The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [40]
Manuel went through the events again and again and discovered to his surprise that there was a bizarre feeling of distance in the deadly conflict by the river. He had never been to a theater, only had a performance described to him, but it was in this way that he imagined a drama, that he and Armas were actors in a play.
The beautiful nature around him, the clearing framed with the green of the trees, roses with pale red rosehips, brush at whose feet there were dark green leaves and in the distance the cackling of sea birds from the reeds, this is what the scene had looked like for a drama of life and death.
The roles had been simple, likewise the dramaturgy: one man prepared to kill and the other forced to do so. They needed no directions, life itself provided the dialogue and action.
It was a drama that Manuel could see from the outside, as if he was no longer an actor but forced to be a passive viewer, one in the audience. And from that position he could see the archetypal in what had happened, frightening and full of anguish, as a drama without artifice.
The feeling of unreality, that he had cut the throat of another human being and dumped him into the water as if he was a bag of trash, had grown stronger afterward. Armas was no longer real. His death had nothing to do with Manuel.
Fifteen
It sometimes happened that Ann Lindell woke up beautiful. It happened at varying intervals, more often in spring and summer, so that she was both surprised, as if someone had unexpectedly complimented her, and also struck by a familiar happiness, as on a fine summer morning when one goes outside and steps into the sun.
She stretched out in bed as if to identify her limbs, and really feel that all the parts of her body belonged together. That it was she, Ann, who lay there, half awake., half lingering in sleep, still brushing the dream that was perhaps the source of her well-being.
The warmth under the covers did her good. She almost always slept nude, in contact with her body. Sometimes she kept her panties on, with a mixed feeling of intimacy and need for protection. She did not know how she should describe the feeling, but didn’t care. That was simply how it was, and that was enough.
She stroked her stomach and breasts in a weightless state of rest.
Erik would wake up soon, probably in a good mood, as he usually was in the mornings.
Ottosson laughed when he caught sight of Lindell, she on her way in, he on his way out of the elevator.
“Look at you,” he said.
“If you like,” she replied, and smiled.
He turned and before the elevator doors slid shut he explained that he would be back in five minutes.
It took ten minutes before Ottosson joined them. The others who were investigating the murder of “Jack” were already in place.
“I’m sorry,” Ottosson said, “but the elevator was on strike.”
What little in the way of reports was available was quickly processed.
The murder victim was still unidentified. His fingerprints were not registered. Investigators from the drug, surveillance, and economic crimes units had checked the photographs without recognizing him.
“Jack” had been dead when he hit the water, there had been no difficulty in determining this. Despite the cut left by the removal of the tattoo, there were no wounds on the body other than the slit throat.
“But that’s enough,” Haver added.
After the meeting, Lindell went into Ottosson’s office and told him about Viola. She could have run out without telling him, but after last year’s mistake of setting off on an individual investigation, an adventure that almost cost her life, she was eager to keep Ottosson informed, even if a visit to the hospital was not normally associated with any danger.
“Of course you have to go see her,” Ottosson said.
To find a parking space close to entrance 70 at the Akademiska Hospital turned out to be a challenge. Ann lost patience in the end, parked her car at the corner of a construction site, tossed her police identification