The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [62]
Could it be as simple as a robbery-assault? Lindell wondered. According to Slobodan, Armas always wore a gold watch and a gold band on the ring finger of his left hand. He could have been observed when he changed his money, followed, and then killed. She presented this theory but dismissed it herself the next moment. The removal of the tattoo spoke against this.
“Do we have any leads from Forex?” Ottosson asked.
“He has been recorded on the security tape. The time is sixteen fifty-six,” Lindell said, “and we know that he changed five thousand kronor to euros.”
“Men have been killed for less,” Fredriksson said.
“How do we proceed?” Ottosson asked, and sighed hugely.
“I’ll take on Slobodan,” Lindell said. “Berglund continues talking to the staff. Ola, follow up on this gay lead and if you have time, help Berglund produce a summary report for the interviews. Allan can continue his digging with Lugn from the restaurant unit. I spoke with him this morning and we have a green light.”
“What about me?” Beatrice said.
“You can reconstruct Armas’s life,” Lindell said.
“Okay, but I can’t give him his life back.”
“Write his biography,” Lindell said and smiled. “That’s enough.”
As if on a given signal, the brain squad stood up from the table and left the room. All that remained were six coffee mugs, six plates, and the crumbled remains of a few mazarin cakes.
Twenty-Five
Manuel Alavez studied the people who walked by. Some of them hurried, walking with deliberate steps, looking around hastily as they passed the parking lot, speeding by like projectiles with shoulders pulled up and their gazes directed far into the distance, as if they were target-seeking missiles, programmed for a single purpose.
Others sauntered, conversed with their partners, slowed down, uttered exclamations and laughed, perhaps put a hand on the partner’s arm, only to continue aimlessly on their way. They paused, cheerfully allowed cars to pass, as if they had all the time in the world.
It is like the zócolon, the square in Oaxaca, he thought, this mixture of people. The expressions are the same, but do the Swedes feel in the same way? Do they get happy about the same things. Does love strike them with equal force, and what does their pain look like?
Sometimes they imagined, the villagers on their benches, that the white men were a foreign race, that, although they were equipped with arms and legs, they had eyes that perceived without seeing and mouths that talked constantly but with words that did not touch the reality that the villagers knew.
From the parking lot Manuel had an unobstructed view of Slobodan Andersson’s building. Manuel was not sure exactly why he was sitting here spying on him. Ten thousand dollars could be a good enough reason, even though Patricio did not seem particularly interested. His indifference at his fate had surprised and perplexed Manuel. He couldn’t take seriously the comment that money would not be able to alter his conditions in prison. Surely money had the same power here as in the rest of the world?
And if Patricio was not personally invested then there was Maria, but Manuel assumed that it was his brother’s guilty conscience that was bothering him. He did not want any blood money.
They had sent them eleven thousand as compensation for Angel’s death. Eleven thousand pesos. That was worth half a coffee harvest for the Alavez family. Half a year’s work was what Angel’s life was worth in the fat man’s eyes.
Did Manuel want to see the fat man dead? He searched his soul during the idle hours in the car. Armas had died by his hand, but would he be able to slay Slobodan Andersson in cold blood?
No, he did not think so. That would not give him Angel back and it would not help Patricio. The only thing that could improve his situation