The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [72]
Fredriksson took off his indoor shoes, tied his boots, put on his fur hat, and left.
December. The sun had barely made it over the horizon that day, but it didn’t matter anymore. The clouds lay heavily over Uppsala and there was snow in the air. Fredriksson paused for a second before he turned the ignition. Christmas party. The words came out of nowhere. He couldn’t remember exactly, but this was probably connected to slumbering childhood memories, boisterous adult voices, the children more quiet, full of anticipation, dressed up, hair slicked down, the Santa Claus with his fake beard.
In the olden days, Fredriksson would let the words roll over his tongue. Even to say it now sounded outdated.
“In the olden days,” he said aloud.
That was something people said. Had it really been better in the olden days? He turned the key and the motor answered with a roar. Too many thoughts, too much gas.
Two cars had collided at the corner of Verkmästargatan and Apelgatan. Fredriksson thought about stopping but changed his mind when he caught sight of the face of one of the involved parties. Collisions weren’t his thing. When he had worked a beat he had never much liked dealing with traffic accidents, not because of the potential physical injuries and gore but because of the shocking stupidity of the drivers.
Fredriksson rang Vivan Molin’s doorbell, waited for a few minutes, then rang again. No response. He peeked in through the mail slot in the door and caught a whiff of stale apartment air. There was no mail or newspaper to be seen on the hall floor. When he let the mail slot swing shut he thought he heard a soft click from inside the apartment, like the sound of someone turning on a lamp. He strained to hear anything else, opened the mail slot again, but now all was quiet. Had he imagined it? He straightened his back.
He took out his cell phone and the slip of paper with Molin’s phone number. He let her phone ring six times but didn’t hear any sound from the apartment. Either her phone wasn’t working or she had turned it off.
Fredriksson thought hard. He turned and looked at the neighbor’s door. M. ANDERSSON was inscribed on the mail slot. He rang the bell. A woman opened immediately, as if she had been waiting with her hand on the door handle. She was around seventy years of age, with long white hair, braided and pinned in a knot. The hand on the door handle was thin, with large swollen blue veins.
He introduced himself and said he was looking for Vivan Molin.
“Something’s not right,” she said immediately.
“How do you mean?”
“There were such strange sounds this morning. And a man came by last night.”
“At what time did you hear these sounds?”
“Around eleven. I was finishing the Christmas spare ribs—I’m going to Kristinehamn this afternoon. He was out there shouting on the street.”
“What did he look like?”
“I didn’t see him so well. He was wearing a hat. Vivan let him in.”
“Vivan went down and opened the front door?”
“Yes, it is locked at nine.”
“These sounds you were talking about, what did they sound like?”
“Like screams. Something has happened. I almost called the police but I didn’t know if I should get involved in other people’s business.”
“How well do you know Vivan? Does she often have visitors in the evening?”
“No, never. This part of the building is very quiet.”
“Does she go to work?”
“No, she’s on disability. She was burned out, I think they call it.”
Fredriksson thanked her for the information and went down to the street. He made a call to the station and eight minutes later a patrol car pulled up. A van from the locksmith company Pettersson & Barr pulled up right behind them. The locksmith was a young man with Rastafarian braids, hardly more than twenty.
Fredriksson and his colleagues discussed their options. If Vincent Hahn was in the apartment he could very well be armed. It was doubtful that he would have