A few snowflakes fluttered down. He met Josefsson from apartment 3, who was out with his poodle. This neighbor, who admired police officers and was always full of effusive praise for members of his profession, smiled and said a few words about the winter that was now upon them. Josefsson’s enthusiastic cheeriness always rubbed him the wrong way. Haver mumbled something about having to work.
He thought about Rebecka. She should start working again. She needed to have people around, the stress of the ward, regular contact with patients and colleagues. Their small evening talks when she and Haver would tell each other what had happened at work that day had been replaced by a sullen atmosphere and a tense anticipation of what would happen next. They needed something new, an injection of new energy. Since child number two, Sara, their relationship had lost much of its spice.
Haver now felt as if the routines at work were mirrored by a kind of somnambulism at home. There was a time when he had felt a physical joy at the thought of coming home, a longing for Rebecka, just to be close to her.
Was she the only one who had changed? Haver had thought about this. Sammy “Rasbo” Nilsson, a colleague in the Homicide Division, said it was a sign of his age.
“The two of you have entered into a middle-age crisis, the time when couples realize that life isn’t going to get any better,” he had said, smiling.
“Bullshit,” Haver had cut him off. Now he wasn’t so sure. He loved Rebecka, had done so from the very first. Did she love him? He had discovered a new, critical expression on her face, as if she were looking at him with new eyes. Sure, he worked a lot more now that Ann Lindell was on maternity leave, but there had been times when he had worked at least as much and back then it had never bothered her.
The cell phone rang.
“Hello, it’s me,” said Chief Ottosson. “You can forget about target practice today. We have a body.”
Haver froze. Josefsson’s poodle barked in the distance. It had probably met up with the female Labrador from apartment 5.
“Where?”
“In Libro. A jogger found it.”
“A jogger?”
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon. Were there really people up and running this early, in this weather?
“Forensics is on its way,” said Ottosson.
He sounded tired and distant, as if he were almost bored, as if a jogger coming across a dead body were a routine occurrence.
“Homicide?”
“Most likely,” said Ottosson, but he corrected himself immediately. “Definitely. The body is mutilated.” Haver now heard the note of hopelessness in the chief’s voice.
It was not tiredness but despair at the human capacity for evil that made the thoroughly nice Ottosson sound so distracted.
“Where is Libro?”
“Right where you drive out of town, on the right-hand side after the county storage facility.”
Haver thought hard as he was unlocking the car door, trying to recall what the rest of Börjegatan looked like.
“The car-inspection facility?”
“Farther. It’s where the county dumps its snow.”
“Okay, I know where that is. Who else?”
“Fredriksson and Bea.”
They finished the conversation. He had told Rebecka he would be late and he would be, for sure, but now for a completely different reason from the one he had imagined fifteen minutes ago. The local police-union meeting would be replaced with a strategy session at work or some such business. The union would have to wait, as would his scheduled practice session at the shooting range.
John Harald Jonsson had bled copiously. The originally light-colored jacket was now deeply stained with blood. Death had probably come as a relief. He was missing three fingers from his right hand, severed at the second joint. Burn marks and blue-black contusions on his neck and face bore witness to his suffering.
Forensic technician Eskil Ryde was standing a few meters from the body, staring in a northerly direction. Haver thought he looked like Sean Connery with his stern features, stubble, and receding hairline. He was gazing out over the Uppsala plains as if expecting to find answers out there. Actually he was watching a Viggen fighter jet.
Beatrice and Fredriksson were crouched down. The wind was blowing from the west. A colleague in uniform was putting up police tape. There was an indefinably sweet smell in the air that made Haver turn around.
Fredriksson looked up and nodded at Haver.
“Little John,” he said.
Haver had also recognized the murdered man immediately. A few years ago he had cross-examined him in a case involving his brother, Lennart, who had named John as his alibi witness. A nice guy, as far as Haver could recall, a former small-time thief who had never resorted to violence. Not surprisingly, John had corroborated his brother’s claims. He was lying, of course, Haver had always been convinced of that, but even so he had never been able to disprove Lennart Jonsson’s alibi.
They had talked about fish, Haver remembered. Little John had a passion for tropical fish and from there it wasn’t too great a step to fishing.
“What a fucking sight,” Beatrice sighed, getting to her feet with effort.
Ottosson’s car pulled up by the side of the road. The three police officers watched their chief talk to some of the curious onlookers who had already gathered by highway 272, about fifty meters away. He gestured with his hand to show that they couldn’t park their cars along this stretch of road.
“Where is the jogger?” Haver asked, looking around.
“In the emergency room,” Bea said. “When he ran out onto the road to flag down a car he slipped badly. He may have broken his arm.”
“Has anyone questioned him?”
“Yes; he lives in Luthagen and runs here every morning.”
“What was he doing out here in the snow?”
“He likes to run on the bicycle trail, apparently. But first he does some stretches and moves in from the road. At least that was his explanation.”
“Did he see anything?”
“No, nothing.”
“He’s probably been here all night,” the forensic technician said, indicating the body.
“Tire tracks?”
“All over,” Beatrice said.
“It’s a dump, for Pete’s sake,” Fredriksson said.
“Got it,” Haver said.
He took a closer look at Little John. He was severely bruised, the victim of someone who was extremely thorough or enraged, or both. The burn marks-most likely from a cigarette-were deep. Haver bent over and studied Little John’s wrists. Dark red marks bore witness to them having been tightly bound.
The stumps on his hands where the fingers had been removed were blackened. The cuts were neatly made, probably with a very sharp knife or scissors. Maybe pliers.
Ottosson came jogging over and Haver went up to meet him.
“Little John,” he said simply, and the chief nodded.
He looked unexpectedly alert. Perhaps it was the brisk temperature.
“I heard he had been mutilated.”
“What did Little John know that was so important?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think he was tortured,” Haver said, then suddenly he thought of the murdered man’s tropical fish. Piranhas. He shivered.
Ottosson sniffed. A sudden gust made them look up. Haver’s thoughtful mood from the morning remained. He felt unenterprising and unprofessional.
“A protracted struggle,” he said.
Ottosson took out a checkered handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.
“Damned wind,” he said. “Found anything?”
“No. He was probably brought here by car.”
“It’s open,” Ottosson stated, nodding in the direction of the raised barrier. “I come by this way fairly often and I never see anyone turn in here, other than in the winter when the county trucks dump snow here.”