The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [97]
“He’s lumbering around on Gräsö Island with a ninety-year-old crone,” Görel said, raising her glass as a signal to their waitress to bring another before she went on. “He is and always will be a boring old fart. It was amusing and charming several years ago, but you are living here and now. There are loads of great men, including that cutie over there for starters, but you’re clinging to the memory of a socially handicapped bumpkin. It’s pathetic!”
Lindell’s first reaction was one of anger, but then she felt something more akin to embarrassment, which she tried to conceal when she saw her friend’s look of satisfaction. Her intended protest sputtered out as the waitress returned at that moment and placed a new glass of wine in front of Görel.
“I’ll have one as well,” Lindell said.
“Aren’t I right?” Görel picked up again after the waitress had gone. “It’s sick that you still feel guilty that you had Erik. If I’m going to be completely honest, I felt sorry for you at first, but now I don’t know. You are good-looking and personable—no, don’t start contradicting me—you have a job, a completely wonderful son, and you must be in good shape financially because you never splurge on anything. What are you waiting for? For Edvard to come riding in on his white steed? He never will.”
“He wanted to take me to Thailand a couple of years ago,” Lindell said.
“But then he picked someone else, didn’t he?”
Lindell received her wine. The evening was not progressing as she had planned. She was at Dakar in order to establish a better sense of the restaurant and thereby of Slobodan Andersson, but now she was sitting here holding back the tears.
“It’s easy for you to talk,” she said. “You have everything you want. You’ve never been a single mom.”
“Erik is no barrier to meeting someone, when are you going to get that through your head? Hundreds of thousands of people are single parents and they meet new partners.”
Lindell looked around the room. More and more guests arrived and the bar area was crowded. She studied the backs of the men by the counter. They were standing there like a herd of animals at the watering hole, shoulder to shoulder, talking, laughing, and drinking.
“I got together with Charles,” she said.
“And left, after a while,” Görel said.
She’s going to have to control her drinking, Lindell thought. She decided to try to steer the conversation to something else. If Görel were provoked, she would become increasingly aggressive, and Lindell could only guess at what kind of truths would start flying out of Görel’s mouth if she really got going. Lindell knew she meant well and that there was a great deal of truth to what she said, but at the same time she felt unjustly attacked.
“I’m here for professional reasons,” Lindell said quietly.
“Don’t you think I realize that?”
At that moment the restaurant owner stepped into the establishment. He walked with rapid steps to the bar, taking advantage of a temporary opening in the herd in front of the bar, and sat down. The short, stocky legs dangled from the bar stool. The bartender immediately placed a beer in front of him.
He sat with his back to Lindell and Görel. The latter gently turned her body and glanced toward the bar.
“Is that him?”
Lindell nodded and watched as Slobodan Andersson let his gaze wander around the room. Suddenly his gaze fixed on a booth near the Västerås detective’s table. There were two men sitting there. One was Konrad Rosenberg, whose snapshot she carried in her purse and had briefly sighted in a questioning room several years ago. The other man was unknown, and sat with his back partly toward her. She estimated his age at around fifty. He had dark hair and was well dressed, especially in comparison to his dinner companion.
The men were intent in conversation and Lindell did not think they had noticed Slobodan, who quickly slid off his bar stool and left the room. His beer was left on the bar.
Lindell’s gaze followed him as he left. Görel sat with the glass of wine in her hand, watching the events.
“He