His colleague, Maria Svensson-Flygt, did all she could to stop the bleeding but it was no good. In a few minutes Jan-Erik Hollman had bled to death on the icy sidewalk of Svartbäcksgatan.
Vincent leaned back against the wall as if he was completely unaware of what had just happened. Maria looked at him. Passersby were standing around in a ring, in complete silence. Traffic had come to a stop. The bloodred puddle on the ground had stopped growing. One of Maria’s hands lay on her colleague’s chest, the other pulled out her cell phone. After a short call she grabbed the knife that Vincent had either thrown to the ground or simply dropped.
“Look, she has a gun!” a little boy shouted.
Vincent gave Maria a dull look and she saw the insanity in his eyes. Someone down the street laughed and a taxi cab honked, otherwise there was only silence, broken-after a few seconds-by the sound of approaching sirens.
Maria Svensson-Flygt had been very fond of her colleague. They had worked together for two years. She hated the man slumped against the wall and it struck her that if they had been alone, without staring witnesses, she would have shot his head off.
She sensed that the man in front of her was Vincent Hahn, who was wanted for the murder of a woman in Johannesbäck, although he did not really look like the picture she had seen.
Thirty-one
The police were in mourning. Some cried, others were simply tense and quiet. The image of the pool of blood on Svartbäcksgatan returned over and over in their minds. Thoughts of Jan-Erik’s wife and his kids were interspersed in people’s minds with the most troubling point: It could have been me. These words were not actually spoken aloud by anyone-that would have seemed unprofessional and disrespectful-but it was there, strengthening the sense of connection with the deceased. Even the chief of police’s words at the brief meeting sounded genuine.
The chief, with his tinder-dry and normally so uninspired voice, earned a new respect from his colleagues. He spoke in a low voice without fuss and left the podium with heavy steps after an unexpectedly short amount of time. A paralyzing silence fell over the assembled group, then a middle-aged man who was familiar to most stood up.
It was the hospital minister who had been at the police station for other reasons when news of the death came in. Liselotte Rask had recognized him and asked him to stay until they had formally appointed a crisis management team.
Ola Haver listened to his words, letting them into his shaken mind. Fredriksson sat next to him with his head bent, as if in prayer.
Because Fredriksson had been the first on the scene at Gunilla Karlsson’s apartment, he had informally taken the lead in the hunt for Vincent Hahn. Now Hahn had been captured, but at what price?
Fredriksson had gone down into the holding cell in order to take a look at the two-time murderer. He wanted to see his face, and the sight of him was infuriating. Hahn was drinking a cup of tea and eating a cheese sandwich. It felt wrong, improper, almost indecent. The guard had been standing next to him and Fredriksson had been tempted to upbraid him, but had managed to calm himself.
Did Vincent Hahn have anything to do with John’s murder? There was a personal connection between them, in that they had grown up in the same area and gone to school together. Now Fredriksson’s thoughts centered on the knife. Could Vincent be tied to the knife they had recovered, the one the youth claimed he had stolen from the hospital parking garage?
Sammy Nilsson had immediately gone to see Vincent and asked him if he knew Little John. Vincent had smirked and admitted it.
“And he died,” he added, his smile broadening.
“Did you kill him?”
“He was stabbed,” Hahn had said.
After that he had stopped talking, even though Sammy Nilsson had shaken him, pulling him up from the cot and asking him again. The guard had been forced to show him out. Later, the guard told Fredriksson about it.
“He laughs sometimes,” the guard says. “I think he’s completely nuts.”
Fredriksson had asked the guard to tell him the moment Hahn seemed like he was ready to talk.
Haver turned on his cell phone after the meeting. After a few seconds the phone showed that he had received a voice message. It was Rebecka. He heard her straining to sound normal. She asked him to call back.
He dialed the number and Rebecka answered immediately.
“Oh, God,” she said. “Thank you, God.”
“What is it?”
“I heard it on the radio,” she said.
“It was a patrol officer, I don’t think you knew him.”
“Did he have a family?”
“A wife and two kids. A girl and a boy. Eight and four.”
“Shit,” she said, although she seldom swore.
“I have to go,” he said.
“You’ll be careful, won’t you, Ola?”
“Of course, you know that.”
“I want to-” Rebecka started, but Haver interrupted her.
“I have to go. I’ll see you.”
He was left with mixed feelings. Her concern touched him but also filled him with irritation. They had had a huge fight when he came back late last night. She had been sitting silently at the kitchen table and given him an ice-cold look, a glass and a half-empty bottle of red wine in front of her. When Haver walked into the kitchen all hell had broken loose. Rebecka told him about Ann Lindell calling without leaving her name, but Haver knew it wasn’t the true source of her anger.
It was very late when they finally went to bed and he had lain awake for a long time. Rebecka had tossed and turned, sighed, and shifted pillows around. An oppressive silence had reigned. So much had been said, yet so much remained unsaid. At half past two he had tiptoed out into the kitchen. The bottle of wine was still on the table. That was unlike Rebecka, she was normally so neat. Haver poured himself half a glass. He should sleep. He should love his wife, make love to her, but first he knew they had to talk.
Haver dialed Lindell’s home number on his cell phone. The answering machine came on after four rings. He tried her cell phone but had no luck. He left a short message asking her to call.
Why had she tried to phone him, and why wasn’t she answering now? It wasn’t like her to be unreachable. Her call earlier this evening had to have had something to do with work. She would never have tried him at home to talk about what had happened between them. And what was it that had happened anyway?
Haver kept on thinking, with a growing sense of irritation. The feeling that everything was too late came over him, the same feeling that had been bothering him in the dark, that things had gone too far, both at work and at home. He had fallen into a light sleep. In his dream a woman was bent over him, repeating the words, “Why did my son die?” Over and over. Haver tried to answer but couldn’t make a sound because he was gagged and bound to his office chair. He helplessly listened to the grieving woman’s mournful cry. Rebecka had fallen asleep. Her breathing had become calm and regular and he wished he could snuggle next to her. He fell back into sleep and into the nightmare.
After the meeting everyone went his own way. Haver was irresolute. Ottosson had set up an investigative session with Fritzén, from the district attorney’s office, in ten minutes. Haver called Ann at home again and left a message there too. Then he went into the bathroom and cried.
Ottosson started by talking about Jan-Erik, their collective vulnerability, and also about all the flowers and phone calls from the public that had been pouring in. No doubt people were even more willing to show their compassion because it was so close to Christmas. Liselotte Rask had done an amazing job, Ottosson said. She had stood her ground in the reception area, taking the wind out of the sails of even the most aggressive reporter with a single look, a word.
The chief changed the topic of discussion.