The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [112]
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.
Lindell became unsure for a moment. Perhaps the man in the video was not a son at all, it could as well be a nephew or some other relative, but now she could not back down in front of Slobodan.
“Let’s drop this,” she said lightly. “We can talk about Mexico instead.”
Slobodan was caught off-guard. The generously proportioned body trembled and he tried to smile but failed miserably. His gaze shifted between her and the door, as if he was considering running out of the room.
“Why that?”
“The tattoo Armas had means something, doesn’t it? You were with him in Guadalajara. And that’s in Mexico.”
Lindell had to concentrate to pronounce the words correctly. Slobodan said nothing, so she carried on.
“That’s why we need to talk about Mexico. Why did Armas choose a Mexican god and what could it mean to the person who killed him?”
“I have no idea. How would I …”
“You have to focus,” Lindell interrupted him. “What connection did the two of you have to Mexico?”
“Okay, we were there,” Slobodan said compliantly, “but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s possible that Armas got a tattoo there, I can’t really remember. We partied some and I was probably not …”
He fell silent. Lindell studied the sweaty man in front of her as if he were a new apparition, someone who had slipped into her office and whose identity she was trying to figure out.
“What were you doing in Mexico?” she said, breaking the silence that for Slobodan, Lindell assumed, must have felt like a decade.
He suddenly became enthusiastic and leaned forward.
“We had some cash flow problems, you have probably already established this. We were maintaining a low profile, I admit this freely, but we kept our side of the bargain. The tax authorities received their due, didn’t they? And when times are tough you try to live cheaply and Mexico is affordable. You can find a hotel room for ten dollars. No luxuries, but you can survive.”
“But then you came back?”
Slobodan nodded. His breathing was labored after his speech.
“And kept your side of the bargain. But the question is where the money came from. Did