Spice Trade

by Erik Mauritzson

  “That’s likely. We’ll just have to sort through them.”

  “While you and your team are doing that, which could take any number of days, suspicion of involvement in a horrible crime will fall on every single man your callers identify.”

  “That’s possible, but we’ll ask the people who call not to jump to conclusions.”

  “After you’ve sorted through those calls, you’ll have to question all the men who could be this individual, isn’t that so? It would take even more time to check alibis, and so on.”

  “You know all that is normal police work, Arvid. I don’t believe it can be avoided.”

  Kallenberg ran his hands through his hair. “You’re right, Walther, but as you can tell, I’m extremely uncomfortable about this entire business.”

  “What is bothering you in particular?” Ekman asked in a neutral tone. He wasn’t quite certain why Kallenberg was reluctant to give the sketch to the media, but thought it was curious.

  “It’s just possible I know the man in your sketch. I’m certain he couldn’t be involved, but I have a duty to tell you. If it comes out that he’s being questioned it will cause not just him, but his family, great distress, and I don’t want to put them through it.

  “In my mind, I’m multiplying this situation hundreds of times over. I don’t know if we’re morally justified doing this on the slim chance that something helpful may come from all we’ll be putting many innocent people through.”

  “I understand your feelings, Arvid, but I don’t think we have a choice. We can’t just ignore an obvious means of identifying a potential rape suspect. We’ll try to be as careful as possible. Who do you think you recognized?”

  Kallenberg was silent for a moment. “It looks somewhat like Bengt Engblom. He’s been my internist for years. But I can’t conceive that it’s him.”

  Ekman took out a small, black notebook, and made an entry. “We’ll check it out.”

  “For God’s sake, do it quietly. If it got out, it could ruin him.” Kallenberg dropped his serious manner and laughed abruptly. “Then where would I find another really good internist?”

  Ekman wondered if that was the only reason that lay behind Kallenberg’s reluctance.

  30

  CONFERENCE

  Tuesday, January 31, 1 p.m. Rapp was standing at the podium while a noisy crowd of reporters milled about in the auditorium’s aisles as TV crews positioned their cameras. Looking over their heads, he saw the other team members standing at the back.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats so we can get started,” he said, his voice booming too loudly before he stepped back from the microphone and cleared his throat. He was a little nervous at running his first media conference.

  Gradually people took their seats and the hubbub subsided.

  “Thank you for coming. I’m Chief Inspector Alrik Rapp and with me is Chief Superintendent Walther Ekman, who is heading the Lynni Dahlin investigation,” he said, turning to Ekman who was several paces behind him. Ekman, glancing around the room, raised his hand, acknowledging the crowd.

  “We need your help asking the public to identify a possible person of interest in the Dahlin case. We have a police sketch of a man we’d like to speak with,” Rapp said, holding up an oversize version of the sketch with the phone to call in big red numbers along the bottom. The TV cameras focused in on it.

  “Fru Sahlin will give you the picture before you leave,” he said, looking at the media relations officer standing to one side of the platform near a table with a pile of photos.

  “We’ll try to answer any questions you have,” said Rapp.

  Several hands went up and he pointed to a short woman in the front row.

  “How was this man involved in Dahlin’s death?” she asked.

  “We don’t know that he was, but we’d like to speak with him because he was seen in the immediate vicinity.”

  Rapp indicated a well-dressed man several rows back.

  “You haven’t told us why Dahlin was on that roof in the first place. Was she trying to commit suicide, or did this man push her out that attic window?”

  Ekman came to the microphone. “At this point in our investigation it’s not clear if she was trying to kill herself. And as Herr Rapp has said, we don’t know if this man was at all involved.

  “Please ask your readers and viewers not to jump to any conclusions, even if they think they recognize him. Many men who have absolutely nothing to do with this case may resemble the sketch. We’d appreciate it if you’d emphasize that people need to just call with their information, and leave it to us to sort it out.” Ekman felt he’d now tried as best he could to satisfy Kallenberg’s misgivings.

  “You haven’t released the autopsy findings. When will you do that?” The question was asked in a belligerent tone by a disheveled Bruno Haeggman, the chief investigative reporter for Sydsvenska Nyheter, one of Sweden’s largest papers. He’d hounded Ekman mercilessly during the Grendel case last year, almost destroying his reputation.

  Ekman looked hard at Haeggman and replied in a controlled voice, “Herr Haeggman, as I’m sure you know, this information can’t be released yet. It would be premature and damage our investigation. The report will be made available as soon as we can responsibly do that.”

  “More bureaucratic stonewalling,” said Haeggman loudly. “The public has a right to know what’s going on.” The TV cameras had swiveled to cover him.

  “We recognize the public’s right, Herr Haeggman, and will provide all the information we can as soon as we can,” Ekman responded in a mild tone. He turned and looked at Rapp pointedly, meaning call on someone else.

  “Okay, if you’re so sensitive to the public’s rights, tell us how the Kalle Jakobsson murder is tied in,” said Haeggman with smug satisfaction.

  How did he pick up on that so fast, thought Ekman?

  “We don’t know if Herr Jakobsson’s death is connected.”

  “Well, maybe my readers will figure it out faster than you apparently can. Read all about it tomorrow in the Sydsvenska Nyheter. It may help your so-called investigation,” Haeggman said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, as he turned and stalked out, the TV cameras zooming in on his departing figure.

  31

  DINNER WITH HAEGGMAN

  Tuesday, January 31, 7:30 p.m. Ekman was digging into a dish of raggmunk … potato pancakes with fried pork and lingonberries … as he recapped the press conference for Ingbritt.

  “So Haeggman turned it into a public relations disaster for us, just as he intended,” he said, grimacing around a mouthful of pancake and reaching for his glass of Dugges ale.

  “I hate that man; he has no conscience,” said Ingbritt. “Why does he keep attacking you?” Ekman saw that she’d become agitated.

  “There’s no point in getting upset. Haeggman’s an egomaniac, always on the prowl for stories that tear people down, so long as it gets him an attention-grabbing headline and more readers. It’s what he lives for.”

  “I don’t know how you have the patience to put up with it.”

  “That’s the first time you’ve ever accused me of having too much patience.”

  “And it may be the last,” she replied, smiling as she calmed down. “So, was he right after all about the Jakobsson murder?”

  “Unfortunately. He must have found out from Dahlin’s brother or her flat mates that Jakobsson had been her boyfriend until just before she disappeared. Then he tied the two deaths together so it would give him a sensational story. Of course, he made me look like an idiot when I said we hadn’t made the connection.”

  “But you had.”

  “Yes, but not for public consumption. After all, there’s just our best guess that Jakobsson must have known something about Dahlin’s death and had to be shut up.”

  “An informed guess based on years of experience.”

  “Mine, Alrik’s, and the team’s. It’s good enough for us, however it’s not ‘ready for prime time,’ as they say.”r />
  “When do you think you’ll have the evidence you need?”

  “Ingbritt,” he said with a laugh, “when we catch the men behind Dahlin’s death, force them to admit what they did to her, and then get them to confess who killed Jakobsson.”

  “But even when you find the monsters who drove that poor woman to her death, they may never admit to killing Jakobsson.”

  “Exactly,” Ekman said, pointing a finger at her. “You’ve hit the nail on the head. We’ll probably need to offer a reduced sentence to one of them in exchange for that information. It’s the most likely way we’ll get evidence that could persuade a court. I didn’t want to make the connection public because the killer could become alarmed at the increased attention and feel more at risk. Then any accomplice, knowing who killed Jakobsson, may have good reason to think he could be next.”

  “That miserable Haeggman isn’t just harming you, he’s hurting the investigation, and endangering someone who might identify the murderer.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. But enough of this distasteful subject,” Ekman said, as he wiped up the last traces of food from his plate. “Let’s focus on something more appetizing. What do we have for dessert?”

  The next morning, Haeggman’s story was on the front page above the fold. The sketch of the man they were looking for had been on television news last night, but had been relegated to an inside page of the paper so that Haeggman’s story would get the most attention.

  As he read it over breakfast, Ekman had another surprise. The reporter had somehow found out … maybe he’d bribed a morgue attendant … that Jakobsson had been garroted. It was information about the killer’s MO that Ekman had hoped they could keep to themselves.

  Goddamn him, he thought. He’s fucking up this investigation for a byline and there’s no way to stop him.

  32

  BREAKFAST WITH IVAR

  Thursday, January 26, 9:05 a.m. The lame man looked up from his menu and stared across the table at the other man, who seemed unaware he was being watched as he decided what to order.

  When the lame man had called last night, speaking in lightly accented English, the voice at the other end of the line had at first shown surprise, then quickly recovered. The lame man had proposed a breakfast meeting at his hotel, but the other man had insisted on this nondescript café hidden on a side street in the old quarter.

  He’s afraid someone might recognize him, the lame man thought; he doesn’t want to be seen with me. That’s interesting; he must know people who frequent my posh hotel. All he’d been given by the old man in Marrakech was a contact phone number for the supplier. Now he knew much more.

  He guessed the man was in his fifties. Tall and fair haired, he was dressed in a dark business suit.

  “I’ll be wearing a red tie and sitting at a table in the back,” the man had said.

  The lame man had taken a taxi from the hotel. When he entered the small café, filled with the aroma of freshly ground coffee, there were only a few customers. It made it easy to pick him out. As he walked toward the table, the man stood and extended his hand; the lame man briefly shook it as they sat down.

  “We haven’t exchanged names, but you can call me Ivar, if you like,” the Keeper said, smiling. “What shall I call you?”

  The lame man looked at him for a moment before replying. “Karim, will do.”

  “Okay, Karim,” the Keeper said. “You probably noticed that I was rather surprised by your call last night.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Because I’d already told your boss’s assistant that Ahmed had simply stopped coming to work. We still have no idea where he is.”

  “As you can tell, that didn’t satisfy my boss. He has a personal interest in Ahmed; it’s a family matter.”

  A middle-aged waiter came over. “Have you decided, gentlemen?” he said in English, for the benefit of the obviously foreign customer.

  Ivar ordered an open-faced ham and cheese sandwich, and coffee. The lame man, orange juice and muesli with yogurt.

  “I’m sorry your trip to Sweden seems a waste of time. But if you haven’t been here before, perhaps I can suggest some attractions that might interest you.”

  “I’m not here as a tourist,” the lame man said in a flat tone.

  “I understand. But there’s no harm in mixing business with a little pleasure, is there?”

  “Perhaps not.” They sat there in silence until their food arrived.

  “How do you like the Grand?” Ivar asked, as they ate.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Have you worked for your boss for a long time?”

  “For a while.”

  “Is he difficult to deal with?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Ivar’s attempts at conversation were going nowhere and ground to a halt. It was several minutes before he spoke again.

  “I was thinking you might like to see where Ahmed worked. It’s about an hour south of Stockholm. I could drive you there.”

  “That would be helpful,” the lame man said, as he took a last spoonful of muesli.

  “When would you like to go?”

  “Today or tomorrow. The sooner the better.”

  “I have some business to attend to today, but I could meet you near here at ten a.m. tomorrow. I’ll be in a black Land Rover parked just down the street,” Ivar said, and gestured to the waiter for the check. When it came, he paid in cash; the lame man didn’t thank him.

  They shook hands again outside the café and turned in opposite directions. The lame man decided to stroll around the old quarter. He would play the tourist for at least that day.

  33

  LUNCH WITH GRANHOLM

  Wednesday, February 1, 9:30 a.m. Rain was coming down in torrents from a cold, iron-grey sky, obscuring the windshield despite the furiously working wipers, as Ekman and Rapp headed up the E4 for lunch with Valdis Granholm.

  “I should have checked the weather before arranging this,” Ekman said, concentrating on driving in the cloudburst.

  “I won’t argue with that,” said Rapp, his feet tensed on the floorboard.

  The team meeting that morning had been disappointing; there was no significant new information. Alenius and Rosengren were following up phone calls about the sketch, but nothing looked promising at this point.

  Vinter’s check of the spice company’s employees had uncovered only one with a criminal record, a truck driver named Vigert Gotz, who’d served four years for aggravated assault and was released two years ago.

  They’d have to keep hoping the sketch would produce the lead they were looking for.

  After the team meeting, the two of them had sat in Ekman’s office trying to figure out their next steps before heading to Stockholm.

  “Unless the sketch generates something besides crank calls and false leads, we’re at a dead end,” said Rapp, his downcast face showing how unhappy he was with this conclusion.

  “Maybe,” said Ekman thoughtfully. “But there’s still the Moroccan connection. I’m hoping that besides coordinating the international hunt for Chafik … which may locate him if we’re lucky … Granholm can find something there that can help.”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  “Yes, but what else do we really have, unless we find Chafik?”

  The rain had stopped by the time they arrived a few minutes before twelve thirty. They found a convenient parking space and headed into the imposing, modern national police headquarters on Nora Agnegatan.

  Valdis Granholm was a tall, extremely attractive forty-two-year-old with a mass of distinctive red hair. After exchanging introductions in her small, fourth-floor office, the three walked around the corner along rain-wet streets to Scheelegatan. They were heading to La Dame Noire, an old-fashioned French restaurant, a favorite of Granholm’s.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” said the beaming, portly maître d’. “A pleasure to see you again. Your table is ready, please follow me.” He led them to one set for thr
ee in a back corner with a view of the cozy, retro-decorated restaurant, and handed them elaborate, printed menus.

  Ekman looked up from the one he’d been studying. “This all seems really tempting. What would you recommend, Valdis?”

  “If you’d like potato pancakes with bleak roe as a starter, it’s quite good here.”

  “And for a main course?”

  “I often get the lamb fillet with savoy cabbage.”

  “Are those what you’re going to order?”

  “They are,” she replied with a smile.

  “Then that’s what I’ll have too.”

  Rapp had been silent during this exchange. “Why don’t we get three orders? The kitchen will love us for making their job simpler,” he said, grinning at her.

  When they’d first met Granholm, Ekman had noticed that his chief inspector seemed instantly taken with this striking, red-haired woman. Rapp had stared at her so much that she’d finally turned to him with a quizzical expression and he’d hastily averted his eyes, looking everywhere else around her office.

  As they ate, Ekman observed Rapp struggling manfully to keep from looking too long at Granholm. She was focused on Ekman as they discussed the Dahlin case, only glancing at Rapp occasionally to include him in the conversation.

  Ekman explained where the case stood and how they believed it tied into Jakobsson’s murder. Granholm listened attentively without interrupting.

  Concluding his recap, Ekman threw up his hands in frustration and said that he and Rapp were stymied, at least for the moment. They hoped she could suggest some new avenues to explore.

  “I wish I could tell you the search for Chafik outside Sweden was making progress,” she said. “But so far we have nothing, even though I’ve been badgering my Europol contacts unmercifully. And the Interpol ‘red notice’ also hasn’t produced any results.”

  Ekman cut a piece of his lamb steak and chewed it slowly. “What about the family link I’d mentioned before, the possible uncle, and the money Chafik was receiving from Morocco?” he asked.

  “I spoke with the head of Interpol’s Moroccan bureau about the uncle in Marrakech, Fayyad Joumari, and he’s worth looking into.”