Stone Coffin

by Kjell Eriksson

  Latin men, Lindell thought. Moya turned back to her.

  “I suggest that you check into your hotel, rest, and perhaps eat something. Then—let us say at three—we can go to UNA Médico. Does that sound acceptable?”

  “Shouldn’t we try to go earlier?”

  “No, here we work late,” Moya said.

  * * *

  Málaga Palacio lay on what Lindell assumed was the main street of the city, Alameda Principal. Outside the hotel was a big park, and a couple of blocks to the north lay the grand cathedral.

  Lindell had read a little of the city, its history and sights. She knew that it was over twenty-five hundred years old and had been in Arab hands for over seven hundred of those.

  “Seven hundred years,” she said to Haver as they sat on a bench in the park. “That’s like if Uppsala would have been under Russian or German rule since the 1300s. That would leave traces on people, on the culture, on everything.”

  “Mmm,” said Haver, who was studying the map.

  “Picasso was born here,” he added.

  “Yes, well, there’s that typical Arabic influence,” Lindell said. Haver looked up and smiled.

  “Are you feeling all right?” he asked.

  “Do I feel okay? Yes, of course.”

  “You’ve just seemed a little down lately,” Haver said and put the map down.

  “There’s been a lot going on,” Lindell said.

  She stared at the pigeons that were gathering en masse around an old man on the opposite side of the little open space where they were sitting.

  “It’s nice to get away for a little while,” he said. “But I’m wondering what we’re going to get out of it. If we can’t review their accounts and correspondence, how are we going to find anything of value? We’re completely in the hands of the company.”

  “I know, but I see it like this: The solution to the case is in Sweden—I’m convinced of that—but if we stir the pot down here, something may bubble up at home.”

  “That’s a humble hope,” Haver said.

  A mother with a stroller walked by. He followed her with his gaze.

  “I’m having a little trouble reading Moya,” Lindell said.

  “There’s some of your Arabic influence right there,” Haver said and nodded at the woman with the child. Her abundant hair swirled like dark smoke around her head.

  At a quarter to three, a civilian car pulled up in front of the hotel entrance. It was the same driver from the morning. Lindell noted that he had changed his shirt.

  Inside the car—a large Toyota—were Mora and Arrabal. The trip took them to an industrial area at the edge of the city, not far from the airport. Lindell thought she read “Guadalhorce” on a sign as they turned off from the highway. A train came rattling along the tracks parallel to the road. They took a right after a train station, went another couple of blocks, and then turned to the left. The car slowed down and glided past a row of police cars. Moya raised his hand in greeting as they moved to the front, like a presidential motorcade.

  “That’s quite a backup,” Lindell commented and turned toward the smiling Moya.

  “It’s good to make a gesture,” he replied. “So that they see that we are serious.”

  Lindell was struck by the thought that perhaps Moya was using his Swedish visitors and the coming strike for his own purposes. She glanced at Haver and was about to say something when Moya pointed and said something to the driver. He pulled in between some gateposts and up to a redbrick building. The row of police cars followed them like goslings.

  UNA Médico was written in large letters on a copper sign, with MedForsk written in smaller letters underneath. An old man with a broom in his hand watched the invasion of cars with wide eyes. He pulled off his cap and in this way marked the spectacular nature of the event.

  Moya walked confidently up to the front door. One of the civilian-clad officers took out a camera and snapped a photo of the chief as he put his hand on the handle. Now there was nothing pleasant in Moya’s expression; he looked more like a field marshal.

  Police chiefs are alike everywhere, Lindell thought. Soon our own little police chief will preside at all strikes, powdered and uniformed, as the camera flash blinds the gaping public.

  The rest of the officers spread out and disappeared behind the corner of the building. About ten followed Moya and the Swedes through the main door.

  The Spanish-Swedish delegation was met in the reception area by two middle-aged men. They were dressed in a way that in Sweden would have been categorized as extremely flashy. One of them was markedly short. This was the one who stepped forward and set his sights on Moya as if he already knew him or perhaps realized who was in charge.

  “Welcome to UNA Médico,” he said heartily and introduced himself as Francisco Cruz de Soto.

  Had they been expected after all? This thought went through Lindell’s mind when she could not discern a trace of surprise in De Soto’s face. Instead he displayed a polite helpfulness, not effusive, but without any guardedness.

  “We are here to investigate certain issues pertaining to your company activities,” Moya said directly, and Morales translated for the Swedes.

  “We have also brought some Swedish colleagues,” Moya went on, and now he switched to English.

  De Soto immediately walked up to the four northerners and shook their hands. He started with Lindell. It was not clear if this was because she was a woman or the leader.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said four times, and each time it sounded genuine.

  “We will need immediate access to your accounts, books, employee records, calendars, and correspondence,” Moya continued and fished a piece of paper out of his inner pocket. “Here is the warrant,” he said.

  De Soto paid no attention to the document.

  “We will cooperate with you regardless of the matter at hand,” he said and turned to Lindell.

  He knows what this is about, she thought.

  Within a quarter of an hour, a handful of police officers were installed in the company offices. Moya, Arrabal, and De Soto plus a couple of UNA Médico employees and the four Swedes went into a conference room. Within a couple of minutes, coffee, soda, and beer appeared on the table.

  Moya began with a long speech about the seamless and long-standing tradition of cooperation between the Swedish and Spanish police. He managed to squeeze in something about the European Union as well and how international police cooperation was developing still further, not least with the help of technology.

  De Soto listened calmly to this lecture. When the police chief was done, De Soto repeated his assurances that they would not meet any resistance from the company.

  Moya glanced at Lindell and she realized that it was her turn. She had prepared her statement and related the events that had occurred in Uppsala.

  “We believe,” she said as she wrapped up, “that certain answers to these events may be found here in Málaga.”

  “And which might those be?” De Soto immediately asked.

  “Certain financial transactions that appear irregular,” Lindell said, and now most of her nervousness had disappeared. “We have reason to believe that relatively large amounts of money have disappeared from MedForsk and possibly ended up here or in a third-world country. We also have some questions regarding the Dominican Republic. There has been a purchase of land there and possibly some other transactions that we find puzzling.”

  De Soto made an attempt to interrupt, but Lindell went on.

  “Finally,” she said, “I am sure that you are aware that the head of research at MedForsk, Sven-Erik Cederén, is dead, as are his wife and young daughter. The latter were brutally murdered.”

  “Yes, we have heard of this and are deeply saddened, but from what we understand this was a family tragedy that has nothing to do with MedForsk or us. Sven-Erik Cederén was an excellent researcher and friend, but apparently he became overwhelmed by madness—to put this plainly,” De Soto said.

&nbs
p; “Is the name Julio Piñeda familiar to you?” Haver asked abruptly.

  A look of irritation flashed across De Soto’s face, but he immediately answered in the negative.

  “Have you ever been to the Dominican Republic?” Lindell asked.

  “Yes, on two occasions. Both times with my wife and children. It is a beautiful country.”

  “You have no business there?”

  “No, the political situation is too uncertain. Also, there is insufficient developed infrastructure and access to a well-trained workforce.”

  “So what did you do there?” Haver asked.

  “Vacation,” De Soto said curtly.

  The hell it was, Lindell thought, and she could see the skepticism in Haver’s face.

  “And you have no plans of conducting any business there?”

  “No, as I told you. The Dominican Republic is of no interest to us.” Bosse Wanning from Financials had sat quietly to this point, but now he coughed and all eyes turned to him. Lindell was grateful for his initiative. It was challenging to undertake an interrogation in English and she felt pressure to be extra smart. In part because De Soto was so polished and in part because she wanted to make a good impression on foreign soil.

  “We have identified a transaction from the Swedish firm to a country in the Caribbean,” Wanning began. “I’m sure you are familiar with this affair.”

  He paused as if he was waiting for an objection from De Soto, who was calmly awaiting the rest.

  “What comments do you have on this matter?”

  “No comment, as is the standard phrase,” De Soto said and smiled. “We simply are not familiar with it. Isn’t that right?” he said and turned to one of his colleagues, who made an expressive gesture with his arms.

  “But we have found a fax that contradicts your statement,” Wanning said in a mild voice.

  Lindell knew that he could be as sharp as a razor blade—quite mean—when he chose to be so.

  “A fax from where?”

  “From this office,” Wanning said without looking up as he leafed through his papers.

  “It was signed Pedro,” he added.

  “We have a Pedro, perhaps a couple, but they work in production and have nothing to do with the management,” De Soto said, still calm.

  “Perhaps it is a slang name?” Wanning said, at this point receiving help from Morales to find the right word.

  “This is a company, not a soccer team. We have no nicknames here.”

  “We have certain statements from your Swedish friends,” Wanning continued happily.

  “Statements?”

  Wanning pulled out a piece of paper that he quickly eyed before pushing it across the table.

  “It has been translated into Spanish,” he said.

  De Soto did not pay any attention to the paper and simply passed it along to his colleague.

  “Perhaps there have been questionable actions, what do I know, but not due to a deliberate will to disobey either Swedish or Spanish law. We are in a particularly expansive period. I repeat, very expansive, and it is conceivable that small mistakes have been made. In which case we would of course correct this mistake.”

  A few seconds of silence followed as if to give those present a moment to evaluate this first admission from the head of UNA Médico. It was the same argument that Mortensen used, Lindell thought.

  “We can not afford any illegalities,” he went on. “The business is going so well that all resources are needed to develop the products and break into new markets. We have a promising new medicine that will be approved by the American FDA any day now. You understand that we would never risk this for a few paltry pesetas.”

  Lindell realized that they would not be able to get any further. De Soto was well prepared for their visit. Was that what Moya knew? Was that why he had been so willing to dispatch the cavalry?

  She coughed. That appeared to be the way to get a word in edgewise in the assembled group.

  “Can we get a list of your employees? And not just the ones who are working here right now. I would also like to see the names of those who worked here, let’s say a year back in time.”

  “Of course,” De Soto replied.

  “Thank you,” Lindell said.

  “When was Cederén here last?” Haver asked.

  The two men from UNA Médico exchanged glances. This was apparently a question they had not prepared for.

  “We will have to review our records,” De Soto said finally. “But I seem to recall it was sometime at the end of May.”

  “Did he mention anything about the Dominican Republic?” Haver continued.

  They could detect a certain irritation in De Soto.

  “As I said, we have no reason to discuss this country.”

  “But did Cederén bring it up?” Haver insisted.

  “Not that I remember. He may have spoken about the Caribbean in general, and he must have known that I vacation there. He may have asked how it is for vacationing.”

  “When were you last in Sweden?”

  Lindell wondered where Ola was going with this, but sensed that he was simply peppering the Spaniard with questions to wear him down.

  “In May. We were both there in May,” and nodded to his colleague. “It was a productive visit. Only good results.”

  “Who is the chief owner of the two companies?” Wanning broke in.

  Switching off, Lindell thought, pleased.

  “Cederén. Jack and I own a quarter each. The rest is spread across some twenty or so investors.”

  “Are they actively involved?”

  De Soto shook his head. “They see the stocks as a good investment.”

  “What will happen to Cederén’s portion?”

  “According to our contract, Jack Mortensen and I have the right of preemption on Cederén’s shares. If we are not interested, they will be offered to the rest of the stockholders according to the proportion of their current investment.”

  “And are you interested?” Haver asked.

  “I have not considered this yet,” De Soto answered.

  Nonsense, Lindell thought. That was the first thing you thought of when you heard that he had died.

  “Can you see any financial motives for the tragic events that occurred?”

  “No,” De Soto answered quickly, clearly somewhat off-kilter at the barrage. “Jack has told me that he has been deeply worried about his friend and business partner.”

  “We have some information that indicates that he did not take his own life,” Lindell went on.

  De Soto raised his eyebrows. “How is that possible?”

  “We do not have all of the details,” Lindell said and leafed through her notepad.

  “Do you know if Cederén drank gin?” Haver said, jumping into the fray.

  “No idea.”

  Now the irritation was very apparent. There was nothing left of the servile smile. He continued to answer politely but showed in his expression that he felt they were completely irrelevant.

  Moya, who had long been quiet, suddenly leaned forward.

  “Señor de Soto,” he said, “I too have some information.”

  A tense silence followed. Moya resembled a tiger about to pounce.

  “According to a secure source, or more precisely two sources, you have consorted with known criminal elements. Individuals that we from the police know very well. What do you say to this?”

  This was a complete surprise to the Swedish detectives, and they realized that Moya had been waiting out De Soto. The Spanish commissioner was also not a novice to interrogations.

  “What should I say? There are always rumors about successful companies and their leaders. That is probably also true of successful police chiefs, I imagine?”

  Moya immediately countered this. Lindell observed with fascination that he appeared to feel right at home in the thickening atmosphere.

  “Jaime Urbano,” he said.

  Lindell felt the reaction from Haver against her arm. He fl
inched but immediately took control of himself and pretended to hold back a sneeze. Well done, Lindell thought. She now knew that Haver had come across this name in his investigations.

  “No,” De Soto replied. “Is this one of your acquaintances?”

  Moya sank back against his chair and gazed at De Soto with eyes that now had a completely different sharpness. Lindell understood the undertone of De Soto’s comment. It was a veiled suggestion that perhaps Moya had connections that could not stand up to the light of day.

  “He is an infamous killer,” Moya said calmly. “From the beginning he was a simple thief and troublemaker, but now he is a fully accomplished killer. I believe that you have met. It may just be the case that you do not remember his name. He was paid four million pesetas by an unknown admirer only four weeks ago.”

  De Soto’s gaze was unsteady. Lindell was enjoying herself immensely and Haver was feverishly jotting notes in his book.

  “Urbano does nothing for free,” Moya added. “In a way he is also a successful enterprise with possibilities for expansion. This is at least the view of his mother.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” De Soto muttered. “I guard myself against associating with his type.”

  There was a knock on the door and one of Moya’s men appeared at the door, looked at his boss, and nodded.

  Moya stood up, excused himself, and walked up to the young officer. They conferred in whispering tones and after a while left the room.

  Moya returned after half a minute. He sat down again without giving any explanation for his departure. Everyone was now waiting for his word. He resumed his relaxed stance, turned toward Lindell, and smiled encouragingly.

  How can thirty seconds feel so long, she thought, and smiled back.

  “I am afraid that we will have to inconvenience you and your company for another couple of hours,” the Spanish commissioner announced.

  Lindell looked at Moya and saw that he liked the situation, not least the fact that he had surprised his Swedish guests. This could have been irritating, but Lindell was happy to give him this. She wanted him to enjoy this, and if he was acting unpredictably, then why not. This only added spice to the whole thing.