By one o’clock, dull frustration had displaced anxious anticipation as it became increasingly clear that nothing was going to happen. No call was going to be made; something had gone very wrong. Was it something they had done or something beyond their control?
‘OK, that’s it.’ Moberg broke the silence. ‘Let’s get Ann-Kristen and the money back to Malmö.’
Minutes later, they were all gathered round the Volkswagen. Ann-Kristen was smoking again, her nerves shredded by the experience. Worry was etched into every feature of her face.
‘Why did the patrol stop you?’ Moberg asked the question that had been on all their minds.
Ann-Kristen flicked away some ash distractedly. ‘Something stupid. They were worried about the front tyres. Looked to be down. Said it was dangerous. The tread was threadbare too. I promised to get Mamma to sort it out. One of them even blew the tyres up for me. It was just some spot check thing. He apologized for holding me up, but stressed that safety was important.’
Moberg’s expression was thunderous, but he managed to keep his temper under control.
‘Right, Anita, you take the money back to the polishus. I’ll escort Ann-Kristen to Limhamn and report to her mother. Hopefully, they’ll set up another drop.’ His tone was doubtful.
Anita opened the car boot. Inside was the lime-green IKEA cool bag. It was bulging. Yet when she picked it up, the bag felt light considering how many notes were stuffed inside it. Then she noticed the foot pump next to it.
‘Did the police open the boot?’
A long plume of smoke emerged from Ann-Kristen’s mouth as she replied ‘Yes. The other one got out the foot pump. It’s OK, I checked the bag was still there when he’d finished.’
Gingerly, Anita unzipped the bag. She registered no surprise when she saw the contents. She took out a handful of crushed newspaper and held it up so everyone could see.
Moberg gasped. ‘Fucking hell! The police car!’
CHAPTER 12
Anita was still in bed when she got the call to go to Östra Kyrkogården, the cemetery just off the Inner Ring Road. Within five minutes, she was out of the apartment and in her car. The seven o’clock news came on the car radio. Though she knew that there couldn’t possibly be any mention of yesterday’s debacle in Skårby, she held her breath until the headlines had been announced. The team had gathered in silence for a debriefing yesterday afternoon. Even Moberg was subdued, even more so when he was called away to report to the commissioner. No one hung around the office awaiting his return. Anita had escaped to The Pickwick. They had been outwitted by the kidnappers. Whether the gang had been aware of the police presence or not, they had cleverly succeeded in getting clean away with the ransom. Would they bother sticking to their bargain and release Peter Uhlig? Or would they dispose of him? – that was the over-riding fear. However, as Anita drove through the city in the direction of Rosengård, she knew that they had kept their word.
She drove through the gates of Malmö’s largest cemetery. Spread over a wide area, it was divided into sections, each enclosed by a shoulder-high hedge. Within each section, the gravelled burial areas were cordoned off by low, neat box borders; Skårby again but on a much bigger scale. Anita made for the two buildings at the far end of the site. These were the twin chapels of St. Gertrude and St. Knut, built in 1943 to a design by Sigurd Lewerentz, who was obviously so pleased with his work that he was buried here. Anita parked her car next to the chapel of St. Gertrude. The portico, with its eight thin, square pillars and its almost-flat roof resembled a veranda and would have looked more at home on the High Chaparral than in northern Europe. The plain, rectangular structure behind continued the theme. It was rather a melancholic building, perhaps reflecting the era when war raged all around an isolated, neutral Sweden. But in this morbid place, surrounded by the dead, Peter Uhlig was very much alive.
He was sitting on a bench with two uniformed officers talking to him. One of them noticed Anita and came over to her. Anita recognized Jeanette Malmborg, and they exchanged friendly smiles.
‘He was found half an hour ago by someone walking though the cemetery,’ Jeanette explained. ‘We were the nearest to the scene.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘Shaken up. Fine otherwise, I think. We’ve sent for an ambulance.’
‘Where was he?’
Malmborg nodded in the direction of the serried rows of hedges. ‘Section five. He was tied to a bench and he had this over his head.’ She produced a black cushion cover. Not quite square, it was similar to the one that Mats Möller had had over his head when he was discovered. ‘As you can see, it’s a cushion cover. Not new.’ Probably bought for cash at a second hand shop – Myrorna or Emmaus perhaps; that was the conclusion they’d drawn over Mats Möller’s improvised hood.
‘Did he have black gaffer tape over his mouth?’
‘Yes. And wrapped round his hands and feet. The sort that can be bought anywhere. I noticed the skin’s red raw on his wrists.’
‘From the tape?’
‘Looks more like being tied up with rope.’
‘Right. Bag up the hood and the bits of tape. Thanks.’
Anita approached the kidnap victim. He still wore his work clothes, his suit now crumpled and dirty. He was only half the man she’d seen in his photograph: his face was gaunter and his eyes less piercing. But it was also his confidence, so apparent in the picture, that seemed to have been drained out of him; a fact which seemed to make him slighter and smaller. ‘Herr Uhlig, I’m Anita Sundström. I’m glad to see you’re safe.’
‘I want to see my wife, my family.’
‘Of course, you will. But first, we need to make sure you’re OK.’
‘I’m perfectly fine,’ he said stubbornly.
The early morning quiet was shattered by the wailing siren of an approaching ambulance.
‘You’ll be taken to hospital to be checked over. Officer Malmborg will accompany you.’ He was about to protest again. Anita’s raised hand cut him off. ‘I’ll inform your wife, and she and your daughters can meet you there.’ This seemed to appease him. ‘Naturally, we’ll need to talk to you in detail about what has happened.’
Uhlig slowly got to his feet. ‘First Mats Möller, then me. What’s going on?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’ The dubious expression on his face spoke eloquently of his scepticism.
Anita watched the ambulance crunch its way along the gravel drive. Just then, another vehicle arrived. Out of it stepped a dishevelled and bleary-eyed Pontus Brodd.
‘Was that Peter Uhlig?’ he said, pointing towards the disappearing ambulance. ‘Yes. He’s OK. I’m going to have a look round here and where he was tied up. See what I can find. Too far from any CCTV, unfortunately,’ she said, glancing around. ‘At least Moberg will be pleased Uhlig’s back safely.’
‘Ah, you haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘The chief inspector had a heart attack last night.’
CHAPTER 13
He sat bolt upright. He was bathed in sweat. He wiped his eyes, moisture clinging to the back of his hand. The nightmare had been terrible, but he’d woken up to a reality that was even worse. The light was peeping through the curtain, and he looked at the clock: 4.37. He wouldn’t be able to drop off again. He didn’t want to. He was afraid to shut his eyes. He licked his parched lips. Trembling fingers reached for the water he had by his bedside. His hand brushed the glass and sent it crashing to the floor. It shattered as it hit the boards, and the water snaked over the shiny surface before seeping into the fringes of the rug. He had neither the energy nor the inclination to get out of bed and clear up the mess.
Though he fought it, his mind kept coming back to the phone call; the voice had laid bare so much of his life – but not that. Surely, he couldn’t know about that?
He lay back, his head resting on the pillow, and gazed at the dawn filtering across the ceiling. That feeling of helplessness engulfed him again. What did
the man want?
The last time she’d been in the hospital was to visit a bed-bound Liv Fogelström. Now it was another colleague. In Moberg’s case, it was purely self-inflicted. In that respect, Anita had no sympathy. The warning signs had been there for years, and he’d made no attempt to change his habits. Yet, as she looked through the glass at her boss lying there, surrounded by tubes and flashing screens, in what appeared to be a peaceful slumber, she couldn’t help a feeling of sorrow. He had given her a hard time on many occasions and often hadn’t shown her the respect she felt she merited. And many of his attitudes and opinions she found unpalatable. But, despite it all, she had a sneaking affection for this bear of a man, who had no social graces whatsoever, but was a cop who was totally incorruptible and always tried to get to the truth even if it meant bruising egos along the way.
That very afternoon, she’d got an inkling of the pressure Moberg was constantly under from those above him in the chain of command. Commissioner Dahlbeck had called her up to his office and told her that, for the moment, she was in temporary charge of the kidnapping cases and that he expected results – quickly. The drop had been a disaster, which he was doing his best to keep out of the press. The force had been made a fool of by these people. And saving face was what mattered most to the Dahlbecks of this world. Anita suspected it was the debacle at Skårby that had pushed Moberg’s ticker over the edge. Maybe the heart attack was a blessed relief.
She’d talked to the doctor as she clutched a bag of grapes. ‘He’s not good at the moment. To be honest, I’m amazed he survived. If the paramedics hadn’t got to the fast food outlet quickly, he wouldn’t be with us.’
‘I think where he had his attack is a clue to his problem.’
The doctor raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘Exactly. That body is one neglected temple.’
‘He’ll pull through, won’t he?’ Anita asked anxiously.
He glanced through the window at his patient. ‘Pretty sure he will. The primary PCI shows disease in all his coronaries. When he’s stable, he’ll probably have a coronary artery bypass graft. Whatever happens, he’ll need a lot of rest and recuperation afterwards – and a totally new diet. One thing is for sure: you won’t be seeing him at work for a good while.’
After the doctor left her, she suddenly felt the weight of responsibility that Moberg’s absence had generated. The current investigation was now on her shoulders. She had always felt she was up to the task of leading a team and often railed against the decisions of her superiors when she had disagreed with them. Now that she had been thrust into that position, she realized that she had doubts about her ability to cope with the pressure. How would the others react to her giving them instructions? Brodd would be resentful, Wallen would be jealous – and Hakim? Goodness knows what he’d be like given their present relationship. But decisions had to be made and, before coming down to the hospital, she’d got Brodd looking for the police car, and had put Hakim in charge of searching for witnesses to the dumping of Peter Uhlig at the East Cemetery and scanning any CCTV that might show the vehicle they used.
Klara Wallen was waiting in the hospital car park for Anita to return and then they were going to drive down to Limhamn and speak to Peter Uhlig. He had passed a medical examination and had refused any counselling from a family liaison officer or mental health expert to help him deal with the trauma he’d been through. He’d said that being with his loving family was the best way to get over his harrowing experience. Anita realized that this stance could change once the shock of what had happened fully hit him. That’s why she was keen to get as much information out of him as possible before he had a setback. Besides, the commissioner wanted her report, pronto.
Anita and Klara were seated in the sun room of the Uhligs’ home. Kevin would have called it a conservatory. It was built onto the side of the large 1950s house and had huge picture windows that gave an uninterrupted view of the garden: a sweeping lawn bordered by a number of mature trees. The white décor, beige floor tiles and cream furnishings contrasted tastefully with the vivid orange of the wall which divided the room from the main house. The early evening sun added extra vibrancy, and the whole room was bathed in a warm glow. A sofa ran along the wall at the base of the windows. The seat had little depth and the wooden back was low, thin and uncomfortable; to compensate, there were several plump cushions neatly positioned along its length and it was here, in this restricted space, that Anita and Klara were perched. Above Anita’s head, precariously affixed to one of the mullions, hung a painted plate of modern design, which she assumed was the work of Ann-Kristen’s wife. Anita hoped the hook was sound. Peter Uhlig was cocooned in a high-backed armchair next to a white pedestal table which sported a lamp with a Chinese blue and white porcelain base, and a large glass of brandy. The latter had been brought in by his daughter, a fussing Birgitta Losell. Uhlig’s wife was nowhere to be seen; Ann-Kristen and her partner, Ella the artist, were in the sitting room watching them apprehensively through the glass door.
‘I appreciate that this is difficult for you to go through,’ Anita opened, ‘but the sooner we get as many details about what happened, the sooner we can try and catch this gang.’ Anita was hoping that having two women interviewing him would put Uhlig at his ease and make him more forthcoming.
‘Do you honestly think you’ll find these people?’ He was pointing the glass of brandy in their direction.
‘We’ll do our best. In the meantime, if you want us to organize some counselling, please say. It’s understandable given the awful experience you’ve been through.’
‘I have my family,’ he said curtly. ‘They will see me through, thank you. Talking of which, I’ve heard from Ann-Kristen about what transpired yesterday. I should be annoyed at your incompetence.’ He replaced the glass on the table. ‘Actually, I’m relieved that Ann-Kristen didn’t have to meet my captors.’
‘She was very brave and cooperative.’ Uhlig nodded in agreement. ‘Now, can you take us through the events from the morning you disappeared?’
Uhlig’s eyes strayed to the garden. ‘Yes. A week ago this morning I sat on the patio here having my early coffee. It promised to be a nice day. I was wrong.’ He paused. ‘I set off for work at my usual time. Usual route. It was as I approached the E65 that I saw a car parked in the lay-by.’
‘Make?’
‘A Volkswagen. A bit like my wife’s except it wasn’t in such good condition. And it was silver. The bonnet was up. Two men were looking under it. As I approached, one of them raised his arm to wave me down. I thought they were in trouble.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘I parked behind them and got out. I didn’t even have time to speak. I was grabbed and shoved into the back of their car. They put a hood over my head and I felt my hands being tied. And then we left.’
‘Did they say anything to you while you were in the car? Or speak to each other?’
‘Yes. Briefly to each other.’
‘In Swedish?’ He shook his head. ‘English?’
‘I was so bewildered. Frightened. If I had to say... I think it might have been Russian, but I may be completely wrong.’
Anita and Wallen exchanged glances. Moberg’s theory might be correct.
‘How long were you in the car?’
Uhlig shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know. It seemed a long time. An hour? Maybe more, maybe less.’ Anita was doing the mental calculations as to where they might get in that time.
‘What then?’
‘I was bundled out of the car. And then I heard a metal door being opened. I was pushed inside, and then further in. Then I heard the door clang shut and I was left by myself.’
‘Metal door?’
‘Yes. When they took the hood off, I realized I was in a container. I’ve seen the inside of enough in my time.’
‘Container?’ Anita mulled this over for a second. ‘So we’re talking about a port or container yard of some sort?’
‘Yes, I think so. I heard trucks passing from time to time. And I heard a shi
p’s horn in the distance, possibly a ferry’s. I heard that a number of times.’
‘Regularly or spasmodically?’
‘Spasmodically.’
‘So, we’re definitely talking about a port. Malmö’s the obvious one, but there’s Trelleborg, Helsingborg and Ystad.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t Trelleborg,’ Uhlig seemed confident. ‘I’m used to the regular sounds of the port, working opposite the docks, and it wouldn’t take that long to get there.’
‘Wherever they took you, they could have driven you around to confuse you,’ said Wallen. ‘And to confuse us.’
He conceded the point and took solace in another gulp of brandy.
‘And how did they treat you?’ Anita asked.
‘Not well. They took the hood away but most of the time I was tied up to a chair.’ He showed them his wrists. The rope marks had bitten deep. ‘I was untied to eat. They did feed me quite well though. Decent food, properly cooked.’ Anita was surprised by this as she expected kidnap victims like Uhlig would be given basic rations, especially if they were incarcerated inside a container in a port area. ‘I had to carry out my ablutions in a bucket in front of my captors, which was highly undignified.’
The shadows of the trees on the floor were now receding with the dying sun.
‘Could you describe any of your kidnappers?’
‘When they grabbed me, it all happened so quickly. But I can describe the one who held his arm up to flag me down. He was swarthy. In his twenties, I would say. Medium height; jet black hair. That stubbly look they have these days. Dark eyes. His teeth weren’t very good. Whoever brought me my food and emptied my bucket always wore a mask.’
‘The only captor you saw was the man who flagged you down?’ Anita confirmed.
‘Yes. I was in darkness most of the time. Totally disorientated. The man held a torch so I could see what I was eating or doing... well, you know what. The man never said a word even when I spoke to him.’
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