‘Are you OK?’ Kevin asked.
‘Yeah. Dragan Mitrović won’t be coming after us again.’
‘It’s the case that’s on your mind. I can tell. It’s the curse of detectives. We can never leave things. We’re forever asking questions and chasing answers. Never satisfied until we get a result. And even then we look back and question ourselves. Could we have done it differently? Did we miss something?’
‘I missed something all right. I went for the obvious in Sami Litmanen’s case. All those people who’d had their lives destroyed by him. Suspects galore. I should have looked into his Finnish background earlier. I’d have found his mother’s Swedish connection. If only I’d paid more attention to the book he was reading. Clues I failed to spot.’
A middle-aged couple on their boat called to each other as their slim craft moved away from its mooring. Kevin waved to them and got astonished looks back.
‘You’ve got your suspect now. The Coffee King.’
‘I definitely think it was Anders Offesson. The trouble is I’ve got no proof. Nothing to put him at the scene of the crime. It’s not easy to barge in and accuse the head of one of Sweden’s most famous families of murder. A double murder, actually. The second one to cover up the first, because I’m sure that’s what this is all about. “By the way, herr Offesson, we know you killed your sister as well.” It’s not going to happen. We’ll never get him for Isabell’s killing. Even if she was willing to testify, Eila won’t be regarded as a reliable witness. A frail woman in her eighties with a history of mental problems talking about an event that happened when she was six. Any decent defence lawyer would tear her apart.’
‘You need a way in.’
‘But how?’
Kevin was about to wave to another crew and then thought better of it.
‘You should start where Litmanen began. He only found out about Anders’ treatment of his mother after he’d launched his investigation into the company. What had he learned? Wasn’t it two well-known companies? That’s what the editor told you. Litmanen went to South America. So, we know that one is Offesson’s. His mother confirmed that. But the other?’
‘There is another Brazilian connection. I’ve just remembered. When I spoke to Hakim in Helsinki. Liv dug it up. Trellogística Brasil. Peter Uhlig – the guy who was kidnapped. It’s one of his subsidiaries. Transports the beans from the Offesson plantations.’
‘Well, there’s your starting point.’
‘I’ll give Liv a ring.’
‘Find out a bit more and then approach Anders Offesson with the business angle – Sami Litmanen was investigating your company. You need some background. Then all you have to do is charm him into admitting that he’s a double murderer.’
Anita flashed him a wide-eyed gape. ‘I didn’t realize it was that simple!’
CHAPTER 42
When Anita arrived at the polishus on Monday morning, she wondered why she hadn’t been called into work over the weekend by Alice Zetterberg. The others had, and an exhausted Hakim greeted her with a wan smile.
‘I hope you had a good weekend. We didn’t.’
‘Any developments?’
‘No breakthroughs. We’ve exhausted the harbour areas. I’ve seen enough of the inside of containers to last me a lifetime. Of course, it hasn’t occurred to Zetterberg that the gang may just have put the thing on the back of a truck and taken it away after use. She’s all over the place. I think she’s barricaded herself in Moberg’s office awaiting the inevitable call from the commissioner. She’s more worried about his reaction to the kidnaps because he regards them as more important people than a hated “parasite of a journalist”, as she called Sami Litmanen. She’s got warped priorities. The living before the dead.’
‘I spoke to her on Friday night. Somehow, she’d managed to turn it into my fault. She’s clearly freezing me out of the kidnappings. Suits me.’
‘We’re all useless, according to her. Oh, by the way, I hear you’ve been keeping Liv busy over the weekend.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Don’t be. I wasn’t around and it gave her something to do. Any luck?’
‘Your girl is clever and resourceful. That’s official.’ Hakim couldn’t hide his pleasure at the compliment. ‘She’s building up quite a network of financial journalists. Even made contact with one in São Paulo. All is not well in Brazil, which might explain Sami Litmanen’s battling companies. You know that most of Offesson’s coffee comes from Brazil and Colombia?’
‘Yes, mainly Brazil.’
‘Right. And that Uhlig’s subsidiary firm transports the Brazilian beans to be shipped out?’ Hakim nodded. ‘Well, according to Liv’s South American source, Trellogística Brasil has been shut down for the moment. Some irregularities. The source wasn’t sure of the reason, though it could be a lack of bribes to the right people or someone wanting to take over the company using officials to put pressure on. It certainly hasn’t helped Trellogistics’ share price. And all this happened at exactly the same time that Uhlig was a captive.’
‘Do you think Uhlig fell out with Offesson? And that the coffee people are behind this?’
‘Could be. It’s quite a coincidence that all this happens when Uhlig is out of the picture. He’s still the main decision maker in the group.’
‘You’re not suggesting that the kidnappings and Litmanen’s murder are linked?’
‘No, I don’t think so. All I’m saying is that there’s a good chance that Sami Litmanen was onto something dodgy going on between Anders Offesson and Peter Uhlig. I’m sure it’s a coincidence that Uhlig was kidnapped at that particular time, but the situation allowed Offesson to make his move. It’s only a theory. What I am sure about is that Anders Offesson is our killer.’
Anita was leaving the building. It was lunch time: she was peckish and she was heading out to find something to eat. The day was blustery; the fine weather that had stretched over the weekend had now turned. It blew her hair across her face and she swept it away from her glasses. Rarely was Malmö free of wind.
‘Anita!’ Klara Wallen came out of the main door after her. ‘Can I have a quick word?’
‘Sure. I’m just going to grab some food. Want to have lunch with me?’
Wallen’s eyebrows shot up. ‘No chance with Zetterberg on the warpath. She’s got another meeting about the kidnaps in a few minutes. Commissioner Dahlbeck’s given her a right old bollocking by all accounts. Apparently, his secretary heard him shouting.’
They crossed the road and stood overlooking the canal. The water was being riffled by the wind. There weren’t any pedalos out today.
‘There’s something on my mind that I want to run past you. There’s no point talking to Zetterberg. She just gets fixated on one thing and won’t listen to anything else.’
‘Been there, seen that,’ said Anita, resting her bottom against the railings, arms crossed.
‘It’s actually a point that you raised. The food that Peter Uhlig was served when he was in captivity.’ This piqued Anita’s interest immediately. ‘When we interviewed Kristina Ekman, she said she was given fast food. So was Mats Möller. Yet Uhlig was fed things like herring, mashed potatoes, chicken, meatballs – basically, meals that have to be cooked. Are kidnappers likely to go to all that trouble, especially if they’re holding someone in a semi-public area such as a harbour? You keep things tight; make life as easy as possible for yourself.’
‘I understand,’ nodded Anita as she swept her hair back yet again.
‘The more I think about Uhlig’s abduction, the more it doesn’t quite add up.’
‘Such as?’
‘The whole handover-of-the-money business. We know the money was made available. We saw it. Then, conveniently, it disappears with the mysterious police patrol. This is after the switch of cars at the last minute; we hadn’t time to put a camera in fru Uhlig’s Volkswagen so we couldn’t record anything. And I’ve looked into Trellogistics. They’re not in as healthy a state as might be
imagined.’
‘They’re having problems in Brazil, too. A subsidiary firm has been closed down. Temporarily, I think.’
‘His kidnap might have been a way of releasing money that was tied up elsewhere. The board would have been obliged to cough up. I mean, what if Peter Uhlig is behind the kidnaps? A great way of raising much-needed revenue.’
‘Sounds a bit implausible,’ Anita said sceptically.
‘I know, I know. Far-fetched. But if he’s the one who set up the kidnaps, no one is going to suspect him when he’s one of the victims. I mean, he supposedly was kidnapped with no one else around. A quiet country road with no witnesses. The other two were snatched in town. OK, there weren’t any witnesses to Möller’s either, but he was taken outside his office. The kidnappers can’t have guaranteed that no one would be about.’ Wallen gripped the railings with both hands, unable to direct her gaze at Anita. ‘You don’t think I’m daft?’
‘Of course not. Makes a kind of sense.’ It didn’t really, yet Anita was pleased that Wallen was showing initiative. She wasn’t known for thinking outside the box. Anita wanted to encourage her. ‘Pursue it. My advice is to dig a bit more before you attempt to run your theory past Alice Zetterberg.’
One interesting snippet to come out of her chat with Klara Wallen was that Trellogistics might be in trouble. A quick call to Liv, who was fast becoming a business expert, confirmed that Trellogistics shares were down further. There wasn’t a run on them as yet, but they were considered shaky. She’d then called Alice Zetterberg to say that she was going out to speak to Anders Offesson. Anita knew fine well Zetterberg was in a meeting with the rest of the team so wouldn’t answer the call; she happily left a voice message. She knew that had she spoken to Zetterberg, she was unlikely to have been given permission until Commissioner Dahlbeck had been consulted. And he wouldn’t have sanctioned it without some solid evidence.
Anita drove Kevin’s hire car north of Malmö, round Lund and deep into the countryside. The landscape was mainly flat with a patchwork of fields broken up by small woods and copses and the usual Scanian farmhouses and occasional village. To Anita, it wasn’t as attractive as her own Österlen. She was now in Eslöv Municipality, where the Offesson family home was located; she’d found it via Google maps. She still wasn’t sure how she was going to approach her interview with Anders Offesson. She’d taken the precaution of ringing ahead and had kept the reason for her visit vague, despite the efforts of Offesson’s officious daughter-in-law to quiz her. The downside of this strategy was that Offesson would have been forewarned; the upside was that she was guaranteed to speak to him.
Anita had spent much of Sunday going round Västra Hamnen with a photo of Anders Offesson to see if it jogged any memories. The problem was the photo was out of date by at least ten years; she couldn’t find a recent one so had taken one off the internet. The man in the picture appeared affable, smiling into the camera. He still had a good head of greying hair and a moustache to match. The eyes were bright, though that might have been from the flash of the camera. The nose was prominent, the jaw thick-set and the mouth slightly askew; he was certainly not handsome. It was difficult to estimate his size as he wasn’t standing next to anyone. Certainly, his build suggested he was strong enough to smash a lamp into the top of Sami Litmanen’s head. But it was hard to believe that this doyen of the coffee dynasty, who had bequeathed millions of kronor over the years to good causes, was a murderer.
It had taken Anita fifty minutes to reach the entrance to the Offesson estate. The lofty, wrought-iron gates punctuating a solid, high wall topped with ribbed terracotta tiles were enough to discourage any unwanted visitors. Anita spoke into an intercom and the gates opened. An avenue of limes ushered her towards the main house, where the drive divided to girdle three concentric circles of neat, low hedging, in the centre of which was a statue of a nymph. On seeing the house, Anita thought it looked very familiar. It was a cream, oblong, three-storey, Neoclassical building with a curved portico, the columns of which supported a balcony, beneath a domed rotunda incorporated into the middle section. Then it came to her – Gyllebo Castle near Simrishamn. It was almost identical and had probably been constructed at much the same time, possibly by the same architect.
Anita parked the car next to a new, green Land Rover and an older, but spacious, silver Volvo. She made her way up the steps and rang the bell. It was answered by a woman in casual slacks and a summer blouse that would have made an H&M customer blanch at the cost. The absence of lines on the woman’s face did not belie her age but simply indicated the possibility of Botox. She was probably in her fifties. But it was her hair that was her most dramatic feature. Thick and black, it was fashionably unkempt, as though she’d been plugged into an electric socket.
‘I’m Felicity Offesson,’ the woman said, offering a hand that was manicured to perfection. The nails were a virulent shade of red.
‘Anita Sundström,’ said Anita, disengaging her hand from the woman’s cold grasp.
‘Are you sure it’s Anders you want to see? Not my husband, Christer?’ Her Swedish was good, though Anita now detected an American twang which she hadn’t noticed when they’d talked on the phone.
‘Yes.’
‘I just thought... as you’d said it was to do with the business, Christer runs it now. Anders is still involved, but his poor health means he doesn’t take much of an active part these days.’
The reference to Anders Offesson’s health rang an alarm bell in Anita’s head.
‘No. I do need to speak to your father-in-law.’
‘Very well. I’ll take you through to the garden. He’s out there. Please don’t upset him. He’s got a chest complaint at the moment.’
Felicity Offesson took Anita through the cavernous hallway, past a lavish staircase and down a wide corridor that led to a rear door. Outside, a carefully mown lawn, bordered on either side by splashes of radiant colour, melded seamlessly, with the aid of a cleverly designed ha-ha, into acres of rolling parkland. In the middle of the lawn, two large oak trees cast sharp shadows in the afternoon sun. Anita was taken along a stone-flagged path to an expansive patio near the far end of the house. There, sitting on a comfortable garden chair, was Anders Offesson dressed in a cream, creased-linen suit. Perched on his head was a panama hat. The spot was sheltered from the wind and a large parasol shaded him from any unwanted heat. As the two women approached the old man, Anita couldn’t help her gaze straying over the lawn to the oak trees. The child’s tree house was long gone.
‘This is Inspector Sundström, the police officer whom I told you called.’
Anders Offesson peered up at Anita. Slowly, he stiffly rose from his chair.
‘Afternoon. Take a seat.’
Anita quickly appraised his size, strength and agility. Physically, he appeared strong, but was he nimble enough to have caught Litmanen off guard? Maybe his slow movements lulled Litmanen into a false sense of security? Yet, even if he had been able to commit the murder, could he have cleaned the apartment and carried away the missing items? She doubted it.
‘Shall I get drinks? Or a coffee?’ enquired Felicity in a simpering voice.
‘Don’t bother. I’m sure the inspector won’t be staying long.’ Anita felt cheated. It was ironic that she was at the home of Sweden’s most illustrious coffee maker and she wasn’t even being allowed one.
With an arched eyebrow, Felicity left them and flounced back into the house. Offesson resumed his seat. Anita sat down.
‘What do you want?’ The question was abrupt. ‘Felicity said it was something to do with the company. In that case, you should be talking to Christer.’
‘I’m sure you still take an active interest.’
‘I still own the majority shares. I attend board meetings; little else though. Christer can fill me in on any details of an evening.’
‘So your son still lives at home?’
From under his panama, he gave her a dirty look before his face melted into a half smile
.
‘We have to fill this pile somehow,’ he said, nodding towards the house behind them. ‘And Christer and that wife of his will inherit it when I’m gone.’
If Anita had her way, Christer might be inheriting it rather sooner than expected.
‘Do you know a man called Sami Litmanen?’
‘Should I?’
‘Maybe you know him by his journalistic moniker, The Oligarch.’
‘Now that is a name I recognize. A muckraker of the highest order.’
‘Many would agree with you, especially the person who killed him.’
‘Am I meant to be sorry?’ He dissolved into a rasping cough. He pulled out a handkerchief to cover his mouth.
Anita let the noise subside before continuing.
‘At the time of his death, he was investigating your company, particularly your South American plantations.’
Offesson dabbed his mouth. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘I was hoping you might have an answer.’
‘You’re speaking to the wrong person.’
‘I don’t think so. I’m sure you know exactly what’s going on. I know that Peter Uhlig’s São Paulo truck company has been closed down for some unknown reason. That must affect your coffee production if you can’t get your beans transported.’
‘I admit that has caused some short-term problems. Nothing that we can’t overcome.’
‘But there must be something more to get The Oligarch rushing off to Brazil and Colombia. Are you putting the squeeze on Trellogistics?’
‘Of course not,’ he said angrily before spluttering into another coughing fit. When he came up for air, ‘It’s damaging our business. But it’s not just that...’ She could see that he was about to continue then changed his mind. After a long pause, ‘Trading conditions are difficult at the moment, that’s all.’
MALICE IN MALMÖ Page 28