The Demon of Dakar (15 page)

“I know who he is.”

Her colleague, Thommy Lissvall, who Lindell only knew in passing, could not conceal a triumphant smile.

“Great,” Lindell said, flipping open her notebook.

“He is not a celebrity by any means but naturally I know him. It is strange that no one has identified him before now.”

“In that case, what have you been doing for the past three days?”

“I was at a workshop,” Lissvall said.

He looked at Lindell.

“A good one,” he added.

A Dalarna accent, she thought. Why do they have to be so damned long-winded?

“All right, maybe you could kindly bring yourself to reveal who he is?”

“He has been in this town for a long time, but as I said—”

“What restaurant?”

Lissvall was thrown off for a second, blinked, and smiled at Haver who was sitting at the far end of the table.

Lindell had taken a chance. The city unit, which Lissvall belonged to, worked with restaurant-related crimes.

“Several,” Lissvall said.

“Slobodan Andersson’s imperium, in other words,” Haver said suddenly, with unexpected loudness. “Because I can’t imagine it is Svensson’s?”

“A name,” Lindell said. She was thoroughly sick of the guessing game.

“Armas.”

“And more?”

“I don’t know what his last name is,” Lissvall was forced to admit, “but it is no doubt a mouthful. I’ve never heard anything except Armas.”

“And he worked for Slobodan?”

“Yes.”

Lindell shot Haver a quick look.

“I was at Dakar with Beatrice recently,” she said.

Lissvall chuckled.

“Thank you very much,” Lindell said firmly, and stood up. “I take it you have no further information.”

“I guess not,” he said and got up from the table.

“What an idiot,” Lindell said when he had left the room.

“What do we do?” Haver asked.

Lindell examined her notes. She had written “Armas” in capital letters. She was relieved, grateful that the murder victim was from Uppsala. It would have been boring with a dumped Stockholmer.

“We go out to dinner,” she said lightly.

Slobodan Andersson’s apartment was located
in a one-hundred-year-old building just east of the railroad. It was within walking distance of the police station. The morning had been clear and chilly, but now, with the time approaching ten o’clock in the morning, the sunshine was warm. Lindell couldn’t help pausing for a few seconds and closing her eyes. She lapped up the sun and thought about her visit to Dakar. Had Armas been there that evening? Lindell could not recall any member of the staff except the waitress.

Haver, who had pushed on, stopped, turned around, and looked at Lindell.

“Come on,” he said.

Lindell laughed. Haver couldn’t help but smile.

“You find it invigorating with murder, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” Lindell said and tried to imitate Lissvall’s dialect, but failed miserably.

“No, not really,” she resumed. “But I do find it invigorating to do some good.”

They discussed how they should proceed in their conversation with Slobodan Andersson. They considered bringing someone from the city unit, but finally rejected the idea. Lindell had awakened the restaurant
owner with her call. It was difficult to determine if it was the circumstances that made him appear confused. He had asked what the call was in regards to but Lindell had only said she wanted to talk.

“Can’t it wait until this afternoon?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Lindell said.

After getting the door code from Slobodan Andersson and informing Ottosson of their plans, they immediately left the station.

Slobodan Andersson received them in
a lime-yellow robe. The apartment, which consisted of five rooms with high ceilings, deep windowsills, and ornate moldings, was newly renovated. Lindell could still smell the paint. Andersson asked them to sit down and offered them coffee, which they declined.

Lindell sat down while Haver remained standing by the window.

“Well, how can I be of service to the police?”

No trace of the earlier confusion remained.

Lindell studied the restaurant owner. She thought she had seen him before. Maybe at Dakar? On the other hand, he had the kind of appearance that stood out. He was ample, Lindell decided, summing up her impression, not to say fat.

Lindell estimated his age at around fifty. On his left hand he had a gold band on his ring finger and around his throat he had a gold chain with an amulet. He gave off a waft of perfume or aftershave.

“You have an employee by the name of Armas, don’t you?”

For a moment, Lindell thought she saw a shift in Slobodan Andersson’s expression that revealed surprise, perhaps even concern, but he answered in a steady voice.

“Yes, that’s right. Armas has been in my employ for, well, for many years now. He is my right hand, as they say,” Slobodan said and looked down at his own hands.

“Do you know where he is?”

In the corner of her eye, Lindell saw Haver move a couple of meters and look with curiosity into the next room.

“Yes, I know exactly where he is. He is on his way to the north of
Spain to meet with a few of my professional contacts. As you know, Basque cuisine is exquisite. Armas usually travels around and gathers some ideas, brings home recipies, tips on good wine, everything that a restaurant owner needs. Perhaps come home with a good cheese.”

“When did he leave?”

“A few days ago. He is driving down. Has anything happened? Has he had a car accident?”

“No, it is more serious than that, I’m afraid,” Lindell said. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Armas is dead.”

Slobodan Andersson pushed back in the sofa and stared at her without comprehension.

“It is not possible,” he said finally.

“We haven’t made a definitive identification yet, but there is every indication that it is him. Does he have a family?”

Slobodan shook his head.

“No relatives?”

“No, it is him and me,” Slobodan said in a low voice.

“Do you think you could come in and identify your friend? As you can understand we have to be sure.”

Are they a couple? Lindell wondered. That would be revealed in time. She took out a photograph of the dead man. It was a picture that partly spared the viewer since the image was cropped under the chin. Slobodan glanced at it and nodded.

“How did he die?”

“His life was taken,” Lindell said.

“What do you mean?”

“He was murdered.”

Slobodan stood up abruptly, walked over to the window, and ended up standing there. They heard a train go by. She exchanged a quick look with Haver.

A minute went by, perhaps two. The clanging bell of the railway crossing was the only thing they heard. A new train was approaching.

“Where?” Slobodan asked through clenched teeth.

“We don’t know precisely,” Haver said, now speaking for the first time. “You may have read in the newspaper about—”
“I don’t read newspapers!”

The clanging had stopped.

“Who?”

“We don’t know that either. We were hoping you might be able to help us,” Lindell said.

It turned out that Armas’s
apartment was in the same building. Slobodan had spare keys and Lindell called Ottosson, who arranged for a technician to come by. After twenty minutes the doorbell rang. Lindell gave Haver a look, and he went to open the door. Lindell walked away so she was not visible from the front door. She heard Haver exchange a few words with Charles Morgansson.

An hour later Lindell left Slobodan Andersson’s apartment in the latter’s company in order to bring him down to the morgue to make an identification of the body, while Haver went to Armas’s apartment. In this way she could avoid seeing Charles.

“The tattoo” was the first
thing Ottosson said when Ann Lindell came into his office.

Lindell laughed and sat down across from him.

“Slobodan thought it was a sea horse or some other kind of animal, and that fits with the part that is left. I thought it looked like a foot. He didn’t know when Armas got the tattoo. Armas had always had it, according to Slobodan.”

“Did you tell him it had been removed?”

“No, I simply asked what it was.”

“Let’s have a cup of coffee,” Ottosson said. “I bought cheese sandwiches and some doughnuts.”

He looked pleased. Lindell sensed that he, like herself, was happy that the identity had been established and that the victim came from Uppsala. This aided the investigation considerably.

While they drank their coffee, Lindell reviewed the most important aspects of the case for Ottosson. The two men had parted at around four
o’clock. Armas was going to sleep for a couple of hours before starting his drive down to Spain. According to Slobodan he preferred to drive at night. He owned a blue BMW X5 of last year’s model. Armas was going to be gone for two weeks. Slobodan characterized the whole thing as a combined vacation and business trip.

“But to drive all the way down to Spain?” Ottosson said.

“Armas had a fear of flying.”

Ottosson nodded. Lindell knew Ottosson shared this fear.

Slobodan could not see any motives to the killing. Armas was a loner, someone who basically had no circle of friends, had no association with anyone, as far as Slobodan knew, and he had trouble imagining that Armas had some secret life.

“He lived at and for the restaurants,” Lindell summed up.

“A model citizen,” Ottosson said. “What about money?”

“Slobodan thought he had at most two or three thousand in cash. He may have gone down to the Forex money exchange to get some Euros. We’ll have to check that. Fredriksson has made sure the cards have been blocked. We’ll retrieve information about account activity.”

Lindell checked the time.

“Day care?”

“No problem,” Lindell said. “Görel is picking up today.”

“The car?”

“It shouldn’t be hard to find. I don’t think the apartment is where the murder took place. It looked completely normal, an exemplary state of order, according to Haver.”

“Too clean?”

“No, but I think Armas was a bit of a neatfreak.”

“Should we talk to the city unit?”

“Yes, but not with the guy from Dalarna, Lisskog or whatever his name is.”

“Lissvall,” Ottosson said, smiling. “He was in the fraud unit for a while, but they got sick of him.”

Lindell looked like she had already repressed all thoughts of her colleague and resumed her review. When she was done they discussed the future investigation and what should be prioritized.

Fredriksson would coordinate the background investigation. The details of Armas’s life had to be fleshed out and Slobodan himself had to be closely examined.

Berglund and Beatrice would handle the questioning of the restaurant employees.

“Done! We’ll nab him by Tuesday of next week,” Ottosson said confidently.

Lindell nodded.

“Thanks for the doughnuts. That was thoughtful of you.”

Ottosson became embarrassed as usual when he received praise.

It was only when Eva
Willman woke up the following morning, abruptly, as if she had been startled by a bad dream, that she realized the enormity of what had transpired these past two days.

She suddenly imagined her son as a criminal, a juvenile delinquent who would soon grow up and gradually be pulled down into a morass of criminality and drug abuse.

“No!” she sobbed, sinking back into the bed, pulling the blankets more tightly around her and glancing at the time. Half past five.

There were no guarantees in life, no insurance that would keep you from harm. That had been clear to her for a long time, but now it was as if reality, that which was written about in the papers and spoken about on television, came rushing toward her. Every person makes their own decisions, however crazy they may seem, however unlikely they may appear to others.

What decisions had Patrik made? She did not know. She thought she knew what was going on, but now realized with a newly won and overwhelming certainty that her influence was limited. Perhaps she had reached him last night during their brief conversation in the community garden, but for how long?

Who decides over us? she thought. Suddenly life appeared so incomplete and unpredictable. Her marriage to Jörgen, two children in rapid succession, then divorce, her job at the post office, then being laid off, her happiness at finding a new job, but for how long? And now this with Patrik. Up till now he had never so much as hurt a fly and always stayed out of trouble. Of course he and Hugo fought, but that never lasted. In middle school he often complained that others were getting into trouble. He couldn’t stand the sight of blood, and even a blood test was a challenge for him. Now he had come home bleeding and was suspected of assault on top of it.

She got up and fetched the newspaper, quickly leafing through it to see if there was anything about yesterday’s events. On the fourth page there was a short article. “A new violent attack in Sävja” was the title.

“A forty-two-year-old man was stabbed yesterday in the Sävja residential area, in south Uppsala. This is the most recent of a series of violent conflicts that have attracted attention in this area. As recently as last week ago a young woman was assaulted and in January a bus came under gunfire. The man, who lives in Uppsala, was visiting Sävja when he was attacked without provocation by some young men. According to the police, the man attempted to escape his attackers but was overcome in the vicinity of Stordammen school, where he was stabbed in the abdomen and received many kicks. His condition is described as serious but not life-threatening.”

That was all. Eva imagined the newspaper had received the information so late that they had not had the opportunity to include more. Most likely, tomorrow’s paper would include more details.

She read the article again. “Some young men.” Patrik was not a man, he was still a boy, a teenager who only two or three years ago had gone sledding and read comic books.

She had an urge to move away from the area. Settle somewhere else with her sons where there were no “violent conflicts that attracted attention.” But where would that be? Did those places even exist?

From her kitchen window she could see how her neighbors were coming to life, some were eating breakfast while watching morning TV, others were already on their way to work. She saw Helen’s man half-running toward the parking lot. He was late as usual.

Again she was struck by how isolated this block was, how the inhabitants were divided from one another by invisible walls. Even though they were neighbors they were strangers to one another. The suffering of one did not affect the other. People who had lived perhaps ten years on the same level had never set foot in one anothers’ apartments. They knew their neighbors’ names, but it could just as well be a number, an assigned code. Those who lived on level seven could be called 7:1, 7:2, 7:3, and so on.

She herself would be 14:6–1, Patrik 14:6–2, and Hugo 14:6–3. It would be simpler, at least for the authorities. They could inscribe the numbers on their foreheads.

She smiled at her crazy ideas while she set the table for breakfast.

They had once all joined together. That was when the housing association wanted to remove part of the playground and build a room to house the garbage. Then they had all assembled in the neighborhood and decided to protest. Helen had been the most active, going around with lists and putting up flyers in all the stairwells. You could say what you wanted about Helen, but she was not shy. She ended up in the newspaper. The clipping was still on her refrigerator door.

Eva stood in the window but was irritated by her limited view. She only saw a courtyard, a few buildings, and in the background an arm of the forest, or really just a few fir trees. People want to see far, she thought, because then you gain a perspective on your situation and you can discover things beyond yourself. She recalled a visit to Flatåsen in the deep northern forests of Värmland among her grandfather’s relatives, how he had brought her up on a hilltop—her grandfather called it a mountain—from which point they could look out over miles of forests and lakes. For once her grandfather had been quiet. He pointed out villages and swathes of forests where he had worked as a lumberjack in his youth.

Eva, who was in her early teens, had never before seen such large land areas at one time. They lingered up there for a long time. It was her dearest memory of her grandfather, the otherwise so gruff and at times alcoholic communist who in his bitterness no longer trusted anyone and no longer held anything to be of value.

“Everything nowadays is cat shit,” he would mutter in front of the television.

Her head was spinning with thoughts. Her usual morning effectiveness was gone and it had taken her half an hour to put out the dishes, brew some coffee, and empty the dishwasher.

She thought she was on to something important. Maybe she should talk to Johnny at Dakar, or even Feo—someone outside her immediate neighborhood. Helen would just start ranting about this or that kid.

Just then the telephone rang. She picked up at once, convinced it was the police.

“Hi, I saw that you were up.”

It was Helen, she must have noticed Eva in the window. Eva pulled the kitchen door shut and sat down at the table.

“I heard about it yesterday. It’s just like the cops to blame it on Patrik. It would be better for them to go angling around the others.”

Eva had no trouble imagining what Helen meant by “the others.” She stuck the received under her chin, took out a mug, and poured out some coffee.

“They just wanted to talk to him,” Eva said.

“Nonsense. They make up their minds and spread a lot of lies. You should hear what they told Monica last night.”

But Eva did not want to.

“What is Patrik saying?”

“We haven’t really talked,” Eva said and started to cry.

“I’m coming over,” Helen said.

“No, don’t. Maybe later. I have to talk to the boys first.”

They ended the phone call and Eva sat with her hands wrapped around the coffee mug. It had the words
the world’s best mom
on it.