The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [47]
She heard the girls laughing behind her. They probably knew that the police were out. Tomorrow all of Sävja and half of Bergsbrunna would know.
She stopped under a streetlight. Was there any sense in running around like this? She was convinced Hugo was calling around to all the friends.
Patrik was wanted by the police, he was most likely aware of it by now and God only knew what the child was going to do.
She ran the last part home. The assembly of young people in the yard had dispersed. The light was still on in Helen’s apartment. Darkness descended over the area. A tawny owl started to make its call.
Her cell phone rang at that moment.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“What have you done?”
“Nothing. It’s just the cops who—”
“Tell me about the assault!”
She could hear Patrik’s breaths.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure. What did the cops say?”
“You are the one who should tell me what’s happened,” Eva said. “They talked about a man who had been stabbed.”
“It was Zero.”
“Zero was the one who did this? Were you there?”
“I have to stop now. I’ll be home later.”
“You come straight home. Now.”
“I think the cops are keeping an eye on the building.”
Eva looked around. There was nothing that indicated that the police were present, but Eva realized they would hardly park in the middle of the yard.
“I want to see you. Think about Hugo, he’s also worried.”
Patrik was quiet and Eva knew he was thinking it over.
“The community gardens, go there.”
“How will I—?”
“I’ll see you when you come.”
Patrik hung up. Eva stood frozen for a while, then she called Hugo.
Seventeen
The bar at Alhambra was the place that Slobodan Andersson liked best. Dakar was okay, he dropped by there every evening at eight o’clock to have a grappa, but it was at Alhambra that everything had started, really gotten going. Here he had planned and discussed things with Armas. Slobodan recalled how the tight anxiety mingled with the triumphant feeling of doing exactly the right thing, how they laid out the plans and went through the details again and again. Armas had a feeling for the small details, those that could mean the difference between catastrophe and success. He never left anything to chance. In a few words he steered Slobodan where he wanted. Slobodan was sometimes struck by the suspicion that he was inferior to Armas and knew that he more than once had Armas to thank for his successes.
Strangely enough Slobodan was worried. That did not happen often. Perhaps it was Armas’s comment about the computer, that the police could easily retrieve even those messages that had been deleted. Slobodan wondered for a long time if this could be true, but by now the machine had been taken apart and discarded, and Armas had purchased a new laptop and installed it before he left for Spain.
Slobodan sat at the short end of the bar, smoked a cigarette, and observed those who came and went, greeting old customers with a nod or a brief handshake, exchanging a few words but not embarking on more extensive conversations.
Alhambra was doing well. He registered every transaction that Jonas and Frances made with the cash register, not the sums but the sound of the fingers on the buttons and the click when the cash drawer popped out.
He recalled how, at the start of his restaurant career, he had stared at the figures every evening, counted and figured, compared and planned, wished. Now he no longer had to be so concerned; still, he kept a daily check on how the business was doing. He trusted his staff. He was the one who had hired them, and to question their competency and honor was to dismiss his own judgment. In the case of Gonzo at Dakar he had been wrong, but now that mistake had been corrected. Despite Armas’s protests he had allowed Gonzo to work a couple more