“Yes, I do,” Haver said.
He hadn’t bought a Christmas tree yet. That usually happened the day before Christmas.
“We have to find the angry man,” Beatrice said. “I’m sure you understand that. He may have hurt someone. We have to talk to him.”
It felt silly to speak in such an infantile way but she realized that Hahn was still partially a child. The psychologist would no doubt talk at length about this, but she didn’t care about the medical explanations. Beatrice felt instinctively that it was best to address him in this childish way.
“How was he dressed?” she continued. “Did he have nice clothes?”
“No, no nice clothes. He was wearing ones like on the TV, with pockets.”
“A military uniform?”
“They shoot.”
“A hunter?”
Haver heard from Wittåker’s voice that she was as tense as he was.
“A hunter,” Hahn repeated. “They hunt.”
He sank down on the chair. His inner suffering was etched on his face. He shuddered and touched the wound on his head. Haver sensed that he was reliving yesterday’s events in Sävja. Hahn mumbled something inaudible. Haver leaned over the desk and Hahn raised his head to look at him. It was a remarkable moment, Haver thought, a few seconds as a sudden insight came to the killer: Why am I sitting here? Have I killed someone? Haver sensed that Hahn was searching for answers, support, and perhaps understanding in those few seconds. Then the expression disappeared from Hahn’s face and was replaced by the absent gaze that they had seen all morning.
The contact was broken and for the remainder of the session he answered their questions in nonsensical fragments. Wittåker made a few more attempts to break through to him but Hahn remained unreachable.
Thirty-five
Justus Jonsson was on his way. Where, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t stay at home any longer. The idea he had had this morning no longer seemed as sensible and justified as it had. There was a person John had trusted. Justus knew where he lived because John and Justus had been there many times. Erki had been like a second father to John. John, who was normally so self-sufficient and sure of himself, softened when he talked to the old Finn. The closed quality in John disappeared. Sometimes Justus had heard John repeat things in conversation that he had picked up from Erki.
Justus had seen them together at work and almost felt jealous at how smoothly they cooperated, as if they were one. Over the noise, the sharp sounds of sheet metal and steel and the scream of the machines, through the smoke, their wordless work had bound them together, the whole shop in fact. It looked so easy when Erki and John worked. A brief moment of thought, then action. Justus had observed, fascinated, that momentary pause before the action was carried out. It wasn’t because they had to sort out what they were doing, but rather it seemed as if they were coming to an agreement with the material in their hands. A look was followed by the smallest of gestures to lower the visor and then the crackling glow of the welding tool. Or the flicker of a finger on the green button and the blade that eagerly cut into the sheet of metal.
Erki would understand. Maybe he had known about John’s plan?
Lennart’s accusations had cut a hole into his heart. Why had Berit, his mom, said John hated Lennart? It wasn’t true! In fact, Lennart was included in the plan. John had said that many times. Together they would make a new life for themselves. John, Berit, and Justus, and Lennart would be there too. John had been evasive only when it came to his mother.
“We’ll see,” he had said, and Justus had heard from his voice that he wasn’t sure what to do about her. “She’s old,” he had added. Maybe John was going to wait until she had died?
Justus passed Erki Karjalainen’s house a second time. An old car was parked in the driveway. There was a decal of the Finnish flag in the back window. He glimpsed a woman in the window, behind some Christmas stars. She looked out and Justus picked up the pace. The street ended about one hundred meters away and beyond that lay a patch of forest. Justus stopped where the trees started. The snow-laden spruce trees reminded him of a walk he had taken with John a few years ago. He felt empty and tired, but the memory of his father’s happiness made him smile briefly. Then came the tears. They had set out to find their own Christmas tree. “We’ll save a couple of hundred, at least,” John said. Justus didn’t know if it was the cheap Christmas tree or the fun of being with his son in the forest that made John so elated, but it didn’t matter. Not then and not now. He had laughed, taken Justus by the hand, and together they had examined more than twenty spruce trees before they found the one they wanted.
A car came by and Justus drew into the side of the road. The car skidded a little on the ice as it turned around. It had a Finnish license plate and it turned into the Karjalainens’ garage.
Justus walked straight into the forest. Snow was falling and even though it was the middle of the day it was already getting dark. At the edge of the forest there were footprints, but after only ten meters the surface of the snow lay undisturbed. He trudged on. The backpack bounced up and down on his back. He was aware of its weight but it didn’t bother him. When he had been walking for a few minutes he came to a clearing and saw an old-fashioned red cottage. There was a light on inside and in the garden there was a straw goat, a traditional Christmas ornament. He walked up to the goat. It was bound with red satin ribbon. He patted it, dusting off some of the snow that had gathered on its back. He started to cry again, although he tried hard to keep the tears back.
The cottage looked like it was straight out of a fairy tale. He thought how strange it was that a cottage like this could be so close to town. Who lives here? he had time to think before an older woman opened the door and put her head out.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, and if it hadn’t been for the weight on his chest he would have laughed.
“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled. “I think I took a wrong turn,” he added, hastening to explain why he was standing in her garden.
“That depends on where you were headed,” she said and stepped out onto the little porch.
“You have a fairy-tale house,” he said. His hand was still touching the goat’s head.
“Yes, it’s nice, isn’t it?” she said. “Are you on your way to the Christmas meeting?”
He nodded although he had no idea what she was talking about.
“Go out to the road and take a right,” she said. “After a while you’ll get to a sign that says UKS. Go in there. It won’t take you long.”
Justus started walking in the direction she had indicated.
“Merry Christmas,” she said again.
He walked a few meters, then turned. The woman was still there.
“You’re not on your way to the meeting, are you?”
He shook his head. For a few seconds all was still. The snow had stopped.
“You’re welcome to come in, if you want to,” she said. “Maybe you’d like something warm to drink.”
Justus looked at her and after a second’s thought he shook his head.
“I have to keep going,” he said.
“It looks like you’ve been crying.”
He almost broke down and told her everything. Her kind voice, the cottage tucked into the snow, a toy house with cotton wool on the roof, and his longing for warmth made him hesitate.
“I thought I was lost,” he said and swallowed.
“Come in and warm yourself for a while.”
He shook his head, managed to get out a “thank you,” and turned. He walked with a long, determined stride. After a while he started to run. The backpack jumped all around. After a hundred meters he went past the sign the woman had been talking about. A car was driving down the badly plowed road. Another car was in the distance. He ran faster and faster until his breath was like a cloud around him and his tears were frozen on his cheeks. Then he stopped abruptly, wiped his cheeks with his glove, and decided never to return to the apartment in Gränby. He kept going at a calmer pace and tried to look carefree, but his despair tightened his muscles like cables. His heart was pounding in his chest like a fist beating on a door.