The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [96]
Slobodan looked up, opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and removed his hand from the china.
“If the cops return I want to be informed immediately,” he said.
“Have you heard anything new?” Feo asked.
“They make me damn nervous, those pigs,” Slobodan lashed out. “Why the hell can’t they leave me in peace!”
He stalked out of the kitchen and they heard him yell at Måns in the bar, who was often the one who bore the brunt of his temper.
Everyone was surprised at Slobodan’s lack of interest in the kitchen situation. Even if it had been Armas who made the final decision when it came to new hires, Slobodan had always wanted to have his say. But now it seemed that their boss did not have the curiosity or stamina to summon sufficient interest.
Forty-One
Lindell had chosen a black dress and a cropped white jacket.
“Let the sleuthing begin,” Görel said, when they met up on the main square.
Lindell had picked up Erik at day care and driven him directly to Görel’s sister’s house, where Erik was going to spend the night. Then she had driven home to change.
The rain came without warning. It poured down and splashed over the streets.
“Where did the clouds come from?” Görel said, perplexed.
Ann Lindell stared at the sky. They had taken shelter in a doorway on Svartbäcksgatan.
The shower stopped as abruptly as it had started. Uncertain as to whether they could trust in the powers above, they half-ran down the street.
As they drew closer to Dakar, and the sun peeked out from between the clouds, they slowed down and adopted a leisurely pace.
Lindell had said nothing to Görel about her reasons for the visit, but she was sure that her friend understood that there were hidden motives for Lindell’s generous proposition.
“I’m paying, just so you know,” Lindell repeated as they entered the restaurant.
“Sure,” Görel said. “I have no problem with that.”
The dining room was half full. A waitress approached them as soon as they came in and showed them to a table by the window. Lindell looked around.
“The sleuthing starts right away,” Görel observed.
At the very back of the room, partly concealed by a pillar, there was a man who immediately attracted Lindell’s interest. She let her gaze brush past him and then she pulled the menu that the waitress had provided toward her.
“I’m having lamb,” Görel said without prompting. “I have it so rarely.”
Lindell studied the menu and tried to recall where she had seen the man before. She knew that she had encountered him in the world of law enforcement but could not place the face.
“What are you going to have?”
“I don’t know,” Lindell said, not feeling particularly hungry. “Fish … maybe the Zander.”
The waitress returned and took their drink orders. Lindell kept herself to light beer, while Görel asked for a glass of white wine. She immediately took a long sip.
Lindell leaned forward. The man had leaned back and was now almost completely blocked by the pillar. Suddenly she got it. He was a fellow criminal investigator from Västerås: Axel Lindman, and they had met at a function at the Police Academy some six months or so ago.
“Have you zeroed in on someone?” Görel inquired, having noted Lindell’s distractedness.
“No, it’s just a colleague who tried to pick me up at a workshop.”
“You mean the guy in the dark blue suit and yellow tie, the one drinking red wine?” Görel asked.
Lindell gave Görel a quizzical look.
“He looks nice enough. He came on to you? And you froze up like an ice queen, of course. Is he married?” Görel watched the man discreetly, as she sipped a little more wine.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then there’s nothing to hold you back, is there?”
“He’s not my type.” Lindell did not like the turn their conversation had taken.
“Cheers,” she said and raised her glass.
Görel drank more wine, found that she had finished her glass, but continued unabashedly.
“And what exactly is your type? Don’t say Edvard, because I’ll throw up. Can’t you stop thinking about that country bumpkin once and for all?”
She had raised her voice and the couple