The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [54]
“Yes, that’s right. Armas has been in my employ for, well, for many years now. He is my right hand, as they say,” Slobodan said and looked down at his own hands.
“Do you know where he is?”
In the corner of her eye, Lindell saw Haver move a couple of meters and look with curiosity into the next room.
“Yes, I know exactly where he is. He is on his way to the north of Spain to meet with a few of my professional contacts. As you know, Basque cuisine is exquisite. Armas usually travels around and gathers some ideas, brings home recipies, tips on good wine, everything that a restaurant owner needs. Perhaps come home with a good cheese.”
“When did he leave?”
“A few days ago. He is driving down. Has anything happened? Has he had a car accident?”
“No, it is more serious than that, I’m afraid,” Lindell said. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Armas is dead.”
Slobodan Andersson pushed back in the sofa and stared at her without comprehension.
“It is not possible,” he said finally.
“We haven’t made a definitive identification yet, but there is every indication that it is him. Does he have a family?”
Slobodan shook his head.
“No relatives?”
“No, it is him and me,” Slobodan said in a low voice.
“Do you think you could come in and identify your friend? As you can understand we have to be sure.”
Are they a couple? Lindell wondered. That would be revealed in time. She took out a photograph of the dead man. It was a picture that partly spared the viewer since the image was cropped under the chin. Slobodan glanced at it and nodded.
“How did he die?”
“His life was taken,” Lindell said.
“What do you mean?”
“He was murdered.”
Slobodan stood up abruptly, walked over to the window, and ended up standing there. They heard a train go by. She exchanged a quick look with Haver.
A minute went by, perhaps two. The clanging bell of the railway crossing was the only thing they heard. A new train was approaching.
“Where?” Slobodan asked through clenched teeth.
“We don’t know precisely,” Haver said, now speaking for the first time. “You may have read in the newspaper about—”“I don’t read newspapers!”
The clanging had stopped.
“Who?”
“We don’t know that either. We were hoping you might be able to help us,” Lindell said.
It turned out that Armas’s apartment was in the same building. Slobodan had spare keys and Lindell called Ottosson, who arranged for a technician to come by. After twenty minutes the doorbell rang. Lindell gave Haver a look, and he went to open the door. Lindell walked away so she was not visible from the front door. She heard Haver exchange a few words with Charles Morgansson.
An hour later Lindell left Slobodan Andersson’s apartment in the latter’s company in order to bring him down to the morgue to make an identification of the body, while Haver went to Armas’s apartment. In this way she could avoid seeing Charles.
“The tattoo” was the first thing Ottosson said when Ann Lindell came into his office.
Lindell laughed and sat down across from him.
“Slobodan thought it was a sea horse or some other kind of animal, and that fits with the part that is left. I thought it looked like a foot. He didn’t know when Armas got the tattoo. Armas had always had it, according to Slobodan.”
“Did you tell him it had been removed?”
“No, I simply asked what it was.”
“Let’s have a cup of coffee,” Ottosson said. “I bought cheese sandwiches and some doughnuts.”
He looked pleased. Lindell sensed that he, like herself, was happy that the identity had been established and that the victim came from Uppsala. This aided the investigation considerably.
While they drank their coffee, Lindell reviewed the most important aspects of the case for Ottosson. The two men had parted at around four o’clock. Armas was going to sleep for a couple of hours before starting his drive down to Spain. According to Slobodan he preferred to drive at night. He owned a blue BMW X5 of last year’s model. Armas