If Gunilla Karlsson thought she had gotten away, she was sorely mistaken. You could maybe trick Vincent Hahn once, but not two times. She would get a dose of her own medicine, that fucking bitch. The more he reflected on the events of the preceding night, the more determined he was to get revenge. She would be punished ten times over.
At six-thirty Vivan came stumbling into the kitchen. It was as if she had forgotten that he was there, because for a few seconds she stared at him uncomprehendingly. Vincent said nothing, just stared back.
“How is it?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He heard her walk out to the bathroom, pee, and then turn on the shower.
“How long are you staying?” she asked when she came out again, wrapped in a towel.
Vincent was still sitting at the kitchen table. His headache had returned. His sister-in-law was making it easy for him by bringing up the subject herself.
“One or two nights,” he said. “I’d rather not be by myself. Only if it’s all right with you, of course.”
She was clearly surprised at his meekness. She had not heard him be so gentle before.
“That sounds fine,” she said, relieved.
She left the kitchen and Vincent relaxed for the first time since yesterday. He heard her pulling and shutting dresser drawers and opening the doors to the closet. He wondered why she didn’t have a new man in her life.
“Have you taken the newspaper?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t think you had one.”
“You can’t rely on anything anymore,” she said with unexpected sharpness.
“I think I’ll go back to bed for a while,” he said. “I woke up so early and this headache won’t go away.”
Vincent felt almost peaceful. It was as if he and Vivan were an old couple, or very good friends, chitchatting in the early morning.
“I can pay my way,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Vivan said, walking back into the kitchen. “Go back to bed. I’m having some breakfast.”
Vincent went back to the sewing room. Vivan took out some yogurt and cereal. To make up for the absent paper, she fished an old one out of the recycling pile and turned on the radio.
Twenty-three
The search for Vincent Hahn intensified in the early morning hours. His temporary home on Bergslagsresan had quickly been found and Fredriksson had gone in with four men. As expected, it was empty.
The apartment, a one-bedroom, gave an abandoned impression. There were no curtains, only a few pieces of furniture, and very few personal belongings. The phone was not hooked up. There was no computer.
“The most remarkable thing we found,” Fredriksson said at the morning meeting, “was a mannequin. It was lying in Hahn’s bed dressed in a pair of black panties.” Fredriksson blushed slightly as he described the somewhat soiled doll.
“No address book, letters, or anything?” Beatrice asked, hoping to jog her colleague along.
“Well,” Fredriksson said, pinching his nose, “there were three binders filled with letters that Hahn has written over the past few years. These were addressed to the local district authorities, to the Uppsala transit authorities, Swedish Public Radio, and God knows who else. He seems to have devoted his time to writing letters of complaint about everything and everyone. He archived their replies. As far as I can tell, most of them were brief and dismissive.”
“He must have made quite a name for himself,” Ottosson said.
“The question is where he is now,” Sammy said.
“We know he was picked up by a car at the train crossing in Bergsbrunna. The driver, a technician from the waterworks, called in this morning when he had read the news. He dropped him off at the ER.”
“When was that?”
“Some thirty minutes after the attack,” Fredriksson said. “We checked, but no Vincent Hahn was admitted to the hospital yesterday. They’ll let us know if he turns up.”
“How serious were his wounds?”
“He was bleeding profusely, but it’s hard to say how deep the wound was. The man from the waterworks said he had blood all over his face but that he seemed coherent. He was able to walk unassisted.”
“Is he German? With a name like Hahn, I mean.”
“No, he’s a Swedish citizen. His parents have been dead for many years. There was a brother, Wolfgang, but he emigrated to Israel fifteen years ago.”
“Is he Jewish?” Lundin asked.
“On his mother’s side. His mother came here after the war. This is all according to public records.”
Fredriksson stopped talking and looked down at his papers.
“Okay,” Ottosson said. “Good work. We will continue surveillance in Sävja, both the apartment and Gunilla Karlsson’s place. Fredriksson, you’ll continue to look into the matter of whether Hahn has any relatives or friends in the area. He must have gone somewhere. It’s unlikely he would have left town, at least not on public transport. With that head wound he has he would only draw attention to himself.”
“Does he have a car?” Sammy asked.
“Not even a driver’s license,” Fredriksson said.
“Okay,” Ottosson said again. “Let’s hear the part about the knife and the youngster. Sammy, you’re up.”
“Mattias Andersson was arrested after a fight downtown. He was found to be armed with a knife. Bohlin, from the youth patrol, had heard about Little John’s murder, so when he saw the knife he took a closer look at it. It had stains that have been confirmed consistent with Little John’s blood.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Beatrice said. “How old is he?”
“Fifteen.”
The door opened and Berglund stepped in, with the district attorney in tow. They sat down and the briefing continued.
“He claims he pocketed the knife at the Akademiska Hospital parking garage earlier that same day. We’ve checked, but no car break-ins have been reported. This doesn’t necessarily mean anything, because Mattias claims he swiped it from an unlocked pickup truck. Apparently he walked around testing car doors, and when this one opened he found this knife in a black bucket in the back of the truck.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Maybe,” Sammy said. “The guy’s scared shitless. He’s been crying mostly. His mother’s doing the same thing. The tears are just pouring out of her.”
“Did you talk to the security guards?”
“Yes,” Sammy said. “They had no incidents that day, no reports of theft or damage. Normally this happens almost daily. We took Mattias down there last night so he could point out the place for us. The guard thought he recognized him but couldn’t remember a pickup truck in that spot. It’s not unlikely the guard could recognize him, because he regularly patrols the garage.”
“A pickup,” Ottosson said thoughtfully. “What color, and make?”
“Red,” Sammy said, “possibly with a white hood. It could be a Toyota, but he is extremely unsure on this point.”
“If we’re going to take this story at all seriously we’ll have to show this boy some pictures of different models,” Beatrice said.
“Does he have an alibi for the evening John was murdered?” Morenius asked. He was surprised that no one else had thought of this.
“It’s doubtful,” Sammy said. “He says he was hanging out with his friends downtown. We’ve tried to pinpoint where they were and when, but the friends are all vague. ‘That’s years ago, man,’ as one of them put it. Some of them even think it’s cool that Mattias was found with a murder weapon in his possession.”
“Last but not least, I can say that Ann made a guest appearance here yesterday,” Ottosson said. “She sat in on the questioning of Mattias, and helped calm his mother afterward. I even think they had a cup of coffee together.”