The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [142]
“Smaller airports and the Öresund bridge appear to be more popular these days,” the drug detective answered drily.
“Alavez is a peaceful man, according to Norrtälje,” Sammy Nilsson said. “It is most likely that he did not partake in the preparations. Apparently he was roped in during the excitement. But how can we really know? It may have been an act. During the investigation and trial he refused to say on whose behalf he had traveled to Sweden. According to his ticket he was traveling from Bilbao, and two days before that had come directly from Mexico. He may have contacts outside prison who are willing to help him, especially in view of the fact that he did not rat on anyone.”
“Both Slobodan and Armas were in Mexico two years ago,” Lindell interrupted.
“You mean that they recruited this peaceful Mexican at that time?” Morenius asked.
“It’s possible,” Lindell said. “We’ve determined that Slobodan returned with money. The drug trade is as good a guess as a lottery win.”
“We’ll go into Dakar, Alhambra, and his apartment at the same time,” Ottosson said and glanced at the district attorney, who did not appear to be fully awake yet and did not appear to have any comments.
“We believe Slobodan Andersson is currently at home. The lights were on in his apartment at half past eleven last night. The guys from surveillance thought they saw Andersson in the window, but we cannot be sure, and we also do not know if he is alone. No one has left the apartment, at any rate.”
Ann Lindell was looking forward to the raid. The look on the face of the arrogant restauranteur alone would be worth it. This time they had a little more to show for themselves, in part about Mexico, but also surrounding Slobodan’s connections with Rosenberg. He had some explaining to do and simpy the knowledge that they were going through his apartment and his two restaurants with a fine-toothed comb would make him extra nervous. He was shaken, Lindell was sure about that. Behind the self-assured mask, there was genuine concern.
At exactly eight o’clock—Sammy Nilsson read the time from his thirty-year-old Certina—Slobodan Andersson’s apartment was pierced by the ringing of his doorbell.
The sound of coughing and dragging footsteps approaching the front door were heard from inside.
“Who is it?”
“Sammy Nilsson from the police.”
A new cough and thereafter the rustle of a chain and then the door opened several inches.
“Good morning,” Sammy Nilsson said and gave Slobodan Andersson a wide grin.
“What do you want? It’s the middle of the night, damn it!”
“Open up and I’ll explain.”
Slobodan Andersson sighed, opened the door, and started at the sight of five officers standing in the hallway.
Fifteen minutes later he left the apartment in the company of Sammy Nilsson and Barbro Liljendahl.
The first thing Slobodan Andersson was asked to do at the police station was to have his fingerprints taken. He did this without protest but then refused to utter a word until his lawyer arrived.
During this time the police embarked on their search of his apartment and the two restaurants. They had collected the keys to Alhambra and Dakar from a groggy Oskar Hammer, the head chef at Alhambra, who for the past few years had been waiting for exactly this, that one day the police would be standing outside his door. A technician was dispatched to each restaurant. The head of forensics, the semiretired Eskil Ryde, took care of the apartment.
The canine unit consisting of officer Sven Knorring and the Jessica the Labrador went through the apartment first but found nothing. Not a single indication of drugs anywhere.
At Dakar, an expectant Ann Lindell followed Jessica’s sniffing at tables and chairs, through the kitchen, cold storage, and staff areas.
“Clinically clean,” Knorring summed up.
Lindell was about to ask if the dog was one hundred percent reliable but stopped herself at the last second. They decided to walk to Alhambra. Downtown stores were opening, people were starting to fill the streets, and those who recognized Ann Lindell—and they were