Part 32 (1/2)

Ann Lindell was having heart palpitations. The last hour had brought some breakthroughs. First the video, and now this. Then the question would be how far this could take them, but she felt as if the mystery of Armas was starting to crumble, the cracks were becoming wider and more visible.

She called Fryklund and praised his thesis on the Mexican G.o.ds.

”But it was fun,” he said, audibly surprised at Lindell's overwhelming praise, and she wished in silence that more of them could say the same about their work.

Then she faxed a photograph of Armas to Guadalajara. Three minutes later she received an answer from Sammy Ramirez: the man in the picture was the same person he had tattooed.

Just as Ann Lindell had started to think about food there was a call from reception, informing her she had a visitor. Lindell peeked at the time. He was punctual. It was exactly one hour since she had spoken with Slobodan Andersson. started to think about food there was a call from reception, informing her she had a visitor. Lindell peeked at the time. He was punctual. It was exactly one hour since she had spoken with Slobodan Andersson.

On her way down she met the police chief and nodded slightly, but hurried into the elevator before he could come up with some cheery comment. She was not fond of him, and even less so since rumors had started that Liselotte Rask in the public relations department was going to be taking on very different work in the building.

Sammy Nilsson had jokingly claimed that Rask was going to be appointed responsible for the meditation room in the bas.e.m.e.nt. This was a room that very few, if anyone, ever visited and which served as a constant source of conversation. Someone had suggested that the master would be able to conduct gender awareness and relaxation exercises there.

Slobodan Andersson was standing in front of the fish tank in the foyer, watching the fish. Lindell slowed her pace and took stock of him. Had he lost weight? He looked slimmer, if one could apply that adjective to a man she appraised to be around one hundred and thirty kilos.

She walked up to him and perceived none of his earlier irritation. Lindell led him quickly and without speaking to her office. He looked around attentively, his breathing labored.

”Welcome,” she said and offered him the visitor's chair, which gave protesting creaks when he sat down.

She went directly on the offensive, eschewing polite phrases and social chitchat.

”I want you to tell me about Armas's son,” she said, taking a chance.

Slobodan looked taken aback.

”What son?”

”Come on, Slobodan! You knew each other for many years.”

He denied having any knowledge of a son. Lindell believed him. Not because of the look of foolishness on his face, but more because of the hint of hurt in his expression. It was obvious how unpleasant he found this, not because he had to conceal anything but because Armas had kept him in the dark and not told him about his child.

Lindell became unsure for a moment. Perhaps the man in the video was not a son at all, it could as well be a nephew or some other relative, but now she could not back down in front of Slobodan.

”Let's drop this,” she said lightly. ”We can talk about Mexico instead.”

Slobodan was caught off-guard. The generously proportioned body trembled and he tried to smile but failed miserably. His gaze s.h.i.+fted between her and the door, as if he was considering running out of the room.

”Why that?”

”The tattoo Armas had means something, doesn't it? You were with him in Guadalajara. And that's in Mexico.”

Lindell had to concentrate to p.r.o.nounce the words correctly. Slobodan said nothing, so she carried on.

”That's why we need to talk about Mexico. Why did Armas choose a Mexican G.o.d and what could it mean to the person who killed him?”

”I have no idea. How would I ...”

”You have to focus,” Lindell interrupted him. ”What connection did the two of you have to Mexico?”

”Okay, we were there,” Slobodan said compliantly, ”but that doesn't mean anything. It's possible that Armas got a tattoo there, I can't really remember. We partied some and I was probably not ...”

He fell silent. Lindell studied the sweaty man in front of her as if he were a new apparition, someone who had slipped into her office and whose ident.i.ty she was trying to figure out.

”What were you doing in Mexico?” she said, breaking the silence that for Slobodan, Lindell a.s.sumed, must have felt like a decade.

He suddenly became enthusiastic and leaned forward.

”We had some cash flow problems, you have probably already established this. We were maintaining a low profile, I admit this freely, but we kept our side of the bargain. The tax authorities received their due, didn't they? And when times are tough you try to live cheaply and Mexico is affordable. You can find a hotel room for ten dollars. No luxuries, but you can survive.”

”But then you came back?”

Slobodan nodded. His breathing was labored after his speech.

”And kept your side of the bargain. But the question is where the money came from. Did you find bagfulls of dollars in Mexico?”

”You don't know how all this hangs together, I take it. I am an experienced restauranteur and there are those who are willing to invest a sum. I have good friends who were willing to pony up.”

”In Mexico?”

”No, in Denmark and Malmo. And then we won at a casino in Acapulco. Armas put in quite a bit as well. I believe he received an inheritance or something.”

”Okay, so you suddenly got some money and returned, we'll leave it at that for now. Could something have happened in Mexico that later led to Armas's death? Did you meet anyone who since then may have had a reason to hold a grudge against Armas?”

”Who would that be?”

”That's what I'm asking you,” Lindell said.

Slobodan shook his head.

”Are you threatened?”

He looked up as if he had had a new insight.

Slobodan Andersson left a stench of sweat in his wake. Lindell stood up and opened the window, at the same time helping a b.u.mblebee find its way to freedom. She could not understand how it had gotten in. The b.u.mblebee made a couple of circles outside the window before it set off and disappeared. To the east, Lindell observed. of sweat in his wake. Lindell stood up and opened the window, at the same time helping a b.u.mblebee find its way to freedom. She could not understand how it had gotten in. The b.u.mblebee made a couple of circles outside the window before it set off and disappeared. To the east, Lindell observed.

She stood there at the window. She had not yet exhausted all of the details the new view from her window afforded. She followed pedestrians and cars below, discovered buildings and rooftops, looked out over the cityscape and recalled with some nostalgia the view from her old office in the former police building on Salagatan. Not because it was more beautiful, in fact it had been mostly of concrete, but she a.s.sociated the view with old cases and perhaps even with Edvard and Graso. That was where they had met, not for the very first time, because that had been at a crime scene where Edvard was the one who had discovered the body, but later. She remembered his first visit and the impression he had made, so different from other men she had met.

She erased him again and let her gaze travel across the Uppsala roofs.

Other people created things, roofs and building fronts, for example, while she herself gathered information and testimony, ruminated over the origins of the frustration and violence she encountered in her work. There were no easy answers, that was the only conclusion she had drawn.

Sometimes she chastised herself with the fact that she thought too much, that she made things difficult for herself. Didn't these thoughts block effective investigative work? No, that isn't true, she countered, quite the opposite: our thoughts are too limited. Many times she had heard other people speak out, it could be at day care or on the radio, and she thought: we should bring that into our work, we need this knowledge.

Insufficient staff and lack of time was the noose from which they hung. A noose that was slowly strangling Lindell and her coworkers. With enough personnel-and not necessarily police officers-they would be able to solve most crimes, and above all help prevent them from occurring in the first place.

It could have been so different. Everyone knew it, few spoke about it and hardly anyone fought for a better system. Habit had become the modus operandi.