The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [49]
“He never goes there,” Lennart said.
He returned to his beer in order to give the bartender another chance. If he came up with another idiotic suggestion, he would know.
The lawyer by the window staggered to his feet, threw a five-hundred-kronor note on the table, and walked with assumed nonchalance toward the door. The bartender hurried over to the table, whisked away the money, and cleared the glasses from the table.
Lennart thought about Mossa. Where could he be? He hadn’t seen him in weeks. Mossa divided his time between Stockholm, Uppsala, and sometimes Denmark. Lennart suspected that gambling was not the only business Mossa had in Copenhagen. There had been talk of drugs, but Lennart didn’t think the Iranian was stupid enough to dabble in narcotics.
Mossa was a gambler known for his carefulness. He had not gotten himself tangled up with the law over the past few years. This was not because he had kept on the right side of the law, but rather it was a mark of his ability. He had the reputation of being beyond the police and prosecution.
Lennart had known him for about ten years. He knew that John had sometimes played with Mossa, who had liked his quiet ways. John rarely gambled large amounts and never in the big leagues, but was good when it came to the middle ranks, the enjoyable small-time games, which were not about the money.
Mossa didn’t play at the clubs except very occasionally a game of roulette, but when it came to card games he played only privately.
Lennart had joined him once or twice but had neither the tenacity nor the funds required.
“I heard he was in Stockholm these days,” the bartender said. “But he usually comes back to town at Christmas. His mom lives here.”
That’s more like it, Lennart thought. He knew where Mossa’s mom lived but he could hardly pay her a visit to ask her for her son’s whereabouts. Mossa would go ballistic. But there were other ways.
“Thanks,” he said and laid a hundred-kronor note on the counter.
He stepped out onto Kungsgatan and followed St. Petersgatan east. He stopped outside the Salvation Army and lit a cigarette, looking at the building and thinking back to the one time he had celebrated Easter there as a child, dressed up as a wolf cub. It was one of the neighborhood kids, Bengt-Ove, who had talked him into going. He had eaten a ton of Easter eggs.
One time, in later life, Lennart had stumbled into the Salvation Army drunk out of his mind. Bengt-Ove had been there to greet him. He must have stayed after their wolf-cub days. They had looked at each other for a few seconds and then Lennart had turned on his heel without saying a word.
He had felt shame that time, ashamed of his drunkenness and filth. Every time he walked past, that feeling of shame returned. It wasn’t Bengt-Ove’s fault. He would probably not have blamed him for his dissolute lifestyle, ratty clothes, stinking breath, or slurred speech. Sometimes Lennart wondered what would have happened if he too had stayed. He had friends who had been saved and left crime and alcohol behind. Would he have managed it? He didn’t think so, but the visit had awakened the thought of another life. He didn’t want to admit it, but secretly he thought of the hasty, unplanned encounter as a wasted opportunity. It was probably just a thought constructed in hindsight, like so many others, but it was an appealing thought, especially in moments of regret.
He didn’t blame anyone. Earlier he would have done so, but now his worldview was clear enough so he understood that only he was responsible. What good did it do to moan about injustice? He had had the chance. He had met Bengt-Ove’s gaze and he had seen it there, but had chosen to walk away.
It had been winter then, like today, but the Salvation Army windows were dark and it was quiet. Lennart kept walking.
The list of names was in his coat pocket. Three names had been crossed off; five remained. He was not going to give up until his brother’s murderer was checked off. These eight guys