Tell rubbed his eyes as he distractedly flicked through some papers Seja had left. Some kind of dissertation from the University of Gothenburg and several loose print-outs; he started when he saw the words Red List. She must have been researching something with a view to writing an article. Seja had a disturbing tendency to let his cases inspire her journalism, and this business of the Red List was something she’d picked up on in Copenhagen.
His first reaction was to feel slightly put out. They’d been through this before; sensitive police information was not to be toyed with. But he was glad that she was now at least being open about what she was doing, and that she wasn’t writing about the actual murders.
He keyed in the dialling code for Denmark and the direct line to Alexandr Karpov’s office, where an answering machine informed him that Karpov was not available to take his call.
He had better luck with the mobile number. Tell wasted no time on small talk when Karpov answered, and launched straight into an account of the incident at Holmström’s Antiques, passing on Tony Svensén’s description of the object in question.
‘I’m going to send over a picture I’d like you to look at. It’s a photograph of a necklace and a small sculpture. What I’m wondering is . . . There you go, I’ve sent it.’
There was a click at the other end of the line. ‘Are you still there?’
‘So what’s your question?’ Karpov said eventually, sounding stressed.
‘What do you think the objects are?’
‘Why don’t you ask the expert you’ve already spoken to?’
‘Because Svensén insisted that you were more familiar with the area these artefacts come from. An Assyriologist, I think he called you. He said that the clay figure definitely came from a museum in Iraq and is on the Red List – what does that mean?’
‘That it’s stolen.’
‘Go on.’
Karpov sighed. ‘The Red List is compiled by an international group of twelve experts in the history of culture, who catalogued the artefacts lost during the American invasion of Iraq. When its museums were plundered.’
‘You might have mentioned this when my . . . my girlfriend and I saw you last?’
‘Perhaps I did. The list was published via Interpol, and is monitored by the world’s museums and serious antique dealers.’
‘And that system works?’
‘To a certain extent,’ said Karpov. ‘Quite a lot has been recovered. But the area is still being plundered. Every day cultural treasures are dug up from graves in Iraq.’
‘OK. Have you looked at the picture?’ Tell tried to control his impatience, tapping on his keyboard as he waited for Karpov to speak. ‘What do you think?’
‘Just a moment.’ Karpov sounded uncomfortable. ‘So you’re ringing me for . . . what shall I call it, a consultation? You’re talking to me because I’m an expert in the field? Or because this has something to do with the murder inquiry?’
‘Why else would I be bothering with it?’
‘Is this an interrogation?’ Karpov persisted.
‘Call it a consultation if you like,’ said Tell. ‘Shall we carry on? Could you look at the picture, please?’
Karpov cleared his throat. ‘Well, let me see. First of all, I have to say that it’s impossible to assess whether an object is genuine or not simply by looking at a picture. There’s a host of fakes and copies on the market here in Denmark alone.’
‘But apart from that, what era are we talking about?’
‘I would guess that the necklace could be from about six hundred BC, but the sculpture is older. Perhaps six thousand years old.’
Six thousand years was definitely old. Tell had to struggle to regain his train of thought.
‘So is it fair to say that there would be a certain amount of interest in this object?’
‘Well . . . Of course people collect this sort of thing, and in some cases are willing to pay huge sums of money. If your expert is certain that this figure was stolen from a museum, perhaps he knows if it carries an inventory stamp? Thirteen to fourteen thousand artefacts were stolen from the museum in Baghdad after the invasion.’
‘Can you tell me more about the figure? Imagine you’re talking to a five-year-old, please. I can see it looks like a person, at any rate.’
‘It’s a woman. As you can see, she’s holding a vase or some kind of vessel in front of her body. She’s highly representative of the Uruk period.’
‘So you mean women were depicted in a particular way at that time?’
‘And in that part of the world, yes, generally speaking. Present-day Iraq.’
‘Does the figure have a special meaning?’
‘It could mean a number of things; we can’t know for sure. But one interpretation is that female figurines were used to give strength to women at key times in their lives: puberty, marriage, pregnancy. The vessel and the water you can just make out flowing down over the skirt could indicate that it was used as an offering to the water goddess.’
‘Right.’
Tell couldn’t understand how Karpov could read so much into a scanned photograph of a battered lump of clay. He found it hard enough to tell which was the right way up.
‘And the necklace?’
‘That I think is Neo-Babylonian. You can see that it belonged to a rich person; it’s probably gold underneath all that dirt. Could it have been dug up from the ground and stolen? It looks well made, the designs are embossed.’
‘What would it be worth?’
‘It’s impossible to put a value on it.’
‘I mean on the black market.’
It was clear that Karpov was reluctant to answer. ‘It’s impossible to say. The value is linked to collectors’ tastes and opinions. And to availability. For example, an Assyrian relief was sold for around twelve million dollars at Christie’s in London in 1994. But since the pillaging of this area began, supply has increased and prices have fallen. But, even so . . . And, of course, gold has an independent value. And then you have to take into account the aesthetic appeal, plus the fact that this is part of a country’s cultural treasure.’
‘A hundred thousand?’
‘I couldn’t possibly say.’
‘Half a million?’
‘As I said . . .’
‘I understand.’
Tell quickly consulted Google on Baghdad + stolen artefacts, which produced a long list of articles on the Iraq war.
‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll be back in touch if we decide to look into this aspect of the case more closely.’
‘May I ask how these artefacts relate to your investigation?’
‘I assume you will contact me if you think of anything which might be of interest to us.’
Tell put the phone down and looked at the picture again. There was every chance this was a red herring. Henrik and Ann-Marie were archaeologists. They were interested in old things. The fact that Henrik had a photograph of two stolen antiques in a book in his bedside cabinet might have nothing whatsoever to do with the murders. But what about Mads Torsen’s visit to the antiques dealer, and the fact that his fingerprints matched those found in Henrik and Rebecca’s house?
The interconnections confused him. Could it all turn out to be a series of coincidences? Surely not.
Tell put a hand on the phone. He grabbed the receiver and quickly keyed in the number so he didn’t have time to change his mind.
The answering machine.
Seja was incredibly hard-working once she got her teeth into a project. She was like a sponge, soaking up knowledge. And why work against one another when he could benefit from her skills? He had complete trust in her ability to absorb and interpret information, although he didn’t always trust her ability to assess the risks involved.
‘Hi, Seja, it’s me. I realise you’re busy at the moment, and as you know I’m off to Malmö later. And there’s no great rush, but I wondered if you could email me some information? It’s to do with the Iraqi Red List – I thin
k that’s what it’s called. I want whatever you’ve found out about the artefacts, the thefts, any organisations involved, the black market. How the stolen artefacts are registered and catalogued, that kind of thing.’
He pulled himself up. ‘If you have time and it’s no trouble, of course. I just happened to notice that you’d already done some research.’
32
Gothenburg
Beckman was having a working lunch with an officer who had questioned witnesses to the attack on Mads Torsen.
They were sitting outside a café where tables and chairs were packed into a tiny space between the tall white walls of the buildings in the old part of town. It almost felt as though they were abroad; Mediterranean food on the tables, plenty of olive oil, espresso drunk from tiny cups made of thick white porcelain.
Beckman wolfed down half of her shellfish stew and suddenly felt terribly unwell. She had to rush inside to lean over a toilet and breathe hard for several minutes before venturing out again.
She had suspected beforehand that she wouldn’t get much out of this meeting from a professional point of view. The attack on Torsen may have taken place in the city centre, but it had happened in a dark doorway. And how long did it take to knock someone out? The crime scene investigation showed that Torsen’s head had been smashed against the stone wall. A couple of well-aimed kicks to the ribs, and the whole thing could have been over in a minute or so. And people saw so little, intervened so rarely.
Enquiries had been made in all the restaurants and shops overlooking the doorway, and in the surrounding streets, but to no avail. The antiques dealer had provided only a vague description of what had happened. The fact that the attacker had disappeared by the time Evert Holmström came out of his shop was confirmed by a man on paternity leave, who had parked his buggy outside the cathedral for a while. He had at least caught a glimpse of the drama; with the help of a sketch artist he might just be able to come up with a decent picture.
And the woman who had made the call could only remember that the man had been dressed in dark clothing and was quite slim, below average height and of a youthful build.
‘I didn’t dare go into the doorway,’ she had said. ‘Not even close. I just saw two figures moving around. But I could hear them, and it didn’t sound pleasant.’
Just as Beckman was saying goodbye to her colleague, Karlberg rang to tell her that the drugs squad had found out where Mads Torsen had been staying.
‘You remember we had a receipt from a shop in Angered? Well, they started in the known places nearby, brought in a few guys who of course denied all knowledge but—’
‘Yes?’
‘But when they went back the second time they managed to wheedle it out of one guy that Torsen and a friend had been around the day before the break-in.’
Beckman walked across and unlocked her car. ‘But we still don’t have a name for his sidekick, do we?’
Karlberg was spinning it out. ‘No, the guy said he didn’t know who Torsen’s friend was. But the occupant of the place in Angered, Niklas Carlsson, is being brought in for questioning. Tell thought you and I could take that. It’s probably the easiest way of getting a name.’
‘And we’ve got a few witness statements from the actual beating; we might be able to match those with what Carlsson tells us.’
‘Are you on your way in?’
‘Yes. So what’s the boss doing?’
‘He was going to meet up with that Danish officer later, I think.’
‘OK, you make a start with Carlsson. I’ll be there shortly.’
Beckman switched off her phone. In the square outside the cathedral, two people were juggling with fire, although daylight ruined the effect somewhat. She noticed that several of those watching were eating ice cream, and within a couple of seconds she was craving something sweet. She stopped at a stall. It was as if her body was just one big greedy hole that had to be filled. She slurped a mouthful of the sweet ice cream and the cold hit her forehead. Exhaustion overwhelmed her once more.
Tears sprang to her eyes the second before she realised what it was she had been denying. She’d been here before. She didn’t need to take a test: she was pregnant. It was like a bad joke.
She hadn’t spoken to Göran for weeks.
33
Gothenburg
Karlberg wasn’t really the type to chat with girls at work. In fact, he wasn’t the type to chat with girls full stop. He was far too . . . shy? He quickly clicked through to the chat room. Just wanted to check what she’d replied.
Maybe not shy, exactly. A bit cowardly? That’s what his cousin had said – it was a perfect way for cowards to meet. And, after all, he’d met his wife on the Internet. It was also good for people who needed a bit more time to work things out. When you were cowardly, it gave you plenty of time to decide how to phrase things, which meant that stammering and pauses could be avoided on the first date. By the time you eventually met up, you’d got to know a bit about each other’s flaws and chosen to accept them.
But you have to be honest with what you say, his cousin had added in a serious tone of voice. Otherwise it won’t lead anywhere. Karlberg had been embarrassed, mumbling that he wasn’t about to start looking for female company in cyberspace, but if he should change his mind, he definitely wouldn’t go making things up.
Footsteps in the corridor made him shut down the page, only to open it again when the clicking of high heels faded. Until Niklas Carlsson arrived, all he could do was wait.
‘Do you like being a detective inspector?’ Theresa P wondered. She had just told him she was a skincare therapist.
‘Sadly, I’m only a detective sergeant,’ Karlberg wrote back. He wondered if he should put quotation marks around only, or if that might seem arrogant. Eventually he sent the message as it was.
It took a while for the response to arrive. Karlberg drummed his fingers on the desk in frustration. Should he write again, explaining the difference between an inspector and a sergeant? But why would she be interested – it would only serve to reinforce her view of him as a complete idiot.
He went back through their previous messages. Theresa P had written about herself and the salon where she worked. She had written an amusing description of a client – Karlberg grinned as he read it – but their conversations were serious too. She wrote about what she wanted from life, for example that she wanted to work less in the future in order to have more time to develop her knowledge of yoga and possibly open a teaching centre.
His own contributions seemed dry and uninspired; he didn’t know how to be any different. And now he’d put her off, with his embarrassingly factual self-deprecation: ‘I’m only a detective sergeant’. Get the violins out.
Karlberg shut down the page. Perhaps this Internet dating business wasn’t for him; after all, the written word was not one of his strong points.
But no, he wasn’t shy. He didn’t really have a problem talking to girls. He got on well with his female colleagues. Over the years he’d had plenty of female friends. The only thing was that his relationships rarely progressed beyond friendship. He was the nice guy you could talk to, not the hot guy you wanted to go to bed with.
Karlberg could hear how gloomy he sounded when he answered the phone.
‘Niklas Carlsson has arrived.’
‘Thanks.’
He left his office for the interrogation rooms and an interview he had no desire to carry out on his own. But he couldn’t shake off his train of thought. He had only had a long-term relationship with one woman. What had she seen in him at the beginning, before she started to think he was spineless and a walkover? He thought back ten years: her best friend had got together with his best friend, just as their friends were retreating from view, absorbed in careers or starting a family. Had they both just been left on the shelf? Would it take another lucky twist of fate for him to get together with another girl? Anyway, since he had passed the magic age of thirty several years ago, all the good ones were taken.
>
He went down in the lift, pulling on the jumper he had tied round his shoulders. He greeted the guard and entered the little room.
Karlberg didn’t recognise Niklas Carlsson, although he knew the type. Baggy trousers and uncoordinated movements. Greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. A grin hovering on his lips. Karlberg knew that it would shortly give way to the sort of pathetic pleading that he always wished he could spare himself and the interviewee. Drugs robbed people of their dignity in so many ways.
‘Detective Sergeant Andreas Karlberg.’
‘I’m saying nothing.’
‘You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you.’
‘I’m saying nothing. About anything.’
‘I’m just looking for information, I’m not trying to catch you out.’
‘Are you deaf? I’m saying nothing. End of.’
‘OK.’
Karlberg looked at Niklas Carlsson’s hands as they tugged at his short denim jacket. His long, dirty nails left angry red marks when he scratched his wrists and throat. It was obvious they’d picked Carlsson up just at the right moment; in a few hours he would be a lot more talkative.
‘You can go as soon as you talk,’ he said.
34
Malmö
The Violent Crimes team in Malmö had provided an office for Christian Tell and his Danish colleague as soon as he arrived, having made the journey from Gothenburg to Malmö in a record two hours.
‘Was there anything special about Mads Torsen, or was he just like the rest of them?’
Inspector Dragsted nodded to indicate that he had understood the question.
‘Yes and no. Twenty years ago he was a pretty successful burglar. Gold, among other things. He had a few guys working for him. I don’t know exactly when he started; he hardly ever got caught, so a lot of what I say is based on assumptions. I don’t think Torsen was completely stupid. He didn’t really get caught until he started on the smack. He began to get more careless then, abandoned expensive targets for more typical junkie stuff. He got to be pretty miserable; in the beginning I remember thinking he was quite a character, if you know what I mean.’
Babylon Page 18
