The Demon Of Dakar Part 11

Lindell had experienced this so many times before, how the apparent idyll concealed a streak of unexpected eruptions of violence and grief. The landscape itself was innocent, it was only a stage for human failings, a backdrop against which people acted in all their foulness.

From her professional perspective, Lindell felt that it was worse to investigate a crime in the countryside where nature, in its inconceivable diversity, concealed man. She often thought about the last homicide case when two farmers had been murdered in their homes. It was as if nature was tripping up her thoughts. How could something so horrible happen here? There was not only a crime victim to contend with, it was as if the whole area had been raped. The crime, to deprive someone of his life, appeared even more monstrous against the backdrop of a peaceful forest.

A murder in an apartment, by contrast, appeared more natural. No one was surprised that someone killed someone else in a kitchen filled with the items that people acc.u.mulated. It was rather the opposite: how could it be that more people didn't fall victim to violence? A pool of blood in the street surprised no one. A pool of blood on a mossy bed in the woods seemed to fly in the face of reason.

"The philosopher Lindell in action!"

She turned around. Ottosson was standing there with a coffee mug in his hand. She had not heard him enter. She smiled but did not like being interrupted in her thoughts. If it had been anyone other than Ottosson she would have registered her dissatisfaction.

As it was, she told him what she had been thinking. Ottosson refilled his mug and sat down.

"You are right," he said when she had finished, "but you're also wrong. A kitchen, a little refuge, even if it is dingy and small, stands for security. Or it should. To have a roof over your head, warmth, and food on the table are the preconditions for becoming someone else, if you know what I mean. We are always striving for ..."

He trailed off, as if he couldn't manage to finish his train of thought, or as if he did not himself fully understand, or was unable to formulate, what he meant.

"Man is a strange creature," Ottosson resumed, and employed a worn cliche that only expressed their usual frustration.

"Hasn't anyone called in?" Lindell asked.

Normally the phone at the station would ring off the hook after a murder had been committed. Spontaneous tips that in most cases did not lead to anything.

"No, nothing that gives us an ident.i.ty," Ottosson said. "I thought for a while that he did not come from Uppsala, that someone transported him here in order to dump him in the river."

"But why there?" Lindell asked and then realized the ridiculousness of her question. Many times there was no rationality to a killer's actions.

Ottosson shrugged.

"Perhaps our rounds in the city will give us something," he said.

They had made copies of the murder victim's photograph and detectives from the violence and intelligence units were looking up individuals who would perhaps recognize him. It was the usual roundup of drug users and petty thieves. Sometimes they were willing to drop a little information in the hopes that it made them look good or for the simple reason that a murder was a disturbance to their own business and they wanted a quick resolution.

The investigative team in the violent crimes division had discussed possible motives as a matter of routine. These were freewheeling speculations that perhaps did not yield much, especially since they did not know the victim's ident.i.ty, but that nonetheless set the machinery of their brains in motion. One tossed-out idea gave way to another that was rejected that led to a third possible explanation that was taken seriously. Everything mixed, became layered, was judged more or less believable. Together this resulted in a concoction of loose a.s.sumptions, out of which one could finally perhaps distill a motive and a perpetrator.

"It is the tattoo, or rather, its removal, that is the key," Lindell said.

Ottosson agreed.

"Why does one get a tattoo?"

"To show one's affiliation," Lindell said. "A brotherhood."

"It used to be a mark of cla.s.s," Ottosson said. "Only workers used to get tattoos. Now little girls have tattoos everywhere."

"It functions as a kind of marking. You choose a design that says something about yourself or the life you lead, or with the direction you feel life should take."

"Or it's just a fun thing you do when you're drunk," Ottosson added.

"He doesn't look the type."

"Perhaps in his youth?"

Lindell shook her head.

"I can't say why, but this guy is no common ... alcoholic who likes to get loaded in Nyhavn."

"But in his youth," Ottosson insisted. "Perhaps he went to sea?"

"He did end up in the water finally," Lindell said.

"And almost naked to boot."

"I think that was done in order to humiliate him," Lindell said. "Why would you otherwise take the trouble to remove his clothes?"

"Two possibilities," Ottosson said, "either the clothes say something about the victim or else he was only wearing his underpants when he was killed."

"A betrayed man who finds them naked in the bedroom and kills the lover?"

"Or a h.o.m.os.e.xual."

Ottosson had trouble with the word bog bog, which was slang for "gay." Lindell already knew this. He claimed it was denigrating, even though many h.o.m.os.e.xuals used the word themselves.

Lindell looked at the picture in the paper. She didn't bother with the text. She had enough of an idea what it said.

"Going door to door in the area may still give us something. There were some houses in the area where no one answered yesterday."

"Fredriksson and Riis are out there right now, but the victim may just as well have been thrown in from the other side of the river and floated across," Ottosson said. "It's not very wide. Or else he was dumped farther upstream.""It would be strange if no one had seen anything. After all, it takes awhile to carry a body from the road across the meadow and into the river."

"I think he was thrown in higher up," Ottosson said.

They continued to speculate before Lindell got up from the table.

"I went to the hospital," she said suddenly.

"How was she?"

"She was sleeping."

Ottosson nodded.

"Have you talked to-"

"No," Lindell said.

Sixteen.

She was riding her bike into the wind. Eva regretted not having taken the bus, even though this way she was saving money and improving her fitness, maybe even losing a few pounds. into the wind. Eva regretted not having taken the bus, even though this way she was saving money and improving her fitness, maybe even losing a few pounds.

Her thoughts kept coming back to last night. Patrik would end up in trouble if he kept a.s.sociating with Zero. She had not managed to get more out of him except that they had had a fight.

"Some idiots from Granby," he had said, but denied knowing them and he would not tell her what the fight had been about, more than that it was about "stuff." Stuff could apparently refer to just about anything and it frightened Eva. Boys have always had fights, she told herself, but given what had happened in recent years, stuff could lead to a bad end, even to death. She remembered a shooting in Granby several years earlier all too well. The accused, a teenager, was freed after the main witness had changed his story.

Patrik had denied that anyone from that gang had been involved in last night's skirmish.

"It was some other idiots," he said.

"Friends of Zero?"

"No, they were Swedes."

"But you are a Swede and apparently friends with him."

"That's not the same thing."

Eva couldn't quite imagine what these adolescents' lives looked like, how their loyalties worked, or even what the words they used meant. And now her main task, along with the work at Dakar, was to raise two teenagers, and that in an environment she had trouble understanding.

Patrik had promised to stay out of trouble and try to reduce his interactions with Zero, without causing the latter to feel betrayed.

"He would go crazy in that case," Patrik said.

He had given her two promises, and Eva knew that both of them would be hard to keep.

The county was constructing little areas with park benches and flower beds up and down East gatan. It was being spiffed up and made more accessible. Perhaps they were hoping to achieve a more continental look in the inner city, where Uppsala residents and tourists alike could stroll under the chestnut trees and where lindens grew right next to the river. areas with park benches and flower beds up and down East gatan. It was being spiffed up and made more accessible. Perhaps they were hoping to achieve a more continental look in the inner city, where Uppsala residents and tourists alike could stroll under the chestnut trees and where lindens grew right next to the river.

Eva paused, in part because she was feeling hot and did not want to arrive at Dakar dripping with perspiration, in part because she wanted a chance to watch the workers. A couple of men were laying stones, roughly hewn rectangular pieces that were mortared together into a wall or bench if one so desired. The men had the aid of a backhoe, in whose claw the stones were directed into place. They adjusted the stones with metal tools. It looked astonis.h.i.+ngly easy even though they were handling such weights. The machine was doing its part, of course, but Eva thought she could read a great satisfaction in their work in the men's faces. One of them put his hand on a set stone, almost like he was petting it, as if to say, "Here you are now and it looks good," before it was the next block's turn.

Eva was struck by the durability of their work. Around the city there was stone in the paved streets, on the front of buildings, in bridges and ornamental structures in parks. No human force could s.h.i.+ft these stones. Once a worker patted them into place they were set, testifying to his work.

She compared this to her own job, waitressing at Dakar. This left no visible traces more than for the moment, that was simply how it was, just like her earlier work at the post office. "The woman at the counter," that was what she had been for many years, but G.o.d forbid she leave her place for a quick bathroom break or to sign a form in one of the inner regions of the office. Then there were immediate complaints.

The men coaxed a new block into place. The driver swung the backhoe to the side, allowing it to rest on the pile of stones. Perhaps they were going to take a break. One of the workers gave her a quick, curious look.

"It's turning out well," she said and climbed back onto the bike.

The man nodded and took a few steps closer to her, putting one foot up on the block he had just set.

"Time for me to go to work," she said.

"I was just going to offer you a cup of coffee," the man said and Eva couldn't tell if he was serious or not.

"Are you taking a break right now?"

"No, we're done for the day."

Two of the man's fellow workers were waiting in the background.

"Where do you work?"

"At a restaurant. It's called Dakar."

"Then you will have to be the one to invite me," the man said and laughed. "See you!"

He gave her a mischievous look before he joined his colleagues and left for the work trailer.

She ended up standing around for a little while longer before biking the rest of the way.

A heated discussion was under way in Dakar's kitchen. Feo's aggravated voice and Donald's interruptions could be heard out all the way into the dressing room. way in Dakar's kitchen. Feo's aggravated voice and Donald's interruptions could be heard out all the way into the dressing room.

When Eva stepped into the kitchen the two chefs abruptly stopped and stared at her.

"Don't let me interrupt," she said.

Donald turned his back on her, grabbed a pot from the rack but changed his mind, put it back, and walked out to the bar instead. They heard how he took out a bottle of soda or mineral water. Donald never drank anything stronger than this on the job.

"We were talking about the union. They want to come here."

Eva nodded.

"Anything in particular?"

"No, they have some campaign. I'm in the union now, but not Donald. He calls them parasites."

"I don't know that I've ever found them so helpful, but I still think it's important to join."

"Exactly! Suddenly it happens."

Donald returned.

"Have you formed a club now?"

"Yes, you are treasurer," Feo said.

This, her third evening, involved the most work so far. A party of sixteen had come thundering in at six o'clock. They had been playing golf all day and now demanded drinks and food. Eva recognized one of them, a cla.s.smate from the Eriksberg school, but he did not recognize her, or else he didn't want to acknowledge it. the most work so far. A party of sixteen had come thundering in at six o'clock. They had been playing golf all day and now demanded drinks and food. Eva recognized one of them, a cla.s.smate from the Eriksberg school, but he did not recognize her, or else he didn't want to acknowledge it.

"I hate golfers," Tessie said.

After the party, which had not been booked in advance and created a great deal of work in the bar and kitchen, there were dinner guests in a steady stream until nine o'clock. Luckily Johnny was working as well and so they were three chefs and one apprentice.

Tessie demonstrated the extent of her professional capabilities. Eva quickly realized that the other waiter, Gonzo, did not maintain a particularly stunning pace. After having being fired he mainly walked around muttering about the "fascists," Slobodan and Armas. It was even worse after Slobodan turned up at eight o'clock to have a gla.s.s of grappa. Then Gonzo seemed to move in slow motion.

It was Tessie, a.s.sisted by Eva, who managed to maintain the level of service and Eva's respect for her increased even more.

At half past nine things calmed down. The last desserts were going out, the party of golfers had disbanded after lounging in the bar for an hour, the rest of the dinner guests were gradually paying and leaving. Eva sat down. Donald had started scrubbing down the meat stove; Feo, who was putting finis.h.i.+ng touches on the last desserts, offered Eva an ice cream, which she declined, while Johnny started to cover things in plastic wrap, clear things away, and put them into cold storage.