“Murdered,” Berit mumbled.
“Can we call anyone? Do you have any siblings?”
Berit shook her head.
“Parents?”
Another shake.
“Justus,” she said. “I have to get a hold of Justus.”
“Where is he?”
“At Danne’s.”
“Close by?”
“Salabacksgatan.”
I can’t do this, Beatrice thought, but she knew at the same time that as far as she was concerned, the worst was over. The words had been said. She would do everything she could to assuage the woman’s pain and give her the answers she was looking for. A feeling of reverence gripped her. It was a feeling familiar to her from before. Beatrice was far from religious, but she could sense what people sought in the religious messages and rituals. There was so much in her police work that intersected with the big questions, myths, and dreams.
She had noticed that the police often had to play the role of confessional priests, people to whom one could unburden oneself. Even the uniformed police officer, who technically represented authority, power, and the bad conscience of the citizen, could receive these confidences. That had been her experience on the beat. Or was it her personality that had invited these many instances of quiet, breathtaking intimacy? She didn’t know, but she cherished these moments. She had told herself she would never become cynical.
The front door was suddenly thrown open.
“Justus,” Berit gasped.
But it was a man who rushed into the kitchen. He caught sight of Beatrice and halted abruptly.
“Are you a minister or something?”
“No,” Beatrice said and stood up.
The man was panting, his gaze aggressive.
“Who the hell are you, then?”
“A police officer.”
“They’ve killed my brother.”
He waved his right arm in front of Beatrice.
“Lennart,” Berit whispered.
He stopped short in his fierce attack, looking at her as if he had only at that moment registered her presence. He lowered his arms and his whole body deflated like a balloon pierced with a needle.
“Berit,” he said and took a step toward her.
“Bastard,” she said and spat in his face.
He took her outburst with calm, wiping his face with his sleeve. Beatrice glimpsed a tear under the arm of his jacket where the bloodred lining peeked out.
“Was that really necessary?” he asked, and Beatrice could read only confusion and grief in his face.
“It was your fault,” Berit said with teeth so tightly clenched that it was hard to understand how she could utter any sounds, let alone speak. Her voice shot up into a falsetto register. “It’s your fucking fault my John is dead! You always dragged him into your shit. Always you!”
Lennart shook his head. His face was lined and black stubble covered a surprising amount of it. Beatrice would never have been able to guess that the man in front of her had been Little John’s brother.
“I don’t know anything about this,” he said. “I promise.”
Beatrice decided spontaneously to believe him.
“How did you find out that your brother was dead?”
“Your blabbering friends,” he said curtly and looked away. “The whole town knows,” he continued, turned to the window. “If you start shouting over the police radio that Little John is dead, then everyone will hear it.”
Unbelievable, Beatrice thought. The name of a murdered person announced unscrambled on the radio.
“My brother, my little brother,” Lennart Jonsson sobbed, leaned up against the windowsill, his face pressed against the pane.
“I’m going to kill those bastards, you know. I’m going to find the one who did this and torture him to death.”
Beatrice wondered what details of the murder had also been broadcast. Berit had sunk down on the chair again and sat lifelessly with her gaze fixed on some place where Beatrice was unable to follow.
“Will you be staying with her for a bit?” she asked. “She could do with the company.”
It was hard to know if her brother-in-law was the best companion for her, but Beatrice told herself there was a logic to it. A brother and a wife, linked for always with their shared life, the memories, grief.
Lennart turned and nodded in a conciliatory manner. A drop of Berit’s saliva was still caught on his stubbly chin.
She got the address of Justus’s friend and that of John and Lennart’s mother, went out into the hall, and called Haver and told him to make sure the mother was notified.
Lennart was downing a beer when she returned to the kitchen. Maybe just the thing, she thought.
“Berit,” she said, “do you know where John was going last night?”
Berit shook her head.
“Was he running an errand? Was there someone he was going to meet?”
Berit didn’t say anything.
“I have to ask.”
“I don’t know.”
“He didn’t say anything when he left?”
Berit lowered her head and looked like she was trying to remember the day before. Beatrice could imagine how she was going through those last few minutes before John had walked out the door and disappeared from her life for good. How many times was she going to relive that day?
“He was his usual self,” she said finally. “I think he said something about the pet store. He was going to buy a pump he had ordered.”
“Which store?”
“I don’t know. He went to all of them.”
She started to cry.
“He had a hell of a fine aquarium,” Lennart said. “They wrote about it in the papers.”
Silence fell.
“I thought maybe he was helping with the snow removal. He also talked about trying to get a job at the sheet-metal shop of someone he knew.”
“Micke?” Lennart asked.
Berit looked at her brother-in-law and nodded.
Micke, Beatrice thought. Now we’re getting all the names.
Haver, Beatrice, Wende, Berglund, Fredriksson, Riis, Peter Lundin-no relation to Asta and Anton-and Ottosson had gathered around an enormous box of gingerbread cookies. Fredriksson helped himself to a generous portion and piled the cookies up in front of his cup. Eleven in all, Beatrice noted.
“Think they’ll make a good boy out of you?” she asked, referring to the old folk saying. Fredriksson nodded absently. Ottosson, who must have considered himself good enough already, declined the offer of gingerbread when the tin came his way.
“Go on, take one,” Riis said.
“No, thank you,” the chief said.
“Little John bled to death,” Haver said suddenly. “Someone, or perhaps more than one, stabbed him with a knife or some such sharp object. Blood loss is the official cause of death.”
The group around the table digested this piece of information. Haver paused. He imagined his colleagues creating an inner picture of Little John’s final moments.
“In the stages leading up to his death he was subjected to repeated blows to the head and chest,” Haver continued. “In addition, he has burn marks, probably caused by cigarettes, on his arms and genitals.”
“So we’re looking for a sadistic smoker,” Riis said.
“Aren’t all smokers sadists?” Lundin asked.
Haver gave him a look and continued.
“He probably died sometime between four and eight P.M. yesterday. The exact time of death is difficult to establish because of the preserving effect of the cold on the body.”
“Any trace of alcohol or drugs in his blood?” Ottosson asked.
“He was clean. The only things they found were the beginnings of an ulcer and a liver that could have been in better shape.”
“Alcoholic?”
“No, you couldn’t call him that, but he put his liver to work,” Haver said and looked suddenly very tired.
“Can his death have been a mistake?” Beatrice said. “The fact that he bled to death after so many small wounds indicates an ongoing assault. If your intention is to murder someone, surely you would aim to kill the first time.”