Before Lindell returned to her office, she delegated the tasks that the new find presented. She asked Schönell to arrange for copies of a number of pictures of the actor. Beatrice Andersson, who had been looking at the image with distaste for a few seconds, only to turn away, received the task of identifying the company that had produced the video and determine if they were in any way cooperative.
Bea took a look at the cover and read the information in fine print.
“It was produced in California. I’m more than happy to go there,” she said.
Ann Lindell was too restless to return to what she had been doing earlier in the day, and ended up standing in front of the window trying to put together a picture of what had happened. If the man in the video really was Armas’s son, then that presented a complication. But it could also further the investigation. Was this blackmail? Had someone discovered that Armas’s son was a porn actor and tried to use this to press him for money? What did Slobodan know? He had claimed that Armas had no relatives. Was this a lie or did he simply not know about Armas’s son?
Slow down, she thought, he hasn’t been identified yet. But that was an objection with little practical value. She had made up her mind: this was Armas’s son. The prints that they had secured on the videotape belonged to the blackmailer, she also decided.
She walked over to the phone, located Slobodan Andersson’s number, and called him up. For the first time the restaurant owner sounded relaxed, even suggesting that he could stop by the police station if that was more convenient for Lindell.
“What is this about?”
“I have some thoughts that I wanted to test out on you,” Lindell said, trying to reciprocate his friendliness, even if she sensed an element of calculation in his unusually mild tone.
They agreed that Slobodan would report to the police station reception area in one hour. During that time Lindell planned to read a report on Quetzalcóatl that Fryklund, a new recruit, had assembled.
It turned out that the report plunged her into a description of Indian mythology that she had trouble following. There were too many unpronounceable names and, in addition, the information was periodically squeezed out by her memory of the frozen image on the television screen. But she managed to pick up enough to understand that Quetzalcóatl was a powerful god in Aztec culture. The recruit had also included half a dozen different illustrations that all depicted a figure with a frightening face and feathers. Some depicted a dancing figure.
Attached was also a list of tattoo artists who had identified this god as one of their more popular designs. The first name on the list was a Sammy Ramírez from Guadalajara, Mexico, complete with address and telephone number, who used the exact design that Armas had had tattooed onto his arm.
Lindell reached for the phone in order to dial the number, when it occurred to her that there must be a significant time difference between Mexico and Sweden. What time could it be in Guadalajara? She did not know and decided to take a chance.
“Sammy,” a man answered in a groggy voice, followed by something in Spanish that Lindell did not understand.
Lindell introduced herself and apologized for the fact that she was probably calling at an inappropriate hour. Sammy groaned but did not hang up, something that encouraged Lindell to continue in her labored English.
The tattoo artist listened attentively to her story, that she was calling in regards to a serious crime and that they were looking for a white man who may have once have been Sammy’s client. She described Armas as best she could. While Lindell was zealously talking it struck her that this was like looking for a needle in a haystack, and she concluded her monologue with this metaphor.
“And I am the needle,” Sammy Ramírez said, and Lindell heard a low, delighted chuckle. Sammy then told her that he could very well recall the tall man from Sweden. They had come into contact about two or three years ago. Armas had come to his studio and leafed through the folders with the different designs until he fell for the Quetzalcóatl. Why it had been this design Sammy could not remember, perhaps because he himself was drawn to mythological symbols and had spoken very warmly in favor of the Aztec god.
“Did he say anything about why he was in Mexico?”
“Not as far as I can remember. One reason I remember him so well is that he did not say very much.”
“Was anyone with him?”
“Yes, a fat man who stank of sweat. He came several times and watched but mostly seemed irritated.”
“Where is Guadalajara?”
“Western Mexico. About the same longitude as Mexico City but more west, toward the Pacific Ocean.”
“What do people do there?”
Sammy Ramírez laughed.
“What do you do in Sweden?”
“What I mean is, why was he there?”
“I think he was traveling through, came from the north, perhaps from the States, on his way south. I don’t know. As I said, he did not say very much.”
“Was he sensitive to the pain? I imagine it must hurt.”
“No, it does not hurt very much, and from what I can remember he did not complain.”
“Did he say that he was Swedish?”
“I assume so, you are calling from Sweden.”
“Do you have a fax machine? Could you look at a picture and tell me if it is the same man.”
Ramírez gave her a fax number and they ended the call.
Ann Lindell was having heart palpitations. The last hour had brought some breakthroughs. First the video, and now this. Then the question would be how far this could take them, but she felt as if the mystery of Armas was starting to crumble, the cracks were becoming wider and more visible.
She called Fryklund and praised his thesis on the Mexican gods.
“But it was fun,” he said, audibly surprised at Lindell’s overwhelming praise, and she wished in silence that more of them could say the same about their work.
Then she faxed a photograph of Armas to Guadalajara. Three minutes later she received an answer from Sammy Ramírez: the man in the picture was the same person he had tattooed.
Just as Ann Lindell had started to think about food there was a call from reception, informing her she had a visitor. Lindell peeked at the time. He was punctual. It was exactly one hour since she had spoken with Slobodan Andersson.
On her way down she met the police chief and nodded slightly, but hurried into the elevator before he could come up with some cheery comment. She was not fond of him, and even less so since rumors had started that Liselotte Rask in the public relations department was going to be taking on very different work in the building.
Sammy Nilsson had jokingly claimed that Rask was going to be appointed responsible for the meditation room in the basement. This was a room that very few, if anyone, ever visited and which served as a constant source of conversation. Someone had suggested that the master would be able to conduct gender awareness and relaxation exercises there.
Slobodan Andersson was standing in front of the fish tank in the foyer, watching the fish. Lindell slowed her pace and took stock of him. Had he lost weight? He looked slimmer, if one could apply that adjective to a man she appraised to be around one hundred and thirty kilos.
She walked up to him and perceived none of his earlier irritation. Lindell led him quickly and without speaking to her office. He looked around attentively, his breathing labored.
“Welcome,” she said and offered him the visitor’s chair, which gave protesting creaks when he sat down.
She went directly on the offensive, eschewing polite phrases and social chitchat.
“I want you to tell me about Armas’s son,” she said, taking a chance.
Slobodan looked taken aback.
“What son?”
“Come on, Slobodan! You knew each other for many years.”
He denied having any knowledge of a son. Lindell believed him. Not because of the look of foolishness on his face, but more because of the hint of hurt in his expression. It was obvious how unpleasant he found this, not because he had to conceal anything but because Armas had kept him in the dark and not told him about his child.