The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [155]
Together with Sammy Nilsson and Beatrice Andersson, Lindell tried to evaluate the situation in the three intertwined cases—Armas, Konrad, and Slobodan—and thereafter decide how to proceed.
Armas’s murder was still unsolved, but in all likelihood they knew who the perpetrator was: Manuel Alavez. Whether he had acted in self-defense or not could not yet be determined.
Nothing had emerged that contradicted the idea that Konrad Rosenberg had overdosed. His connection to the cocaine cache and Zero’s claim that Konrad Rosenberg was a drug distributor clearly made him interesting, but they could get no further.
Sidström, who had now been discharged from the Akademiska Hospital, had acknowledged the connection to Rosenberg and admitted that he himself had “bought some” cocaine, though mainly for his own consumption but also that he had “sold some that was left over.”
Slobodan Andersson was caught. He was awaiting sentencing on charges of drug possession and would presumably disappear from the restaurant world for many years to come—of this all three detectives were certain. There was the bag with two sets of fingerprints, Konrad’s and Slobodan’s. The only thing that could be considered unusual was the fact that they had found a number of dried leaves in the bag, which Allan Fredriksson had identified as hawthorne.
Slobodan’s silence and unwillingness to cooperate, however, had meant that the case opened and closed with him. Konrad was dead and could not add anything.
There was nothing to indicate that the staff at either Dakar or Alhambra were involved or knew about their boss’s hobby. The only uncertain card was González. He had moved out of his apartment, a rented studio in Luthagen, and disappeared without a trace. This did not have to mean anything untoward. He had been fired and perhaps decided the best course of action was to leave town. One of the chefs at Dakar had said something about González talking about going back to Norway. Lindell put Fryklund on it.
“We only have one hope,” Lindell said, “and that is that Manuel Alavez tries to leave the country on his booked flight tomorrow.”
“How likely is that?” Ola Haver asked. “Then he must be incredibly stupid.”
“Let’s hope so,” Lindell said with a shrug.
“How the hell can two Mexicans lie so low?” Sammy Nilsson asked. “Someone must be helping them.”
“They’re hanging in Månkarbo,” Lindell said with a tired grin.
Sixty-Two
The inner yard was even darker than Manuel remembered. He looked around. Two windows in the level above Dakar were lit. Apart from this the entire courtyard was dark and he realized that the light on the wall, that earlier had blinked on and off, had now gone out for good.
The wind had picked up and paper and other garbage was lifted up in tight whirls by the strong breeze.
He moved with the utmost caution, staying away from the rectangles of light that the illuminated windows created in the yard, crept over to the bike rack, and then to the garbage containers outside Dakar’s staff entrance. The stench was overpowering. A mixture of rotten fish and sour milk that made him hold his nose as he crouched down behind one of the containers.
After a while he grew used to the smell and was able to relax. He leaned against the wall in a pose reminiscent of all the hours he had sat waiting for work.
Suddenly one of the rectangles of light in the yard went out, and the lamp in the front hall of the entrance next to Dakar went on. Through the windows of the stairwell Manuel could see a man walk down the stairs and step out into the yard. Whistling, he unlocked a bike and left.
The stairwell went dark and Manuel’s heart rate slowly went back to normal.
He tried not to think about the fat one even if it bothered him that he had not been able to trip him up completely. Maybe he could get in touch with the police anonymously? During the days in the shed he had thought out various alternatives but dismissed them all. He could not risk Patricio’s flight out of the country