MALICE IN MALMÖ

by Torquil Macleod

  ‘Of course I don’t! I was scared out of my mind. Do you know what I was thinking? All I could think of was my two children. What would happen to them? I wouldn’t be able to protect them if something happened to me.’

  ‘That’s understandable.’

  Ekman wiped away a tear in the corner of her eye with the sleeve of the tracksuit. ‘I’m sorry. That’s not helpful. It can’t have been more than about half an hour. Maybe less, maybe a bit more.’

  ‘You weren’t moved from the van into another vehicle at any stage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We found a burnt-out van. There’s a possibility it might have been the one used in your abduction. Where were you imprisoned? Was it in a room or a cellar or—’

  ‘It was metal. Like a container.’ Zetterberg and Wallen exchanged a knowing glance.

  ‘Were you aware of your surroundings?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Could you hear anything through the walls, for example? Trains, trucks, that sort of thing?’

  She shook her head. ‘There were certainly no trains. I could hear traffic, heavy traffic. Erm... yes... like you say, trucks.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘I definitely heard a ship’s horn. A few times, actually.’

  Anita sat in a pew and dried her glasses. The hushed ambience of the neo-classical cathedral was a much-needed antidote to the torrential rain outside and helped her to collect her thoughts. It was easy to be enraptured by the serenity of the place, and Anita particularly liked its simplicity – not too many gaudy icons or over-the-top religious paintings; just a couple of tasteful angels flanking an altarpiece depicting the death of Christ. The rest of the interior space of the domed, galleried, circular main hall was light and airy. She adjusted her watch to Helsinki time – an hour ahead of Swedish; she’d forgotten to do it on the plane. In half an hour, she was meeting Tero Rask, journalist and ex-colleague of Sami Litmanen’s.

  A group of Japanese tourists came in behind her, accompanied by a flapping of wet umbrellas, a whirr of cameras and an occasional squeak of excitement. The peace was broken. Anita stood up and picked up her still-wet, red hat. As she made her way back towards the entrance, her gaze was directed upwards to the beauty of the massive organ, its pipes encased in pillars and archways of red, white, and gold gilt curving round the gallery above the door. She imagined the wonderful sounds it would emit in full wind, then realized that the sound she could actually hear was her phone buzzing in her pocket. She went outside and stood under the glistening white Corinthian columns before taking the phone out. It was a text from Hakim.

  Woman turned up in Limhamn cemetery. Tied up same as before. Kristina Ekman!

  Anita exhaled slowly. This was a turn up for the books. If the kidnap victim was Kristina Ekman after all, what was Lothar von Goessling’s game? But she didn’t have time to speculate further. She headed down the steep cathedral steps onto Senate Square. Her glasses were already streaked with rain again.

  ‘We know you were held for six days. What contact did you have with the kidnappers during that time?’

  Kristina Ekman held Zetterberg’s gaze.

  ‘Hardly any. I was in the bloody dark nearly all the time except for meals. Someone came in with a torch and untied me and stayed there until I’d eaten. And when I had to use a bucket to relieve myself in. The degradation. The pervert watched me.’

  ‘Did you see their faces?’

  ‘Always masked. It was as creepy as it was terrifying. It was not knowing what they might do next.’ There was a tremble in her voice.

  ‘Did they speak to you at all? Or did you hear them speak?’

  ‘One of them spoke to me. Not very good Swedish. With a strong accent. More grunts really.’

  ‘But did you ever hear them talking among themselves? Peter Uhlig thought his captors might be Russian.’

  ‘A couple of times. The two men who grabbed me; when we were in the back of the vehicle. They certainly weren’t Swedish. I’ve had business dealings in Russia. Yes, I’d put my money on Russian.’

  This was the confirmation they needed. It wasn’t just a vague Eastern European gang; it was almost definitely Russian. Zetterberg realized that gave them something to work on.

  ‘What was the food like?’ Wallen asked.

  Zetterberg gave her an astonished frown. ‘What sort of question is that?’

  Wallen ignored her. ‘What sort of meals did they give you?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Ekman replied.

  ‘You know, was it carryout meals or more prepared sort of food?’

  Ekman looked quizzical. ‘Not very good. Pizzas, burgers... that sort of thing...’ She tailed off.

  ‘Can we get back to more important matters? We must assume that whatever ransom was demanded has been paid.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

  ‘Yet when Inspector Sundström spoke to Lothar von Goessling at your country home, he claimed that you were away in Switzerland visiting your children, who, I believe, are at school there.’

  Ekman was clearly puzzled. ‘I don’t know why he would say that. You mean he didn’t contact you? The police weren’t involved in any of this? How...?’

  ‘We were looking for a missing woman whom we thought might be you, but Goessling changed our minds.’

  Ekman’s mouth dropped open. ‘So you were never looking for me?’

  CHAPTER 38

  The Scanian landscape whizzed by in a blur of green, yellow and brown. Hakim was a city boy at heart and he was uncomfortable in swathes of open countryside. The reason for his haste was that Alice Zetterberg had told him to head across to Illstorp and talk to Lothar von Goessling before word got out that Kristina Ekman was free. Get his side of the story; specifically why he’d lied to Anita Sundström about Ekman’s whereabouts. Brodd was to go with him as back-up. Hakim could think of more useful help.

  Brodd was stuffing his face as usual. He’d just demolished a sandwich and was now breaking into a bar of chocolate.

  ‘Fancy a piece?’ he said, offering a chunk.

  ‘No thanks. Wrong time of day,’ said Hakim, concentrating on the road ahead.

  ‘Wrong time of day? You mean it’s not lunch?’

  ‘It’s Ramadan. We don’t eat from dawn to dusk.’

  ‘That’s sounds awful. So you’re having nothing from first thing until it starts going dark?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What time can you eat then, like today?’

  ‘After nine.’

  Brodd sat back in the passenger seat and reflected on the Muslim’s lot as he munched his way through half the bar.

  ‘Wait a minute. Dawn to dusk. What about Muslims who live in the north of the country? It hardly goes dark up there. In fact, isn’t it virtually light all the time? Do they not eat?’ he asked incredulously. ‘They’d bloody starve.’

  ‘I believe in places like Kiruna they’re allowed to go by Stockholm time, so there’s a pretend dawn and dusk, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Brodd returned to demolishing the rest of his chocolate. It only reminded Hakim of how hungry he was. He put his foot down again. An interview with Lothar von Goessling would take his mind off his stomach.

  Tero Rask was waiting for Anita in Kappeli, the great Helsinkian meeting place at the South Harbour end of the graceful, tree-lined Esplanadi Park. Dating from 1867, this large, ornamental pavilion, forged out of iron and glass, was split into two sections with a cosy bar in the middle. On one side was a swanky restaurant and on the other, a spacious café with white tables and chairs below a crystal-droplet chandelier which twinkled like a Charleston dancer’s dress. The slatted-wood, domed ceiling created an airy lightness despite the gloom outside. The tall, latticed windows looked out onto the Havis Amanda fountain, its sensuous nude mermaid surrounded by four sea lions, their spouting mouths accentuating the aqueous backdrop. She took off her wet coat and hat and fluffed out her hair.

  Anita reckoned Rask was about six
ty. His grey hair was cropped like stubble in a wheat field. Bags under his melancholy eyes and roughly reddened cheeks testified to too much news-gathering in bars. His bulging paunch also indicated too many of the stunning cakes that were on offer at the Kappeli counter. They took their coffees and cakes – Anita thought it would be rude not to sample the local delicacies – to a cosy alcove overlooking the street. She and Rask eased themselves into the curved space, his stomach pressing against the round table top. To facilitate communication, they spoke in English.

  ‘This is a fantastic place,’ said Anita with genuine admiration.

  ‘The rendezvous of choice. It’s a great place to watch the world go by.’ At the moment, the world was scurrying to get out of the rain. ‘Jean Sibelius used to hang out here with all his artistic friends.’ Rask gave a little chuckle. ‘They were gathered here as usual one day – Aho, Leino, Gallén-Kallela among them – when Sibelius was called away to leave for Stockholm to complete a musical composition. When he returned a couple of days later, the same group were still together round the same table. One of the artists chided the famous composer: “Listen here, Jean – either you stay outside or stay inside, but stop coming in and out all the time!”’

  Anita laughed at Rask’s well-polished anecdote. She immediately gathered that Rask wasn’t afraid of the sound of his own voice. It would make her job easier. She took a forkful of her chocolate confection.

  ‘You weren’t very forthcoming on the phone. But I checked with Martin Glimhall – I know him from way back. And he says you’re OK.’ He raised his cup to his lips. ‘And his physical description of you was spot on, too,’ Rask added with what Anita could only describe as a leery slurp. She let it pass. She got fewer compliments these days. ‘Though,’ he added, gesturing towards the cuts on her face, ‘you seem to have been in a scrap.’

  ‘It was a beauty treatment that went wrong.’

  Rask chortled. ‘I like a girl with a sense of humour.’

  She opened with ‘You worked with Sami Litmanen?’

  ‘Sami? We heard about him yesterday. Shocking, absolutely shocking.’ He said it so loudly that it caught the attention of nearby tables.

  ‘I’m trying to find out about him before he came to Sweden. He was calling himself Mikael Nilsson in Sweden. But the reading public knew him as The Oligarch.’

  The bags under Rask’s eyes seem to droop even lower. ‘We’d heard of The Oligarch, of course. But until the news came through, no one had connected the dots to Sami. How did it happen?’

  ‘He was murdered in his apartment. We haven’t released specific details with enquiries still ongoing.’

  ‘I understand. Do you know who did it?’

  ‘We have suspects,’ she said vaguely. ‘Nothing concrete yet.’

  ‘Hence your trip over here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I appreciate everything is under wraps, but I was planning to do an obituary for the paper. People will want to know he’s... gone.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. It’s just that we can’t furnish you with any specific details of the murder at the moment. Actually, your ideas for an obituary would help me. I’m trying to build up a picture of Sami Litmanen. His life before he came to Sweden.’

  ‘If I can help.’ He drained his coffee. ‘But first I need something stronger. Been a bit of a shock.’ With difficulty, he got to his feet. ‘Can I get you a proper drink?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  A couple of minutes later, Rask returned with a large beer and a small schnapps. Anita let him settle down again before continuing.

  ‘I’m talking to his mother later on so I’ll get Sami’s family background. It’s his professional life that you can fill me in on. It’s likely that he was killed because of his work.’

  Rask shook his head sadly. ‘I assumed it might be something like that. Sami sailed close to the wind at times.’

  ‘When did you first come across him?’

  ‘When he joined the paper as a junior reporter. I was a kind of mentor. He’d been on a couple of smaller rags before coming to us. I sort of took him under my wing; showed him the ropes. He was a quick learner. Ambitious too; a young man in a hurry to succeed. I liked his style and tenacity. He’d push that bit harder than maybe the rest of us to get a story. It impressed the bosses even if it hacked off the hacks.’ This joke was accompanied by a guttural guffaw. When Anita didn’t react, he said ‘Isn’t “hack” an expression in English for a journalist?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Rask retreated into his beer.

  ‘When did he start to get into investigative journalism?’

  The schnapps was downed in one go. He licked his lips. ‘Russia. Yeah, it was Russia. The paper sent Sami off to the Moscow bureau. That meant that he covered everything from ice hockey in St. Petersburg to conflicts in Chechnya. He was over there for about three years.’

  ‘So his Russian was passable?’

  ‘Fluent. Always good at languages.’ That made sense as he’d successfully passed himself off as a Russian or someone from one of the satellite states.

  Anita took another mouthful of the rich cake. A hidden cherry filling gave her a delightful surprise. Heaven!

  ‘Was there any particular story that got him going?’

  ‘Yes. It was huge when it broke here in Finland. He stumbled across a story involving a prominent Helsinki businessman who was involved with the Russian mafia. Sami exposed the fact that the Russians were using this guy’s company to funnel money through to fund illegal activities around Scandinavia.’

  ‘That was a bit dangerous.’

  Rask’s belly shook as he laughed, nearly upsetting his beer. ‘Bloody dangerous! The paper had to pull him out of Moscow, pronto.’

  Anita sipped her coffee. Perfect! Her only worry was trying to claim this lot on expenses.

  ‘Did he carry on with the investigative journalism on his return?’

  ‘Oh yes. Ordinary reporting went out of the window. He totally immersed himself in his work. He was good. The best. Of course, such dedication came at a cost. His marriage for starters.’

  ‘We didn’t know he was married.’

  ‘Susanna. Pretty little thing.’

  ‘Susanna? Doesn’t sound very Finnish.’

  ‘No, she was a Finland-Swede.’

  ‘A Finland-Swede?’

  ‘Yes. About five percent of the country are Finland-Swedes. Goes back to the days when your lot held sway. Seven hundred years of it. Even after we became a Russian Grand Duchy a couple of hundred years ago, Swedish was still the official language. Finnish didn’t become a co-language until 1863. Even today, Finland-Swedes are treated as a pampered minority, which upsets many Finns. There’s still a Swedish daily paper, Hufvundstadsbladet, and Swedish news and television programmes. It’s even mandatory in schools. I believe English or Russian would be far more useful. But some of the young see Swedish as a way into life in other parts of Scandinavia.’ He shrugged in disbelief. ‘Anyway, I think Sami married Susanna because she was a Finland-Swede. A weird kind of status thing.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, many of the Finland-Swedes hail from ancestors that came here from the Swedish army; soldiers were given land and tax benefits for services rendered to the Swedish king. That led to the moneyed government and intellectual classes being of Swedish origin. The old university at Turku, before it was moved to Helsinki, was a hotbed of Swedish speakers. Ironically, many of the great Finnish nationalists were Finland-Swedes, like Elias Lönnrot, whose Finnish-Swedish dictionary kick-started our own literary language; and John Ludvig Runeberg, our national poet, who wrote the words of our national anthem.’

  The fire was lit in Tero Rask’s eyes. It was time to steer him off cultural differences.

  ‘Sami’s scoops while he was in Helsinki: did he ever target celebrities?’

  ‘You mean actors, singers, TV people...?’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘No. He thought those types were vacuous
. He wouldn’t waste his time on them. He went for the corrupt, the wrongdoers. He was like a one-man crusade. Nothing got in the way. When he got his teeth into someone, he wouldn’t let go. It was like he was in a different world. You could hardly talk to him. Became secretive, or security conscious anyway.’

  ‘Why did he leave Finland?’

  ‘He outgrew Helsinki. Too small. He loved Sweden. The idea of it, anyway. Maybe it was inspired by his mother.’

  ‘Why his mother?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you know?’

  CHAPTER 39

  When Hakim and Brodd arrived at the front of the Wollstad mansion, the man they assumed to be Lothar von Goessling was pacing up and down on the lawn smoking a cigarette.

  Hakim did the introduction. ‘I’m Inspector Hakim Mirza and this is Inspector Pontus Brodd.’

  Goessling threw away his cigarette. ‘Is she safe?’ he said in English.

  ‘You mean Kristina Ekman?’ said Hakim, switching to English.

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Yes, she was left in the cemetery in Limhamn.’

  ‘Is she OK? Physically? They haven’t done anything to her?’

  The sun was high in the sky now and was beating down upon them.

  ‘She’s shaken but fine.’

  ‘I must go at once and collect her.’

  ‘Hold on. We need to speak to you first.’

  ‘But she’ll need me.’

  ‘We need to ask you some questions,’ put in Brodd firmly. He didn’t want to be left out, though his English wasn’t as fluent as Hakim’s. He’d decided to play bad cop if he was given the chance.

  ‘Why did you tell Inspector Sundström that Kristina was away in Switzerland when you obviously knew that she’d been kidnapped?’ asked Hakim.

  Goessling fished out another cigarette and lit it with a shiny, silver lighter. The expensive gold bracelet round his wrist glinted in the sun against his tanned skin. He blew a plume of smoke before answering.

  ‘I’ll never forget the moment that the call came through from the kidnappers. The ransom demand. They said that if I went to the police, Titti would be harmed.’