MALICE IN MALMÖ

by Torquil Macleod

  ‘Really? What’s Absame doing these days?’

  ‘Working for a local gangster.’

  ‘Might be worth looking into that,’ Ljung murmured reflectively.

  Anita wondered if journalists like Ljung ever switched off. Did they spend their entire lives sniffing out potential stories? Could they have a normal conversation without thinking whether there was something that could be used or unearthed? It reminded her of an insurance salesman she’d come across many years ago who admitted he couldn’t meet anyone, even socially, without thinking they might be the source of his next sale.

  ‘I wouldn’t follow that story up. Absame’s boss isn’t the kind of person you should cross. Put it this way: no one’s explained the disappearance of Absame’s trainer.’

  ‘You can’t win ’em all.’

  ‘Did you have any trouble with Folke Allinger?’

  Ljung shrugged. ‘Before my time. Though I did hear that the then-editor’s car was smashed up before Allinger’s trial. And a couple of staff got anonymous calls making death threats if Allinger went down. I believe the editor rang up the head of White Justice...’

  ‘Hans Leonardsson.’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, the calls and threats stopped abruptly. Leonardsson was as keen as the paper was to see Allinger put away.’

  Anita finished her coffee. She put down her cup and again glanced around the walls and the stories that the Swedish public had been both horrified and exhilarated to read. ‘Is there anyone else who’s threatened you personally? Or The Oligarch specifically?’

  ‘Not that I can think of. I mean, we do get a lot of horrible things said about us on social media, but that’s par for the course: there’s a lot of hatred floating around the web. I wouldn’t put much store by that. They’re only brave because they’re anonymous. There’s a big difference between sitting down at your computer and composing a nasty tweet about a person and going out to hunt them down and commit murder. Besides, most of the people who might have had a motive to kill Sami through his work on the paper wouldn’t have had a clue where he lived. We didn’t. All we knew was that it was somewhere in Malmö.’ This thought echoed the one that Anita had been wrestling with – how did the murderer find Litmanen?

  Hakim returned to his desk with a fresh coffee. He put the mug down and allowed himself a stretch. His body ached. Too many hours sitting in front of a computer screen and making phone calls. However, the coffee was his reward for some success. He’d discovered what rock Folke Allinger was hiding under – his particular rock was in Ystad. Hakim’s feeling of satisfaction was tempered by not knowing how he’d react to meeting such an obvious racist. He was about to take his first sip when Brodd came barging into the room.

  ‘Come on! No time for that.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Absame. He’s been spotted near the bus station at Värnhem.’

  Hakim slung on his jacket and followed a hurried, if ungainly, Brodd down the corridor. The small bus station at Värnhemstorget was only about five minutes’ brisk walk from the polishus, straight down Fredriksbergsgatan and a sharp right onto Östra Förstadsgatan. They saved a minute by running. The street wasn’t busy, and only a few cars passed them heading in the other direction into the centre of town. Ahead, the square opened up in front of them and a local green bus sat waiting next to the dusky-pink cuboid block that constituted the station. From a distance, Hakim could see a number of people milling around waiting for buses to appear. Brodd had come to a panting stop, his hands on his knees.

  ‘I told the constable who phoned in to keep out of sight. We don’t want to scare Absame off.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Hakim, who was also slightly out of breath.

  ‘Drugs. He’s not only muscle for Mitrović, he pushes as well.’

  ‘Can you see him?’

  Brodd nodded. ‘There. With the tracksuit. Hoodie down. Leaning against the wall behind the woman with the baby wagon. He’s waiting for someone.’

  ‘I see him.’

  ‘Well, let’s go and talk to him.’

  Hakim wasn’t convinced that just casually walking up to Absame was going to be the best approach, so he was hanging slightly back when Brodd marched off in the direction of the bus station. As Brodd reached it, the green bus pulled away and another approached from Sallerupsvägen.

  Absame could smell cop at a hundred paces. Brodd wasn’t even that close when Absame’s head jerked up, took one look and darted across the road right in front of the incoming bus. The driver blasted his horn. Hakim dashed after him with Brodd flailing behind, caught off his guard by the boxer’s sudden reaction. Absame sprinted down Pilgatan and past the old entrance to the entré shopping centre, which now resembled a building site. As they ran, Hakim saw Absame throw something away, presumably his drugs. They could be picked up later. Absame was fitter than Hakim but, as the young detective had anticipated the boxer’s escape, he managed to keep up.

  Absame dashed towards the main section of entré, which was dead ahead. He was making straight for the main door of the glass and polycarbonate block. Three youngsters were coming the other way. Absame burst through them and sent one girl screaming to the ground. This had the double effect of slowing Absame down and opening the way for Hakim to rush through unhindered. Ahead were two escalators surrounded on three sides by an angular water feature. Absame bounded up the up escalator with Hakim in hot pursuit. The three floors of malls were virtually deserted as most of the shops were now empty, except for a few on the ground floor. Hakim knew there wasn’t much left on the top two floors other than the bowling alley and the cinema. Absame was showing no signs of tiring, and Hakim was feeling an ache in his side that was fast developing into a stitch. He wasn’t sure where Brodd was.

  The boxer headed for the second floor. ‘Stop!’ Hakim yelled after him. It had no effect. Hakim’s long legs took him up the escalator two steps at time, yet Absame had already reached the third floor. By the time Hakim got there, Absame had circled round the glass balustrade that fenced off the escalators and was tearing down the corridor towards the cinema entrance. If he got in there, it would be a nightmare to try and apprehend him. Hakim was beginning to struggle and was acutely aware of his footsteps doggedly slapping on the tiles in the eerily quiet, boarded-up mall. Absame was now way ahead of him. He’d reached the entrance to the cinema and was tugging frantically at the doors. They were locked. Absame turned round in desperation. His exit was barred. The only thing to do was to go straight for the cop. Hakim had nearly reached Absame when the boxer came running back at him, fists swinging. Hakim tried to get his pistol out but he was too slow and a fist thumped into the side of his head and sent him spinning to the floor. He crashed down on the tiled surface, his head feeling as though it was about to explode. He groggily saw the boxer heading towards the top of the escalators. He was going to get away! Suddenly, Absame stopped and, despite his throbbing head, Hakim saw him holding up his hands in surrender. Then the reason became clear – Brodd was stepping off the escalator with his pistol pointing straight at their quarry.

  CHAPTER 21

  ‘What was Sami Litmanen like? As a person?’ Anita asked Elin Ljung. From what they had discussed so far, the real Litmanen had remained in the shadows. ‘You must have known him as well as anyone.’

  ‘“Driven” is the word I would use to describe him. As I said before, the job was everything. He wasn’t one for pleasantries. It was always about the project he was working on, or the one he wanted to do next. He was serious about everything he did. I hardly ever saw him laugh. He had a slightly weird sense of humour, but that was probably because he was Finnish. I know he liked the odd drink. We always had to have a bottle of whisky in when he paid one of his rare visits. Again, very Finnish. But never too much. I always felt he needed to be in control.’

  ‘Control freak?’

  ‘I’d say so. In his work, he was very thorough. Always did his own research. Rarely did he involve another journalist to
help him until he’d come to us with the full story. Then we’d check that everything was correct – and legal,’ she added with a bashful smile, ‘– before giving him the green light to go ahead. His attention to detail was almost like he wanted to master those he went after. Control their fate. When his stings didn’t come off – and some didn’t for one reason or another – he would disappear for days, weeks. He couldn’t cope with failure. He was almost fanatical.’

  ‘And the paper put up with this behaviour?’

  ‘Of course. Sami created many of our most famous scoops. He got well paid for them, too. And many were incredibly expensive to set up, though they were usually worth the investment if we got a sensational story out of it. An Oligarch exposé ensured that sales went through the roof. The owners would put up with anything from him because he made them money. What Sami wanted, Sami got, even if it was hard for the rest of us sometimes.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Sami was uncompromising. He had a temper if he couldn’t get his own way or thought our support wasn’t a hundred percent.’ Ljung pointed at the front page on the wall featuring Claes Svärdendahl with the lurid headline: MR CLEAN LIKES DIRTY SEX. ‘That covers up the dint in the wall where Sami threw his whisky glass when I quibbled about some expenses he was claiming.’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘He was a bloody good journalist. I didn’t have to like him.’

  Anita was still finding it hard to pin down Sami Litmanen. ‘He didn’t seem to have a life outside his work. You say he was well paid, yet his apartment isn’t anything special. Did he have any other homes?’

  ‘Not that I know of, though he might well have had. Maybe somewhere in the sun or back home in Finland.’

  ‘Did he have girlfriends or boyfriends?’

  ‘He never mentioned any, and we never asked.’ Yet there was someone he let into his apartment on Sunday evening, thought Anita. ‘He never socialized with any of the other journalists or any of the other staff. Journos tend to be a convivial bunch and love nothing more than to swap stories over a few drinks. Not Sami.’

  Anita uncrossed her legs. She was starting to feel stiff. She had done a lot of sitting already today.

  ‘Was he working on any current project?’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I suppose it won’t happen now anyway. I think he was getting fed up with all the celebrity scoops. Wanted something a bit more meaty. I got the impression that this wasn’t going to be a sting operation; more good, old-fashioned investigative journalism. It was all a bit vague, but it was to do with a couple of big players in the commercial world. Household names.’ Ljung held up her palms to Anita. ‘And before you ask, I don’t know what companies or individuals he was referring to. Sami was like that. He didn’t want to reveal his hand before he’d done his research and everything was planned out. He was always very cagey in the early stages until he was sure he was on the right track. Then he would come to me and present his findings and how he was going to nail a particular target. I think he enjoyed the reaction of his editors. His work was often amazing, and he liked to spring surprises on us. Well, certainly on me. He got a kick out of my gushing praise, like a boy who’s brought his teacher a brilliant piece of homework.’

  ‘Were there any details?’ Anita pressed.

  ‘I know there was an international element to it. During our initial meeting, he said that he might have to book long-haul flights. He knew I was keen to keep tabs on his expenses.’

  ‘So outside Europe?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did he take any of these flights?’

  ‘Don’t know. He’d book them using money in a fund we supplied him with. Accounting would get the receipts for each month and pass them through to me to check. We didn’t want him spending silly money.’

  ‘Was he close to completing this particular job? Did he give an indication of a deadline?’

  ‘No. Sami didn’t work like that. Jobs could take weeks... months. I think the Nils-Åke Rydén investigation took about a year. He was given as much time as he needed. With this one, I got the impression there was something seriously iffy going on. Not like Rydén’s insider trading. Power plays with high stakes. He did mention that there was history between the protagonists.’ Ljung fiddled with the snus can as though she was trying to think of something else. Then she gave up. ‘Sorry. Not very helpful.’

  Anita shifted in her chair. She felt she’d extracted as much as she was going to out of Ljung. ‘Thank you for giving up your time, Elin.’

  Anita eased herself onto her feet. Ljung did likewise. ‘Always happy to help.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘One thing. You say he did all his own research. Presumably, he didn’t keep anything from his latest investigation here?’

  ‘No. He’d have it with him.’

  ‘Thought so. His computer’s gone, along with any notes he may have made.’

  They went to the door.

  ‘Could you supply me with back copies of the stories you ran on Claes Svärdendahl, Folke Allinger, and Absame the boxer?’

  ‘They’ll be archived on our website.’

  ‘I’d like to see them in their full glory.’

  ‘No problem.’ Ljung paused. ‘That was it! I knew there was something! The last time I spoke to Sami was about a fortnight ago. It was the usual; saying that everything was going fine and asking me to top up his fund. No details, of course. It’s just at the end of the conversation, he suddenly said “now it’s just got personal”.’

  Anita wandered across the bridge into Gamla Stan, intent on finding a café where she could have a look at the newspapers that Elin Ljung’s nice young coffee-delivering journalist had dug out for her. The old streets were so jammed tight with noisy tourists that she nearly didn’t hear her mobile phone ringing. It was Pontus Brodd.

  ‘We’ve got him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Absame. Tracked him down in Värnhem; caught up with him in entré.’

  ‘Did he come quietly?’

  She heard Brodd chortle at the other end of the line. ‘We had to chase him all over the place. Poor old Hakim’s got a lump on the side of his head the size of a... the size... well, it’s big, anyhow.’

  ‘Is he all right?’ Anita asked in some alarm.

  ‘He’ll live.’

  ‘Have you had time to talk to Absame yet?’

  ‘No. Thought we’d let you know before we did.’

  ‘Get what you can out of him. It’s important to establish that he knew that Sami Litmanen lived in Malmö.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Can you hold him until tomorrow? I’d like to speak to him, too. I’ll be back on an early flight.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem. Assaulting an officer of the Skåne County Police for starters. And we picked up the drugs he threw away when we chased him. And more good news: Hakim’s found where Allinger lives. In Ystad.’

  ‘That’s excellent. We’ll sort out a visit when I get back.’

  ‘OK, Boss... sorry... Anita. Any luck up there?’

  ‘Useful background info on Litmanen. I’m going to track down Claes Svärdendahl this afternoon. I’ll fill you all in on my return. I’m afraid it’ll bugger up your weekend.’

  ‘Wasn’t planning anything special.’

  ‘Oh, and ask Bea to try and trace Litmanen’s mother. She’s still alive and living in Helsinki. She’ll need to be told, as she’s the only next of kin we’re aware of. Once she’s done that, get her to inform the Helsinki police. Better a home visit than an impersonal call from us.’

  After she put her phone away, Anita found a relatively quiet eatery on Stora Nygatan. Though she had only planned on a coffee, the black and white checked tablecloths conjured up the thought of food. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until her eye alighted on the menu. It would be an early lunch, but she could justify it to herself because of the unearthly hour she’d had to get up.
Unimaginatively, she plumped for the meatballs with potatoes and loads of lingonberry sauce. It was a detective’s brain food – simple and straightforward, and it didn’t interfere with the concentration.

  As she tucked into her lunch, she went through the newspapers and read the stories that had broken around their three main suspects, all of whom woke up one morning to find their lives changed forever. The oldest of the stories was Folke Allinger’s – NAZI MURDER PLOT UNCOVERED. The sub-heading read: The Night of the Long Knives, an unsubtle reference to Hitler’s murder of his rival and one-time ally, Ernst Röhm, in 1934. Allinger was going to get the fake Finn to organize the stabbing of White Justice leader Hans Leonardsson so it would look like a bar brawl and not a planned assassination. Anita could read the anger and hatred in The Oligarch’s words as he explained how he’d uncovered Allinger’s plot, though it wasn’t clear in the lead piece that Litmanen had set Allinger up. However, there was no escaping Allinger’s murderous intent. The Absame exposé was from two years ago: KNOCK OUT FOR BOXING DRUGS CHEAT. World champion elect floored by steroid abuse ran the gloating sub-heading. The ‘World champion elect’ wasn’t quite true, though Absame was making a name for himself and held the European middleweight title. The sordid tale was more about the exploitation by Absame’s trainer of a naïve immigrant with dreams of success. Absame had taken steroids without realizing the implications. He did now.

  Finally, the Claes Svärdendahl sex scandal. Svärdendahl might be a horrible individual off screen and cheat on his wife with prostitutes, yet there was no legitimate reason for The Oligarch taking him down, other than the fact that he could. It was all rather unedifyingly voyeuristic; the details and the photos unnecessarily graphic. It wasn’t Anita’s idea of investigative journalism – it was pure malice. The tone of The Oligarch’s work had changed dramatically between the Allinger, his first big exposé, and the Svärdendahl stories. Yet from what Elin Ljung had told her, he was now returning to his serious journalistic roots. So what had he found out about two warring companies? And what had suddenly made it ‘personal’ for Sami Litmanen?