He glanced distractedly at the picture, but gave a start when he saw who it was.
“You recognize her. Heinz supplied the girls and you supplied the drugs,” Irene stated.
With a weary gesture Pettersson pushed the photograph away with one hand. He clenched the other hand and shook it under Fredrik’s nose. “You’re not going to fucking frame me for this! I want my lawyer! I’ve got nothing to do with that girl, you hear me?” he shouted.
Irene could almost hear the hangover starting to pound inside his head. “I can get you another coffee if you’d like one,” she said in a friendly tone.
“Yes,” he said, calming down slightly.
“I know you take sugar, but can I get you a Danish or a sandwich to go with it?”
“Danish,” he decided after lengthy consideration.
She repeated the ordering process with the guard. Behind her she could hear Fredrik asking, “Do you remember the name of the Russian girl?”
“No … was it Tanya? Or Katya? It’s no good, I can’t remember,” Pettersson said, slowly shaking his head.
“What about the other girl, then? What was her name?”
“No idea.” The answer came quickly.
“Is she Russian too?”
“Don’t know.”
“You never heard her speaking to anyone, or anyone speaking to her?”
“No.”
“But Tanya was Russian. You know that for sure,” Fredrik pressed him.
Pettersson gave a short nod and clamped his lips together. He had no intention of saying another word about the dead girl. At least they now knew she was Russian.
“So who’s the other guy you picked up along with Heinz Becker?” Fredrik went on.
“Don’t know.”
“You’ve never seen him before?”
“Nope.”
“And Heinz didn’t mention his name in the car?”
“Nope.”
There was a brief interruption as Pettersson’s coffee and Danish arrived. He dipped the cinnamon whirl into the hot coffee, then devoured the soft pastry with a great deal of loud slurping. Revived by caffeine and fast carbs, he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly. He looks as if he’s ready for a nap, Irene thought. That’s all we need. But there was nothing to worry about; Fredrik intended to keep Pettersson awake for a while yet.
“How long have you and Heinz known each other?”
Pettersson stiffened. They could hear the wariness in his voice as he answered, “Not long … since last week.”
“You’ve never had any contact in the past?”
“No.”
He evidently had no intention of telling the truth. Both Irene and Fredrik knew that he was lying, but pushing him would get them nowhere. He was used to being questioned by the police, and knew when to lie and when to keep his mouth shut.
“Have you ever seen this Russian girl before … Tanya or Katya?”
“No.”
“When did you see her for the first time?”
Pettersson remained silent for a long time, swirling the last of his coffee around in the bottom of the cup. Eventually he knocked it back and put down the cup with a firm gesture. “Saturday. Last Saturday …”
Fredrik looked down at the picture of the dead girl. “What was she like?” he asked abruptly.
“Do you want the details, you pervert?” Pettersson asked.
“You had sex with her,” Fredrik stated.
Pettersson didn’t answer; he just sat there grinning. Irene had to stop herself from slapping him across the face. “The girl was a minor,” she said instead.
He still didn’t answer, but the grin faded away. He yawned and said, “I’ve told you everything I know. And now I need to go and get some sleep.” In order to further emphasize the truth of this assertion, he produced another jaw-cracking yawn.
Fredrik and Irene exchanged a quick glance and nodded at each other. They weren’t going to get any more out of Pettersson. He had been unexpectedly talkative, which was probably due to the high level of alcohol still in his blood.
The custody officer escorted Pettersson back to his cell.
“I’ll put in my report that Lennart Lundstedt realized that Anders Pettersson and Heinz Becker knew each other when Pettersson was babbling to himself on the way in. And that I took the opportunity to speak to Pettersson as I’m on call this weekend. The most important thing is the proof that Becker and Pettersson were in touch via their cell phones. And I’ll put that he gave us some important information about the girl: she came from Russia, and her name was Tanya or Katya,” Fredrik said.
“And that according to Pettersson, some guy called Sergei is involved.”
“That should be enough to have him arrested.”
“Pettersson isn’t exactly the most reliable source I’ve encountered over the years, but he’s all we’ve got right now. We’ll have to go with what he’s told us. I’ll speak to Linda Holm tomorrow and find out if she knows this Sergei.”
IRENE PARKED THE car in the lot back home at just after eight o’clock. Krister and the girls had made Sunday dinner. Irene had to heat up the leftovers in the microwave, as on so many occasions in the past.
Chapter 11
AS USUAL IRENE was out of breath as she dashed into the department, desperately hoping she would have time to grab a cup of coffee to bring to morning prayer. She hurtled around the corner at top speed and kicked open the door of her office, trying to wriggle out of her bulky winter coat at the same time. The young man waiting inside was very nearly smacked in the face by the door as it flew open. He looked just as surprised as Irene; she stopped dead in the doorway, staring at her unexpected visitor.
“Oh … sorry. I didn’t know there was anyone in here,” she eventually managed to stammer.
The man was between twenty-five and thirty, medium height, with thick dark brown hair and amber-colored eyes. He was stocky but looked as if he worked out. He was attractive, and she knew she’d never seen him before. A thick Canada Goose jacket was hanging neatly over the back of one of the visitor chairs. He was wearing sturdy boots, and the rest of his clothing—blue jeans and a dark blue sweater over a thin white cotton polo turtleneck—gave no clue to his identity. A faint aroma of a spicy aftershave hovered in the air.
Irene pulled herself together and held out her hand. “Good morning. Detective Inspector Irene Huss.”
He took her hand in a firm grip and answered, “Morning. Stefan Sandberg.”
Irene was taken aback. This must be Torleif Sandberg’s son. But there was no way this could be the little boy in the photo she had seen in Muesli’s apartment. That little boy had been blond and fair skinned.
“I’m very sorry for your loss; your father’s death was a real tragedy …” she began, but stopped when she saw the expression on his face.
“Thank you,” he replied stiffly.
Tommy stuck his head around the door, “Morning! Are you joining us? We’re starting … oh, you’ve got a visitor at this early hour! Or is this gentleman here to see me?”
Tommy came into the room, smiling at the unexpected visitor. Irene quickly made the introductions.
“If you’re here about the investigation into your father’s death, you really need to speak to DI Hannu Rauhala again; he’s in charge of that particular inquiry,” Irene informed Stefan Sandberg.
She still hadn’t given up hope of that trip to the coffee machine.
“I know. But he’s off sick today. The winter stomach bug, according to an older guy who I assume is some kind of chief around here. He sent me to you because I have something to report,” he said, his expression serious.
“And what’s that?” Irene asked. She had to make a real effort to hide her impatience.
“Torleif’s car has been stolen.”
Both Irene and Tommy were lost for words.
“Stolen?” Irene repeated eventually.
“Yes. The car has been stolen. It’s not in his parki
ng space.”
All three of them jumped as the internal phone rang at that moment, and the superintendent’s hoarse voice bellowed through the speaker. “Get yourselves in here right now!”
“Okay, okay!” Tommy called out.
Irene turned to Stefan. “As I’m sure you realize, we’re short-staffed today. But we’d really like to talk to you. Would it be possible for you to come back after lunch, say around one o’clock or one thirty?”
“Sure, no problem,” Stefan Sandberg said with a nod, picking up his jacket from the back of the chair.
“HANNU AND BIRGITTA are at home throwing up. The winter stomach bug has hit their kid’s daycare facility,” Superintendent Andersson informed his team by way of opening the new working week.
Several people looked anxious, and he hastened to reassure them. “Their little boy got sick on Friday, and Hannu and Birgitta yesterday. I called the health service information line and spoke to a nurse. There’s a good chance we’ve escaped because this goddamn stomach bug strikes fast, and nobody else got sick over the weekend, so let’s hope she’s right.”
In spite of this, Andersson looked worried.
“This is going to mean a significant workload increase for the rest of us because Hannu and Birgitta are unlikely to be back before the end of the week at the earliest. I’ve got a guy on loan from the main office; he’s pretty new, but he can help Jonny with the search for the hit-and-run driver and his pal. Any luck yet?”
Andersson turned to Jonny Blom, who was slumped in his chair and looked half-asleep. Jonny gave a start and tried to sound alert. “Yes, absolutely! A patrol out in Tynnered saw Daniel Lindgren outside the house where his mother lives at around eleven o’clock yesterday morning. It was pure coincidence that they happened to be driving past just then, but they’re certain it was him. He spotted them, too, and ran off into the forest behind the house. Obviously he knew the area well, so he managed to disappear. But we know he’s in the area; we’re stepping up the surveillance, and we’ll soon pick him up.”
Jonny sounded sure of himself, and Andersson contented himself with a nod of approval. At last there was some progress on one front.
Fredrik started to go through the developments during and after Friday’s raid in Biskopsgården, and he also reported back on what had happened over the weekend. Since this was news to everyone except Irene, he could hardly complain about a lack of interest among his audience.
“So Anders Pettersson and Heinz Becker had a mutual exchange of services. Pettersson probably got a supply of young girls, while Heinz got drugs and Viagra. The bikers aren’t necessarily involved in the brothel side of the operation, although of course they could have set up the apartment, and possibly the drugs. I spoke to Pettersson yesterday, and he said he saw the little Russian girl last Saturday night, which is nine days ago. I asked if he was sure she was Russian, and he insisted that she was.”
“But the assistant in the JC store said Heinz Becker spoke to the girl in a language that sounded like Finnish. We assumed it was Estonian; Becker spoke the language because his mother came from Estonia, but the question is, did he speak Russian? We need to find out,” Irene interjected.
“You do that,” Andersson said.
Irene ignored his comment and continued. “Pettersson thought the girl was called Tanya or Katya; he couldn’t remember which. The only trace of her we found in the apartment was a denim skirt. According to the witness in the JC store, the girl was wearing a short denim skirt when she and Becker went in to buy the black jeans. Forensics are working on the skirt right now,” Irene concluded.
Andersson’s brow was furrowed as he drummed his fingers on the desk, irritatingly out of time. “Pettersson has met the little Russian. Who is dead. He’s also met Becker. Who is dead. He’s met Becker’s sidekick. Who is dead. And he’s met the other girl. Who is in a coma and might die. As I see it, Pettersson is the only thing we have that links the whole thing together. And he’s still alive. We need to question him again,” he said firmly.
As the meeting started to break up, Andersson suddenly remembered something. “Irene, what did that guy want, the one who was looking for someone who was in charge of the investigation into Torleif’s death? I sent him along to see you and Tommy since Hannu wasn’t here.”
“His name is Stefan, and he’s Torleif’s son. We didn’t have time to speak to him, but he’s coming back after lunch. He said his father’s car had been stolen.”
“Torleif’s car has been stolen?” Andersson repeated in surprise.
“That’s what he said. I’ll find out more this afternoon.”
“Good,” the superintended muttered.
He suddenly looked very old and tired.
IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE meeting, Irene went along to see Linda Holm. The superintendent of the Human Trafficking Unit was deeply absorbed in something on her computer screen and didn’t notice her at first. Irene knocked gently on the doorframe. Linda’s face lit up when she saw Irene, and she immediately waved her inside.
“Hi! There have certainly been some strange developments since Friday. Both Becker and his associate are dead, and the girl is still unconscious. They’ve promised to call me from the hospital in Varberg as soon as she wakes up.”
Linda Holm shook her blonde hair and moved her head around in a way that’s supposed to be good for people who spend a lot of time working at the computer. Irene didn’t sit down because she was in a hurry. Instead she quickly went through what had emerged during the previous day’s conversation with Anders Pettersson. Linda Holm listened attentively.
“That’s interesting. Russian. She could have been, of course, but there’s also a large Russian population in Estonia. She could easily have come from there and spoken both Estonian and Russian. There are many children and young people who disappear from the slums of Russia and the Baltic countries. Not least from children’s homes; often there’s a member of staff involved. And it’s almost impossible for us to establish a child’s identity if they can’t tell us themselves. Which our little Russian can’t do, of course.”
“So that doesn’t really help us to find out where she’s from,” Irene said, finding it difficult to hide her disappointment. “Perhaps the other girl will be able to tell us something when she comes round,” she added hopefully.
“Perhaps. Since it was Heinz Becker who brought the girls here, I suspect he made them a few years older in their passports than they actually are, and I’m sure he gave them false names.”
“Sven Andersson has asked the police in Varberg to send over any papers and passports found in the wreckage of the car. I’ll make sure you get copies right away.”
As she was about to leave, Irene remembered something she had forgotten to pass on to Linda. “According to Anders Pettersson, Heinz Becker told him that the little Russian and Sergei had already gone to Tenerife. Do you know of anyone called Sergei?” she asked.
Linda Holm thought for a moment before replying. “Sergei is a common Russian name. And there are plenty of Russians involved in trafficking. Tenerife is definitely a lead; I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Do you really think they were intending to go on to Tenerife?” Irene asked.
“More than likely. Where there’s money, there’s prostitution. The clients are the most important thing. Wherever they are, the sex trade will flourish.”
“Yes, but I mean … Tenerife is a tourist destination. Families go there on vacation, and—”
“Sure. That’s the image the tourist industry wants us to see. But the fact is there’s a huge sex industry in the Canaries, both legal and not so legal. The East European mafia have established themselves very firmly on the islands. They provide whatever the clients want. As I said, the demand from the clients rules the market. If they’re ready to pay, then everything is for sale, and I mean everything.”
Irene stared at Linda Holm, not really knowing what to say. No doubt Linda was hardened and cynical after all her years with the Tr
afficking Unit, but on the other hand she knew what she was talking about.
Irene thanked her for her help and headed for the door. When she glanced back over her shoulder, Linda was once again absorbed in her computer screen.
“VARBERG CALLED,” ANDERSSON said. “They’ve found three passports in a bag in the car. One was in the name of Heinz Becker, and everything matches the information we already have. It looks like he was traveling under his genuine passport. The other guy who died was called Andres Tamm, according to his documentation. An Estonian citizen aged forty-two. The third passport is also Estonian, and is in the name of Leili Tamm; she’s allegedly eighteen years old. They were presumably meant to look like they were father and daughter. I’ve asked our colleagues in Varberg to send over everything they found in the car.” Andersson was walking around the room rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
“I’ve spoken to Linda Holm, and she’s going to help us find out whether this Sergei really exists, so she’d like copies of all the documents and passports when they come through,” Irene explained.
“Sure. I’ll take care of that as soon as they arrive,” the superintendent promised.
AT EXACTLY ONE o’clock the officer at reception informed Irene that she had a visitor by the name of Stefan Sandberg. She went down in the elevator to collect him. When they reached the department she asked if he’d like a coffee.
“Yes, please. I had a hamburger at McDonald’s for lunch, and I could do with something to wash it down.”
“A veggie burger?”
“A veggie …? No, an ordinary cheeseburger.”
“So you’re not a vegetarian like your dad?” Irene asked. She couldn’t help noticing the shadow that passed over his face. She didn’t say anything, but pressed the buttons on the machine to produce two cups of coffee.
They went into her office and sat down. Tommy’s desk was unoccupied; he had gone over to pathology to see if he could find out anything about the autopsy on the girl from the root cellar. Neither of them had started referring to the dead girl as either Katya or Tanya; “the little Russian” was too well established.
The Beige Man Page 11
