The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [69]
“We have information that connects you to the murder weapon used in Little John’s case,” Haver said curtly.
“What?”
“Who were the people you played with? How much money was involved?”
“What kind of weapon? I’ve never had a weapon.”
Haver waited.
“Give me a break,” Ljusnemark said in English, and at that moment Haver was prepared to put him away on bread and water for twenty years. He opened the binder.
“It was me and Little John,” Ljusnemark started and then related the whole story with remarkable fluency, including a full account of all the participants. Haver recognized the names of a few of them.
“You lost?”
“Five or six thousand at most. I swear. I was forced to back out and Jerry took my place.”
“Jerry Martin?”
Ljusnemark nodded, squirming in his seat. Haver stared at him for a few seconds.
“You can go now,” he said.
Eight names. Haver sensed that the answer lay here somewhere. Money and passion, that’s where you looked for answers. People came to grief over money and unrequited love.
Haver leaned back in his chair. Was there any society in which money didn’t rule? He had heard of some tribe in Africa in which violence and theft almost never occurred and there was no concern over measuring time. He longed to join them, but assumed that the tribe was most likely already extinct, or had been driven into a shantytown where the members were dying from alcohol and AIDS.
Eight names. Haver took the list and went to find Ottosson.
Twenty-four
Vincent Hahn woke with a start. He checked his watch. A little after nine. He had been asleep for only a few minutes and had immediately slipped into a dream. A man’s voice was coming from somewhere. It took him a few seconds to understand what it was: the news on the radio.
He found Vivan in the kitchen by the telephone. She looked up at him with a frightened expression and he knew that she knew.
“Put down the phone,” he said and took a few steps closer.
“You’re just like your brother,” she said. “Lying and fighting all the time.”
“Shut up. Don’t mix him up in this.”
“Why did you do it?”
He took the receiver from her and she let him do it. He saw that she was sweating. The piece “Waltz of the Sea-Eagle” by Evert Taube was playing on the radio. He was very close to her. Blood was seeping through the bandage on his forehead.
“She was a whore,” Vincent said softly.
“Did you know her?”
He flinched and ripped the phone cord from the wall.
“We went to school together. She was nothing but a shit even then.”
“It’s such a long time ago. Can’t you let bygones be bygones?”
Vivan knew that Vincent had been unhappy at school, been bullied and shunned. Wolfgang had once said that his brother was the perfect victim.
“I remember everything,” he said, his voice so low now she could hardly catch his words.
He pulled the phone cord between his hands.
“I won’t say anything,” she said.
“Who were you calling?”
“Nettan. She’s in the middle of a divorce and wants me to go with her to the lawyer’s office.”
“Who the hell is Nettan?”
His outburst came on so suddenly that she pulled back and would have lost her balance if he hadn’t grabbed her arms.
“Who the fucking hell is Nettan?”
“You’re hurting me,” Vivan moaned in his grip. His disgusting breath nauseated her. “She’s my best friend.”
“Friend!” he spat.
“Why don’t you stay here?” she said. “I need the company.”
He let go of her suddenly and she started to collapse, then steadied herself against the kitchen counter and straightened up. No crying, she thought to herself. He hates teary women.
“What do you mean ‘stay here’?”
She swallowed and chose her words carefully. She had a flashback to Wolfgang’s rages and her attempts to placate him. After years of practice she had become more adept.
“I’m lonely,” she said and looked away.
“Lonely,” Vincent repeated.
“I don’t care about that woman. She hit you, after all.”
“Yes, she hit me.”
He paused with a thoughtful look on his face, and Vivan thought she saw the same quality of gentleness that had drawn her to Wolfgang so many years ago. The brothers had