Spice Trade

by Erik Mauritzson

  Haake’s picture had been plastered across the papers and on TV screens above the question, “Do you recognize this man?” Yes, he thought, he’d immediately recognized Haake, and knew him for what he was beneath the haughty exterior.

  When Haake headed back to Weltenborg, the man followed. He left his car on a side street and walked the few blocks to the bank garage Haake had entered.

  His car was backed into a dimly lit, reserved place with his name in white lettering on the wall. The man crouched behind the car and waited. He had infinite patience.

  Haake appeared an hour later. As he opened the car door, the man sprang forward and with gloved hands slipped the killing wire noose over his head, gradually tightening it, while Haake desperately grabbed at the wire as it cut deeper into his neck. The man muttered a few words in Haake’s ear as he applied inexorable pressure until the windpipe gave and Haake went limp.

  He pulled the bloody garrote loose with some difficulty and dropped it into a plastic bag. Searching Haake’s body, he found his phone and shoved it in his own pocket. It might have some revealing numbers on it.

  Looking down at Haake’s sprawled body, he felt no guilt, only deep satisfaction that his plan was becoming reality: he’d moved one step closer to his goal. With a little luck the police would think the garroting linked Haake’s death to Jakobsson’s.

  The man walked rapidly from the garage, taking care to shield his face with the hood of his parka.

  36

  FRU HAAKE

  Thursday, February 2, 10:40 a.m. The Haake house, hidden behind dense woods, was invisible from the main road, and was reached down a long, brown pea-gravel drive. It looks more like a French chateau than a Swedish country house, thought Ekman, as he pulled into the circular, Belgian bloc-paved parking area fronting the house.

  He hadn’t called ahead. When he rang, a beefy, middle-aged man in a white shirt, black vest, and trousers, opened the iron-bound oak door.

  “I’m Chief Superintendent Ekman from the Weltenborg police,” he said, showing his identification and handing the man his business card. “Please tell Fru Haake I need to speak with her immediately. It’s urgent.” Looking the man over, Ekman decided that he probably also handled security for the Haakes.

  The man led him into a two-story atrium hall and said, “I’ll let her know you’re here.” He hurried up a large, winding staircase on the left, leaving Ekman standing in the hallway.

  A few minutes later, he reappeared, following Haake’s wife down the stairway.

  Fru Haake was wearing what Ekman thought was a Chanel pants suit, dark blue with white trim. A heavy gold bracelet hung around the hand she extended to Ekman.

  She’s quite attractive and elegant, Ekman thought. She looks like the wife of a bank chairman.

  “I’m Kajsa Haake, Chief Superintendent. Marten said it was urgent. Has something happened?” Her face was tense at this unexpected visit from a senior police officer.

  “Can we sit down somewhere, Fru Haake?”

  “Of course. Marten,” she said, turning to the houseman who stood to one side, “please take Herr Ekman’s coat and hat, and bring us some coffee and biscuits in the music room.” Ekman thought she was trying hard to maintain the appearance of normalcy in an abnormal situation.

  He handed his things to the man who hung them in a concealed guest closet behind them.

  “We’ll go this way, Herr Ekman,” Fru Haake said, leading him down the wide hallway, and turning through high, double doors on the right.

  The cream-colored room was enormous under a fourteen-foot ceiling, its walls hung with brightly colored abstract paintings. He could see that three, tall french doors along the far wall opened onto a flagstone terrace overlooking a sweeping expanse of lawn.

  What looked to Ekman like an elongated Giacometti sculpture stood in one corner. Taking pride of place, was a marquetry inlaid grand piano with Bösendorfer inscribed in gold lettering, above the keyboard.

  “That’s a fine looking piano,” Ekman said to break the ice. “Do you play?”

  “Yes, whenever I can find the time. Years ago, I even thought of becoming a concert pianist.” She glanced over at it with a look of regret. “It’s a marvelous instrument. The piano tuner was here a few days ago and said it was the finest piano he’d ever worked on.”

  She sat down at one end of an oversize yellow, Chippendale sofa and gestured to Ekman to join her. He took a seat at the other end.

  “What is this visit about, Herr Ekman?” she asked in an apprehensive tone.

  “Fru Haake, I’m afraid I have very bad news. You must be brave,” he replied. “Your husband was found dead this morning in the garage at his bank.”

  A hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my God. Did he have a heart attack?”

  “No. I’m sorry to say he was murdered.”

  “Murdered? That can’t be. Are you sure?” Her voice was strained and her carefully made-up face looked increasingly tense.

  “Unfortunately, there can be no doubt. He was strangled.”

  “This is incredible.” She took out an embroidered handkerchief that had been tucked in a sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. Ekman thought it was mostly for effect. The new widow didn’t seem particularly grief-stricken.

  “Who can have done such a horrible thing?”

  “That’s what we need your help to find out.”

  “But I don’t know anything that could possibly be helpful,” she protested.

  “That’s typically what family and friends of murder victims think, but they may know more than they realize.”

  The houseman came in carrying a tray with a silver coffee pot, two delicate porcelain cups on saucers, and a plate of assorted biscuits. He put the tray down on the teak coffee table in front of the couch.

  “Thank you, Marten,” Fru Haake said as he turned and left, closing the doors behind him.

  “Would you like coffee, Herr Ekman?” she asked, as she tried to regain the role of self-assured hostess.

  “If you’re having some, I’ll join you.”

  She poured with a shaking hand, passing him a cup, and moved the biscuit plate toward him. “Please, help yourself,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Ekman replied, taking a biscuit. He hoped that the familiar ritual of sharing coffee would create a sense of normality in a world that had abruptly changed for her. He needed her to speak frankly during a difficult conversation.

  “It’s important in any investigation, but particularly this kind of crime, to move as rapidly as possible, so I hope you feel able to answer some questions now.”

  “Yes, of course. I want to assist you any way I can, although I can’t imagine what that could be.”

  “Background information is extremely important in these cases. Even small details can be significant. Some of the questions I have to ask will seem unnecessarily personal, but your answers can be a great help, so please be absolutely open with me.”

  “Go ahead,” she said, raising her head and looking Ekman directly in the eyes. “Ask.”

  “Was your husband planning to leave on a business trip yesterday?” Ekman said, starting with a low-key question.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “But if he was, he would have mentioned it?”

  “Not necessarily. He didn’t usually discuss business matters with me.”

  “Were you concerned when he didn’t come home last night?”

  “No, not really. If he was going to be away, he usually phoned, but not always.”

  “So there were other times when he didn’t return home and didn’t let you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were those frequent?”

  “No, just occasional.”

  “Do you know the terms of your husband’s will?” Ekman asked, changing the subject abruptly.

  She looked surprised, but answered readily. “Yes, of course. We are each other’s sole heirs.”

  “What was your overall relationship with your husband?”<
br />
  She paused. “We were friends. It wasn’t like that at first, but over the years we drifted apart. We mostly led quite separate lives.”

  “Then you both had intimate relationships outside your marriage?”

  She hesitated again. “I have. I assume he did too.”

  “So you’re not aware of what your husband did in this regard?”

  “No, and I didn’t inquire. He didn’t either. I’ve already told you, it was just understood between us,” she said, her voice rising.

  “Please consider this next question very carefully. You’ve become an extremely wealthy woman now that your husband is gone. Can you think of an intimate friend who would want to eliminate him so he might marry you?”

  “That’s ridiculous. I would never let any of those relationships threaten my marriage, and my partners knew from the beginning that I would always stay married to Fredrik Haake. I have never had a secret plan to marry someone else, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said with a note of defiance.

  She knows exactly where I’m going with these questions, Ekman thought. Despite her denials, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that she’d decided to rid herself of an unsatisfactory husband. And without the divorce that might cost her half his money under Sweden’s community property laws. She could have found a willing partner to help her, considering how much was at stake.

  “We’ll need the names of these men and the dates involved,” Ekman said, and saw that she was about to refuse.

  “Our inquiries will be very discreet. It’s essential that we speak with them because otherwise we won’t be able to eliminate them as possible suspects. You can’t be absolutely certain that one of them didn’t see things differently than you, and was ready to act on his feelings.”

  “I can’t believe it. But if it’s that important, I’ll e-mail you the information later today,” she said with obvious reluctance.

  If his suspicions about a possible accomplice were right, Ekman wondered whether they’d really get all the names. They’d have to dig a bit to make sure she hadn’t intentionally left someone off the list.

  “We’ll also need to interview your staff.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “I’m afraid it is. My officers will be here later today to take their statements. Please make sure they’re available. How many are there?”

  “Besides Marten, who runs the house and sometimes drives me, there are two maids, the cook, and the gardener.”

  “Do any of them live here?”

  “Marten and the cook each have two-room suites above the garage.”

  That must be quite a garage, thought Ekman.

  “Fru Haake, thank you for being so open with me at this difficult time,” Ekman said, standing. “And now I’d like to see Herr Haake’s study. There may be something among his papers that could help us.”

  She looked surprised, but just nodded, as she got up.

  They left the room and he followed her farther down the hall to a door on the left, which she opened for him, and then stood aside.

  Ekman went in and peered around the comfortable, masculine room, lined on two sides from floor to ceiling with books. A large, mahogany desk, bare except for a brass lamp and a few mementos, faced windows looking out on a garden. A red leather armchair with a reading lamp behind it stood in one corner of the room.

  In the corner opposite it was a tall, glass cabinet with miniature bronzes on three shelves. Curious, Ekman went over and saw that they were a collection of Daumier caricature busts. How strange, he thought, a cultured rapist. But why not? Didn’t Hitler fancy himself an artist?

  Going back into the hallway, he closed the study door. Then, reaching into his jacket, he took out a package of police seals and pasted two of them along the doorjamb above the knob, and two below, preventing the door from being opened without breaking them. He knew he had no authority to do this, yet it needed to be done, and he didn’t believe the widow would challenge him.

  Turning to Fru Haake, who’d been watching with a look of amazement, he said, “We need to treat Herr Haake’s study as an extension of the crime scene. My officers will search the room later today, and until they do, it needs to be undisturbed. I’m sure you can understand why.

  “If there’s nothing further you can tell me now, I’ll be leaving.”

  She frowned, but said nothing, leading him back to the entrance hall. The houseman, who’d been waiting there, retrieved Ekman’s things and helped him on with his coat.

  “Thanks again for your assistance, Fru Haake,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Good-bye, Herr Ekman,” she replied, ignoring the proffered hand and turning away, walked up the staircase.

  Back in his office that afternoon, Ekman and Rapp were going over his conversation with Haake’s wife.

  “Do you really think she could have had him killed?” asked Rapp.

  “It’s a possibility we have to explore. We’ll need to see his will to find out if she really is his only heir.”

  “But doesn’t the garrote tie his murder to Jakobsson’s? She had no reason to be involved with that.”

  “If she planned Haake’s death, maybe that’s what she and whoever did the actual killing want us to believe. She could have seen the police sketch, recognized her husband, and decided that now was the perfect time to have him killed, using a garrote to link his death to Jakobsson’s and Dahlin’s. It would divert us from suspecting her, as we otherwise naturally would. After all, she has a great deal to gain from Haake’s death, and by her own admission, there was no love lost between them.”

  “So we’re looking at a copycat murder?” Rapp asked.

  “Perhaps,” said Ekman. “But maybe whoever killed Jakobsson wanted to prevent us from sooner or later having a little chat with Herr Haake.”

  37

  INSPECTION

  Monday, January 30, 10 a.m. The lame man sat in Thore Ostlund’s office, as the manager responded to his questions about Ahmed Chafik. The answers were the same he had given the police on Friday, he said, as he described Chafik’s employment. The lame man already knew the answers, but wanted to hear what Ostlund would say.

  It was the same tune Ivar had sung: Ostlund knew nothing about what had happened to Chafik after he left the company. The lame man had decided Ivar was lying. He suspected Ostlund also was lying.

  Then he changed the subject by asking about the spice company’s current condition and future plans. As the manager described the company’s operations, he listened carefully. What Ostlund was saying had unexpectedly become important to him.

  After his conversation on Friday with the old man, he’d had the weekend to himself to wander around Stockholm. The next day, he’d decided to follow Ivar’s suggestion and took a taxi to the Vasa Museum on Djurgården Island. He wasn’t prepared for the startling impact of the huge seventeenth-century ship, the most perfectly preserved warship of that time, sitting in the museum’s immense central hall as though it had just sailed in.

  He spent Sunday morning at his hotel, but after lunch he became restless. Borrowing a hotel umbrella, he walked through a light rain the few blocks across the Kungsträdgården Park to the large Nordiska Kompaniet store on Hamngatan. He browsed for an hour among some of its 100 departments, finally deciding on a pair of comfortable black walking shoes. The rest of the day he relaxed in his suite trying to finish the Simenon novel he’d brought from Marrakech.

  When he’d explained to the old man his reasons for thinking Ahmed had been killed, there was such a long silence that he thought the call had been dropped.

  “What is your advice?” the old man had finally said.

  He was surprised. This was the first time he’d been asked his opinion about anything. Perhaps age has made the old man uncertain of himself, he thought.

  “I’d recommend doing nothing right now. Although Ahmed’s death must eventually be avenged, it’s important not to disrupt your business relationship with these people.
I’d give it time and see what develops.”

  “You’ve confirmed my own thinking. I will wait, and, insh’Allah, the right moment will come. While you’re in Stockholm, I would like you to visit my spice company and give me your impression of how it’s being run, and the people there. I rely on your sound judgment.”

  “I’m deeply flattered that you put such trust in me. I will do my best, insh’Allah, to justify it.”

  After they’d hung up, he sat for several minutes mulling over the conversation. I wonder if he’s begun to think of me as a possible successor and wants to learn if we see things the same way. It had never occurred to him before because he wasn’t a relative. Perhaps there was no one else in the family the old man thought could take over, and now had to look outside.

  After all, why not, the lame man thought, I’ve worked for him for the last two years, and he’s always been well satisfied. He smiled to himself at what could be an unexpected turn of good fortune.

  Ostlund had appeared strangely unsurprised by the appearance of the man who called himself Karim, and claimed to represent the owner. He’d just blandly accepted it.

  The manager must have known about me, the lame man decided, and been expecting my visit. The only way he could have learned about me was from Ivar. Besides Ahmed working for both of them, what was their connection? And was the old man aware of it? He decided to put these questions aside, until he could learn more.

  “So,” Ostlund concluded, “that’s where things stand. Contracts are in place and business is looking up. It promises to be a profitable year. The owner should be pleased.”

  “That all sounds satisfactory, but I’m not an accountant,” the lame man said, shrugging. “More of a business consultant.”

  “Of course,” Ostlund said. “Please satisfy yourself, and the owner, that all is in order.”

  “Now,” the lame man said, standing, “I’d like to see your facility and meet your employees.”

  “I’ll be glad to take you around,” said Ostlund.

  His secretary was sitting at her desk outside his office.