The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [85]
They had checked the clinic in Sävja and the Akademiska Hospital, but no patient had ever registered under the name Hahn. He had been treated for depression at Ulleråker mental institution, but that was eight years ago. The doctor who had treated him had moved elsewhere.
The search of his apartment had also yielded almost no clues. Fredriksson suspected that Hahn would eventually turn up somewhere, but sitting around merely waiting for a killer to turn up was not his style. He wanted to track him down, but he was running out of ideas.
A traditional criminal was easier, his hangouts and associates more predictable. A psychically disturbed individual, a loner, was much more difficult to find. On the other hand, in Fredriksson’s experience, once the ball was rolling they were easier to catch because they were more likely to be careless and make mistakes.
Fredriksson was convinced that they were looking for two different murderers at this point. It was really only Sammy Nilsson who insisted that Hahn had had something to do with Little John’s murder. His theory was that Hahn was taking revenge, maybe even for incidents that happened as long ago as his school days. Sammy didn’t think that the connection between John and Hahn was a coincidence and was still searching for a possible explanation. Ottosson let him be for the moment. Sammy had started looking up old classmates of John, Gunilla Karlsson, and Hahn. As it turned out, most of them still lived in Uppsala, and Sammy had already worked through a number of people on the list, but so far nothing had come out that would indicate that Hahn was on a rampage to revenge himself on them. But there could very well be some event in Vincent Hahn’s mind that would not seem like a motive for revenge in other people’s eyes.
After leaving his former sister-in-law’s apartment, Vincent Hahn had walked to Vaksalagatan and taken the bus into town. The hat he had stolen the night before covered his wound. He had found seven hundred kronor in her apartment and that was the extent of his funds. Now there was only one place for him to go.
The smell of people on the bus confused him and made him angry, but thinking about the rattling sound Vivan had made as he pulled the telephone cord tighter around her neck made him feel bigger. He could feel superior to the other people on the bus. They had nothing to do with him, they were small. He was big.
Vivan had assured him she wouldn’t tell on him, but he had seen in her eyes that she was lying. He had felt a rush of excitement while her body was convulsing under his. She had tried to scratch his face but hadn’t been able to reach. His knees had held her arms down. It was all over in a few minutes. He had pulled her along the floor and in under the bed and left her there to rot. They would find her when she started to stink, but not before. And by that time he’d be long gone.
He smiled. The feeling of satisfaction at having resolved everything so well filled him with an almost painful joy. Painful because he was unable to share it with anyone. But within a week he would get to read about it in the paper. Then people would know that Vincent Hahn was not to be treated lightly.
The headlines of the Upsala Nya Tidning at the railway station startled him. UPPSALA MURDER STILL UNSOLVED, it said. He stared at the black letters and tried to understand what it meant. Had Gunilla Karlsson died? But that wasn’t possible. Granted, she had collapsed in the yard outside the building, but it was he who had been closer to death. He bought the paper, pushed it down in his pocket, and hurried on. Some event was taking place in the plaza in front of the station. A dozen people or so dressed up as Santa were performing a dance of sorts. The small bells in their hands made tinkling sounds. Suddenly they all threw themselves to the ground and remained there, motionless. Vincent watched them,