Spice Trade

by Erik Mauritzson

  Vinter said, “Chief, why don’t we also start looking at known sexual predators to see if any of them might have a Muslim connection?”

  “Good idea. You can pursue that after you search Chafik’s apartment. While Gerdi’s doing that, Enar, talk with leaders of mosques to get them involved. It’s in the interest of their community to have this resolved quickly.

  “Anything else? Then we’ll meet again on Wednesday at eight. Good hunting.”

  6

  MEMORIES

  Sunday, January 22, 7:10 p.m. Ingbritt was just taking a roast chicken from the oven when she heard the garage door open. A few moments later Ekman hung his things in the hall closet and came into the cheerful, white-curtained kitchen.

  “That smells wonderful,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Everything’s ready. Just open a bottle of wine. It’s in the refrigerator,” she replied with a smile.

  Over dinner she asked about the case and Ekman summarized what they knew.

  “That’s horrible, Walther.” Ingbritt became very silent. She’s obviously upset, Ekman thought. I shouldn’t have told her the details.

  “It’s the world we live in now,” he replied. But he knew this wasn’t accurate. The world had always been like this. Sexual assault was an unspeakable, commonplace experience many women everywhere shared.

  In the past, he’d discussed similar cases with his friend Jarl Karlsson, a psychiatrist. Jarl had said these assaults were committed primarily by psychologically weak men who only felt powerful and sexually excited when raping or brutalizing and humiliating women. It was this feeling of control that most excited them. They became fully aroused by dehumanizing their victims, turning them into objects to be used for their pleasure.

  It basically had to do with how they’d related to their mothers, Jarl said. Ekman had just nodded: more Freudian psychobabble. None of it made any difference to him. He understood these men very well, but nothing could mitigate what they did. He felt as little compassion for them as they felt for their victims.

  INGBRITT PICKED at her chicken, her thoughts moving against her will to the mental door she’d closed and locked years ago, before she’d met and married Ekman at eighteen.

  She’d been fifteen and her parents had gone out that evening to dinner. She was alone with her mother’s older brother, the always joking, jowly Olander, who had gotten her tipsy on two bottles of wine. She’d become disoriented by the unaccustomed alcohol, and he’d been solicitous, suggesting she’d feel better resting in her bedroom.

  At first, they’d sat side by side on her bed talking quietly. Suddenly he’d begun stroking her hair and trying to kiss her, and when she pulled away, ran his hand roughly up her skirt. Then, using his weight, he’d forced her back on the bed, and ripped off her underwear. She just lay there, too stunned to scream or push him away.

  Ingbritt still recalled, as though it had happened yesterday, the feeling of his sweat dripping on her and the grunting noises he made as he raped her. Afterward when he’d finally gotten off her and left without a word, she’d cried, it seemed to her, for hours.

  She’d put her torn panties and the blood-spattered bed sheet in a trash bag and the next day tossed it in a dumpster behind a restaurant. Ingbritt had been too distraught and ashamed to tell her mother, let alone her father. But she made sure whenever Olander visited that she was never alone with him. He always spoke to her with a smile, as though nothing had happened.

  When Olander’d died three years ago at seventy-eight, Ekman had acted surprised that she wasn’t interested in going to his funeral. She’d made the excuse that she had to finish proofing her latest children’s book.

  INGBRITT HAD become unusually quiet, her eyes focused on her plate. Ekman kicked himself again for having upset her.

  “I shouldn’t have talked about the girl. I’m sorry,” he said.

  She lifted her head. “It’s all right, Walther. I was just thinking of something else.”

  “It can’t have been a very happy thought. Care to share it?”

  “It’s best forgotten,” she said, and changed the subject. “We have apple pie for dessert.” She forced a bright smile as she stood up to get it.

  7

  THE FARM

  Saturday, November 12, 7:50 a.m. She woke in a large double bed, the crisp white sheets soft against her body, and suddenly realized she was naked. Lynni sat up, still a little groggy, not understanding where she was at first as she pulled the duvet against her and looked bewilderedly around the cheerful, rose-colored room. There were two doors; a table stood against the front wall with two chairs. Sunlight streamed through a barred window behind her to her right.

  She was overcome by panic. How had she gotten here? And where was she? She froze for several minutes as she sat in bed, her mind racing around and around. She couldn’t remember what had happened last night.

  Finally, cautiously, she got up. She felt the urgent need to relieve herself. On bare feet she went to the open door on the left which led to a small bathroom. After using the toilet, she splashed cold water on her face trying to become fully awake. Her mouth tasted foul. Opening a packaged toothbrush beside the sink, she cleaned her teeth with the new tube of toothpaste there, and took a long, thirsty drink from a large bottle of mineral water that had been placed nearby.

  Looking in the mirror, she put her hand to her throat, suddenly realizing that her necklace, a birthday present from her brother, was gone. Behind her a white cotton slip hung on a hook next to the door. She put it on, glad to be wearing something, even if it was too large.

  Coming out, she went to the window and peered through the bars. The sun had just come up. She saw that she was somewhere in the countryside, on an upper floor of what seemed a large building. To the left she could make out a brown, stubble field and nearby, an old farmhouse.

  Going to the heavy door facing the bed, she turned the knob. It was locked. She pulled at it, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Lynni again tried frantically to remember how she’d gotten here. Memory returned gradually. She recalled stumbling out of a bar with a man. At first she couldn’t think of his name, then it all slowly came to her. He was Tomas, the handsome jeweler. She’d been feeling ill and he’d helped her to his car. Everything after that was blank.

  Was this his place? And why was she locked in? Someone … Tomas? … had undressed her and put her to bed. Had they made love? She didn’t know.

  She banged on the closed door, calling out loudly, “Hello! Is anyone there?” over and over. She finally gave up, sat back down on the bed, her panic returning, and then got up and started banging again. After a while, she heard footsteps on stairs. They stopped outside the door, and a moment later she could hear a bolt being slid aside. She backed away as the door swung open.

  A tall, heavyset woman in her midforties, with doughy features and mannishly cut dirty blonde hair, stood facing her. She was dressed in something resembling a nurse’s old-fashioned, starched grey uniform. The woman bent down and picked up the tray that she’d placed on a stand outside the door.

  “Good morning, Lynni. I’ve brought you some breakfast,” she said in a cheerful voice, coming into the room and putting the tray on the table. She closed the door and pulled back a chair. With a wave of her hand she motioned for Lynni to sit down. “Please help yourself.”

  Lynni ignored her gesture. “Who are you and why am I here? And where is this place?” she asked, her voice quivering.

  “My name doesn’t matter, dear, but you can call me Matron,” the woman replied. “As for this place, we call it the farm. And why you’re here? Lucky you, you’ve been chosen for an exciting new life. I’ll explain everything, but first have something to eat before the bacon and eggs get cold. Here’s some coffee,” she went on, pouring two cups from the carafe on the tray. “I’ll join you.”

  The smell of the food made Lynni realize she was ravenous. Looking at the woman through narrowed eyes, she slowly sat down and tak
ing up a fork, began eating quickly. Matron sat opposite her, watching and sipping her coffee.

  In a few minutes, Lynni had wolfed down everything and drunk all her coffee. The woman poured her another cup.

  “I see you’re a purist like myself when it comes to coffee: just black,” Matron said.

  The food and the woman’s low-key manner had somewhat eased the tension Lynni felt in this bizarre situation, and she attempted a slight smile.

  “Okay, now tell me what this is all about.”

  “Are you adventurous?” Matron asked.

  “No more than the next person.”

  “But don’t you find life as a dental assistant boring?”

  Lynni was taken aback. How did she know that? Then she remembered mentioning it to Tomas. He’d apparently spoken with this woman about her, including her name and occupation. What was going on? What did they want from her?

  “Only a little,” she replied. “Mostly it’s fine.”

  “I know you’re bewildered and rather frightened by this situation, but we find it’s important there be a break in ordinary life to prepare you for a new and different one,” Matron said in a soothing tone and, reaching over, patted her hand.

  “But I don’t want a new life. I’m happy with the one I have,” Lynni protested, pulling her hand away.

  “That’s only because you haven’t experienced all that life has to offer, dear,” Matron said in a patronizing voice.

  “I want to call my brother. Now,” Lynni demanded. She was fed up with this weirdness and had decided she didn’t trust this woman, with her phony sympathy. “And why was the door locked? You can’t keep me here,” she said, her voice rising as she stood up. “This has gone far enough. I want my clothes, purse, jewelry, and phone, and a ride to my apartment.”

  Matron had also gotten up and suddenly leaned over the table and slapped Lynni hard across the face. Her head rocked back from the blow.

  “I try to be kind, but you don’t appreciate it, do you, you ungrateful little bitch?”

  Lynni stood frozen, petrified by the totally unexpected attack. Tears ran down her face as she held a hand to her reddening cheek. Matron, looming over her, noticed that Lynni was shaking.

  “No more making nice. Instead we’ll teach you what it means to be afraid,” she said, her face contorted with a mix of anger and perverse pleasure. “So you want a ride? We’ll give you one you’ll never forget.”

  Turning toward the door, she pulled it open and called in a loud voice, “Gotz, come up here and help me open our little present.”

  8

  KALLENBERG

  Monday, January 23, 1:30 p.m. Ekman was hungry and looking forward to lunch at his favorite Chinese restaurant a few blocks from headquarters. He had more than an hour before his appointment with Arvid Kallenberg, the prosecutor who’d taken Malin Edvardsson’s place when she was promoted to Malmö.

  “I’m sorry to be leaving, Walther,” the bird-like, slightly hunchbacked woman had said to him almost a year ago in her courthouse office when he’d come to say good-bye.

  “I’ll miss you, Malin,” he’d replied and meant it. She’d been personally as well as professionally supportive during the traumatic Grendel case last year, the most horrendous in his long career.

  “Please come to see me, when you’re next in Malmö.”

  “Actually Ingbritt and I will be up your way next month to visit our daughter, Carla, and grandson, Johan. I’ll give you a call before then.”

  “Wonderful. I’d like to invite you to my new home.”

  “We’ll look forward to it,” he’d said. Then she’d surprised him by reaching up and giving him a hug.

  “Take care of yourself, Walther,” she’d said as he left. Like Ingbritt, she was concerned about her friend’s frequent bouts of depression, and his increasing girth.

  He fought off the depression as best he could with Ingbritt’s help, but although he wanted to lose weight, did nothing about it.

  LEAVING HEADQUARTERS Ekman looked up before he crossed Stortorget Square, jammed with pedestrians and traffic, and saw that the chill grey sky and scudding clouds promised rain, or if the temperature dropped a little, snow. He turned on busy Brannkyrkagatan toward the Chinese restaurant in the middle of the block.

  The obsequious host smiled when he saw Ekman.

  “Right this way, Chief Superintendent. I have a nice, quiet table for you,” he said, leading him to one in the back corner of the crowded room.

  Ekman wasn’t sure when he’d first become so well-known. Over thirty years on the force his major cases had sometimes brought him unwanted attention. But it was probably his picture plastered across the papers and TV screens throughout Sweden during last year’s hunt for Grendel, a mass murderer maniac, that had made him more famous than he’d ever wanted to be. He’d always preferred to work anonymously. Now he had to grudgingly accept that it was no longer possible; much against his will, he’d become a celebrity.

  His disgruntlement didn’t stop him from enjoying his favorite dish. He chewed contentedly on the Peking duck slices and scallions he’d rolled in thin crepes slathered with sweet hoisin sauce.

  Looking at his watch, he turned down the waitress’s offer of dessert, paid the check, and picking up his briefcase, headed for the nineteenth-century stone courthouse three blocks away.

  After tipping a half salute to the guard who knew him, he boarded an ornate, creaking elevator that brought him up to the familiar, white marble floored hall leading to the prosecutor’s office.

  At Ekman’s knock, Arvid Kallenberg raised his head from the court papers he was reading and stood up.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Kallenberg was in his early fifties and had been a prosecutor his entire career. Almost as tall as Ekman, but much thinner, he was impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit and wore conservative rimless glasses.

  Ekman missed Malin, but had found Kallenberg fairly easy to work with, although he could be a stickler for observing every legal nicety.

  Kallenberg led Ekman to a comfortable couch, taking the facing armchair. Like Edvardsson, he preferred to do things informally instead of remaining behind his large mahogany desk with the gilt-framed photo of his sister’s family.

  “What’s this new case like?” Kallenberg asked sitting back, one sharply creased pants leg crossed over the other.

  Ekman described what they had so far on the dead girl and what they would be doing next. Reaching into his briefcase, he handed Kallenberg the affidavits for the arrest warrant for Chafik and the search warrant for his apartment.

  He knew the prosecutor could take over the investigation at any time, but didn’t think it would happen at this early stage. He hoped Kallenberg would just leave them alone to develop the case without interfering.

  “It sounds like you have things well in hand,” Kallenberg said, after taking a few moments to scan the affidavits. “I’ll speak with the district judge right away and the warrants will be sent over later this afternoon.”

  “Thanks. There’s a long way to go yet, but I think we’re making good progress and the apartment search could move things along even more quickly.”

  “I agree. Just keep me posted with written reports, okay?”

  “You’ll get them every day.”

  “Sounds good,” said Kallenberg, getting up and walking Ekman to the door.

  Back at his desk, Kallenberg unlocked a drawer, took out a mobile phone, and placed a call. He pulled off his glasses and smoothed his blond hair as he spoke, leaning back in his tall swivel chair.

  “I’m handling it. You don’t have to do anything. It’s being taken care of, so for God’s sake, stop worrying,” he concluded, ending the call.

  Some people, he thought, appear outwardly strong, but prove totally spineless under pressure. It was a problem he’d have to deal with. He sighed, put his glasses back on, and turned his attention to the papers he’d been reading before Ekman arrived.

  9


  HAAKE

  Monday, January 23, 3:15 p.m. A short, grey-haired man in his sixties, Fredrik Haake had just put his phone in his pants pocket when his wife came into the room. She saw that he hadn’t shaved and was dressed in wrinkled tan slacks and an old brown sweater.

  “You haven’t forgotten about the cocktail party this evening, have you?” Kajsa Haake said, coming across his study’s plush, forest-green carpet and brushing her lips against his cheek. A thin, forty-two-year-old blonde with surgically tightened features, she already was wearing a black, knee-length silk dress with a round, glittering diamond brooch at her shoulder.

  “No, of course not. I’m looking forward to it,” he lied. He hated these chattering functions that gave her so much pleasure. She relished showing off the expensive modern art collection that filled their huge house overlooking a lake in the exclusive Arboga district outside Weltenborg.

  Most of their guests used the excuse of admiring the art in order to get themselves photographed for the society page of the newspaper that covered these parties. It was this publicity, and even more, the chance to ingratiate themselves with the Sodra Sverige Bank’s chairman and his wife, that brought them out.

  Haake intensely disliked having to make small talk with these fawning sycophants. But he needed to keep his wife content. It was important for several reasons to maintain the façade of a happily married couple. He went upstairs to get ready.

  He’d married her for her family’s financial connections. Their sex life had never been more than perfunctory, and had diminished until now they hadn’t slept together in years. He knew she had lovers, but was very discreet; he didn’t care, as long as there was no scandal and she remained friendly.

  The short, slim-hipped, thirty-year-old blonde in a low-cut purple dress stood in a corner of the two-story great room. As she laughed with the three men who surrounded her, she sipped a second glass of champagne she’d just taken from the tray of fresh drinks a waiter had brought.