It didn’t appease Ljung. ‘It’s just not on! No wonder the police are so untrustworthy.’
‘I’m sorry. Look, I didn’t get onto you because, as you probably realized from the press conference, there’s nothing much to tell.’
‘What about the “promising leads”?’
‘That’s what we always say.’
‘What about Claes Svärdendahl?’ Ljung bawled down the line. ‘The fink has gone to ground completely. And Folke Allinger? Absame?’
‘None of them did it.’
‘Is that official?’
‘You can quote a source close to the investigation,’ muttered Anita reluctantly. ‘Don’t you dare use my name, though.’
That seemed to placate Ljung. ‘OK. At least we can rubbish all the other rags’ speculation pieces.’
Anita heard her shout some instructions before returning to the phone.
‘Anything else I can use?’
‘I don’t think so at this stage.’ Then Anita had a thought. ‘Maybe you can help. And if it throws up any new angles, I’ll make sure you get in there first.’
After a pause. ‘Fair enough,’ Ljung said warily.
‘We need to know what the story was that Litmanen was investigating. You said it involved two well-known business companies.’
‘Yes.’
‘Still no idea which ones?’
‘Not really, but I do know where Sami flew to in April. A list from the accounts department landed on my desk yesterday. His last receipts, for April, sent in two days before he died. He flew to Brazil on April the twelfth and was there for five days. São Paulo. Then onto Colombia. Went to a place called Armenia.’
‘Like the country?’
‘Yeah. Two days in Colombia. And then back here. Then he flew to Helsinki. Presumably to see his mother.’
‘Brazil?’ Anita’s mind was buzzing. ‘When he said it was household names, he did mean Swedish names, didn’t he?’
‘Oh, yes. This was a Swedish story.’
‘So what’s so important about Brazil?’
‘They’ve got an awful lot of coffee in Brazil.’
The next call came from a neighbour of Eila Litmanen’s. Eila was still in a state of shock over her son’s death and wasn’t well. She’d been frail and in poor health for some time and Sami’s death (he was her only child) had exacerbated matters. Eila was also worried about how she was going to cope organizing a funeral – and didn’t even know when the body would be transported to Finland. Would she have to pay for it? Anita tried to reassure the neighbour that the body would be released soon and to tell Eila that she was not to concern herself over the funeral costs. She was sure that Sanningen would pick up the bill. (She would make sure they did.) Eventually, they agreed that Anita was to come round to Eila’s apartment tomorrow afternoon at about three, though the neighbour warned her that Eila might not be up to speaking to her. She was very up and down at the moment.
When Anita put down the phone, she prayed that Eila was up to it. A chat with her could be crucial. With that in mind, she didn’t book a flight back the same day, as she had planned originally.
She popped her head round Hakim’s door and asked if he could come to the meeting room. The board had a shorn look about it. Gone were the photos of Svärdendahl, Allinger and Absame. She presumed Zetterberg had taken them down. Under the written heading of Suspects, there were now no names; a depressing situation two and a half weeks after the murder.
‘All set for Helsinki?’
‘Yes. Eila Litmanen doesn’t sound in great shape. It’ll be pot luck whether I get anything out of her. But that’s not what I want to talk about. I had the editor of Sanningen on the phone earlier.’
Hakim arched an eyebrow. ‘I don’t suppose she’s too chuffed with Zetterberg’s announcement.’
‘Not exactly. She did confirm again that Litmanen was looking into warring household business names. Both Swedish companies. One new bit of information that did emerge was where he went last month. Litmanen flew to South America: first Brazil and then Colombia. He flew to São Paulo and then ended up in a town or city called Armenia in Colombia.’
‘Are we looking for Swedish companies with South American connections?’
‘Looks like it. Particularly Brazil. He spent five days there as opposed to two in Colombia.’
‘An obvious one would be IKEA.’
‘I thought of that. But as far I can see, they haven’t any stores in South America. Elin Ljung did say that “they’ve got an awful lot of coffee in Brazil”. You know, the song?’ Hakim’s expression was blank. She started to sing it. Still no recognition. ‘The Frank Sinatra song. God, am I that ancient? The point is that she made a joke of it, but it started me thinking. According to the internet, Offesson’s get the majority of their Arabica coffee beans from Brazil. They also source beans from Colombia. The rest come from East Africa.’
Hakim clicked his fingers. ‘You could be right. Do you remember all those unopened packs of Offesson’s coffee Litmanen had in his kitchen?’
‘Not really.’
‘I said it was odd that he had all the different blends. Not just one or two.’
‘You’re suggesting it could be part of his research?’ Hakim could sense Anita’s growing excitement. ‘OK, I’ll buy that. Offesson’s could be one of the companies he was investigating.’
‘Any more?’
‘Not yet. That’s what I want you to look into while I’m away. See who else has South American business connections, with particular emphasis on Brazil. I’d get Liv to give you a hand.’
‘Liv?’
‘Yes, Liv. Your bright, gifted fiancée. Get her to dig into the Offesson operation. Have they had a fallout with another company recently? Or in the past? Takeovers or hostile bids; that sort of thing. What state is the business in?’
‘Very healthy, I should imagine, by the amount of advertising they do. You see signs for their coffee everywhere: Offesson’s – Start the day the Swedish way.’
‘That may be the case. But they may have upset someone along the way to success. Or gunning for a rival. It may not even be them that Sami Litmanen was investigating. Go through all the Swedish companies you can find with strong Brazilian connections, and we may find who wanted The Oligarch out of the way.’
It was there for the whole world to see. The Sydsvenskan newspaper lay in front of him. He had read and reread the report splashed across the front page and several inside. He knew the other newspapers were carrying similar stories. It was all over the TV and radio. The Oligarch was not only unmasked, but his murder revealed. Only he had known, albeit briefly, who Mikael Nilsson really was. What had taken the authorities so long for them to go public with the information? Were they that inefficient? He picked up the paper again. The police hadn’t come knocking, so they obviously hadn’t found a connection. That was good. A relief to a certain extent. The woman who had been talking to the press – who was that again? Inspector Alice Zetterberg. She said they were following ‘promising leads’. Could one of them lead to him?
His mind sped back to that phone call. That fatal phone call he’d intercepted. And then the invitation. No, more of a threat. Come, or else! He’d soon found out that there was only an ‘else’. Whatever he’d said or done, it would have all come out. He’d had to stop it.
Ever since it happened, he’d been plagued with doubts; wondering if he’d managed to cover his tracks. He’d destroyed everything he’d taken out of the apartment: the computer, the wallet, the mobile phones, the files in the desk drawer, the notes pinned to the board – even the piece of paper Nilsson had been clutching in his dead fingers.
He threw the newspaper down. All he could do now was sit tight and hold his nerve. They might never come.
CHAPTER 37
The plane left on time. Anita was settled in her seat, yawning. It had been an early start to get to Kastrup. Kevin had got up while she showered to brew her coffee. She’d turned down his offer of br
eakfast saying she would grab something at the airport. The coffee wasn’t right; Kevin was still learning how to make it strong enough. When the trip to Finland had been mentioned, he was keen to go with her as he’d never been to Helsinki before. She had bluntly refused. This was too important for any distractions; besides, she wanted him to keep an eye on Lasse and family just in case Mitrović thought his car bomb hadn’t done the trick. Her snub hadn’t dampened his enthusiasm to find out all he could about Finland’s connections to Sweden. Strangely, she’d never been one for her own country’s history and found far more interest in other places, particularly Britain. She’d always thought that Sweden’s past was rather dull compared to the more dramatic and bloody events which had moulded the little island nation she had such affection for. However, Kevin, typically, was fascinated by Sweden’s role in shaping her part of the world. After all, Finland had been ruled by the Swedes for seven centuries until it was annexed by Imperial Russia in 1809. The Finns only achieved independence in 1917. Helsinki itself had been founded by the Swedish king Gustav Vasa as a trading rival to Tallinn and the Hanseatic League across the Gulf of Finland. Connections even lasted into the Second World War when, with the Soviet Army pushing hard at the fledgling nation’s borders, over 70,000 Finnish children were evacuated to Sweden. Kevin had come up with a great deal more, but most had gone in one ear and out the other. She wouldn’t have time for Finland’s past – she was heading to Helsinki to catch a present-day killer.
Klara Wallen was also in work early. She’d just wanted to get out of the house. She’d had a fierce argument with Rolf the previous evening. Needless to say, he’d taken exception to her spending the night in Malmö with Anita Sundström – ‘that woman’s bad news’. He was furious at the thought that Anita might be stoking the fires of Klara’s independence; the flames had to be extinguished before they spread. He was beginning to realize that he no longer had Klara where he wanted her: she was fighting back. She’d said some nasty things about his family; she’d never done that before. It had developed into a huge row which had resulted in Rolf storming out of the house. Klara had slept in the spare room that night and had heard Rolf stumbling back up the stairs after midnight. By then, she had a plan of action: she was going to move back to Malmö as soon as possible. First thing in the morning, she’d slipped out of the house without leaving Rolf any breakfast or explanation.
She took the call just after eight. It was from a police patrol down in Limhamn. They’d been alerted by a walker who had found a woman trussed up and tied to a bench in Limhamn cemetery. Before the officer had finished his report, she interrupted: ‘Did she have a hood over her head and black gaffer tape over her mouth?’ She did. ‘Was she blonde?’ Yes, she was.
The kidnapping! It had to be! But who was it?
The Norwegian Airways flight was only an hour and a half. The plane descended out of grey skies and a land of tall, straight pines of varying verdure came into view. Dotted in between, groups of houses became more discernible as the plane circled nearer the airport. Rain was starting to streak the window, and Anita strained to look out as she gripped her seat. She was never happy with the landing process, however often she flew. The plane banked; the landscape disappeared and she shut her eyes. She only opened them again when the plane was screeching along the tarmac and had slowed down enough to start to taxi.
Once in Vantaa Airport, her sense of direction deserted her, and she found herself wandering through a maze of long corridors in search of the train station. Eventually, she had to ask directions and was sent back virtually to where she’d started from. Fortunately, the subterranean station, at the bottom of the longest escalator she’d ever been on, was easier to navigate.
Anita now felt calmer. She was sitting on the train heading for Helsinki Central Station. The ride was as smooth as polished brass and she found it difficult to keep her eyes open. Her curiosity overcame her tiredness, however. The views from the window weren’t dissimilar from those she knew from her frequent journeys to Stockholm, but the forests seemed thicker and the vegetation less varied. And there was much more water – lakes and tarns peppered the landscape and well-kept, Nordic-style houses added interest to what would otherwise have been a plethora of beautiful blandness. As she approached the city, the trees lessened and, after a spell of the usual high-rise blocks and obligatory cubes of concrete and glass, the allure of Helsinki began to play on her senses. The train rolled past the Linnanmäki Amusement Park on one side and Töölö Bay on the other as Anita glimpsed Alvar Aalto’s faded marble Finlandia Hall through the rain. Within a couple of minutes, the train had slid quietly into the Central Station. On alighting, Anita slowly began to realize what an architectural gem the building was. Designed by Eliel Saarinen in the National Romanticist style, the station was completed in 1919. Passing under the huge portal archway, she took a moment to look back at the massive pink-granite splendour. Kevin would have been in heaven. She took a couple of photos to send to him, one of the building as a whole with its impressive four-sided clock tower, the other a close-up of Emil Wikström’s four muscular mythical giants holding their spherical lamps, flanking the entrance. Their uncompromising stares showed that they took guarding the gateway to Helsinki very seriously.
Anita took shelter from the rain under the cover of the shopping centre opposite the station entrance. Further along, she saw a pub sign which made her smile – The Pickwick. Maybe if she had time tonight? She glanced at the clock tower. She still had an hour before her meeting. She took a few minutes to get her bearings by taking out the pocket Berlitz guide she’d bought at Kastrup. To the side of the station was a large square with a constant stream of buses trundling over its cobbles. At the far end of the square was the white-granite, red-roofed Finnish National Theatre, contrasting sharply with the gilt yellow-and-white facade of the Ateneum, the National Gallery of Art directly opposite; more of a homage to Russian architecture than Scandinavian. Scrutinizing the map, Anita worked out that Sami Litmanen’s mother lived round the corner from the theatre. Anita was hoping that Litmanen’s comment ‘it’s just got personal’ would soon be explained.
Her mobile phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Hakim.
‘Arrived safely?’
‘Yes. Very wet at the moment,’ she said, watching the rain pelting the station’s watchful doorkeepers. ‘Any luck?’
‘Yes. You were right to get Liv involved. She’s good at research. Even better than me.’ Anita knew he’d never admit that in front of Liv. ‘I think your coffee theory makes sense. Offessons’ own plantations are in the Mogiana region. Known for its rich, red soil apparently. The area is on the border of the Minas Gerais and São Paulo states.’ Anita could tell he was reading Liv’s notes. ‘These are north of the city of São Paulo. That probably explains why Sami Litmanen flew directly there. And the town of Armenia in Colombia is at the centre of what’s called The Coffee Triangle. Offesson’s don’t have plantations in this region but buy from local producers.’
‘That sounds interesting.’
‘What’s more interesting is a second São Paulo Swedish connection that Liv uncovered.’ She could hear the pride in his voice. ‘Trellogistics have a subsidiary company based there. Transport again. Trellogística Brasil. They are contracted by Offesson’s to carry beans from the plantations to São Paulo for shipping to Europe.’
‘Good work. Tell Liv I’m impressed. Anything else?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Keep digging. We may have our two warring companies. Is there anything shady going on? What did Litmanen discover?’
After she’d finished the call, Anita had a spring in her step, albeit a careful one to avoid the puddles.
The blonde woman sitting opposite Alice Zetterberg and Klara Wallen had already made it clear she didn’t want to be there. She wanted to go home. They realized she had been through an awful ordeal. And they had established that she was Kristina Ekman.
‘I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, Kris
tina,’ said an obsequious Alice Zetterberg, ‘and we’ll try and keep this as brief as possible, but we’ve got to know exactly what happened to you. It gives us a better chance of catching the people behind this.’
‘Huh! You haven’t had much success so far. Look what they did to me,’ she said, thrusting her wrists in their direction. Raw, red marks disfigured the delicate, smooth skin. ‘This is what they did to me. Tied me to a chair for days on end. I was so frightened,’ she said, biting back the tears. Zetterberg and Wallen knew Peter Uhlig had the same abrasions
Despite the unwashed blonde hair swept back into a ponytail, the sallow complexion and the faded, smeared make-up, she still looked beautiful. She was wearing a tracksuit provided by the polishus. Wallen reckoned it wasn’t the type of garment Ekman had ever worn before, or would again. She would have to wait a while longer to slip back into her designer clothes.
‘They were animals!’
‘Did they sexually molest you?’ asked Wallen. This might be a new dimension to the kidnappers; their first woman captive.
‘No. Nothing like that. Thank God! They were just horrible.’
‘OK,’ said Zetterberg. ‘Can you take us back to the day you were abducted in Drottningtorget? Did anything unusual happen in the build-up to that day? Suspicious people hanging around near the apartment for instance.’
‘No. I’d been in Malmö overnight and had my usual Friday meeting to go to in the centre of town. I came out of the building and I was aware of some vehicle driving up close by and then the next thing I knew, I’d been bundled into a van and a hood had been put over my head. I was absolutely terrified.’ She stopped and bit her bottom lip.
‘I know it’s difficult. Just take your time.’ Zetterberg wasn’t used to turning on empathy, and she hoped it sounded genuine. ‘Could you describe the men?’
‘No. They had masks on. Then I was driven somewhere.’
‘Do you have any idea how long the journey took? How long you were being driven?’
MALICE IN MALMÖ Page 24