“Do you think the brother was involved in the break out?”
“I do, actually,” Lindell said. “The visit in prison was perhaps a last instruction on how the escape was going to be executed. That Patricio Alavez playacted for the cameras has no significance. Maybe he had some last-minute hesitation because the escape was not proceeding as he had been instructed.”
“The hostage?”
“According to Norrtälje he was a peaceful sort and he may have objected to the amount of force that the taking of a hostage involves.”
“The Norrtälje police say that they spread out. At least two cars were left in the woods where they dumped the van. But why would any of them want to get to Uppsala? If they now-”
The telephone interrupted his train of thought. He lifted the receiver and listened for a minute, hummed in response a couple of times, thanked the speaker for the information and hung up.
“Björnsson and Brügger were apprehended one hour ago in Stockholm. The idiots tried to rob a post office. How stupid can you be? The Västerort police are going to get in touch right away if and when they uncover anything of interest.”
“Brilliant,” Lindell underscored. “Two down.”
“And our Mexican friends and the Spaniard remain,” Ottosson said cheerfully.
Police questioning of Slobodan Andersson was resumed after lunch. Lindell went down to listen. She recalled their exchange of ideas about the food served in jails and prisons. Now he would get to test it for himself, and the prospect filled her with great joy.
Sammy Nilsson and Barbro Liljendahl handled the continued sessions. Lindell entered the room while Simone Motander-Banks was launching into a lecture on the violation of rights by law enforcement. Everyone, including the apprehended man, was staring at her with dull eyes. Slobodan did not indicate with any change of expression that he had registered Lindell’s arrival.
Once the lawyer was finished, Sammy Nilsson nodded kindly. He did not comment on the criticism but instead turned on the tape recorder with a sardonic grin and recorded the particulars of the session.
This time they were focused on Slobodan’s circle of acquaintances. They started with Konrad Rosenberg, where the answers given were the same as earlier in the day: they had no association, he only knew Rosenberg as a customer and he had no idea why or how he had died.
Barbro Liljendahl dropped this topic and Sammy took over. He again tried to review Slobodan’s Mexican adventures but even here nothing new emerged. When Sammy Nilsson broached the topic of Lorenzo Wader, Slobodan straightened his back. For Lindell it was obvious that the predictable answers from his side concealed an increasing concern and perhaps also astonishment. It was as if Slobodan Andersson was gradually starting to realize that the police were in possession of unexpected information, and that he himself was only a pawn in a game that he had believed he controlled.
“Wader and I have chatted two or three times. He is in the habit of coming to the restaurant, having a beer and a bite to eat. Why do you ask about him? I know nothing.”
“We have information indicating that he associated with Konrad Rosenberg,” Sammy Nilsson said.
The restauranteur stared at him.
“I know nothing about that,” he said, tension causing his voice to crack.
“What about Olaf González then?”
“What about him?”
“He works at-” Nilsson began.
“Not anymore!”
“Not only that, he has disappeared. Would you happen to know where he has gone?”
Slobodan shook his head.
“Is that a no?”
“No!”
“Your former waiter has also been in contact with Lorenzo Wader,” Sammy went on. “They have been seen together both at the hotel Linné and at Pub 19. It’s remarkable how observant waitstaff can be.”
“The swine,” Slobodan Andersson let slip.
“Why did he get fired?” Sammy asked.
“It was some tiff with Armas. I don’t know. I can’t keep my eye on everything,” Slobodan said grimly.
“No, that is very apparent,” Sammy Nilsson said.
At one point in the session, Slobodan Andersson lifted his heavy head and gave Lindell a hateful look. She smiled back.
Slobodan Andersson made a swift and almost imperceptible gesture with his finger over his throat.
“Can you tell me more about the man who gave you the bag,” Sammy Nilsson said.
Slobodan Andersson shook his head.
“I don’t believe my client has anything to add on this topic,” the lawyer said.
The session was brought to an end, but before Slobodan was led back to his cell, Ann Lindell asked him what he thought of the food.
Sammy stared at her. Lindell gave her sunniest smile. Slobodan muttered something and lumbered after the jail guard.
Sixty
Oskar Hammer from Alhambra, Donald from Dakar, and Svante Winbladh from Ehrlings accounting firm concluded their hastily arranged meeting with the decision to keep the restaurants going-starting up again the day after tomorrow-even though their owner was being held in custody.
The news that cocaine was involved had dropped like a bomb. None of the three would have guessed that their boss and taskmaster had devoted himself to the smuggling and selling of narcotics. Svante Winbladh was the one who was the most distraught.
“It is completely inexcusable that we should have to be pulled into something like this,” he exclaimed. “It is bad for our reputation as serious-”
“Calm down,” Oskar Hammer interrupted. “You’re clean, aren’t you?”
The accountant gave him an antagonistic look.
“I don’t think you fully understand the impact,” he said and got to his feet.
“Yes, I do,” Oskar Hammer said. “This is about our jobs. Donald, can you call around to all the Dakar staff?”
Donald nodded. He had not said much during the meeting, had only aired his exasperation with the fact that there would probably be new rounds of questioning with all the employees.
His immediate thought had been to quit, but he had decided to stay and see how the whole thing played out. He knew that Hammer was planning to take over Alhambra, and he himself had toyed with the idea of buying out Dakar and running the restaurant on his own.
Hammer and Donald left the accounting firm and returned to their respective restaurants. They had been promised the reservation books so that they could call the customers who had booked tables for that evening.
The forensic investigation continued at Dakar. Donald exchanged a few words with a criminal investigator he knew from before and found out that the cocaine that had been seized at Alhambra had been worth around three million kronor on the street.
“But what do you hope to find here?”
“Something,” the officer said. “We don’t know what.”
“But no drugs here, or what?”
Donald would have taken it as a personal insult if they had found cocaine on “his” premises.
“I can’t comment on that.”
Donald left the restaurant and walked the short way home in order to start his calls. This was a job he most of all wanted to avoid.
He started with Feo, who in turn promised to call Eva. Thereafter he dialed Johnny’s number.
Eva Willman’s first emotion was anger, followed by shame. She was working for a man who sold drugs. Incredible. How would she be able to tell Helen? Her friend was spending a great deal of her spare time right now trying to convince the neighbors to attend the meeting about drugs in the area. Eva would not be able to go. It would be too shameful.
Her joy at having a job was blown away. Feo had said that everything would continue as before, but Eva had her doubts. How would the customers react? Who would want to eat at the trafficking center for a cocaine ring?
And what would Patrik and Hugo say?
She sat anesthetized at the kitchen table and recalled the joy she had felt earlier; the bike ride to the city and back, how she already felt more fit, the feeling of putting on the black skirt and the neat blouse, her new appearance that the hairstyle and her more conscious application of makeup gave her, the appreciation of the diners, that she had been given one hundred kronor by the young lovers, the talk with her coworkers, the incipient friendship with Tessie. Yes, everything that had happened at Dakar since the first nervous beginning had promised a different and better life.