Death of a Carpet Dealer

by Neil Betteridge

  Apart from a neighbor who claimed to have got up in the early dawn to go to the bathroom and then heard a car start. But he’d already gotten back into bed and wasn’t curious enough to drag himself up again to see whose car it was. Someone picking up Tina, maybe? Or her husband, Pär Rosenkvist, taking off under the cover of semi-darkness?

  The forensics team had picked through his car meticulously. There were naturally ample traces of his wife, hairs and fluff from her top, since she’d both driven the car and been a passenger in it, so it meant nothing. But there was no blood, no secretions, no flakes of skin to be found anywhere. No signs of violence around the seat or in the trunk.

  “We’ll find her, sooner or later,” said Peter Berg reassuringly, and Martin Lerde nodded as confidently as he always did.

  Claesson had called Birgitta Olsson again to ask if she thought that anyone else knew about her husband’s other woman and daughter in Turkey, and she’d repeated her reply: she had no idea, but she was pretty sure that no one knew anything. “That would be horrible. If others knew but not me.”

  She’d been given strict orders not to talk about it to anyone other than Annelie Daun, who already knew, and who they’d also put a gag on.

  Özen had contacted Istanbul, both Fuat Karaoğlu and Merve Turpan. They said something along the lines of “as we suspected.”

  Karaoğlu and Merve had been continually updated with the results of their efforts in far-off Oskarshamn. They were, of course, informed that Ilyas Bank was in Sweden and that he’d be acting as a witness during the forthcoming funeral. Whether or not he’d robbed Olsson on the ferry was something they’d more or less dropped in Oskarshamn, and they didn’t seem that interested in investigating that part of the story in Istanbul, either. First off, the money would have to be reported missing. They’d have to treat it as a side issue in the shadow of a murder.

  Özen came in to Claesson’s office. Merve had been in touch. She’d just met Olsson’s daughter at home in Yeniköy, she’d said.

  “Did she live in a very very nice house?” wondered Claesson.

  Özen lost his thread. “How do you mean?”

  “Merve talked about those yalis along the Bosporus that she loved so much, didn’t she.”

  “Er, she said nothing about that, but I can ask her when I next talk to her,” said Özen fondly. “Anyway, she said it hadn’t been hard to get hold of the daughter now that they had an address to go on. Her name’s Ayla.”

  Özen also mentioned a surname but it was far too long and difficult for Claesson to even try to memorize.

  “So what do we do now?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Maybe she also saw the murderer from the quayside.”

  Claesson rubbed his eyes. He was terribly tired.

  “Yes, of course, she might also be a useful witness. But can’t they deal with it in Istanbul? Öberg will be extradited, you know, if we arrest him here.”

  “Hmph…”

  “What do you mean, hmph?”

  “Merve said something about how the daughter really wanted to attend her father’s funeral.”

  Of course she did.

  “We can’t actually have any opinion about that,” he said. “We can’t stop her going, if that’s what she wants. And if she wants to get in touch with Olsson’s widow, that’s also her own business.”

  Özen nodded.

  Nothing else of much interest happened during the day apart from a sudden downpour in the afternoon, which soaked Claesson as he biked home.

  The next day was also fairly uneventful, except for the message that came in saying that Olsson’s Turkish daughter was genuinely intending to attend the funeral. Merve had supplied the young woman with all conceivable information about how to contact the Swedish police, preferably Mustafa Özen, and her father’s wife.

  “She speaks excellent English, Merve says. She’s apparently quite highly educated,” said Özen, and then gave a slightly bashful laugh. “Merve joked that she herself actually wouldn’t mind coming to the funeral, too. For the sake of the investigation, that is.”

  Claesson gave him a friendly look. “You don’t say? Otherwise, you could always spend your vacations in Istanbul this summer.”

  Özen blushed. It was possibly a thought that had crossed his mind, too.

  Claesson could take some flextime and be a more present father and husband while waiting for Carl-Ivar Olsson’s funeral. He rode his bike with Klara to the preschool, bought fresh buns on the way home and ate a second breakfast with Veronika when he returned. Some hardcore family stuff, in other words.

  The tension ahead of the Friday when Olsson was to be buried and they would hopefully be able to arrest Magnus Öberg took its toll. Thoughts came and went. If Öberg didn’t show up and his wife continued to claim that he was still in Germany, they’d have to call in Interpol.

  According to Birgitta Olsson, only the immediate family and their closest friends would attend the gathering in the parish hall afterwards. She was unsure, not to say worried, about how many were intending to come to the actual service. “It’s caused quite a commotion, you know,” as she’d said. “And that always attracts people.”

  She wasn’t wrong there.

  He gave Klara an extra push on the swing.

  It never rains but it pours, he thought.

  CHAPTER 60

  IT HAD ALREADY BEEN DECIDED that Özen would go down to Landskrona with Lennie Ludvigsson to fetch Ilyas Bank. This was to happen after the Thursday morning briefing and the meeting with the special team that would be keeping a watch on Olsson’s funeral, mainly to arrest Magnus Öberg but also to keep order. Like Birgitta Olsson, the funeral director also thought that there’d be quite a crowd turning up at the church.

  There were twelve of them sitting around the meeting room table.

  “The funeral is at 2:30. It’ll be a cremation service in the Western Cemetery chapel,” Claesson said for protocol’s sake. “You all know what it looks like there. You drive in from Stengatan and park in the visitors’ lot on the right. Though we can count on it being full, and people will have to park wherever there’s room. So the car with Ilyas Bank in it, an unmarked car, that is, must get there in good time, as it’ll have to be positioned where it can see everyone entering the chapel. At the same time, we must try to be tactical,” he continued, “so that we don’t disrupt the service or lose Magnus Öberg. There are a lot of bushes around there, so make sure they don’t block your view.”

  After discussing matters back and forth, they decided that Conny Larsson was to be in car number one with Ilyas Bank in the passenger seat and Mustafa Özen in the back to interpret and deal with any language problems.

  Lennie Ludvigsson wondered if they could leave now, Claesson nodded, and Lennie left the conference room with Mustafa Özen for their drive to Landskrona.

  “I was thinking of attending the funeral myself,” said Claesson. “But we’ll need one more person in the chapel…”

  “I can come, too,” Louise Jasinski offered.

  “Good.”

  They discussed deployments and how many police cars they’d need to keep order and be on stand-by.

  “But really, what can happen?” wondered Peter Berg. “If Ilyas Bank recognizes the son-in-law from the car, then I assume that you and Louise will just go up to him nice and calmly after the coffee and say that you want a word with him down at the station, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s the scenario I’m envisioning,” said Claesson.

  “You might let him finish his coffee and layer cake first,” said Peter Berg.

  “Maybe,” said Claesson. “How do you know there’ll be layer cake there?”

  “Just an educated guess,” smiled Berg.

  “But haven’t you got nothin’ else on him?” wondered Forensics Benny. “Even if he confesses an’ you can prove that he was in Istanbul an’ even stayed at a hotel right opposite his father-in-law, there’s no sayin’ that it’ll stand up in court…
in the best case scenario, right, but if you’ve got no…”

  “Physical evidence, you mean,” said Claesson and smiled. It had almost reached the point where it was now the physical evidence that weighed the heaviest. Not the witnesses, that could be word against word, or the confessions; the reason for confessing could lie on a totally different level than just releasing the pressure and embracing the truth and easing your conscience. To have five minutes of fame, for example. Some people’s need for attention was insatiable. Negative contexts were better than no contexts at all.

  “Maybe. The best thing would be if we could find Öberg’s shoes to see if they match the prints that forensics in Istanbul found in a pool of blood on the deck. It wasn’t an entire sole, but part of the bottom of some international brand of sports model. Cem, their forensics expert, thought it was a men’s size 10 ½ , which is more common in Sweden than in Turkey. And with a little luck, we’d find traces of blood in the tread, even if Öberg used them afterwards. Or what do you think?”

  “He might’ve cleaned ’em, if he hasn’t chucked ’em away somewhere,” said Benny Grahn. “But otherwise I’d say it’s possible, you don’t need much to get some DNA with the techniques we’ve got today. But first we have to find the shoe, like!”

  “Of course…” said Peter Berg.

  “There must be splashes of blood on the clothes too, but the likelihood is greater that he’s dumped them,” said Claesson. “We’ll have to search his apartment in Stockholm.”

  “You mean his rooms,” said Louise.

  “Right. On Östermalm you don’t have an apartment, you have rooms, of course. Like the way people live in summer cottages rather than vacation homes.”

  They speculated a little about whether Magnus Öberg had any inkling that they were concentrating their investigation around him.

  “I bet he does,” said Claesson. “Guilty people tend to go around with the constant suspicion and worry of being found out. But I almost regret escalating things by going to Östermalm. His wife must’ve known that we weren’t just passing by, if I can put it like that… Not if we’re based in Oskarshamn. But there’s nothing we can do about that now. And that’s why we’ve decided to keep calm and not to ask the boys in Stockholm to storm the place with a whole squad and turn over his apartment, sorry, rooms, in the search for those shoes. Or a white cap with a red logo on it, for that matter.”

  Benny Grahn frowned. “Don’t you think he’s gone and dumped the cap somewhere?”

  “Probably. And if we happened to find it in his flashy rooms his lawyer will claim that anyone could have a cap like that lying around. They were given away for free for a time.”

  “An ICA cap doesn’t seem to me to be the headgear of choice when shopping or going for a stroll,” said Louise. “But I don’t know the particular dress code, do I. What do I know, maybe a perky little ICA cap is the latest thing on Östermalm.”

  “Maybe he’ll be wearing those shoes you’ve mentioned when he comes down to Oskarshamn,” said Peter Berg. “Maybe not at the funeral, but otherwise?”

  “Right, that’s crossed my mind too, and if he does, well, bingo!” said Claesson.

  A little later during the day, Claesson found out that the charming carpet expert from Stockholm had been in touch. He called her and discovered that there was nothing whatsoever wrong with Olsson’s stock of carpets and rugs.

  “But nothing unusual?”

  “No, and that’s the thing,” she said in a slightly apologetic tone, almost as if Olsson owned a mongrel and, yes, of course it was charming in its own way, but.… “There were no rarities or real treasures there at all. Nothing for collectors, in other words. More just your everyday rugs.”

  Olsson was clearly a more temperate dealer than Claesson had once thought. The carpet expert promised to send a written valuation.

  So who was to have this extremely special rug? Claesson had touched on the question several times. Maybe they’d never know the answer. But for some reason he couldn’t let go of the idea that Olsson perhaps wanted it for himself and had no intention of selling it. They hadn’t managed to dig up a single document, a single telephone call to verify the existence of a customer or client. After the carpet dealer in the Grand Bazaar, the lead just stopped.

  His work cell phone rang at a quarter past three. Claesson was told that they’d arrested Patrik Lindström in his home in a suburb of Norrköping. He’d been hiding out in a friend’s summer cottage but had wanted to check the mail, pay bills, and do other such worldly things. He should’ve known better than to go home, you might think, but he was no doubt a little tired of being on the run.

  The arrest had gone smoothly, the Norrköping police had said. No fuss, Lindström had no intention of lengthening his sentence by being uncooperative. He could be taken to Oskarshamn for questioning by the next day at the earliest, but then Claesson and his colleagues would be fully occupied with Carl-Ivar’s funeral. He’d have to sound him out as soon as he could and ask Peter Berg to do what he could to find out how Lindström was connected with Magnus Öberg. There had to be some connection, thought Claesson. He was sure of it.

  Patrik Lindström wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, they’d realized, but he was powerful and had the tendency to strike first, think later when cornered. Touchy and short-fused, in other words. Lindström was only too happy to work for others, for payment. He looked kind and well-kept, with light blue eyes, and that was his asset. He could dupe law-abiding citizens whose guard would’ve been lowered. On the other hand, he could be difficult to squeeze information out of, Claesson had learned. But that was probably because of the circumstances, what he had to lose or gain by squealing.

  Patrik Lindström was the prime suspect in the assault on Tina Rosenkvist. Formally speaking, the prosecutor was the leader of the preliminary investigation, but Peter Berg was responsible for the groundwork and was working with his group in close liaison with the new prosecutor, a woman with a droll nature and a northern accent that was pleasant and soft on the ear. Comical women weren’t all that common, thought Claesson, and many of them in the service were, or became, hard and career-minded. But when making this observation to Veronika, he’d received a slap on the nose. “Are career-hungry men so much funnier, then?” she’d said drily.

  Before heading off home, Claesson called Birgitta Olsson, really just to ask if everything was alright.

  “No new plans for the funeral?”

  “No,” she said. “What like?” She sounded subdued.

  “Nothing special, just wondering. And your children?”

  “They’re coming with their partners. But the grandchildren are staying at home in Stockholm with some acquaintances. They’re not that old.”

  “And where will they be staying?”

  “Where will they be staying? Johan and his Malin live in Kalmar, so they’ll drive over on the day, and Lotta and Magnus will naturally be staying with me.”

  “And no one else has been in touch?”

  “Like who?”

  “I was thinking the girl… or woman, rather, from Istanbul.”

  An arid silence met him, and he almost expected her to slam the phone down in his ear.

  “I know nothing about that,” was all she said.

  CHAPTER 61

  A LIGHT EARLY SUMMER RAIN fell on the day of Carl-Ivar Olsson’s funeral.

  Next to the parking lot of the Western Cemetery, large rhododendrons bloomed bright lilac. It was an intense color, almost pompous, like a kind of impertinent protest against the transience of life, against death, thought Claesson. Otherwise, he’d always been a bit ambivalent about these very flowers, but he supposed he was affected by the gravity of the moment. They were magnificent, but it was as if the extravagance was too much and too gaudy for Scandinavia’s barren nature and granite rocks, dark forests, black earth.

  The cemetery was fairly centrally located and stretched over quite a large area. A verdant part to wander around under tall, straight pin
es. The newly mown grass smelled fresh and life-affirming.

  The stream of people was large. Worryingly so, bearing in mind their mission. According to the funeral director, people had called wanting to book seats in the chapel, which wasn’t possible, but everyone who could fit in was welcome once the immediate family had taken their seats. The police helped to direct cars and curious passersby, and were an extra reinforcement to the cars that Claesson’s own group had tucked away in readiness. The press and TV were also there. The situation wasn’t chaotic, more low-key. There was no bustling, no pushing, no one who came bursting in at the last minute.

  Louise had gone inside and taken her seat at the back of the room. The chapel was a relatively modern building from the early sixties, with yellow brick walls and broad, functional connecting roads and paths that gently followed the terrain. A double door was used for burials, a narrower door for cremations, as in this case. After the ceremony, the coffin containing the remains of Carl-Ivar Olsson would be conveyed to the incinerator. The interment of the urn could take place much later.

  The service itself was to be held in the main room. There was also a side entrance, but that was only used, they’d been told, by the staff, the priests and other ministers, funeral directors, and cemetery workers.

  When he saw the congregation, he had a strong feeling that Olsson probably wasn’t a person who’d dreamed of returning unto dust under such sensational circumstances, no matter how locally esteemed he’d been. It was like a celebrity funeral. But many people naturally also wanted to pay their final respects and commiserate his wife and family.

  Larsson had parked the unmarked police car with Özen and Bank as best he could so as not to arouse suspicion and not to have their view obscured by the rhododendrons. Claesson and Jasinski, dressed in a classic black pantsuit for the occasion, were to stick to the chapel, it had been decided. They were all wearing earpieces.