The Demon of Dakar (18 page)

The paralysis did not ease
up until Eva sat down at the kitchen table. The phone rang and she was sure it was Helen, who had very likely seen her and Patrik come home. But Eva did not pick up, she didn’t want to hear her friend’s busybody comments or have to listen to her good advice.

Patrik immediately went to his room. She knew he wanted to be alone. The relief he had shown after speaking with Barbro Liljendahl was obvious. He had been almost exhilarated on the bus on the way home, but this state also did battle with the feeling of an unexpected and shoddy
betrayal that made him fall silent and stare out the bus window with a penetrating, searching gaze, as if he was trying to look into the future.

And the future for Patrik consisted of the next day, the next week, perhaps a month, at most the end of the semester. He measured everything against the present, Zero and the others’ immediate reactions, and therefore his action had been heroic. Eva imagined that he now regretted having spoken so freely with the police, and she understood intuitively that she had to give him time.

She was proud of him. This was her dominant feeling. Fear and anger had fallen away and made room for gratitude at her son’s maturity, which bore traces of a child’s forthrightness and a wish to be understood and forgiven. He was not yet hardened, encapsulated by his own and the gang’s distorted image of the world.

Barbro Liljendahl had skillfully tread the razor-sharp edge, showing him trust and respect, but also applying pressure when he threatened to slide away. She had won his confidence, otherwise he would never have allowed Eva to leave the room.

Eva looked at the time. In an hour Hugo would be home. She was hungry, but couldn’t bear to think of eating.

The phone rang again and this time Eva picked up.

“How did it go?”

Eva pulled the kitchen door shut, amazed by her own feeling of gratitude that Helen had called. She was the only one Eva could talk to, because in spite of her occasional impertinence she was the only one who cared.

“It went well,” she said and summed up what Patrik had told her on the way home.

“You mean they’re trying to get our kids to do drugs? Here in Sävja?”

“Are you surprised?”

“No, perhaps not exactly, but … I’m coming over!”

Helen hung up on Eva and several minutes later she was sitting in the kitchen.

“Ingemar is at some construction meeting,” Helen said. “You know how he is and God knows when he’ll be home. I wrote a note to the kids. Maybe we should have pizza together?”

Eva nodded and looked at her friend and knew what was coming. It was the garbage shed all over again.

“We have to do something,” Helen fumed, and now she was hard to stop. She flooded over with indignation at the teachers, the county, the police, and any conceivable authority. Even the church and the local parish received a tongue-lashing.

But she didn’t stop there, for that wouldn’t be like Helen. Eva listened and nodded, inserting a comment from time to time, but basically Helen spoke without ceasing until the phone rang.

“That’s probably Emil,” she said.

Helen had two children. Emil, who was the same age as Hugo, and Therese, who was eighteen and in her final year at the Ekeby school. She was rarely home, preferring to spend the night with her boyfriend in Eriksberg.

It was Emil who was calling and he was hungry, just like Hugo, who came home just as Helen hung up the phone.

Patrik did not want to eat pizza, and Helen sensed why. Then someone had to go down to the pizzeria, and that would most likely be Patrik, who with his moped normally took on the task of delivering the pizza, and it was very likely that he would bump into friends in the process.

“Can’t we have spagetti?” he said.

“I have ground beef,” Helen said. “I’ll call Emil and tell him to bring it with him.”

After dinner the three
boys retreated to Hugo’s room.

Helen put the dishes in the dishwasher while Eva made coffee. They sat down in the living room.

“Should we have a …?”

“I think we should,” Helen said.

After Eva had poured out the liqueur, Helen picked up where she had left off.

“What do we know about cocaine? Nothing. Hard alcohol we know something about, don’t we? But drugs, nothing. Emil said something
about hashish being harmless, or perhaps it was marijuana, he had heard someone at school say that. Do you understand? I lectured him for a whole evening but in the end I didn’t know what to say. If he had said that vodka is harmless then I would have had a leg to stand on, you know how Emil’s grandfather is, but what did I know about marijuana?”

“Schools should teach them about it,” Eva said.

Helen snorted.

“Are you kidding? They just have free periods and a lot of programs that don’t amount to anything. No, I think we have to do something ourselves. I should post flyers and hold a meeting, don’t you think?”

“The garbage room,” Eva grinned.

“Yes. Should we really just sit on our butts and watch these drug pushers destroy our children? Heavens, we should break their necks, line them up against a wall. There isn’t punishment enough for the likes of them.”

It was past ten before Helen and Emil went home. She had called her husband, but he didn’t answer, not at home or on his cell phone.

Eva saw how Helen tried to conceal her pain. There was no concern any longer, just a tired certainty that he was being unfaithful.

“Throw him out,” Eva said, regretting the words as soon as she said them.

Helen winced. Never before had Eva expressed herself so directly. Helen said nothing, called Emil’s name, and they went out into the mild late-summer evening.

Eva watched them from the kitchen window. Helen walked with long strides while Emil shuffled across the yard.

“Throw him out,” Eva repeated quietly to herself.

Three days after Armas’s murder,
Valdemar Husman called the police information line. He had found a note on his door in Lugnet urging him to contact the police.

He was immediately connected to Lindell. There were several others to choose from, but Gunnel Brodd in the call center and Ann Lindell knew each other well. They were both from the same region, Lindell from Ödeshög and Gunnel Brodd from Linköping. Sometimes they socialized. Like Lindell, Gunnel was a single mother, so they both belonged to a sisterhood that spanned both a longing for as well as the desire to circumvent the need for men.

“It’s about the murder, isn’t it?”

“I see,” Lindell said noncommittally, and her thoughts went to Viola in Gräsö. The man had a similar dialect.

“There was a note on the door when I got home, I imagine it has to do with the murder.”

“I see, in that case I understand, you live in the area. Yes, we wanted to get in touch with everyone who may have seen or heard anything.”

“Well, I don’t know,” the man said. “I have been away. I left the day before the murder. To my brother in Fagervik. I stay there when I service my clients.”

Valdemar Husman was a blacksmith with roots in northern Uppland who had moved to Uppsala a year ago.

“For love,” he said with a bittersweet chuckle.

He immersed himself in a discussion of how difficult it was to build up a new clientele. Lindell sensed he might have been more positive if his “love” had worked out better.

But he had been able to retain his clients in his former area and so three or four times a year he would “do the rounds” and spend the night at his brother’s house.

“Did you notice anything unusual before you traveled to north Uppland?” Lindell said, jumping into his tirade, sensing that there was something here.

“Some devil camped out below my house, but now when I went down there and checked, he was gone.”

After they finished the conversation,
Lindell went to see Ola Haver, who was sitting in his office, busy consolidating all the alibis for the employees at Dakar and Alhambra.

“I’m glad you came by,” he said as she sat down across from him.

“You are driving up to Lugnet,” Lindell informed him.

She would have liked to do it herself but had decided to pay another visit to the hospital. She didn’t really want to, but knew that if she hesitated any longer she would never get around to it. Maybe they would send Viola home first.

She told him what Valdemar Husman had seen. It could turn out to be nothing more than a harmless tourist who wanted to avoid the camping fee, some teenagers taking advantage of the last warm spell of summer, or perhaps an infatuated couple seeking privacy, but this lead had to be followed up. It was actually the only thing so far of any substance.

“Take Morgansson or one of the other technicians with you.”

Haver looked up at the mention of Morgansson’s name, but Lindell pretended not to notice his gaze, continuing on without an outward sign. Morgansson was a completed chapter.

“Husman is at home. Get in touch with him and pick a time,” she said, completely unnecessarily in order to conceal her irritation.

This time she was not
going to hesitate, she was going to march straight into Viola’s room and wake her up if need be.

But Ann Lindell never got that far. When the elevator door slid open in the 70 building of the Akademiska Hospital, Barbro Liljendahl walked out.

She had been to visit Olle Sidström, the man who had been stabbed in Sävja, and conducted follow-up questioning. He was not suspected of anything, or rather, Barbro Liljendahl could easily suspect him of a million crimes, but this time he happened to be the victim.

She looked quizzically at Ann Lindell.

“Are you also going to talk to Sidström?”

She couldn’t help but feel a sting of irritation.

“No,” Lindell explained, equally surprised to bump into someone from work, “I’m here to see a good friend. I had a couple of minutes to spare.”

Liljendahl nodded and then looked doubtfully at Lindell.

“I was thinking of something,” she said. “Sidström was stabbed and you have a stabbing homicide, don’t you? It was done with a knife, wasn’t it?”

Lindell nodded and understood where she was going with this.

“Could there be a connection?” Liljendahl continued.

Lindell hesitated for a split second.

“Do you have time? We could have a quick cup of coffee and talk about it.”

They sat down in a
corner of the cafeteria on the ground level. Two tables away there was an older couple, the man wearing hospital clothing and the woman palpably concerned that he drink all his juice.

“You need liquids,” she said.

The man shook his head but picked up the glass and took a sip.

Both policewomen observed the couple for a while before they quietly began to talk.

Liljendahl told her about her case, how Sidström had been assaulted, without prior provocation, according to him. He had been in Sävja to take a look around, as he put it, because he was thinking of moving there. He was currently living in Svartbäcken.

He had only a diffuse memory of the events. He could not give a description or age of the person who stabbed him, he could also not recall if it had been one or more persons involved. This was not unheard of in these circumstances, but Liljendahl did not believe him.

“I think he knows the perp and does not want to reveal his identity,” she said. “He lies constantly and has done so his entire life. His list of priors is three pages long. Mostly drug-related offenses but even assault and exhortation. A little shit.

“On the other hand we have witnesses, primarily a couple who were barbecuing on their patio about fifty meters away, who saw three, perhaps four young men attack him. They appeared to have been involved in a loud discussion before the knife came out, but Sidström denies this.”

“Any suspects?”

“We have a very likely suspect, a young guy who goes by the name of Zero. He’s laying low but will probably turn up soon. His mother, and above all his brothers, are insanely angry. They have mobilized the entire clan in order to find him.

“They are Turkish or Kurdish,” she added when she saw Lindell’s expression.

“Do you have any reason to suspect that Sidström was in Sävja with criminal intent?” Lindell asked, and was struck by the officious tone of her own words.

“Drugs,” Liljendahl said simply. “Most likely cocaine. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but this town is swimming in cocaine. In the past, cocaine was a trendy drug that did not appear on the street. It gives a similar kick to an amphetamine but is more expensive. The usual drug users choose amphetamines. But now the tide appears to have turned. I think the supply has increased and driven down the price.”

“How much does it cost?” Lindell asked.

“A gram goes for around eight hundred kronor. That is enough for ten doses. Amphetamines cost around two hundred.”

“Isn’t cocaine what they chew in South Africa?”

“Yes, the leaves, but that’s mostly to be able to bear the work and the cold. Haven’t you seen those pictures of Bolivian miners?”

Lindell hadn’t, but she nodded anyway.

“And you believe there’s a possible connection with the homicide?”

“Knife and knife,” Liljendahl said.

Lindell sipped her coffee. The doughnut she had bought lay untouched. It probably wouldn’t taste as good as Ottosson’s. Of course, she
thought, there was something to what her colleague was saying. Knives were not exactly unusual, but two incidents so close in time, perhaps …

“I have a list,” Liljendahl said, pulling a folder out of her bag, locating a piece of paper and handing it to Lindell.

She’s good, Lindell thought, and ran here eyes down the list of names of Sidström’s old acquaintances. Lindell recognized many of the names, but there was one name in particular that caught her attention.

“Can you make a copy and toss it up to me later?”

“No problem,” Liljendahl said, with a tweak of satisfaction around her mouth.

Ann’s resolve to go see
Viola had deteriorated after the discussion with Barbro Liljendahl. Again she stood at the elevator but this time she was considerably more irresolute. What will I do if Edvard is there, she thought, and the very idea made her back up a few steps and allow a group of hospital staff to pass. The elevator left without her.

She despised herself. This was about Viola and nothing else. She could ask at the desk if Viola had any visitors. She pressed the elevator call button for the third time and this time the doors opened at once.

Viola was sitting in a wheelchair by the window. Ann coughed but the old woman did not move. The silver white hair stood on end. Her right hand was tapping lightly on the armrest. This was the same old Viola, restless, eager to get away, Ann thought.

“Hi Viola,” she said and the old woman turned her head and stared at Lindell without displaying in gesture or expression that she recognized her visitor. Lindell took several steps into the room.

“It’s me, Ann.”

“Do you think I’m blind?” Viola said. “No, you think I’m completely senile.”

For a second or two Ann was incapable of replying, her hand went up to her face as if to ward off Viola’s searching gaze. She masked her gesture by pulling back a few strands of hair.

“Dear me, you poor thing,” Viola said softly, and they were the most tender words that Ann had ever heard her say.

“I heard that you had taken a fall,” Ann said, fighting to keep the tears back. If only she were my mother, was a thought that came flying, and it made her feel guilty.

“Things are as they are,” Viola said. “The damned chicken coop tripped me up.”

“Are you in pain?”

Viola shook her head.

“When will you get to go home?”

“They say next week, but there’s so much talk here you don’t know what to make of it all.”

Ann pulled out a chair and sat down beside her.

“How is everything with Victor?”

“As usual, a bit frail in the winter but he perks up when the sun comes.”

Ann didn’t know what else to ask about. As in the beginning of their relationship, Ann felt self-conscious and awkward.

“And you?” Viola said.

“I’m doing well, thanks. Working and busy. Right now we have an unpleasant murder case.”

“You have always been involved in unpleasantries. And the boy?”

“Erik is fine. He’s at day care.”

Ann swallowed. Go on, she thought, looking at Viola’s face, ask me.

“Edvard was up here yesterday,” Viola said. “He had an errand to run.”

Lindell nodded.

“He is working with Gottfrid as usual. They are working so hard, you wouldn’t believe it.”

The note of pride in her voice was unmistakable. She studied Ann with amusement. The old woman hasn’t changed a bit, she thought. She is a miracle.

“That’s wonderful,” Ann said.

“Yes, but of course it’s far too much,” Viola said grumpily, and in this way annulled her earlier contentment.

This was typical of her. Nothing was allowed to remain really good. On the other hand things were certainly allowed to be thoroughly awful. She had no difficulties with that.

“I’ve never spent this long in Uppsala. I usually make do with the
town,” Viola said, and Ann gathered she was referring to Öregrund. “During my entire life I’ve been to Uppsala perhaps twenty or so times, but never for this long.”

She fell silent and looked out the window.

“They are building so much,” she said, and took on a look of satisfaction. Ann sensed that she was thinking of Edvard.

What joy she had received from Edvard. She must have thanked her lucky stars countless times for that evening when Edvard had come knocking and asked if he could rent a room.

“It’s time for me to leave,” Ann said. “Are you sleeping well?”

Viola chuckled.

“That was a question,” she said. “Go on, get out here and catch some thieves.”

Ann put her chair back and walked to the door, turning when she was halfway. The old woman was looking at her. Ann quickly went back, leaned down, and gave her a clumsy hug. Then she left without saying anything else and without turning back.

She felt that it was
the last time she would see Viola. “Go on, get out here and catch some thieves.” At the start of their friendship Viola had openly expressed her disapproval over the fact that Ann was a police officer. She said it was not a suitable occupation for a woman. Now Ann interpreted her last comment as a sign of approval. Perhaps it was her way of saying that she liked Ann despite everything, despite what she had done, in betraying and hurting Viola’s adored Edvard. Ann had always had a feeling, which admittedly had grown weaker with time, of inferiority to the old woman. It was not only her awe-inspiring age, her stubborn strength, and independence that inspired this feeling, but also the fact that she had lived and continued to live a life outside society.

In some obscure way this both appealed to and frightened Ann. It was probably her guilty conscience playing tricks. She had left Ödeshög and her parents, sick of the duck pond that her home town was in her eyes, and bored by her parents, whose only goal in life appeared to be keeping the spirea hedge in top form.

She was about twenty years old when she left Östergötland for the Police Academy. Contact with her parents had been sporadic since then. At the end of June, when she had gone down there for a week, she had started to miss Uppsala after only one night.

Ann Lindell was upset but did not know how to sort out her thoughts, much less draw any conclusions and formulate goals. There was too much at stake, her own life, Erik’s, work, Edvard, her parents—everything had been brought to the surface by her visit to the hospital.

She decided to push these thoughts aside. She had techniques for this. Right now the solution had the name of Berglund.

Berglund had gone home! Lindell
listened astonished to Ottosson’s account of Berglund coming down with a migraine.