The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Twenty

“I know who he is.”

Her colleague, Thommy Lissvall, who Lindell only knew in passing, could not conceal a triumphant smile.

“Great,” Lindell said, flipping open her notebook.

“He is not a celebrity by any means but naturally I know him. It is strange that no one has identified him before now.”

“In that case, what have you been doing for the past three days?”

“I was at a workshop,” Lissvall said.

He looked at Lindell.

“A good one,” he added.

A Dalarna accent, she thought. Why do they have to be so damned long-winded?

“All right, maybe you could kindly bring yourself to reveal who he is?”

“He has been in this town for a long time, but as I said-”

“What restaurant?”

Lissvall was thrown off for a second, blinked, and smiled at Haver who was sitting at the far end of the table.

Lindell had taken a chance. The city unit, which Lissvall belonged to, worked with restaurant-related crimes.

“Several,” Lissvall said.

“Slobodan Andersson’s imperium, in other words,” Haver said suddenly, with unexpected loudness. “Because I can’t imagine it is Svensson’s?”

“A name,” Lindell said. She was thoroughly sick of the guessing game.

“Armas.”

“And more?”

“I don’t know what his last name is,” Lissvall was forced to admit, “but it is no doubt a mouthful. I’ve never heard anything except Armas.”

“And he worked for Slobodan?”

“Yes.”

Lindell shot Haver a quick look.

“I was at Dakar with Beatrice recently,” she said.

Lissvall chuckled.

“Thank you very much,” Lindell said firmly, and stood up. “I take it you have no further information.”

“I guess not,” he said and got up from the table.

“What an idiot,” Lindell said when he had left the room.

“What do we do?” Haver asked.

Lindell examined her notes. She had written “Armas” in capital letters. She was relieved, grateful that the murder victim was from Uppsala. It would have been boring with a dumped Stockholmer.

“We go out to dinner,” she said lightly.

Slobodan Andersson’s apartment was located in a one-hundred-year-old building just east of the railroad. It was within walking distance of the police station. The morning had been clear and chilly, but now, with the time approaching ten o’clock in the morning, the sunshine was warm. Lindell couldn’t help pausing for a few seconds and closing her eyes. She lapped up the sun and thought about her visit to Dakar. Had Armas been there that evening? Lindell could not recall any member of the staff except the waitress.

Haver, who had pushed on, stopped, turned around, and looked at Lindell.

“Come on,” he said.

Lindell laughed. Haver couldn’t help but smile.

“You find it invigorating with murder, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” Lindell said and tried to imitate Lissvall’s dialect, but failed miserably.

“No, not really,” she resumed. “But I do find it invigorating to do some good.”

They discussed how they should proceed in their conversation with Slobodan Andersson. They considered bringing someone from the city unit, but finally rejected the idea. Lindell had awakened the restaurant owner with her call. It was difficult to determine if it was the circumstances that made him appear confused. He had asked what the call was in regards to but Lindell had only said she wanted to talk.

“Can’t it wait until this afternoon?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Lindell said.

After getting the door code from Slobodan Andersson and informing Ottosson of their plans, they immediately left the station.

Slobodan Andersson received them in a lime-yellow robe. The apartment, which consisted of five rooms with high ceilings, deep windowsills, and ornate moldings, was newly renovated. Lindell could still smell the paint. Andersson asked them to sit down and offered them coffee, which they declined.

Lindell sat down while Haver remained standing by the window.

“Well, how can I be of service to the police?”

No trace of the earlier confusion remained.

Lindell studied the restaurant owner. She thought she had seen him before. Maybe at Dakar? On the other hand, he had the kind of appearance that stood out. He was ample, Lindell decided, summing up her impression, not to say fat.

Lindell estimated his age at around fifty. On his left hand he had a gold band on his ring finger and around his throat he had a gold chain with an amulet. He gave off a waft of perfume or aftershave.

“You have an employee by the name of Armas, don’t you?”

For a moment, Lindell thought she saw a shift in Slobodan Andersson’s expression that revealed surprise, perhaps even concern, but he answered in a steady voice.

“Yes, that’s right. Armas has been in my employ for, well, for many years now. He is my right hand, as they say,” Slobodan said and looked down at his own hands.

“Do you know where he is?”

In the corner of her eye, Lindell saw Haver move a couple of meters and look with curiosity into the next room.

“Yes, I know exactly where he is. He is on his way to the north of Spain to meet with a few of my professional contacts. As you know, Basque cuisine is exquisite. Armas usually travels around and gathers some ideas, brings home recipies, tips on good wine, everything that a restaurant owner needs. Perhaps come home with a good cheese.”

“When did he leave?”

“A few days ago. He is driving down. Has anything happened? Has he had a car accident?”

“No, it is more serious than that, I’m afraid,” Lindell said. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Armas is dead.”

Slobodan Andersson pushed back in the sofa and stared at her without comprehension.

“It is not possible,” he said finally.

“We haven’t made a definitive identification yet, but there is every indication that it is him. Does he have a family?”

Slobodan shook his head.

“No relatives?”

“No, it is him and me,” Slobodan said in a low voice.

“Do you think you could come in and identify your friend? As you can understand we have to be sure.”

Are they a couple? Lindell wondered. That would be revealed in time. She took out a photograph of the dead man. It was a picture that partly spared the viewer since the image was cropped under the chin. Slobodan glanced at it and nodded.

“How did he die?”

“His life was taken,” Lindell said.

“What do you mean?”

“He was murdered.”

Slobodan stood up abruptly, walked over to the window, and ended up standing there. They heard a train go by. She exchanged a quick look with Haver.

A minute went by, perhaps two. The clanging bell of the railway crossing was the only thing they heard. A new train was approaching.

“Where?” Slobodan asked through clenched teeth.

“We don’t know precisely,” Haver said, now speaking for the first time. “You may have read in the newspaper about-”“I don’t read newspapers!”

The clanging had stopped.

“Who?”

“We don’t know that either. We were hoping you might be able to help us,” Lindell said.

It turned out that Armas’s apartment was in the same building. Slobodan had spare keys and Lindell called Ottosson, who arranged for a technician to come by. After twenty minutes the doorbell rang. Lindell gave Haver a look, and he went to open the door. Lindell walked away so she was not visible from the front door. She heard Haver exchange a few words with Charles Morgansson.

An hour later Lindell left Slobodan Andersson’s apartment in the latter’s company in order to bring him down to the morgue to make an identification of the body, while Haver went to Armas’s apartment. In this way she could avoid seeing Charles.

“The tattoo” was the first thing Ottosson said when Ann Lindell came into his office.

Lindell laughed and sat down across from him.

“Slobodan thought it was a sea horse or some other kind of animal, and that fits with the part that is left. I thought it looked like a foot. He didn’t know when Armas got the tattoo. Armas had always had it, according to Slobodan.”

“Did you tell him it had been removed?”

“No, I simply asked what it was.”

“Let’s have a cup of coffee,” Ottosson said. “I bought cheese sandwiches and some doughnuts.”

He looked pleased. Lindell sensed that he, like herself, was happy that the identity had been established and that the victim came from Uppsala. This aided the investigation considerably.

While they drank their coffee, Lindell reviewed the most important aspects of the case for Ottosson. The two men had parted at around four o’clock. Armas was going to sleep for a couple of hours before starting his drive down to Spain. According to Slobodan he preferred to drive at night. He owned a blue BMW X5 of last year’s model. Armas was going to be gone for two weeks. Slobodan characterized the whole thing as a combined vacation and business trip.

“But to drive all the way down to Spain?” Ottosson said.

“Armas had a fear of flying.”

Ottosson nodded. Lindell knew Ottosson shared this fear.

Slobodan could not see any motives to the killing. Armas was a loner, someone who basically had no circle of friends, had no association with anyone, as far as Slobodan knew, and he had trouble imagining that Armas had some secret life.

“He lived at and for the restaurants,” Lindell summed up.

“A model citizen,” Ottosson said. “What about money?”

“Slobodan thought he had at most two or three thousand in cash. He may have gone down to the Forex money exchange to get some Euros. We’ll have to check that. Fredriksson has made sure the cards have been blocked. We’ll retrieve information about account activity.”

Lindell checked the time.

“Day care?”

“No problem,” Lindell said. “Görel is picking up today.”

“The car?”

“It shouldn’t be hard to find. I don’t think the apartment is where the murder took place. It looked completely normal, an exemplary state of order, according to Haver.”

“Too clean?”

“No, but I think Armas was a bit of a neatfreak.”

“Should we talk to the city unit?”

“Yes, but not with the guy from Dalarna, Lisskog or whatever his name is.”

“Lissvall,” Ottosson said, smiling. “He was in the fraud unit for a while, but they got sick of him.”

Lindell looked like she had already repressed all thoughts of her colleague and resumed her review. When she was done they discussed the future investigation and what should be prioritized.

Fredriksson would coordinate the background investigation. The details of Armas’s life had to be fleshed out and Slobodan himself had to be closely examined.

Berglund and Beatrice would handle the questioning of the restaurant employees.

“Done! We’ll nab him by Tuesday of next week,” Ottosson said confidently.

Lindell nodded.

“Thanks for the doughnuts. That was thoughtful of you.”

Ottosson became embarrassed as usual when he received praise.