The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [55]
“But to drive all the way down to Spain?” Ottosson said.
“Armas had a fear of flying.”
Ottosson nodded. Lindell knew Ottosson shared this fear.
Slobodan could not see any motives to the killing. Armas was a loner, someone who basically had no circle of friends, had no association with anyone, as far as Slobodan knew, and he had trouble imagining that Armas had some secret life.
“He lived at and for the restaurants,” Lindell summed up.
“A model citizen,” Ottosson said. “What about money?”
“Slobodan thought he had at most two or three thousand in cash. He may have gone down to the Forex money exchange to get some Euros. We’ll have to check that. Fredriksson has made sure the cards have been blocked. We’ll retrieve information about account activity.”
Lindell checked the time.
“Day care?”
“No problem,” Lindell said. “Görel is picking up today.”
“The car?”
“It shouldn’t be hard to find. I don’t think the apartment is where the murder took place. It looked completely normal, an exemplary state of order, according to Haver.”
“Too clean?”
“No, but I think Armas was a bit of a neatfreak.”
“Should we talk to the city unit?”
“Yes, but not with the guy from Dalarna, Lisskog or whatever his name is.”
“Lissvall,” Ottosson said, smiling. “He was in the fraud unit for a while, but they got sick of him.”
Lindell looked like she had already repressed all thoughts of her colleague and resumed her review. When she was done they discussed the future investigation and what should be prioritized.
Fredriksson would coordinate the background investigation. The details of Armas’s life had to be fleshed out and Slobodan himself had to be closely examined.
Berglund and Beatrice would handle the questioning of the restaurant employees.
“Done! We’ll nab him by Tuesday of next week,” Ottosson said confidently.
Lindell nodded.
“Thanks for the doughnuts. That was thoughtful of you.”
Ottosson became embarrassed as usual when he received praise.
Twenty-One
It was only when Eva Willman woke up the following morning, abruptly, as if she had been startled by a bad dream, that she realized the enormity of what had transpired these past two days.
She suddenly imagined her son as a criminal, a juvenile delinquent who would soon grow up and gradually be pulled down into a morass of criminality and drug abuse.
“No!” she sobbed, sinking back into the bed, pulling the blankets more tightly around her and glancing at the time. Half past five.
There were no guarantees in life, no insurance that would keep you from harm. That had been clear to her for a long time, but now it was as if reality, that which was written about in the papers and spoken about on television, came rushing toward her. Every person makes their own decisions, however crazy they may seem, however unlikely they may appear to others.
What decisions had Patrik made? She did not know. She thought she knew what was going on, but now realized with a newly won and overwhelming certainty that her influence was limited. Perhaps she had reached him last night during their brief conversation in the community garden, but for how long?
Who decides over us? she thought. Suddenly life appeared so incomplete and unpredictable. Her marriage to Jörgen, two children in rapid succession, then divorce, her job at the post office, then being laid off, her happiness at finding a new job, but for how long? And now this with Patrik. Up till now he had never so much as hurt a fly and always stayed out of trouble. Of course he and Hugo fought, but that never lasted. In middle school he often complained that others were getting into trouble. He couldn’t stand the sight of blood, and even a blood test was a challenge for him. Now he had come home bleeding and was suspected of assault on top of it.
She got up and fetched the newspaper, quickly leafing through it to see if there was anything about yesterday’s events. On the fourth page there was a short article. “A new violent