“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.
Twenty-Five
Manuel Alavez studied the people who walked by. Some of them hurried, walking with deliberate steps, looking around hastily as they passed the parking lot, speeding by like projectiles with shoulders pulled up and their gazes directed far into the distance, as if they were target-seeking missiles, programmed for a single purpose.
Others sauntered, conversed with their partners, slowed down, uttered exclamations and laughed, perhaps put a hand on the partner’s arm, only to continue aimlessly on their way. They paused, cheerfully allowed cars to pass, as if they had all the time in the world.
It is like the zócolon, the square in Oaxaca, he thought, this mixture of people. The expressions are the same, but do the Swedes feel in the same way? Do they get happy about the same things. Does love strike them with equal force, and what does their pain look like?
Sometimes they imagined, the villagers on their benches, that the white men were a foreign race, that, although they were equipped with arms and legs, they had eyes that perceived without seeing and mouths that talked constantly but with words that did not touch the reality that the villagers knew.
From the parking lot Manuel had an unobstructed view of Slobodan Andersson’s building. Manuel was not sure exactly why he was sitting here spying on him. Ten thousand dollars could be a good enough reason, even though Patricio did not seem particularly interested. His indifference at his fate had surprised and perplexed Manuel. He couldn’t take seriously the comment that money would not be able to alter his conditions in prison. Surely money had the same power here as in the rest of the world?
And if Patricio was not personally invested then there was Maria, but Manuel assumed that it was his brother’s guilty conscience that was bothering him. He did not want any blood money.
They had sent them eleven thousand as compensation for Angel’s death. Eleven thousand pesos. That was worth half a coffee harvest for the Alavez family. Half a year’s work was what Angel’s life was worth in the fat man’s eyes.
Did Manuel want to see the fat man dead? He searched his soul during the idle hours in the car. Armas had died by his hand, but would he be able to slay Slobodan Andersson in cold blood?
No, he did not think so. That would not give him Angel back and it would not help Patricio. The only thing that could improve his situation was money and that was what Manuel wanted to lay his hands on. But what if the fat man refused?
In order to clear his head, he turned on the car radio, but then turned it off immediately. He didn’t like the music, and he didn’t understand the language.
Will the world be a better place if Slobodan dies? This was a question he had asked himself many times but had not been able to bring himself to answer.