Spice Trade

by Erik Mauritzson

  “And?” interjected Rapp. Granholm turned and looked at him without expression. He’s not doing himself any favors with her, thought Ekman.

  “And he’s known to be involved in criminal activities.”

  “Do they know what kinds of things?” asked Ekman.

  “Apparently he’s a very shadowy figure, always just in the background, but he could be a major mover in drugs and prostitution. The money sent to Chafik came from an account set up by a small leather goods company. Our Interpol contact made some quiet inquiries at the Al-Amin Bank in Marrakech. It seems the company is owned by a relative of Joumari.”

  “This could be the tie-in to the Dahlin case we’ve been looking for,” Rapp exclaimed enthusiastically. “It’s what we’ve suspected all along, Walther. It was more than just a one-off rape.”

  “You may be right, Alrik, but we mustn’t jump ahead of ourselves. We’ll need to establish a clear link between the rape in Sweden and a possible prostitution operation in Morocco. Then we have to identify those who committed the rape, find hard evidence to arrest them, and convince Kallenberg he has enough for a court to convict. We have a long, difficult road ahead.”

  Rapp was silent for a moment. “You’re absolutely right, Walther,” he said in a dejected tone. “I guess I’ve become too excited about what could be a way forward.”

  “You see,” he said apologetically to Granholm, “I realize that I need to get some distance. I’m raising a teenage daughter on my own and I’ve probably become more wrapped up in this case than I should be.”

  She looked surprised that this tough, muscular cop, who’d been frankly looking her over, was also a single parent and so emotional.

  “The Dahlin case could be part of an international trafficking operation,” said Granholm quietly. “In my work, we’re seeing more and more of this in Europe and everywhere else. It’s the dark, underside of global commerce.”

  “Valdis,” said Ekman, “please ask your contact to find out as much as possible about Joumari. Also we’ve uncovered another connection with Morocco. The wholesale spice company where Chafik worked is owned by a holding company in Rabat and we need to know more about it. Here’s an address and phone number for them,” he added, handing her a slip of paper.

  “I’ll get started on this as soon as I get back.” Turning to Rapp, she said, “Alrik, you have nothing to apologize for. I have a young daughter at home too.” And she smiled at him for the first time.

  With a dessert of melted chocolate over vanilla ice cream, followed by a double espresso, a satisfied Ekman insisted on picking up the check. They both shook hands with Granholm and said good-bye outside the restaurant.

  “Well,” said Ekman, as they headed back to Weltenborg, “that was a productive meeting, besides, the lunch was very tasty. And after a rocky start, you seem to have made some headway with the lovely Fru Granholm, who Garth Rystrom tells me, by the way, is divorced.” He grinned at Rapp.

  “I wasn’t trying to impress her.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s what impressed her.”

  That same morning, another driver had also been heading north from Weltenborg. Fredrik Haake was pleased they’d found a replacement, but he was exasperated that the man he only knew as the Keeper insisted he come to the farm. He’d tried offering even more money to have the new girl brought to Weltenborg, but the Keeper had been adamant over the phone.

  This new one was supposed to be very much like the dead woman. Anticipating a two-hour session to make up for the long drive, he felt his groin stir as he thought about what he would do with her.

  He was too preoccupied as he drove to notice the nondescript car that followed him, keeping well back.

  34

  AT THE FARM

  Friday, January 27, 10 a.m. The lame man found the Land Rover where Ivar had told him it would be. Getting in, he just nodded in response to the other man’s, “Good morning.”

  “We’ve got a nice day for a drive, for a change,” said the Keeper, as he pulled away from the curb under a bright, cloudless sky.

  “How was your day yesterday?” he asked.

  “I looked around the old quarter.”

  “If you’re interested in antiquity, you should try to visit the Vasa Museum. It’s got a completely preserved seventeenth-century warship. Really remarkable.”

  “I may do that,” the lame man said, looking out the window.

  They lapsed into silence, exchanging occasional comments about the scenery on the drive to the farm, as Stockholm, and then the countryside, rolled by.

  When they pulled into the side yard of the old farmhouse, the lame man got out and looked around at the house and barn, as the man he called Ivar joined him.

  “What’s in the barn?”

  “It’s where we store the product,” the Keeper responded.

  The lame man just looked at him. Why doesn’t he simply say “women”? he thought. He’s avoiding what he really does. The lame man had always acknowledged to himself what he did. He thought it important to accept reality as it was, otherwise you could be blindsided by your own delusions.

  They walked over to the farmhouse and up the porch steps. Gotz had been expecting them and opened the door,

  “Has the new shipment arrived?” the Keeper asked.

  “Came in late last night.” Gotz replied. “Marta is with her now. I was just waiting for you to get here before I went over.”

  “This is our visitor, Karim,” said the Keeper, introducing him.

  He looked closely at the big man facing him. He’s the enforcer, the lame man thought.

  “Gotz,” the other man said, extending his hand, which the lame man shook.

  “I’ll see how she’s coming along,” Gotz said, as he turned and walked out.

  “He’s quiet and very helpful, multitalented,” said the Keeper, smiling.

  The lame man looked around. “Is this where Ahmed worked?”

  “Here, and at our other holding facility.”

  “There’s more than one?”

  “We had another in the city. That’s where she got out, as you probably know from reading about it. Now there’s just the barn here. No one gets out of that. How about some coffee?” the Keeper asked, as they headed down the hall. “I could use another cup.”

  They went into the kitchen where the Keeper began grinding some beans.

  “I always insist on freshly ground,” he said. “It makes all the difference.”

  As they sat at the kitchen table sipping steaming mugs of coffee, Ivar said, “Now that you’re here, Karim, perhaps you’d like to mix a little pleasure with business. I don’t know what your tastes are, of course, but I think we can accommodate them. Right now, there are four fully trained, very pretty young women here. Our new one isn’t ready just yet and is being broken in right now.” He paused and smiled, “She only arrived from Prague last night, although I understand she’s actually Romanian. In a few weeks, I expect she’ll be available in Marrakech.”

  “I’ll wait until then,” the lame man replied, his face expressionless.

  “As you wish,” said Ivar, in a casual tone.

  “What is your facility here like?”

  “There are five rooms with adjoining bathrooms on the upper level of the barn and as business continues to expand, we plan to construct four more on the ground floor. The two bedrooms in this house are for staff. Please feel free to look around anywhere here and at the barn.”

  “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary,” the lame man said. “Then business has been good?”

  “We’ve been fortunate.”

  “Most of your ‘product’ comes from Eastern Europe?”

  “Yes, and I intend to draw from that area exclusively from now on. I have to admit, it was a serious flaw in our business model to use Sweden, or other Scandinavian countries. Extractions are too noticeable.”

  “All your clients come here?”

  “Yes, it ensures security, even though it somewhat limits our c
ustomer base. The only exception was one client who insisted we bring the Dahlin girl to Weltenborg so it would be more convenient for him. He paid quite a bit extra for that privilege; it was another mistake that won’t be repeated.”

  “And Ahmed was looking after her?”

  “Yes. Apparently it only took a few minutes for her to get out.”

  “Ahmed was not careful enough, was he?”

  “No one is perfect.”

  “It must have been very upsetting for you.”

  “It did create some difficulties, but nothing we couldn’t handle.”

  “Did Ahmed come back here afterward?”

  “No. I thought that unwise. It would draw police attention to this place if he were found here. I met him in town and gave him quite a bit of money. We agreed the police would soon identify him because he’d rented the apartment where she was kept. I told him to find a small hotel for the night and call me the next day so we could figure out what to do. I planned on getting him out of Sweden as fast as possible and on his way back to Morocco.”

  “But he never called?”

  “He simply vanished. How he did it, I have no idea. We haven’t heard a word from him since that night.”

  “You must be concerned that the police will eventually pick him up, here or elsewhere in Europe.”

  “It is a little worrisome. But he’s certainly shown his ability to evade them.”

  “As I’m sure you can appreciate, my boss is anxious to locate his grandnephew and assist him. Since he found him this job he feels it’s his special responsibility to bring Ahmed safely home to the family.”

  “Of course, of course. And I want to do everything I can to help, but I don’t know what that would be under the circumstances.”

  “I understand,” said the lame man, getting up. “Thanks for showing me your excellent facility.”

  “My pleasure entirely,” said Ivar, rising. “If you’ve seen all you want, we can head back to Stockholm.”

  As he pulled up in front of the Grand Hotel an hour later, Ivar said, “Karim, it’s been good meeting you. Have a pleasant stay in Stockholm and a safe journey back to Marrakech. I’m looking forward to many more profitable years doing business with your boss.”

  “I’ll certainly let him know that,” said the lame man, as they shook hands, and getting out of the SUV, he headed into the hotel.

  He sat on the couch in his suite, thinking about his visit to the farm. Seeming relaxed and glib, Ivar was much too casual about Ahmed being caught. Therefore, he’d lied. Why? Because Ahmed, searched for by police throughout Sweden and Europe, had become a danger to them: on the run, he’d always be a threat to their operation. And they hadn’t just kept him locked away at the farm. He’d wanted to go there to find that out.

  When Ivar had offered to let him inspect their entire facility, he’d decided that Ahmed wasn’t there. Moving him anywhere else would have been too risky. He must have been killed and his body disposed of, probably by their enforcer, that man Gotz.

  The lame man picked up the phone and called Marrakech.

  35

  ANOTHER DEATH

  Thursday, February 2, 8:20 a.m. The team meeting that morning had been brief. Rosengren and Alenius were still following up leads from the police sketch, and Ekman had assigned Vinter and Holm to help them. The four middle-aged men they’d so far been tipped off about had solid alibis for the night Dahlin had died, as did Kallenberg’s internist.

  Ekman was sitting in his office, mulling over this frustrating case, when Rapp burst in without knocking.

  “Walther, there’s been another killing,” he exclaimed, the words falling over themselves in his excitement.

  Ekman was startled.

  “Who is it?”

  “Believe it or not, it’s Fredrik Haake, chairman of the Sodra Sverige Bank. I just learned a few minutes ago that he was found beside his car in the bank garage. Our sergeant at the scene says it looks like he’s been strangled … with a wire.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Ekman, who normally never swore out loud. This murder had to be connected to the Jakobsson case, and therefore to Dahlin. It could be the break they’d been looking for, but he realized that starting now the pressure on them would become enormous.

  “Do we know anything else?”

  “As soon as I heard, I pulled up a picture of him on the Net,” Rapp said, putting the photo on Ekman’s desk.

  Looking back at him was the man in the police sketch.

  “He’s the man in the hallway,” Ekman said, in his astonishment stating the obvious. At that moment there was no doubt in his mind that Haake was the second man who’d raped Dahlin.

  In more than thirty years as a police officer, he’d had several cases involving prominent individuals who’d turned out to be criminals. He still found himself amazed by people who had everything and who, out of blind arrogance, threw it all away.

  “What’s happening now?” he asked, as he stood up.

  “The area’s been cordoned off, and a forensic team and pathologist are on the way.”

  Walking over to grab his hat and coat, Ekman said, “Let’s go.”

  Haake lay with his face to one side and most of his dark-suited body under his black, Bentley Mulsanne sedan. The garage wasn’t brightly lit, and Ekman decided that unless you looked closely he wouldn’t immediately have been noticed lying there hidden in the car’s shadow.

  Because Haake’s parking space was on the top floor of the three-story underground garage, the garage entrance was cordoned off by blue-and-white police tape. The entire floor would have to be processed as a crime scene.

  Turning to the pathologist, Dr. Bohlander, who’d arrived just after them, Ekman said, “Roffe, can we get him out from under there?”

  Bohlander gestured to two morgue attendants, gloved and in white coveralls, who’d been standing back waiting for instructions. They placed a white plastic sheet next to the car, and bending down, one took Haake’s shoulders and the other, his head, as they carefully lifted his rigid torso a few inches and shifted it from under the car, placing it two feet away on the sheet. They repeated the operation with his knees and legs.

  Bohlander, dressed like the attendants, knelt beside the body and, turning Haake’s head gently, exposed more clearly the bright red line deeply incised along the base of his throat.

  “Does it look like the same technique used on Jakobsson?” asked Rapp, as he peered down at the corpse.

  “I’d say so, from just looking. Like Jakobsson, it appears that a wire garrote was used. Of course, I’ll have to take measurements to see if it went as deep and the same amount of pressure was applied.”

  “What was the approximate time of death?” Ekman asked.

  “I’d say it was probably last night, say between eight and ten p.m. But that’s preliminary, of course, and don’t hold me to it.”

  “When you have him on the table, please get a DNA sample, Roffe. We need to compare it with one from the Dahlin case.”

  Bohlander looked surprised. “Really … Fredrik Haake?” he said, knowing they were looking for a match to a second rapist.

  Ekman just nodded.

  “From the position of the body, it looks like Haake was getting into his car when he was attacked from behind,” observed Ekman.

  “Yes, his reserved parking space has his name on it,” said Rapp, pointing to the wall behind the car. “His killer knew where to find him.”

  “What’s in his pockets, Roffe?” Rapp asked.

  The doctor carefully checked them, removing a wallet, key ring, and handkerchief. He handed each item to the gloved crime scene technician standing behind Rapp, who placed them in clear plastic evidence bags.

  “There’s no phone?” asked Rapp.

  “I didn’t find any. Maybe it’s in the car or fell under it. If you’ve got what you need, I’ll take him,” said Bohlander, standing and turning to the attendants who had brought up a stretcher. Lifting the corpse into a zippered black
body bag, they placed it on the gurney, strapping it in place before wheeling it out, followed by the pathologist.

  Two body-suited forensic techs examined the car, looking under it, and in the immediate surrounding area, but didn’t find a phone. A police tow truck had driven in to haul the car away when they’d finished. A half-dozen other techs had begun to systematically examine every inch of the entire garage floor.

  “If he was killed last night, how come no one reported him missing?” asked Rapp.

  “Yes, that’s interesting. Of course, he could have been leaving on a business trip. Have them check the car’s trunk for luggage, and Alrik, make sure to get the videos from the garage’s security cameras.

  “Speak with his secretary and any assistant, and ask them not to contact Haake’s family. And get the entire team over here. Start some of them interviewing the person who discovered his body, and the garage attendants. The others will need to speak with the bank’s senior staff and find out if Haake had particular problems lately, like difficult business deals … or enemies.

  “I’m heading to his house to inform his wife.”

  Ekman had brought the grim news to too many families. He dreaded this part of his job, but when he led a murder investigation, never delegated it.

  The man who’d followed Fredrik Haake on his last day alive, stopped when he saw the farm buildings a half kilometer away. He pulled his car well off the muddy track and behind dense shrubbery where it couldn’t be seen from the lane or the buildings.

  Reaching for his camera with a long telephoto lens mounted on a tripod, he got out and made his way to a wooded rise overgrown with bushes. The rain had ended, but the ground and wild grass were dripping wet. Hidden in the undergrowth, he focused the lens on the buildings. For three hours he remained there, virtually immobile, with the camera fixed on the buildings.

  When he saw two men and a woman emerge from the barn, the camera whirred as he took frame after frame. One of the men was Haake, whom he’d known for years. Now that he had photos of these others, he planned on returning here to follow them and discover who they were.