The Demon of Dakar (22 page)

There are moments in the
career of a police officer when the red carpet is rolled out. That was how Barbro Liljendahl felt. Its length testified to a row of unforeseen experiences and discoveries, but also consisted of routine matters, as well as large amounts of work—hours, days, and weeks of labor—but that must be the reward, she thought.

Ever since the stabbing incident in Sävja she had had the feeling that the case involved a number of hidden connections. One thread had loosened and now she could start the unraveling process.

After hanging up the phone she sat lost in thought for a long time. What occupied her mind, and that which demanded a great deal of skill and finesse, was the fact that the young boy Zero had demanded that he not be accused of stabbing Sidström.

Otherwise he would not talk. Barbro Liljendahl knew she had to tread carefully. If he were to be charged with the deed and convicted—something of which one could not be sure—then the end of the thread would break off after only one revolution. The ball of thread would remain almost intact.

Sidström would never admit to knowing Zero from before, he would have no reason to try to seek any kind of justice and would prefer silence. As long as Zero, who had sliced open his abdomen, kept quiet, Sidström would be satisfied. He would heal, maybe receive some compensation from the Crime Victims Fund, and return to his work, while Zero, if he were convicted, would meet a decidedly bleaker fate.

Barbro Liljendahl had seen enough of youth crime to realize that he would most likely reappear in future cases. The boy could be saved, but only if he could avoid the charges. Then it would hopefully serve as a useful lesson and for her part Barbro Liljendahl would be free to keep unraveling.

She decided to look up Ann Lindell. One reason was the fact that they had discussed the case when they bumped into each other at the hospital. But it was also with a measure of calculation that she got in touch with her colleague.

Barbro Liljendahl worked in the intelligence unit, often together with Harry Andersson. He was a decent enough policeman, but could, on and off, be a real pain. In a deliberate way, he went about diminishing her efforts, often accompanied by an obnoxiously macho comment that was perhaps intended to be funny but always sounded offensive. He laughed away her protests and told her she was oversensitive.

She wanted to leave intelligence and join violent crimes. Lindell could perhaps put in a good word for her. Barbro liked what she had seen of Lindell. She already knew Beatrice Andersson from the Police Academy, and finally, Barbro had heard that Ottosson, the chief in violent crimes was a timid and kindly soul.

“It’s a stab in the dark,” Lindell said when Barbro completed her account. Barbro smiled at the unintended pun.

“If we can make this self-defense,” Lindell went on, “then perhaps the DA can approach the whole thing from a different perspective. Fritzén is reasonable, but the new one—you know, the one with the earrings—I don’t know, she seems so … what should I say … rigid.”

“I know you have a lot going on with the Fyris river murder, but should we question Sidström together? You could make a case for it by saying that there may be a connection.”

“It’s weak,” Lindell said.

“I know, but I feel sorry for the guy somehow,” Barbro said. “His whole family is insane. If he is charged, they will make his life a living Hell. They’ll say he’s shaming the entire family. And his father is already in prison in Turkey.”

Lindell reflected for a moment.

“You know how things end up for a guy like Zero,” Barbro Liljendahl added.

“Okay,” Lindell said finally, “but I have to talk to Ottosson first. Have you worked through the list of Sidström’s acquaintances?”

“Yes, I’ve talked to some of them. Three of them are doing time.”

“There was a name I reacted to and that is Rosenberg, have you questioned him?”

“No, he and three, four others are left,” Barbro Liljendahl said.

“Okay, let’s go to Akademiska and listen to what our punctured friend has to say.”

Lindell didn’t really know why
she went along with all of this. She shouldn’t have done so and Ottosson had his reservations, but in a childish way he was flattered that she wanted his blessings.

She sensed that this had to do with Berglund. His comment about Rosenberg being in the money was the kind of information she heard almost daily, and if you listened to all loose chatter then every single investigation would grind to a halt.

Was she doing this to impress him? So she would later be able to say, Thanks for the tip, it led to … or was it Ola Haver’s superior remarks in the lunchroom?

Regardless of the reason, she entered the surgical wing accompanied by Liljendahl with a certain amount of anticipation. She was also curious to see how her colleague handled the situation.

Sidström was sitting slouched over in a chair. His head was leaning forward, his chin against his chest, his arms draped over the armrests and the emaciated, very sinewy hands twitched almost imperceptibly.

“I wonder what he’s dreaming about?” Lindell whispered.

He looked considerably older than his forty-two years. Lindell guessed at a long history of drug abuse behind the grayish cast of the skin, and she was convinced his arms and perhaps his legs were covered in scars from hypodermic needles.

According to Liljendahl he had been drug-free for a year, and Lindell
wondered how he had reacted to the anesthesia and painkillers he must have received at the hospital. His last charges were three years back in time: burglary.

“Olle,” Liljendahl said.

The man reacted by jerking his head, but he did not wake up. Liljendahl shook his shoulder gently and Lindell felt an involuntary distaste, bordering on revulsion, at her colleague’s touch but also at the watery eyes that opened.

“What the hell?”

“Time to wake up,” Liljendahl said.

The man looked around in confusion, discovered who his visitors were, and quickly sat up in the chair.

“Fucking hell,” he said emphatically, and grimaced.

There was more to come once Liljendahl, after having introduced Ann Lindell, took out a small pocket tape recorder, recorded the facts of the questioning session, and proceeded with her first question about how much cocaine he had sold recently.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Turn that damn thing off.”

Liljendahl smiled. Lindell went and stood over by the window, diagonally behind Sidström.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Liljendahl said and Lindell couldn’t help smile, “and we would appreciate a little cooperation.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We know that you sell cocaine, we also know a great deal about your activities in general.”

“I am not telling you shit, or your—”

“There are others who talk,” Liljendahl said tiredly, and Lindell guessed how she was planning to approach the whole thing.

“Konrad Rosenberg, is that name familiar to you?”

It was Lindell who took the chance, and the man flinched, grimaced again, then turned his body, and stared at her in terror. Lindell saw that her guess had hit the mark and she exchanged glances with Liljendahl.

“You can start talking now,” Lindell said and almost heard his body deflate. His facial features changed in one stroke and displayed all the
signs of extreme fatigue and despondency. He shook his head lightly and audibly drew in all the mucus in the sinus cavities in his skull.

Sometimes it is almost too easy, Lindell thought, and leaned against the windowsill.

In the cafeteria half an
hour later, when they were reviewing their session, Liljendahl was so excited that Lindell had to laugh.

“You did that well,” she said.

“Thanks for the help,” Liljendahl said. “That was so perfect!”

“What’s your partner going to say?”

Liljendahl’s expression fell immediately and Lindell was sorry she hadn’t given her happiness a few more minutes.

“He’ll be upset,” Liljendahl said. “But I don’t give a damn. If you only knew how sick and tired I am of his comments.”

Lindell nodded.

“Should we go look up Rosenberg right away?”

“It’s probably best for me to step down at this point,” Lindell said. “I mean, if Harry gets upset about something like this then it won’t be better if we just keep going. We don’t actually have that much on Rosenberg right now. Sidström did not expressly say that it was Rosenberg who was the supplier, only that they were in contact.”

“But you saw how he reacted,” Liljendahl said. “His body language spoke volumes.”

Lindell hated having to step down, but there was a chance this was going to go too far. If she followed along to Konrad Rosenberg and it took off from there, she would be drawn deeply into an investigation that, strictly speaking, she didn’t have anything to do with.

“You tackle Rosenberg on your own and then get in touch with me,” she said, and the disappointment in Liljendahl’s face was unmistakable.

They drove back to the police station in silence, but before they parted ways they agreed to meet the following day.

“I need the perspective of an experienced colleague,” Liljendahl
said and Lindell found this both flattering and irritating. She guessed that there was something behind the appreciative words. Maybe, she thought, her motivation was as simple as just wanting to piss off Harry Andersson.

Eva Willman chuckled to herself.
In front of her on the table lay at least one hundred flyers. She already regretted having promised Helen to circulate them. The text was too aggressive in Eva’s opinion, too stark and bordering on schmaltz. Eva had little patience for the sentimental while Helen liked to lay it on thick.

“But this is about our children,” Helen said, when Eva objected to one of the phrases.

“But this one, Helen,” Eva said and read aloud: “‘… drug dealers are like predators who destroy our children, luring them into the marsh.’”

“So?” Helen said. “If some bastard came here and threw our kids in the Stordammen to drown them we would stop him, wouldn’t we?”

Stordammen was a lake with a swampy shoreline, encircled by a belt of reeds, located in the woods just south of the residential area.

“We haven’t fully come to terms with what is happening,” Helen went on. “These are our children they have targeted. One should line them up against a wall, these damn pushers—no, that would be too kind—one should—”

“You are not allowed to say that at the meeting,” Eva interrupted.

Helen smiled.

“Do you think I’m completely crazy? I am going to be exceedingly calm and dignified. You can talk instead, if you like.”

There was a note of both derision and indignation in Helen’s voice.

Helen had booked the old post office. That turned out to be a good choice because it was centrally located and, above all, everyone knew
where it was. A good friend of hers had printed up the flyers at work. Helen had also organized coffee and cake through the congregation and invited the police to talk about drugs.

Eva had suggested they invite some politicians but Helen had dismissed the idea with a snort.

“We’re going to have to tackle this ourselves,” she said. “If those clowns took their jobs seriously, surely the schools wouldn’t be the way they are. Soon there will only be one school counselor per district. And there should be a community center worthy of the name, at the very least.”

Helen continued to list the things she thought the politicians should do. Nothing came as news, and the more Helen talked the more tired Eva felt.

Eva started in her own
courtyard, walking from building to building and taping the yellow flyers to the doors. Then she continued on through the area, down toward the ICA grocery store and the pizzeria.

She met several people she knew outside the store. She was slightly ashamed of the flyers with their silly phrases, but everytime she received some encouragment she felt more comfortable.

“I’m glad someone is doing something sensible for once,” said a mother she recognized from the soccer practices.

Maybe we could post a large advertisement outside the store, she thought, and went inside to talk to the manager, returning with something close to a promise.

She knew that the rumor would quickly spread in Sävja and Bergsbrunna that Patrik and Hugo’s mother was running around with flyers like some kind of Jehovah’s Witness, and she wondered what her boys would say. They would be embarrassed, Eva felt sure about that. But, emboldened by the praise, she went by the nursery school on the way home, went in and talked to some of the staff, and was allowed to post flyers there as well.

Eva called Helen as soon as she got home.

“Wonderful,” she said. “It’s perfect that the flyers are yellow. And an
other thing, I got Mossa’s mother to translate it into Arabic. She’s going to print it out. Do you think we need it in Kurdish? What does that boy in fifth grade speak? Is it Iranian?”

“Yes, Ali’s family is from Teheran.”

“If we don’t get all the
svartskallar
to attend, it won’t work. Then it will be like in France.”

Eva did not protest her choice of words
—svartskallar
was a derogatory word for immigrants—and did not ask what Helen knew about France. She had probably seen a documentary on television.

Eva promised to speak to the Iranian family, who had a boy in the fifth grade, and they finished the call. She sank exhausted into the sofa. On the floor in front of her was the magazine she had been reading the other night. She picked it up and leafed through to the article about the yacht off the coast of South America, and she realized that she had never swum in anything saltier than the brackish Baltic seawater, had never taken in a really salty gulp of water.

She tried to imagine heat and sandy beach. Tropical warmth and fine, white grains under bare feet, and she smiled to herself. She knew it was only a dream and that she would never be able to afford to travel farther than the Canary Islands, if even that. For the past two years she had saved four thousand six hundred kronor in a special account. Last fall there had been almost seven thousand, but before Christmas she had been forced to withdraw several thousand.

Her only hope was a Triss lottery win. Together with Helen, she bought a ticket every week, but so far the yield had been thin, some fifty kronor and, once, a thousand kronor. They had celebrated with a bottle of wine.

She wanted to travel with Patrik and Hugo. It felt urgent because soon they would be too old to want to accompany her. It pained her that she could not offer them more of the good life. They heard about classmates who traveled both on winter and summer vacations, and once the usually so loyal Hugo had let it slip out that it was unfair that they could not go farther than to Värmland.

But now the outlook was somewhat better. Donald had mentioned something about needing more staff in the kitchen, someone who
managed the dishes. Right now it was the waitstaff that had to take care of loading the dishwasher and supplying the bar with glasses, but in view of the fact that the number of guests was increasing and that Eva was unused to the work, it was stressful. Perhaps she would be able to work a few extra nights a month and put away a little money?

She was due at work soon.
She smiled, happened to think about Donald and his resistance to the union. Maybe she should put Helen on him.

Despite her reservations about her friend’s antidrug campaign, she felt strengthened. You could say what you wanted about Helen, and there were many who did, but she had a fantastic ability to make things happen, even if Eva was not getting her hopes up about the meeting at the old post office. There would most likely not be the turnout that Helen expected. To relocate a garbage room in your own courtyard was entirely different from altering county politics and fighting drugs.