‘That’s a new one on me.’ She could see he was enjoying himself and was showing more enthusiasm than he had done for a long time. Maybe because he wasn’t shouldering any responsibility.
‘We don’t know what Nilsson did but we do know he was away from his apartment for periods of time. We haven’t enough to build up a picture of him yet, let alone who might have wanted to murder him. But it does appear that it wasn’t premeditated and that it was someone he knew as there was no sign of forced entry. Where he was sitting and the way he was killed shows he wasn’t afraid of his visitor. Whoever did it took his computer and phone. Files too, possibly.’
‘Have you talked to the neighbours, nearest businesses, got CCTV, checked with the tax people—’
‘Enough!’ Anita said. ‘It’s not your case. You get yourself better.’
He held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘You’ll come back and let me know how things are going, on both cases?’ Anita had never heard him plead before.
‘Yes, I will. I’m glad other people’s problems are cheering you up.’ Anita stood up and put the chair back. ‘Anyway, I’d better get on.’
When she reached the door, Moberg asked: ‘Are you managing with Commissioner Dahlbeck?’
‘Yeah. He’s been OK so far. Seems happy for me to run both investigations.’
‘Be careful, Anita. He’ll shaft you if it’s expedient. Just watch your back.’
The next morning, Tuesday, Anita had two meetings scheduled. First, she was going to speak to Klara Wallen about any further developments in the Peter Uhlig kidnap. Then the rest of the team were going to gather for an update on the Mikael Nilsson murder.
Wallen came into her office at eight. Anita was delighted yet surprised. Getting a commuting Klara in that early was quite a feat. Yet she was an unrecognizably energized Wallen. The fact that she was virtually in charge of the Uhlig case had given her confidence a huge boost.
‘Who’s making Rolf’s breakfast this morning?’ Anita couldn’t help asking before she had time to check herself. Wallen didn’t take it the wrong way.
‘The miserable sod can make his own breakfast. He’ll just have to lump it.’ Anita stifled a ‘hooray!’.
Over coffee, they went through what was known. The likely location of Uhlig’s captivity, the silver Volkswagen he had been abducted in, the likelihood of the kidnappers being Russian, and the limited forensic evidence.
‘The cushion cover is a popular make. It’s impossible to trace as it was probably bought second-hand. The gaffer tape is also incredibly common. That particular kind is available in most parts of Europe. And, sadly, neither had any prints on. Gloves must have been used. The Volkswagen has come up zilch so far. Pity Uhlig didn’t get the registration. The only sightings on CCTV have been followed up, and none are what we’re looking for. We’re trying to trace all that type of Volkswagen Golf in southern Sweden. As for the phone they used on the day of the drop, the call was made in Malmö in the vicinity of the Swedbank Stadium. Untraceable, as it hasn’t been used again.’
‘The photofit?’
Wallen produced the photofit of the young man that Peter Uhlig had described. ‘This is going out in the next couple of days. No one in here recognizes him from this. And Uhlig didn’t pick out any of the mug shots I provided of known felons. We may have to go the Interpol route. I’m starting to think we really are dealing with an Eastern European gang.’
‘Thoughts about your next move?’
‘Just carry on. We’ve got some extra manpower on it.’
‘The commissioner has come good, then.’ Not that Anita had been told.
‘We’re coordinating a search of the harbours to try and find where Uhlig was held. The Ystad and Helsingborg stations have sent officers to scout around their dock areas for a likely spot. Might give us something.’
‘They didn’t leave us anything in Möller’s hidey-hole.’ Anita sighed. ‘And I’m still puzzled by the food Uhlig was served up.’
‘They’d want him well-fed. He was a four-million-euro asset.’
‘That’s not the point. The guy was in a container, presumably in some yard or other. You’re trying to keep a low profile: it’s not easy to conjure up decent meals. In practical terms, where do you prepare them? And I doubt if being a gourmet chef is a qualification for being part of a kidnap gang. Besides, you need to go shopping for the ingredients. That means going out and being seen. I know it sounds daft, but ask Uhlig exactly what he was given to eat.’
Wallen pulled a face. ‘OK, you’re the boss.’
‘Less of the sarcasm, Inspector Wallen. One other thing I’d better tell you. You know the commissioner dismissed my idea of looking at the kidnaps from the perspective of the wider business community?’ Wallen nodded. ‘Well, I’m getting some private snooping done. I’ve enlisted Liv Fogelström to do some internet searches and make a few calls.’
‘Hakim’s Liv?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does he know?’
It was Anita’s turn to pull a face. ‘Don’t know. I’m not telling him.’
Before Wallen left, Anita brought up one last point. ‘Something else that’s been nagging me is the fact that Möller’s ransom caused him some personal financial pain, yet didn’t seem to impact on his business. With Uhlig, according to his daughter Ann-Kristen, his ransom created real problems as they had much of the capital needed tied up in the business.’
‘Maybe there wasn’t another suitable target like Möller. I think you’re reading too much into it, Anita.’
‘Maybe.’
The second meeting was attended by Hakim and Brodd. Anita had anticipated the usual tension with Hakim. Fortunately for her, he was in full professional mode.
‘We didn’t have much luck with the name Mikael Nilsson through official channels. There are quite a lot of them around and none seemed to fit our man. However, there was a reason for that: he’s not Mikael Nilsson.’
This took Anita by surprise.
‘This is what we found in his safe.’ With a dramatic flourish, he produced a fistful of passports. ‘Six passports.’ He laid them out like playing cards in a neat line on the table in front of Anita as though he was about to set up a game of patience. He picked the first one up. ‘Swedish. Mikael Nilsson. Fake.’
He passed it over to Anita, who opened it up. The photo only had a vague resemblance to the murder victim. The short, dirty-blond hair of the man in the apartment in Västra Hamnen had been replaced by a slightly longer, browner, thicker thatch and matching moustache.
‘So who is he?’
Hakim picked up a Finnish passport. ‘Sami Litmanen.’ He handed it over to Anita. The photograph showed a younger version of the man she had seen with a lamp clamped to his cranium. The unsmiling face was slimmer, the lips taut, the blue-grey eyes unflinching.
‘He’s Finnish,’ Brodd remarked with some contempt. ‘Another knife-carrying drunk.’ He was trotting out the clichéd view older generations of Swedes held about the Finns.
Hakim ignored him. ‘That explains the Finnish books at his home. He’s also got a newer, Swedish one.’ He swapped passports with Anita. The face was slightly puffier and the short, dirty-blond hair was receding at the temples. The gaze had a hint of self-satisfaction. This was definitely the man she’d seen yesterday. ‘Both these passports are real. That’s been confirmed. Sami Litmanen became a Swedish citizen last year. He owns the apartment, but doesn’t have a car. No Swedish licence anyway. Born 10th July, 1966 in Helsinki. So that makes him fifty.’
‘What about the other three passports?’
‘There’s a Russian passport in the name of Alexei Gagolin. Again, his appearance is different.’ In this one, Litmanen wore a hipster beard and had raven hair. ‘And in this Lithuanian passport he’s Joris Rimkus.’ The curly, blond hair was over his collar. ‘Finally, there’s an Erkin Akhmetov from Kazakhstan. According to the internet, Akhmetov is the most common surname in Kazakhstan.’ The hair was tinted grey,
as was the goatee beard: a fresh touch.
‘He does a neat line in disguises,’ said Anita, still taking in the older incarnation of the murdered man.
Brodd picked up the Russian passport. ‘That name’s familiar, but I can’t for the life of me think why.’
The usual ineffective Brodd contribution, thought Anita irritably. ‘What do you make of all these?’ she asked, her hand sweeping over the multi-personality that was now Sami Litmanen. ‘Points to criminal activity of some sort? International drug dealer? God forbid, a terrorist?’
‘I can’t say,’ replied Hakim. ‘I’ve had them checked out to see if they were obtained through legal channels. Other than the ones in his real name – and we assume it’s his real name – the others wouldn’t pass muster going through a conventional airport security check. They look genuine enough, but would be immediately detected, so I’m reliably informed.’
‘So he couldn’t use them for travel?’
‘No.’
‘Which begs the question: why have them?’
‘I don’t know. Possibly to prove he was who he said he was at the time. Useful in foreign hotels, that sort of thing.’
‘Sounds like a bloody spy to me,’ said Brodd.
The thought of getting caught up with the security services again wasn’t a pleasant thought for Anita. It hadn’t worked out well the last time she’d been entangled with those shadowy figures when dealing with the death of Albin Rylander.
‘Conman?’ offered Hakim.
‘I would have thought he’d have a plusher apartment if he was conning people. It was all a bit low key.’
‘Maybe he was a crap conman,’ smirked Brodd.
‘OK, let’s dispense with the speculation. At least we know who he was even if we don’t know what he was. Let’s stick to what we know. Someone entered his apartment possibly around ten. The music came on at about ten thirty, according to the neighbour you spoke to, Hakim. Why the music?’
‘To make the neighbours think Litmanen was in? Cover up any sounds that might give the murderer away while he was searching the apartment?’
‘Litmanen probably knew his assailant. He wasn’t a perceived threat. And the murderer took advantage at that. What made him or her act?’
‘Whatever Litmanen was holding in his hands?’ Hakim suggested.
‘Very likely. Was he holding something that threatened or endangered his visitor?’
‘The murderer made sure there was no trace of a connection by taking his computer, phone, etcetera.’
‘Pontus. Any luck with the house-to-house?’
‘Not really,’ Pontus drawled. ‘Not many people had actually seen him around. But I did go to the café on the corner. According to one of the staff, Nilsson... sorry Litmanen went in there for his breakfast when he was around. He wasn’t chatty. “Polite” and “aloof” were the words she used. Never spoke to the other regulars. Always had a wad of newspapers with him. Would spend about an hour combing through them.’
Just then there was a knock on the door and Eva Thulin came in.
‘Hi, Eva.’ Thulin returned a weary smile. She’d been putting in the hours. ‘Coffee?’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘No more. I’ve done enough to boost the Brazilian economy in the last twenty-four hours.’
‘Have you anything for us?’
‘I haven’t much to add to my initial observations yesterday,’ Thulin said, taking her seat at the table. ‘The victim had his head pierced by the metal rod on the lamp. It penetrated the cranium and caused injury to the vascular spaces and the consequent raised inter-cranial pressure led to a loss of consciousness and coning of the brainstem. He wouldn’t necessarily have died instantly. Not very nice.’
‘Would the perpetrator have blood on him?’
‘Some, possibly. Not a huge spatter; possibly on a wrist or cuff. Not enough for anyone to notice when he or she left the apartment. There’s no evidence the kitchen sink or basins were used to clean up.’
‘You’re still not discounting a woman?’
‘If she was strong enough and determined enough.’
‘Lover?’ Hakim suggested. ‘Could the fragment in Litmanen’s hand have been from a letter? A love letter?’
‘It wasn’t from a letter,’ Thulin was implicit. ‘It was from the same ream of paper that he had in his printer in his office.’
‘He might have printed out an indiscreet email though.’
‘Of course,’ Thulin conceded.
‘Which would also explain the disappearance of his computer and phone.’ Hakim was becoming enthusiastic, and Anita wasn’t going to discourage him. ‘Whatever he did: conman, drug runner, whatever, the motive might simply be a lover’s quarrel. A married woman?’
‘If it was a woman, a lover, don’t you think he’d have poured her a drink?’
‘That’s a valid point, Eva. But Hakim’s suggestion opens up another possible route to investigate,’ said Anita. ‘Anything else?’
‘Well, he was the only one drinking. We’ve checked the whisky glass and the cigarette butts around the apartment – only touched by the victim. However, his are not the only fingerprints in the place. It had been well cleaned very recently—’
‘By the murderer?’
‘Cleaned as in furniture-polish clean. Dusted. Shower scrubbed, toilet sparkling. Either your man was incredibly domesticated or he had a cleaner. Anyway, there is a set of prints other than the victim’s. And they’re not on the database.’
‘Right, we need to ask around. If there’s a cleaner, talk to all the agencies in town.’
The rest of the meeting lasted a further fifteen minutes. As they were breaking up and gathering notes and files, Brodd suddenly burst into life. He clicked his fingers loudly and jumped to his feet.
‘Now I remember! Alexei Gagolin.’
Anita, Hakim and Eva Thulin stared at him in bewilderment.
‘I know who Sami Litmanen is!’
CHAPTER 18
‘The Oligarch!’
‘The guy who writes for that sleazy Sanningen?’ spluttered Thulin, almost halfway out of the meeting room door. ‘He’s a shit-bag.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Anita, who was always sceptical of Brodd’s offerings.
Brodd was frantically flicking through his phone. ‘There! It’s on YouTube.’ He held up his phone. On the screen was grainy footage, obviously via a spy camera, showing a neatly dressed man sitting on a large sofa in what appeared to be a luxury hotel suite. An unseen man opposite him was talking in English with what sounded like a Russian accent: ‘Don’t be so formal, Claes. We’re friends now. No more Mister Gagolin. Call me Alexei.’
‘Is that Claes Svärdendahl on the sofa?’ Hakim asked.
‘Yeah. The morning TV presenter. Squeaky clean until this,’ Brodd said with undisguised relish.
As they watched, the conversation topic became unsavoury: girls, and what Alexei liked to do to them. Claes Svärdendahl responded to the comments in like manner. Then the clip stopped.
‘Svärdendahl got in deeper. Or rather, The Oligarch pulled him in deeper. Ended up with a couple of prostitutes in the room. There were photos in the paper, though not footage like this, unfortunately.’
‘I know he was married,’ said Thulin. ‘Big on family values.’
‘Well, it destroyed his career,’ Brodd said with finality, clicking off the footage. ‘And he wasn’t the only one either.’
Thulin raised an eyebrow. ‘I think, Anita, you’ll have a list of suspects as long as your arm. Good luck!’
It wasn’t until the next day that they had compiled a list of those potential suspects. Brodd’s avid readership of Sanningen had proved invaluable. After more internet searches had backed up his assertion that Sami Litmanen was none other than the infamous Oligarch, Anita had had a meeting with Commissioner Dahlbeck. He had been horrified that such a person had been found dead on his patch. ‘Wouldn’t you think someone as despicable as that would be living in Stockho
lm?’ It was a question that Anita and the team had already asked themselves and couldn’t find an answer to. He demanded that Anita keep the fact that the murder victim was The Oligarch out of the press. ‘You know, the usual line. Looking into the death of a middle-aged male; suspicious circumstances; investigation at an early stage. Keep details to a minimum. If the media get a whiff of this, we’ll never get them off our backs.’ That was a given. Over the years, rival newspapers and broadcasters had tried to reveal the identity of The Oligarch, but all had failed. No one knew what he looked like. And he had obviously been very careful: there had been no photos of him in his apartment.
Now Anita found herself in the unusual position of letting Pontus Brodd do the briefing. He was the team’s acknowledged expert on The Oligarch. With Klara Wallen now occupied with the kidnapping cases, Anita’s small team was complemented by Inspector Bea Erlandsson. Anita was delighted to have the petite detective on board. When Erlandsson had been part of the new Cold Case Group, together they had helped solve a twenty-year-old murder case, much to the chagrin of the team’s leader, Alice Zetterberg, an adversary of Anita’s since their shared days at the Police Academy in Stockholm. A vengeful Zetterberg, who had been publically humiliated at a press conference after the arrest of the wrong suspect, soon retaliated by manoeuvring Erlandsson out of the Cold Case Group. Anita had wondered if Zetterberg’s decision had an element of sexual discrimination to it as well – young Bea Erlandsson was a lesbian. All that concerned Anita now was that Erlandsson was a good officer who wouldn’t have to worry about being intimidated by Chief Inspector Moberg.
On the whiteboard was an enlarged photo from Sami Litmanen’s Swedish passport. Next to it were the photos from his other passports, and the silhouette of the journalist used in Sanningen to accompany his articles; his anonymity being one of the trademarks of his success. Underneath Litmanen’s many guises, there was another row of faces – those of his victims, some familiar to Anita, some not.
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