The Demon Of Dakar Part 14

"I'll probably call them tomorrow. We'll see."

Eva sat down on Hugo's bed.

"You should get some rest," Johnny said.

Johnny drove home with mixed feelings. Other peoples' problems were nothing he needed and now he had fallen into one. He didn't want to be pulled in and Eva had not made any further attempt to do so. He was grateful for that. He would not have had the energy to stay all night and comfort her. feelings. Other peoples' problems were nothing he needed and now he had fallen into one. He didn't want to be pulled in and Eva had not made any further attempt to do so. He was grateful for that. He would not have had the energy to stay all night and comfort her.

At the same time he felt uplifted. He had done something for another human being who clearly trusted him. Eva had hugged him before he left. He laughed out loud in the car.

On the last stretch before home he thought about her. How brave of her to raise two teenagers on her own in this world.

Nineteen.

Konrad Rosenberg was one of five sons of the infamous Karl-ke Rosenberg, the drilling and blasting expert, of whom more or less believable stories still circulated on construction sites. Karl-ke had set off his last load of explosives in Forsmark in 1979 and died shortly thereafter, more or less on the spot, from a heart attack, so shot through with dust and drill residue that he was indistinguishable from the rock. It was said that the body had to be cleaned with a high-pressure hose. five sons of the infamous Karl-ke Rosenberg, the drilling and blasting expert, of whom more or less believable stories still circulated on construction sites. Karl-ke had set off his last load of explosives in Forsmark in 1979 and died shortly thereafter, more or less on the spot, from a heart attack, so shot through with dust and drill residue that he was indistinguishable from the rock. It was said that the body had to be cleaned with a high-pressure hose.

With every son that Elisa Rosenberg bore, it was as if there was not quite enough material. The firstborn, Bertil, was a giant like his father, but thereafter the sons were more and more feeble. Konrad was the youngest, one hundred and fifty-seven centimeters tall, equipped with a sunken chest and shoulders that stuck out like hangers. In elementary school the other kids played the harp on his ribs and his shoe size was only thirty-eight.

What he lacked in physique and ability, he made up for in a never-wavering optimism and a self-confidence that unfortunately often led him astray.

At the age of seventeen he embarked on a drug addiction, and one year later he was charged by the Uppsala courts with burglary and the a.s.sault of a civil servant. He was found guilty of the burglary but the second accusation was dismissed by the court. It was regarded as unlikely that Konrad had the capacity to offer any significant resistance.

That was the first in a long series of sentences. Most of them concerned drugs and crimes related to his drug habit, primarily fraud. He was a scoundrel, well known to the police and people in the blocks around the central station.

During his last prison term Konrad had partic.i.p.ated in an ambitious program to kick his drug habit, and when he was released he had against all expectations kicked his drug dependence and was provided with a small apartment in Tunabackar, on the same street where he had grown up.

Konrad Rosenberg was forty-six years old when he was granted early retirement. He used to sit on Torbjorn Square, down a beer or two, and converse with other lushes or other retirees who were happy to have someone to talk to. Many of them had been acquainted with Konrad's father and loved to tell the usual stories about legendary explosions.

Sometimes he used the shuttle service to go downtown, shoplift in a couple of stores, selling the goods quickly below market value and returning home with a green bag of alcohol.

Life was simple for Konrad. He was still optimistically cheerful and was generally regarded as a little slow but harmless, since he had never committed any violent crimes.

One day, things looked up for Konrad Rosenberg. He appeared, in new clothes, at a bank branch on Torbjorn Square, where he opened an account and deposited fifty-six thousand kronor. The clerk, who recognized him from the park benches, could not conceal his surprise. for Konrad Rosenberg. He appeared, in new clothes, at a bank branch on Torbjorn Square, where he opened an account and deposited fifty-six thousand kronor. The clerk, who recognized him from the park benches, could not conceal his surprise.

"It is an inheritance," Konrad explained somberly.

"My condolences," the clerk said.

"It is all right," Konrad said. "It's just a distant aunt who popped off."

After that, smaller amounts flowed into the account, a couple of thousand from time to time, on a few occasions a five-digit amount. A couple of years after the initial deposit, the sum had grown fivefold.

The bank clerk reminded Konrad of the possibility of a more favorable retirement savings account option that, once he had received an explanatory overview, Konrad politely declined.

"The devil only knows how long one has to live. One could kick the bucket at any moment."

One day he parked a Mercedes on the street, circled the car a few times, opened and locked the doors with a remote control system, unlocked the door, sat down in the car, only to step out again immediately, lock it, walk some distance away and turn around and regard this miracle, before he finally ducked in through the front doors of the building. Mercedes on the street, circled the car a few times, opened and locked the doors with a remote control system, unlocked the door, sat down in the car, only to step out again immediately, lock it, walk some distance away and turn around and regard this miracle, before he finally ducked in through the front doors of the building.

Konrad Rosenberg, as "Sture with the hat" had put it to Berglund, was in the money.

But fortune is a curse. From his relatively problem-free existence on the square, Konrad had now been plunged into a whirlwind of new acquaintances who, like the male b.u.t.terfly that can detect a female at one kilometer's distance, appeared to be drawn to the smell of money that emanated from him.

At first he was flattered, liked to buy rounds for his new friends and was seen more often in public. Then suddenly everything ground to a halt. Konrad Rosenberg became sullen and unwilling to play along. No more small loans, no restaurant meals, visitors were turned away at the door.

When spring came, he was again on the park bench in the square. The bank account, which had almost been emptied, was again being filled at a steady and secure rate.

It was the summerhouse that was the source of Konrad Rosenberg's unexpected advancement. was the source of Konrad Rosenberg's unexpected advancement.

In the sixties, the explosions expert Rosenberg had bought a piece of land from a local farmer about ten kilometers east of the town. On the stony property, which he spent the first summer blowing to bits, he built a large cottage of sixty square meters. In addition to a main room, where he and Elisa slept, it included a kitchen and two sleeping alcoves where the sons made do as best they could.

After Karl-ke died, it only took a few weeks for Elisa to pa.s.s away. Konrad was in jail and could not really look out for his interests, but was happy with the money he received. The rest of the brothers sold the apartment in the city, as well as all the furnis.h.i.+ngs, and divided the money among themselves. Bertil made off with the summerhouse, but after an attack of guilty conscience, offered it for his little brother Konrad's use.

Konrad had lived there during difficult times in his life, but had never really felt at home there. It was too far from the city, but it breathed of childhood. Not that the latter had been unhappy in any way and perhaps this was what created the discomfort. The house reminded Konrad dimly of the fact that there were alternatives to the life he had chosen to live.

The neighbors were hardworking, decent types, and Konrad felt their scorn. He had renovated the house, had it repainted, replaced the woodwork, and had a new tin roof put on, but none of this helped. The neighbors continued to remain distant. What they did not know was that the summerhouse was the foundation of his renaissance. It was remote enough that it functioned as a repackaging center and did not figure on the police radar of hot spots. Konrad himself played no part in the planning of this but was nonetheless smart enough to realize the relative value of this modest house. He thought it was a lucky break that he had been recruited, but the fact was that it was the summerhouse that was of interest. Konrad was only part of the bargain.

He carted the tube of cooking gas, the container of water, and the suitcase up to the house, unlocked the door, and was greeted by its characteristic smell: a mixture of gas, mold, and childhood. He grinned, without being aware that he was doing so. cooking gas, the container of water, and the suitcase up to the house, unlocked the door, and was greeted by its characteristic smell: a mixture of gas, mold, and childhood. He grinned, without being aware that he was doing so.

After installing the tube and putting the old one on the veranda, Konrad boiled water and made a cup of instant coffee, which he drank in measured sips while he wondered when the next delivery would take place. It irritated him that he was kept in the dark. He felt more important than this and did not want to be regarded simply as a mere delivery boy. Next time he was going to speak his mind.

"What the h.e.l.l am I sitting here for?" he burst out, in an attack of clear-headedness.

He pushed the cup away so that the coffee spilled out and formed a triangle-shaped stain on the wax tablecloth. He pulled his finger through the liquid and suddenly felt a strong urge to sleep with a woman. Just to sleep. Without fuss, to be able to sleep with a warm woman by his side.

"Well, what do you know, Dad," he said out loud, and the resolve in his voice surprised him.

He looked around the cottage, allowing his gaze to wander from the old woodstove over the hastily made bed, to the dresser where a few decorative items bore witness to the Rosenberg family's former life.

He shook his head as if to get rid of his discomfort, stood up, unsure of why he felt so uncomfortable.

The fortune he now possessed normally gave him a rush. He had never been so successful, and especially with such minimal effort. He felt more respectable and thought he was treated with more respect than before, not only at the bank but everywhere. He almost felt as if he had a real job.

But now he packed the goods into small tidy packets with a feeling of sadness.

When the bag was filled he left the house, carefully locking it, and drove back into town. A young boy was trying to hitch a ride in Barby.

"Get your own car," Konrad muttered, and stepped on the gas.

Twenty.

"I know who he is."

Her colleague, Thommy Lissvall, who Lindell only knew in pa.s.sing, could not conceal a triumphant smile.

"Great," Lindell said, flipping open her notebook.

"He is not a celebrity by any means but naturally I know him. It is strange that no one has identified him before now."

"In that case, what have you been doing for the past three days?"

"I was at a workshop," Lissvall said.

He looked at Lindell.

"A good one," he added.

A Dalarna accent, she thought. Why do they have to be so d.a.m.ned long-winded?

"All right, maybe you could kindly bring yourself to reveal who he is?"

"He has been in this town for a long time, but as I said-"

"What restaurant?"

Lissvall was thrown off for a second, blinked, and smiled at Haver who was sitting at the far end of the table.

Lindell had taken a chance. The city unit, which Lissvall belonged to, worked with restaurant-related crimes.

"Several," Lissvall said.

"Slobodan Andersson's imperium, in other words," Haver said suddenly, with unexpected loudness. "Because I can't imagine it is Svensson's?"

"A name," Lindell said. She was thoroughly sick of the guessing game.

"Armas."

"And more?"

"I don't know what his last name is," Lissvall was forced to admit, "but it is no doubt a mouthful. I've never heard anything except Armas."

"And he worked for Slobodan?"

"Yes."

Lindell shot Haver a quick look.

"I was at Dakar with Beatrice recently," she said.

Lissvall chuckled.

"Thank you very much," Lindell said firmly, and stood up. "I take it you have no further information."

"I guess not," he said and got up from the table.

"What an idiot," Lindell said when he had left the room.

"What do we do?" Haver asked.

Lindell examined her notes. She had written "Armas" in capital letters. She was relieved, grateful that the murder victim was from Uppsala. It would have been boring with a dumped Stockholmer.

"We go out to dinner," she said lightly.

Slobodan Andersson's apartment was located in a one-hundred-year-old building just east of the railroad. It was within walking distance of the police station. The morning had been clear and chilly, but now, with the time approaching ten o'clock in the morning, the suns.h.i.+ne was warm. Lindell couldn't help pausing for a few seconds and closing her eyes. She lapped up the sun and thought about her visit to Dakar. Had Armas been there that evening? Lindell could not recall any member of the staff except the waitress. in a one-hundred-year-old building just east of the railroad. It was within walking distance of the police station. The morning had been clear and chilly, but now, with the time approaching ten o'clock in the morning, the suns.h.i.+ne was warm. Lindell couldn't help pausing for a few seconds and closing her eyes. She lapped up the sun and thought about her visit to Dakar. Had Armas been there that evening? Lindell could not recall any member of the staff except the waitress.

Haver, who had pushed on, stopped, turned around, and looked at Lindell.

"Come on," he said.

Lindell laughed. Haver couldn't help but smile.

"You find it invigorating with murder, don't you?"

"Maybe," Lindell said and tried to imitate Lissvall's dialect, but failed miserably.

"No, not really," she resumed. "But I do find it invigorating to do some good."

They discussed how they should proceed in their conversation with Slobodan Andersson. They considered bringing someone from the city unit, but finally rejected the idea. Lindell had awakened the restaurant owner with her call. It was difficult to determine if it was the circ.u.mstances that made him appear confused. He had asked what the call was in regards to but Lindell had only said she wanted to talk.

"Can't it wait until this afternoon?"

"No, I don't think so," Lindell said.

After getting the door code from Slobodan Andersson and informing Ottosson of their plans, they immediately left the station.

Slobodan Andersson received them in a lime-yellow robe. The apartment, which consisted of five rooms with high ceilings, deep windowsills, and ornate moldings, was newly renovated. Lindell could still smell the paint. Andersson asked them to sit down and offered them coffee, which they declined. a lime-yellow robe. The apartment, which consisted of five rooms with high ceilings, deep windowsills, and ornate moldings, was newly renovated. Lindell could still smell the paint. Andersson asked them to sit down and offered them coffee, which they declined.

Lindell sat down while Haver remained standing by the window.

"Well, how can I be of service to the police?"

No trace of the earlier confusion remained.

Lindell studied the restaurant owner. She thought she had seen him before. Maybe at Dakar? On the other hand, he had the kind of appearance that stood out. He was ample, Lindell decided, summing up her impression, not to say fat.

Lindell estimated his age at around fifty. On his left hand he had a gold band on his ring finger and around his throat he had a gold chain with an amulet. He gave off a waft of perfume or aftershave.

"You have an employee by the name of Armas, don't you?"