The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [98]
Lindell chuckled and shook her head. She wondered who Konrad Rosenberg’s companion was. Apparently they had a great deal to discuss.
“I have to go to the ladies’ room,” she said and stood up.
In order to get there she had to pass the booth with Rosenberg and the unknown, as well as her colleague’s table. She noticed his quick glance as she approached and how he subsequently stared down at the table. When she was a couple of meters away, he looked up and raised his hand as if he was engaged in a discussion.
“No, no, I don’t know her,” he said in a loud voice, and looked at Lindell for a second with complete indifference and emphatically shook his head, before he looked back at his dinner companion, a woman of around thirty-five.
Lindell swept past the table and into the bathrooms, convinced that her colleague had not wanted her to make herself known. Her immediate reaction was one of surprise, before she pieced it together. She felt certain that Axel Lindman had recognized her but had not wanted to establish any contact. There could only be one reason: he was on a case. Because surely it couldn’t be the case that her colleague was afraid that she would embarrass him in front of his lady friend? No, Lindell decided that Axel Lindman must be undercover.
Was it Rosenberg who was the object of interest? Or the dark-haired man? Or perhaps someone completely different? Slobodan? For a second, she considered getting in touch with the crimes call center, having them call Västerås and see why Lindman was in Uppsala, but then she quickly realized that this information could not be produced by a simple phone call.
On her way back from the ladies’ room she ignored him and instead focused on Rosenberg’s partner, whom she could now see from the front. He was leaning forward and saying something to Rosenberg, and Lindell picked up a streak of irritation beneath his well-polished exterior. Her intuition told her that the unknown man was very agitated and exerting a great deal of control in order not to show it.
For a while they ate in silence. The fish fillet was done to a turn, the slightly sweet pepper sauce and the carefully sauteed rice, which Lindell at first thought was a fish stick, complemented the fish perfectly. There was much one could say about Slobodan Andersson, but the food at his restaurant was first class.
She drank a dry white wine from the Loire with her fish. It had been recommended by the waitress, and she could easily have ordered another glass if it hadn’t been for the difficulties that would create for her in maintaining her concentration.
She was having trouble focusing on Görel’s chatter, which jumped from her work to world politics with increasingly abrupt transitions.
Rosenberg and the unknown man continued their intense discussion. Axel Lindman and his companion had proceded to coffee. Lindell imagined that underneath his relaxed look, her colleague was attentive to every word and slightest shift in atmosphere at the neighboring table, and she thought she could percieve the network of tension that stretched out into the dining room where three of the tables had become invisibly connected.
Slobodan’s hasty retreat was clearly connected to the presence of the two men. How should this be interpreted? Lindell believed he had not wanted to be seen by them. She pondered his motives, but there were too many unknown factors for her to understand why. Perhaps Axel Lindman was sitting on the answer.
“Let’s get the check,” she said and Görel looked astonished.
“Aren’t we ordering dessert?”
“I’m too full,” said Lindell, “and also too tired.”
“Are you in a bad mood?”
“No, of course not.”
She didn’t understand why she felt such reluctance to tell Görel that she wanted to leave Dakar shortly after Lindman and if possible find a way to talk to him. Curiosity at what he was doing in Uppsala and Dakar distracted her from listening to Görel.
She waved the waitress over, ordered two espressos, and asked for the check at the same time. She felt mean and