Spice Trade

by Erik Mauritzson

“This is Marta, the woman who keeps things running smoothly here,” he said, referring to the lame man, simply as “our visitor.”

  They walked into the front office and the manager introduced him to the two men there, explaining what each did. In the adjoining warehouse, they went through the same procedure with the five female workers. The women were packing plastic bags of spices into cartons labelled with the company’s logo. Going out onto the adjoining loading dock, three men were putting the boxes into delivery vans.

  At the last truck bay, the workman had his back to them, busy with what he was doing. When he heard them, he turned around as Ostlund said, “And this is Gotz, our delivery foreman.”

  The lame man kept his surprise from showing, as he said, “I believe Herr Gotz and I have already met.” Gotz’s face was blank, but his eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

  Ostlund’s face betrayed his astonishment. He recovered quickly and said, “What a coincidence. Karim, you’ve certainly been getting around since you got here.”

  “Yes,” said the lame man. “Sweden has much to interest a visitor.”

  To Gotz, he said, “Good seeing you again,” as he and Ostlund headed back to the manager’s office to say good-bye.

  When the lame man had gone, Ostlund called Gotz to his office.

  “When did you meet him?” he asked.

  “At the farm, last Friday,” Gotz replied. “He was looking around, trying to find out what happened to Ahmed.”

  “He asked me about Ahmed too. He acts like he doesn’t know about the connection between the company and the farm, but seeing you here makes it obvious.”

  “So what?” said Gotz. “Who cares why this guy’s playing dumb, they can’t want to screw everything up, it would only hurt them too.”

  “You’re right. But maybe they’re thinking about changing our arrangement. That’s what we need to figure out,” said Ostlund, as he reached for the phone.

  38

  INVESTIGATION

  Friday, February 3, 8 a.m. The team members had come in early and were standing around drinking coffee and talking excitedly when Ekman entered.

  He took his seat at the head of the table, as the others quickly sat down.

  “I know you’ve all seen the newspaper and TV coverage of the Haake murder. Because of his prominence, and his strong resemblance to the sketch of one of Dahlin’s rapists, it’s become a media sensation. The pressure to come up with answers is growing by the hour so we’ll be meeting every day, including weekends, until we close the case.

  “I have to brief the commissioner,” he said, taking out his pocket watch, “in thirty minutes. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, so let’s get started.” He turned to Rapp.

  “Alrik, did the garage cameras give us anything?”

  “We got some clips of a guy walking into the garage and leaving that floor around the right time Wednesday evening. He was wearing a hooded parka that hid his face, but he was a big man, moving quickly.”

  “Okay, that may help when we have a suspect. Did we ever find Haake’s phone?”

  “It wasn’t in the garage, his office, or home. Maybe the killer took it.”

  “That’s interesting. There may have been something on it that his murderer didn’t want us to see. Have we heard anything from Bohlander yet?”

  “He’s putting the time of death where he’d originally suspected, between eight and ten, Wednesday evening. DNA results aren’t back, but they’ll confirm Haake was Dahlin’s other rapist, or I’ll buy coffee and pastries for everyone for a year,” Rapp said, as the others laughed.

  “Bohlander did say that the incision on Haake’s neck was a little wider than on Jakobsson’s. He thought the wire used was different. Jakobsson was killed with ordinary hardware store wire, but the one used on Haake was somewhat thicker.”

  “That’s interesting,” Ekman said. “Has the killer changed weapons, or are we looking at two different killers? Perhaps Haake’s murder was a copycat? It’s something we need to consider. Who handled the interviews at the bank?”

  “I did, Chief,” Holm replied. “First, we spoke with the woman, Annika Bremer, a bank teller, who found Haake’s body. She spotted it when she came to work Thursday morning at 7:20 and parked on that floor. She assumed it was Haake because he was lying next to his car and called bank security immediately. I think we can rule her out as being involved.”

  “What about Haake’s senior colleagues? Anything interesting there?”

  “Gerdi and I spoke with the chief operating officer, and then with the bank’s treasurer, who also heads planning.” Holm turned to her.

  “The bank is in good financial shape, according to them,” said Vinter. “In fact they’d begun talks about a merger with another bank they didn’t want to name. They didn’t know of any business or personal problems Haake had.”

  Holm continued, “Several lower-level employees who’d worked with Haake said he was personally hard to take. He was a tough boss, usually arrogant and abrupt, although he could put on the charm when he had to.”

  “Let’s find out more about that proposed bank merger. Enar, make them understand that in a murder inquiry everything’s on the table, and that we can get a warrant for the documents we want. It will make life easier for them to cooperate. Tell them we’ll try to keep the merger confidential, unless it was a reason for his death.”

  Ekman turned back to Rapp. “How did things go at Haake’s house?”

  “Rosengren, Alenius, and I interviewed the staff. Nobody liked Haake, and a couple of them, a maid and the cook, said they’d planned to quit. Apparently he was a hard-nosed bastard at home, as well as at the office.”

  “Alenius and I searched his study,” said Rosengren. “There were just the usual bills and papers, nothing of interest.”

  “I thought there should be something more, so I spoke with his wife about where else there might be documents,” said Rapp, “and after hesitating a bit she opened a safe for me in their bedroom closet. There was jewelry, a fair amount of cash, and passports. The usual. And a life insurance policy, and a will, dated a year ago.” Rapp opened a folder in front of him and passed out copies.

  “As you can see, his wife gets everything. Just as she told you, Walther.”

  “These confirm that she had a strong motive,” said Ekman, explaining the copycat murder theory he’d discussed with Rapp. “But it doesn’t mean she and one of her lovers killed Haake.

  “The other theory is that Haake, like Jakobsson, knew too much. After the sketch went public, he would sooner or later be identified as one of Dahlin’s rapists, so someone decided he had to be shut up before we could get to him.”

  “I think the second theory is right,” said Vinter. “Haake wasn’t an opportunistic rapist who just happened to come across a woman who’d vanished a couple of months before. He was a customer. It feels to me more and more like there’s a trafficking ring operating.”

  “After speaking with Fru Haake,” said Rapp, “I don’t think she planned her husband’s murder, mostly because she didn’t have to risk killing him to be very rich. I’ve had the same feeling as Gerdi all along: there’s a trafficking ring.”

  “I’d say the same,” put in Holm.

  Rosengren and Alenius nodded agreement.

  “I think all of you are right, but to be safe, Alrik, let’s check out her lovers before we put the copycat theory on the back burner. And we also need to take a closer look at Haake’s house staff.”

  Ekman got up. “Now I’d better brief the commissioner.”

  39

  THE TRADE

  Wednesday, February 1, 11 a.m. The sky over the old man’s patio was grey and the fountain didn’t sparkle with sunlight as it had on his last visit, but the temperature was still a comfortable twenty degrees Celsius. He breathed in deeply: the scent of flowers lingered on the air. Most of all, he was glad to have shed his heavy overcoat; he’d had enough of the Swedish winter.

  When he’d called Marrakech on
Monday afternoon to report on the spice company, he’d been surprised. He’d started to ask a question, but the old man had cut him off abruptly, saying “Come see me,” and then hung up.

  Yesterday’s flight from Arlanda had been as smooth and uneventful as the one that had brought him in. On the plane, he’d considered the answers he’d come up with to his questions. It was becoming clearer to him why the old man wouldn’t discuss things over the phone. When he landed, he took a taxi to his apartment in the modern part of the city and arranged an appointment for the next morning.

  As he limped up the flagstone path to the house he saw that the same two guards were in place: it looked like they hadn’t moved. He nodded to them as he went under the overhanging portico and wordlessly, they nodded back. The old man was seated in his usual place in the large octagonal room with a tea service on the table beside him. It looked like he hadn’t moved either.

  They briefly exchanged ritual greetings and mutual inquiries about health as Joumari poured them each a glass of mint tea and then, suddenly as usual, brought up what had brought the lame man back.

  “What did you think of my spice company?”

  “It appears to be well-run and successful.”

  “And …?”

  “It also provides a good means of moving something other than spices from India.”

  “I was hoping you would discover this,” said the old man, and a rare, twisted smile lit up his lined face.

  So it was a test, just as I thought, the lame man decided.

  “Also there’s an exchange arrangement with the supplier of women,” he said.

  “Just so. And how does all this work?”

  “You provide drugs to them wholesale; they handle distribution themselves so you needn’t be concerned about operating a network from here. They also provide women at a wholesale price, and the ships that deliver your spices to Sweden return with them here.”

  “And what do you think of this arrangement?”

  “It works well, as long as the people involved also work well.”

  “Do you have concerns about them?”

  “Yes. They risked upsetting everything by allowing that woman to escape and killing Ahmed. These were serious mistakes that make me question the judgment of the man, Ivar, who runs their side.”

  “What would you do?”

  “The spice company drug operation has to be protected because it produces the highest profits.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “I was told the police had been making inquiries at the company in their search for Ahmed. Insh’Allah, they won’t return. But any police attention to the company is a danger that should have been foreseen.”

  “I agree.”

  “The police are focused on Ahmed and the woman. If the investigation continues, the entire arrangement could unravel. The women part of the business should be shut down. It’s become too risky.”

  “But it’s very profitable,” the old man said in an irritated tone.

  “Sometimes one has to make a sacrifice. It’s only temporary. The business can be continued with another supplier not connected with the spice company and the drugs. Combining the two operations has been profitable and convenient for everyone, but it’s become too dangerous. Separating them protects both businesses, especially since police activity in Sweden is intensifying.”

  Joumari was silent for a moment. “You are right,” he said finally, with obvious reluctance. “It’s a shame to do it, but insh’Allah, our larger interests must be protected.”

  “The difficulty will be in persuading Ivar to shut down that side of their operation completely. He may be tempted to supply women to other groups, but doing that could still attract police attention to your drug trade.”

  “How do you propose to persuade him?”

  “I would point out the increased risk we are all taking, and offer him a reduced price for the drugs to offset some of his loss on the women.”

  The old man was taken aback. “Must I lose even more money?”

  “Unfortunately. I think it’s an unavoidable part of the sacrifice.”

  “And if he is still unwilling?”

  “Then he must be replaced. It would be payback for Ahmed, whose death he probably ordered.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  “There are limited possibilities, the most promising seems the spice company manager, a man named Ostlund.”

  Joumari looked thoughtful. “You have given me unwelcome, but sound advice. When will you return to Sweden?”

  “Tomorrow, if it can be arranged,” the lame man said, not looking forward to the biting cold again.

  “A plane ticket, your hotel reservation, and additional funds will be delivered to you later today,” said the old man, pushing himself erect with his cane, as the lame man also stood.

  He was surprised when Joumari came over, put a hand on his shoulder, and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “May God bless you; have a peaceful trip,” the old man said.

  As he left, the lame man was quietly elated. He’d passed the test. Perhaps he’ll adopt me as his son, he thought. That would ease my transition as his successor, although the family won’t be happy about it. I’ll have to watch my back.

  40

  PRESSURE

  Friday, February 3, 8:30 a.m. Norlander and Malmer were standing in the commissioner’s office talking, when Ekman knocked and entered.

  “God morgen, Walther,” Norlander said. “It’s good to see you. Why don’t we sit over here.” He led the way to two armchairs, gesturing to the couch for Ekman.

  “Olav and I were shocked, as you must have been, by Fredrik Haake’s murder.”

  “You’re right, Commissioner. So was everyone on my team. But it did solve our search for Dahlin’s other rapist.”

  “He looks like the sketch, but are you certain he’s the one?” asked Malmer.

  “We’re waiting for DNA confirmation, but his strong resemblance, and the fact that he was garroted like Jakobsson, clinches it in my mind.”

  “This murder of a prominent businessman, who looks like the rapist you’ve been searching for, together with the two related deaths, has made for a media circus. They’re going to keep up relentless pressure until we close the case,” said Norlander. “Where are we now?”

  Ekman briefed them on the investigation and the alternative theories they’d developed, concluding with, “It’s still too early to say definitely, but my team and I believe a human trafficking ring is behind all these deaths.”

  “And when do you think you’ll shut them down?” asked Malmer.

  “When we identify them, and then assemble enough evidence,” Ekman replied in a neutral tone to this idiotic question. “We have a long way to go.”

  “That’s understood,” said Norlander, looking pointedly at Malmer. “But Walther, this is no longer just a local case. It’s attracting national attention. I have every confidence in you and your team, but speed has become critically important.”

  “Considering that Haake was murdered only the night before last, I think we’re moving remarkably fast, Commissioner,” said Ekman.

  “I agree, absolutely. But the media and the public don’t understand how painstaking police work has to be in order to find, arrest, and eventually convict criminals. Because this case has become such a sensation, I think you should plan on calling in the national CID.”

  Norlander saw that Ekman was about to protest.

  “This is no reflection on you or your team. It’s just that more resources are needed to wrap this up as fast as possible. Why don’t you see if your friend Garth Rystrom is available?”

  Ekman was silent for a moment. He resented having his ability being questioned, but after dealing with bureaucrats for decades, he recognized when to bow gracefully to the inevitable.

  “If that’s what you want, Commissioner, I’ll call him this morning.”

  “Excellent, Walther, excellent,” said Norlander, getting up, a
s the other two also stood. “Knowing you, Walther, I’m sure you’ll soon have good news for us.”

  Ekman went down to his office and called Rystrom. After he’d explained the situation, he said, “So do you think you can give us a hand?”

  “The case sounds intriguing, Walther. Have your commissioner call my boss, and assuming it’s okay, I’ll plan on coming down first thing tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Garth. I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  Then he called Kallenberg’s office. He needed to brief him right away. Kallenberg’s assistant told him that the prosecutor was at a meeting in Stockholm and wouldn’t be back until late that night. Ekman asked for an appointment the next morning at ten.

  “Yes,” he told her. “I realize tomorrow’s Saturday, but he’ll want to see me anyway. It’s urgent.”

  That evening, discussing the case with Ingbritt over dinner, Ekman sounded despondent.

  “We’re really at a dead end. I don’t know where we go from here unless we somehow come up with a new lead. Maybe Norlander was right: we need help. Perhaps Garth can think of something.”

  “It’s always like this, Walther, when you’re starting,” she replied, and reaching across the table patted his hand. “Don’t get discouraged. You’ll find a way. You always do. And make sure you invite Garth for dinner tomorrow. It will be good to see him again.”

  After they’d cleared the dishes, Ingbritt went upstairs to read in bed.

  Ekman sat in his study in his big leather recliner while he went over the case. In his long career as a police officer, he’d gradually become famous as a criminal investigator, fame he didn’t want. Now he wondered whether he still deserved this recognition. He felt old and tired.

  Maybe I’ve lost whatever ability I had, he thought. It happens to everyone sooner or later, your mind doesn’t work the way it used to, you just run out of juice.

  Okay, enough. He straightened himself in his chair. Stop beating yourself up, Ekman, it’s a bad habit. As Ingbritt said, find a way. He sat there and thought hard, but couldn’t come up with anything.