The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [64]
“Has he had run-ins with us before?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“How strong is the connection to John?”
“Not more than their school, which could be mere coincidence. But the murder could also mark the start of some private revenge scheme. We’re trying to get our noses in everyone’s business. John’s widow has never heard of Hahn.”
“And what about John’s brother?”
“We haven’t been able to reach him for a while.”
Lindell felt the thrill of suspense. After only a few minutes of talk she was back.
“As I recall, Lennart was a fairly unsympathetic character,” she said. “Loudmouthed and arrogant.”
“He has his bad sides, to be sure,” Ottosson said. “But it’s clear he’s mourning his brother. He appears to be staying sober and I think he’s doing his own investigating. You know Nilsson, Johan Sebastian, the one Sammy is in touch with, he called and told us.”
Lindell had always had trouble tolerating informants, but Johan Sebastian Nilsson ‘Bach,’ as he was called, gave them plenty of tidbits, so it only made sense to overlook his dubious character.
There was a loud thud from the window and both Ottosson and Lindell jumped. A few small downy feathers stuck to the windowpane.
“Poor bastard,” Ottosson said. He had walked over to the window and was looking down to see if he could spot the bird.
“It’s probably okay,” Lindell said.
“It’s the third time in just a few weeks,” Ottosson said in a worried tone. “I don’t understand why they keep flying into my window.”
“You’re the chief,” Lindell said.
“It’s as if they’re looking for death,” Ottosson said.
“Maybe there’s something about the window that creates an optical illusion.”
“It’s hard not to see it as a sign,” he said and turned back to the window, where he remained for a moment.
Lindell looked at him and felt a sudden tenderness. She saw that his beard had more gray hairs and the pain in his back had made his posture stooped. He was the best chief she had ever had, but sometimes it was as if he didn’t have the energy anymore. Evil was exhausting him. A philosophical tone had sneaked into his argumentation, which in turn ceased to be focused on the crime in question and concentrated more on the underlying social reasons. This was also important, and all police officers pondered these things, but they couldn’t let it obscure the concrete tasks at hand.
“What do you think Lennart is up to?” she asked in an attempt to turn the conversation back to the present. Ottosson turned.
“What he’s up to? He’s probably looking in on a few pals. They were close, you know. There was a connection between them that was stronger than with most siblings, and it doesn’t surprise me in the least that he’s hunting his brother’s killer.”
“Tell me about Little John.”
Ottosson walked around the desk and sat down.
“Are you sure you don’t want some tea?”
Lindell shook her head.
“He wasn’t really all that smart,” her chief said. “He was a thinker in his own way, but my sense is his perspective was always too narrow. He focused in on one thing and grabbed on to it, as if he had neither the imagination nor courage to drop it, to try other thoughts.”
“Stubborn?”
“Very. To the degree that I actually admired him. And he really knew his fish. I think that saved him.”
“Or led to his death,” Lindell said, but regretted it when she saw his expression.
“It was an arena where he could be the best at something and I think he needed that. He probably suffered from low self-esteem his whole life. Berglund said something about this being about society, his upbringing. He came from a background where you weren’t supposed to try to be better than anyone else.”
“What do you mean?”
Ottosson got up and walked to the window again, let the blinds down, and adjusted them so that a little light still came in. But the room grew dimmer. A typical December day, Lindell thought. It was as if Ottosson read her thoughts, because before he sat back down he lit the three Advent candles on the windowsill.
“Pretty,” she said.
Ottosson smiled a crooked smile, pleased but