The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [82]
“It would make more sense to do this on an early Sunday morning,” Micke said and brought out some red cones.
Lennart didn’t say anything, pitching in to help in silence. It was several years now since he had worn his full winter gear and he felt self-conscious. He concentrated on the work, but it wasn’t complicated. The truck had to be fully unloaded, all the warning signs and blockades set up.
Micke was talking to the building manager, who gave them the keys and helped arrange roof access. Lennart looked up. It was high, not worse than he could manage, but Micke would never let him up there.
His fear of heights had come and gone. When his father had taken him up on rooftops he had never been scared. That had come later. On construction sites he had never liked working on high scaffolding but had never said anything.
The first hour went well. The morning traffic grew heavier and Lennart kept an eye out for people who might walk into the restricted area. It was possible to ignore the cold if you walked up and down slapping your arms across your chest for circulation.
The bus drivers nodded at him as they drove past. An older woman complained about the inconvenience. An old acquaintance from Ymergatan walked by but pretended not to recognize him, or else Lennart really was impossible to recognize in his full gear.
Around nine he grew anxious. That was always the time when the usual suspects, a loose-knit group of substance abusers, gathered around the front doors of the state liqour store. Luckily Micke came down from the roof for a snack and Lennart’s thoughts were interrupted. They drank coffee in the truck. Steam rose from their cups and their breath fogged up the windows immediately.
“The job’s going well,” Micke said. “How are the old ladies?”
“It’s okay. Most of them are in a good mood today. It’s a bit boring is all.”
Micke looked at him. Maybe he sensed what was going on in Lennart’s head. He poured him another cup.
“Do you miss being up on the roof?” he asked.
“No, I can’t say I do.”
“Did you ever work together with Albin?”
“No, not really. Occasionally I’d help out. Now no one would let me up there.”
They sat in silence for the rest of the break. Lennart felt his anxiety return. He should be hunting down a killer, not standing on a street trying to look busy.
The rest of the morning they moved the barricades a few times and worked their way down the street. Pieces of ice broke off and smashed into the street with a delicate yet hard sound. People paused on their way past, fascinated with the beauty of the sparkling icicles and the glittering clouds of ice thrown up as they smashed onto the pavement.
Lennart shoveled both ice and snow off the sidewalk, as he also kept an eye up and down the road. He stopped and rested for a moment, leaning on the shovel. A familiar face appeared, a woman pushing a stroller. Lennart took a few steps closer. Their eyes met.
The woman nodded and slowed down.
“Hi, Lennart. So you’re working out here in the cold?”
“Someone’s got to do it.”
“How is it going? I heard about John.”
Lennart looked up at the building. He walked closer to her.
“Do you know anything?”
“I’m on maternity leave, as you can see.”
“But you must have heard something.”
Ann Lindell shook her head.
“Do you know he gambled and won a lot of money?”
“I heard about it, but don’t know any details.”
“I can give you some leads.”
“Give them to Ola Haver, he’s the one in charge of the investigation. Do you know him?”
Lennart shook his head.
“No, Sammy was the one who came to my place. I don’t like him at all.”
“Sammy may have his quirks, but he’s a good police officer.”
“A good police officer,” Lennart repeated.
A load of snow came off the roof. Lennart took a few steps out into the street. No pedestrians were around. He returned to the sidewalk and again drew close to Lindell.
“I want to talk to you.”
“I’m on leave.”
“Can’t we talk anyway? Have a cup of coffee? I can’t do it right now, I have to make sure no little old ladies get killed.”
Lindell smiled. She looked down