The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [52]
“Of course he did. He was only unfaithful with his cichlids.”
“What’s going to happen with those fish?”
“Justus is taking over,” Lennart said.
Micke thought about John’s son, Daddy’s boy. In Justus he could see the teenage John. A man of few words, an easily averted gaze. It was as if the boy saw through whomever he was talking to. Many times Micke had felt inadequate, as if Justus was choosing not to burden his mind with Micke’s chatter, much less dignify it with an answer.
Come to think of it, in childhood John too had had that attitude. John could also give the impression of being superior, proud, unwilling to make compromises. That’s probably why he and Sagge had never seen eye-to-eye, even though John was a good craftsman.
It had been only in his closest relationships, especially with Berit, that John had revealed himself at all, flipping up the visor to display a thoughtfulness and capacity for dry humor that it took a while to catch on to.
“If anyone should carry on, it’s that boy,” Micke said.
He wanted another beer but knew that if he had one, Lennart would inevitably join him. And he wouldn’t stop at one. Chances were they would clean out his whole supply.
It was close to midnight and Lennart made no motion to leave. Micke got up against his will. He had a hard day to look forward to.
“Don’t know when it last snowed this much before Christmas,” he said and went to get the beers.
Seventeen
Berglund had been posted at the number 9 bus stop downtown for more than an hour. He had a police ID in one hand and a picture of John Jonsson in the other. It seemed to him that he had asked hundreds of people if they recognized the man in the photograph.
“Is he the one who was murdered?” someone had asked eagerly.
“Do you recognize him?”
“I don’t associate with people like that,” the woman had said.
She was weighed down by numerous bags and boxes, like most of the others. There was a general air of tension. The people did not look happy, Berglund thought.
He had been a policeman in Uppsala for a long time. This was another routine assignment, one of several thousand, but he never ceased to be amazed by the reactions of his fellow citizens. Here he was, trying to solve a murder, working overtime, freezing his butt off when he should be home helping his wife with the Christmas preparations, and he was met by reserve, if not outright distaste.
He walked up to an older man who had just stopped, put his bags down, and lit a cigarette.
“Hello, my name’s Berglund. I’m from the police,” he said and held up his ID. “Do you recognize the man in this picture?”
The man inhaled deeply and studied the photo.
“Yup, I’ve known him for a long time. He’s that metalworker’s boy.”
He looked up and scrutinized Berglund.
“Is he caught up in some trouble?”
Berglund liked the sound of the man’s voice. A little hoarse, he must smoke a great deal, he thought. The face matched the voice: a lined, friendly face with clear eyes.
“No, quite the opposite, so to speak. He’s dead.”
The man dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his foot.
“I knew his parents,” he said. “Albin and Aina.”
Berglund suddenly sensed a great network. It was a diffuse feeling that, strictly speaking, had nothing to do with solving a crime. It was rather that the man’s pleasant voice and demeanor fit into a certain context. Sometimes Berglund pursued this instinct, although if he tried to put it into words they felt awkward, insufficient.
He guessed that the man had been some kind of worker, perhaps in the construction business. His weathered skin told of years exposed to sun, wind, and cold. His dialect gave him away, also his way of wearing the overcoat, the slightly moth-eaten but respectable hat, the hands and their hard nails. He looked after himself, somewhat hunched but still tall.
If they talked a while the network and connections would become clear. And surely they would find a number of shared acquaintances, experiences, and reference points, despite their fifteen-some years’ age difference.
Solving