Haake watched her from across the room. This pretty woman seemed to him an older version of the girl who’d died a few days ago. What was her name? The newspapers had mentioned it, but he had trouble recalling: Lynni Dahlin, that was it. Her name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
Apparently he’d made more of an impression on Lynni than he’d intended. He smiled to himself at his choice of words.
He regretted her death: it was a considerable inconvenience. Haake remembered his sessions with her gave intense pleasure. Lynni had obviously been so frightened it had always gotten him hard, unlike the prostitutes and useless pills he’d previously tried.
Should he approach this woman? He was frustrated that a replacement for the girl would probably take awhile. The only sexual release he now had was masturbating as he thought about her.
With this woman, the risk was unlikely to be worth it. Watching her interaction with the men, he thought she’d probably be only too willing and he wouldn’t be able to get it up. Haake shrugged to himself and went over to the lavish smõrgåsbord on a side table for a plate of shrimp.
10
MALMER
Tuesday, January 24, 9:10 a.m. Ekman’s back was already beginning to ache as his large rear perched precariously on one of the small, hard wooden chairs facing Deputy Commissioner Olav Malmer’s huge walnut desk.
His shaven skull gleaming in the overhead light, Malmer sat rigidly upright in the high, red-leather desk chair, adjusted to make him look taller than his five foot five. He was a small man in more than height, and couldn’t tolerate someone like Ekman who towered over him. More than that, he was basically an amateur police officer, a political appointee who hated having to rely on Ekman’s expertise.
He listened, his face impatient, as Ekman briefed him on where they stood with the Dahlin case.
“You’ve made some progress, but the media are always breathing down my neck. You haven’t given me enough to satisfy them, Walther.” As usual his greatest concern was possible adverse publicity.
“I thought with Chafik’s and Dahlin’s photos we’d fed them some raw meat.”
“Yes, but now they expect to be fed every day,” replied Malmer.
“It may be your job, but it’s not mine,” Ekman said flatly, looking right into Malmer’s light blue eyes. He usually accommodated him just to make life a little easier, but there was only so much bullshit he could tolerate. He and Malmer both knew he couldn’t be disciplined, let alone dismissed for insubordination: he was far too senior and too famous; besides, he had several friends on the National Police Board.
Malmer didn’t respond immediately, just pressed his lips into a tight line.
Then with a forced smile, he said, “Well, Walther, I suppose that’s right. I handle our relations with the outside world and you do the investigations. But I want you to take this case on personally and not just direct the work. It’s become a media magnet and the commissioner and I expect a quick resolution. Can I assume you’re in favor of that?”
Ekman ignored the sarcasm. He had several priority cases going at the same time, but his intuition told him this one was particularly important.
“Like you, I want this one solved as fast as possible. If you think it will speed things up, I’ll get directly involved.”
“Good. I expect daily reports,” Malmer said, and turning away, began going through some paperwork on his desk as though Ekman wasn’t there.
Ekman slowly got up and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. The bastard thinks he has me doing what he wants, but actually he’s handed me the excuse I was hoping for, he thought. Lynni Dahlin’s death, and what had led to it, were constantly on his mind.
11
THE BROTHER
Tuesday, January 24, 3 p.m. Nils Dahlin, a burly man of thirty with thinning, sandy hair, who worked as a piano tuner, sat facing Ekman and Rapp in the interview room, talking about his sister.
He’d formally identified her broken body the day before. Standing beside Rapp in the corridor outside the room where she lay, he’d suddenly begun to cry uncontrollably, the tears streaming down his cheeks. It had taken him many minutes to regain his composure.
Dahlin turned to Ekman, “We were the only ones left in the family. Our parents were killed in a car crash three years ago. There aren’t even cousins. She was all I had.”
“That must make it especially hard,” said Ekman. He knew only too well what deep personal loss felt like.
“We’ll try to be as brief as possible, but we need all the information you can give us about your sister, what she was like, her friends, relationships with men, and anything else you think might help,” said Rapp.
“We’re particularly interested in the days immediately before she went missing,” added Ekman.
“Lynni was a good person,” Dahlin said, looking up at a corner of the room, remembering. “She was warm and cheerful, and had a great sense of humor. Everyone liked her. I can’t understand how this could have happened.” He paused. “I miss her a lot. She meant everything to me.”
“We know she shared an apartment,” Rapp said, consulting his notebook, “at 538 Hornsgatan, with two other women. How long had she lived there?”
“About six months. She moved in first and advertised for two women to share the apartment, then the others joined her.”
“And what can you tell us about her flat mates?” asked Ekman.
“Not much. I don’t know them very well. I just met them a couple of times when I went to pick up Lynni for dinner or a movie. They seemed nice enough.”
“How about Lynni’s boyfriends? Do you know who they were?” Rapp said.
“She’d just broken up with a guy, Kalle Jakobsson, the week before she vanished. They’d been dating for almost a year.”
“Who broke it off?” asked Ekman.
“Lynni did.”
“Why was that?”
“She’d discovered he’d gotten into drugs. He’d changed a lot and she decided she couldn’t deal with it.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No, just somewhere here in Weltenborg.”
“Did you notice anything different in Lynni’s behavior immediately before she went missing? Or did anything out of the ordinary happen?” asked Rapp.
“Not really. Everything was as usual, except she seemed more relaxed not seeing Kalle.”
“Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?” Ekman asked.
“I wish I could, but there’s nothing else.”
“We have your home and work numbers, Herr Dahlin, and we’ll contact you when we know more. We appreciate your help. The officer in the hall will show you out,” said Ekman, standing.
Dahlin shook hands with each of them before leaving.
“What do you think?” Ekman asked Rapp.
“He seemed really attached to her and genuinely upset.”
“I agree. But we still need to run a background check on him. Also, let’s find out the terms of Lynni’s will, if she had one, and the size of her estate, since he’s the likely beneficiary. There also could be an insurance policy.”
“You really believe he had something to do with her death?” asked Rapp, his face showing his surprise.
“Probably not. I just want to make sure we cover all the bases.”
“Okay, we’ll do that, then take a look at her flat mates and that ex-boyfriend.”
12
BREAK-IN
Wednesday, January 25, 8 a.m. The five other team members were standing around in his conference room talking when he came in.
Ekman took his place at the head of the table as the others sat down.
“Okay, let’s get started.” Ekman turned to Vinter who was seated on his left. “What do you have for us?”
“Not good news, Chief. Enar and I went to Chafik’s apartment yesterday with a forensics team to execute the warrants. When we got there, the seal we’d put on the door was broken and
it was unlocked. Either Chafik somehow evaded the surveillance car we had out front or someone else broke in. We think it wasn’t him because the place was a mess, papers scattered everywhere, drawers dumped out. Chafik would have known what he was looking for. Worst of all, the computer we saw was gone.” She turned to Holm.
“Forensics went over the place and his car very carefully,” he said, “and the only prints were Chafik’s. Whoever broke into the apartment must have been wearing gloves. He obviously didn’t care if we knew the place had been tossed. We don’t know if he got what he was looking for, but we did a thorough search to see if we could find anything he missed. The papers on the floor were just old bills and ads, but we discovered one personal letter stuck in a magazine.”
Vinter continued, “It was from Morocco, postmarked two months ago, addressed to Chafik in English, but the letter was in Arabic. We had it translated. Because of the way it referred to family members we figured out that it’s from an uncle and mostly about family news. But at the end, it says …” She took out a paper and read, “… ‘I trust the job I arranged for you will continue to go well, insh’Allah. May the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon Him) watch over you.’”
“Having sex isn’t a bad job,” said Rosengren. He fell silent as Ekman glared at him.
Ekman was getting very tired of these snide remarks. If Rosengren weren’t such a good detective, he would have taken him off the team before this. One more out-of-line comment and he’d be gone.
“Gerdi, I’ll need the letter writer’s name. We have to find out more about this Moroccan connection. I’m going to ask Garth Rystrom to put me in touch with Interpol,” Ekman said, naming his friend, a superintendent at the National Criminal Investigation Department in Stockholm.
“If we could just get a look at Chafik’s bank records, we could find where his money was coming from,” suggested Rapp.
“You’re right, Alrik. But do we know what bank he used?”
“We didn’t find any bank statements, Chief,” said Holm. “Maybe the thief took them. However, Chafik could have just banked online. Without his computer, we don’t know where to look.”
“For now, I guess that’s a dead end,” Rapp said.
“Not necessarily,” said Ekman, looking up thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Gerdi, why don’t you get in touch with the companies that sent Chafik the bills you found and find out how they were paid. He probably used a credit card online or a check by mail. If we follow the number to a bank, we can get a warrant for the account statements.”
Rapp’s expression brightened.
“Gerdi, you were going to check out sex offenders with a Muslim background,” Ekman said.
“I found two recent guys in Weltenborg, Chief. One has been in prison for the last year for sexual assault. The other one, a Hassan Nassoor, was picked up just a week ago for groping a woman in a downtown store. He agreed to be fined by the prosecutor and that was the end of the matter. Nassoor has no priors. I’m still going back five years looking for others.”
“Alenius, what about phone tips?” Ekman asked, turning to Rosengren’s silent partner. Rosengren was usually the spokesman for the duo, but Ekman was still irritated and had decided by ignoring him for now to let him know it.
“A lot of calls, Chief, but after we questioned them closely, nothing that seemed solid enough for a follow-up.”
“Enar, any luck in the Muslim community?”
“I spoke with imams at the two local mosques and they didn’t remember seeing him at services. They didn’t think he was observant. I stressed how important cooperation with us was because Chafik’s involvement in Dahlin’s death was public knowledge and a lot of people will think it reflects badly on local Muslims generally. They’re very sensitive to that. I don’t think they’re concealing anything. They want him caught and off the front pages and TV as quickly as possible.”
“Okay then. Enar, go back to the Muslim shops and restaurants and see if anything about Chafik has surfaced now. Gerdi, you pursue the bank angle. Let me know if you need a warrant. Alenius and Rosengren, keep on with the phone tips. Yes, I know it’s tedious, but persistence can pay off when you least expect it. Alrik and I will be talking with Dahlin’s flat mates and her former boyfriend. Let’s plan on meeting again on Friday,” Ekman concluded.
13
A THEORY
Wednesday, January 25, 1 p.m. The restaurant Ekman liked was diagonally across Stortorget Square from police headquarters and he and Rapp headed there for lunch, two more pedestrians among the bustling crowd. Ekman usually ate alone. It gave him time to relax and sort through the morning’s events, but today he’d felt the need for company and asked Alrik to join him.
The sky was a brilliant blue, unusual for this time of year, with white clouds moving quickly under a brisk wind. Looking back over his shoulder, Ekman saw for the hundredth time how incongruous the five-story, ultramodern, white police headquarters was, looming over the cobblestoned plaza ringed with Renaissance buildings and centered on a bronze fountain. It was two years since they had relocated there, but he still wasn’t used to it and probably never would be. It was too glaring an anomaly, and much too sterile for his taste.
Ekman often frequented the small restaurant. It had decent food and he could get a drink. Rapp usually went to the police cafeteria with its reasonable, if pedestrian, fare; he didn’t really care what he ate, food for him was just sustenance. He knew that for his boss it was one of life’s great pleasures. Ekman’s waistline was evidence of how often he surrendered to temptation.
“What looks good to you, Alrik? I talked you into coming, so it’s my treat,” he said, peering with interest at the day’s menu that filled the chalkboard hanging on the brick wall to their right.
Turning to look it over, Alrik said, “Thanks, Walther. I guess I’ll have the special, the smoked salmon on rye.”
“And something to drink?” urged Ekman.
“Okay, if you insist,” he said, smiling. “A Dugges ale sounds good.”
Ekman was relieved; he wanted a drink, but didn’t want to be the only one indulging.
A young woman came over to take their orders. Ekman chose pea soup, followed by a plate of pork with rutabaga, and a bottle of the ale.
“I must be hungrier than I’d realized,” he said, with an embarassed grin.
Ekman wanted to hear Alrik’s take on the case. He understood that Rapp often didn’t speak out at meetings because he deferred to Ekman to summarize where they were and how they should proceed. He’d recommended Rapp’s promotion to chief inspector a year ago because he knew Alrik was more than just a brawny cop: he had a sharp eye for details and good instincts about people.
“So, Alrik, what does the case look like to you?”
Rapp was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “It feels like there may be more to it than a simple rape.”
“What makes you say that?” Alrik was echoing Ekman’s own take on things and he wanted to find out if they saw the case the same way.
“It’s the Dahlin girl. She had to know she was risking her life getting out on the roof, especially in that weather. She did it because she had no choice. It must have been the only chance she had to escape. We know she’d been a prisoner for almost two months because of the date she went missing. She’d only been kept at that apartment, possibly drugged to keep her quiet, for two weeks at most before she fell, so she had to have been held elsewhere.
“Wherever she was, she’d probably also been tied up and raped there, and not just the night she escaped. We know from DNA that another man besides Chafik raped her. It could have been just these two scumbags, but I can’t help wondering if others weren’t involved. Maybe they’d argued with Chafik and his buddy and forced them to move her. But what’s really puzzling is why those two decided to bring her to an apartment in the center of town. It was a dumb choice, much too conspicuous. If we can figure out why they did it, we’ll be closer to solving this.
“Of co
urse, there’s no evidence of anyone besides the two we know about, but I think we should consider the possibility of a sex-trafficking ring. I could be wrong of course. It’s just how I feel.”
“I don’t think you’re wrong. It’s what I feel too.”
“So how do we follow up?”
“Let’s go ahead with the interviews we planned. We’ll keep them open-ended, not just about Chafik, and see what surfaces.”
Their lunches arrived, and they ate in silence. Ekman glanced out the window at the passing crowd. Maybe among them was the other man who’d raped Dahlin, or perhaps one of the unknown men he and Alrik guessed might be out there. What makes them different from the rest of us is believing they have the right to ignore the rules that make the thin veneer of civilization possible.
He looked across at Alrik. It doesn’t matter to us why they’re like that, we just try to stop them before they can inflict more damage. He’d spent most of his life doing just that. It was a never-ending, largely thankless task. His father, Gustaf, appalled when he’d left the family’s dull corporate law practice to join the police, had warned him it would be like this. Since then he’d often thought Gustaf had been exactly right.
14
THE LAME MAN
Wednesday, January 25, 10 a.m. The black Mercedes sedan that had brought him pulled slowly away. He stood at the curb watching it leave, an overcoat over one arm, his other hand on the raised handle of the small aluminum suitcase the driver had taken from the trunk and placed beside him. Then he turned, trailing his wheeled case, and limped under the huge, latticeshaped, white concrete canopy. Although today was a cool fourteen degrees Celsius, the entrance to ancient Marrakech’s starkly modern Menara Airport was designed to offer travelers some shade from the blistering heat of Morocco’s fierce summer sun.
The Norwegian Air Shuttle’s nonstop flight to Stockholm’s Arlanda airport left an hour later. In five and a half hours he’d be in Sweden, one of the few European countries he hadn’t been to. Closing his eyes, he reclined in the soft leather of the wide business-class seat, sipping the orange juice he’d requested, brought to him as soon as he was seated by a striking, thirty-something female flight attendant. He went over yesterday’s interview and considered how he would go about the task ahead of him.
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