The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [143]
Alhambra was lit up. Charles Morgansson came to meet them and took on the role of maître d’.
“Have you made a reservation?” he inquired politely, and scratched Jessica’s ear. But the dog paid no attention to the technician, pulling on her leash, straining to go in deeper.
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.