The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [56]
Berglund pushed away these thoughts of his colleagues. It was time to get home, but he couldn’t help getting out his cell phone and calling Fredriksson.
“Everything’s fine,” Fredriksson said. “Thanks for asking.”
Berglund heard the fatigue. He hoped the man wouldn’t hit the wall again like he had a couple of years ago.
“There’s a connection between the attack here in Sävja and John’s murder,” Fredriksson continued. “The attacker went to school with this woman and John Jonsson.”
“Has he been apprehended?”
“Still looking.”
“What’s his name?”
“Vincent Hahn. Lives in Sävja but is not at his home. He’s got a nasty blow to the head and is probably quite messed up.”
“Physically or emotionally?”
“Both, I think.”
“Do you need any assistance?”
Berglund wanted to go home, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“Thanks, but we’ll manage,” Fredriksson said.
He hung up and felt a gnawing sense of anxiety. Were they dealing with a lunatic who was targeting former students of Vaksala High School?
Eighteen
Justus placed his hand on the surface of the water, just like John used to do. The fish were so used to it that it would take only a few seconds before they were there, nibbling at his fingers. But that had been with John. Now they didn’t come. No one can claim they’re stupid, Justus thought.
Why had John done that? Was it to test the temperature or simply to make contact with them? Justus had never asked; there was so much he had never found out. Now it was too late, but he was the one who had taken over the care of the aquarium. Berit had never really been interested, though she thought it was beautiful and her protests against the new tank had been lukewarm. She had known her protests would make no difference to John. Justus thought deep down that she had been pleased with John’s passion. There were worse things for a man to be obsessed with.
Justus dropped in the hose and started to drain the water. Berit sat in the kitchen with his grandmother. He could hear their muffled voices, deliberately lowered so he wouldn’t hear. They thought he couldn’t take it. He knew they were talking about the funeral.
When the bucket was half full he transferred the hose to the next one and carried the first out to the bathroom. Three hundred liters had to go. Thirty buckets, though Justus didn’t have the confidence to fill them up as high as John, so he would probably have to empty closer to forty. And then fill it all up again.
This had to be done once a week. How many times would he have to walk to the bathroom and back? He sensed that Berit wanted to sell the fish and the tank but she hadn’t said anything.
My Princess of Burundi, John had called her. At first she didn’t get it, then she laughed.
“Oh, I’m a fine princess!”
John had exchanged a look with Justus. Only the two of them knew about this. Berit would find out in due time when everything was good and ready, as John had put it. Justus emptied his third bucket. Only thirty-seven to go.
“You are my princess, you know that.”
Something in his voice had made her stop laughing, become alert. John, who was normally so perceptive, hadn’t noticed this change and kept going.
“I’ll get you your very own title and royal domain one day.”
Was he drunk that night? Justus wondered.
“Do you think we have to live like this?”
“What are you talking about?”
That had brought him back to reality, and he had wilted like a plant under her gaze.
Justus hadn’t liked it. Why couldn’t he have said something, not everything certainly, but enough to take away her look? Why couldn’t he have his moment of triumph? Now he was dead, and no feeling of triumph would ever light up his face again.
Justus carried bucket after bucket. Only thirty to go. The cichlids