The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [78]
Donald hated change and irritating elements that disturbed the balance of the kitchen. He did not grieve for Armas as such but for the work peace that had been lost.
Naturally there had been wild speculation about the motive of the murder. Feo had launched a theory that it was Slobodan who had taken out his companion. His coworkers listened in fascination as he embroidered a story that contained almost everything: black money, trade in prostitutes from the Baltic states, and Armas’s and Slobodan’s murky past.
“The past caught up with Armas,” he said and waved the fillet knife in illustration.
The one to whom the police had shown the most attention was Gonzo, but nothing spoke for the fact that he had been involved, even if the alibi that he presented for the day of the murder was flimsy. It was his day off, he had slept until eleven and gone into town at around two o’clock. He could prove that he had been to the Saluhallen markets by way of a receipt from the cheese vendor that had 14:33 printed on it. In addition, the sales clerk could remember Gonzo’s purchase. He had bought some Stilton.
It was after this that his account became less substantial. He had wandered around downtown, ducking briefly into Bergström’s clock store in order to look at a watch, but no one there could recall seeing him. Then he had gone to Alhambra and talked to Slobodan, returned home at around four o’clock, and then stayed in until shortly before nine when he had a beer at Svensson’s.
He stubbornly claimed that he had resigned, even though everyone knew that he had been fired by Armas. But Gonzo’s version of the events could of course be worth as much as Armas’s.
Eva returned to the kitchen after the police had left. She had been off for two days and wanted to know what had happened. Tessie was not particularly communicative and only gave monosyllabic answers to Eva’s questions.
“Tessie is still in shock,” Feo said. “I think she was the only one who liked Armas. In a way they were similar to each other, though Armas was more ruthless. Tessie has a heart.”
“What do the police say?”
“To us? Nothing. And Slobban has hardly shown his face. He came down once and then he went on about how everything would go on as normal. He is holed up at Alhambra.”
“He’s scared,” Donald said, unexpectedly.
“How do you know that? Has he said anything?”
“No, but you can tell. Armas meant more to him than you realize.”
Donald expressed himself as if he knew more than the others but did not find it worth his while to try to explain it.
When it came to the kitchen and the food he was number one and no one questioned it, but Donald often adopted his superior attitude in other areas. When they discussed politics he mostly gave jabs at Feo.
Feo was eager to re-create a good feeling in the kitchen and therefore he overlooked the arrogant tone.
“It must have been a quick one to slit the throat of someone like Armas,” he said. “Armas was no one you toyed with.”
“Maybe it happened in bed,” Donald said.
“What?”
“You didn’t know, did you? Armas was a fag.”
“I don’t believe it,” Feo said.
“Talk with Nicko at the local video store,” Donald said nonchalantly. “Once Armas came in and checked out twenty homo-films at one time. That’s serious business.”
“No, I don’t believe it,” Pirjo exclaimed.
Everyone looked at the kitchen assistant, who immediately became beet red.
“I see,” Feo said, grinning, “you don’t believe it. Maybe he came on to you?”
Pirjo turned away.
“Don’t pay any attention to us,” Donald said.
It was not the first time he defended the shy Pirjo, who found it so difficult to express what she wanted or thought. But now she turned back again.
“You’re speaking ill of the dead,” she said vehemently. “When Armas was still alive you said nothing, least of all to his face. Am I right?”
Feo nodded. Donald looked at her with curiosity.