The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [57]
Just then the telephone rang. She picked up at once, convinced it was the police.
“Hi, I saw that you were up.”
It was Helen, she must have noticed Eva in the window. Eva pulled the kitchen door shut and sat down at the table.
“I heard about it yesterday. It’s just like the cops to blame it on Patrik. It would be better for them to go angling around the others.”
Eva had no trouble imagining what Helen meant by “the others.” She stuck the received under her chin, took out a mug, and poured out some coffee.
“They just wanted to talk to him,” Eva said.
“Nonsense. They make up their minds and spread a lot of lies. You should hear what they told Monica last night.”
But Eva did not want to.
“What is Patrik saying?”
“We haven’t really talked,” Eva said and started to cry.
“I’m coming over,” Helen said.
“No, don’t. Maybe later. I have to talk to the boys first.”
They ended the phone call and Eva sat with her hands wrapped around the coffee mug. It had the words the world’s best mom on it.
Twenty-Two
For the first time since his months in Malmö as a sixteen-year-old under the thumb of the “German swine,” Slobodan experienced great anxiety.
The physical sensation itself was unpleasant, it radiated out from a point level with his navel. He was even more disturbed when he discovered what the discomfort actually consisted of: pure and unadulterated terror.
This was a feeling that, ever since he had tamed the Malmö restauranteur, he reserved for others. That was the time he had discovered the power of terror. The freshly sharpened fillet knife stuck into the man’s abdomen, only two or three centimeters deep but enough for the blood to start trickling down onto the tile floor and bring fear to the German’s eyes.
The knowledge that he was on his own from now on drove him beside himself. There was only one Armas, who was now lying naked in a refrigerated storage facility. And Slobodan was powerless. When he realized that the police were searching Armas’s apartment he immediately started thinking of a counterstrike, but to his surprise he could not think of one. He was in the hands of the police.
He was not particularly concerned that the police was going to find any evidence of their activities in the apartment. Armas was smarter than that. But despite his well-developed concern for security and care, there was a risk. A telephone number hastily scribbled down on a newspaper, a name in an address book, or something else that could point the police in a certain direction.
Slobodan thought intensely about whether he had any incriminating material in his own apartment or at the restaurants, but could not think of anything. He realized that the police were not going to overlook any areas in their search for Armas’s killer. Even he himself would be examined. He had gathered as much from the female police officer’s questions.
He immediately started to work his way through his phone book, flipping through the notes he had made, searched all his desk drawers. Then he stood there for a long time, sweating and staring into space, scouring his mind for anything that could threaten his freedom.
At Dakar or Alhambra there was less of a danger, for there Armas had been in charge. Slobodan knew no one who was as careful as Armas. Now he had fallen victim to someone. To seize him was an almost inhuman assignment, but someone had outsmarted him.
He thought about the last thing they had done together, updating the computer. Had Armas sensed that something was afoot? Did he feel threatened? Hadn’t he said something about “gaps” that needed to be filled? Had he meant Rosenberg? Armas had long been irritated over Rosenberg’s indulgent lifestyle. Admittedly he had improved since Armas had worked him over, but Slobodan knew that if he could choose they would cut out Rosenberg.
“His kind only understand one language,” Armas had said.
Insecurity came creeping. Perhaps Armas had concealed something from him? Slobodan