MALICE IN MALMÖ

by Torquil Macleod

  ‘Who’s Titti?’ Brodd asked Hakim.

  ‘Kristina,’ said Goessling with some irritation. ‘The family call her Titti. I still would have contacted you, but I was persuaded not to. After all, you ballsed up the Peter Uhlig handover.’

  ‘Who did the persuading?’ queried Hakim.

  ‘Titti’s father. He didn’t want to risk his daughter’s life.’

  ‘Dag Wollstad?’

  ‘I had no one else to turn to. I’m wealthy, but I don’t have a disposable four million euros.’

  ‘The call... the ransom call... what language did they use? You don’t speak Swedish, do you?’

  ‘He started in Swedish. I knew it must be important. I just couldn’t get the gist of it so he started talking in English. With an accent, like Swedes have when they speak English. Like Titti talks to me. I soon got the message.’

  ‘So where did the ransom come from? Dag Wollstad?’

  ‘Yes. He arranged a transfer of money to Germany. I have no idea where it came from. I flew to Frankfurt to pick it up from a bank two days ago. Cash.’

  ‘And where did you deliver it?’

  ‘I left it in an IKEA cool bag in Simrishamn church yesterday at four o’clock as instructed. In the third pew from the back on the left-hand side. I was to leave it under the seat.’

  ‘Was anybody in the church at the time?’

  ‘A couple of tourists, I think. The woman was taking a photo of one of the ships hanging from the roof.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I left. I wasn’t going to hang around to see if it was picked up. Titti’s life was at stake. And I didn’t want them to think that the police were around.’

  ‘Might have been better if they had been.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Now if that’s all, I’m going to Malmö to collect her.’ He flung away his half-smoked cigarette.

  They watched Goessling stride across the grass.

  ‘Believe him?’ Hakim asked.

  ‘Never trust a rich boy.’

  Built in 1907, the art nouveau apartment block was on five floors and Eila Litmanen lived at the top. The graceful building on the corner of Mikonkatu and Railway Station Square was rendered in pink stucco and, at intervals, sported semi-circular projections from the second floor to the roof, incorporating attractive bay windows. Inside, however, the entrance hall was dark, and overwhelmed by a disproportionate amount of coloured marble – on the walls, on the floor, on the steps up to the higher levels and, most noticeable of all, on the enormous newel supporting the staircase. There was no lift.

  After a gruelling climb, Anita had to pause to get her breath back. She had no idea how the old woman managed it. Eila Litmanen’s neighbour, whom she’d spoken to on the phone, met her at the door. She must have been seventy at least but had the energy of a woman far younger. She introduced herself as Karita. She spoke in the accented Swedish that Anita had found difficult to follow over the phone. It was easier to decipher accompanied by vigorous hand gestures. Karita explained that Eila was ready to speak to her, but that Anita shouldn’t tax her unnecessarily. She reiterated that Eila wasn’t in the best of health and was understandably emotionally strained. And she tired quickly, so best keep the conversation short.

  Karita took Anita through to the living room. It was an elegant space with a high, corniced ceiling, thick walls, and quadruple-glazed windows to keep out the cold and the noise. The furniture was old-fashioned but tasteful and comfortable. Sami Litmanen had obviously spared no expense. Eila Litmanen was sitting upright in a high-backed chair. A wooden cane rested against the arm. Next to her chair was a small table with a tray on it containing a full glass of water and various bottles of pills. The wizened old lady she had expected was surprisingly tall, albeit sitting down. She had thick white hair neatly brushed back. The face was deeply lined, though Anita could see that she had once been a handsome woman. The mouth was thin and on seeing Anita enter, she dabbed nervously at the corner of her lips with a lace handkerchief. She was preparing herself for a conversation that no parent ever wants to have. Her eyes alone betrayed her sadness. Deep pools of sorrow.

  ‘This is Inspector Anita Sundström,’ said Karita. ‘The Swedish police officer I told you about.’

  Eila offered a bony hand; the skin stretched tightly showing a delta of veins. Anita shook it cautiously as though it might shatter at her touch. The blue dress didn’t hide her thinness; it accentuated it. She must have filled it out once. Eila Litmanen was frail, though Anita could see a stoical resignation in her eyes.

  ‘Please, Anita, sit.’ She waved to the sofa opposite her chair. ‘That will be all, Karita,’ as though dismissing a servant.

  ‘Of course. If you need anything, Eila...’ and turning to Anita, she gave her a warning glance. ‘Not too long.’

  After she had gone, Eila said ‘I could not do without Karita, but she does fret so. Can I get you anything? Some tea perhaps? Or some food?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m still full of cake from Kappeli’s.’

  ‘A good choice. It has been many years since I have been there.’ Her Swedish was precise, though Anita knew she wasn’t a Finland-Swede from what Tero Rask had told her. Her voice was strong and clear.

  ‘I was told by a journalistic friend of Sami’s that you spent some of your childhood in Sweden.’

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, though Rask had explained that Eila had been one of the huge numbers of Finnish children that had been evacuated to Sweden during the Second World War. Maybe it was a time in her life that she didn’t want to remember. Anita knew that the young Finns had received a mixed reception by their Swedish hosts. Some had lived happily with sympathetic families while others had harsher tales to tell. Many didn’t return to Finland until well after the war because by 1945, Finland’s economy was on its knees.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your son, fru Litmanen.’

  ‘Did you know Sami?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘He was a lovely boy. Always good to me, especially after his father died. He did not have many friends as a child. He was reserved, like me. He did not find trusting people easy. Is that what led to his death? Did someone he did trust betray him?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do not worry. I do not want to know how Sami died. Knowing he is dead is cruel enough; knowing the details of his death would be unbearable. I have already shed so many tears.’

  ‘Fru Litmanen...’

  ‘Call me Eila. That is my name.’

  Anita watched as Eila wiped her mouth again. ‘I know this is painful to talk about, but I need to ask you about the last time you saw Sami. He came here near the end of April, I believe.’

  Eila nodded her head slowly. ‘He did. Only for two nights. He never stayed long. Sometimes he would disappear for weeks, months, and I would not hear from him. The occasional phone call, perhaps. And then he would suddenly come and light up my day.’ She stopped and picked up her glass of water; it wobbled slightly as she put it to her lips. ‘Excuse me.’ She put the glass down. ‘He was a very generous boy. He bought me this apartment ten years ago.’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘He always looked out for me. His father Otso died when he was only eleven. He missed him dreadfully. Became even more introverted. Money was short then without Otso’s wage coming in. I was still working as a telephonist with the Elisa Corporation. It was not highly paid. Later, I stayed on in Runeberginkatu when it was converted into the telephone museum. Life was not easy bringing up a child. No grandparents who could help. Even as a young boy, he promised to buy me somewhere nice to live when he had the money.’ A hint of a smile crossed her face at the recollection.

  ‘His own apartment in Malmö was very simple, though his work must have been well paid.’

  ‘He has a beach house in Thailand. He would often spend time there in our winters.’ That explained what his money was spent on. ‘He did not like the cold, particularly after his years working
in Russia.’

  ‘Did you know much about his work as a journalist?’

  ‘Not once he left Helsinki. I knew he must be doing well.’ Eila stared round the room as though she couldn’t believe how lucky she was to be living here. ‘He said his work was often very secret. I do not know why he would not talk about what he did. It was just his way. Except...’

  ‘Except?’

  ‘The last time.’

  ‘Did he talk about what he was working on?’ Anita was trying not to press too hard.

  ‘He wanted to talk to me about the Offesson family.’

  ‘The coffee people?’

  ‘Yes. You can buy their coffee in Finland, but it is not as good as Fazer’s coffee here in Helsinki. You must go to the Karl Fazer Café on Kluuvikatu. And the chocolate and the cakes are splendid.’

  Anita was desperate not to get side-tracked. ‘What did Sami tell you about the Offesson family?’

  ‘It was something to do with their business. In South America.’ This was starting to fit in with what they had already discovered. ‘It was to do with the plantations. Some company was causing problems. Disrupting the Offesson operation, he said. Corruption was involved.’

  ‘Do you know what this other company was?’ Could this be a possible breakthrough?

  ‘He did not say, or if he did, it did not register with me.’ Anita felt a sense of anticlimax.

  ‘Was it another Swedish company?’

  ‘Yes, I am sure it was.’

  Again, Eila raised her handkerchief to her lips. This time she stifled a yawn. Her eyelids were heavy. Anita was losing her.

  ‘Look Eila, I’ll go. May I come back tomorrow?’

  ‘I am sorry I cannot talk longer. I need to rest. Please do come back and we can talk some more. I do want to help you.’

  ‘I know. What time?’

  ‘Come at eleven. My health visitor comes in at ten. She will be gone by then.’

  ‘Eleven it is.’ Anita stood up and collected her bag. ‘One thing puzzles me, Eila. Why did Sami want to talk to you about the Offessons?’

  ‘Because I lived with the family during the war.’

  CHAPTER 40

  When Hakim and Brodd returned to headquarters, the meeting Alice Zetterberg had called was just starting. Klara Wallen and Bea Erlandsson were there plus half a dozen other officers who had been brought in to help.

  ‘Good, you’re back. What did Lothar von Goessling have to say?’

  ‘He claims that when the ransom demand came through, he turned to Kristina’s father, Dag Wollstad.’

  ‘The fugitive?’

  ‘Yes. He advised Lothar not to tell the police. He didn’t want to risk his daughter’s safety; Lothar mentioned the Peter Uhlig fiasco.’

  ‘Before I took charge,’ Zetterberg pointed out unnecessarily.

  ‘Anyway, that’s why he pretended that Kristina was safe and well. Didn’t want to jeopardize the handover. The money for the ransom was four million euros—’

  ‘The same as Peter Uhlig’s. That’s interesting.’

  ‘The money was raised by Dag Wollstad. Lothar supposedly flew to Frankfurt to pick it up. That can be checked.’

  ‘Where was the money drop off?’

  ‘Simrishamn church. Left the ransom in an IKEA cool bag – the same as before – under a pew. Said he left. That was yesterday at four o’clock. Then Kristina is released this morning.’

  ‘OK. We’ve really got a pattern here. Same M.O. as before. Abduction followed by incarceration in a port area; the first one in a disused workshop, the other two in containers. Both Ekman and Uhlig have rope marks round their wrists. She, like Uhlig, reports hearing ships’ horns and heavy traffic. Same ransom as Uhlig’s; delivered in the same way – an IKEA cool bag. Same type of delivery point: a church. Same dumping of victims in cemeteries around the city in all three cases. Same type of hoods; same method of tying the victim up to a bench; same use of gaffer tape. As I say, same pattern.’

  ‘What about the food?’ Wallen asked.

  ‘Why do you keep wittering on about the damn food? Just because Sundström mentioned it!’

  ‘There’s a point here. Peter Uhlig said he was reasonably well fed. Kristina Ekman was given takeaways, as was Mats Möller. Why are they different?’

  ‘I have no idea. Maybe they couldn’t be bothered,’ she said dismissively. ‘However,’ she added slowly, ‘we need to check out all the fast food outlets within easy reach of the harbour areas. I know you did that after the Möller business, but I’m in charge now. Ask about any customers with poor Swedish.’

  ‘There are a lot of those in Malmö these days.’

  Zetterberg ignored Brodd’s comment. ‘Basically, non-regulars. Obviously foreign, because we’re now fairly sure of the nationality of the gang. Kristina Ekman believes that they spoke Russian. It backs up what Peter Uhlig thought his captors were speaking.’

  ‘There must be a Swede involved,’ chipped in Wallen. ‘The policeman who stopped Ann-Kristen Uhlig at Skårby. The ransom demand over the phone.’

  ‘The guy who rang through the demand to Goessling started talking in Swedish, apparently,’ chimed in Brodd, ‘before switching to English. Goessling doesn’t speak Swedish.’

  ‘So, they’ve got a local on board,’ said Zetterberg. ‘It makes sense. Maybe he’s the one who pinpoints the targets.’

  ‘Is he the weak link?’ ventured Erlandsson. ‘If he’s involved in something like this, he’ll probably have a criminal record. That’ll be how the Russian gang recruited him.’

  ‘That’s a line of investigation. You can get on with that, Bea. The rest of us are going down to the docks. This time we’re going to turn the place over.’

  Anita reached Eila Litmanen’s apartment just before eleven on Friday morning. She was fresh after a good night’s sleep at a nearby hotel. She had resisted the temptation to visit The Pickwick pub opposite the station and had bought a cheap and hearty meal at the restaurant in the Swedish Theatre at the city end of the Esplanadi. She’d then gone to bed early after calling Kevin and then Lasse to make sure all was well in Malmö. She’d surprised herself by how much she was missing Kevin, despite the fact that she’d seen him only that morning. Maybe her feelings for him were growing deeper. She had seen enough of Helsinki to know it was Kevin country, bursting with history and extraordinary buildings. Rashly, she promised him that they would come here for a weekend break. Mind you, she’d done the same after her visit to Malta last year, and she hadn’t fulfilled that promise. She’d allowed herself one indulgence this morning. Ignoring the hotel breakfast, she’d made for the sumptuous Karl Fazer Café (Fazer pronounced Fatser locally) and had had three cups of their own coffee and two cakes: one with succulent layers of chocolate and one riddled with strawberries and cream. Now she had to admit she felt a little queasy. She’d also bought some Fazer chocolates to take back for Kevin, and Jazmin who, like her, was a chocoholic. The selection for sale was so mouth-wateringly stunning that she’d taken some pictures on her phone. She would send them later.

  It was Eila who opened the door to let her in. She was leaning on her cane.

  ‘I did not tell Karita,’ she said conspiratorially. ‘She fusses so.’

  Anita followed the old lady at a very leisurely pace into the sitting room. Today, there was an extra table in place with a coffee pot and cups and a selection of biscuits. Anita inwardly groaned. She would pay for her earlier gastronomic immoderations just by being polite.

  ‘I thought you might like something,’ Eila said as she carefully lowered herself into her chair.

  ‘You really shouldn’t have,’ Anita protested. She meant it.

  ‘I only made the coffee. Karita made the biscuits. Besides, I like to make an effort. I get so few visitors these days, except for Karita. So many are gone now. Including...’ For a moment Anita thought that Eila might start to cry.

  Anita did the pouring, and she left her biscuit uneaten on her old-fashioned china plate.


  ‘You said yesterday that you spent the war with the Offesson family.’

  ‘Yes. From 1941 until 1946.’

  ‘Five years. That’s a long time. Did you keep in touch with them?’

  Eila appeared reticent. Eventually, she said ‘Not really.’ This struck Anita as odd. You’d expect to get close to a family over so many years.

  ‘Was Sami interested in your time with the family?’

  ‘He did ask.’ She ventured nothing more. It was as though she’d shut the door. Anita decided that there was something she needed to unlock. She would have to take the long route.

  ‘Tell me about the war. And what it was like in Sweden. I’ve seen Mother of Mine.’ Eila looked at her uncomprehendingly. ‘It’s a film about a Finnish boy who is evacuated to a farm in Skåne, and the story follows him adapting to Swedish life without his mother, and the farmer’s wife’s slow acceptance of a child into the family home after the death of her own daughter. They eventually create a bond.’

  Eila’s expression showed that this hadn’t been the case with her. ‘The Russians invaded at the beginning of the war and took areas of the country. That was called the Winter War. But when the Continuation War came in 1941, so did the bombs on Helsinki. My mother thought it was becoming increasingly dangerous for me to be here. My father had already been called up to fight. Then one day, my mother packed a suitcase and took me to the Central Station and I was put on a train. I was so frightened and upset. I was only six. I did not understand why she had done such a thing. Did she not love me anymore?’ Eila dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, a different colour and design from the one she had used the day before.

  ‘As you must know, most of us ended up in Sweden, though a few went to Denmark and Norway. Many of us were allocated families. Others were not so fortunate and ended up in institutions. I was fostered by the Offesson family.’

  ‘They were rich.’

  ‘They lived in this beautiful house in the countryside near Helsingborg. A wonderful garden, too, to play in.’ She suddenly stopped.

  ‘You must have been well looked after even if you were unhappy to be away from your mother,’ said Anita, trying to keep the conversation going. There was something hidden here that she felt must be relevant.