Lindell had always had trouble tolerating informants, but Johan Sebastian Nilsson ‘Bach,’ as he was called, gave them plenty of tidbits, so it only made sense to overlook his dubious character.
There was a loud thud from the window and both Ottosson and Lindell jumped. A few small downy feathers stuck to the windowpane.
“Poor bastard,” Ottosson said. He had walked over to the window and was looking down to see if he could spot the bird.
“It’s probably okay,” Lindell said.
“It’s the third time in just a few weeks,” Ottosson said in a worried tone. “I don’t understand why they keep flying into my window.”
“You’re the chief,” Lindell said.
“It’s as if they’re looking for death,” Ottosson said.
“Maybe there’s something about the window that creates an optical illusion.”
“It’s hard not to see it as a sign,” he said and turned back to the window, where he remained for a moment.
Lindell looked at him and felt a sudden tenderness. She saw that his beard had more gray hairs and the pain in his back had made his posture stooped. He was the best chief she had ever had, but sometimes it was as if he didn’t have the energy anymore. Evil was exhausting him. A philosophical tone had sneaked into his argumentation, which in turn ceased to be focused on the crime in question and concentrated more on the underlying social reasons. This was also important, and all police officers pondered these things, but they couldn’t let it obscure the concrete tasks at hand.
“What do you think Lennart is up to?” she asked in an attempt to turn the conversation back to the present. Ottosson turned.
“What he’s up to? He’s probably looking in on a few pals. They were close, you know. There was a connection between them that was stronger than with most siblings, and it doesn’t surprise me in the least that he’s hunting his brother’s killer.”
“Tell me about Little John.”
Ottosson walked around the desk and sat down.
“Are you sure you don’t want some tea?”
Lindell shook her head.
“He wasn’t really all that smart,” her chief said. “He was a thinker in his own way, but my sense is his perspective was always too narrow. He focused in on one thing and grabbed on to it, as if he had neither the imagination nor courage to drop it, to try other thoughts.”
“Stubborn?”
“Very. To the degree that I actually admired him. And he really knew his fish. I think that saved him.”
“Or led to his death,” Lindell said, but regretted it when she saw his expression.
“It was an arena where he could be the best at something and I think he needed that. He probably suffered from low self-esteem his whole life. Berglund said something about this being about society, his upbringing. He came from a background where you weren’t supposed to try to be better than anyone else.”
“What do you mean?”
Ottosson got up and walked to the window again, let the blinds down, and adjusted them so that a little light still came in. But the room grew dimmer. A typical December day, Lindell thought. It was as if Ottosson read her thoughts, because before he sat back down he lit the three Advent candles on the windowsill.
“Pretty,” she said.
Ottosson smiled a crooked smile, pleased but a little embarrassed.
“You asked me what I mean,” he said. “Maybe John realized his environment was too narrow. You know he wanted more.”
“Sure, but I didn’t think he was dreaming of another life.”
Ottosson paused. Lindell sensed it was the first time he was airing these thoughts about Little John.
“What does his wife say?”
“Not much. She walks around in a fog. The boy is more complicated.”
Ottosson took no time to elaborate on this last statement but returned to the topic of the two brothers, Lennart and John. Berglund must have been the one who dug up this information, Lindell thought. He was the right one for this kind of job. A little older, native to Uppsala, and with a calm and reassuring demeanor. He was made for it. Sammy would never have been able to do it, nor would Beatrice. Possibly Haver.
And would Lindell have been able to walk around the city gaining the confidence of various members of the working-class population in order to establish a picture of the Jonsson brothers? It was doubtful.
There was a knock on the door and Sammy looked in.
“Hi, Ann,” he said quickly, then looked at Ottosson. “We’ve found something. The murder weapon, no less.”
“Little John’s?”
“Yes!”
He held up a clear plastic bag with a large knife.
“The youth patrol brought in a young guy. He had it on his person, tucked into the waist of his pants.”
“It’s big,” Lindell said.
“Twenty-one centimeters,” Sammy said, smirking. “Made in France.”
“Why was he brought in?”
“Some trouble in town. He had threatened a guy with it.”
“Is he our man?”
“I know him from before, but I doubt it. He’s fifteen and a real troublemaker but no killer.”
“Capable of manslaughter?”
Sammy shook his head.
“Immigrant?”
“No, as Swedish as they come. Mattias Andersson. He lives with his mother in Svartbäcken.”
“What makes you think this is the murder weapon?”
“John’s blood is on the blade and the handle,” Sammy said. “Bohlin was the one who noticed the stains and demanded an analysis.”
“Bohlin in the youth patrol?”
“That’s the one.”
“That was a smart decision,” Ottosson. “What does Mattias Andersson have to say?”
“We’re bringing him here right now.”
He glanced at Lindell and she thought she could see a triumphant expression on his face but told herself it was her imagination. Sammy’s cell phone rang at that moment. He answered, listened, and ended the conversation with an “okay.”
“They’re coming in the door now,” he said and took a step out the door. Then he turned and looked at Lindell.
“Do you want to be there?”
“Where?”
“When we question Mattias.”
“I have the little one with me,” she said and nodded in the direction of the stroller, which Sammy hadn’t noticed before.
“Leave him with me,” said Ottosson.
Twenty-two
Vincent woke around half past four. Vivan had made up a bed in her sewing room and for a while he lay there looking at the sewing machine. The rows of different colored thread arranged on some shelves, the cutting table she had pushed against one wall, covered in black cloth.
The headache, which had come and gone all night, had finally lifted, but he still felt its weight. His sister-in-law had washed and dressed the wound on his forehead.
“You are the only one who’s willing to help me,” he told her, and Vivan softened at these words and the sight of him.
He went out into the hall. The newspaper had been partly pushed through the mail slot and he gently pulled it out. He found it on page 3. Vincent Hahn was described as “unpredictable” and “mentally disturbed.” The forty-two-year-old woman in Sävja had not been physically hurt but was considerably shaken. The police were urging members of the public with information on the assailant to come forward.
He shoved the paper to the bottom of the kitchen trash. His sister-in-law’s bedroom was right next to the kitchen and he had to move with extreme care. He knew from before that she could be grumpy in the morning and assumed that this was still the case, though they had not spent the night under the same roof for over twenty years.
He put on water for tea and tried to order his thoughts. The police would most likely have placed his apartment under surveillance. He could stay with Vivan for one, perhaps two nights at most. Then she would start to grumble. He had to make a plan. Bernt, a man he talked to at the bingo hall, could potentially help him out. But the first thing he had to do was get money.