Spice Trade

by Erik Mauritzson

  Despite diverse tastes, none of their clients were interested in willing whores of either sex. They were all alike in their need for a very special kind of excitement. Only real fear and total domination, not playacting, could provide the strong arousal they needed. Knowing the huge risks they were taking amplified the illicit thrill.

  The Keeper’s services were unique, and correspondingly costly.

  It was thirty minutes later by the on-screen clock when he saw that the client had finished. Sated, he’d wiped himself with a towel, put on his clothes, and walked out of the room.

  A few minutes later, Ahmed came in, released the bindings, and removed the gag. The girl got up slowly and turned around, sitting on the edge of the bed with her head hanging down facing his crotch. Ahmed opened his pants and took out his already hard penis. Putting his hands behind her head he forced her mouth toward him. Her face was a blank mask as he used her; then she fell back exhausted. Ahmed straightened his pants and left.

  The Keeper wasn’t upset by what Ahmed had done: the girl was an expected perk. But he was an imbecile not drugging her and tying her up again before he went out. It was just as well they’d gotten rid of him. He was a walking liability; besides, he’d never liked him. Now the police would be pushing their investigation into her very public death. All because of that stupid, stupid fool. They couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

  What a waste. It wasn’t only current revenue, it was lost future profit from reselling her through Marrakech to their less particular Middle Eastern customers. Nordic girls like her were rare, especially thoroughly broken-in and tractable ones, and fetched a huge premium. The Keeper had been planning to ship her to Marrakech after this client grew tired of her, as he’d become bored with her predecessors when they’d become apathetic and weren’t so obviously terrified.

  She’d been exactly what the customer had ordered. He didn’t want to travel to the farm like everyone else. He was so taken with her that he’d paid triple to have her brought to town where she’d be more accessible. He’d be upset now. We’ll have to find him a replacement.

  The Keeper smiled. With the videos we have, he’ll be paying us forever no matter who we give him. But we don’t want to push him, not yet; he’s promised us more customers.

  3

  GERDI VINTER

  Saturday, January 21, 8 a.m. It had been a long night and Gerdi Vinter’s face was pale with fatigue. She sat in Ekman’s office sipping her fourth coffee that morning as she summarized the night’s investigation. They’d spoken to people on the street, in the building the girl had fallen from, and in the apartment houses across the way. No one had seen her until she fell.

  Ekman stood at the windows while he listened, gazing out on Stortorget, the city’s main square, its cobblestones gleaming from last night’s freezing rain. He was wearing his usual somber office outfit: starched white shirt, vested black suit, and tie.

  It was his silent memorial to Bernt Osterling, his longtime partner, murdered during a robbery twenty years before, while Ekman was on leave. He knew it was pointless, but somehow dressing this way on duty helped ease the still-lingering guilt at not having been there for Bernt.

  “Preliminary examination showed she died on impact. We should know more by Monday after the autopsy. She narrowly missed a couple of people. It’s a miracle no one else was hurt.”

  “Did you find where she fell from?”

  “Yes. Scanning the building with binoculars, we located a small, broken window in an attic apartment on the fourth floor. Cuts on her shoulders and elsewhere showed she’d somehow squeezed through it onto the roof. At the apartment, no one responded to our knock, so thinking someone inside might be injured and couldn’t answer, we broke in.”

  That was her excuse for not getting a warrant. Ekman had no problem with it. Trained as an attorney he knew what the law required, but wasn’t perturbed when his detectives ignored legal niceties if it led to speedier justice for victims.

  “There was no one there. Forensics spent the night going over the place and we should have their report soon.”

  Ekman turned to face her. “What was your impression?”

  “There was very little furniture and no personal items. It looked like someone had hurriedly cleared out. The most interesting things were a bedroom door that could be bolted from the outside and a chair leg used on the window.”

  “Conclusion?”

  “The woman was a prisoner and desperate. She got out by breaking the window. It was a tight squeeze even though she was very slender, with narrow shoulders and hips. The glass cut her as she struggled through. She only had a slip on, it was freezing, and she could see the roof was slippery and steep. What she was escaping from must have been much worse. Probably sexual abuse.”

  Ekman sat down heavily in his battered swivel chair. This could be a solitary rape, but it might be something more. He knew sexual abuse of women was widespread and human trafficking a growing cancer. Ekman had dealt with these cases before, but they turned his stomach. He despised the people who did this. To him, they were humanity’s dregs, devoid of any redeeming empathy for their victims that he’d sometimes found in other criminals.

  “What are your next steps?”

  “Besides missing persons, we’ll check fingerprint and DNA data bases and see if the autopsy and forensic reports help identify her. And we’ll try to find out who rented the apartment. If he showed ID, there may be a copy in the rental agent’s file. If not, we’ll ask whoever dealt with him to sit down with our sketch artist.”

  “You’re assuming it was a man?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t, but that seems likely.”

  “I agree. Once you have a picture, see if anyone in the building, or adjoining buildings, recognizes him. Check local stores, bars, and garages. Maybe someone will know him.

  “But first, Gerdi, go home and get some sleep so you can function. Tell Enar I want him to work with you on this and keep things going while you rest,” he said, naming his assistant, Inspector Enar Holm. He knew that Gerdi and Enar already were more than a work team: they were living together.

  Vinter stood up. She was shaky from exhaustion. “Thanks, Chief. I’ll fill him in and then crash.” Ekman looked after her retreating back. She and Enar were favorites of his.

  Standing over the kitchen range, Enar was scrambling eggs in a pan while Gerdi sat at the table, sipping orange juice.

  “You can brief me while you eat, and then it’s off to bed,” he said, putting a plate of eggs and buttered toast in front of her.

  As she ate, Gerdi summarized what she’d told Ekman. They needed the pathology and forensics reports, but those probably wouldn’t be ready until Monday at the earliest. In the meantime, Ekman wanted them to pursue the investigation as best they could.

  “Okay,” Enar said. “I’ll pick it up while you rest and when you feel ready, you can join me. I guess he expects us to work through the weekend.”

  “What else?” said Gerdi. Ekman was famous for pushing death investigations especially hard.

  Holm had gotten hold of the rental agent and asked her to open her office. Now he waited patiently while the dumpy, sixty-year-old woman looked through a filing cabinet behind her desk.

  “This is terrible,” she said, as she fingered her way through the packed cabinet. “That poor girl. Nothing like this has ever happened in the building.” Finally she located the file and put it on her desk in front of him.

  “Please look for yourself.”

  He flipped open the folder and found the rental application with a photo of a driver’s license. They’d hit it lucky.

  The furnished apartment had been rented two weeks ago for six months by Ahmed Chafik. He’d paid cash.

  “We need all of this,” he said. “I’ll give you a receipt.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then agreed.

  “We’ll have to canvass the building, and then stores in the area, to see if anyone was friendly with him,” Holm said, handin
g copies of the enlarged driver’s license photo to the two detectives working with him.

  Inspector Rosengren, a short man with thinning red hair, pursed his lips. “The guy’s really ugly,” he said, looking at Chafik’s small, close-set eyes, low forehead, and heavily pockmarked face. “People should remember him.”

  Rosengren’s partner, Alenius, thin, tall, and usually silent, just nodded.

  Holm was discussing the case with them, when Vinter came into the detectives’ brightly lit bull pen with its ten sets of paired metal desks facing each other.

  “You’re supposed to be getting some rest,” Holm protested, as Rosengren smirked. Everyone knew they were a couple. Alenius listened without expression.

  “I slept for a couple of hours and then got restless. I thought I’d come in and see what you guys were up to,” Vinter said, looking at the three men. “Just to make sure you stayed on the right track.”

  Holm laughed and summarized what they had so far. She was impressed.

  “Okay, it looks like somehow, even without me, you’ve made a little progress. Where do we go from here?”

  “We need to check out the address on his driver’s license,” Holm said.

  “Okay,” said Vinter. “Let’s do it.”

  4

  THE COLLECTOR

  Friday, November 11, 9:30 p.m. He’d spotted her from across the room. She was very pretty, with short blonde hair, and the right size: small and boyishly slender. Perfect. Just as she’d been described to him. The bar was crowded. He’d had to maneuver through the packed bodies to get next to her.

  Now they were pressed shoulder to shoulder. Even so, he had to bend down toward her and raise his voice to be heard over the loud talk and throbbing electronic techno music blaring from huge speakers.

  “That’s a lovely necklace,” he said, looking at her amethyst and silver pendant.

  “Thanks,” she said, startled that this muscular man, in his midthirties, with two days’ stubble on his handsome, boyish face, would notice.

  He saw her surprise and grinned. “No, I’m not gay. I used to be in the jewelry business.”

  She would never have taken him for a jeweler. She looked him over skeptically.

  “That’s an interesting pickup line,” she said, grinning back.

  “It’s not a line. I was a jeweler until two years ago when I sold my store.”

  “Here in Weltenborg?” she asked. “What was it called?”

  “It was in Malmö. The Silver Whale.” He extended his hand. “My name’s Tomas, by the way.”

  “What do you do now, Tomas?”

  “I look after my investments. I know it sounds lazy, but it’s actually challenging work.”

  “You’re lucky.” She paused. “I’m Lynni.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lynni. Are you with someone?”

  “Not tonight.” He was really in luck.

  “Can I get you a fresh drink?” he asked, looking at her empty wine glass.

  “Sure, chardonnay, please.”

  He pushed through the packed crowd around the bar and ordered. When the wine arrived he reached into his pants pocket for a small vial, and with his hand over the glass concealing it, flipped the lid open with his thumb and squeezed a few drops of Rohypnol into the wine. Putting the container back in his pocket, he swirled the glass, making sure the drug was thoroughly mixed, and made his way to her.

  He handed her the drink. “Skål,” he said.

  “Aren’t you having anything?”

  “I’ve already had more than I should,” he said.

  They chatted for the next ten minutes, obviously interested in each other. Lynni told him she was a dental hygienist, originally from Uppsala, and worked in Weltenborg. She shared an apartment with two other women. The others had gone out dancing tonight with their boyfriends.

  “And how come a girl like you,” he said, looking at her with obvious admiration, “doesn’t have a boyfriend to go dancing with?”

  “I’m sort of between boyfriends now,” she said.

  “Maybe I can help you with that.”

  “You certainly are a fast worker,” she said.

  Suddenly she leaned against him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m feeling dizzy, light-headed.”

  “It’s too hot and crowded in here. Let’s get some fresh air. It’ll help you feel better,” he said, shouldering people aside as he guided her toward the exit. He got their coats from the checkroom, draping hers around her shoulders.

  Outside she had trouble walking and had begun to stagger.

  “You need to sit down. My car is just down the street,” he said. Putting his arm around her waist, he slowly walked her to a blue Mercedes 550SL coupe. Opening the passenger door, he eased her in.

  Her eyes were closing.

  “Just sit back and relax,” he said. “I’ll be right here,” going around to the driver’s side and getting in.

  When her eyes had been shut for a few minutes and he was sure she’d fallen into a deep sleep, he started the car and pulled quickly away from the curb.

  5

  THE TEAM

  Sunday, January 22, 8 a.m. The five members of the team Ekman had assembled had just settled in their seats when he came in and took his usual place at the head of the conference room table.

  Vinter and Holm were on his right, facing Rosengren and Alenius. The four had worked through the weekend and their faces showed their fatigue. Alrik Rapp, bullet-headed and bulky, sat facing Ekman at the opposite end of the table.

  Ekman turned to Holm, “Enar, what do you have?”

  He summarized what he’d discovered about the apartment rental and handed Ekman and Rapp enlarged copies of Chafik’s driver’s license photo.

  “I checked our data bases; he has no criminal record. He’s twenty-six and came to Sweden from Morocco a year ago to work at a company in Stockholm. His work permit required fingerprints, so I got them and passed them on to forensics to match against those in the apartment. Alrik has their report.”

  Vinter continued. “Enar and I went to the address he gave on his driving license. It’s on the second floor of an upscale building at 708 Dorisgatan. He wasn’t in. The manager told us he lives alone. We leaned on him to let us look around, but we didn’t see anything unusual. Chafik’s car, a new Volvo S40, was still parked in a garage behind the building. He’s also got a computer.” She looked at Ekman. “We’ll need warrants to do a thorough search of the apartment and car, and take that computer.”

  “Get me affidavits and I’ll speak with Prosecutor Kallenberg. You’ll have them today.”

  “Rosengren?” Ekman said to the red-haired detective on his left.

  “Alenius and I showed his photo in some Muslim stores and to people who live near his apartment, mostly around Axgatan where a lot of those people live. The guy’s so ugly we figured he’d be remembered. But if they knew him, no one was talking. You know how these damn Muslims hang together,” he said, looking around at the others for agreement.

  “Let’s get something straight right now,” said Ekman, his face tight. “This case involves a Muslim. Don’t forget that some immigrants are naturalized Swedish citizens. Everyone, I repeat, everyone, whether or not they are citizens, will be treated with respect. There will be no further remarks or knowing looks. Is that understood?”

  “Sorry, Chief. I didn’t mean anything,” Rosengren said, but they all knew he had.

  “Alrik, you’ve been looking impatient and from your expression you’ve got something important to tell us.”

  “It’s good news, Chief. We’ve matched the woman to a missing person in our data base. She’s Lynni Dahlin, twenty-two, a dental assistant, reported missing on November 15. Her brother, Nils Dahlin, lives in the city and formally identified her. He was really broken up. We’ll be interviewing him later about her friends.

  “The autopsy showed the fall was the cause of death: severe skull damage and a broken neck, as
well as other injuries. Death was instantaneous. The time, as we know, was last Friday night, at eight fifteen. Her body had numerous cuts from broken glass, and other cuts were on her hands and knees, probably from the roof tiles. Dark bruises on her wrists and ankles indicated she’d been tied up.

  “Forensics found her fingerprints and DNA in the apartment’s bedroom and the adjoining bathroom. Chafik’s fingerprints were all over. There were also some unidentified fingerprints and DNA in the bedroom. Hair and fiber were collected. From a half-bath in the hall, they found hairs with follicles attached, so DNA was extracted. The working assumption is that the hair is Chafik’s.

  “Just before death she’d been raped. Traces of semen were in her mouth. But Rapid DNA analysis confirmed that a second man was also involved: unidentified semen was found in her anus. Her vagina and anus were heavily bruised. Those bastards really did a number on her,” he concluded, looking grim. He had a teenage daughter.

  “Good work, Alrik. You’ve given us a lot to go on,” said Ekman. “What we know is that she was raped and Chafik was one of the men involved. I’ll ask Kallenberg for an arrest warrant, in addition to the search warrants. We need to find out everything we can about him and any associates, and see if we can identify the other man. Gerdi and Enar will execute the warrants for Chafik’s car and apartment. After forensics has gone over his place and car they’ll need to bring the computer in for the techs. When Dahlin escaped and fell, Chafik must have panicked. He’s not going back to his place.

  “Alrik, put out an APB for him. You’ve all seen the reports on TV, the Net, and the newspapers,” Ekman said, holding up the front page of Saturday’s Sydsvenska Nyheter, which featured a picture of the police at the scene of Friday night’s fall. “So let’s give the media his photo and Dahlin’s, and a hotline number. Rosengren and Alenius, you’ll be screening the calls.” Seeing their downcast expressions, he said, “I’m counting on your experience to sort out the cranks from the likely tips.

  “This is a high-profile case. We’ve made good progress thanks to your hard work. But we’ll be under increasing pressure to produce more results. Any comments or suggestions?”