The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [68]
He smiled at the memory and opened the door to his office. At the same time, the telephone rang. He looked at it, let it ring a few times before answering.
“Hi, it’s Westrup. Are you right in the middle of something?” the voice said quickly, then continued, “You’re working on the Little John case, am I right? We received a tip this fall about a gambling ring and Little John’s name came up.”
“Damn,” Haver said, and all his low spirits were gone.
“We’re keeping our eye out for an Iranian called Mossa, a player, maybe he also deals drugs, what do I know. He’s allegedly part of a high-stakes poker ring.”
“How did you find this out?”
“One of the participants couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Åström took him in for questioning in connection with some forged business invoices. It’s a case of suspected money laundering: this guy was sitting on a lot of cash he had trouble explaining how he got his hands on. That’s when talk of this poker game came up. He probably exaggerated the whole thing, mostly to get Åström off his back about the invoices, but he dropped a few names.”
“Had John won or lost?”
“He won—a lot, as it turns out. There was talk of a couple of hundred thousand.”
“Let’s talk to this guy. What’s his name?”
Haver studied the name in front of him. It meant nothing to him. Ove Reinhold Ljusnemark, forty-six and trained as an airplane mechanic. He had been fired from Arlanda after reports of theft.
He had an in-care-of address out in Tunabackar. Haver immediately had the impression that he would dislike Ove Reinhold. Maybe because he was a snitch who tried to go free by burning his friends. Westrup, a colleague from Skåne who had joined the Uppsala police a year ago, had promised to bring Ljusnemark in.
When the ruddy Ljusnemark was led into Haver’s office an hour later, he had a sheepish smile on his face. Haver scrutinized him without saying a word. He gestured for Ljusnemark to sit down and nodded to Westrup. The latter remained in the doorway for a moment and smiled. This was something Haver appreciated in his colleague. His large frame, slightly slow gait, and then his smile. Not always transparent, but friendly.
Haver sat quietly at first. The visitor’s smile grew more stiff. Haver pretended to be looking for something, took out a thick binder that concerned a completely different investigation, opened it to a report that he spent a few seconds eyeing, and then gave the snitch a quick look.
“Impressive,” he said and closed the binder. “So what will it be? Cooperation or confrontation?”
Ove Reinhold Ljusnemark sat up a little in his chair. The smile had completely disappeared from his face and he cleared his throat. Haver wasn’t sure if he understood the words he had just used.
“You knew Little John. There are those who claim you had something to do with his murder.”
Ljusnemark swallowed.
“What the hell,” he said. “Says who?”
Haver laid his hand on the binder.
“Do you want to tell us, or do we do this the hard way?”
“It’s a fucking lie! I played with him a few times, that’s all.”
“Yes, let’s start there. Tell me about your games.”
Ljusnemark looked at him as if they were in the middle of a poker game.
“We played cards. I didn’t really know him. We were a group of guys who met from time to time. There were no big sums involved, but occasionally the stakes would get higher.”
“You’re on disability right now?”
Ljusnemark nodded.
“Forty-six years old and physically incapacitated,” Haver said.
“I have sciatica.”
“But you’re strong enough to stay up all night playing poker, it seems. Tell me how much money we’re talking about.”
“Lately, you mean? Well, we didn’t start big. It was small amounts.”
“Who was there?”
“People came and went because games went on for a while. The time goes so fast when you’re enjoying yourself. We would order pizza, that kind of thing.”
Ljusnemark paused and tried to smile.
“Cut to the chase.”
“It’s a little while ago. I don’t remember