Death of a Carpet Dealer

by Neil Betteridge

  Finally Özen nodded.

  “He’s ready.”

  Claesson took out four small color portraits of Magnus Öberg and three other men of the same skin and hair color. He placed the photographs in front of Ilyas Bank and instructed Özen to ask Ilyas to say if he recognized any of them. He could take his time.

  Ilyas didn’t react immediately, and apparently didn’t recognize any of them. It was difficult to identify faces without a body, Claesson knew that. No height, build or posture to go by.

  “Him, maybe,” said Ilyas after a while, pointing a trembling finger at Magnus Öberg’s enlarged passport photo.

  Claesson resisted a smile, and produced instead as many photos of exactly the same men, this time digitally manipulated so that each was wearing a cap with the letters ICA glaring in all their redness on the front.

  Ilyas Bank studied the photos carefully again, but his body was starting to twitch even faster.

  “That one there looks most like the man on the boat,” he said, lifting his thick black eyelashes to stare uncertainly at Claesson while identifying Magnus Öberg once more.

  “Thank you,” said Claesson in English.

  Ilyas turned to Özen and said something while continuing to glance at Claesson from the corner of his eye.

  “He says that it’s strange, but you also look like a man he once saw on the boat,” said Özen on behalf of Ilyas.

  “Tell him that he might be right,” said Claesson.

  The mood became almost jovial for a moment.

  “Why do you remember me?” asked Claesson in English turning to the young Turk.

  Ilyas understood.

  “Because of you…” he said, and coughed, running out of words. He resorted to Turkish.

  “Because you sat where you sat on the ferry,” interpreted Özen.

  “So what did that make you think?” asked Claesson.

  “It was same place… ahem… as dead man, you know?” he offered in English.

  “You mean because I was sitting in the same place that you found the dead carpet dealer in?” said Claesson in Swedish by way of clarification and Özen interpreted.

  Ilyas Bank nodded, his cheeks blushing violently, and said something in Turkish. He sounded subdued, spoke quietly, almost mumbled.

  “Yes. It was horrible. The worst experience of my life,” Özen interpreted, conveying Ilyas’s frame of mind by being equally subdued. He even placed his hand on his breast over his heart, in the same way as Ilyas did.

  “Did you dare touch the dead man?” continued Claesson in Swedish and Özen in Turkish.

  “No. Yes, I tried to feel for a pulse.”

  “That was good thinking!”

  Ilyas smiled gratefully.

  “Did he have any pulse that you could feel?”

  Ilyas Bank shook his head.

  “Did you touch his clothes?”

  Ilyas Bank looked uncertainly at Claesson, wondering, of course, what the Swedish policeman was getting at.

  “No, I didn’t touch his clothes. I ran for help as quickly as I could.”

  Claesson nodded. He knew that this wasn’t his job, that it was the Turkish police’s department, but he couldn’t help questioning the man now that he had him here in front of him.

  “Did you manage to see if the dead man had anything in his pockets?” continued Claesson. “Maybe there was something sticking out or something.”

  “No.”

  Claesson noticed that Ilyas had become slightly flushed around his cheekbones, but judged him prepared to stick to his answer.

  It was with some reservation that he cut straight to the chase and asked the next question:

  “Did you happen to see a bundle of bank notes?”

  “No, I’ve said, haven’t I? They asked me that in Istanbul, too, that policewoman. It was horrible, I just wanted to get away from there…”

  Ilyas Bank suddenly asked if he could use the bathroom. He all but stumbled out of the room, bent slightly forwards as if suffering an acute attack of the gripes.

  It was hopelessly difficult to work out whether he was telling the truth or lying, thought Claesson. According to the science, it was quite simply impossible to determine. All manner of tests and trials had been done. The human psyche was more complex than that, and he liked that. He liked the multifaceted, the seemingly inexplicable.

  He reflected that Merve Turpan had reported on the other man on the boat, the one who ran the kiosk. He’d hinted to Merve that Ilyas had become less careful with his money after the murder. Bought new clothes, and expensive shoes among other things. He’d also suddenly been able to afford to travel.

  And two hundred thousand in your pocket would get you a long way, thought Claesson. According to Olsson’s bank statement, he’d taken out that sum in Sweden before he left. He must have gone around with the notes rolled up in his underwear or in some other intimate hiding place on his person. There were specially designed flat belts for that. He’d probably been properly upholstered both front and back! Like the priest with drugs in his underwear.

  The money had at least not been used to pay an invoice, as far as they could see. The expensive rug from the dealer in the Grand Bazaar – the one they’d seen neither hide nor hair of – Olsson had paid for though his firm, all legit and above board, with all transactions and papers in order. And there was more money in the company. It was solvent, as they said. But admittedly that two hundred thousand Olsson could have used for something else. For partying and flashing around. For treating himself to the good things in life.

  Claesson realized that it was stupid to get hooked up on the money, a small sum in the context, but once a parsimonious Smålander.…

  Anyway, no one had reported the money missing. If anyone was to do that, it would be Olsson’s estate, but they’d probably not gotten that far.

  Ilyas returned, but Claesson saw no point in pressing him for more. It was a killer they were after, not a thief. And if their Turkish colleagues wanted to follow that up, that was their business.

  It was half past five, and they’d booked a hotel room for Ilyas Bank for the night.

  “We’ll have to think about what to do with him later,” said Claesson.

  “It be best for him to be with his relatives in Landskrona, wouldn’t it?” said Özen. “And then we’ll just bring him over here when it’s time for a line-up. At least it’s closer to Landskrona than bringing him all the way from Turkey. I don’t think he’s the type to make a run for it.”

  Claesson thought.

  “No, he’s got no reason to. Not if he’s telling the truth.”

  Özen took Ilyas Bank away. The door closed loudly behind them at the same moment as Claesson powered down his computer and did a quick tidy of his desk.

  Once upon a time he would’ve gotten a kick out of clearing the decks when everyone else had gone and the evening calm had started to descend. That was in the days before the family thing. The women in his life had had to put up with it. He never gave it a thought, their tolerance, because to him the priorities were obvious. And if they complained – he’d hear accusations of his egocentricism and insensitivity – he just let it go in one ear and out the other. He’d really not wanted anything else back then.

  Veronika knew that he’d be late. She wasn’t even at home but at dinner with a nice family with a young son called Otto, a friend of Klara’s from preschool.

  Louise Jasinski suddenly appeared in the doorway. She must have been creeping through the corridor.

  He gestured at the chair, but she didn’t sit down, just entered the room and leaned against a bookshelf, as was her habit. A signal that she intended to keep things brief.

  “How’s it going with the carpet dealer?”

  “We’re getting somewhere, I think, but it’s a bit tricky and now it seems as if everything’s related. First Olsson’s murder, then that assault in Bråbo that also seems to have something to do with rugs, and where the attacker seems to have got the wrong person
. And then the victim is reported missing two days later, which is odd to say the least. And on top of everything, someone’s stolen the old rug that I inherited! It’s pretty intriguing in a way, you know, but there are too many coincidences and too many rugs!”

  “Anyway,” Louise interrupted, and took a deep breath so that he’d understand that she had something important to say. “Anyway, forensics got the DNA results today from Linköping. Some of them, that is. There are more to come, apparently. We’ve not wanted to disturb you, I mean you’ve been in the interview room, but there’s a lot here.

  “We know who he is, the man who attacked Tina Rosenkvist. He’s called Patrik Lindström, and he’s not exactly God’s little angel. Clumsy, too. He’d tossed a cigarette butt onto the ground where he’d parked his car… the one that Veronika saw as she drove past on her way to a friend’s, or whatever she was doing.”

  Claesson nodded.

  “There was saliva on the cigarette butt,” Louise continued. “All we had to do was look through the database and bingo!”

  People always leave some kind of trace behind, thought Claesson. But this was sloppy. An experienced criminal should have known better. But then they get all worked up and lose focus.

  “He’s got several convictions for everything from burglary to assault, although not murder. A known violent criminal, in other words. Seems as if he’s been operating as a front man, or a hit man, sent out to find a rug and possibly intimidate or threaten. There’s a warrant out for him, of course, but we haven’t gotten hold of him yet. Lindström isn’t known for being the type to make plans, doesn’t do security vans or anything like that. He hits hard but maybe subtlety isn’t his best quality, and I imagine it wasn’t his intention to nearly kill that Tina woman. He comes from Norrköping, and that jives with the info we got on his dialect, and he’s got links to the Stockholm underworld.

  “As long as Tina Rosenkvist is missing he’s got every reason to lie low,” continued Louise. “She might have been abducted by him, or even killed. It’s not the alleged lover, Doctor Daun, at least. He was on duty when she went missing. He was at the hospital the whole time.”

  “I know,” said Claesson. “I’ve spoken to him.”

  “OK, there were traces of his saliva on the victim’s face, they took careful samples when she was in hospital. They probably had an intimate relationship, no matter how much he won’t admit it. They drank some wine, that was all, he says, but he’ll change his mind, you’ll see.”

  Claesson pondered for a while over dates and the possibility that it was Patrik Lindström who’d been in Istanbul and murdered Carl-Ivar Olsson.

  “Have you got a photo of Lindström that I can have?”

  Louise went to fetch one. A completely different type from Magnus Öberg. Bigger, broader face, lighter hair and shorter. Height: five foot ten, he read. An ICA cap on his head? Well, possibly…

  No! He remembered now that the man had turned up at the carpet shop in Oskarshamn on the same Saturday that Olsson had been murdered in Istanbul. He could hardly have been in two places at the same time. Hadn’t Patrik Lindström also asked Annelie Daun when Carl-Ivar would be coming home? Yes, that’s right! He shared his thoughts with Louise.

  “Annelie Daun didn’t exactly give a brilliant description, but now we have a picture to show her.”

  Louise nodded.

  “The widow said that a man named Lennart Ahl had called their house and asked for her husband. It sounds like a made-up name to me. He probably didn’t want to reveal his true identity. Just wanted the rug, nothing else.”

  “Well, I’m going home,” Louise said then. “This job of ours can be a real thrill at times. See you tomorrow.”

  He took the stairs down and walked to his bike. A cigarette butt. So trivial. Yet so classic. He’d been wearing gloves, Tina Rosenkvist had told them. On that point he’d been careful.

  But it’s not easy to think of everything…

  Annelie Daun closed up shop at five o’clock and went back to her mother’s apartment. She’d sounded strange when they’d spoken earlier that afternoon, tired and kind of gravely.

  The woman who opened the door bore a ghastly pallor, but she was absolutely adamant about not going to lie down.

  “I’ll never get up again,” she said, and slumped down onto a kitchen chair to light a cigarette.

  But it clearly didn’t taste good, as she put it out at once.

  “Where does it hurt?” asked Annelie.

  “My whole stomach,” groaned her mother, doubling up. “And up into my chest and my back, and down my legs, everywhere.”

  She sounded abnormally pathetic, in an altogether normal way. Not in that cunning whiny way that drove Annelie up the wall. When she’d so blatantly whine and wheedle to get her way. Compulsive thoughts that needed venting but that were of no use to anyone, least of all her to mother herself.

  “You’ve got to go to the hospital.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Look, you have to.”

  “No, I really don’t want to, OK?”

  Annelie clenched her jaw and wondered if she should call Christoffer. But she decided not to. She preferred to have nothing at all to do with him. Didn’t want to demonstrate any kind of dependency or inferiority, even though they lived under the same roof. Some nights, at least. But that was pretty much all that was left of their relationship. She was searching high and low for an apartment, although he wanted her to stay.

  And sometimes she felt sorry for him.

  Foolish, stupid Christoffer! He was incorrigible, and obviously took her for a fool that he could simply hoodwink. She’d been both jealous and angry, of course, when she found that wretched piece of red paper, but at the same time, she got a kick out of knowing. A real kick, even, from having read Tina Rosenkvist’s doe-eyed drivel on the red notepaper, but hadn’t confronted him with it. Left him feeling uncertain instead. She could see how much that made him suffer.

  Stupid, stupid man!

  But she wasn’t afraid of him. Every human being is capable of killing when push comes to shove, she’d read, but she didn’t really believe that Christoffer would have murdered Tina Rosenkvist. Missing person posters had been put up, like in the movies. Her gentle face appeared in the most surprising of places. Like at the library, in the ICA supermarket, and in the sporting goods store. What a mess! Fact really is stranger than fiction, she thought.

  He was at work now, she knew that, doing the night shift.

  Her mother twisted her body and groaned. Finally, unable to take any more, Annelie picked up the phone. But Christoffer sounded surprised and even affectionate, and not at all irritated, as he could often be when she disturbed him at work. He listened carefully and then became very practical, and she needed that. It could be anything from gallstones to kidney stones, pancreatitis or a heart attack, he said. Or a dissecting aorta aneurysm.

  “Really?” she said and stared at the hall wall, which was papered in a small floral pattern. “Is that serious?”

  “Yes. It means that the aorta is about to rupture, like a dried-out garden hose. But we’ll just have to hope it’s not that, because then she’ll have to go to Linköping. It causes acute stomach pains, which radiate out to the back. Whatever it is, she must come in right away for immediate examination.”

  “She refuses.”

  “You mother can think what she likes!” he said in his comforting voice, the one that he’d not used with her for so long that she’d almost forgotten it. But that he clearly still had. “You’ll just have to drive her here.”

  She softened. Everything suddenly felt easier. She didn’t have to be alone in the decision about her mother, who was actually feeling a little better when she returned to her in the kitchen. But she still did not, under any circumstances, want to go to the hospital. And maybe it wasn’t necessary any more, thought Annelie as she helped her into bed.

  As soon as her mother lay down it was if the pain went away almost totally. It
feels more tender, like an after effect, she said.

  Annelie perched on the edge of the bed.

  “Mom, can I ask you something?” she said, seizing the opportunity. “Do you know what Carl-Ivar had in the attic?”

  “Pah,” said her mother. “Mostly just a load of junk. Old rugs and stuff. Feel free to go up there and see if there’s anything you think you might get some pleasure from, though I doubt there is. Take whatever you want.”

  Was it that simple?

  “But don’t I have to ask Birgitta and the cousins?”

  “Why? It’s my attic. It’s my name on the contract and it’s me who pays the rent, even if Carl-Ivar did give me a little for the storage.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Unless, of course, you needed help carting the stuff away. Because I certainly don’t intend to do it. And I certainly don’t want to keep the extra compartment, either. I mean, what do I need it for?”

  Annelie stared through the half open blinds. She could hear the birds singing. They were nesting and mating, ready for midsummer, or so they said.

  “Mom, do you know what Carl-Ivar was doing in Istanbul?”

  “I guess he just liked being there. I suppose he relaxed and went around looking at the odd carpet.”

  Annelie fell silent. Her mother sounded so warm, and so secretive.

  “He had his commitments there, I suppose, I don’t really know,” she continued, and her voice dropped, as if weighing up whether or not to say more.

  And then she continued anyway. “But I know that he met a girl there a long time ago, when he was newly married to Birgitta. He was very fond of his Turkish girl. He loved Birgitta too, but I guess in a different way. It pained him. I don’t know how he sorted things out. Maybe he never did. Let the years go, and I’ve been so preoccupied with my own life, with you to look after and… well, I’ve been a drinker, boozed my life away, I guess you could say… so I guess I’d not thought so much about how Carl-Ivar was.”