The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [81]
The vacuum flask—of the brand name Condor, where someone a long time ago had scratched out the final r and inserted m—was fiery red with a gray mug. Lennart came to think of the tractor driver on Brantings square, the one he had met that night he walked home from talking to Berit. He had been a good guy, that’s what Albin would have said. He knew he would remember the warmth inside the tractor and the sweet coffee for a long time.
Was it being sober that had whet his appetite for work? Since John died he had been mostly sober, drinking only a little beer. He paused by the window. Thoughts of John returned in full force, the memories coming thick and fast. How long would this last? Until the murderer was caught, and then for the rest of his life, was his sense. To lose the person who was closest to you, whose life was so completely tied up in yours, that was a lifelong loss. Never to be able to chat with John in that relaxed way, the way he couldn’t with anyone else. That was an irreplacable loss.
Pull yourself together, he thought. You’re going out to shovel some snow, and then hunt down a killer. You can drink yourself to death once that’s done. He smiled crookedly. Deep down inside he was nursing the idea that he could maybe make a decent person out of himself. Maybe not a worker who toiled from seven to four. He was too lazy for that, and he had a bad back. But maybe part-time or so, help out in Micke’s business from time to time. He knew something about working metal, he was the son of a roofer and welder, for God’s sake. And in the winter there was snow. With the Fosforos mittens he was good to go for the whole day. How he wished people would see him directing old ladies to safety under the falling snow, the shovel in his hand, and an enormous, matted, black, and warm mitten resting on the handle.
Trying to figure out what his brother had done after he left Micke’s apartment had made Lennart realize how little he really knew John. How was he when he met other people? What role did he play in these tropical-fish organizations? A lot of people listened to him when he talked about fish, they saw the expert in him. They didn’t know his story, to them he was just that nice guy who had a passion for African cichlids. In their circle, John was another person interested in fish. In an unarticulated way Lennart now saw this as a betrayal, a betrayal of the life he and John had had together. Earlier he had looked on John’s interest as a hobby, no better or worse than anything else. Other people bowled or went to rally races, but it didn’t change who they were. He had been proud of his brother’s aquarium, of course, gladly accepting part of the glory of having a brother with the largest aquarium in town, but now he realized that John had been the respected expert, the one you called and asked for advice. In short, another man, another role.
And then this poker playing. He would never have guessed that John had won such amounts. Why hadn’t he said anything? John wasn’t one to volunteer information but he could have told his only brother when he won a small fortune. Why this silence? Not even Berit had been in on it. The only one who knew how much money was involved was Micke, even if he didn’t want to say.
What had John been cooking up? This was the question Lennart had been asking himself the past few days. He thought the answer would lead to whoever had murdered John. There was something his brother had been working on, something secret, that had led to his death.
Lennart would have been able to protect his brother. If only John had told him, Lennart would have watched his back like a hawk around the clock. That’s what brothers were for. But John had kept Lennart in the dark on this and that was half the heartache.
Micke was already in place on Dragarbrunnsgatan with the company truck pulled up on the sidewalk. He had already unloaded most of the equipment