Spice Trade

by Erik Mauritzson

  “Recently there’ve been quiet attempts to build a drug case against him, but no one in the prosecutor’s office has gotten anywhere. Potential witnesses, and his biggest competitors in the business, have a funny way of simply disappearing or changing their minds. Again, nothing has ever been traced directly back to him, but his reputation on the street is that he’s extremely dangerous to cross.”

  “That’s very helpful information. Have your contacts been able to find out anything about who actually owns the spice company where Chafik worked?” Ekman asked.

  “The Rabat holding company is a paper front. The attorney who acts for the real owner won’t tell my Moroccan contact anything.”

  “It’s suspicious that whoever owns the company is so secretive,” said Rapp.

  “Yes, but there could be tax or family reasons for that,” said Rystrom.

  “Possibly, Garth, but I think Alrik’s right. It’s got to be Joumari’s company,” Ekman said. “Look what we know: Chafik’s a relative of Joumari; he rapes the Dahlin woman; her kidnapping and death is connected to a trafficking ring; Joumari runs a major prostitution operation; Chafik vanishes and can’t be found anywhere in Europe. What are the odds that Joumari’s not involved?”

  “We should take another look at that spice company,” said Rapp.

  “I agree. Garth, I’m going to ask Kallenberg to authorize phone taps and surveillance on the company. We’ll need your help in Stockholm.”

  “You’ll have it.”

  “And Valdis, we need to work closely with your Moroccan Interpol office. I’d like to find out more about what’s happening at that end.”

  “I’ll speak with him today,” Granholm said.

  Their lunches arrived and everyone was quiet while they concentrated on the food.

  After Rystrom and Granholm had left, Ekman turned to Rapp.

  “Well, what do you think?” He meant about the new directions the case was taking.

  “They’re lovers,” said a visibly downcast Rapp.

  54

  FRU HAAKE—AGAIN

  Tuesday, February 7, 2:30 p.m. Gerdi Vinter and Kajsa Haake were seated in the same room where Vinter had first interviewed her. Haake was twisting a handkerchief around her left hand as she spoke.

  “I don’t know why you people are persecuting me. Don’t you realize I’ve just lost my husband? You have no feelings.” Her eyes grew moist as she said this.

  “We’re deeply sympathetic, Fru Haake. But our job requires us to do more than sympathize. We have an obligation to you, and to society, to find your husband’s killer. So please bear with us during our investigation. We have to pursue every possibility, and that means asking sometimes painful questions.”

  “I understand, but it’s difficult to put up with all this prying into my personal life, which has nothing to do with Fredrik’s death.”

  “You have to let us judge what may be relevant.”

  “All right. Let’s get this over. What do you want to know now?”

  Vinter had been speculating about who the lover could be that Fru Haake hadn’t wanted to disclose. There was one interesting possibility and she decided to try a direct approach.

  “What is your relationship with Håkan Grundström?”

  She was silent for a moment. “He was my husband’s colleague at the bank. We socialized frequently with him and his wife. Nothing more.”

  Vinter looked at her closely. “Fru Haake, I don’t feel you’re being entirely frank with me.”

  “You can feel whatever you want, but I’ve said all I’m going to.”

  “Let me be very clear. You can tell me what I need to know here in your home in the next few minutes, and then I’ll leave and not bother you again, or you can come with me to police headquarters for a formal interview that will take many hours and be conducted by men who will be much less sympathetic than I am.” Vinter’s voice had grown harsh as she said this.

  “You’re an unkind person. That’s why you have your job. You enjoy doing this. You enjoy humiliating others.”

  “That isn’t so, and you know it. Please, Kajsa, make this easy for both of us.”

  “Håkan and I have a personal relationship. There, I’ve said it, are you satisfied?”

  “I’m glad you decided to tell me the truth. I have just a few more questions. How long has this been going on?”

  “For the last six months. We’ve been very discreet because of his position at the bank.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  Fru Haake didn’t reply immediately. “I think so.”

  “Have you thought about marriage?”

  “Håkan separated from his wife a year ago and is divorcing her. And yes, after Fredrik died we talked about getting married. I haven’t wanted to say anything because I know it would throw suspicion on him, even though it’s ridiculous. He’d never hurt anyone, let alone kill them. Now, have I told you everything?”

  Vinter stood up. “Thank you for being candid, Kajsa. I won’t trouble you again.” She knew she wasn’t being entirely candid herself. If the investigation focused on Grundström, Kajsa Haake would have to be formally interviewed, and could find herself on the witness stand at his trial.

  55

  KALLENBERG BALKS

  Tuesday, February 7, 4 p.m. Ekman was quietly fuming, and trying not to show it. He was seated in Arvid Kallenberg’s office and had just laid out the rationale for phone and physical surveillance of the spice company. The prosecutor had flatout refused to authorize it.

  “Arvid, we need to find out more about what’s going on at this company. It’s likely that Joumari owns it and, if so, he’s probably using it for illegal purposes.”

  “I understand your argument, Walther. But you have no evidence that would justify surveillance of what your inspectors have said appears to be a legitimate business. Because it’s owned by a Moroccan holding company and Chafik worked there, doesn’t mean Joumari owns it, and even if he does, that there are illegal activities.”

  Ekman knew Kallenberg could sometimes be a legal nitpicker, but under the circumstances he couldn’t understand why Kallenberg was digging in his heels this way.

  “I think that since we’ve decided to pursue all possible leads, excluding this one frankly doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  Kallenberg frowned. “Even if you’re right, I can’t see how it could help us with Haake’s murder.”

  “Well, we know that Chafik and Haake raped the Dahlin woman. If the company is involved in Joumari’s prostitution operation, a falling out could have led to Haake’s death.”

  “That’s a really big ‘if,’ Walther. I’m very reluctant to start investigating legitimate businesses on the basis of sheer speculation. What sort of country would we have if this became routine procedure? A police state? Get me something more to go on and I’ll reconsider.

  “Besides, the company is outside our jurisdiction; we’d first need to clear anything we did with the Stockholm authorities. It could become too complicated. For now, let’s leave the company alone.

  “After all, we’re taking a close look at Hult and those bank directors. Let’s see where those inquiries go. We don’t want to spread ourselves too thin.” Kallenberg leaned back in his desk chair.

  “Walther, we shouldn’t argue. It’s important for us to work together amicably. We can revisit this issue later.”

  “All right, Arvid. You’re the boss. But please note my disagreement,” said Ekman, getting up. He was angry, but kept his features under control.

  “Duly noted,” replied Kallenberg. Coming around his desk he put a hand on Ekman’s shoulder as he walked him to the door.

  56

  FISHERMAN’S CATCH

  Wednesday, February 8, 10:35 a.m. The Annalisa lurched in the green swell. A white-crested wave broke high over her plunging bow as the herring trawler headed farther into the Kattegat strait separating southwestern Sweden and Denmark.

  The poor catch so far that morning, and repo
rts from other Swedish boats of fish running closer to Denmark, had persuaded the dark bearded captain, Jörgen Blohm, to try his luck in that direction. He stood on the deck, oblivious to the icy, wind-driven spray, scanning the leaden horizon with binoculars for signs of other vessels.

  Blohm went over to the wheelhouse door and, opening it, yelled over the stiff wind to his mate to hold to the south-southwest course. His heavily gloved hand holding tightly to a rail running along the wheelhouse, he carefully made his way to the stern. He wanted to check the midlevel ocean trawling net suspended from the tall boom and spread out deep in the sea behind the boat.

  Going back into the wheelhouse he looked at the sonar screen for signs of a herring school. There was nothing. Shrugging, he went over to the carafe on the sideboard and poured himself a cup of black coffee. After twenty years at sea he was accustomed to disappointment and had learned to be patient. So far, his patience had paid off; he now owned the Annalisa, named for his wife.

  “Jörgen,” said his mate, a sturdy thirty-year-old, “there’s something on the screen.”

  Blohm went over to see. Yes, there was something, but it wasn’t the familiar pattern made by a school of herring. Damn, whatever it was, it was fouling his net.

  Calling down the companionway hatch to the two seamen who’d been taking a break, he said, “I need you on deck. We have to clear the net.”

  The men quickly pulled on their slickers and scrambled up the ladder.

  Blohm went with them to the stern and activated the power block on the boom that gradually hauled up the huge net.

  Lowering it to the deck, they could see a large object caught in the mesh.

  “Let’s get it out of there, boys,” Blohm said.

  The seamen pulled the net open and each taking an end of the object pulled it out of the netting and onto the deck.

  Blohm took his gutting knife from its sheath and cut the rope holding the canvas tarp together. Reaching over, he pulled the tarp open.

  Staring back at him from empty sockets was the ashen, bloated face of Ahmed Chafik.

  57

  A BODY AND A SUSPECT

  Thursday, February 9, 7:15 a.m. Ekman had come in early that day. He wanted to sit down with Rystrom to go over where they were before that morning’s meeting, and had left a note on Rystrom’s desk.

  Hanging up his hat and coat, he decided to try and reduce the pile of papers that had evidently been reproducing by themselves in his in-basket.

  On top was a report of a man’s body that had been fished out of the Kattegat yesterday morning. The corpse was now at the forensic pathology lab in Linköping, where they’d discovered that he’d been strangled with a wire. They were estimating the time of death as several weeks ago. A full autopsy report would follow. Some grisly photos were attached.

  Ekman looked at what remained of the man’s face. He was barely recognizable, but Ekman believed it was the man they’d been hunting for without success since Lynni Dahlin’s death. DNA tests would confirm whether it was Chafik, but he felt sure it was.

  From the deteriorated condition of the body, someone must have decided shortly after Dahlin died to get rid of Chafik. This strengthened his conviction that a trafficking ring was involved. Chafik apparently had become too much of a risk for them to leave walking around. Find this ring, and they’d find his killer, and probably Jakobsson’s and Haake’s as well.

  A few minutes later, Rystrom stuck his head in the door. “You wanted to see me, Walther?”

  “Come in, Garth, and take a look at this,” Ekman said, holding up the report.

  Rystrom sat down and began to read. He flipped through the photos and looked up.

  “It’s Chafik, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I think so too.”

  “They must have thought he’d become too much of a problem.”

  “Exactly. But now we know for certain that there’s a trafficking ring.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be any point in waiting for DNA confirmation. I’ll tell Valdis so she can call off the international search.”

  “Good idea. What do you think about informing the media?”

  Rystrom considered this for a moment. “It can’t hurt and might produce some new leads.”

  “And it will at least resolve why we haven’t been able to find him. The press have implied we’re imbeciles.” Ekman was thinking about Haeggman’s stories about the hunt for Chafik that had as much as said that the police, and especially Chief Superintendent Ekman, were hopelessly incompetent.

  “So where do you think this leaves us with Dahlin’s death, and the Jakobsson, Haake, and now Chafik murders?” Ekman asked.

  “Well, we know they’re all connected, and the murders were probably committed by the same man, since they all involved a garrote,” Rystrom replied.

  “And our suspects?”

  “So far we haven’t any.”

  “This is a record of accomplishment we’ll refrain from sharing with Herr Haeggman,” Ekman said.

  “But we do have reason to suspect that this Moroccan crime boss, Joumari, may be involved. When are we going to take a closer look at that spice company?” Garth asked.

  “Not for a while, and maybe not at all. According to our esteemed prosecutor, we’d be indulging in police state tactics.”

  “Shit. We both think something’s going on there.”

  “Yes, but Kallenberg wants stronger grounds than mere suspicion, even if it’s informed by our combined half century of police work.”

  “So where do we go from here, Walther?”

  “I hate to admit it, but I’m not at all sure.”

  Rystrom looked at his watch. “It’s eight. Maybe the others will have some suggestions.”

  The other team members, and Kallenberg, were already seated when Ekman and Rystrom came into the conference room.

  “Good morning, everyone,” said Ekman, as he took his place at the head of the table next to Kallenberg.

  “I have some news. Ahmed Chafik has been found.”

  The others appeared startled.

  “When did this happen, Chief?” asked Rapp.

  “Yesterday morning. He was pulled out of the Kattegat. Linköping says he was strangled with a garrote around the time Dahlin died.”

  “Well, that’s another dead end,” said Rosengren, and then sniggered at his unintentional pun. His partner, Alenius, stifled a rare smile.

  “We now have three killings and the Dahlin woman’s death to investigate,” Kallenberg said. “Walther, public scrutiny is going to increase even more.”

  “Yes, I’m very aware of that, Arvid. All the more reason to explore every possible avenue,” Ekman said, looking hard at him.

  Kallenberg didn’t respond.

  “Gerdi, why don’t you bring us up to date?”

  Vinter summarized her conversation with Kajsa Haake. “She admitted that Håkan Grundström is a recent lover, and that they’ve been talking about marriage since her husband’s death. Enar and I also uncovered some interesting financial information,” she said, turning to him.

  “Five of the six directors who wanted the merger are wealthy,” Holm continued. “The merger would just make them richer. But Grundström really needs the money. He borrowed heavily to place a huge bet three years ago on a start-up technology company that went under last year. He’s had to take out a second mortgage on his house, and with his divorce, he’ll barely be able to cover running expenses.”

  “The merger, and marriage to a wealthy widow, would more than solve all his financial problems,” said Vinter.

  “Then he had every reason to want Haake out of the way,” said Rapp.

  “Enough to kill him?” asked Rystrom.

  “It’s a real possibility,” said Ekman. “There could be two killers: the man who murdered Chafik and Jakobsson, and a copycat murderer who killed Haake. Grundström may have decided that doing away with Haake would get him what he desperately needed and imitating the Jakobsson killing would cover
his tracks. We should have a serious conversation with Herr Grundström.”

  “I agree, but for God’s sake, be civil. He’s very well connected,” Kallenberg said.

  “We’re always civil these days, Arvid. I haven’t used a rubber hose in years,” Ekman said.

  58

  THE LAST SHIPMENT

  Thursday, February 9, 9:15 a.m. Karim had just finished a leisurely late breakfast in the Grand Hotel’s Terrace restaurant and was idly watching through the large windows as traffic and pedestrians moved along the broad street under a chill, pale grey sky. Across the way, boats were docked in the narrow Stockholms Ström bay.

  He’d had a pleasant week in Stockholm acting like a typical tourist: wandering around medieval Gamla Stan, visiting museums, the royal palace, sampling restaurants, and doing sporadic shopping.

  When he’d phoned Ivar a few days ago, he’d been assured that everything was on track. The ship they’d been waiting for had arrived and they were shutting down their women trafficking operation as agreed. Ivar invited him to observe them do it.

  A 1:40 that morning he’d sat in Ivar’s Land Rover and watched a van pull up to the gangplank of the Kharon, a small, rusted freighter with Liberian registry that had brought in a shipment of drugs from India concealed in lead foil packets hidden in sacks of spices. It had arrived at the Frihamnsgatan docks, near the spice company’s office, two days before, passed customs’ inspection, and unloaded its cargoes. The ship would be leaving on the next high tide.

  They’d sat in silence as Ostlund and Gotz carried five heavily drugged women up the gangplank and onto the ship. They would be kept half drugged on the 2,000-mile voyage to Casablanca, and the three-hour drive to Marrakech.

  Ivar and Karim sat there until all the women had been taken on board and the two men had gotten into the van and driven off.

  “Your buyers will be looking forward to trying these new women out,” Ivar said as he started the Land Rover. “When these shipments stop you’ll have some very disappointed customers.”