The Demon of Dakar (34 page)

“No signs of forced entry
in the apartment, no drugs other than a couple of grams in a bag on the table in the living room, no outer injuries on Rosenberg, probable cause of death an overdose of what we believe to be cocaine,” Sammy Nilsson summed up his report.

Allan Fredriksson pinched the bridge of his nose. Ottosson helped himself to a cookie. Bea stood leaning against the wall. Barbro Liljendahl
was the only one who looked even moderately fresh. It was a little past eight in the evening.

God, how he munches, Sammy Nilsson thought, and watched Ottosson put yet another cookie in his mouth, followed by a sip of coffee.

“I see,” Ottosson said and stared longingly at the plate of cookies, but apparently realized that three were more than enough and sank back into the chair with a sigh. “He was a longtime addict,” he went on, “and that speaks both for and against an overdose. He should have known better.”

Barbro Liljendahl coughed.

“Yes,” Ottosson said and nodded at her. “You met with him recently, what do you have to say?”

“I don’t think he took the needle willingly,” she said.

She had been called in by Ottosson and was now participating in a case review with the violent crimes unit for the first time.

“He seemed completely free of drugs when we met last. Granted, he still had some of the drug addicts’ mannerisms, but if I were to guess I don’t think he was an active user. This is also the picture I got when I went around with questions. One detail that may be of interest is that Rosenberg never used to do cocaine. He kept to amphetamines. This may of course be a contributing factor in the overdose. He may simply have been unused to cocaine.”

“Maybe he had a relapse?” Nilsson said, and his eyes lit up momentarily. “He was feeling under pressure; then it’s easy to turn to something comforting, like when we pour ourselves a drink.”

Bea sighed.

“Well, what do you do? Eat a carrot?”

“Lay off!”

Ottosson broke in before Sammy had time to reply. “We know that Rosenberg had contact with Slobodan. Barbro has established this and Ann has made similar observations, among others noting the fact that Konrad was a customer at Dakar. Barbro’s investigation also indicates that he was aquainted with Sidström. He was stabbed in a drug-related context. Why haven’t we yet nabbed the perpetrator, that young man from Sävja?”

“He’s gone into hiding,” Barbro Liljendahl said. “There’s information
indicating that he has been seen in Gottsunda, but it hasn’t been verified yet. Apparently he’s scared. I have questioned his friend, Patrik Willman, and he claims that Zero is terrified of his brothers, perhaps also that a friend of Sidström will take revenge. The funny thing in this context is that Willman’s mother is a waitress at Dakar.”

“Now that’s interesting,” Sammy Nilsson said.

“Eva Willman appears to be a reasonable woman,” Liljendahl went on, “and I don’t think she has anything to do with drugs. She’s simply happy to have a job.”

“A coincidence, in other words,” Ottosson said, but looked doubtful.

“Who would want to see Rosenberg dead?”

Bea’s question hovered in the air. Ottosson reached for another cookie. Sammy Nilsson scratched his head and yawned. Barbro Liljendahl hesitated, but when no one else spoke she tossed out her theory that it was Dakar’s owner, Slobodan Andersson, who had had his henchman Rosenberg murdered, that the latter had potentially been involved in the murder of Armas and that the overdose had perhaps been an act of revenge, or alternatively, a way of silencing a compromising witness to drug dealings.

“Too bad Ann isn’t here,” Ottosson said when Liljendahl had finished. She went bright red and mumbled something about these simply being ideas.

“As good as anything else,” Ottosson said, “But we will have to wait until forensics is done with the apartment and Rosenberg’s car. What is the situation with the immediate family? Have they been notified?”

Bea nodded.

“Good,” Ottosson said. “Then we continued tomorrow morning, but if you can, Barbro, I would like you and Sammy to drop in on that Turkish boy in Sävja tonight, if that is possible.”

“What does that mean?” Sammy said, obviously displeased at the prospect of putting in even more overtime.

“Check out his family and and try to draw out those leads that he has been spotted in Gottsunda.”

“It works for me,” Barbro Liljendahl said.

“Wonderful,” Ottosson said and smiled broadly at her.

“I have to call home,” Sammy said and stood with a grimace, but before he had left the room Ottosson’s cell phone rang.

Ottosson answered, listened for several seconds, then raised his hand to stop Sammy.

“Okey-dokey,” Ottosson said and ended the call.

Everyone looked expectantly at the chief. He was clearly enjoying the situation.

“Give it up,” Sammy said, but he couldn’t help smiling at Ottosson’s boyish expression.

“Speak of the devil,” he said.

“Who?”

“Our young man from Sävja,” Ottosson said. “You don’t have to drive out to the suburbs, the suburbs are coming to us. Babsan and Sammy will take our friend who is waiting anxiously down below.”

Sammy called Zero’s mother, who
only understood the word
police
and, sobbing, handed the phone over to her oldest son, Dogan.

Twenty minutes later Dogan was standing outside the entrance of the police station, ringing the after-hours buzzer, was let in and accompanied by a uniformed officer to the room where both of the police officers and Zero were waiting.

When Dogan caught sight of his brother, he let out a flood of curses. Or that was what Sammy Nilsson guessed the gist was. He put a hand on Dogan’s arm and told him to control himself, then pulled out a chair and asked him to sit.

“It was good that you came, Dogan. Your brother wants to help us,” Sammy Nilsson said, “and we are grateful for this. He came here of his own free will. You can be proud of Zero.”

“Kar,”
his brother growled, but sat down.

“I regret everything,” Zero said. “I want to confess.”

Sammy Nilsson turned on the tape recorder and Zero spoke without ceasing for ten minutes. When he finished, they all sat quietly for a moment. Dogan was staring at his brother. Barbro looked touched, while Sammy Nilsson put his hand on Zero’s shoulder.

“That was great, man,” he said, before turning to Dogan. “If I hear a single word about you making trouble for Zero, then you and your brothers will have problems. Understand?”

Dogan looked Sammy Nilsson in the eye and nodded.

“Have you personally met Slobodan Andersson?” he asked Zero. The latter appeared completely drained and had let his head hang.

Sammy Nilsson turned to Liljendahl.

“Could you get a coupe of sodas?”

She nodded and left the room.

“Okay, Zero, Slobodan Andersson. He’s the one we’re interested in.”

“I don’t know,” Zero said quietly. “I have never met him. But all of this is his doing.”

“Who has talked about Slobodan?”

Zero shook his head.

“But how do you know his name?”

“I just heard it.”

“What did you hear?”

“You know … stuff.”

“Damn it, Zero!” his brother exclaimed.

“I don’t know,” Zero repeated, “but that old guy …”

Liljendahl returned with a six-pack of Fantas. Sammy Nilsson opened two and gave Zero and Dogan each a can.

“Who was talking?” Sammy Nilsson resumed. “Was it the guy you stabbed at the school?”

Zero shook his head.

“If you want us to believe you, you’re going to have to tell us.”

Zero nodded.

“Are you scared?”

“I don’t want to go to jail!”

“We can probably arrange it so no one has to know you were the one who tipped us off,” Sammy Nilsson said and glanced at Liljendahl, “but you won’t get away with the stabbing. However, you’re a juvenile, you aren’t old enough,” he added for clarification, “to go to jail. I promise.”

“It was Konrad,” Zero said suddenly.

“Konrad Rosenberg?”

“Yes,” Zero mumbled.

“Where did you meet him?”

“Downtown.”

“Why did Konrad talk to you about Slobodan Andersson?”

Zero stared at Sammy Nilsson uncomprehendingly.

“That Slobodan was boss,” he prompted.

“He probably wanted to show off,” Zero said. “Impress me that he knew people with money.”

And even though Sammy Nilsson tried to tease out more information, Zero couldn’t or wouldn’t be more concrete. After a while, Barbro Liljendahl changed the topic.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she said. “Why did you start selling cocaine?”

“I wanted to rescue my father.”

“Idiot,” Dogan said angrily, but in his eyes Sammy Nilsson also glimpsed something other than just anger. There was sadness and desperation.

“He’s in prison?”

Zero nodded.

“What do you do, Dogan? Do you have a job?”

“I’m training to become a bus driver,” he said.

“That’s great,” Sammy Nilsson said.

“Our dad is a bus driver,” Zero said.

The session ended just after
ten in the evening. Before the brothers were allowed to leave the station, Sammy Nilsson drew the older brother aside.

“Dogan, you probably remember what I said. Zero is a sensitive boy. He loves his father and probably you too. Be a brother to him now. Help him! Your father is gone, you have to shoulder the responsibility. Don’t say anything to him tonight. Don’t scold, don’t do anything more than make him a cup of tea, or whatever you normally drink. Have tea together when you get home. Just you and him.”

Dogan said nothing but nodded. His dark eyes glittered momentarily.

“My mother makes the tea,” he said after a compact moment of silence.

Sammy Nilsson smiled.

“You’ll be fine,” he said and held his hand out.

“Thanks for the Fanta,” Dogan said, but he did not shake the officer’s hand.

“Dogan,” Sammy said, “what does
kar
mean? That thing you said to your brother.”

“Donkey,” Dogan said, and smiled for the first time.

It was early evening, dusk
was falling over Uppsala. Thousands of black birds circled above the rooftops. The streets were becoming empty.

There was still life and movement, though, outside Dakar. Patricio Alavez had been standing behind a tree for the past several hours. Earlier in the day he had kept a lookout over the restaurant, but he had not seen a single person come or go. Finally, he had summoned his courage and gone up to the front door and seen that the restaurant only opened at five o’clock. He realized that a Mexican, even one who was well dressed and sober, would attract attention in the long run if he stood in the same spot for several hours at a time, so instead of hanging around the restaurant, Patricio found a park where he tried to get some sleep. But the excitement associated with the escape had not yet worn off, and he had trouble being able to relax.

Now he was hungry, tired, and anxious. He was worried that the fat one or tall one would not even turn up. He could of course walk into the restaurant and ask, but was worried about being recognized. Yet what would they do? Call the police?

In a way, he regretted having escaped, but everything happened so fast and he had not had time to think. The prison routine had been safe. Now he was a fugitive without friends, with Swedish money in his pocket but
without the means to stay out of trouble in the long run. He would most likely receive a severe sentence for his escape, but that did not scare him. Eight or fifteen years in prison did not matter.

To him, his life had ended when he left the village and Oaxaca to fly to Europe. Many times he had cursed himself for his naïveté. How could he have believed that a gringo would help a Mexican get rich? Manuel used to say that it was the earth that was important, that to leave the earth was to leave one’s family and one’s origin.

What does it mean to be rich, he asked himself while he studied the people who went in and out of the door to Dakar, but he found no answer. He knew what having no wealth meant. What kind of life would it be to remain in a condemned village where almost everyone was getting poorer and poorer? Why did the young ones flee to Oaxaca, Mexico City, and the United States?

Not even Manuel made much noise about this. After Miguel’s assassination, he had been as if paralyzed for several weeks and had then undertaken a frenetic project to clear new ground for coffee bushes, and that on a mountain side that was so steep that no one had ever tried it before.

Manuel went there every morning and came back absolutely exhausted late at night. Nothing of the joy of new planting was in his eyes. Shredded by the thorns, his ripped hands, steaming with sweat, he sat on the roof for a while before he rinsed himself off under the tap in the yard.

He lost weight and after a month or so developed a cough that never seemed to go away. Was this the kind of life he wanted them to have? Working day after day on an ill-fated project. Even if they now managed to plant hundreds of bushes on a
milpa
that no one else wanted to cultivate, what did this prove? And then, what happened when the buyers lowered the price of the beans or when coffee flooded in from somewhere else? Because this was how it had always been. Every advance was blocked with setbacks. There were always new directives from the government or the governor. Always new agreements that were barely explained to the villagers but were guaranteed to make them poorer and their lives more difficult.

Patricio abandoned his bench and his caution and paced back and forth on the sidewalk. A growing number of customers were leaving
Dakar and he sensed they were about to close. He could make out a bar through the window and there were still many customers crowded around it. He himself longed for a glass of mescal, to feel the stinging heat in his mouth and throat. In order not to tempt himself more, he hurried back behind the bushes and trees.

Suddenly he spotted a familiar figure. Patricio stepped back out of the shadows in order to see better. Surely it was the fat one who was waddling up the street? A man was walking next to him. He said something that made Slobodan Andersson laugh. Could it be the tall one? No, the man by Slobodan’s side was too young.

He laughs, Patricio thought bitterly. Rage shot up like bile into his throat and he had to control himself not to burst out of his hiding place and run across the street. He could have killed the fat one with his bare hands. He needed no weapon, his wrath was enough. Leave him lying there like roadkill, and Angel would be revenged at last.

The men arrived at Dakar, stopped, and discussed something. Slobodan looked even fatter than when Patricio had met him in Mexico. He can afford to eat well, the Mexican thought with hatred.

Suddenly, Patricio felt that it was God’s will that he escape from prison, and this made him happy for a brief moment. The escape had made it possible for him to take revenge.

Slobodan opened the door to Dakar, exchanged a few words with his companion, then entered the restaurant. Patricio took a couple of steps back as the other man passed on the opposite side of the street.

This opportunity had been lost, but the next time perhaps Slobodan would be alone. Then all he had to do was wait him out.

Slobodan Andersson nodded at Måns, looked around in the dining room, greeted some acquaintances, and, against his will, came to think of Lorenzo Wader. I hope he doesn’t drop by, Slobodan thought, and wondered if he should ask his bartender if he had seen the unpleasant gangster, for gangster was what Slobodan was convinced he was. But he said nothing to Måns, who poured a grappa and set it in front of him.

“How is Ms. Post Office doing?”

“Fine,” Måns said. “She’s doing a good job. I think Tessie is pleased. It’s a step up from Gonzo, at least.”

“Don’t remind me,” Slobodan said and raised the glass to his mouth.

In view of last night he shouldn’t have anything to drink, but the force of habit was strong. He could let himself have one glass.

“The dishwasher is a gem,” Måns said. “The waitstaff have much more time now.”

“What?! Is that bastard still here?”

Måns looked at Slobodan in astonishment.

“Yes, that’s good, isn’t it?” Måns said, clearly taken aback at this reaction.

“That little shit is out of here,” Slobodan said and got up with unexpected haste, went around the bar, and opened the door to the kitchen.

“Is the Mexican still here?”

Donald gave him a quick and angry look.

“Venezuela,” he said.

“What? That dishwasher, is he still here?”

Donald gestured at the dishwashing area with his head and sighed.

Slobodan walked out there with only a single thought in his head, to grab that blackmailer by the scruff of his neck and throw him out, but was greeted with a smiling Manuel.

“Hola,”
he said.

He was standing at the far end of the dishwashing station. He had a knife in his hand. Slobodan slowed down and steadied himself against the dishwashing machine.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted in English. “Get out!”

“Take it easy,” Manuel said, his smile only getting wider. “We have some things in common. Have you forgotten? I am happy here, and I am useful.”

Slobodan stared at the Mexican. That insolent devil was laughing at him! He recalled the old conflict so many years ago in Malmö. That time
he
was the one who had been holding the knife.

“Leave!” he screamed.

“I will work a couple of more days,” Manuel said calmly. “Then I’ll go. But by then maybe you have disappeared.”

Slobodan stared, astounded at him. Not a trace of yesterday’s meekness remained. Was it the knife that made the difference? Was he so damned impudent that he was threatening him?

“What are you talking about? What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”

“You are sitting on a fortune; it must be tempting to see other places,” Manuel said with a smile.

Slobodan turned on his heel, pushed open the doors to the dining room, and left. He walked right up to the bar and told Måns to pour him a large Bowmore.

“Has be been fired?” Måns asked, and Slobodan could sense the criticism behind the innocent question.

“That’s none of your damn business.”

Mans made a face, reached for the whiskey bottle, and poured Slobodan a glass.

“He’s still here, in other words,” Måns said, grinning.

By the time the glass was half-empty, Slobodan had managed to calm himself somewhat. It was really not worth getting upset about. The Mexican had a need to assert himself and feel good about himself for once. Slobodan decided to forget about him. He had said he would leave in a couple of days. Never again would he use any of those tortilla guys. In future he would stick to Spaniards.

The reason for his clemency, and he freely admitted this to himself, was that the man’s unusual generosity in delivering the unexpected load of cocaine had solved many problems. After the fateful fire at Konrad’s house he had suddenly found himself without any goods, unable to distribute what he had promised, and that was devastating. The clients would sour and find new channels.

So certainly he was justified in celebrating with a glass or two. He wondered how Manuel had managed to get a hold of the drugs in Germany. He was probably not as innocent as he had made himself out to be. He had probably been with Angel on his journey up through Europe, and then when the brother died, he had simply taken over. They are alike, Slobodan thought smugly, hold up a couple of dollars and they come running.

He waved his chubby hand and Måns poured him a beer.

“Is this going to be a repeat performance?” he asked, but Slobodan did not have time to answer before the bartender had turned his back.

Johnny and Donald were busy
picking up in the kitchen, rinsing the floor, and cleaning the stovetops. Tessie and Eva were clearing the tables in the dining room while at the same time being attentive to the remaining guests. A party of six that had eaten their way through appetizers, main courses, and desserts had asked for coffee and cognac, and Eva guessed that they would be sitting around for a while. Apart from them, the room was getting empty. A young couple Eva had served paid and left. They had left a tip of one hundred kronor. A hundred kronor, she thought. I can’t have been so bad. She placed the small tray with the money on the counter with a certain measure of pride. Måns entered the amount, tucked the hundred kronor note in a large partition where the tips were kept, and turned to her and smiled.

“Did you notice that they were newly in love?”

Eva nodded. She had felt old when she looked at them, even though there was probably no more than ten years between her and the couple. She had felt a tinge of envy when she had seen how he placed his hand over hers, how they had joked and bantered with each other, sometimes lowering their voices and whispering what Eva imagined to be words of love.

Tessie called out to her, interrupting her thoughts. Together they moved a couple of tables and set out new tablecloths.

It had been a good evening. She had gotten past her worst nervousness and was no longer as embarrassed about asking Tessie for advice.

Eva cleaned some glasses. She noticed that Slobodan was watching her. He was sitting at the bar with a glass in front of him. Eva had heard from Tessie about last night’s events, how the proprietor had drunk himself into a stupor, thrown up in the kitchen, and how Feo and Manuel had had to help him home.

In a way Eva thought it was good. He had shown a weakness. Maybe the violent drunken episode was an expression of grief at Armas’s death. Eva glanced at him. He really did look worried, and she hoped he would have the sense to stop drinking in time.

A couple of newspapers lay scattered on a table. She had started to fold them up when her gaze fell on a headline. The word
extra
was
printed in bold letters, then “New escape—hostage drama,” and below this a picture of the four men. Astonished, she read the short article, flipped to page five where there was a slightly more detailed report but still not as much as one would have assumed in the case of a dramatic escape in which someone had been taken hostage. She realized it must have been added just before going to press, and that they had not managed to include more than the main points.

She leafed her way back to the photographs again. The similarity was striking. And the last name was the same. It could not be a coincidence. She carefully folded up the paper and took it with her, walked into the kitchen, nodded at Johnny, crammed the paper into the trash, hesitating a couple of seconds as if to check if she were frightened before walking out into the dishwashing area.

Manuel was just pushing the dishwasher closed. He turned his head and Eva studied his face again but without seeing any fear or doubt.

“Eva,” he said and laughed as if she had made a funny and unexpected face.

“Manuel,” she said, and searched for the right words in English before she continued. She wanted to be precise.

“Have you lied to me about why you are here? You said you wanted to work and earn some money.”

He stopped and the look he gave her confirmed her suspicions.

“Do you have a relative who is in prison?”

Manuel searched for something to steady himself, found the counter, cast a nervous glance at the door before he slowly moved himself along the counter and sat on a stool.

“Have you talked to Slobodan?”

Eva shook her head.

“No, but is it true, then?”

Manuel nodded.

“My brother Patricio is in prison,” he whispered. “How did you find out?”

This reassured Eva somewhat. Apparently Manuel did not know about the escape.

“Why is he in prison?”

Manuel was silent for a long time while he debated with himself. Then he told her the story of how his brothers had been tempted to become drug runners, how one of them had died in Germany, and how the other had been caught in Swedish customs.

Eva felt immediately that she did not want to be pulled into anything. Patrik’s problems were enough. She caught a glimpse of Johnny’s chef’s hat and heard Donald say something that was drowned out by the roar of the dishwasher. She did not want to hear more. She thought about her sons and her fear became anger.