Spice Trade

by Erik Mauritzson

  “That would be helpful. We’ll need the dates of his employment. Did he say why he was leaving and where he was going?”

  “As I recall, he told me that he wanted a job with more advancement possibilities. But he didn’t say where he was going to find it,” he said.

  “What did he do here?” asked Holm.

  “Well, we’re a small wholesale firm with a limited office staff, but with more people in the warehouse. He was an administrative assistant handling shipment invoices and accounts receivable.”

  “Was his work satisfactory?”

  “He was okay with routine paperwork, but wasn’t creative; he never came up with any ideas to improve things. My impression was that he was fairly dull.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard that we’re looking for him in connection with the death of a young woman,” said Vinter.

  “Yes, I saw the story in the papers and I was shocked. Chafik was a quiet guy. He didn’t socialize with people here after work and so I don’t know anything about his private life, but he certainly didn’t seem like the type who’d be involved in a woman’s death.”

  “What type would that be, Herr Ostlund?” asked Holm.

  “Well, a rowdy, a tough guy, I suppose. I don’t really know,” he replied with a disarming smile.

  “Sometimes the people you’d least suspect surprise you the most,” said Vinter.

  “I guess that’s right. I’m sure you meet all kinds in your work.”

  “We’ll have to interview your employees about their contacts with Chafik, so we’ll need their names, addresses, and phone numbers,” said Holm.

  “Is it really necessary to discuss this with all our employees?” Ostlund responded, apparently taken by surprise.

  “This is a criminal investigation, Herr Ostlund. And yes, it’s necessary,” replied Holm.

  “Just a moment,” said Ostlund, getting up. “I’ll ask Marta, my secretary, to start on that list.”

  He went out of the room for a few minutes, and then came back and sat down.

  “Is this a profitable company, Herr Ostlund?” Vinter asked. She already knew the answer, but wanted to hear what he would say if her question threw him off balance.

  “We do all right,” he said, his face showing some surprise. “Business has grown over the past six years and we’ve been lucky to land some major contracts even competing against really big companies like McCormick. Our supplier, a spice factory in India, has given us a competitive edge in pricing.”

  “Do you own the company, Herr Ostlund?” Holm asked, although he knew the answer to this question too.

  “No, although I wish I did. I just manage it.”

  “Who is the owner?”

  “It’s an outfit in Morocco. A holding company. Marta will get you the address and phone number.” He wants to impress us with how cooperative he is, Holm thought.

  “Do you have frequent contact with them?”

  “It’s not frequent. Mostly I send them monthly reports and they call if they have any questions.”

  “They must trust you a lot,” said Vinter.

  “They should,” he replied with a dazzling toothy smile. “I do a great job for them. But we also have an annual audit by an accounting firm. Besides, I’m a really honest guy,” he said with a laugh.

  Where have I heard that before? thought Holm.

  “Do you mind if we look around the warehouse?” Holm asked.

  “No, not at all,” Ostlund replied, with a surprised look. “I have some things I need to attend to, but Marta will get you the information you asked for and show you our facility. Give me a call if you have any further questions,” he said, standing, and smiling broadly gave each of them his card.

  He buzzed for his secretary and when she came in asked her to show their visitors around after she’d given them the information they wanted. She nodded, regarding them with a heavy, expressionless face.

  “And good luck with your search,” he called out, as they headed down the hall behind Marta.

  Sitting inside a company delivery truck in the far corner of the large, chain-link fenced parking lot, Gotz watched with narrowed eyes as the two inspectors moved along the warehouse loading dock. They were questioning two workmen who were putting cartons of boxes filled with spice packets into trucks. After observing them for a few more minutes, he lit a cigarette, started the engine, and drove out of the lot.

  They questioned the seven employees who were working that day, but discovered nothing of interest about Chafik. Telephone interviews would have to do for the other employees, but if significant information seemed likely, they’d have to return.

  In the car on the way back to Weltenborg, Holm asked Vinter what she thought about Ostlund.

  “He smiles too much,” she said.

  26

  A PORTRAIT

  Saturday, January 28, 6:20 a.m. Ekman was getting dressed in his usual three-piece, black suit. He couldn’t conceive of wearing anything else to the office, Saturdays were no exception, although he tolerated his detectives’ casual weekend clothes. He scowled at his reflection in the dressing room’s full-length mirror, noticing how the vest he was trying to button was straining to contain his stomach. I’ve got to do something about this, he thought, or I’ll soon have to buy new clothes.

  But downstairs he heard Ingbritt preparing breakfast and realized he was much too hungry to just grab a bite of dry toast and a cup of black coffee. Well, I’ll use restraint at lunch and dinner, was the excuse he gave himself. He knew this was a rationale for a personal failing, but told himself no one is without some flaw: this was his.

  As he came into the brightly lit, yellow-painted kitchen he saw that Ingbritt was wrapped in her quilted, flower-patterned robe. It was dark outside and the sun wouldn’t be up for almost two hours, but the room was cheerful.

  “So what fabulous repast have you prepared for us this morning, my sweet?”

  “It’s not ‘fabulous’,” she laughed, “but it should be satisfactory. I’ll serve.”

  The kitchen table was set with a blue linen cloth and white china. Ekman pulled back his chair and sat down rubbing his hands as Ingbritt placed in front of him a plate of mackerel fillet in tomato sauce on brown bread, topped with cucumber slices. On the sideboard were more bread, assorted cheeses, slices of ham, and a large cinnamon roll.

  “I say this is ‘fabulous’ and I won’t be contradicted,” he said, as he picked up his knife and fork.

  Over strong, black coffee and plates of the cinnamon roll, the two sat quietly, looking through the morning papers, until Ekman, glancing at the kitchen clock, saw it was almost seven fifteen, and got up.

  “Time I got started,” he said, heading down the hall for his coat and hat.

  AS SHE often did, Ingbritt went to the front windows to watch him leave. She worried constantly whether he’d return safely because his work exposed him to the constant threat of danger. The risk had diminished as he’d risen in rank, but she knew it was always there.

  Everything that mattered most in her life revolved around this reserved, sensitive man she’d married when she was very young. She knew he loved her, and understood she was sometimes fragile. He tried to reassure her by constant attentions: flowers, unexpected gifts, and remembered birthdays and anniversaries.

  Writing filled her time while he was at work. The award-winning children’s books she wrote distracted her from persistent worry about the danger her Walther faced. Her books transported her to a simpler, brighter world where, in the end, love always prevailed. It was her refuge from the menacing reality she had to live with every day.

  IT WAS minus-three degrees Celsius and Ekman could see large, falling snowflakes glistening in the light from the house as he backed down the driveway. He drove cautiously along snow-slicked Brunnvägen, his defroster and wipers on high. Twenty minutes later, he parked his black, Volvo S80 in the police headquarters’ underground garage and then headed up the stairs to the cafeteria on the second floor to
order coffee and sweet rolls for the team.

  At eight exactly, Ekman went into the conference room to find his team members milling around the side table, eating Wienerbröd pastries and sipping coffee.

  He poured himself just a cup of black coffee before sitting down at the head of the table, as the others took their usual places.

  “Thanks for coming in on a Saturday. Overtime pay is good, but I know you’d just as soon have the day off. Let’s see if we can’t make this the last Saturday we spend on this case.

  “Gerdi and Enar, what can you tell us about that spice company?”

  “It looks like a successful, legitimate business,” said Holm, describing what they’d learned about the company, Chafik’s employment, and the absentee Moroccan owner.

  While he was speaking, Ekman had noticed that Vinter was frowning.

  “Gerdi, what do you think?” he asked.

  “Chief, I agree with Enar that the business is exactly what it appears to be. The employees we questioned didn’t know anything useful about Chafik and seemed okay. But I’ve got a vague feeling that something is wrong, although I can’t put my finger on it. I guess it’s because I didn’t like the manager, who was trying too hard to ingratiate himself. And the woman who’s his secretary seemed rather strange, and was clearly reluctant to tell us about Chafik. These are just my very subjective impressions and probably don’t mean anything.”

  “Your intuition is usually exactly right. We’ll keep it in mind. But give me the information about that foreign owner and I’ll see what more we can learn.”

  Ekman turned to Rosengren. “How did that witness work out?”

  Rosengren reached into a folder in front of him and distributed a facial sketch of the older man the woman tenant had seen in the hallway.

  “She came in and spent two hours with our artist. It looks detailed enough for people to recognize him,” he said.

  “What about the lighting in the hall?”

  “She only saw him that once, but said there was enough light to get a good look at him.”

  “Okay, now we have something concrete to give the media. I’m going to ask the commissioner to call a conference. It may take some time to organize, so it will probably be Tuesday morning. Alrik, you and I will be handling it. The rest of you will also want to be there,” Ekman said, looking around the table. “But be unobtrusive, and if someone asks you anything, refer them to me.

  “Enar and Gerdi, now that you’ve met some of the people at the spice company, I’d like you to check the background of all the employees. Let’s see if there’s anything that can substantiate what Gerdi’s radar detected.”

  “Rosengren and Alenius, you’ve done such good work sifting the wheat from the chaff, I want you to handle the phone calls we’ll get when that sketch hits the media.” The two seemed about to protest, then evidently thought better about it and simply slumped in their seats with downcast expressions.

  “And Alrik, you and I will be working together on the Moroccan connection. I think it would be a good idea for us to get to know our international contact in Stockholm better. As soon as I can arrange a meeting, let’s plan on driving up there. Have a good Sunday everyone,” Ekman concluded, getting up. “I’ll see you at the media conference.”

  27

  RAPP

  Sunday, January 29, 12:30 p.m. Alrik Rapp’s Sunday had started off well enough even though it was another grey day with freezing rain beating steadily against the windows of his small house with its carefully tended yard.

  He’d made fancy sandwiches for brunch for his teenage daughter, Mia, and himself, and then settled down to finish reading the Sunday papers with his black Lab, Balder, lying beside his easy chair.

  Life as a single, male parent hadn’t been easy. His wife had died ten years ago of liver cancer when Mia was eight. Although he was only thirty-six then, he’d never remarried. Between long hours at work and raising his daughter there had been little time or money for a social life. He’d been fortunate early on to find a nanny for his pretty little girl, an older woman who loved Mia. Retired last year, she came to visit as often as she could, but Rapp was now on his own as a father.

  He was browsing through the sports section when Mia came in, carefully made up, and wearing a bright yellow raincoat, matching hat, and high, black boots.

  “Where are you headed in this miserable weather, honey?” he asked. “Do you really have to go out?” He wanted to spend the day with his daughter, take her to a movie, and then maybe dinner at a local Italian restaurant she liked.

  “I’m meeting some friends. We’ll be together all day and I’ll probably be back late tonight.”

  Rapp was hurt, but tried to smile anyway. He didn’t want her to feel he was always hovering over her, although that’s exactly what he would have preferred to do.

  “Are these friends I’ve met?”

  “It’s Adela,” she said, naming her best friend, “and a couple of guys she knows.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “No, but you don’t need to be worried. If Adela likes them, they’re okay.”

  “Mia, I’d feel better if you at least knew these men.”

  “Well, the only way to get to know new boys is to meet them, right?” Now she sounded annoyed.

  “I’m just concerned for your safety, honey. There are a lot of dangerous types out there.” He couldn’t help thinking about the Dahlin girl and what had happened to her; it preyed on his mind.

  “Don’t be such a worrier, Pappa, I’ll be fine,” she said as she went over to kiss him good-bye.

  “Leave your mobile on, Mia, and please call if you need anything, okay?”

  “If it will make you feel better, sure. And don’t wait up, please,” she replied, in an exasperated voice, and turning, headed out the front door.

  Rapp sat there, staring at the closed door. If something should happen to her, he didn’t know what he would do. His job was important to him, but she was the real center of his life. Mia was gradually finding her way to becoming an independent adult. She no longer wanted his constant attention, yet he knew he would always be there, quietly watching over her, terribly afraid that one of the tragedies he dealt with every day could overtake her despite his best efforts.

  She found him anxiously waiting up when she finally came home at eleven thirty that night.

  28

  NORLANDER

  Monday, January 30, 10 a.m. After yesterday’s rain, the sky had been washed a cold, crystalline blue. Bright sunlight streamed through the large windows of Commissioner Elias Norlander’s fifth-floor corner office overlooking Weltenborg’s central square. It wasn’t the usual Spartan police office: it had been decorated at the commissioner’s expense with dark antique furniture, oil paintings in gilded frames, and intricately patterned Persian rugs.

  Ekman was sitting on a soft, brown leather couch, with Norlander and Olav Malmer in armchairs facing him. Norlander’s slender, Saville Row-suited form contrasted sharply with his deputy’s short figure in a rumpled tan jacket. Where Malmer was abrupt, abrasive, and tone-deaf to others, Norlander was smooth, conciliatory, and politically astute. They were childhood friends and Malmer was very loyal; Norlander made allowances for him.

  “So, Walther,” Norlander said, “you think you need a media conference now?”

  “Yes, commissioner,” Ekman replied, describing how they’d come up with the sketch of an unknown man. “They can help us publicize the picture. A briefing might also quiet them down. As you know, they’ve been clamoring for more information about the Dahlin case.”

  “Are you going to tell them about the suspected link to the Jakobsson murder?”

  “It’s only conjecture, so I don’t propose we discuss it. Alrik Rapp will be with me at the briefing. He’s never done one of these before and the exposure will be good for him.”

  “I agree that not discussing the possible Jakobsson connection is the right approach until we know more. And I’m sure you and Alri
k can handle the conference. It doesn’t sound like Olav and I need to be there.”

  Ekman realized he was distancing himself from the case until it seemed likely to be resolved; then Norlander would suddenly become very accessible to the media.

  “You suggested tomorrow afternoon. How about one? That will give them plenty of time to get it on the evening TV news and in the morning papers.”

  “That sounds fine, Commissioner.”

  “I’ll have our public relations officer set it up,” added Malmer, reminding them he was there.

  Norlander rose. “Thank you for your hard work, Walther.”

  “And let’s hope this briefing helps you finally solve these cases,” said Malmer, a parting shot as Ekman headed for the door.

  29

  KALLENBERG’S PROBLEM

  Monday, January 30, 2 p.m. Arvid Kallenberg was pacing back and forth in his office, glancing occasionally at the police sketch in his hand. Ekman was sitting, watching the usually imperturbable prosecutor.

  When he’d told Kallenberg about the press conference he hadn’t seemed agitated until Ekman had shown him the portrait of the unknown man. Then he’d gotten up and started to pace.

  “Is something wrong, Arvid?” Ekman asked.

  Kallenberg resumed his seat behind his desk and placed the sketch in front of him.

  “Walther, I know you think the media might help identify this man and it would aid your investigation, but there’s a problem.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tell me again why you’re interested in him.”

  Ekman described in detail the sighting of the man entering the apartment Lynni Dahlin had escaped from. “He may be the other man who raped her.”

  “But he was seen on another day, not the one she died.”

  “Yes, but his involvement could be significant anyway.”

  “You’re proposing to distribute a picture that could be any one of hundreds of men who vaguely resemble this sketch,” he said, pointing to it. “And you’ll inevitably get dozens of calls from people who think they know who it is.”