“I don’t want to,” he said.
“I think you do. You don’t want to hide any longer, do you? You only want to put this episode behind you.”
Zero tried to say something, but the man gestured with his hand and continued.
“I know what you are thinking. You are wondering how much you will get for your trouble. Shall we say five thousand kronor. Cash. Now.”
“I’ll get five thousand?”
“Yes, and another five thousand when everything is done.”
Zero was speechless. It was a dizzying sum. For ten thousand he could go to Turkey and visit his father. Maybe there would be enough money to buy him out of prison?
“What should I do?”
“Easy. You will go to the police and ask for someone who works with drugs, understand? Tell them that you have repented, and that you were pulled into the drug business against your will. You did not want to sell drugs. You were threatened. And now you want to talk.”
The man told Zero what he should tell the police. He went over this several times and asked Zero to repeat what he had said.
“But I’ll go to jail,” Zero objected.
“No,” the man said. “You are too young. The police won’t care about you. They want to catch the real bad guys. Understand?”
Zero nodded. He thought it was like in a movie. The police would be pleased and forget about him. And he would get ten thousand.
“I understand,” he said, and at that moment a new branch broke off and fell through the trees.
Fifty-Two
“K. Rosenberg” it said in ivory letters on the noticeboard in the A-stairwell. Four flights of stairs, Sammy Nilsson observed.
He shot Beatrice a humorous look.
“Can you make it?”
Bea made a face and started to walk. Damn, they’re sensitive, he thought and followed.
The assignment of bringing someone in for questioning was routine for both of them, but even so the tension mounted at each floor they passed. Sammy Nilsson absently read the names on the doors they walked by: Andersson, Liiw, Uhlberg, Forsberg, Burman.
Bea stopped on the third floor and turned around.
“Will he resist?”
“I doubt it,” Sammy Nilsson said, but automatically checked with the weapon holster under his jacket with his hand. “Our Konrad is not known to be violent.”
They walked on up, taking a breather for a couple of seconds before Bea rang the doorbell. They listened at the door but heard nothing that indicated Rosenberg was home. Bea rang the doorbell a second time as Sammy Nilsson peered through the mail slot.
An hour later, after Sammy had called Lindell and the district attorney, the chairman of the condo association, arrived. He carefully examined their police identification before he put a key in the lock and opened the door.
Konrad Rosenberg was sitting in the only armchair in the living room, a dark red monster of a chair with a nubby, worn cover. Sammy Nilsson thought he looked pleased, perhaps it was the angles of his mouth that created this impression.
On the floor below his arm was a syringe.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said the chairman, who had snuck in behind the police.
“Get out!” Bea snapped, and he obeyed immediately.
Ann Lindell was on her way to the day care when she was informed that Konrad Rosenberg was dead. She felt no grief, of course—she didn’t even know Rosenberg, and what she knew of him was hearsay. Nonetheless she shed a few tears because it was Berglund she immediately started to think about when Sammy Nilsson called and told her about the depressing scene in the shabby apartment in Tunabackar.
Rosenberg was in some way intimately connected to her colleague. Perhaps it was only the fact that Berglund so recently had talked about how the former drug addict appeared to have come into money, but perhaps it was deeper than this. Earlier in the day she had intended to call Berglund and ask how he was doing, but had lacked the courage. Then when Sammy delivered the news of Rosenberg’s death, she was overtaken with the enormity of grief, though not for Rosenberg—for how many people in depressing circumstances hadn’t she seen, and how much misery and death had she not had to deal with? No, it was the suddenness of death that rattled her.
It looked like an overdose, Sammy had said, but had added that nothing was certain. Lindell agreed. Nothing was more certain than death, and she increased her speed, performing an insane maneuver in order to get there faster.
The first thing she saw in the day care playground was Erik, who was kicking his way along on a tricycle. A couple of other children were nearby. Ann Lindell recited their names to herself: Gustav, Lisen, Carlos, and Benjamin.
Erik was wearing only a T-shirt. I hope he doesn’t catch a cold, she thought. But he was like that, it didn’t matter what you put on him, jackets and sweaters ended up being pulled off.
She walked up, lifted him off the tricycle, and took him into her arms.
“We’re going home,” she said.
Fifty-Three
“No signs of forced entry in the apartment, no drugs other than a couple of grams in a bag on the table in the living room, no outer injuries on Rosenberg, probable cause of death an overdose of what we believe to be cocaine,” Sammy Nilsson summed up his report.
Allan Fredriksson pinched the bridge of his nose. Ottosson helped himself to a cookie. Bea stood leaning against the wall. Barbro Liljendahl was the only one who looked even moderately fresh. It was a little past eight in the evening.
God, how he munches, Sammy Nilsson thought, and watched Ottosson put yet another cookie in his mouth, followed by a sip of coffee.
“I see,” Ottosson said and stared longingly at the plate of cookies, but apparently realized that three were more than enough and sank back into the chair with a sigh. “He was a longtime addict,” he went on, “and that speaks both for and against an overdose. He should have known better.”
Barbro Liljendahl coughed.
“Yes,” Ottosson said and nodded at her. “You met with him recently, what do you have to say?”
“I don’t think he took the needle willingly,” she said.
She had been called in by Ottosson and was now participating in a case review with the violent crimes unit for the first time.
“He seemed completely free of drugs when we met last. Granted, he still had some of the drug addicts’ mannerisms, but if I were to guess I don’t think he was an active user. This is also the picture I got when I went around with questions. One detail that may be of interest is that Rosenberg never used to do cocaine. He kept to amphetamines. This may of course be a contributing factor in the overdose. He may simply have been unused to cocaine.”
“Maybe he had a relapse?” Nilsson said, and his eyes lit up momentarily. “He was feeling under pressure; then it’s easy to turn to something comforting, like when we pour ourselves a drink.”
Bea sighed.
“Well, what do you do? Eat a carrot?”
“Lay off!”
Ottosson broke in before Sammy had time to reply. “We know that Rosenberg had contact with Slobodan. Barbro has established this and Ann has made similar observations, among others noting the fact that Konrad was a customer at Dakar. Barbro’s investigation also indicates that he was aquainted with Sidström. He was stabbed in a drug-related context. Why haven’t we yet nabbed the perpetrator, that young man from Sävja?”
“He’s gone into hiding,” Barbro Liljendahl said. “There’s information indicating that he has been seen in Gottsunda, but it hasn’t been verified yet. Apparently he’s scared. I have questioned his friend, Patrik Willman, and he claims that Zero is terrified of his brothers, perhaps also that a friend of Sidström will take revenge. The funny thing in this context is that Willman’s mother is a waitress at Dakar.”
“Now that’s interesting,” Sammy Nilsson said.
“Eva Willman appears to be a reasonable woman,” Liljendahl went on, “and I don’t think she has anything to do with drugs. She�
��s simply happy to have a job.”
“A coincidence, in other words,” Ottosson said, but looked doubtful.
“Who would want to see Rosenberg dead?”
Bea’s question hovered in the air. Ottosson reached for another cookie. Sammy Nilsson scratched his head and yawned. Barbro Liljendahl hesitated, but when no one else spoke she tossed out her theory that it was Dakar’s owner, Slobodan Andersson, who had had his henchman Rosenberg murdered, that the latter had potentially been involved in the murder of Armas and that the overdose had perhaps been an act of revenge, or alternatively, a way of silencing a compromising witness to drug dealings.
“Too bad Ann isn’t here,” Ottosson said when Liljendahl had finished. She went bright red and mumbled something about these simply being ideas.
“As good as anything else,” Ottosson said, “But we will have to wait until forensics is done with the apartment and Rosenberg’s car. What is the situation with the immediate family? Have they been notified?”
Bea nodded.
“Good,” Ottosson said. “Then we continued tomorrow morning, but if you can, Barbro, I would like you and Sammy to drop in on that Turkish boy in Sävja tonight, if that is possible.”
“What does that mean?” Sammy said, obviously displeased at the prospect of putting in even more overtime.
“Check out his family and and try to draw out those leads that he has been spotted in Gottsunda.”
“It works for me,” Barbro Liljendahl said.
“Wonderful,” Ottosson said and smiled broadly at her.
“I have to call home,” Sammy said and stood with a grimace, but before he had left the room Ottosson’s cell phone rang.
Ottosson answered, listened for several seconds, then raised his hand to stop Sammy.
“Okey-dokey,” Ottosson said and ended the call.
Everyone looked expectantly at the chief. He was clearly enjoying the situation.
“Give it up,” Sammy said, but he couldn’t help smiling at Ottosson’s boyish expression.
“Speak of the devil,” he said.
“Who?”
“Our young man from Sävja,” Ottosson said. “You don’t have to drive out to the suburbs, the suburbs are coming to us. Babsan and Sammy will take our friend who is waiting anxiously down below.”
Sammy called Zero’s mother, who only understood the word police and, sobbing, handed the phone over to her oldest son, Dogan.
Twenty minutes later Dogan was standing outside the entrance of the police station, ringing the after-hours buzzer, was let in and accompanied by a uniformed officer to the room where both of the police officers and Zero were waiting.
When Dogan caught sight of his brother, he let out a flood of curses. Or that was what Sammy Nilsson guessed the gist was. He put a hand on Dogan’s arm and told him to control himself, then pulled out a chair and asked him to sit.
“It was good that you came, Dogan. Your brother wants to help us,” Sammy Nilsson said, “and we are grateful for this. He came here of his own free will. You can be proud of Zero.”
“Kar,” his brother growled, but sat down.
“I regret everything,” Zero said. “I want to confess.”
Sammy Nilsson turned on the tape recorder and Zero spoke without ceasing for ten minutes. When he finished, they all sat quietly for a moment. Dogan was staring at his brother. Barbro looked touched, while Sammy Nilsson put his hand on Zero’s shoulder.
“That was great, man,” he said, before turning to Dogan. “If I hear a single word about you making trouble for Zero, then you and your brothers will have problems. Understand?”
Dogan looked Sammy Nilsson in the eye and nodded.
“Have you personally met Slobodan Andersson?” he asked Zero. The latter appeared completely drained and had let his head hang.
Sammy Nilsson turned to Liljendahl.
“Could you get a coupe of sodas?”
She nodded and left the room.
“Okay, Zero, Slobodan Andersson. He’s the one we’re interested in.”
“I don’t know,” Zero said quietly. “I have never met him. But all of this is his doing.”
“Who has talked about Slobodan?”
Zero shook his head.
“But how do you know his name?”
“I just heard it.”
“What did you hear?”
“You know … stuff.”
“Damn it, Zero!” his brother exclaimed.
“I don’t know,” Zero repeated, “but that old guy …”
Liljendahl returned with a six-pack of Fantas. Sammy Nilsson opened two and gave Zero and Dogan each a can.
“Who was talking?” Sammy Nilsson resumed. “Was it the guy you stabbed at the school?”
Zero shook his head.
“If you want us to believe you, you’re going to have to tell us.”
Zero nodded.
“Are you scared?”
“I don’t want to go to jail!”
“We can probably arrange it so no one has to know you were the one who tipped us off,” Sammy Nilsson said and glanced at Liljendahl, “but you won’t get away with the stabbing. However, you’re a juvenile, you aren’t old enough,” he added for clarification, “to go to jail. I promise.”
“It was Konrad,” Zero said suddenly.
“Konrad Rosenberg?”
“Yes,” Zero mumbled.
“Where did you meet him?”
“Downtown.”
“Why did Konrad talk to you about Slobodan Andersson?”
Zero stared at Sammy Nilsson uncomprehendingly.
“That Slobodan was boss,” he prompted.
“He probably wanted to show off,” Zero said. “Impress me that he knew people with money.”
And even though Sammy Nilsson tried to tease out more information, Zero couldn’t or wouldn’t be more concrete. After a while, Barbro Liljendahl changed the topic.
“I wanted to ask you something,” she said. “Why did you start selling cocaine?”
“I wanted to rescue my father.”
“Idiot,” Dogan said angrily, but in his eyes Sammy Nilsson also glimpsed something other than just anger. There was sadness and desperation.
“He’s in prison?”
Zero nodded.
“What do you do, Dogan? Do you have a job?”
“I’m training to become a bus driver,” he said.
“That’s great,” Sammy Nilsson said.
“Our dad is a bus driver,” Zero said.
The session ended just after ten in the evening. Before the brothers were allowed to leave the station, Sammy Nilsson drew the older brother aside.
“Dogan, you probably remember what I said. Zero is a sensitive boy. He loves his father and probably you too. Be a brother to him now. Help him! Your father is gone, you have to shoulder the responsibility. Don’t say anything to him tonight. Don’t scold, don’t do anything more than make him a cup of tea, or whatever you normally drink. Have tea together when you get home. Just you and him.”
Dogan said nothing but nodded. His dark eyes glittered momentarily.
“My mother makes the tea,” he said after a compact moment of silence.
Sammy Nilsson smiled.
“You’ll be fine,” he said and held his hand out.
“Thanks for the Fanta,” Dogan said, but he did not shake the officer’s hand.
“Dogan,” Sammy said, “what does kar mean? That thing you said to your brother.”
“Donkey,” Dogan said, and smiled for the first time.
Fifty-Four
It was early evening, dusk was falling over Uppsala. Thousands of black birds circled above the rooftops. The streets were becoming empty.
There was still life and movement, though, outside Dakar. Patricio Alavez had been standing behind a tree for the past several hours. Earlier in the day he had kept a lookout over the restaurant, but he had not seen a single person come or go. Finally, he had summoned his courage and gone up to the f
ront door and seen that the restaurant only opened at five o’clock. He realized that a Mexican, even one who was well dressed and sober, would attract attention in the long run if he stood in the same spot for several hours at a time, so instead of hanging around the restaurant, Patricio found a park where he tried to get some sleep. But the excitement associated with the escape had not yet worn off, and he had trouble being able to relax.
Now he was hungry, tired, and anxious. He was worried that the fat one or tall one would not even turn up. He could of course walk into the restaurant and ask, but was worried about being recognized. Yet what would they do? Call the police?
In a way, he regretted having escaped, but everything happened so fast and he had not had time to think. The prison routine had been safe. Now he was a fugitive without friends, with Swedish money in his pocket but without the means to stay out of trouble in the long run. He would most likely receive a severe sentence for his escape, but that did not scare him. Eight or fifteen years in prison did not matter.
To him, his life had ended when he left the village and Oaxaca to fly to Europe. Many times he had cursed himself for his naïveté. How could he have believed that a gringo would help a Mexican get rich? Manuel used to say that it was the earth that was important, that to leave the earth was to leave one’s family and one’s origin.
What does it mean to be rich, he asked himself while he studied the people who went in and out of the door to Dakar, but he found no answer. He knew what having no wealth meant. What kind of life would it be to remain in a condemned village where almost everyone was getting poorer and poorer? Why did the young ones flee to Oaxaca, Mexico City, and the United States?
Not even Manuel made much noise about this. After Miguel’s assassination, he had been as if paralyzed for several weeks and had then undertaken a frenetic project to clear new ground for coffee bushes, and that on a mountain side that was so steep that no one had ever tried it before.
Manuel went there every morning and came back absolutely exhausted late at night. Nothing of the joy of new planting was in his eyes. Shredded by the thorns, his ripped hands, steaming with sweat, he sat on the roof for a while before he rinsed himself off under the tap in the yard.
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