Sagander looked searchingly at Haver.
“You don’t have much, do you?”
“Would you mind if I talked with your men? They’ve probably worked with John.”
“All three, in fact. Of course. Talk as much as you’d like.”
Sagander had returned to his desk and reopened the folder by the time it took Haver to get up and leave the stuffy office. As Haver was closing the door the phone rang and Sagander grabbed the receiver with irritation.
“The shop,” Haver heard him say, as if there were only one metalwork shop in the whole town.
Erki Karjalainen, the man with the angle grinder, looked as if he had been waiting for Haver, because as soon as Haver stepped out of the office he signaled that he wanted to speak with him. Haver walked over to him.
“You’re from the police, aren’t you?” the man asked in a Swedish-Finnish dialect.
“That’s right. It must be written on my forehead.”
The Finn smiled.
“It’s a terrible thing,” he said, and Haver saw that he meant it. He discerned a mere suggestion of shakiness in the man’s face that betrayed his emotion.
“John was a good guy,” he continued, and his accent became more distinct. “A devil of a welder.”
These were the kind of men who beat the Russians, Haver thought.
“And nice.”
He looked over at the office.
“A good friend.”
Haver was touched by his simple words. He nodded. Karjalainen turned his head and looked at the welder. Is he as good as Little John was? Haver wondered.
“Kurre is good but John was better,” the Finn said, as if he had read Haver’s mind. “It’s a disgrace that he had to quit. There were still a few jobs and we knew things were going to get better.”
“Did they get along?”
A thoughtful expression came over Erki Karjalainen’s face, and when he spoke, his words no longer had the succinct assurance of his earlier answers.
“There was something that wasn’t right between them,” he said. “I think Sagge used the lack of work as an excuse to get rid of John.”
“What was wrong?”
Erki took out a pack of cigarettes. He smoked Chesterfields, something that surprised Haver. He thought they had gone out of business.
“Let’s step out,” Erki said. “Do you smoke?”
Haver shook his head and followed him out into the yard. The clouds had filled the patch of blue sky and the construction workers were taking a break.
“They’re building offices,” Erki said.
He inhaled a few times. Haver studied his face in the daylight. He had a narrow, lined face that was marked by hard work. His dark hair was slicked back. Bushy eyebrows and thin lips. Nicotine-stained teeth in poor condition. He reminded Haver of an out-of-work Italian actor from the 1950s. He sucked deeply on the cigarette and spoke with puffs of smoke punctuating his speech.
“Sagge’s a good guy, but sometimes he can be a hard-ass too. We have to put in a lot of overtime and John didn’t like that. He had a family, and the older his boy got, the less John liked to work late.”
“And Sagge took his revenge by firing him, you mean.”
“Revenge,” Erki repeated, as if testing the word. “Maybe that’s taking it a bit far. Sagge is a stubborn bastard, and stubborn bastards sometimes do crazy things, against their better judgment.”
“Like firing a good welder to make a point?”
“Yup. I think he regrets it, but he’d never say anything like that.”
“Did you ever see John after he stopped working here?”
Erki nodded and lit a new Chesterfield with the remains of the first.
“He came by sometimes but he never talked to Sagge.”
“But with you he did?”
“With me he did.”
The Finn smiled sorrowfully and looked even more like a character in a Fellini film.
Before Haver left the workshop he talked to the other two employees, Kurt Davidsson and Harry Mattzon. Neither of them was particularly talkative, but they strengthened the image of John as a skillful welder and pleasant colleague. They did not, however, appear to take his death as much to heart as Erki did.
The long-haired Mattzon said something that struck Haver as strange.
“I saw John on the street here last summer. It was the last week of my holiday. I was down here getting a car-roof box I keep at work. My brother was going to borrow it. When I swung out onto the street I saw John coming down this way.”
“In a car?”
“Of course.”
“He doesn’t own a car,” Haver said.
“I know. That’s why I remember it. I thought he had bought one.”
“What kind was it?”
“An old white Volvo 242 from the mid-seventies.”
Haver couldn’t help smiling.
“Was he alone?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was this?”
“Must have been the first week of August. Sunday, I think. My brother was going away and I had promised to get him the roof box, but had forgotten to take it home so I had to come down here on a Sunday.”
“Had he been here at the workshop?”
“It’s hard to say,” Mattzon said, taking a few steps to the door and putting his hand on the handle. Haver realized that the man had burned himself. There were bright red blisters on the knuckles of the left hand. A few blisters had burst and revealed the inflamed flesh beneath.
“Maybe he came down to meet someone here?”
“Like who? Everything was closed, shut down for the summer. Sagander was in Africa, on safari,” Mattzon said and opened the door.
“You should see to that hand,” Haver said. “It looks bad.”
Mattzon peeked into the workshop, then looked at Haver. He didn’t bother checking his hand.
“At least I’m alive,” he said and returned to his work.
Haver caught sight of Sagander in his office before the door shut. He took out his cell phone and called Sammy Nilsson but he didn’t answer. Haver looked down at his watch. Lunchtime.
Eleven
Vincent Hahn woke up at half past nine. Today was bingo day. Even though he was in a hurry he stole a few moments by Julia’s side and caressed her firm buttocks. He would put new panties on her tonight. He’d steal some from Lindex, his favorite place. A dark pair, most likely, but not black.
The mannequin’s rigid posture sometimes bothered him, making it appear as if she were watching him. When it was too much he would tip her onto the floor and let her lie there for a day or two. That took her down a peg.
It had been a bad night. Vincent Hahn did not count true remorse among his arsenal of emotions, but it was the sound that had bothered him and haunted him in the early hours.
He always ate yogurt in the mornings, two helpings. Yogurt was pure.
The bus was thirty seconds late but the driver only smiled when it was pointed out to him. He was known to all the drivers of this route. During his first year in the area he had compiled statistics regarding the various drivers, their punctuality, if they were polite or not, and how they drove. He had sent an analysis of these results, ingeniously displayed, to the Uppsala public transport authorities.
The reply had infuriated him. During the following few weeks he made various plans for his revenge, but, as had been the case so many times before, they came to nothing.
Now he felt stronger and more prepared to follow through. He didn’t know why it was different this time, just that he felt more equipped to deal with it. Now he had not only the justification but the endurance.
He had started last night. A rabbit. Rodents should not be kept in residential areas. He knew that many people agreed with him and that they would silently thank him. He knew this because of the letter he had written to the housing authorities.
Maybe Julia had made the difference? He had acquired her last spring. He had long thought he wanted to share his life with someone, and when he found her in the Dumpster he knew he had found his companion.