The canine unit consisting of officer Sven Knorring and the Jessica the Labrador went through the apartment first but found nothing. Not a single indication of drugs anywhere.

At Dakar, an expectant Ann Lindell followed Jessica's sniffing at tables and chairs, through the kitchen, cold storage, and staff areas.

"Clinically clean," Knorring summed up.

Lindell was about to ask if the dog was one hundred percent reliable but stopped herself at the last second. They decided to walk to Alhambra. Downtown stores were opening, people were starting to fill the streets, and those who recognized Ann Lindell-and they were quite a few after the last murder investigation and the blaze that had almost cost her her life-followed her stroll with the accompanying canine unit with interest.

Alhambra was lit up. Charles Morgansson came to meet them and took on the role of maitre d'.

"Have you made a reservation?" he inquired politely, and scratched Jessica's ear. But the dog paid no attention to the technician, pulling on her leash, straining to go in deeper.

Lindell noticed a change in the officer's expression as well. It was as if he and the dog were one. Jessica whimpered pleadingly and Sven Knorring nodded to Lindell and let the dog go. She immediately took off through the dining room.

Knorring followed. Morgansson and Lindell followed them with their eyes. There was total silence. Only the click of the Labrador's claws against the lacquered wood floor could be heard.

The lawyer Simone Motander-Banks was a vision. Sammy Nilsson could not help staring at the woman who swept into the questioning chamber as if it were a c.o.c.ktail party. She was dressed in a tight skirt, a light-colored jacket, and high heels. A wide gold bracelet dangled on one wrist. She smiled tightly, ignored the foolishly staring Sammy Nilsson and the bewildered Barbro Liljendahl and turned to the restaurant owner. a vision. Sammy Nilsson could not help staring at the woman who swept into the questioning chamber as if it were a c.o.c.ktail party. She was dressed in a tight skirt, a light-colored jacket, and high heels. A wide gold bracelet dangled on one wrist. She smiled tightly, ignored the foolishly staring Sammy Nilsson and the bewildered Barbro Liljendahl and turned to the restaurant owner.

"You have definitely lost weight," she said. "It suits you."

"Simone," Slobodan Andersson said, "wonderful to see you."

For a few moments he appeared to have regained his self-a.s.surance, stood up and kissed her on the cheek. Sammy Nilsson observed that Slobodan Andersson for a moment studied her remarkable earring. He then suavely engaged the lawyer in conversation, completely ignoring the two detectives.

"I'm glad you were able to come down on such short notice," Sammy Nilsson said, taking advantage of a pause in the bright chatter.

The lawyer had all of the characteristics Sammy Nilsson found hardest to bear: arrogance and pretentiousness, complemented by a disdain for the police, as if they were a lower order of beings engaged in a filthy profession which they practiced with a halfhearted sloppiness. He had heard one of the city's more renowned attorneys refer to the police as "farm hands."

The lawyer and Slobodan sat down. Simone was cool, with crossed legs and her hands demurely clasped in her lap, the restaurant owner sweaty, heavy, and somewhat out of breath.

"Well, now," Sammy Nilsson began, after first recording the particulars of the questioning session on the tape recorder, "we have some things to sort out here. First Mexico. What were you and Armas doing there?"

"Vacation," Slobodan answered quickly.

"No acquaintances there? No deals? Business connections?"

"No."

"You have spoken with my colleague Ann Lindell about this."

"Exactly," Slobodan Andersson replied, then added, "I don't know why we have to go on about Mexico. Are there laws against going there?"

"Of course not. Perhaps I or one of my colleagues will be fortunate enough to have reason to go there. We simply want to get to the bottom of why Armas got his tattoo. We now know where it happened. We also know that you were present. The tattoo artist, Sammy Ramirez, remembers you very well. But why did the symbol that Armas chose for his tattoo come to play a role at his death?"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"We believe that the person who slit your partner's throat had a motive that was grounded in Mexico. Therefore the tattoo played a role."

Slobodan Andersson stared at the policeman, astonished.

"Quetzalcoatl," 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 hoa.r.s.ely.

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

Sammy Nilsson poured a gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s, 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 antic.i.p.ated a counterattack from the lawyer, but she was surprisingly pa.s.sive 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. up at six o'clock that morning she had wondered if she should contact the police.

The escape from the Norrtalje prison had been allotted a great deal of s.p.a.ce 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 a.s.surances 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 a.s.sessment, 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 l.u.s.t. 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 Jorgen. 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 Savja 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. d.a.m.n 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. 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.