CHAPTER 22
The sun had emerged from the earlier grey sky. Anita, now rather regretting having had such a large portion of meatballs, walked slowly round to the Gamla Stan underground station on Munkbroleden. She knew she should really walk to Zinkensdamm to let her food digest, and it would also give her time to collect her thoughts before trying to talk to Claes Svärdendahl, but, on the other hand, the train taking the strain was more appealing. It was only two stops – Slussen and then Zinkensdamm. She was at the entrance of the station when her mobile phone went off. She saw that it was Liv.
‘Hi, how are you?’ Anita asked enthusiastically. Liv was always on her conscience, and she felt herself being over-positive.
‘I’m good. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’
‘No, not at all. I’m up in Stockholm on the murder case.’
‘Hakim’s told me about that. The Oligarch. Quite something.’ Anita wondered whether she should mention that Hakim had had a run-in with an ex-professional boxer. She decided to leave that up to him, once he’d got over any bruised pride. ‘You must be busy, so I’ll make it quick. You asked me to look into whether there was any history or ties between Peter Uhlig and Mats Möller that might single them out as targets for the kidnappers. I’m afraid I can’t find anything.’ Well, it was always worth a try, thought Anita. ‘However, I did find that Peter Uhlig had had a big fallout with another leading industrialist ten years ago. It was at the time when the Uhlig family sold off their cement business to the Hoffberg Cement Group to concentrate on Trellogistics. Sorry, have you got time for this?’
‘Yeah. Carry on.’ It didn’t stop Anita glancing at her watch. Her mind was in Sami Litmanen mode, though she knew she was going to have to learn to juggle the running of separate cases simultaneously.
‘Hoffberg wasn’t the only company in for the business. Wollstad Industries were also interested – Dag Wollstad wanted to incorporate it into his growing empire.’ The name of Dag Wollstad gave Anita a start. ‘When Peter Uhlig refused his offer, there developed a war of words in the press. It sounded like Dag Wollstad didn’t take rejection well, so when Uhlig sold to Hoffberg for less than Wollstad’s reported offer, he made a hostile bid for the remaining freight business. Uhlig managed to fight off the bid, but it left a lot of bad blood. It seems to have widened a long-standing split in the Skåne business community. Uhlig stood for the old, established companies. For stability and conservatism. For ethical business practices. Dag Wollstad was regarded as a Johnny-come-lately. Bold, brash and unscrupulous, who’d stop at nothing to get what he wanted.’ That fitted the Dag Wollstad Anita had crossed swords with a few years ago. ‘Some of the younger generation of entrepreneurs sided with Wollstad. Of course, Mats Möller wasn’t a player then, though I suspect he’d have been in the Wollstad camp if he had been.’ Anita heard a little groan at the other end of the phone. ‘I’m afraid it may not be of much relevance...’
‘No, no, it’s interesting, Liv. Any background of this kind might be useful. Look, can you give Klara Wallen a ring and tell her what you’ve found out? At least we know Uhlig had an enemy, albeit one that’s hiding somewhere in South America.’
After finishing the call, Anita made her way down the stairs to the underground. Two minutes later, a number 13 train pulled in. She took her seat and pondered about Dag Wollstad’s name cropping up again. Wollstad Industries was one of Sweden’s biggest and most successful groups. It incorporated a range of diverse international enterprises, from fertilizers to pharmaceuticals. A few years before, Anita had investigated the murder of Dag Wollstad’s son-in-law. This had led to a wider conspiracy, where a group of powerful and wealthy people with right-wing views were financing attacks on Malmö’s ethnic communities in an effort to cause unrest and drive them out of the country. Specifically, they had hired a sniper, who was responsible for a number of deaths in the city and had set his sights on Anita and Hakim as they got closer to the truth. Dag Wollstad, the mastermind behind the group, was tipped off by Anita’s now-dead colleague, Karl Westermark, and fled to Bolivia, beyond the reach of the Swedish authorities. His business empire was unaffected, as it passed into the hands of his daughter, Kristina Ekman. Anita had worked out that she was as culpable as her father, if not more so, and had probably been the one who ordered the hit on Hakim and herself. The only problem was that she had had no evidence. So, the Wollstad family continued to make their millions, presumably with Dag enjoying a luxurious exile on some palatial hacienda. The trouble was that Liv’s reference to Wollstad had stirred up past injustices without being of any practical use to the kidnapping investigation. Anita tried to bury her resentments and concentrate on the matter in hand – Claes Svärdendahl – as the train slipped into Zinkensdamm underground station.
Zinkensdamm was on Södermalm, which was regarded by the press as the hipster island. A lot of beautiful people lived round here, like the indie singer, Lykke Li. The station, like many of those on the Stockholm metro system, had its share of artistic creativity. The concrete wall at the exit was decorated by John Stenborg. Anita gazed at it sceptically. It resembled a sheaf of multi-coloured pages fluttering through the air. She was sure it was nothing of the kind, but it was certainly compatible with the bohemian chic of the area. Anita could well imagine this particular part of the city would appeal to the self image of someone like Claes Svärdendahl, even if he was living in disgrace.
She knew Svärdendahl’s apartment wasn’t too far from the station. It was bright now, and she hadn’t far to walk to the street where the ex-broadcaster lived, on the fourth floor of an attractive cream-stuccoed block. Anita pressed the buzzer, which helpfully had C Svärdendahl next to it; there had been no attempt to hide his identity under another name. There was no answer. Either he was out or he wasn’t answering. Though the latter would be understandable, Anita had the impression that Svärdendahl wasn’t the kind of man to skulk behind the sofa every time the doorbell rang. He couldn’t live without some attention. The fact that he had gone berserk in Sanningen’s offices didn’t bespeak a retiring violet who felt contrition for his misdemeanours. Rather than displaying any anxiety about his sexual exploits being splashed across the front page for the nation to read and being publicly denounced for his faithlessness towards his wife, his ego seemed more preoccupied with what he perceived as unfair treatment and the stripping of the fame he felt entitled to. That’s why Anita decided to wait for his return in a nearby café. It was just as well she hadn’t planned to fly back that day.
Despite the lump on the side of his head and the headache he was still nursing, Hakim had insisted on being in on the interview with Absame Madar Geesi. Brodd was with him. Across the table, the ex-boxer sat sullenly. His short, black, tightly curled hair complemented his boyish looks. He’d never taken a real battering in his short career. The dark eyes might be a little glazed, but the high cheekbones and soft mouth made him undeniably striking. He was decidedly photogenic, which had helped raise his profile as much as the speed of his fists. These were curled menacingly on the table top, the blingy rings glinting in the fluorescent lighting of the interview room. Hakim watched him closely. He had empathy for the man opposite him. They were roughly the same age. Their backgrounds were similar, even if their parents came from different continents. Both were from Muslim families, both were coping with a social climate that was becoming increasingly unsympathetic to those of immigrant stock, and both were trying to make a mark in a land that was alien to their domestic cultures; yet they were now divided by a simple wooden table – and were on different sides of the law.
‘You know why we pulled you in?’
Absame’s stare moved from his fists to Hakim. For a second, his eyes blazed with the defiance Hakim had seen on some footage of one of his fights that he’d found on YouTube. Then the light went. He didn’t speak.
‘It’s not the drugs. I assume that’s your day job these days.’ Not a flicker in return. ‘It’s about Sami Litmanen.’ The name clearly
meant nothing to Absame. ‘The Oligarch.’ This time there was instant recognition.
‘We want to know where you were on the night of Sunday, the fourteenth of May,’ cut in Brodd. ‘Between, say, nine and eleven?’ Absame shrugged.
Brodd looked at Absame with contempt. ‘Cat got your tongue? Or don’t you understand Swedish?’ Hakim could have brained Brodd. ‘Or is it because you went over to his apartment on Sunday night and killed him?’
Absame’s face creased into an unexpected grin.
‘What’s so fucking funny?’ Brodd was losing his temper. ‘Do you think murdering someone is something to smile about?’
‘I know it’s not easy,’ said Hakim, trying to defuse a situation that wasn’t going to get them anywhere. A blundering Brodd was not what was needed; Hakim wished that Anita was with him instead. ‘You’ve had a tough upbringing. People aren’t so friendly round here when you’re an outsider. I know all about that. I’ve gone through the same sort of shit as you. Boxing got you off the streets. You made it. You earned respect. We know how you lost that, and you have good reason to harm the man who destroyed your career. He used underhand methods.’ Brodd sighed heavily, clearly unhappy that his direct approach was being usurped. Hakim ignored him. ‘He got at you through your trainer. It’s only natural that you’d want to get your own back.’
‘Kill him, you mean,’ butted in Brodd.
‘What we want to know is when you discovered that The Oligarch lived here in Malmö. Did you spot him in the street? Or did someone find out for you? Someone like Dragan Mitrović? I’m sure he’s got his own methods of finding things out. Maybe – and here’s a thought – Mitrović had The Oligarch killed for you. You’d still be an accessory to murder, of course. You’d still go down for it.’
Absame unwound his fingers and stretched them out. Then he curled them up again into those formidable fists. Frustratingly, he just wasn’t reacting any more. His facial expression was blank. He hadn’t said a word. If Hakim hadn’t seen him talking on television interviews, he’d be excused for thinking he was a mute.
Brodd leant over the table. ‘I take it that your silence is a confession of guilt.’ The same defiant look flashed for a brief moment, then was gone. Hakim hoped that Anita would have better luck cracking this one.
After another thankless ten minutes, they retreated to the corridor outside. ‘I think we’ve got our murderer,’ Brodd said confidently.
Hakim gingerly felt the side of his face. ‘Now we’ve got to prove it.’
CHAPTER 23
Two and a half hours and three coffees later, Anita spotted Claes Svärdendahl. It was the hair that gave him away. Though she knew he was forty-one, Svärdendahl had the hair cut of a younger man – the back and sides of his head were trimmed very short with long strands of his straw-blond top thatch swept back in a quiff. It was a fashion that she’d noticed an increasing number of footballers adopting. According to the magazine she’d read on the flight north, it was called a pompadour. Did Louis XV’s mistress really look like that? Since his clean-cut television days, Svärdendahl had grown a hipster beard to go with the hairstyle. He had a tan-leather man bag slung over his shoulder.
Anita was quickly out of her seat and into the street. She caught up with Svärdendahl as he was punching in the code for his building’s front door.
‘Claes Svärdendahl?’
He swung round so sharply that his bag banged into Anita. ‘I’m not speaking to the press,’ he said aggressively.
Anita pulled out her warrant card. ‘Anita Sundström, Skåne County Police.’
At the mention of Skåne, his face twitched. ‘What are you doing up here?’ he demanded.
‘I want to talk to you about The Oligarch.’
‘That’s yesterday’s news. I’ve moved on.’ He pushed the door open and strode into the corridor. Anita followed. He marched to the lift and pressed the up button.
‘I need to speak to you.’
‘I have nothing to say to the police. Or anyone at the moment unless it’s through my agent.’
The lift doors swished open. A young couple stepped out. They averted their gaze when they saw Svärdendahl.
‘Shall I ask your agent if I can speak to you about a murder case?’
Anita couldn’t decide whether Svärdendahl’s startled reaction was because of guilt or the fact that such a suggestion had been made in front of his neighbours. He watched nervously as the couple made their way through the front door. The girl’s tinkling giggle faded as the door banged behind them and they disappeared into the street.
‘You’d better come up.’
The apartment was compact in terms of floor space but seemed larger due to its high ceilings and big windows, one of which opened out onto a balcony overlooking the back of the apartment blocks opposite. It was quieter here than it would have been at the front of the building above the street. The living room was just that. Along one wall was the kitchen area while the rest of the room contained a solitary day bed covered with cushions, an upright piano and a threadbare rug that wouldn’t have made the wooden floor any cosier come the winter. The one striking feature was the blue and white floor-to-ceiling porcelain stove that hugged one corner of the room, giving an indication of how old the building was – late 19th century.
When Svärdendahl noticed Anita appraising the piano, he said ‘I’m renting. The guy before me was a musician. He still hasn’t collected it. I’m hoping he won’t. I can’t play, but it helps fill the room.’
He hooked his bag over his head and put it down on the kitchen worktop. He took out a half-empty bottle of juice and a tupperware container. He opened the latter and let the contents drop into a pedal bin.
‘I’ve just been out with the kids. My wife lets me see them once a week.’ He then took a rubbery spider and a plastic snake out of the bag. ‘My son Max is really into wild life. The creepier the better. His mamma hates spiders so I have to keep this one. She won’t allow it in the house.’ Anita didn’t blame her. It was big and realistic.
Anita sat on the day bed. Svärdendahl leant back against the kitchen sink and crossed his arms. He wasn’t as tall as he appeared on the television. Close up, presumably without the studio make-up, he wasn’t as pretty as in the photo the team had of him on the wall back at the polishus. Now she was near enough to examine him, Anita decided that the face was too thin, the eyes too close together and the mouth too wide. Yet it was this mouth that had been the key to his smarmy popularity – the famous, mischievous, gap-toothed grin that had captivated the adoring house-bound mums and grandmothers who made up the bulk of the audience for his morning show. After his fall from grace, the same feature became a gift for cartoonists, who cruelly widened the gap between his teeth for maximum comic effect. There had been no sign of the trademark smile so far today.
‘You mentioned The Oligarch and a murder case. Has the fucker killed someone this time? That guy should be behind bars,’ he said with undisguised hatred.
‘Can I ask you where you were last Sunday night? That’s the fourteenth of May.’
Svärdendahl blinked and his eyes shifted. ‘I was away.’
‘Away where?’
‘Not here.’ He was being evasive.
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
He unfolded his arms and put them behind him as though he was using the sink for support. ‘If you must know, I was down in your part of the world.’
‘Malmö?’
‘Outside Lund. I spent the weekend there.’
Anita tensed. This was interesting. He was only a few kilometres away from the murder scene.
‘And what were you doing down there?’
Svärdendahl’s face coloured. ‘Is that relevant?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I was at a party.’
‘All weekend?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s one helluva party.’
‘It wasn’t a normal one.’
‘You’re goin
g to have to be more specific. Some of the party guests may have to give you an alibi.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The party? Tell me.’
Svärdendahl scratched his head nervously. ‘It’s nothing I’m ashamed of. It’s just that if the press got hold of this, it would finish me off entirely. I’m trying to reconcile with my wife. If this got out, it would be a disaster. She’d not let me near the kids again.’
‘You’d better come clean. During the time of your party, someone murdered The Oligarch in Malmö. So, you see, I need to know your movements last Sunday night.’
‘Oh, Christ! I can’t let this get out. I can’t have your lot talking to some of the people who were there. Important people. A number from the university.’ What an egotistic pain in the arse! Anita thought. All he could think about was himself and his reputation. It was as though the death of Sami Litmanen had absolutely no impact at all. Was that telling?
‘Stop prevaricating! What was this party?’
‘It was a sex party weekend.’
‘Swingers?’
‘More sadomasochistic.’ Anita’s heart sank. She’d rather be spared the details, though she might not be able to avoid them. ‘It’s all above board. Consenting adults. Since that shit exposed me in his despicable rag, I’ve been invited on several occasions by private groups of particular individuals to join in their activities. I’m a bit of a celebrity on that type of circuit now. I enjoy it.’
‘Presumably your wife doesn’t know.’
‘Not her scene.’
‘Did she know or suspect what you were up to before you were outed?’
‘Of course not. I was good. Behaved myself most of the time. Occasionally, paid a girl up in Solna. That’s how The Oligarch must have got wind of it. And then set me up.’
‘You didn’t take much fooling.’ Svärdendahl’s bashful shrug confirmed how easily he had been duped by the promises of more fame and riches. ‘How come you haven’t asked me about The Oligarch’s murder?’
MALICE IN MALMÖ Page 15