It looked like an overdose, Sammy had said, but had added that nothing was certain. Lindell agreed. Nothing was more certain than death, and she increased her speed, performing an insane maneuver in order to get there faster.
The first thing she saw in the day care playground was Erik, who was kicking his way along on a tricycle. A couple of other children were nearby. Ann Lindell recited their names to herself: Gustav, Lisen, Carlos, and Benjamin.
Erik was wearing only a T-shirt. I hope he doesn’t catch a cold, she thought. But he was like that, it didn’t matter what you put on him, jackets and sweaters ended up being pulled off.
She walked up, lifted him off the tricycle, and took him into her arms.
“We’re going home,” she said.
Fifty-Three
“No signs of forced entry in the apartment, no drugs other than a couple of grams in a bag on the table in the living room, no outer injuries on Rosenberg, probable cause of death an overdose of what we believe to be cocaine,” Sammy Nilsson summed up his report.
Allan Fredriksson pinched the bridge of his nose. Ottosson helped himself to a cookie. Bea stood leaning against the wall. Barbro Liljendahl was the only one who looked even moderately fresh. It was a little past eight in the evening.
God, how he munches, Sammy Nilsson thought, and watched Ottosson put yet another cookie in his mouth, followed by a sip of coffee.
“I see,” Ottosson said and stared longingly at the plate of cookies, but apparently realized that three were more than enough and sank back into the chair with a sigh. “He was a longtime addict,” he went on, “and that speaks both for and against an overdose. He should have known better.”
Barbro Liljendahl coughed.
“Yes,” Ottosson said and nodded at her. “You met with him recently, what do you have to say?”
“I don’t think he took the needle willingly,” she said.
She had been called in by Ottosson and was now participating in a case review with the violent crimes unit for the first time.
“He seemed completely free of drugs when we met last. Granted, he still had some of the drug addicts’ mannerisms, but if I were to guess I don’t think he was an active user. This is also the picture I got when I went around with questions. One detail that may be of interest is that Rosenberg never used to do cocaine. He kept to amphetamines. This may of course be a contributing factor in the overdose. He may simply have been unused to cocaine.”
“Maybe he had a relapse?” Nilsson said, and his eyes lit up momentarily. “He was feeling under pressure; then it’s easy to turn to something comforting, like when we pour ourselves a drink.”
Bea sighed.
“Well, what do you do? Eat a carrot?”
“Lay off!”
Ottosson broke in before Sammy had time to reply. “We know that Rosenberg had contact with Slobodan. Barbro has established this and Ann has made similar observations, among others noting the fact that Konrad was a customer at Dakar. Barbro’s investigation also indicates that he was aquainted with Sidström. He was stabbed in a drug-related context. Why haven’t we yet nabbed the perpetrator, that young man from Sävja?”
“He’s gone into hiding,” Barbro Liljendahl said. “There’s information indicating that he has been seen in Gottsunda, but it hasn’t been verified yet. Apparently he’s scared. I have questioned his friend, Patrik Willman, and he claims that Zero is terrified of his brothers, perhaps also that a friend of Sidström will take revenge. The funny thing in this context is that Willman’s mother is a waitress at Dakar.”
“Now that’s interesting,” Sammy Nilsson said.
“Eva Willman appears to be a reasonable woman,” Liljendahl went on, “and I don’t think she has anything to do with drugs. She’s simply happy to have a job.”
“A coincidence, in other words,” Ottosson said, but looked doubtful.
“Who would want to see Rosenberg dead?”
Bea’s question hovered in the air. Ottosson reached for another cookie. Sammy Nilsson scratched his head and yawned. Barbro Liljendahl hesitated, but when no one else spoke she tossed out her theory that it was Dakar’s owner, Slobodan Andersson, who had had his henchman Rosenberg murdered, that the latter had potentially been involved in the murder of Armas and that the overdose had perhaps been an act of revenge, or alternatively, a way of silencing a compromising witness to drug dealings.
“Too bad Ann isn’t here,” Ottosson said when Liljendahl had finished. She went bright red and mumbled something about these simply being ideas.
“As good as anything else,” Ottosson said, “But we will have to wait until forensics is done with the apartment and Rosenberg’s car. What is the situation with the immediate family? Have they been notified?”
Bea nodded.
“Good,” Ottosson said. “Then we continued tomorrow morning, but if you can, Barbro, I would like you and Sammy to drop in on that Turkish boy in Sävja tonight, if that is possible.”
“What does that mean?” Sammy said, obviously displeased at the prospect of putting in even more overtime.
“Check out his family and and try to draw out those leads that he has been spotted in Gottsunda.”
“It works for me,” Barbro Liljendahl said.
“Wonderful,” Ottosson said and smiled broadly at her.
“I have to call home,” Sammy said and stood with a grimace, but before he had left the room Ottosson’s cell phone rang.
Ottosson answered, listened for several seconds, then raised his hand to stop Sammy.
“Okey-dokey,” Ottosson said and ended the call.
Everyone looked expectantly at the chief. He was clearly enjoying the situation.
“Give it up,” Sammy said, but he couldn’t help smiling at Ottosson’s boyish expression.
“Speak of the devil,” he said.
“Who?”
“Our young man from Sävja,” Ottosson said. “You don’t have to drive out to the suburbs, the suburbs are coming to us. Babsan and Sammy will take our friend who is waiting anxiously down below.”
Sammy called Zero’s mother, who only understood the word police and, sobbing, handed the phone over to her oldest son, Dogan.
Twenty minutes later Dogan was standing outside the entrance of the police station, ringing the after-hours buzzer, was let in and accompanied by a uniformed officer to the room where both of the police officers and Zero were waiting.
When Dogan caught sight of his brother, he let out a flood of curses. Or that was what Sammy Nilsson guessed the gist was. He put a hand on Dogan’s arm and told him to control himself, then pulled out a chair and asked him to sit.
“It was good that you came, Dogan. Your brother wants to help us,” Sammy Nilsson said, “and we are grateful for this. He came here of his own free will. You can be proud of Zero.”
“Kar,” his brother growled, but sat down.
“I regret everything,” Zero said. “I want to confess.”
Sammy Nilsson turned on the tape recorder and Zero spoke without ceasing for ten minutes. When he finished, they all sat quietly for a moment. Dogan was staring at his brother. Barbro looked touched, while Sammy Nilsson put his hand on Zero’s shoulder.
“That was great, man,” he said, before turning to Dogan. “If I hear a single word about you making trouble for Zero, then you and your brothers will have problems. Understand?”
Dogan looked Sammy Nilsson in the eye and nodded.