Lindell noticed a change in the officer’s expression as well. It was as if he and the dog were one. Jessica whimpered pleadingly and Sven Knorring nodded to Lindell and let the dog go. She immediately took off through the dining room.
Knorring followed. Morgansson and Lindell followed them with their eyes. There was total silence. Only the click of the Labrador’s claws against the lacquered wood floor could be heard.
The lawyer Simone Motander-Banks was a vision. Sammy Nilsson could not help staring at the woman who swept into the questioning chamber as if it were a cocktail party. She was dressed in a tight skirt, a light-colored jacket, and high heels. A wide gold bracelet dangled on one wrist. She smiled tightly, ignored the foolishly staring Sammy Nilsson and the bewildered Barbro Liljendahl and turned to the restaurant owner.
“You have definitely lost weight,” she said. “It suits you.”
“Simone,” Slobodan Andersson said, “wonderful to see you.”
For a few moments he appeared to have regained his self-assurance, stood up and kissed her on the cheek. Sammy Nilsson observed that Slobodan Andersson for a moment studied her remarkable earring. He then suavely engaged the lawyer in conversation, completely ignoring the two detectives.
“I’m glad you were able to come down on such short notice,” Sammy Nilsson said, taking advantage of a pause in the bright chatter.
The lawyer had all of the characteristics Sammy Nilsson found hardest to bear: arrogance and pretentiousness, complemented by a disdain for the police, as if they were a lower order of beings engaged in a filthy profession which they practiced with a halfhearted sloppiness. He had heard one of the city’s more renowned attorneys refer to the police as “farm hands.”
The lawyer and Slobodan sat down. Simone was cool, with crossed legs and her hands demurely clasped in her lap, the restaurant owner sweaty, heavy, and somewhat out of breath.
“Well, now,” Sammy Nilsson began, after first recording the particulars of the questioning session on the tape recorder, “we have some things to sort out here. First Mexico. What were you and Armas doing there?”
“Vacation,” Slobodan answered quickly.
“No acquaintances there? No deals? Business connections?”
“No.”
“You have spoken with my colleague Ann Lindell about this.”
“Exactly,” Slobodan Andersson replied, then added, “I don’t know why we have to go on about Mexico. Are there laws against going there?”
“Of course not. Perhaps I or one of my colleagues will be fortunate enough to have reason to go there. We simply want to get to the bottom of why Armas got his tattoo. We now know where it happened. We also know that you were present. The tattoo artist, Sammy Ramiréz, remembers you very well. But why did the symbol that Armas chose for his tattoo come to play a role at his death?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“We believe that the person who slit your partner’s throat had a motive that was grounded in Mexico. Therefore the tattoo played a role.”
Slobodan Andersson stared at the policeman, astonished.
“Quetzalcóatl,” Sammy Nilsson read with some effort after first consulting his notes, “was apparently meaningful, and not only for Armas.”
“What are you talking about?” Slobodan asked.
“The killer removed the tattoo from Armas’s arm. He skinned your friend.”
Slobodan Andersson’s jaw literally dropped and in his eyes there was only confusion and doubt.
“Skinned,” he repeated foolishly.
“That’s why we need you to talk about Mexico.”
“Would you like something to drink?” Simone Motander-Banks asked, and at the same time shot both of the detectives an exasperated glance.
Slobodan shook his head.
“I don’t know anything about the tattoo,” he said hoarsely.
Barbro Liljendahl rose, left the room, and returned quickly with a pitcher of water and some glasses.
Sammy Nilsson poured a glass and placed it in front of Slobodan before he continued.
“Talk about Patricio Alavez. Was he the one you met in Mexico?”
Slobodan’s hand, which had just grabbed hold of the glass, shook and he spilled water onto the table.
“Oops,” Sammy Nilsson said cheerfully.
“I would like to know on what grounds you are subjecting my client to this attack,” the lawyer said.
“I’m happy to oblige,” Sammy Nilsson said and leaned forward. “We have good reason to believe that your client has smuggled cocaine into this country to the estimated value of at least three million. Does that count as reason enough?”
The demolishing of Slobodan Andersson’s line of defense continued. Sammy Nilsson continued to systematically counter each attempt at explanation and denial. When Slobodan was asked about his contact with Konrad Rosenberg he at first denied all knowledge of him, but was then forced to concede that he had a faint memory of a guest named Rosenberg.
“Your friend Konrad is also dead,” Sammy Nilsson announced brutally. “Cocaine became his death.”
At this point Simone Motander-Banks interrupted the proceedings for a private consultation with her client. Both of the detectives left the room.
“Yes,” Sammy Nilsson said, and sat down in a chair in the little lounge outside the questioning room, but got to his feet almost at once.
“Can we pin Armas’s murder on him as well?” Barbro Liljendahl wondered.
“I doubt it,” Sammy said. “He has a good alibi. At least twenty people had confirmed that he was at Alhambra all evening.”
“He could have hired someone.”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think he wanted Armas dead. Ann doesn’t think so either. But we’ll put him away on the drug charge. I’m one hundred percent certain that his prints are on that bag.”
They resumed the session. The detectives had anticipated a counterattack from the lawyer, but she was surprisingly passive when Sammy Nilsson turned the tape recorder back on.
“Alhambra,” he began. “Isn’t it careless to keep so much cocaine there? We found a bag in your office that-”
“I don’t know anything about a bag!”
“We have secured a number of prints and it is only a matter of time before we can establish if yours are among them,” Sammy Nilsson said calmly.
“I’ve been set up!” Slobodan Andersson exclaimed. “It’s a trap. Don’t you get it? That briefcase was given to me by-”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know,” Slobodan Andersson muttered.
“You can do better than that,” Barbro Liljendahl said.
He lifted his head and stared at her as if she were an alien. In his eyes, she read that the coming retreat would not be orderly, that everything that followed would in fact be panic, lies, and condemnation. The police held all the trump cards.
Slobodan Andersson’s enormous body appeared to have lost all control and sunk down on the chair. He muttered something that no one present was able to catch.
Fifty-Seven
Ever since Eva Willman woke up at six o’clock that morning she had wondered if she should contact the police.
The escape from the Norrtälje prison had been allotted a great deal of space in the paper. She had read every line with an increasing sense of anxiety and indecision. She stared at the photograph of Manuel’s brother. They were very alike.
Where are they now, she wondered, and recalled Manuel’s awkwardness about all things Swedish. He had displayed a sweeping lack of knowledge about the country and Uppsala.
She believed him when he had pleaded ignorance about his brother’s escape. Perhaps not last night-then there had only been room for surprise and bitterness at his duplicity-but now in hindsight, as she recalled his assurances and above all his expression, she was prepared to take him at his word.