The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [88]
“I think you are a shit,” he said finally and stood up, the gun still in his hand. “Put on a shirt. I don’t want to shoot a man with a bare chest.”
“Kill me then, you dumb bastard. Do you think I give a fuck?” Lennart said belligerently and looked at Mossa with defiance.
Mossa smiled.
“You really are stupid, aren’t you?”
“Did you kill John?”
The Iranian shook his head and raised the gun so it pointed at Lennart’s knees.
“It wasn’t me,” Lennart said with sweat running down his face.
In a way he felt relieved. He had experienced this sensation before, one night when his drinking had led to an episode of heart palpitations. That time he had been prepared to die, had made peace with his shitty existence. He had gotten up, drunk some water and looked at himself in the mirror, and then gone back to bed with his heart jumping around in his chest.
Mossa raised the gun a few centimeters.
“You remind me of an Armenian I once knew,” Mossa said. “He also met his death with courage.”
Lennart sank to his knees.
“Plant the bullet in my skull,” he said and closed his eyes.
Mossa lowered his gun, kicked Lennart in the mouth, and leaned over him.
“If you want to play the detective, then go talk to his whore for a wife,” he hissed and left the apartment. Lennart, who had fallen down when he was kicked, lay still on the floor until he started shivering with cold.
Twenty minutes later, Lennart had managed to take a warm shower and wrap himself up in a sheet. The kick had busted his lip and he had to tape it up to stop the bleeding. He jumped when the front doorbell rang. He had forgotten all about Lindell stopping by.
He opened the door, prepared for anything, until he saw the stroller.
“What the fuck?” he said and backed up into the apartment.
They sat down in the living room.
“What happened to you?”
“I slipped at work,” Lennart said. “The shovel caught me right here.”
“You don’t have any Band-Aids?”
“Tape works fine.”
All the air had gone out of him. The early morning, the work in the snow, Mossa’s unexpected visit, and the warm shower had so drained him that he could hardly keep his eyes open. If Lindell hadn’t been sitting there he would have fallen asleep in a minute.
“You said something about a lead,” Lindell said. “Why didn’t you say anything to Sammy Nilsson?”
“Like I said, I don’t care for him. He’s too cocky, comes on too strong.”
“You do too, sometimes,” Lindell said. “For your information.”
Lennart smiled. With his lip taped up it looked like a grimace.
“So now you’re the private eye, huh?”
“Not at all. But you did pique my interest.”
“Why are the cops not spending any time on trying to catch my brother’s killer?”
“I think you’re wrong. From what I understand, this case is top priority.”
“The fuck it is. You think he’s some poor shit who doesn’t matter. If he had been a VIP, things would look a lot different.”
“All murder cases are treated with the same seriousness,” Lindell said calmly. “You know that.”
“So what have you found out? He stopped by Micke’s apartment and then he disappeared. Have you checked Micke’s alibi?”
“I take it for granted.”
“You take for granted—I don’t take shit for granted. Do you know John gambled?”
Lindell nodded.
“Have you checked with his gambling buddies? They’re probably a pack of rats.”
“I’m not officially on this case, but clearly every part of John’s life will be carefully scrutinized.”
“That means you don’t have anything. What happened to the money anyway?”
“What money?” Lindell said, aware of the fact that he meant the poker winnings.
“He won at poker, didn’t you know that?”
Lindell shook her head.
“You don’t fool me,” Lennart said evenly. He was used to cops doing this, playing dumb, and he wondered how he could get her to spill what she knew.
Lindell smiled, got up, and went over to the stroller.
“And what about Berit, the hypocritical cow,” he said. “She doesn’t say shit to me, just talks to Mom and Justus. I’m the one she should be talking to, but no, she’s too fucking good for that. She’s the one sitting on the money.