Stone Coffin Part 35

"Pieda could be a man with a conscience," she speculated. "Perhaps he tried to talk his way to extra benefits for himself or others."

Ottosson looked unconvinced.

"Well," he said, "I don't think he would have formulated himself in that way. Think about being a representative for a European company. You would want to be a.s.sertive, not appear as if you were whining."

Lindell didn't answer. There was something she had heard that nagged at her. Very recently. Was it Mortensen or Teresia Wall who had said something?

"Maybe you're right," she said. "But we'll have to keep working on the mysterious Julio. Has the contact with the Republic given us anything?"

"No response so far," Ottosson said. "It must be a little hard to get things done over there."

Lindell had trouble imagining how her colleagues on the other side of the Atlantic worked. There must be constant sun and summer, hordes of tourists.

"Maybe there is a siesta every day," Ottosson said but did not elaborate further on the Caribbean when he saw Lindell's expression.

"How do you think your scare tactics are working?" he asked, changing tack.

"We'll see," she said. "I think Mortensen will be hard. Some of the researchers looked very nervous. I took a peek at the rats they keep, and I have to say it can't be a pleasure to sit in a cage with a needle in your back. I know the researchers must justify the animal experimentation to themselves, but they are also probably aware of public opinion."

"You didn't see any primates?"

"No, only mice and rats."

Ottosson slowly got up out of the chair. Lindell could tell that there was more he wanted to say and had an idea that it was about her condition. She did nothing to help him, only turning the pages of her notepad to a clean page as if she were getting ready to write something.

Ottosson rocked back and forth on his feet for a couple of seconds and then left her office.

Twenty-nine.

As Julio Pieda approached the outskirts of the town, his heart skipped a beat and he became so agitated that he thumped on the roof of the car. His nephew reduced his speed and pulled over to the side of the road just as a truck loaded with construction materials roared past and brushed the side mirror of the pickup.

"What is it?" Antonio shouted, without getting out.

"I saw him!" Julio answered. "Back up!"

Antonio snorted but obeyed and began slowly backing up. The car bounced on the uneven road. More trucks overtook them at insane speeds.

"A little farther!" Julio shouted from the back of the pickup.

A few seconds later, he was disappointed. It wasn't him. Why do these gringos all have to look the same?

"Do you see him?" Augusto, another nephew, asked.

"Keep driving," Julio said despondently. "Head to the Baker."

That was his last hope. The Baker might know where "El Sueco" was and if he had been around recently.

In his village, Gaspar Hernndez, they had given up hope, but Julio refused to. He wanted justice. He had told the villagers this, but they had only laughed. Not openly, but behind his back. He knew it.

Antonio made a U-turn and parked in front of the Baker's store, which was also a bar. This was where Julio had met the Swede for the first time. That was almost exactly a year ago. Julio knew that he frequented this place. The Baker and the Swede got along well and Julio thought the Baker had found women for him, although he denied this.

"El Sueco is a fine man," he had said the last time Julio came looking for him.

A fine man, Julio thought as he climbed down from the bed. He had given up hope but was still looking for justice. If the Swede really was a fine man, he would understand.

The Baker had already opened three bottles of beer when they walked in. They helped Julio sit down at one of the tables. The Baker placed the beers on the table, greeted Julio and then the two youths.

"How is it going?" he asked and wiped the table with a rag.

"As usual," Julio said. "You haven't seen him?"

The Baker shook the rag and then his head.

"d.a.m.n it," Julio muttered.

He put the bottle to his mouth. The first sip was always the best. That was true of everything in life. The first time you made love with a woman, the first banana from the bunch, and the first bite of breakfast in the morning. The same was true of the Swede. The first meeting had been happy. The stranger had offered him food, beer, and rum, made jokes and laughed.

"I don't think he'll be back," the Baker said, and Julio noticed the hesitation in his voice.

"Yes, I think you're right," Julio said quietly.

The tone of his voice caused his nephews look at him. Their minds had been clear from the beginning: Julio's expedition was doomed to fail. They were making this trip so that the old man would stop carrying on so much and also because they liked him, because they felt sorry for him.

Julio took another sip. He felt betrayed, he was betrayed. People laughed at him and the others who had been taken in. It was fortunate that Miguel, his older brother, was no longer alive. He would have laughed himself silly; he had never had a sense of justice. His sons were better. Julio lifted the bottle but did not immediately bring it to his lips. He looked back at his nephews. They lifted their bottles too and together they drank a toast to confirm that the world was unfair and that life for the poor was h.e.l.l.

The Baker stood behind his counter. He gazed at Julio sympathetically before he delivered his news.

"I believe that the Swede is dead," he said.

He knew that this was the case but did not want to completely obliterate the old man's hopes by sounding too certain. The trio at the table stared at him, and the Baker now saw the family resemblance more clearly than before. They all had the Pieda nose, broad across the top with nostrils that widened to gaping holes with every breath.

"The police have been here," he said. "They asked questions about the Swede and wanted to know everything about the purchase of the property. I said that I didn't know anything and that the Swede came here only to drink."

"Why do you think he is dead?"

The old man did not reveal any stormy feelings. The Baker a.s.sumed it was the beer that made him calm. Some became aggressive and talkative when drinking, but Julio had never raised his voice in the bar, no matter how much he had had.

"It was my impression from their questions," the Baker answered.

"What else did they ask?" Antonio wondered.

"I said nothing about you, Julio, but they said they would go to the village."

"No one has been there," Julio said. "G.o.d has forgotten about us."

His hand shook as he reached for his beer. There is no justice, he thought as the beer slipped down his throat.

Thirty.

It was shortly before eleven o'clock when the interrogations of the MedForsk employees were halted. Ottosson decided to order food for those being interrogated as well as for the police.

There were several protests. Mortensen, above all, was extremely agitated. He talked about a breach of civil liberties. So call your mother, Lindell thought when she heard his angry voice. Ottosson responded in a calm voice that additional issues had to be resolved, but that first everyone needed some food.

Lindell smiled to herself. He sounded like a day care teacher who was explaining something to impatient children.

They had decided that the employees would eat separately in their individual holding rooms, so after the brief meeting they were led back to their original locations. The detectives, however, all ate together.

"How is it going?" Ottosson asked cheerfully to his a.s.sembled colleagues.

The resulting discussion was lively. The main impression so far was that the majority of the employees were shaken. In part because of the Cederen drama and Gabriella Mark's subsequent death and in part because they and the company were now under such close scrutiny. Mortensen had been duly informed that the Swedish police had visited UNA Medico in Mlaga, but this was news to the rest of the company.

"Teresia Wall's jaw dropped," Beatrice said. "At first she couldn't even get out a single word."

"Same thing with my guy," Haver said.

"Mortensen referred to an internal investigation that the company is allegedly going to undertake," Berglund said. "Until we got to that point, he had claimed he had nothing to add to what had already been said."

"What did he say about our Spanish excursion?" Lindell asked.

"He had clearly been briefed by De Soto and the tactic is apparently that each blames the other. Whatever irregularities we might find, they will be the other one's fault. 'We're clean,'" Berglund echoed.

"They're hoping that we're going to jump into their books and intricate affairs and drown in the paperwork," Ottosson said. "But we couldn't care less about their money and the various transactions."

The prosecutor entered the room. He nodded a greeting to the group.

"Would you like a bite?" Ottosson asked, and Beatrice and Lindell exchanged looks. Ottosson was in his sunniest mood.

Fritzen declined the offer with a smile and sat down.

"I think my girl has something to contribute," Beatrice said. "She's more than a little edgy."

"She's pregnant," Sammy said. "That makes them all shaky."

Beatrice glared at him and was on the verge of taking him to task for this but kept going instead.

"She asked a lot about Gabriella and was surprisingly curious. When I asked if she knew Gabriella or had heard about her before, she talked around her answer."

"Something she said struck a chord in me," Lindell said. "But I can't remember what it was. It bothers me."

"You weren't in more than two times," Beatrice said.

The rest listened. They had enough respect for Lindell's intuition to sense that there might be something to this.

"When I came in the second time you were talking about primates," Lindell said slowly.

"What about the first time?" Beatrice asked.

"That was social chatter," Lindell said. "Social chat," she repeated more softly.

"No one has any idea who Plle might be," Ottosson said. "That indicates that he isn't in immediate contact with MedForsk. Otherwise someone should be familiar with the name."

At that moment one of the secretaries, Anneli, came in, turned to Lindell, and indicated that she wanted to speak with her.

"An older woman called and she was very upset," Anneli said. "She's looking for you."

"I see. What was it about?"

"Her name is Viola and she lives in Graso Island," the secretary said, and Ann caught the look of empathy in her gaze before she really understood what she had said.

"What's happened?" she managed.

"You're supposed to call. She said you had the number."

Lindell left her colleagues without a word and ran to her office. Edvard, she mumbled. Edvard. The dream from the morning returned to her as she dialed Viola's number with shaky fingers.

The old woman picked up immediately as if she had been waiting by the phone.

"This is Ann. What's happened?"

She heard Viola's labored breathing.

"It's Edvard," Viola said and was interrupted by a fit of coughing.

"What is it?"

"He was at sea and went by the board and..."

Lindell swayed, fumbled for something to steady herself on, and struck a heap of reports that tumbled to the floor with a thud. Then everything went black for a moment. She fell on top of the papers on the floor.

She was conscious, but her legs wouldn't hold her. Nothing could hold her. She pulled the receiver to her and heard Viola shouting.

"But he's alive, my dear girl, he's alive."