The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [76]
“What?” Lindell said, tired of his evasiveness but also irritated at herself for her impatience.
“He noticed part of a branch on the ground, it was close to the tent, and he thought it looked a bit strange. It had been torn off a larger branch at a height of three meters above the ground.”
“How do you tear down a branch that high?” Lindell asked, and watched Haver revel in smugness.
“A bullet,” he said. “And we were damned lucky to find it in a tree trunk.”
“You mean a bullet was fired at the campground?”
Haver nodded.
“Nine millimeters. Fälth dug it out.”
Lindell stared at her colleague.
“I think Armas was armed, fired a shot, missed, and got his throat cut as punishment,” Haver said.
“Only now? Shouldn’t they have spotted this branch before?”
“One might have thought so,” Haver said laconically.
“That makes this a completely different investigation,” Lindell said. “But it could equally well have been the perp who fired the shot?”
“Morgansson doesn’t think so. Look at this and you’ll see,” Haver said and reached for a notepad.
Lindell took a couple of steps closer, increasingly agitated by her colleague’s attitude.
“This is what we think happened. Armas was standing here, facing the tree where they found the bullet, he fired, had his throat slashed, and fell backward. The bloodstains corroborate this.”
“There was no trace of gunpowder on his hands,” Lindell said.
“He was found in the water,” Haver replied.
His smug expression had waned and he looked at Lindell with his former look of mutual understanding.
“Armas had no gun license,” Lindell said.
“How many gangsters do?”
“We have nothing on him.”
“He was a shady character, I am certain of it. This was an armed conflict with the owner of the tent.”
“Slobodan Andersson,” Lindell said thoughtfully, registering the fact that Haver was smiling almost imperceptibly.
“Should we put him under surveillance?”
“No sense,” Lindell said. “If he is involved in any funny business, he’ll be lying low right now. Armas was going to Spain, packed, exchanged money, was ready to leave, and the question is, was the meeting down by the river planned all along, or was it something that just happened?”
“Do we believe it really was a vacation trip, with a few Spanish restaurants planned in on the side, as Slobodan claimed?”
“That’s impossible to verify,” Lindell said.
She walked toward the door, but then turned again.
“Have you ever worked with Barbro Liljendahl?”
“Not really, we worked together a little before I started at violent crimes,” Haver said. “At the time she was a bit, what should I say, fussy. Why do you ask?”
“She’s in charge of a case of a stabbing in Sävja and had some idea that there was a connection to Armas since both crimes were knife-related. Do you happen to know anything about Konrad Rosenberg?”
Haver shook his head, closed a folder, and pushed the papers on his desk together.
“I don’t either. We need a Berglund for that,” Lindell said and went to her office, logged onto her computer, and looked up Konrad Rosenberg.
It was as if she and Haver were involved in two different investigations . Maybe his surprise song-and-dance number was a kind of protest at her way of leading the investigation?
She smiled to herself as Rosenberg’s history slowly printed out. A bullet in a tree was indisputably progress. Before she turned to Rosenberg, she dialed Fälth’s number and felt incredibly generous as she praised the technician for his fine work.
“One needs a Smålander for detail work,” she said. Smålanders were known for their attention to detail, and Lindell wondered if he picked up the compliment.
Thirty-One
A well-functioning restaurant kitchen is a strange creature, as sensitive as a mollusk, it reacts in self-defense with lightning rapidity at the smallest external interruption. Anyone who disturbs this vulnerable and sophisticated organism experiences this.
“We don’t have time for this shit,” Donald snarled.
Gunnar Björk pulled back quickly in order not to be in the way.
“This is a workplace, not a social club,” the chef continued.
Feo