They drove back to the police station in silence, but before they parted ways they agreed to meet the following day.

"I need the perspective of an experienced colleague," Liljendahl said and Lindell found this both flattering and irritating. She guessed that there was something behind the appreciative words. Maybe, she thought, her motivation was as simple as just wanting to p.i.s.s off Harry Andersson.

Thirty-Five.

Eva Willman chuckled to herself. In front of her on the table lay at least one hundred flyers. She already regretted having promised Helen to circulate them. The text was too aggressive in Eva's opinion, too stark and bordering on schmaltz. Eva had little patience for the sentimental while Helen liked to lay it on thick. In front of her on the table lay at least one hundred flyers. She already regretted having promised Helen to circulate them. The text was too aggressive in Eva's opinion, too stark and bordering on schmaltz. Eva had little patience for the sentimental while Helen liked to lay it on thick.

"But this is about our children," Helen said, when Eva objected to one of the phrases.

"But this one, Helen," Eva said and read aloud: "'... drug dealers are like predators who destroy our children, luring them into the marsh.'"

"So?" Helen said. "If some b.a.s.t.a.r.d came here and threw our kids in the Stordammen to drown them we would stop him, wouldn't we?"

Stordammen was a lake with a swampy sh.o.r.eline, encircled by a belt of reeds, located in the woods just south of the residential area.

"We haven't fully come to terms with what is happening," Helen went on. "These are our children they have targeted. One should line them up against a wall, these d.a.m.n pushers-no, that would be too kind-one should-"

"You are not allowed to say that at the meeting," Eva interrupted.

Helen smiled.

"Do you think I'm completely crazy? I am going to be exceedingly calm and dignified. You can talk instead, if you like."

There was a note of both derision and indignation in Helen's voice.

Helen had booked the old post office. That turned out to be a good choice because it was centrally located and, above all, everyone knew where it was. A good friend of hers had printed up the flyers at work. Helen had also organized coffee and cake through the congregation and invited the police to talk about drugs.

Eva had suggested they invite some politicians but Helen had dismissed the idea with a snort.

"We're going to have to tackle this ourselves," she said. "If those clowns took their jobs seriously, surely the schools wouldn't be the way they are. Soon there will only be one school counselor per district. And there should be a community center worthy of the name, at the very least."

Helen continued to list the things she thought the politicians should do. Nothing came as news, and the more Helen talked the more tired Eva felt.

Eva started in her own courtyard, walking from building to building and taping the yellow flyers to the doors. Then she continued on through the area, down toward the ICA grocery store and the pizzeria. courtyard, walking from building to building and taping the yellow flyers to the doors. Then she continued on through the area, down toward the ICA grocery store and the pizzeria.

She met several people she knew outside the store. She was slightly ashamed of the flyers with their silly phrases, but everytime she received some encouragment she felt more comfortable.

"I'm glad someone is doing something sensible for once," said a mother she recognized from the soccer practices.

Maybe we could post a large advertis.e.m.e.nt outside the store, she thought, and went inside to talk to the manager, returning with something close to a promise.

She knew that the rumor would quickly spread in Savja and Bergsbrunna that Patrik and Hugo's mother was running around with flyers like some kind of Jehovah's Witness, and she wondered what her boys would say. They would be embarra.s.sed, Eva felt sure about that. But, emboldened by the praise, she went by the nursery school on the way home, went in and talked to some of the staff, and was allowed to post flyers there as well.

Eva called Helen as soon as she got home.

"Wonderful," she said. "It's perfect that the flyers are yellow. And an other thing, I got Mossa's mother to translate it into Arabic. She's going to print it out. Do you think we need it in Kurdish? What does that boy in fifth grade speak? Is it Iranian?"

"Yes, Ali's family is from Teheran."

"If we don't get all the svartskallar svartskallar to attend, it won't work. Then it will be like in France." to attend, it won't work. Then it will be like in France."

Eva did not protest her choice of words-svartskallar was a derogatory word for immigrants-and did not ask what Helen knew about France. She had probably seen a doc.u.mentary on television. was a derogatory word for immigrants-and did not ask what Helen knew about France. She had probably seen a doc.u.mentary on television.

Eva promised to speak to the Iranian family, who had a boy in the fifth grade, and they finished the call. She sank exhausted into the sofa. On the floor in front of her was the magazine she had been reading the other night. She picked it up and leafed through to the article about the yacht off the coast of South America, and she realized that she had never swum in anything saltier than the brackish Baltic seawater, had never taken in a really salty gulp of water.

She tried to imagine heat and sandy beach. Tropical warmth and fine, white grains under bare feet, and she smiled to herself. She knew it was only a dream and that she would never be able to afford to travel farther than the Canary Islands, if even that. For the past two years she had saved four thousand six hundred kronor in a special account. Last fall there had been almost seven thousand, but before Christmas she had been forced to withdraw several thousand.

Her only hope was a Triss lottery win. Together with Helen, she bought a ticket every week, but so far the yield had been thin, some fifty kronor and, once, a thousand kronor. They had celebrated with a bottle of wine.

She wanted to travel with Patrik and Hugo. It felt urgent because soon they would be too old to want to accompany her. It pained her that she could not offer them more of the good life. They heard about cla.s.smates who traveled both on winter and summer vacations, and once the usually so loyal Hugo had let it slip out that it was unfair that they could not go farther than to Varmland.

But now the outlook was somewhat better. Donald had mentioned something about needing more staff in the kitchen, someone who managed the dishes. Right now it was the waitstaff that had to take care of loading the dishwasher and supplying the bar with gla.s.ses, but in view of the fact that the number of guests was increasing and that Eva was unused to the work, it was stressful. Perhaps she would be able to work a few extra nights a month and put away a little money?

She was due at work soon. She smiled, happened to think about Donald and his resistance to the union. Maybe she should put Helen on him. She smiled, happened to think about Donald and his resistance to the union. Maybe she should put Helen on him.

Despite her reservations about her friend's antidrug campaign, she felt strengthened. You could say what you wanted about Helen, and there were many who did, but she had a fantastic ability to make things happen, even if Eva was not getting her hopes up about the meeting at the old post office. There would most likely not be the turnout that Helen expected. To relocate a garbage room in your own courtyard was entirely different from altering county politics and fighting drugs.

Thirty-Six.

Barbro Liljendahl parked on the street and the first thing she noticed was the Mercedes. Lindell had told her about Konrad Rosenberg's car purchase. She also saw the sc.r.a.pe along the side that almost looked like a racing stripe. street and the first thing she noticed was the Mercedes. Lindell had told her about Konrad Rosenberg's car purchase. She also saw the sc.r.a.pe along the side that almost looked like a racing stripe.

Therefore she was not all too surprised by Rosenberg's opening remark when she introduced herself as from the police.

"I'm grateful that you could come down here so quickly. You saw the car, didn't you?"

"Someone else will have to take care of that," Liljendahl said. "We have something else to talk about."

The air in his apartment was smoky and stale, but it was surprisingly neat. They sat down in the kitchen. Konrad Rosenberg had a veteran criminal's gaze. He pretended to be relaxed but avoided looking her in the eye.

"Maybe we should talk a little about the Mercedes, after all," Liljendahl said.

Konrad looked up and she noticed a glint of hope in his worn face. For a moment she could identify with him.

"It must be some kids," he said and lit a cigarette.

"May I ask how you can afford such an expensive car?"

"I won on a race in Solvalla. And I've only ever driven junk cars before so I thought ..."

"How much did you win?"

"A couple of hundred thousand," Konrad said and coughed at same time, as if the amount caught in his throat.

"Do you gamble on a regular basis?"

"Every week. I am the best client at the gambling station, and sometimes I go down to Solvalla and sometimes up to Gavle. Do you bet on horses?"

Liljendahl shook her head and smiled at Rosenberg.

"Are you acquainted with Olle Sidstrom?"

Here Rosenberg displayed great finesse. He took a final drag of his cigarette and then carefully extinguished it in the overflowing ashtray.

"Yes, he's come out with me a few times, but that was more in the old days. He gets so overbearing when he wins. You need to be discreet when you play."

"Right now he's not doing any gambling," Liljendahl said. "He's in the hospital." "Oh?"

"Stabbed."

Now Rosenberg's defenses crumbled. Liljendahl watched as his wall came tumbling down, how his jaw slackened and how terror established its grip on him.

Attack, Liljendahl thought, nonetheless she held back and allowed time for Rosenberg's bewilderment to take hold before she told him about Sidstrom's condition. She described in detail what his chest looked like, the way his fear had manifested itself, and what an urgent need he had to talk to the police.

"What does this have to do with me?" Rosenberg tossed out and lit yet another cigarette. Liljendahl, who had encountered this question many times, smiled, but said nothing.

"If he says that I owe him money then he's bluffing" was Rosenberg's next tack. "He's always been full of s.h.i.t."

"I am not here as an advocate for Sidstrom," Liljendahl said. "I am investigating an attempted homicide and drug trafficking. I thought that, as an old addict, you would maybe have something to tell me."

Rosenberg shook his head.

"I am a law-abiding citizen," he said.

Liljendahl could not repress a look of merriment.

"And you have nothing to add," she said.

"No, nothing."

Before Barbro Liljendahl left Tunabackar she stopped by the magazine store on Torbjorns Square and confirmed that Rosenberg was a heavy gambler and spent "a thousand or so" on horse bets and lottery tickets. she stopped by the magazine store on Torbjorns Square and confirmed that Rosenberg was a heavy gambler and spent "a thousand or so" on horse bets and lottery tickets.

According to the manager, Rosenberg did "fairly well" and won small to "decent" amounts from time to time.

Liljendahl realized that she had to uncover something concrete in order to break Sidstrom and possibly confirm a link to Rosenberg. She felt very strongly that Rosenberg was hiding something. The nervousness he had displayed was not the usual stress all criminals showed in their confrontation with law enforcement. She had managed to unsettle him and it would be a good idea to pay another visit to Rosenberg in a day or two, keep the pressure on and maybe get him to make a mistake. He would never start to talk of his own accord. Only new information would bring this about, and lead to him selling information in order to save his own skin.

She also knew that the weak link in this chain was Zero. He was the one who had to start talking.

Thirty-Seven.

Lorenzo was not happy, but the people around him did not usually notice a difference, since he was trained to maintain his composure. Olaf Gonzalez was nonetheless experienced enough to take heed of Lorenzo's right hand nervously pulling through his hair, smoothing it back. the people around him did not usually notice a difference, since he was trained to maintain his composure. Olaf Gonzalez was nonetheless experienced enough to take heed of Lorenzo's right hand nervously pulling through his hair, smoothing it back.

"Who?" he asked, and Gonzo wished he had an answer.

"There are a couple of possibilities," he began gingerly, "either someone in the business that Armas went too far with, or someone from his past has turned up."

When Gonzo found out that Armas had been murdered, his initial reaction had been to leave town. He was convinced that it was Lorenzo who was behind it, and since he was the only one who knew about Armas's relationship with Lorenzo, he felt he was in a vulnerable position. Perhaps Lorenzo wanted to silence him in order to cover his tracks.

"That much I have figured out on my own," Lorenzo said. "But since you worked closely with Armas, I would have expected you to have picked something up, for G.o.d's sake."

Lorenzo seldom cursed or raised his voice. They were sitting at Pub 19, each with a beer in front of him. It was half past six and there were only a few other people in the room. A couple of students were standing at the bar and a group of women, whom Gonzo a.s.sumed all worked together, had claimed two tables at the window looking out onto Svart-backsgatan. One of the women looked up and stared at them.

Gonzo chose not to answer. Whatever he said, it would most likely rub Lorenzo the wrong way. Gonzo wanted to stay on his good side. That was his only chance. Since he had been fired from Dakar there was no possibility of working for another restaurant in town-Slobodan would see to that-and so Lorenzo was his only hope.

d.a.m.n it, he thought, why did I have to go poking my nose in other peoples' business? The first time Lorenzo contacted him, he a.s.sumed that it was about work, that Lorenzo was fishing for information and was looking to establish contacts in the restaurant business. That was at least how he made it seem, that he was thinking of establishing himself in the city and needed "points of entry."

Gonzo was flattered and saw before him the chance of advancement, and the very thought of walking into Slobodan's office and tossing the keys on the table made him willingly tell everything he knew about Dakar and Alhambra. He did not feel disloyal because Armas and Slobodan had always treated him like s.h.i.t. And then that Tessie b.i.t.c.h came along who thought she owned the place and could order him around like a house slave. What did she know about waitressing? He had worked his a.s.s off for fifteen years while Tessie had taken it easy at some burger joint in Boston.

He had realized too late that Lorenzo was aiming higher than that. He wanted to break Armas and in this way weaken Slobodan and perhaps take over his restaurants. But there was also something more that Lorenzo was after. Gonzo had never managed to put his finger on what that was. This feeling had grown stronger during the past week. Lorenzo's anxiety could not be explained in any other way. There was more at stake than two restaurants in Uppsala.

"What do the cops say?"

"They said nothing to me," Gonzo said and recalled how the police had peppered him with questions about his disagreement with Armas and why he had quit Dakar. "They thought I had something to do with his murder."

"And do you?"

Lorenzo smiled as he posed the question.

"f.u.c.k you!" Gonzo exclaimed, and one of the youths at the bar turned his head to stare with curiosity at the duo tucked away in the corner.

Gonzo took a large gulp of beer. He kept his eyes closed as he drank but felt Lorenzo's gaze. When he opened his eyes again he decided to tell him what he knew.

"I pa.s.sed a package on to Armas," Gonzo said, "but that turned out to be a mistake. He double-crossed me."

"Stolen goods."

Lorenzo nodded, posed no further questions, sipped some beer and smiled again.

"If you wish to join us when we sail, you will have to step on board soon," he said.

"And what is the cargo?"