The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Thirty-Four

There are moments in the career of a police officer when the red carpet is rolled out. That was how Barbro Liljendahl felt. Its length testified to a row of unforeseen experiences and discoveries, but also consisted of routine matters, as well as large amounts of work-hours, days, and weeks of labor-but that must be the reward, she thought.

Ever since the stabbing incident in Sävja she had had the feeling that the case involved a number of hidden connections. One thread had loosened and now she could start the unraveling process.

After hanging up the phone she sat lost in thought for a long time. What occupied her mind, and that which demanded a great deal of skill and finesse, was the fact that the young boy Zero had demanded that he not be accused of stabbing Sidström.

Otherwise he would not talk. Barbro Liljendahl knew she had to tread carefully. If he were to be charged with the deed and convicted-something of which one could not be sure-then the end of the thread would break off after only one revolution. The ball of thread would remain almost intact.

Sidström would never admit to knowing Zero from before, he would have no reason to try to seek any kind of justice and would prefer silence. As long as Zero, who had sliced open his abdomen, kept quiet, Sidström would be satisfied. He would heal, maybe receive some compensation from the Crime Victims Fund, and return to his work, while Zero, if he were convicted, would meet a decidedly bleaker fate.

Barbro Liljendahl had seen enough of youth crime to realize that he would most likely reappear in future cases. The boy could be saved, but only if he could avoid the charges. Then it would hopefully serve as a useful lesson and for her part Barbro Liljendahl would be free to keep unraveling.

She decided to look up Ann Lindell. One reason was the fact that they had discussed the case when they bumped into each other at the hospital. But it was also with a measure of calculation that she got in touch with her colleague.

Barbro Liljendahl worked in the intelligence unit, often together with Harry Andersson. He was a decent enough policeman, but could, on and off, be a real pain. In a deliberate way, he went about diminishing her efforts, often accompanied by an obnoxiously macho comment that was perhaps intended to be funny but always sounded offensive. He laughed away her protests and told her she was oversensitive.

She wanted to leave intelligence and join violent crimes. Lindell could perhaps put in a good word for her. Barbro liked what she had seen of Lindell. She already knew Beatrice Andersson from the Police Academy, and finally, Barbro had heard that Ottosson, the chief in violent crimes was a timid and kindly soul.

“It’s a stab in the dark,” Lindell said when Barbro completed her account. Barbro smiled at the unintended pun.

“If we can make this self-defense,” Lindell went on, “then perhaps the DA can approach the whole thing from a different perspective. Fritzén is reasonable, but the new one-you know, the one with the earrings-I don’t know, she seems so… what should I say… rigid.”

“I know you have a lot going on with the Fyris river murder, but should we question Sidström together? You could make a case for it by saying that there may be a connection.”

“It’s weak,” Lindell said.

“I know, but I feel sorry for the guy somehow,” Barbro said. “His whole family is insane. If he is charged, they will make his life a living Hell. They’ll say he’s shaming the entire family. And his father is already in prison in Turkey.”

Lindell reflected for a moment.

“You know how things end up for a guy like Zero,” Barbro Liljendahl added.

“Okay,” Lindell said finally, “but I have to talk to Ottosson first. Have you worked through the list of Sidström’s acquaintances?”

“Yes, I’ve talked to some of them. Three of them are doing time.”

“There was a name I reacted to and that is Rosenberg, have you questioned him?”

“No, he and three, four others are left,” Barbro Liljendahl said.

“Okay, let’s go to Akademiska and listen to what our punctured friend has to say.”

Lindell didn’t really know why she went along with all of this. She shouldn’t have done so and Ottosson had his reservations, but in a childish way he was flattered that she wanted his blessings.

She sensed that this had to do with Berglund. His comment about Rosenberg being in the money was the kind of information she heard almost daily, and if you listened to all loose chatter then every single investigation would grind to a halt.

Was she doing this to impress him? So she would later be able to say, Thanks for the tip, it led to… or was it Ola Haver’s superior remarks in the lunchroom?

Regardless of the reason, she entered the surgical wing accompanied by Liljendahl with a certain amount of anticipation. She was also curious to see how her colleague handled the situation.

Sidström was sitting slouched over in a chair. His head was leaning forward, his chin against his chest, his arms draped over the armrests and the emaciated, very sinewy hands twitched almost imperceptibly.

“I wonder what he’s dreaming about?” Lindell whispered.

He looked considerably older than his forty-two years. Lindell guessed at a long history of drug abuse behind the grayish cast of the skin, and she was convinced his arms and perhaps his legs were covered in scars from hypodermic needles.

According to Liljendahl he had been drug-free for a year, and Lindell wondered how he had reacted to the anesthesia and painkillers he must have received at the hospital. His last charges were three years back in time: burglary.

“Olle,” Liljendahl said.

The man reacted by jerking his head, but he did not wake up. Liljendahl shook his shoulder gently and Lindell felt an involuntary distaste, bordering on revulsion, at her colleague’s touch but also at the watery eyes that opened.

“What the hell?”

“Time to wake up,” Liljendahl said.

The man looked around in confusion, discovered who his visitors were, and quickly sat up in the chair.

“Fucking hell,” he said emphatically, and grimaced.

There was more to come once Liljendahl, after having introduced Ann Lindell, took out a small pocket tape recorder, recorded the facts of the questioning session, and proceeded with her first question about how much cocaine he had sold recently.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Turn that damn thing off.”

Liljendahl smiled. Lindell went and stood over by the window, diagonally behind Sidström.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Liljendahl said and Lindell couldn’t help smile, “and we would appreciate a little cooperation.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We know that you sell cocaine, we also know a great deal about your activities in general.”

“I am not telling you shit, or your-”

“There are others who talk,” Liljendahl said tiredly, and Lindell guessed how she was planning to approach the whole thing.

“Konrad Rosenberg, is that name familiar to you?”

It was Lindell who took the chance, and the man flinched, grimaced again, then turned his body, and stared at her in terror. Lindell saw that her guess had hit the mark and she exchanged glances with Liljendahl.

“You can start talking now,” Lindell said and almost heard his body deflate. His facial features changed in one stroke and displayed all the signs of extreme fatigue and despondency. He shook his head lightly and audibly drew in all the mucus in the sinus cavities in his skull.

Sometimes it is almost too easy, Lindell thought, and leaned against the windowsill.

In the cafeteria half an hour later, when they were reviewing their session, Liljendahl was so excited that Lindell had to laugh.

“You did that well,” she said.

“Thanks for the help,” Liljendahl said. “That was so perfect!”

“What’s your partner going to say?”

Liljendahl’s expression fell immediately and Lindell was sorry she hadn’t given her happiness a few more minutes.

“He’ll be upset,” Liljendahl said. “But I don’t give a damn. If you only knew how sick and tired I am of his comments.”

Lindell nodded.

“Should we go look up Rosenberg right away?”

“It’s probably best for me to step down at this point,” Lindell said. “I mean, if Harry gets upset about something like this then it won’t be better if we just keep going. We don’t actually have that much on Rosenberg right now. Sidström did not expressly say that it was Rosenberg who was the supplier, only that they were in contact.”

“But you saw how he reacted,” Liljendahl said. “His body language spoke volumes.”

Lindell hated having to step down, but there was a chance this was going to go too far. If she followed along to Konrad Rosenberg and it took off from there, she would be drawn deeply into an investigation that, strictly speaking, she didn’t have anything to do with.

“You tackle Rosenberg on your own and then get in touch with me,” she said, and the disappointment in Liljendahl’s face was unmistakable.

They drove back to the police station in silence, but before they parted ways they agreed to meet the following day.

“I need the perspective of an experienced colleague,” Liljendahl said and Lindell found this both flattering and irritating. She guessed that there was something behind the appreciative words. Maybe, she thought, her motivation was as simple as just wanting to piss off Harry Andersson.