The Demon of Dakar (36 page)

The morning started with an
unusually short case review. Ann Lindell had taken Erik to Görel’s so that she could drop him off at day care. Görel had not commented on their dinner, had in fact not been particularly communicative.

While her colleagues were filing in—some cheerful, others reticent and glum with fatigue—Lindell tried to repress her friend’s coldness. Once this case was over and Lindell could gather her thoughts, they could have a talk and sort out this misunderstanding. Everything later, that was how she experienced her life. The fault lay with her, she had combined her work with her personal life and it was clear that Görel had felt pushed aside. Lindell decided to call and apologize.

Fredriksson, Sammy Nilsson, Beatrice, Barbro Liljendahl, Ottosson, and a handful of other police officers were present, among them three men from the drug unit and two superior officers from patrol. The head of the criminal information service, Morenius, accompanied by district attorney Fritzén, came sauntering in when everyone else was already seated.

Ottosson began the meeting and briefly sketched an outline of the situation. The circumstances regarding Konrad Rosenberg’s abrupt end had created a flurry of speculations, and Ottosson emphasized very strongly that they were not interested in Rosenberg even though his case involved drugs and sudden death.

Their focus was on Slobodan Andersson, his potential involvement in the cocaine wave that had washed over the city, and the question of how Armas’s murder could be plugged into this context.

“Mexico,” Lindell said when the lecture was over.

“I’ve been reading up on this,” Sammy Nilsson said. “Everyone is still at large. The hostages are, as you know, unharmed. They were left bound in a locked car that was found around eleven o’clock last night.
A guy who has a logging harvester was bringing some diesel up and he discovered the abandoned van. He is planning to start harvesting timber in the area. But as I said, there is not a trace of this gang of four. The whole thing seems professionally planned and executed.”

“I saw Bodström on TV last night,” Fredriksson said. “He could hardly contain himself.”

Sammy Nilsson cast an angry glance at him before he went on. He hated to be interrupted.

“One of the four is Mexican. His name is Patricio Alavez and he was serving an eight-year sentence for drug smuggling. A bungled job at Arlanda. It seems like the drugs are now finding other ways to enter the country, isn’t that true, Olsson?”

“Smaller airports and the Öresund bridge appear to be more popular these days,” the drug detective answered drily.

“Alavez is a peaceful man, according to Norrtälje,” Sammy Nilsson said. “It is most likely that he did not partake in the preparations. Apparently he was roped in during the excitement. But how can we really know? It may have been an act. During the investigation and trial he refused to say on whose behalf he had traveled to Sweden. According to his ticket he was traveling from Bilbao, and two days before that had come directly from Mexico. He may have contacts outside prison who are willing to help him, especially in view of the fact that he did not rat on anyone.”

“Both Slobodan and Armas were in Mexico two years ago,” Lindell interrupted.

“You mean that they recruited this peaceful Mexican at that time?” Morenius asked.

“It’s possible,” Lindell said. “We’ve determined that Slobodan returned with money. The drug trade is as good a guess as a lottery win.”

“We’ll go into Dakar, Alhambra, and his apartment at the same time,” Ottosson said and glanced at the district attorney, who did not appear to be fully awake yet and did not appear to have any comments.

“We believe Slobodan Andersson is currently at home. The lights were on in his apartment at half past eleven last night. The guys from surveillance thought they saw Andersson in the window, but we cannot
be sure, and we also do not know if he is alone. No one has left the apartment, at any rate.”

Ann Lindell was looking forward to the raid. The look on the face of the arrogant restauranteur alone would be worth it. This time they had a little more to show for themselves, in part about Mexico, but also surrounding Slobodan’s connections with Rosenberg. He had some explaining to do and simpy the knowledge that they were going through his apartment and his two restaurants with a fine-toothed comb would make him extra nervous. He was shaken, Lindell was sure about that. Behind the self-assured mask, there was genuine concern.

At exactly eight o’clock—Sammy
Nilsson read the time from his thirty-year-old Certina—Slobodan Andersson’s apartment was pierced by the ringing of his doorbell.

The sound of coughing and dragging footsteps approaching the front door were heard from inside.

“Who is it?”

“Sammy Nilsson from the police.”

A new cough and thereafter the rustle of a chain and then the door opened several inches.

“Good morning,” Sammy Nilsson said and gave Slobodan Andersson a wide grin.

“What do you want? It’s the middle of the night, damn it!”

“Open up and I’ll explain.”

Slobodan Andersson sighed, opened the door, and started at the sight of five officers standing in the hallway.

Fifteen minutes later he left the apartment in the company of Sammy Nilsson and Barbro Liljendahl.

The first thing Slobodan Andersson
was asked to do at the police station was to have his fingerprints taken. He did this without protest but then refused to utter a word until his lawyer arrived.

During this time the police embarked on their search of his apartment
and the two restaurants. They had collected the keys to Alhambra and Dakar from a groggy Oskar Hammer, the head chef at Alhambra, who for the past few years had been waiting for exactly this, that one day the police would be standing outside his door. A technician was dispatched to each restaurant. The head of forensics, the semiretired Eskil Ryde, took care of the apartment.

The canine unit consisting of officer Sven Knorring and the Jessica the Labrador went through the apartment first but found nothing. Not a single indication of drugs anywhere.

At Dakar, an expectant Ann Lindell followed Jessica’s sniffing at tables and chairs, through the kitchen, cold storage, and staff areas.

“Clinically clean,” Knorring summed up.

Lindell was about to ask if the dog was one hundred percent reliable but stopped herself at the last second. They decided to walk to Alhambra. Downtown stores were opening, people were starting to fill the streets, and those who recognized Ann Lindell—and they were quite a few after the last murder investigation and the blaze that had almost cost her her life—followed her stroll with the accompanying canine unit with interest.

Alhambra was lit up. Charles Morgansson came to meet them and took on the role of maître d’.

“Have you made a reservation?” he inquired politely, and scratched Jessica’s ear. But the dog paid no attention to the technician, pulling on her leash, straining to go in deeper.

Lindell noticed a change in the officer’s expression as well. It was as if he and the dog were one. Jessica whimpered pleadingly and Sven Knorring nodded to Lindell and let the dog go. She immediately took off through the dining room.

Knorring followed. Morgansson and Lindell followed them with their eyes. There was total silence. Only the click of the Labrador’s claws against the lacquered wood floor could be heard.

The lawyer Simone Motander-Banks was
a vision. Sammy Nilsson could not help staring at the woman who swept into the questioning chamber as if it were a cocktail party. She was dressed in a tight skirt, a
light-colored jacket, and high heels. A wide gold bracelet dangled on one wrist. She smiled tightly, ignored the foolishly staring Sammy Nilsson and the bewildered Barbro Liljendahl and turned to the restaurant owner.

“You have definitely lost weight,” she said. “It suits you.”

“Simone,” Slobodan Andersson said, “wonderful to see you.”

For a few moments he appeared to have regained his self-assurance, stood up and kissed her on the cheek. Sammy Nilsson observed that Slobodan Andersson for a moment studied her remarkable earring. He then suavely engaged the lawyer in conversation, completely ignoring the two detectives.

“I’m glad you were able to come down on such short notice,” Sammy Nilsson said, taking advantage of a pause in the bright chatter.

The lawyer had all of the characteristics Sammy Nilsson found hardest to bear: arrogance and pretentiousness, complemented by a disdain for the police, as if they were a lower order of beings engaged in a filthy profession which they practiced with a halfhearted sloppiness. He had heard one of the city’s more renowned attorneys refer to the police as “farm hands.”

The lawyer and Slobodan sat down. Simone was cool, with crossed legs and her hands demurely clasped in her lap, the restaurant owner sweaty, heavy, and somewhat out of breath.

“Well, now,” Sammy Nilsson began, after first recording the particulars of the questioning session on the tape recorder, “we have some things to sort out here. First Mexico. What were you and Armas doing there?”

“Vacation,” Slobodan answered quickly.

“No acquaintances there? No deals? Business connections?”

“No.”

“You have spoken with my colleague Ann Lindell about this.”

“Exactly,” Slobodan Andersson replied, then added, “I don’t know why we have to go on about Mexico. Are there laws against going there?”

“Of course not. Perhaps I or one of my colleagues will be fortunate enough to have reason to go there. We simply want to get to the bottom of why Armas got his tattoo. We now know where it happened. We also
know that you were present. The tattoo artist, Sammy Ramiréz, remembers you very well. But why did the symbol that Armas chose for his tattoo come to play a role at his death?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“We believe that the person who slit your partner’s throat had a motive that was grounded in Mexico. Therefore the tattoo played a role.”

Slobodan Andersson stared at the policeman, astonished.

“Quetzalcóatl,” Sammy Nilsson read with some effort after first consulting his notes, “was apparently meaningful, and not only for Armas.”

“What are you talking about?” Slobodan asked.

“The killer removed the tattoo from Armas’s arm. He skinned your friend.”

Slobodan Andersson’s jaw literally dropped and in his eyes there was only confusion and doubt.

“Skinned,” he repeated foolishly.

“That’s why we need you to talk about Mexico.”

“Would you like something to drink?” Simone Motander-Banks asked, and at the same time shot both of the detectives an exasperated glance.

Slobodan shook his head.

“I don’t know anything about the tattoo,” he said hoarsely.

Barbro Liljendahl rose, left the room, and returned quickly with a pitcher of water and some glasses.

Sammy Nilsson poured a glass and placed it in front of Slobodan before he continued.

“Talk about Patricio Alavez. Was he the one you met in Mexico?”

Slobodan’s hand, which had just grabbed hold of the glass, shook and he spilled water onto the table.

“Oops,” Sammy Nilsson said cheerfully.

“I would like to know on what grounds you are subjecting my client to this attack,” the lawyer said.

“I’m happy to oblige,” Sammy Nilsson said and leaned forward. “We have good reason to believe that your client has smuggled cocaine into this country to the estimated value of at least three million. Does that count as reason enough?”

The demolishing of Slobodan Andersson’s line of defense continued. Sammy Nilsson continued to systematically counter each attempt at explanation and denial. When Slobodan was asked about his contact with Konrad Rosenberg he at first denied all knowledge of him, but was then forced to concede that he had a faint memory of a guest named Rosenberg.

“Your friend Konrad is also dead,” Sammy Nilsson announced brutally. “Cocaine became his death.”

At this point Simone Motander-Banks interrupted the proceedings for a private consultation with her client. Both of the detectives left the room.

“Yes,” Sammy Nilsson said, and sat down in a chair in the little lounge outside the questioning room, but got to his feet almost at once.

“Can we pin Armas’s murder on him as well?” Barbro Liljendahl wondered.

“I doubt it,” Sammy said. “He has a good alibi. At least twenty people had confirmed that he was at Alhambra all evening.”

“He could have hired someone.”

“It’s possible, but I don’t think he wanted Armas dead. Ann doesn’t think so either. But we’ll put him away on the drug charge. I’m one hundred percent certain that his prints are on that bag.”

They resumed the session. The detectives had anticipated a counterattack from the lawyer, but she was surprisingly passive when Sammy Nilsson turned the tape recorder back on.

“Alhambra,” he began. “Isn’t it careless to keep so much cocaine there? We found a bag in your office that—”

“I don’t know anything about a bag!”

“We have secured a number of prints and it is only a matter of time before we can establish if yours are among them,” Sammy Nilsson said calmly.

“I’ve been set up!” Slobodan Andersson exclaimed. “It’s a trap. Don’t you get it? That briefcase was given to me by—”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know,” Slobodan Andersson muttered.

“You can do better than that,” Barbro Liljendahl said.

He lifted his head and stared at her as if she were an alien. In his eyes, she read that the coming retreat would not be orderly, that everything that followed would in fact be panic, lies, and condemnation. The police held all the trump cards.

Slobodan Andersson’s enormous body appeared to have lost all control and sunk down on the chair. He muttered something that no one present was able to catch.