The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [84]
“Who is it?” he called out.
“Mr. Rosenberg, something has happened to your car,” he heard a high-pitched voice say from the other side of the door.
He opened the door and there was an older man who Konrad thought lived in the building next door.
“Excuse me for disturbing you, but I saw—”
“My car?”
“Yes, isn’t it your Mercedes on the street? Someone has vandalized it.”
“Vandalized?” Konrad echoed stupidly, before slipping his shoes on.
As he ran down the stairs, leaving the asthmatic man behind, it struck him that it could be a trap and so he slowed down. But concern for his Merc drove him to a run.
Someone had pulled a sharp object along the full length of the car, from the hood all the way to the brake lights. Konrad stared at the almost completely level scratch, and when he circled the car he saw that the other side had suffered identical damage.
The neighbor arrived out of breath and explained that he discovered the whole thing when he came back from the store.
Konrad stood as if paralyzed, could not even manage a curse. His car, his Mercedes, vandalized by a couple of young hooligans.
“It’s terrible what they get up to these days,” the neighbor said. “They can’t even leave a beautiful car alone.”
Suddenly it struck Konrad that perhaps it was not the work of hooligans. He looked around. “That bastard is laughing somewhere,” he thought, and asked the neighbor if he had noticed anything suspicious on his way to the store. Yet another neighbor came up to them and in some way Konrad felt honored by the attention. He recalled that the first neighbor had referred to him as “Mr. Rosenberg.” Also, it felt good to have company, even if their average combined age was high.
“Call the police,” the neighbor said. “Even if they don’t do anything, you have to report it. I remember when someone drove into my Amazon, it was parked in the lot of Lagerquist’s hardware store. What I went through. There were papers to fill out, reports to file.”
Konrad listened with half an ear. The word police made him nervous and then increasingly infuriated.
“I wonder what it costs to have it repainted,” one neighbor speculated and Konrad’s anger increased further.
“I’m going up to make a call,” he said and left the two men on the sidewalk.
He sensed that this was not a normal prank, but a calling card left by an unknown man who was apparently capable of anything. As he walked slowly up the stairs his anger diminished and instead his anxiety grew. What kind of forces were at work? That Armas was murdered could be explained. Konrad and Slobodan had discussed various possible motives, but to burn down a house and above all to damage a car … it was so illogical that it was frightening.
Thirty-Four
There are moments in the career of a police officer when the red carpet is rolled out. That was how Barbro Liljendahl felt. Its length testified to a row of unforeseen experiences and discoveries, but also consisted of routine matters, as well as large amounts of work—hours, days, and weeks of labor—but that must be the reward, she thought.
Ever since the stabbing incident in Sävja she had had the feeling that the case involved a number of hidden connections. One thread had loosened and now she could start the unraveling process.
After hanging up the phone she sat lost in thought for a long time. What occupied her mind, and that which demanded a great deal of skill and finesse, was the fact that the young boy Zero had demanded that he not be accused of stabbing Sidström.
Otherwise he would not talk. Barbro Liljendahl knew she had to tread carefully. If he were to be charged with the deed and convicted—something of which one could not be sure—then the end of the thread would break off after only one revolution. The ball of thread would remain almost intact.
Sidström would never admit to knowing Zero from before, he would have no reason to try to seek any kind of justice and would prefer silence. As long as Zero, who had sliced open his abdomen, kept quiet, Sidström would be satisfied. He would heal, maybe receive some compensation from