The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [49]
“How do you like Uppsala?”
“A nice city,” Lorenzo said. “A good size, manageable. Good for the soul. A little calmer, but nonetheless open to possibilities.”
He spoke in short sentences, with an imperceptible accent that Slobodan believed to be Spanish. Lorenzo leaned back and his gaze lingered on Frances as she walked by with a tray.
“A beautiful woman,” he said and Slobodan had the impression that he included the waitress in his assessment of Uppsala. But Frances was anything but manageable, definitely not calm and open to possibilities.
“Her husband has run away,” Slobodan said. “No one knows where he is and Frances is walking around like a loose hand grenade.”
Slobodan wanted to get Lorenzo started, get him to talk, but the information about Frances’s husband did not alter Lorenzo’s relaxed posture and did not appear to whet his curiosity.
“I am sure he will turn up,” he simply said, but continued to watch Frances, as if weighing his chances.
Slobodan waved his hand and Jonas, who had learned to interpret the least little gesture of his boss, immediately poured a small glass of beer that he brought to the table.
“I have lived in this town for a long time,” Slobodan said.
“Yes?”
“If you should need any assistance, I mean.”
“And what would that be?”
Slobodan was beginning to hate the pleasantly smiling Lorenzo and his superior attitude.
“You tell me,” Slobodan said and smiled sardonically.
He took a gulp of beer, stood up from the table with an excuse about unfinished paperwork, and left Lorenzo.
The brief conversation with Lorenzo had irritated Slobodan. Above all it was the patronizing tone that bore witness to an unusual degree of arrogance. Slobodan was accustomed to being treated with a great deal more respect.
It had also unsettled him. It was news to him that Lorenzo knew Armas from before, and it was not a good thing. Armas was his and Slobodan felt something that could be characterized as jealousy. In addition, Lorenzo was much too cocky. Slobodan had encountered this attitude many times and had never had any problems breaking the most brazen and obstinate fellow. But this man had an authority that not only testified to self-confidence but also about an ability to create problems.
Slobodan thought about Armas. If only everything worked out on this trip to Basque. He was taking a risk in sending Armas, but there was no alternative this time. If anything went wrong and the transport failed he would lose a great deal of money and possibly lose his best friend and partner. It was in the pot and Armas knew it. Even so, he had not protested. Even he knew how much this meant.
Slobodan had decided that they would thereafter take it easy for half a year, maybe even a year. One thing he had learned and that was not to try to bite off too much. One had to think big, but only in one’s own league. Then one could, if everything went well, eventually qualify for a higher league.
He checked the time. If he knew Armas, then he was already in southern Sweden.
Slobodan smiled to himself as he came to think of his time in Malmö and the “German swine.” The memory had bothered him for a long time, how he had been bullied and humiliated, but now he could think back on the whole episode with greater calm. The German had been made to pay. It did him good to think of it.
Eighteen
The darkness unsettled her. She tripped on roots that stuck up, a branch whipped her in the face and she stumbled. Since she had called Hugo and told him that Patrik was all right, a fear had taken root in her that he was injured or that he had injured someone else. But surely Patrik wouldn’t fight with a knife? It was an impossible thought, that her Patrik would deliberately stab someone.
She ran straight there—or what she thought the best way was, since her fear had confused her. She felt as if she was too late.
When she finally arrived at the community gardening area, the last ounce of courage left her and she started to cry. Suddenly