The Demon of Dakar

by Kjell Eriksson

  Slobodan Andersson stared at the policeman, astonished.

  “Quetzalcóatl,” Sammy Nilsson read with some effort after first consulting his notes, “was apparently meaningful, and not only for Armas.”

  “What are you talking about?” Slobodan asked.

  “The killer removed the tattoo from Armas’s arm. He skinned your friend.”

  Slobodan Andersson’s jaw literally dropped and in his eyes there was only confusion and doubt.

  “Skinned,” he repeated foolishly.

  “That’s why we need you to talk about Mexico.”

  “Would you like something to drink?” Simone Motander-Banks asked, and at the same time shot both of the detectives an exasperated glance.

  Slobodan shook his head.

  “I don’t know anything about the tattoo,” he said hoarsely.

  Barbro Liljendahl rose, left the room, and returned quickly with a pitcher of water and some glasses.

  Sammy Nilsson poured a glass and placed it in front of Slobodan before he continued.

  “Talk about Patricio Alavez. Was he the one you met in Mexico?”

  Slobodan’s hand, which had just grabbed hold of the glass, shook and he spilled water onto the table.

  “Oops,” Sammy Nilsson said cheerfully.

  “I would like to know on what grounds you are subjecting my client to this attack,” the lawyer said.

  “I’m happy to oblige,” Sammy Nilsson said and leaned forward. “We have good reason to believe that your client has smuggled cocaine into this country to the estimated value of at least three million. Does that count as reason enough?”

  The demolishing of Slobodan Andersson’s line of defense continued. Sammy Nilsson continued to systematically counter each attempt at explanation and denial. When Slobodan was asked about his contact with Konrad Rosenberg he at first denied all knowledge of him, but was then forced to concede that he had a faint memory of a guest named Rosenberg.

  “Your friend Konrad is also dead,” Sammy Nilsson announced brutally. “Cocaine became his death.”

  At this point Simone Motander-Banks interrupted the proceedings for a private consultation with her client. Both of the detectives left the room.

  “Yes,” Sammy Nilsson said, and sat down in a chair in the little lounge outside the questioning room, but got to his feet almost at once.

  “Can we pin Armas’s murder on him as well?” Barbro Liljendahl wondered.

  “I doubt it,” Sammy said. “He has a good alibi. At least twenty people had confirmed that he was at Alhambra all evening.”

  “He could have hired someone.”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t think he wanted Armas dead. Ann doesn’t think so either. But we’ll put him away on the drug charge. I’m one hundred percent certain that his prints are on that bag.”

  They resumed the session. The detectives had anticipated a counterattack from the lawyer, but she was surprisingly passive when Sammy Nilsson turned the tape recorder back on.

  “Alhambra,” he began. “Isn’t it careless to keep so much cocaine there? We found a bag in your office that—”

  “I don’t know anything about a bag!”

  “We have secured a number of prints and it is only a matter of time before we can establish if yours are among them,” Sammy Nilsson said calmly.

  “I’ve been set up!” Slobodan Andersson exclaimed. “It’s a trap. Don’t you get it? That briefcase was given to me by—”

  “By whom?”

  “I don’t know,” Slobodan Andersson muttered.

  “You can do better than that,” Barbro Liljendahl said.

  He lifted his head and stared at her as if she were an alien. In his eyes, she read that the coming retreat would not be orderly, that everything that followed would in fact be panic, lies, and condemnation. The police held all the trump cards.

  Slobodan Andersson’s enormous body appeared to have lost all control and sunk down on the chair. He muttered something that no one present was able to catch.

  Fifty-Seven

  Ever since Eva Willman woke up at six o’clock that morning she had wondered if she should contact the police.

  The escape from the Norrtälje prison had been allotted a great deal of space in the paper. She had read every line with an increasing sense of anxiety and indecision. She stared at the photograph of Manuel’s brother. They were very alike.

  Where are they now, she wondered, and recalled Manuel’s awkwardness about all things Swedish. He had displayed a sweeping lack of knowledge about the country and Uppsala.

  She believed him when he had pleaded ignorance about his brother’s escape. Perhaps not last night—then there had only been room for surprise and bitterness at his duplicity—but now in hindsight, as she recalled his assurances and above all his expression, she was prepared to take him at his word.

  What had he said as she left the dishwashing area? That he had believed she had wanted to visit his country. She pushed the paper away and tried to imagine herself in Mexico. She had toyed with this thought, of course. And it was not only from curiosity about another country or the fact that she had recently read an article about the Caribbean. It was also Manuel the man. After her initial assessment, when she had pegged him as a movie villain, she had gradually adjusted her impression. He was perhaps not exactly handsome, but he possessed a strength that appealed to her.

  She was drawn to fit, wiry men. She did not like couch potatoes with jutting stomachs and poor posture, she might as well admit it.

  She had noticed how he studied her in secret. These had not been unpleasant looks, as opposed to Johnny in the kitchen who stared at her with a mixture of disdain and lust. Blushing, she thought about how she had put in a little extra effort to make herself look good before yesterday’s shift, and the look he had given her in the changing room had been exhilarating, in a somewhat bewildering way.

  She was not in love with this lying Mexican, but it was as if her new job also involved a new relationship to life and the future. She was not stuck. She could develop. She could make money and have the opportunity to travel, as she had dreamed of for so long. She could meet a man to flirt with and perhaps love. Love in a new way, not like with Jörgen. Dakar promised this. Even the new, trendy hairstyle that had been more or less forced on her, but that she had immediately liked, was a confirmation of all this.

  It was in this context that Manuel had entered Dakar as a messenger of the fact that the world was bigger than just Uppsala. However many articles she read, and however many travel programs she watched on television, a living person was a much more effective catalyst for dreams.

  Eva had met people from foreign countries before—taking a walk through Sävja was enough for that—but Manuel’s stories about Mexico and his village vibrated with a love and a longing that Eva absorbed with all her senses. She could not put her finger on what it was exactly, but he had intensified her longing.

  Now he was gone for good. She felt it as a betrayal, as if she had been double-crossed at the start of a budding and promising romance.

  Hugo stumbled groggily into the kitchen. Eva stood up and quickly put breakfast on the table. She smiled at the sound of Patrik in the bathroom.

  “How are you doing?”

  Hugo grunted something and shouted at Patrik to hurry up.

  When they were done with breakfast—it took five minutes because both of the boys had slept in—and they had hurried off to school, the telephone rang. Eva glanced at the wall clock. It was shortly after nine.

  She lifted the receiver and heard Feo’s agitated voice. He told her he had been called by Donald, who in turn had a received a call from Oskar Hammer at Alhambra. Oskar had told Donald about the visit from the police and that he had been forced to hand over all keys. Dakar, Alhambra, and Slobodan’s apartment were being searched. The police had not wanted to tell him what it was all about, but Hammer had guessed that it was a matter of suspected tax fraud.

  When Donald had rushed down
to Dakar, he had been stopped by a police officer who stood at the entrance like a bouncer. Donald had managed to catch sight of a dog inside.

  “It must be drugs,” Feo said. “The tax authorities don’t bring a dog.”

  “Do they think Manuel …?”

  “No, why would they be interested in him? An illegal worker is not enough for them to hit Alhambra and Slobodan at home. It must be something else. Damn it!”

  Eva knew Feo was thinking of his job, and it struck her that the same went for her. If the police closed Dakar she would be unemployed again.

  “Did Donald say anything else?” she asked.

  “He tried to talk to the police, but they were cold as fish so he went home. We’ll have to see.”

  “Are you going down there?”

  “I’m supposed to work today,” Feo said despondently.

  When she had hung up she just sat at the kitchen table. It was too much. First the revelation about Manuel and his drug brother who had escaped, and now this.

  Eva stood up with a sigh, took out the telephone book from a kitchen drawer, found the number of the police, dialed the numbers, and found herself speaking with a recorded, mechanical voice that urged her to make a selection from one of the available options. After a couple of seconds she slammed the receiver down onto the table and the call was disconnected.

  Fifty-Eight

  Manuel woke up with a start. The sun was high and beamed down from a clear blue sky. A sudden shadow in his face had awakened him, and when he opened his eyes a man was standing there. Manuel sprang to his feet, the man jumped back and uttered something that caused Patricio to awaken and sit up.

  The man said something they did not understand. Manuel exhaled. It was the fisherman, the one who usually walked by with a fishing rod over his shoulder.

  Manuel made a calming gesture to Patricio.

  “Not understand,” Manuel said in English.

  The fisherman laughed but kept speaking in Swedish. Then he bent over, pretended to pick something up from the ground, and brought his hand to his mouth while he had a wide smile on his face.

  Manuel stared at him without comprehension, but when the man pointed over the edge of the bank in the direction of the fields, he realized the fisherman meant the strawberries. Manuel nodded eagerly.

  The man pulled his hand over his brow, made a face that was supposed to indicate pain, and then put a hand on his back.

  Patricio regarded the whole pantomime with amazement.

  “What does he want?” Patricio asked.

  “He thinks we work with strawberries.”

  The man entertained the brothers for several more minutes with charades about how poor the fishing was and how good the sun felt.

  Then he took his leave and went downstream. Manuel thought he looked happy as he walked.

  “He’s fishing,” Patricio said and watched the slow-moving water flowing by.

  He got up and went to the water’s edge. Manuel watched him as he sat in a crouch and wet his hand in the water, before he turned his head and met his brother’s gaze.

  “Do you remember when we stood by the Rio Grande?”

  Manuel nodded. How could he forget?

  “We were foreigners there, too. We had to be on guard even with the friendly people. What if that fisherman was simply pretending?”

  “I don’t think so,” Manuel said.

  “Like Hamilton, the broccoli farmer who bought beer and gave us food,” Patricio said. “We thought he wished us well, but then he called the cops and withheld our wages.”

  “I remember,” Manuel said, “but there is no sense in worrying about this now.”

  He understood his brother, but was also irritated at his doubts.

  “You are free!” Manuel said, and threw his arms wide, as if he could scrub away all the doubt with a single stroke.

  “Am I?”

  Patricio turned back to the river and stared into the water.

  “We have to stay here a few days until the police calm down,” Manuel said, “but you have to believe it will work out.”

  Patricio said nothing. Manuel came to think of Eva. What was she thinking about him? That he was a liar, of course, but she probably also thought he was a drug dealer. He would so have liked to have her as a friend, and it hurt him that she did not think well of him. It felt both unfair and unnecessary. He should have trusted her and talked about why he traveled to Sweden. Then they might perhaps still have been friends.

  He had understood that she had been attracted by the thought of traveling to Mexico. It had not simply been an innocent joke between them. In her eyes he had seen a longing and a spark that was lit. She had considered the possibility, but now all that was gone.

  Manuel cursed himself for having disappointed her and he wondered if the wound could be healed.

  Patricio interrupted his thoughts by standing up and helping himself to a sandwich and soda. He ate and drank in silence.

  “Is it edible?” Manuel asked.

  “I’ve had worse,” Patricio replied, smiling.

  Manuel laughed with relief when he realized that his brother was making an effort to bridge the discord and the tense atmosphere.

  “I’m also going to have some,” he said, taking out the wrapped sandwich and sitting down next to his brother.

  “This afternoon I’ll get us some fried chicken,” he continued.

  At that moment a helicopter approached at a low altitude. It swept in from the north and flew over the river a hundred or so meters from the place where the brothers were sitting.

  Taken by compete surprise as they were, they did not even manage to react until the helicopter had vanished from view.

  “The police,” Patricio whispered.

  Manuel did not know what to believe.

  “Maybe it’s the military,” he said, and told him that he believed there was an air force base on the other side of the river.

  “They’re looking for me,” Patricio said, and stood up.

  “I can swim across and check,” Manuel offered. “Maybe it was something routine and nothing to do with us.”

  He checked the bushes where he had hidden the money. Patricio noticed his gaze.

  “If you cross the river, I’ll put the tent away. Even if they are not looking for us we are clearly visible from the air.”

  Patricio was right. Their tent must stand out like a torch from up above. He undressed, swam across the river, climbed up on the other side, and in the distance he could just make out the helicopter that had landed. He was unable to determine if it was a police helicopter, but he could not spot any activity on the airstrip.

  Twenty minutes later they were on their way. They followed the Fyris river to the southwest. Manuel had seen a forest in the area. There they should be able to find a more secluded spot. The car could remain parked near the arts and crafts village for now.

  After a trek of a couple of kilometers, the river turned directly south toward Uppsala. The brothers crawled up the bank and discussed what they should do. Before them lay a field and beyond that the woods rose up thickly.

  They took a chance and crossed the field, arrived at a highway that they crossed, avoided a couple of houses, finally reached the shielding curtain of trees and followed an almost invisible path into the woods. Wine-red mushrooms peeked out between the heavy branches on either side of the path.

  “It is like a cathedral,” Patricio said and stopped, stroking the sticky fir with his hands. “How beautiful it would be if—”

  “Let’s push on.”

  Manuel was irritated. He was in a way, however, grateful for the short break—his brother had not shown any fatigue despite their quick march, while he himself was panting.

  “They’re hunting us,” Patricio said.

  “As if I didn’t know that,” Manuel said.

  “If we were free I would—”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know,” Patricio said hesitantly. “Do you go to mass?
”

  “Why wouldn’t I do that?” Manuel asked, perplexed.

  He continued on deeper into the woods. Patricio lumbered on behind him. After a short while they reached a house.

  “It looks abandoned,” Patricio said.

  There was no movement either outside or in the windows, and no smoke rose from the chimney. An old tree, still green and covered in apples, was lying straight across the gravel path that led from the gate up to the house. The sight of the giant that had been struck down in the midst of its fruitful phase depressed Manuel. The top of the tree was partly torn to pieces. Manuel walked up and studied the jagged wounds where the branches had been torn from the trunk. The wood was light but with a core of murky brown rot that Manuel was easily able to crumble between his fingers.

  “Who lives here in the woods?” he asked and looked around.

  There was a small field behind a low stone wall. It was not in use and small trees were growing in a tangled sea of high herbs and grass. The red-painted wooden wall glowed with a warm and welcoming light in the afternoon sun and some yellow flowers that Manuel recognized from his homeland waved by the high stone foundation.

  He walked up to the door and tried the door handle. It was locked.

  “Manuel, come!”

  Patricio was standing in the doorway of a smaller building, waving for his brother.

  “We can sleep in here,” Patricio said when Manuel had caught up.

  The shed consisted of one small room. Firewood was piled up to the ceiling along one wall. On the other side there was an old metal frame bed. A mattress was rolled up against one end of the bed. Patricio undid the string holding the mattress together and it unrolled over the bed frame. He chuckled.

  “The bed is made,” he said and threw himself down.

  They carried in their few belongings and installed themselves. Manuel hid the bag of money behind the stack of firewood. It felt unpleasant to force oneself into a stranger’s house, but on the other hand it had been open and they were not causing any damage. The most important thing was that they were no longer visible from the air if any more helicopters appeared.