The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [7]
They had talked about fish, Haver remembered. Little John had a passion for tropical fish and from there it wasn’t too great a step to fishing.
“What a fucking sight,” Beatrice sighed, getting to her feet with effort.
Ottosson’s car pulled up by the side of the road. The three police officers watched their chief talk to some of the curious onlookers who had already gathered by highway 272, about fifty meters away. He gestured with his hand to show that they couldn’t park their cars along this stretch of road.
“Where is the jogger?” Haver asked, looking around.
“In the emergency room,” Bea said. “When he ran out onto the road to flag down a car he slipped badly. He may have broken his arm.”
“Has anyone questioned him?”
“Yes; he lives in Luthagen and runs here every morning.”
“What was he doing out here in the snow?”
“He likes to run on the bicycle trail, apparently. But first he does some stretches and moves in from the road. At least that was his explanation.”
“Did he see anything?”
“No, nothing.”
“He’s probably been here all night,” the forensic technician said, indicating the body.
“Tire tracks?”
“All over,” Beatrice said.
“It’s a dump, for Pete’s sake,” Fredriksson said.
“Got it,” Haver said.
He took a closer look at Little John. He was severely bruised, the victim of someone who was extremely thorough or enraged, or both. The burn marks—most likely from a cigarette—were deep. Haver bent over and studied Little John’s wrists. Dark red marks bore witness to them having been tightly bound.
The stumps on his hands where the fingers had been removed were blackened. The cuts were neatly made, probably with a very sharp knife or scissors. Maybe pliers.
Ottosson came jogging over and Haver went up to meet him.
“Little John,” he said simply, and the chief nodded.
He looked unexpectedly alert. Perhaps it was the brisk temperature.
“I heard he had been mutilated.”
“What did Little John know that was so important?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think he was tortured,” Haver said, then suddenly he thought of the murdered man’s tropical fish. Piranhas. He shivered.
Ottosson sniffed. A sudden gust made them look up. Haver’s thoughtful mood from the morning remained. He felt unenterprising and unprofessional.
“A protracted struggle,” he said.
Ottosson took out a checkered handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.
“Damned wind,” he said. “Found anything?”
“No. He was probably brought here by car.”
“It’s open,” Ottosson stated, nodding in the direction of the raised barrier. “I come by this way fairly often and I never see anyone turn in here, other than in the winter when the county trucks dump snow here.”
Haver knew that Ottosson had a cabin near the city and thought he had heard that it was on Gysingevägen somewhere.
Ottosson suddenly turned around and spotted Fredriksson and the forensic technician, who were talking next to the body. Bea had left the pair and was wandering around nearby.
“Why did you come out here?” Haver shouted at his back.
Ottosson didn’t usually turn up so quickly at the scene of a crime.
“I booked Little John when he was sixteen. It was his first contact with us.”
“How old did he get?”
“He was forty-two,” Ottosson said and continued to his car.
Four
She was taken by surprise. She had looked back at the sound of something she thought was a scream. Ann Lindell turned around. A woman’s scream.
When she turned back again he was right in front of her, Santa Claus, with an overabundant beard and a macabre face mask.
“Good grief, you scared me to half to death.”
“Merry Christmas,” the Santa said, trying to sound like a Walt Disney character.
Go to hell, she thought, but smiled.
“No, thank you,” she said, as if the Santa had been trying to sell her something, which had probably been