The Demon of Dakar

by Kjell Eriksson

  Patricio stretched out on the bed with his hands under his head. Manuel sat down on a rickety wooden chair.

  “What if we were to tell our whole story,” Patricio said after a long period of silence.

  Manuel looked quizzically at him. He was too exhausted to think. This fatigue was of a different order from at home. In the mountains he could wander for hours, even carrying a load, without tiring.

  “I don’t think Swedes know what it is like in Mexico,” Patricio said.

  “That is not so strange. How many people in our village know what it is like here? And how would you make this happen? Are you going to be on TV?”

  Patricio shut his eyes. A spider walked across his closely cropped hair. Manuel studied his face. I have to get him home again, he thought, bending forward and brushing the spider away. Patricio smiled, but he did not open his eyes. After a minute or so he slept heavily.

  If we could tell our whole story, Manuel thought, where would we begin? How many would listen? Maybe Eva, but how many others?

  He got up from his seat and walked as quietly as possible back out into the yard. He walked up to the main house, forcing his way through some bushes to a window, and peered inside. It was a kitchen. There was a wood-burning fireplace with a white-washed hood. A table and four chairs was the only furniture. On the table was a yellowed newspaper and a pair of glasses.

  When he left the window and walked back over the flower bed he felt a familiar scent. He sniffed the air, looked down, and received a shock when he realized what it was that was giving off the aromatic smells.

  He had stepped on a Ruta, or rue. He recognized the mild yellow-green leaves so well.

  Will I die here? he wondered, swiftly making the sign of the cross and backing slowly away from the house. When he lifted his gaze from the flower bed he thought he could see Miguel’s children in the windows. He wanted to leave the house and run away but controlled himself.

  It struck him that maybe the poor people in this country also planted Ruta outside their houses. The rich men took pills when they had an ache, while the poor prepared an infusion of herbs or a poultice of healing leaves. It was a poor man’s house they had broken into. That immediately felt better. A rich man would be beside himself. A poor man would understand. That was how it was in the village. The poor were the most generous, but on the other hand they did not have much to give.

  Manuel had the idea that they should help clear up a little in the yard. He thought he had seen a saw leaning up against the wall in the shed. They could saw the fallen tree into firewood. That could be done in the wink of an eye.

  He went inside where Patricio was still sleeping. He had curled up and turned to the wall. Manuel pulled the blanket out of the bag, crawled in beside his brother, and pulled it tightly around them both.

  Fifty-Nine

  Very rarely or perhaps never before had Ann Lindell experienced such a veritable storm of information. It started with new leads from the Norrtälje prison, which was shifting the focus of the Armas investigation. Patricio Alavez, who was serving a sentence for attempted drug smuggling, had received a visit from his brother, Manuel Alavez, several days earlier. Lindell immediately tried to flesh out the details on this new player in the game. Faxes were coming in and e-mails were popping up with information that was making her more and more convinced: this brother was of great interest.

  She asked Fryklund, the new recruit who had turned out to be a pearl, to look into how and when Manuel Alavez had arrived in Sweden. After half an hour, Fryklund called her back.

  He had arrived on a flight directly from Mexico City to Arlanda, and from there he had rented a car, an almost new Opel Zafir. The Mexican had paid the whole rental fee in cash. The car was due to be returned in four days, the same day that his return flight to Mexico had been booked.

  Before she finished the call, she gave Fryklund an additional task: to request all available information on the Alavez brothers from the Mexicn authorities. Some of this had probably been done in connection with the investigation of Patricio Alavez, but now there was also his brother. Had he been accused of any crimes in Mexico?

  Then Lindell called Morgansson at forensics, gave him the number to the company that had rented out the Opel and asked him to see if the tire marks collected from the scene at Lugnet could have come from the rental car.

  “It’ll be a matter of what brand of tires they use,” Morgansson said.

  A superfluous comment, Lindell thought, who was increasingly irritated when her colleagues pointed out something obvious.

  “Is there DNA from Lugnet?” she went on.

  “Sure,” Morgansson said.

  “Run it against Patricio Alavez, the one who escaped from Norrtälje.”

  “Aye aye, Captain,” he said.

  Lindell did not feel like a general commanding her troups from a field telephone, but she did not take Morgansson’s comment as an implied criticism. She knew he liked it when there was action.

  “This thing is starting to crack,” she said, in an attempt to adopt a more relaxed attitude, and perhaps it was also an unconscious attempt to show her appreciation of her colleague’s work.

  “It looks good,” Morgansson agreed. “If the Alavez brothers are hanging out together, we’ll get them.”

  “Anything more on Rosenberg?”

  “No, not really. The apartment was completely free of narcotics, apart from the cocaine on the table. He kept his place surprisingly clean. We have secured three sets of prints apart from his own.”

  “Slobodan’s?”

  “No, he wasn’t one of them.”

  They hung up, and Lindell felt relieved. It was the first time they had been able to speak naturally with each other without their failed relationship looming in the background.

  “We’ll get them,” she repeated the technician’s words out loud to herself.

  She tried to visualize the two hunted men. Was there an accomplice hiding them? The Norrtälje colleagues had reviewed footage from the prison’s security cameras and had, just like the prison staff, drawn the conclusion that Patricio’s escape was a spontaneous occurrence. The staff had also confirmed that the Mexican had not had any particular contact with the other three escapees. They were housed in separate quarters and had never worked together.

  If it had been an unplanned escape on Alavez’s part, then it was not clear that he could reasonably have expected to be taken in by friends outside the prison walls. But no one really knew anything about whatever network he might have. Alavez had remained silent through the entire court process and had not revealed a single detail of his smuggling attempt. He was perhaps not entirely welcome if he unexpectedly turned up at an associate’s house on the outside, but his loyalty should nonetheless give him bonus points.

  Was there actually anything that spoke in favor of the brothers even being in Uppsala? Yes, Lindell decided, because if there was a connection between the fugitive, Slobodan Andersson, and Armas then it would be reasonable for Alavez to find his way to the city. And the connection existed, she was sure of it. The tattoo, and above all its removal, as well as the fact that cocaine had been both Alavez’s and Slobodan’s “business area,” backed this up. Had Patricio Alavez tried to contact Slobodan Andersson?

  Sammy Nilsson hurried past Lindell’s open door. She called out to him and he stuck his head in.

  “We’re going to put out an APB on an Opel Zafir,” she said and held out a piece of paper. “Can you do it? And another thing: where would you go if you had a tent and a fugitive brother?”

  Sammy Nilsson took the information on the rental car and then sat down.

  “Did you hear about Berglund?” Sammy asked.

  Lindell nodded.

  “It’s too fucking depressing,” he went on. “There are so many dumb-asses running around healthy as can be, while someone like Berglund gets hit.”

  “There is no justice,” Lindell said. “We already knew that.”

  She waited a co
uple of seconds before she picked up the thread about the Alavez brothers again.

  “Where would you pitch your tent?”

  Sammy stared back at her for a second before he looked down at his notes. Lindell knew he wanted to talk more about their colleague and his brain tumor.

  “Not in a camping area, that’s for sure,” Sammy said. “Is this a guy from the country or the city?”

  “No idea,” Lindell replied. “What do you mean?”

  “If he’s from some kind of city gang or drug cartel then he wouldn’t camp out. Too rustic. That type would check into a hotel.”

  “We’ve checked them all,” Lindell said.

  “Assumed name?”

  “Possible, but if it really was brother Manuel who camped by Lugnet then that would seem to indicate a particular style. The question is just where he went after Lugnet.”

  “Most likely close to the city,” Sammy Nilsson said. He stood up and walked over to the map of Uppland that Lindell had on the wall.

  “Okay,” he resumed, “if you’ve killed someone south of the city then you probably don’t just set up camp on the opposite side of the river.”

  “But what about local knowledge?”

  “What would you do yourself?” Sammy Nilsson asked.

  “Buy a map and try to figure out a good area.”

  “What is good?”

  “Far away from people.”

  “But still fairly close to a road, wouldn’t you say?” Sammy Nilsson said, his back to Lindell, studying the map.

  He moved his finger from the southern parts of the city north, tracing the E4 motorway with his index finger.

  “Månkarbo,” he said suddenly and turned around, “that’s where I would swing up to the northwest.”

  “Månkarbo?”

  Sammy Nilsson nodded.

  “You’ll have to do the rest of the orienting on your own,” he said with a grin.

  Once he had left the room, Lindell went up to the map and located the small hamlet some twenty or thirty kilometers north of Uppsala.

  She had a vague memory of Månkarbo as a small town with a painfully low speed limit, a couple of stores, and a gas station.

  She went to Ottosson.

  “A cement foundry,” he said, “and a mission house in the middle of the village. Why do you ask?”

  “Just a guess by Sammy that the Alavez brothers may have gone north, and then he named Månkarbo of all places.”

  “The foundry has been closed since God knows when, but the missionaries are probably still active. Do you think they’re camping?”

  “Yes, or alternatively, that they are hiding out at some drug associate’s.”

  “Do you think the brother was involved in the break out?”

  “I do, actually,” Lindell said. “The visit in prison was perhaps a last instruction on how the escape was going to be executed. That Patricio Alavez playacted for the cameras has no significance. Maybe he had some last-minute hesitation because the escape was not proceeding as he had been instructed.”

  “The hostage?”

  “According to Norrtälje he was a peaceful sort and he may have objected to the amount of force that the taking of a hostage involves.”

  “The Norrtälje police say that they spread out. At least two cars were left in the woods where they dumped the van. But why would any of them want to get to Uppsala? If they now—”

  The telephone interrupted his train of thought. He lifted the receiver and listened for a minute, hummed in response a couple of times, thanked the speaker for the information and hung up.

  “Björnsson and Brügger were apprehended one hour ago in Stockholm. The idiots tried to rob a post office. How stupid can you be? The Västerort police are going to get in touch right away if and when they uncover anything of interest.”

  “Brilliant,” Lindell underscored. “Two down.”

  “And our Mexican friends and the Spaniard remain,” Ottosson said cheerfully.

  Police questioning of Slobodan Andersson was resumed after lunch. Lindell went down to listen. She recalled their exchange of ideas about the food served in jails and prisons. Now he would get to test it for himself, and the prospect filled her with great joy.

  Sammy Nilsson and Barbro Liljendahl handled the continued sessions. Lindell entered the room while Simone Motander-Banks was launching into a lecture on the violation of rights by law enforcement. Everyone, including the apprehended man, was staring at her with dull eyes. Slobodan did not indicate with any change of expression that he had registered Lindell’s arrival.

  Once the lawyer was finished, Sammy Nilsson nodded kindly. He did not comment on the criticism but instead turned on the tape recorder with a sardonic grin and recorded the particulars of the session.

  This time they were focused on Slobodan’s circle of acquaintances. They started with Konrad Rosenberg, where the answers given were the same as earlier in the day: they had no association, he only knew Rosenberg as a customer and he had no idea why or how he had died.

  Barbro Liljendahl dropped this topic and Sammy took over. He again tried to review Slobodan’s Mexican adventures but even here nothing new emerged. When Sammy Nilsson broached the topic of Lorenzo Wader, Slobodan straightened his back. For Lindell it was obvious that the predictable answers from his side concealed an increasing concern and perhaps also astonishment. It was as if Slobodan Andersson was gradually starting to realize that the police were in possession of unexpected information, and that he himself was only a pawn in a game that he had believed he controlled.

  “Wader and I have chatted two or three times. He is in the habit of coming to the restaurant, having a beer and a bite to eat. Why do you ask about him? I know nothing.”

  “We have information indicating that he associated with Konrad Rosenberg,” Sammy Nilsson said.

  The restauranteur stared at him.

  “I know nothing about that,” he said, tension causing his voice to crack.

  “What about Olaf González then?”

  “What about him?”

  “He works at—” Nilsson began.

  “Not anymore!”

  “Not only that, he has disappeared. Would you happen to know where he has gone?”

  Slobodan shook his head.

  “Is that a no?”

  “No!”

  “Your former waiter has also been in contact with Lorenzo Wader,” Sammy went on. “They have been seen together both at the hotel Linné and at Pub 19. It’s remarkable how observant waitstaff can be.”

  “The swine,” Slobodan Andersson let slip.

  “Why did he get fired?” Sammy asked.

  “It was some tiff with Armas. I don’t know. I can’t keep my eye on everything,” Slobodan said grimly.

  “No, that is very apparent,” Sammy Nilsson said.

  At one point in the session, Slobodan Andersson lifted his heavy head and gave Lindell a hateful look. She smiled back.

  Slobodan Andersson made a swift and almost imperceptible gesture with his finger over his throat.

  “Can you tell me more about the man who gave you the bag,” Sammy Nilsson said.

  Slobodan Andersson shook his head.

  “I don’t believe my client has anything to add on this topic,” the lawyer said.

  The session was brought to an end, but before Slobodan was led back to his cell, Ann Lindell asked him what he thought of the food.

  Sammy stared at her. Lindell gave her sunniest smile. Slobodan muttered something and lumbered after the jail guard.

  Sixty

  Oskar Hammer from Alhambra, Donald from Dakar, and Svante Winbladh from Ehrlings accounting firm concluded their hastily arranged meeting with the decision to keep the restaurants going—starting up again the day after tomorrow—even though their owner was being held in custody.

  The news that cocaine was involved had dropped like a bomb. None of the three would have guessed that their boss and taskmaster had devoted himself to the smuggling and selling
of narcotics. Svante Winbladh was the one who was the most distraught.

  “It is completely inexcusable that we should have to be pulled into something like this,” he exclaimed. “It is bad for our reputation as serious—”

  “Calm down,” Oskar Hammer interrupted. “You’re clean, aren’t you?”

  The accountant gave him an antagonistic look.

  “I don’t think you fully understand the impact,” he said and got to his feet.

  “Yes, I do,” Oskar Hammer said. “This is about our jobs. Donald, can you call around to all the Dakar staff?”

  Donald nodded. He had not said much during the meeting, had only aired his exasperation with the fact that there would probably be new rounds of questioning with all the employees.

  His immediate thought had been to quit, but he had decided to stay and see how the whole thing played out. He knew that Hammer was planning to take over Alhambra, and he himself had toyed with the idea of buying out Dakar and running the restaurant on his own.

  Hammer and Donald left the accounting firm and returned to their respective restaurants. They had been promised the reservation books so that they could call the customers who had booked tables for that evening.

  The forensic investigation continued at Dakar. Donald exchanged a few words with a criminal investigator he knew from before and found out that the cocaine that had been seized at Alhambra had been worth around three million kronor on the street.

  “But what do you hope to find here?”

  “Something,” the officer said. “We don’t know what.”

  “But no drugs here, or what?”

  Donald would have taken it as a personal insult if they had found cocaine on “his” premises.

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  Donald left the restaurant and walked the short way home in order to start his calls. This was a job he most of all wanted to avoid.

  He started with Feo, who in turn promised to call Eva. Thereafter he dialed Johnny’s number.

  Eva Willman’s first emotion was anger, followed by shame. She was working for a man who sold drugs. Incredible. How would she be able to tell Helen? Her friend was spending a great deal of her spare time right now trying to convince the neighbors to attend the meeting about drugs in the area. Eva would not be able to go. It would be too shameful.