Konrad Rosenberg, as “Sture with the hat” had put it to Berglund, was in the money.
But fortune is a curse. From his relatively problem-free existence on the square, Konrad had now been plunged into a whirlwind of new acquaintances who, like the male butterfly that can detect a female at one kilometer’s distance, appeared to be drawn to the smell of money that emanated from him.
At first he was flattered, liked to buy rounds for his new friends and was seen more often in public. Then suddenly everything ground to a halt. Konrad Rosenberg became sullen and unwilling to play along. No more small loans, no restaurant meals, visitors were turned away at the door.
When spring came, he was again on the park bench in the square. The bank account, which had almost been emptied, was again being filled at a steady and secure rate.
It was the summerhouse that was the source of Konrad Rosenberg’s unexpected advancement.
In the sixties, the explosions expert Rosenberg had bought a piece of land from a local farmer about ten kilometers east of the town. On the stony property, which he spent the first summer blowing to bits, he built a large cottage of sixty square meters. In addition to a main room, where he and Elisa slept, it included a kitchen and two sleeping alcoves where the sons made do as best they could.
After Karl-Åke died, it only took a few weeks for Elisa to pass away. Konrad was in jail and could not really look out for his interests, but was happy with the money he received. The rest of the brothers sold the apartment in the city, as well as all the furnishings, and divided the money among themselves. Bertil made off with the summerhouse, but after an attack of guilty conscience, offered it for his little brother Konrad’s use.
Konrad had lived there during difficult times in his life, but had never really felt at home there. It was too far from the city, but it breathed of childhood. Not that the latter had been unhappy in any way and perhaps this was what created the discomfort. The house reminded Konrad dimly of the fact that there were alternatives to the life he had chosen to live.
The neighbors were hardworking, decent types, and Konrad felt their scorn. He had renovated the house, had it repainted, replaced the woodwork, and had a new tin roof put on, but none of this helped. The neighbors continued to remain distant. What they did not know was that the summerhouse was the foundation of his renaissance. It was remote enough that it functioned as a repackaging center and did not figure on the police radar of hot spots. Konrad himself played no part in the planning of this but was nonetheless smart enough to realize the relative value of this modest house. He thought it was a lucky break that he had been recruited, but the fact was that it was the summerhouse that was of interest. Konrad was only part of the bargain.
He carted the tube of cooking gas, the container of water, and the suitcase up to the house, unlocked the door, and was greeted by its characteristic smelclass="underline" a mixture of gas, mold, and childhood. He grinned, without being aware that he was doing so.
After installing the tube and putting the old one on the veranda, Konrad boiled water and made a cup of instant coffee, which he drank in measured sips while he wondered when the next delivery would take place. It irritated him that he was kept in the dark. He felt more important than this and did not want to be regarded simply as a mere delivery boy. Next time he was going to speak his mind.
“What the hell am I sitting here for?” he burst out, in an attack of clear-headedness.
He pushed the cup away so that the coffee spilled out and formed a triangle-shaped stain on the wax tablecloth. He pulled his finger through the liquid and suddenly felt a strong urge to sleep with a woman. Just to sleep. Without fuss, to be able to sleep with a warm woman by his side.
“Well, what do you know, Dad,” he said out loud, and the resolve in his voice surprised him.
He looked around the cottage, allowing his gaze to wander from the old woodstove over the hastily made bed, to the dresser where a few decorative items bore witness to the Rosenberg family’s former life.
He shook his head as if to get rid of his discomfort, stood up, unsure of why he felt so uncomfortable.
The fortune he now possessed normally gave him a rush. He had never been so successful, and especially with such minimal effort. He felt more respectable and thought he was treated with more respect than before, not only at the bank but everywhere. He almost felt as if he had a real job.
But now he packed the goods into small tidy packets with a feeling of sadness.
When the bag was filled he left the house, carefully locking it, and drove back into town. A young boy was trying to hitch a ride in Bärby.
“Get your own car,” Konrad muttered, and stepped on the gas.
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.”