This is Eskil Ryde,” he said. “He’s our forensic expert.”
“The only one,” Ryde added. “But go on about John.”
Gunilla sighed heavily, clearly exhausted.
“I know John better,” she started. “We’ve run into each other from time to time over the years. And I know his wife.”
“Please excuse my forwardness,” Fredriksson said as Ryde snorted, “but have you ever had a relationship with John?”
“No. Why on earth would you say that?”
“You were so quick to put in that bit about knowing his wife.”
“That’s a perfectly normal thing to say. And it’s the truth.”
“What did you think when you heard John was murdered?”
“I was horrified, of course. I liked him,” Gunilla said, and looked at Fredriksson steadily as if to say: Don’t try to make anything of it. “He was the quiet type, very sweet. He never made much noise at school. We met some this fall, actually. He seemed really happy, which was unusual for him. I asked him what was going on and he said he was going to go overseas.”
“Any particular country?”
“No, but I had the impression it was far away.”
“When was he planning to go?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about that.”
“It’s possible sometimes for people to talk about wanting to travel,” Fredriksson said, “without having actual plans to do so.”
“I know, and he mentioned it in passing like a joke, but I still had the feeling he meant it.”
“You didn’t get any details?”
“We were both in a hurry and only said a few words.”
“Did you see him again after that?”
“No, it was the last time,” Gunilla said, and then she started to cry. Fredriksson almost felt relieved.
Sixteen
The bartender gave him a cursory glance and continued to wipe down the counter. Lennart took a drink of his beer and looked around the bar. One of the city’s most famous lawyers was sitting by himself at a table by the window. Lennart had met him before in some context he couldn’t remember. Now the lawyer was conducting a one-man trial over a glass of whiskey. It was probably not his first drink, because he was talking to himself with his face propped up in his left hand and the glass in his right.
“Well, well,” Lennart said and turned back to the man behind the counter. Lennart knew that the man’s lack of interest was an act, but right now he had no time for games.
“It was a while since he was here,” the bartender said.
“When was it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Where is he now?”
The bartender paused, seeming to weigh the bother of keeping up his passive act versus the difficulties he could expect from Mossa if he told Lennart what he knew. He opted for what seemed the most comfortable option.
“Try him at Kroken,” he said, but the comment was more a test to see how knowledgeable his visitor was.
Kroken was an illegal gaming club housed in the basement of a building downtown. It had a handwritten sign on the door with the name POS IMPORT and a dozen crates of plastic weapons arranged along one wall, a business supposedly