The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [25]
And even if she had basically mastered the pronunciation then the question remained about what it meant. She had no idea what “confit” and concassé were, or if “Gevrey Chambertin” was a red or white wine.
She hoped that Tessie would have patience and that the guests would not get irritated or make fun of her.
Eva had decided she would try not to talk too much. If she adopted a calm attitude and did not chatter on, the guests could get the impression that she was skilled and reliable. She couldn’t screw up this job. Whatever it took, she was going to become a knowledgeable and quick-witted waitress, someone Slobodan Andersson could rely on.
This was not only a job, it was her entry to another life. That was how she felt. She was going to enter new areas, meet people other than the same old in Sävja and in the ICA store in Vilan, and become more interesting herself. She did not know anyone who worked at a restaurant, there were not many among her few acquaintances who were in the habit of going out to eat. Now she would be able to talk about something beyond the usual.
Suddenly she was frightened. What if it didn’t work out?
“Hugo!” she cried out. “It’s time!”
There was no sense in calling Patrik, he had to be shaken awake in the mornings.
Ten
A piece of whale carcass that had washed ashore—that was how Haver had described the body, and Ann Lindell understood why as she studied the photographs that were arranged in a row on the table.
The feeling of revulsion was mixed with equal parts tingling anticipation.
“Do you believe me when I say that all investigators love a murder?” Ottosson had asked her many years ago. Back then she had dismissed his statement as absurd, now she was prepared to admit he was right.
Even the fact that she was given a reason to walk up to the wall map gave meaning to her life, and she studied it with the resolute concentration of a general, following the course of the Fyris river, memorizing new names and wondering if she had ever been to the Sunnersta hole, the old hillside gravel pit that had become a ski slope.
Her gaze traveled from the ridge to the river and located Lugnet. In the river, in the reeds, lay a human body that in Ola Haver’s eyes had been transformed to a lump of flesh.
The body had been discovered by two boys who had been throwing rocks at the wild ducks that lived in the reeds. One of the boys, eleven years of age, had stayed by the body while his friend had run across a paddock and up to the road in order to flag down a car.
When Haver later asked the eleven-year-old why he had remained behind, if he hadn’t found it creepy, the boy had replied that he didn’t want the birds pecking at the man.
Even though Lindell had lived in Uppsala for many years, she had never taken the road between Nåntuna and Flottsund. Fredriksson had said that it was a beautiful road, especially in spring. He liked to watch the birds that gathered along the Fyris river. In April, the northern lapwings held a great conference on the open fields by the Flottsund bridge.
“Then I know it’s spring,” Fredriksson said. He had two interests: birds and harness racing.
Ottosson even had a literary reference. He claimed that the Swedish writer Göran Tunström had written a novel that was partly set in this area, and that the book was worth reading. Ottosson offered to bring it in if anyone was interested, but no one responded.
Lindell let them talk without interrupting. Instead, she focused on her own tension, increasing her enjoyment.
“Could it be a boating accident?” Ottosson threw out, while he examined the police photographs. “Perhaps he fell overboard?”
He was leaning over the images.
“With his throat cut?”
“Yes, an outboard motor,” Ottosson said, and turned his head to give her a look that said: agree with me, let it be a tragic accident.
It took several seconds before Lindell understood what he meant.
“In his underwear and nothing else?” she said.
“No, of course not,” Ottosson muttered.
“Who is he?”
“He doesn’t really look Swedish,” Fredriksson said.
“What