The Demon of Dakar (13 page)

Eva did not like the
narrow walking paths that connected the various areas of the neighborhood. Some stretches cut through dense forest and were poorly lit. This late at night there were not usually many people out, perhaps a couple of teenagers or the occasional dog owner.

She walked at a brisk clip in the direction of the school and saw a patrol car in the distance. Naturally they were going around, snooping. But if they thought they could find Patrik they were naive. He was smart enough to stay away. The Sävja jungle drums did their work and he would surely know they were looking for him.

The first wave of anxiety was beginning to give way to anger. What was he doing out in the first place? He had promised to stay home. But she should have known better. Patrik was a restless soul who hated staying in. Sometimes she could tempt him with watching a video, otherwise he left as soon as dinner was over.

And now she would have an even harder time keeping tabs on him. Several times a week, and every other weekend she had to work. She stopped at an intersection. Should I stop working at Dakar? Is it right to be gone so much? She turned to the right and came to an area that was even more deserted.

The darkness was oppressive where the streetlamps were even more spaced out. She heard rustling in the fallen leaves, a blackbird flew up and disappeared into the tree canopy.

She ran around for an hour, to the school, toward the southern part of the area and back, swung down to the grocery store and turned back again. During this time she called Patrik’s cell phone a few times and once back to Hugo at home.

She encountered ten or so other people, of whom four were dog owners and three were teenage girls. Eva knew one of them from preschool. That was ten years ago, but you could tell it was the same girl. She nodded to
Eva, who slowed down a bit, not sure if she should ask if they had seen Patrik, but decided not to and continued on quickly to the old post office.

She heard the girls laughing behind her. They probably knew that the police were out. Tomorrow all of Sävja and half of Bergsbrunna would know.

She stopped under a streetlight. Was there any sense in running around like this? She was convinced Hugo was calling around to all the friends.

Patrik was wanted by the police, he was most likely aware of it by now and God only knew what the child was going to do.

She ran the last part home. The assembly of young people in the yard had dispersed. The light was still on in Helen’s apartment. Darkness descended over the area. A tawny owl started to make its call.

Her cell phone rang at that moment.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Where are you?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing. It’s just the cops who—”

“Tell me about the assault!”

She could hear Patrik’s breaths.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure. What did the cops say?”

“You are the one who should tell me what’s happened,” Eva said. “They talked about a man who had been stabbed.”

“It was Zero.”

“Zero was the one who did this? Were you there?”

“I have to stop now. I’ll be home later.”

“You come straight home. Now.”

“I think the cops are keeping an eye on the building.”

Eva looked around. There was nothing that indicated that the police were present, but Eva realized they would hardly park in the middle of the yard.

“I want to see you. Think about Hugo, he’s also worried.”

Patrik was quiet and Eva knew he was thinking it over.

“The community gardens, go there.”

“How will I—?”

“I’ll see you when you come.”

Patrik hung up. Eva stood frozen for a while, then she called Hugo.

The bar at Alhambra was
the place that Slobodan Andersson liked best. Dakar was okay, he dropped by there every evening at eight o’clock to have a grappa, but it was at Alhambra that everything had started, really gotten going. Here he had planned and discussed things with Armas. Slobodan recalled how the tight anxiety mingled with the triumphant feeling of doing exactly the right thing, how they laid out the plans and went through the details again and again. Armas had a feeling for the small details, those that could mean the difference between catastrophe and success. He never left anything to chance. In a few words he steered Slobodan where he wanted. Slobodan was sometimes struck by the suspicion that he was inferior to Armas and knew that he more than once had Armas to thank for his successes.

Strangely enough Slobodan was worried. That did not happen often. Perhaps it was Armas’s comment about the computer, that the police could easily retrieve even those messages that had been deleted. Slobodan wondered for a long time if this could be true, but by now the machine had been taken apart and discarded, and Armas had purchased a new laptop and installed it before he left for Spain.

Slobodan sat at the short end of the bar, smoked a cigarette, and observed those who came and went, greeting old customers with a nod or a brief handshake, exchanging a few words but not embarking on more extensive conversations.

Alhambra was doing well. He registered every transaction that Jonas and Frances made with the cash register, not the sums but the sound of the fingers on the buttons and the click when the cash drawer popped out.

He recalled how, at the start of his restaurant career, he had stared at the figures every evening, counted and figured, compared and planned, wished. Now he no longer had to be so concerned; still, he kept a daily check on how the business was doing. He trusted his staff. He was the one who had hired them, and to question their competency and honor was to dismiss his own judgment. In the case of Gonzo at Dakar he had been wrong, but now that mistake had been corrected. Despite Armas’s protests he had allowed Gonzo to work a couple more weeks and take out all of his remaining pay, even his vacation compensation. Anything beyond this would be ridiculous. Thereafter a kick in the ass.

The post office gal seemed perky and alert. Tessie had praised her. Slobodan had increased Tessie’s salary by three kronor an hour for the extra work she was taking on. If the post office gal kept at it he would raise her salary as well. Then Dakar would have a solid service team that could be supplemented with extras.

Slobodan’s mood improved and he waved Jonas over.

“Get me a grappa and offer Lorenzo Wader, or whatever the hell his name is, a cognac.”

Jonas sent a snifter sliding across the counter. Lorenzo looked up with surprise, glanced at Slobodan, raised the glass and smiled. Slobodan nodded, but without returning the smile. Lorenzo was a new acquaintance. Slobodan believed he was in the illegal gambling business. Perhaps he was checking out the scene in Uppsala in preparations for a foray into this market. Not that Slobodan had anything against this. It would very likely be good for business.

Slobodan had the impression that Armas and Lorenzo knew each other from before, or at least that Armas had heard of this well-dressed crook—for a crook he undoubtedly was, Slobodan was sure of it. But Armas denied having ever laid eyes on Lorenzo before.

Slobodan turned his body slightly so he could study Lorenzo more closely. It was difficult to pinpoint his age. Between forty-five and fifty, but he could also be ten years older. A well-dressed scoundrel with money and a certain measure of style, Slobodan decided. He had never heard Lorenzo raise his voice, had actually never heard him speak, and that was a testament to his style, in Slobodan’s opinion. He hated
loudmouths, who allowed their voices to dominate a room. Lorenzo was a man who comported himself without fuss. He had dined here a few times, but mostly spent his time in the bar, always started with a Staropramen, thereafter ordered a double espresso and a cognac and smoked a cigar.

He always arrived alone but was often joined by a man Slobodan assumed was a subordinate. The man, barely thirty and very pale, always listened attentively to Lorenzo, but rarely offered his own comments. He always drank rum and Coke, which according to Slobodan was the most unimaginative drink that could be served, often excused himself to go to the men’s room and often remained at the bar for a while after Lorenzo left. Then he relaxed, ordered another rum and Coke, and savored a cigarette or two.

Lorenzo twisted his neck and met Slobodan’s gaze, nodded and smiled. Slobodan slipped off his bar stool and walked over to Lorenzo, who pulled out a chair and made a gesture of invitation.

“Thank you,” he said and gave Slobodan a new smile.

Slobodan nodded and scrutinized his guest a little further. Lorenzo had dark brown eyes and a small white scar between his eyebrows. His hands were unusually small and gave Slobodan the impression that Lorenzo had them manicured regularly. He gave an almost feminine impression, smiled in a relaxed manner, and there were no questions in his eyes, no anxiety, only a touch of mischief and mockery.

“Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“It feels like home,” Lorenzo answered.

Slobodan stretched his hand across the table and introduced himself. After the eyes, he judged people most by their handshake. Lorenzo’s was quick but a little too dainty for Slobodan’s taste. His hand was cold.

“I haven’t seen Armas in a while.”

“Do you know him?”

“How does one define ‘know’?” Lorenzo said and his smile started to wear on Slobodan. “We had a little contact many years ago.”

Slobodan waited.

“In my younger days,” Lorenzo said after tasting his cognac, and something in his face revealed that he felt it was much too long ago.

“He is away right now,” Slobodan said.

“Vacation?”

“Among other things.”

“Armas is mulitfaceted,” Lorenzo said.

Slobodan didn’t like it. He scoured his memory for when they had discussed the new guest and certainly he had made a comment about Lorenzo, but he could not recall that Armas had said anything about Lorenzo being an old acquaintance. Why would he lie about a thing like that?

“How do you like Uppsala?”

“A nice city,” Lorenzo said. “A good size, manageable. Good for the soul. A little calmer, but nonetheless open to possibilities.”

He spoke in short sentences, with an imperceptible accent that Slobodan believed to be Spanish. Lorenzo leaned back and his gaze lingered on Frances as she walked by with a tray.

“A beautiful woman,” he said and Slobodan had the impression that he included the waitress in his assessment of Uppsala. But Frances was anything but manageable, definitely not calm and open to possibilities.

“Her husband has run away,” Slobodan said. “No one knows where he is and Frances is walking around like a loose hand grenade.”

Slobodan wanted to get Lorenzo started, get him to talk, but the information about Frances’s husband did not alter Lorenzo’s relaxed posture and did not appear to whet his curiosity.

“I am sure he will turn up,” he simply said, but continued to watch Frances, as if weighing his chances.

Slobodan waved his hand and Jonas, who had learned to interpret the least little gesture of his boss, immediately poured a small glass of beer that he brought to the table.

“I have lived in this town for a long time,” Slobodan said.

“Yes?”

“If you should need any assistance, I mean.”

“And what would that be?”

Slobodan was beginning to hate the pleasantly smiling Lorenzo and his superior attitude.

“You tell me,” Slobodan said and smiled sardonically.

He took a gulp of beer, stood up from the table with an excuse about unfinished paperwork, and left Lorenzo.

The brief conversation with Lorenzo
had irritated Slobodan. Above all it was the patronizing tone that bore witness to an unusual degree of arrogance. Slobodan was accustomed to being treated with a great deal more respect.

It had also unsettled him. It was news to him that Lorenzo knew Armas from before, and it was not a good thing. Armas was his and Slobodan felt something that could be characterized as jealousy. In addition, Lorenzo was much too cocky. Slobodan had encountered this attitude many times and had never had any problems breaking the most brazen and obstinate fellow. But this man had an authority that not only testified to self-confidence but also about an ability to create problems.

Slobodan thought about Armas. If only everything worked out on this trip to Basque. He was taking a risk in sending Armas, but there was no alternative this time. If anything went wrong and the transport failed he would lose a great deal of money and possibly lose his best friend and partner. It was in the pot and Armas knew it. Even so, he had not protested. Even he knew how much this meant.

Slobodan had decided that they would thereafter take it easy for half a year, maybe even a year. One thing he had learned and that was not to try to bite off too much. One had to think big, but only in one’s own league. Then one could, if everything went well, eventually qualify for a higher league.

He checked the time. If he knew Armas, then he was already in southern Sweden.

Slobodan smiled to himself as he came to think of his time in Malmö and the “German swine.” The memory had bothered him for a long time, how he had been bullied and humiliated, but now he could think back on the whole episode with greater calm. The German had been made to pay. It did him good to think of it.