The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [165]
“I believe it,” Lindell said, “but if we go back to the man that you saw. Why are you calling now, several days after you saw him?”
“I saw it in the paper. He looked like the one in the picture. The one you are looking for. I told Carl-Ragnar I had to call.”
“That was excellent,” Lindell said. “Could we possibly come by with some photographs for you to look at?”
“You will do as you like. I am home until noon. Then I have to go to the hospital.”
“Nothing serious, I hope,” Lindell said and immediately cursed her amateurishness.
After the conversation, which had continued for several minutes with talk about the woman’s many female friends who were doing poorly, she dialed first Bea’s number then changed her mind and called Sammy Nilsson instead. She gave him the delicate task of compiling a collection of pictures and visiting a charming lady who lived in Slobodan Andersson’s neighborhood.
The third tip had come in that morning regarding an observation made in the vicinity of the Fyris river. A man with the unusual surname Koort from Bälinge had seen two men camping not far from Ulva mill north of Uppsala. They were foreigners and according to the notes that had been made, the man had thought they worked in the nearby strawberry fields. But when he had bumped into the farmer yesterday by the river and mentioned the two men, the farmer had denied that any of his employees were camping.
Lindell dialed the number. Mrs. Koort answered. Istvan Koort had left to go fishing.
“He will be back for lunch, hopefully without fish,” his wife sighed.
“Does he have a cell phone?”
“Not when he’s fishing.”
“Where was he going?”
“He tends to stay around Ulva.”
Lindell asked her to call as soon as he returned home.
After the three calls, Lindell felt more confident that the Alavez brothers would soon be located and arrested. The likelihood that they would manage to remain hidden in the long run were small. She checked the time. Five to nine. Time for a first cup of coffee.
At 06:43, three minutes delayed, Ryan Air flight FR51 took off from Skavsta airport outside Nyköping. Abel and Carlos Morales were on board. The check-in had gone smoothly. A brief glance in their passports, some phrases in English, and a wish that they have a good trip. That was all.
Then they had gone aboard and taken their seats without saying a single word to each other. From the window, Manuel had watched the contours of the city recede into the distance. It was his last glimpse of Sweden before he leaned back and closed his eyes.
At 07:57 local time, the plane prepared for landing at Standsted airport, north of London. Manuel drank the last of his coffee and checked his watch. A couple of minutes to nine.
Epilogue
The landscape resembled a brown-green weave in which the cultivated fields were patterns in a warp consisting of the sharp mountain ridges. After a moment he grew dizzy from staring out the window and closed his eyes.
The ripple of voices of expectant travelers rose the same speed as the plane sank through the layers of air. He opened his eyes and looked around. As far as he could tell, he was the only white man in the cabin.
He folded his tray table. It had been a long trip but he would soon be at its end. If he had understood the details correctly there were buses that went up into the mountains. If not, he would have to rent a car and maybe someone to guide him. He had a generous travel kitty.
The mountains looked ominous. How could people live this way? Was it really possible to grow anything in this broken terrain?
He saw the plane’s shadow on the ground. It looked like a hawk darting forward. The shadow grew clearer. They would be landing shortly.
His mission was simple. The only thing that worried him was the possibility of catching a stomach bug. He hated suffering from uncontrolled diarrhea.
Gerardo’s only son, Enrico, came rushing down the alley under the Alavez family’s house. Manuel and Patricio were on the