The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [66]
If Gunilla Karlsson thought she had gotten away, she was sorely mistaken. You could maybe trick Vincent Hahn once, but not two times. She would get a dose of her own medicine, that fucking bitch. The more he reflected on the events of the preceding night, the more determined he was to get revenge. She would be punished ten times over.
At six-thirty Vivan came stumbling into the kitchen. It was as if she had forgotten that he was there, because for a few seconds she stared at him uncomprehendingly. Vincent said nothing, just stared back.
“How is it?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He heard her walk out to the bathroom, pee, and then turn on the shower.
“How long are you staying?” she asked when she came out again, wrapped in a towel.
Vincent was still sitting at the kitchen table. His headache had returned. His sister-in-law was making it easy for him by bringing up the subject herself.
“One or two nights,” he said. “I’d rather not be by myself. Only if it’s all right with you, of course.”
She was clearly surprised at his meekness. She had not heard him be so gentle before.
“That sounds fine,” she said, relieved.
She left the kitchen and Vincent relaxed for the first time since yesterday. He heard her pulling and shutting dresser drawers and opening the doors to the closet. He wondered why she didn’t have a new man in her life.
“Have you taken the newspaper?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t think you had one.”
“You can’t rely on anything anymore,” she said with unexpected sharpness.
“I think I’ll go back to bed for a while,” he said. “I woke up so early and this headache won’t go away.”
Vincent felt almost peaceful. It was as if he and Vivan were an old couple, or very good friends, chitchatting in the early morning.
“I can pay my way,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Vivan said, walking back into the kitchen. “Go back to bed. I’m having some breakfast.”
Vincent went back to the sewing room. Vivan took out some yogurt and cereal. To make up for the absent paper, she fished an old one out of the recycling pile and turned on the radio.
Twenty-three
The search for Vincent Hahn intensified in the early morning hours. His temporary home on Bergslagsresan had quickly been found and Fredriksson had gone in with four men. As expected, it was empty.
The apartment, a one-bedroom, gave an abandoned impression. There were no curtains, only a few pieces of furniture, and very few personal belongings. The phone was not hooked up. There was no computer.
“The most remarkable thing we found,” Fredriksson said at the morning meeting, “was a mannequin. It was lying in Hahn’s bed dressed in a pair of black panties.” Fredriksson blushed slightly as he described the somewhat soiled doll.
“No address book, letters, or anything?” Beatrice asked, hoping to jog her colleague along.
“Well,” Fredriksson said, pinching his nose, “there were three binders filled with letters that Hahn has written over the past few years. These were addressed to the local district authorities, to the Uppsala transit authorities, Swedish Public Radio, and God knows who else. He seems to have devoted his time to writing letters of complaint about everything and everyone. He archived their replies. As far as I can tell, most of them were brief and dismissive.”
“He must have made quite a name for himself,” Ottosson said.
“The question is where he is now,” Sammy said.
“We know he was picked up by a car at the train crossing in Bergsbrunna. The driver, a technician from the waterworks, called in this morning when he had read the news. He dropped him off at the ER.”
“When was that?”
“Some thirty minutes after the attack,” Fredriksson said. “We checked, but no Vincent Hahn was admitted to the hospital yesterday.