Death of a Carpet Dealer

by Neil Betteridge

  “No, let’s carry on.”

  “Did you get hold of the rug?”

  “I thought so, but Carl-Ivar had ripped me off.” He smiled crookedly. “The last thing the old man did in life was to flip me the finger.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “It all went incredibly quickly, the knife was far more effective than I’d reckoned with, and it was nasty. I just had time to search through one jacket pocket, where I found his cell phone, which I threw over the side, and so then I just grabbed the bag… but the money he was supposed to hand over to me in the restaurant I never got my hands on.”

  “You reckon he had it on him?”

  Magnus Öberg shrugged.

  “I have no idea.”

  What became of the money will be hard to follow up, Claesson thought. Luckily for Ilyas Bank, perhaps.

  “You said that Ayla looked right through you at the funeral. Did you meet her in Turkey?”

  “No, but I’d seen photos of her. I thought I was the only one who knew of her. I blanked out when I saw her at the funeral, I thought she’d recognize me as much as I did her… It was like seeing a ghost!”

  “What was in the bag?”

  “A toiletry bag, a shirt, socks, underpants.”

  “And that wasn’t what you’d been expecting?”

  “Hell, no!” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “So I figured that my mother-in-law must’ve taken the rug home, I mean, if it was anywhere it must be at her place. I was gripped by panic, I didn’t know that you… might have been… after me…”

  He swore, this well-bred murderer, Claesson thought. But did so in such a polished Stockholm accent that it sounded more like a quaint detail.

  Afterwards, the group gathered in Claesson’s room. Özen, naturally, and Louise Jasinski, Peter Berg, and Martin Lerde. Their forensics man, Benny Grahn, was out of the building.

  “You’ve done well,” said Louise Jasinski.

  It was a strange sensation to receive praise instead of giving it, thought Claesson. But not a bad sensation in the least.

  “Have you got time for a beer? It’s time to knock off for the day,” she continued. “I can spread the word.”

  Claesson didn’t really have time, and should soon be on his way home. But then again, a quick one wouldn’t hurt.

  EPILOGUE

  ANNELIE DAUN WIPED the sweat from her brow. She’d declined all help to empty the attic. She had all the time in the world, now that the carpet shop had closed down.

  She understood Birgitta, Lotta, and Johan, that it was easier just to discontinue the business and not to stir up the family relationships any more with some financial settlement.

  What Ayla thought about it she didn’t know, but whatever it was, she was entitled to her share of the estate. But Ayla was back in Istanbul and her job as a teacher at the university.

  The chest, of course, she couldn’t lift herself, and she had to get some removal men over to do it. But it was to go back with her. She’d already measured it to see if it’d fit into the guest room. It would be tight, but it could be shoehorned into place. If she draped a kelim over it, no one would ever think of opening the lid. And if anyone did, they’d never appreciate the value of what lay within.

  She had plans. High-flying carpet plans.

  But first she’d have to bide her time. At least for a while. Maybe sell off one or two carpets at a major auction, but not too often. It would arouse suspicion. The money she’d invest in her own shop. A carpet shop selling rugs and carpets that people could afford. One like Carl-Ivar had had, yet different. Her own style.

  Carpets that were kind on the eye and exceptionally soft to walk on.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The book is set in Istanbul and Oskarshamn and its surroundings, especially in Brådbygden, the delightful village further inland in Kristdala. Go there and see its beauty with your own eyes. I did!

  I would like to thank Chief Inspector Anders Pernius for his warm reception at the police station, which I’d never visited before, and for answering all my questions. The police station in the book is my own impression of this workplace rather than an authentic depiction of it.

  Thanks Lars Henriksson, forensic technician in Helsingborg, for always being there for me.

  I’d also like to thank Mustafa Özen of Cappadocia, and Raija Öbrstedt of Landskrona, who have taken me to Turkey several times. A special thanks to Raija, who opened the door to the world of carpets to me, and who has given me the two rugs that actually feature in the story.

  Thanks Fredrik Nygren, in Stockholm, who helped me understand how a carpet dealer might think and act. It’s always great talking to you!

  Thanks Andrea Karlsson, who helped me with the Turkish names and who threw ideas around with me about the differences and similarities between Turkey and Sweden.

  My portrayal of Oskarshamn isn’t totally accurate, and at times I’ve stretched the truth a little. And anyway, a town is in a constant state of flux: streets are made one-way, buildings are torn down and new ones built. But on the whole I’ve tried to describe things as they are.

  I’d like to thank the staff at the tourist office in Oskarshamn yet again for being ready and willing to take my calls. And likewise, thanks Ann Margreth Kvarnefors and Stefan Jutterdal, my friends in Oskarshamn, who were only too happy to send photographs of places that I needed to revive in my memory.

  I’d also like to thank Annika Seward Jensen, publisher, for her valuable comments, and Katarina Ehnmark Lundquist, editor, (we know each other by this stage) for her sterling, not to mention enjoyable, cooperation.

  LUND, AUGUST 2009

  Karin Wahlberg