The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Twenty-Four

On another floor of the station, the brain squad, as Ottosson called the unit, was assembled. The group consisted of Ann Lindell, almost forty years old, who after a series of publicized cases was perhaps the most well known among the police officers in the room; Ola Haver, same age, a doubter, sometimes happily married to Rebecka, at other times paralyzed by indecision as to how best to organize his life;

Berglund, whose first name had been forgotten long ago, the veteran whom everyone privately admired for his wisdom; Allan Fredriksson, the gambler and birdwatcher, a skilled investigator who remained somewhat too disorganized to be truly top-notch; Beatrice Andersson, perhaps the most eminent psychologist among them, hard as flint, according to the male chauvinists in the building; and then Ottosson, the boss, who was referred to as “Liljeholmen”-as in the candle manufacturer-by someone on the drug squad because he liked to make things cozy by lighting candles.

Ottosson poured the coffee and Beatrice heaped mazarin cakes on a plate. Lindell chuckled.

“You are too much, Otto,” she said.

Ottosson patted his stomach.

“A little sugar never hurt anyone,” he said.

Berglund leaned over and nabbed one of the frosted marzipan cakes.

“Should we begin?” Fredriksson said, for once the person who initiated the discussion.

“Sure, sure,” Ottosson said. “Jump right in. Why don’t you go first, Allan, and tell us about the apartment.”

“Almost clinically clean, you could say. There were three sets of fingerprints. Apart from Armas’s own prints, there were some from Slobodan and a third person. Slobodan’s prints were located in a variety of places, in the bathroom, kitchen, and a marble windowsill. The unknown set of prints was found on a videocassette lying on top of the television.”

“What was the tape?”

“Porn,” Allan said.

“So Armas was watching porn with a lady friend?” Ottosson asked.

“I think it was a man,” Allan replied. “It was a homo flick.”

Lindell smiled to herself. She could hear exactly how disgusting Allan thought it was.

“I’ll be damned,” Haver said. “So Armas-”

“If you’ll let me finish, we can delve into speculation later,” Fredriksson interrupted. “Apart from this, the place was, as I said, clean. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing hidden. No weapons, cash, papers, or anything like that. I examined an address book and it contained nothing sensational from what I can tell. Some thirty names, most of them with connections to the restaurant world. The examination has not been completed yet, but I don’t expect we’ll find anything remarkable there.”

Fredriksson turned a page in his notebook before he went on.

“Regarding videotapes: there were about a hundred. Schönell is checking them out right now. It’s conceivable that there is a private tape among them. He will probably be done by tonight. Unfortunately he broke a tooth last night and had to go to the dentist. He was probably dreaming-”

“Okay,” Ottosson said, “the gay thread is the only aspect of interest we have from the apartment, if I understood you correctly, Allan?”

Fredriksson nodded.

“Berglund?”

“We have conducted initial sessions of questioning with most of the staff at Dakar and Alhambra, altogether seventeen people. Half a dozen are missing. Someone is traveling, another at a funeral, a third we have been unable to reach, and a fourth is actually in the midst of another investigation, but I think it’s a coincidence. Her name is Eva Willman and her teenage son may be involved in the stabbing of an old client of ours. It happened in Sävja recently. Barbro Liljendahl is leading that one.”

“Look into it,” Ottosson said, and Berglund gave him a long look before resuming.

“It’s the usual crowd, some who have worked in the restaurant business for a long time, others are more temporary, especially among the waitstaff. If we increase this to look at employees from the past few years that adds another ten, fifteen people. If we can rely on the medical examiner’s report and assume that Armas died early or late afternoon, then most of these people have alibis. They were working. The rest are being checked on.”

Berglund accounted for the additional information that the questioning had yielded. Everyone was naturally shocked. None of the staff could provide a self-evident motive for the slaying.

“What did they say about his character, the kind of person he was?” Lindell asked.

“Quiet. Did not make a lot of noise, but from what I gathered he wielded a lot of power. One of the bartenders at Alhambra said he always got nervous when Armas was around. He kept an eye on things, but rarely said anything. It was Slobodan Andersson who stood for the talking.”

“Did he drink?”

“He was basically a teetotaler,” Berglund said.

“Anything about his sexual preferences?” Haver asked.

Berglund shook his head.

“No one could give the name of any girlfriend. But if he was known to be gay that would probably have come out.”

“Can you watch gay porn without being gay?” Beatrice tossed out. The rest of them look at each other and Haver burst out laughing.

“Out with it, boys,” Beatrice said.

“No,” Haver decided, “I have trouble believing that. What do you say, Allan?”

“You would know better than I,” Fredriksson said, making a face.

“A quiet man, ‘hard as a rock,’ as one of the chefs put it, rarely had a drink, ‘dutiful’ said another, not friends with anyone except Slobodan,” Berglund recited.

“Closet homosexual,” Haver added.

“You like that gay stuff, don’t you?” Allan Fredriksson said.

“That’s my thing,” Haver smiled broadly at his colleague.

“There is a guy,” Berglund picked up again, “his name is Olaf González, but apparently goes by Gonzo.”

“What the hell kind of name is that?” Fredriksson asked.

“Norwegian mother, Spanish father,” said Berglund, who hated to be interrupted. “He has worked at Dakar for a couple of years, but was apparently fired a couple of weeks ago. According to the others there was a conflict between him and Armas that led to his termination. No one knew what it was about. According to González himself, he quit saying he was sick of the fascist Slobodan, but had nothing negative to say about Armas.”

“We’ll have to check with Slobodan,” Ottosson said, “but it seems a bit much to slit someone’s throat because they gave you the boot.”“We don’t know what was behind it,” Berglund said.

“Black earnings?” Beatrice suggested.

“I’ve checked with the restaurant unit and according to them Slobodan has been an exemplary citizen the past few years.”

“The tattoo,” Lindell prompted.

“There was actually only one person who had seen it and he could not describe it exactly. He thought it was some kind of animal.”

“Had Armas made any comment about it?”

“The guy didn’t asked him, just saw it by accident when Armas changed his T-shirt once.”

“Damn mysterious,” Ottosson said.

The discussion continued for another half an hour. Was Slobodan a possible suspect or coconspirator to the murder? Lindell did not think so. His reaction when she and Ola Haver delivered the news spoke against this. She had had the impression that Slobodan and Armas really were good friends and that Slobodan’s shock and grief was genuine.

Could it be as simple as a robbery-assault? Lindell wondered. According to Slobodan, Armas always wore a gold watch and a gold band on the ring finger of his left hand. He could have been observed when he changed his money, followed, and then killed. She presented this theory but dismissed it herself the next moment. The removal of the tattoo spoke against this.

“Do we have any leads from Forex?” Ottosson asked.

“He has been recorded on the security tape. The time is sixteen fifty-six,” Lindell said, “and we know that he changed five thousand kronor to euros.”

“Men have been killed for less,” Fredriksson said.

“How do we proceed?” Ottosson asked, and sighed hugely.

“I’ll take on Slobodan,” Lindell said. “Berglund continues talking to the staff. Ola, follow up on this gay lead and if you have time, help Berglund produce a summary report for the interviews. Allan can continue his digging with Lugn from the restaurant unit. I spoke with him this morning and we have a green light.”

“What about me?” Beatrice said.

“You can reconstruct Armas’s life,” Lindell said.

“Okay, but I can’t give him his life back.”

“Write his biography,” Lindell said and smiled. “That’s enough.”

As if on a given signal, the brain squad stood up from the table and left the room. All that remained were six coffee mugs, six plates, and the crumbled remains of a few mazarin cakes.