They were sitting in her living room. Detective Inspector Allan Fredriksson blew his nose. Gunilla felt sorry for him. It was the fifth time he had taken out the multicolored handkerchief. He should be at home nursing his cold.
“He ran down toward Bergsbrunna, at which point the trail goes cold,” Fredriksson said when he had ended the conversation with Nilsson.
He could still see the terror in Gunilla’s eyes.
“We’ll station a unit outside your apartment,” he said and put the handkerchief away.
His calm expression and voice reassured her. The shivering that had come over her a short while after Vincent disappeared, stopped.
“You knew him, you said?”
“Yes, from school. His name is Vincent, but I don’t remember his last name. It’s on the tip of my tongue, it sounds German. I can call a friend of mine, she’ll know.”
“That would be good.”
“Hahn,” she said suddenly. “That’s it.”
“Vincent Hahn?”
Gunilla nodded. Fredriksson immediately called the station and gave them the information.
“Have you seen anything of each other since you left school?”
“No. I’ve seen him in town from time to time, but that’s it.”
“Were you in the same class?”
“No, he was in another class in my year. But we had a few subjects together.”
“Has he ever called you or tried to contact you in any way?”
“No.”
“Why do you think he came here?”
“I have no idea. He was always a little strange, even back in school. He was alone a lot and I think he was religious or something. A bit odd.”
Fredriksson looked down at the floor.
“He said that he wanted to see your breasts?”
“Yes. And that then he would leave.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Of course not. He looked completely wild.”
“And you have never had a relationship with him in the past?”
“Never.”
“Have you ever met him at work?”
“I’m a preschool teacher.”
“He’s never had children at your school?”
“I strongly doubt he has children.”
Fredriksson looked at her. Was she bluffing? Was this a relationship dispute? Why would she withhold such information? He decided to believe her.
“It must have taken some courage to hit him,” he said.
“I thought he was going to die. He was bleeding so much, even though the bottle was in my right hand. I’m left-handed, you know.”
“Did he say anything that would explain his actions? Anything at all. Think carefully.”
Gunilla shook her head after a moment’s thoughtful silence.
“It started with the rabbit,” she said. “That’s all I can think of. He was the one who killed him.”
She told him about Ansgar, how he had been strangled, strung up on the patio, and subsequently disemboweled. How she had reported the crime to the police.
“He didn’t think rabbits should be kept in the city?”
“He said they were disgusting.”
“And so he killed it,” Fredriksson said in a perplexed tone.
Even though he had been in this line of work for a long time he had not ceased to be astounded by his fellow citizens.
Ryde, the forensic specialist, walked in at this point. He said nothing, simply stared at his colleague.
“The kitchen,” Fredriksson said, and Ryde left without a word.
Fredriksson knew there was no point in trying polite conversation or conveying unnecessary information when Ryde had that look.
“It was funny-well, I guess funny isn’t the right word,” Gunilla said. “But I’ve been thinking back on my school days a lot today. That guy who was murdered recently had also gone to school with me. And then this creep.”
Ryde, who had overheard her comment, came out of the kitchen.
“You went to school with John Jonsson?”
His voice was abrupt, not modulated for contact with the public. Gunilla looked sternly at him.
“Are you also a police officer?”
Fredriksson couldn’t help smiling.
“This is Eskil Ryde,” he said. “He’s our forensic expert.”
“The only one,” Ryde added. “But go on about John.”
Gunilla sighed heavily, clearly exhausted.
“I know John better,” she started. “We’ve run into each other from time to time over the years. And I know his wife.”
“Please excuse my forwardness,” Fredriksson said as Ryde snorted, “but have you ever had a relationship with John?”
“No. Why on earth would you say that?”
“You were so quick to put in that bit about knowing his wife.”
“That’s a perfectly normal thing to say. And it’s the truth.”
“What did you think when you heard John was murdered?”
“I was horrified, of course. I liked him,” Gunilla said, and looked at Fredriksson steadily as if to say: Don’t try to make anything of it. “He was the quiet type, very sweet. He never made much noise at school. We met some this fall, actually. He seemed really happy, which was unusual for him. I asked him what was going on and he said he was going to go overseas.”
“Any particular country?”
“No, but I had the impression it was far away.”
“When was he planning to go?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about that.”
“It’s possible sometimes for people to talk about wanting to travel,” Fredriksson said, “without having actual plans to do so.”
“I know, and he mentioned it in passing like a joke, but I still had the feeling he meant it.”
“You didn’t get any details?”
“We were both in a hurry and only said a few words.”
“Did you see him again after that?”
“No, it was the last time,” Gunilla said, and then she started to cry. Fredriksson almost felt relieved.
Sixteen
The bartender gave him a cursory glance and continued to wipe down the counter. Lennart took a drink of his beer and looked around the bar. One of the city’s most famous lawyers was sitting by himself at a table by the window. Lennart had met him before in some context he couldn’t remember. Now the lawyer was conducting a one-man trial over a glass of whiskey. It was probably not his first drink, because he was talking to himself with his face propped up in his left hand and the glass in his right.
“Well, well,” Lennart said and turned back to the man behind the counter. Lennart knew that the man’s lack of interest was an act, but right now he had no time for games.
“It was a while since he was here,” the bartender said.
“When was it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Where is he now?”
The bartender paused, seeming to weigh the bother of keeping up his passive act versus the difficulties he could expect from Mossa if he told Lennart what he knew. He opted for what seemed the most comfortable option.
“Try him at Kroken,” he said, but the comment was more a test to see how knowledgeable his visitor was.
Kroken was an illegal gaming club housed in the basement of a building downtown. It had a handwritten sign on the door with the name POS IMPORT and a dozen crates of plastic weapons arranged along one wall, a business supposedly involved in importing toys from Southeast Asia and textiles from the Baltic states.
“He never goes there,” Lennart said.
He returned to his beer in order to give the bartender another chance. If he came up with another idiotic suggestion, he would know.
The lawyer by the window staggered to his feet, threw a five-hundred-kronor note on the table, and walked with assumed nonchalance toward the door. The bartender hurried over to the table, whisked away the money, and cleared the glasses from the table.
Lennart thought about Mossa. Where could he be? He hadn’t seen him in weeks. Mossa divided his time between Stockholm, Uppsala, and sometimes Denmark. Lennart suspected that gambling was not the only business Mossa had in Copenhagen. There had been talk of drugs, but Lennart didn’t think the Iranian was stupid enough to dabble in narcotics.