According to Omar, he had been told by Kemal, and Ara needn’t have bothered asking, really, seeing as Kemal had told anyone who was prepared to listen. Their old friend Kemal, who also drove a taxi, who had taken photographs of a raid on a security van with his mobile, sold the pictures to one of the evening papers and got loads of money for his trouble. More each time he told the story, Omar said with a smile. Kemal was saying that Ara had called him for advice about how to sell information the way he had done.
Omar had good answers to all his questions. Better answers than Ara himself had, even though this was supposed to be all about him. It was just like when they were at school together down in Småland: Omar was the one who knew stuff, Omar was the one who made sure things happened. Omar, who didn’t even get pissed off the way normal people did. In the end, Ara had asked him about the thing he was most curious about. How come the police had pictures of him? How come Omar was in the same cop database as the lethal character he’d seen only by chance?
Omar had an answer for that as well. A good answer. It wasn’t his fault that he was on the database but his dad’s, and, because everyone who was at the same school as them had spent more time talking about Omar’s dad than everyone else’s dads put together, Ara had believed that too. Even though none of them had ever met Omar’s dad. Just read about him in the papers and seen him on television, usually on Crimewatch, which was the show that all the tough guys down in Småland really liked. Omar’s dad, Abdul ben Kader, the man who – according to rumour – was behind all the major crimes in the country at the time when Omar and Ara were at school together.
‘You can imagine what the cops thought when they realized that I, Omar ben Kader, was the son of Abdul ben Kader. An ordinary bloke studying at the Institute of Technology, claiming he’s going to be a chemical engineer. How many cops do you think bought that? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what they offered me to grass on my own dad.’
‘How did you sort that out?’ Ara asked. I only got two five-hundreds in exchange for my whole life, he thought.
‘I tried to tell it how it was,’ Omar said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘That my dad had more kids than he was even aware of. And more wives than the Prophet. That the cops had probably spoken to my dad more times than I had. And that, if they didn’t believe me, they could talk to my mum. They couldn’t talk to Dad, of course. He went back to Morocco fifteen years ago. He’s a big man there, a very rich and powerful man, and if the Swedish cops went down there and tried to talk to him, the local sheriff would lock them up the minute they set foot on Moroccan soil.’
‘So you never got caught for anything?’ Ara asked.
‘Never,’ Omar said, holding up both palms. ‘Not even a speeding ticket. If you don’t believe me, you can take a look at my criminal record. It’s completely empty. Omar ben Kader is a Swedish chemical engineer with absolutely no convictions. Born and raised in Gnosjö in Småland, a graduate of the Institute of Technology in Stockholm. I never got mixed up in any of the funny business they kept going on about. On the few occasions I’ve got up to any business at all, there was never anything funny about it as long as I was involved.’
‘You’re like me then,’ Ara said. His employer had asked to see his record when he applied to start driving taxis. No convictions, Ara thought. For the simple reason that he had never committed any crimes, apart from the occasional bit of speeding.
‘That’s just how it is,’ Omar declared with a shrug. ‘The fact that the cops refuse to listen to people like us is our problem, but that’s prob ably the last thing they’re worried about.’
‘But all your contacts, all this money … You just have to snap your fingers and a load of blokes show up to sort things for you. That’s what I can’t get my head round,’ Ara said.
‘That’s because I’m the son of Abdul ben Kader,’ Omar said. ‘Not because of what I do, but because of who I am. You’ve no idea how many people would give me their right hand if I could just arrange for them to meet my father.’
‘I get it,’ Ara said, nodding. Not who you are, but who they think you are, he thought.
The next morning he woke up to find Omar in his room with his hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently so as not to startle him. He was looking at him with the same friendly smile, to let him know that there was nothing to worry about.
‘Things are starting to move,’ he said with a nod. ‘If everything goes to plan, you’ll be able to leave first thing tomorrow.’
‘First thing tomorrow?’ At last, Ara thought.
‘If everything goes to plan,’ Omar repeated. ‘But first we need to change location. I’ve got a place outside Nyköping that’s only ten kilometres from Skavsta Airport. It’ll have to be Skavsta. That’s much better than Arlanda. More brothers and sisters manning the borders for Sweden, if you get my meaning,’ Omar said, smiling his usual wide, friendly smile.
‘I get it,’ Ara said.
‘The first plane to London leaves at six o’clock tomorrow morning. It’s Ryanair, but you’ll just have to put up with that, because it gets better. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Ara said.
‘You’re booked on a direct flight from London to Bangkok, leaving after lunch tomorrow. Thai Air, first class. So, soon your suffering will be over, my friend,’ Omar said with a smile.
111
It had turned into a late night for Detective Inspector Annika Carlsson. As soon as she left Isabella Norén she drove back to the station to prepare for the following day. First, she called Lisa Lamm and told her about Afsan Ibrahim’s threatening behaviour towards Isabella and about his and his associates’ visit to see Danielsson the lawyer the previous day. The conversation took fifteen minutes, and they had been heartwarmingly unanimous from the outset.
Fresh interviews with Norén and Danielsson the following morning, preferably before the daily meeting of the investigative team. Then writing up Norén’s report and trying to get her boss, Danielsson, to follow suit. Then pick up Afsan and his associates as quickly as possible. Identify the latter with the help of more photographs, tell them they were under suspicion, conduct interviews with them and then – ideally – get them locked up.
While Annika Carlsson downloaded pictures of Afsan Ibrahim and thirty known members of the ‘voluntary association for Muslims in Sweden’, as he had once described the Brotherhood of the Ibrahims in a much remarked upon interview in a magazine, Lisa Lamm called Peter Danielsson on his mobile.
Enough squirming from this little worm, she thought, and it’s possible that the message got through, because just ten minutes later the lawyer agreed to be at the police station in Solna at eight o’clock the next morning to be interviewed about the grave threats that Afsan Ibrahim had directed against one of his female colleagues, Isabella Norén.
The interviews with Norén and Danielsson started at eight o’clock on Wednesday morning, and Annika Carlsson’s interview with Isabella Norén went swimmingly. First, she identified the four men who had visited the law firm on Monday: Afsan Ibrahim, Ali Ibrahim, Ali Issa and Omar ben Kader. Three of them had shown up at her apartment the following day: Afsan Ibrahim, Ali Ibrahim and Ali Issa. But not Omar ben Kader, she was certain of that.
‘I almost missed him, actually,’ Isabella said, shaking her head. ‘He was the only one who seemed normal when they were at the office. He seemed nice, even.’
‘Yes, that what he’s known for,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘It’s said that Omar is always polite and courteous.’
‘So what’s he done?’ Isabella asked. ‘How did he get caught up with those others?’
‘Okay,’ Annika said. ‘If you promise this won’t go any further, and because we’re in the same branch, he’s never been convicted of anything. Among my colleagues who work exclusively with men like this, he’s believed to be Afsan’s right-hand man. But there’s some doubt about that, apparently.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘According to a number of my colleagues, Omar is
the one in charge, even if his boss Afsan hasn’t quite grasped that.’
The entire interview with Isabella Norén was over in less than an hour. First, the photographs and identification, then her official complaint against Afsan, Ali Ibrahim and Ali Issa and, finally, the usual friendly, concluding chat that ends most interviews that have gone smoothly. Before they parted, Isabella asked Annika for her opinion on something.
‘I’m thinking of handing in my notice,’ Isabella said.
‘I think that sounds like a very wise decision.’
The interview with the lawyer Danielsson hadn’t gone as smoothly as the one his interlocutors Detective Inspectors Bladh and Alm had conducted with him at his office two days before, and which they intended to supplement now in the presence of Senior Prosecutor Lisa Lamm because of recent events which were of significance to the investigation.
‘I understand that the Senior Prosecutor has already informed you of the threats that were made against one of your employees, Isabella Norén,’ Bladh said.
‘Yes, it’s terrible,’ the lawyer agreed. ‘I called her as soon as I heard about it, and I can assure you that we at the firm have already taken all the security measures at our disposal.’
‘Good,’ Bladh said, putting three photographs in front of Danielsson.
‘She’s identified these three,’ Bladh said. ‘Afsan Ibrahim, Ali Issa and Afsan’s relative, Ali Ibrahim. She wasn’t the least bit uncertain, because she’s seen them on a number of occasions in your offices.’
‘Yes, as soon as I get the opportunity, naturally, I will be holding discussions with the other partners to see if it will be possible for us to represent them in the future, bearing in mind—’
‘That’s not what interests me most,’ Bladh interrupted. ‘We’re wondering what sort of threats they made against you, the day before they paid their home visit to Norén.’
‘I have no comment to make on that point, as I’m sure you understand,’ Danielsson said, shaking his head. ‘That conversation is of course covered by my oath of confidentiality as a lawyer—’
‘Hear what you’re saying,’ Bladh persisted. ‘It can’t have been a particularly pleasant conversation, from what we’ve heard. And you were also visited by one extra person. Four in total – quite a little delegation. His name is Omar ben Kader, in case you were wondering,’ Bladh went on, putting a fourth photograph down in front of Danielsson.
‘No comment,’ Danielsson said. ‘Anyway, he didn’t introduce himself.’
‘Indulge our curiosity,’ Bladh said. ‘Seeing as we appear to be in agreement that they were in your office talking to you for about an hour, give or take, according to what we’ve been told.’
‘As I’ve already said, I have no comment to make, for the simple reason that it would conflict with the rules by which I am governed in my role as a lawyer.’
‘It’s good that you said that,’ Lisa Lamm interjected. ‘Because I don’t share that interpretation—’
‘Like I said—’
‘Don’t interrupt me,’ Lisa Lamm said. ‘We have good reason to believe that your former colleague received approximately twenty million kronor in unofficial payment from Afsan Ibrahim, for various forms of legal and other advice. Money which a lawyer really shouldn’t have.’
‘Like I said … I can’t have any …’
‘Think very carefully now, Danielsson,’ Lisa Lamm warned.
‘I have no comment to make,’ Danielsson insisted, shaking his head to underline his point.
‘You’re not giving me any choice then, Danielsson,’ Lisa Lamm said with a regretful shrug. ‘I understand that you’re due in court out in Attunda this morning.’
‘That’s right,’ Danielsson said in surprise, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ve only got thirty minutes at most before I—’
‘Don’t worry,’ Lisa Lamm said. ‘I’ll call and talk to them.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Danielsson said, looking as if he genuinely didn’t.
‘I’ve decided to remand you in custody. And, bearing in mind the circumstances, I—’
‘Now hold on, just hold on,’ Danielsson said, raising his hands in an almost beseeching gesture. ‘Surely we can discuss this like adults?’
‘Let’s make one last attempt, then,’ Lisa Lamm said, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest. ‘One last attempt,’ she repeated with a warning nod.
How could that have been so hard to squeeze out? Lisa Lamm thought half an hour later, once Detective Inspector Bladh had concluded the interview with lawyer Peter Danielsson.
‘Do you want me to order you a taxi?’ Detective Inspector Alm asked as a pale, sweating Danielsson was leaving the room.
‘No problem,’ Danielsson said. ‘I’ll get one.’
‘That’s good,’ Alm said. ‘Looks like I just ran out of battery.’
‘A word in your ear, Danielsson,’ Bladh said as he headed down the corridor towards the exit with him. ‘And it’s out of consideration for both you and your family, if you’re curious.’
‘Yes? What do you want to say?’
‘Afsan Ibrahim is capable of absolutely anything,’ Bladh said, looking at him solemnly. ‘Believe me. Absolutely anything.’
‘Thank you,’ Danielsson said. ‘I understand what you’re saying. I believe you.’
‘Good,’ Bladh said. ‘Take care.’
112
The head of the crime unit at Solna Police, Commissioner Toivonen, was a man who lived his professional life through his cases and, to make the day-to-day work easier, he had got into the habit of listing them on the whiteboard on the wall behind his desk. For the past four days things had been simplified by the fact that the usually long list now consisted of just one case.
‘Find Å, GG and driver’, in Toivonen’s simple code, because he couldn’t be sure that his room wouldn’t be visited by nosy individuals who had nothing to do with the case. In plain language, his current task was to find Åkare and García Gomez, arrest them and make sure they ended up behind bars in Solna police station before they found the witness that Bäckström and his team wanted to get hold of.
One case, compared to the usual half dozen, hundreds of officers out in the field, hopefully working their backsides off so that Toivonen would soon be able to wipe the board clean and get back to normal. Four days without any new leads, even though Fredrik Åkare was two metres tall and made up of one hundred and fifty kilos of muscle and bone, as well as having a dark-blond ponytail that hung halfway down his back. Measured against the usual police scale, he had to be one of their least challenging targets.
It had been like this for four days, until his old friend Commissioner Honkamäki had called him for a confidential chat, one Finnish brother to another. Honkamäki used to be head of the rapid response unit in Stockholm, but for the past few years he had been in charge of the Intelligence and Surveillance Division at National Crime. The sort of thing one never talked about. Except perhaps to a Finnish brother who also happened to be a Swedish police officer.
‘How’s things?’ Honkamäki asked. ‘I understand that you’re looking for Åkare and his underling, García Gomez, and some bastard taxi-driver who’s reluctant to do his civic duty. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘I’m listening,’ Toivonen said. At last, he thought, because Honkamäki was a man who took his duties as seriously as he did and would never waste his time on sympathetic chit-chat.
‘Just to be clear, I have one simple question,’ Honkamäki said. ‘How certain are you that Eriksson was bumped off at a quarter to ten in the evening?’
‘Absolutely certain,’ Toivonen said. ‘I’ve spoken to Niemi, if that’s what you were wondering, so this isn’t just something Bäckström has tried to foist upon me.’
‘Hit over the head with a blunt object? That was the cause of death?’
‘Yes,’ Toivonen said.
‘In that case, you can forget about Åkare being the perpetrator,’ Honkam�
�ki said. ‘You can drop him completely. He’s got an alibi that’s as good as García Gomez’s. Even better, if you ask me.’
‘What time period does it cover?’
‘The whole of Sunday evening, 2 June, from eight o’clock onwards. At least until midnight, midnight between 2 and 3 June,’ Honkamäki clarified.
‘In that case I think it would be a good idea for us to meet.’
‘See you at the usual place in half an hour,’ Honkamäki suggested.
‘The usual place,’ Toivonen agreed.
Which was exactly what happened. ‘The usual place’, among brothers, was an English pub just a few blocks from central police headquarters on Kungsholmen. Once the lunchtime rush was over it offered the requisite seclusion for confidential conversations. At that time of day there were just a few regulars squabbling at the bar with the humble bartender. If you sat in the booth at the far end of the room you were at least ten metres away from the nearest unauthorized ear. Discreet lighting, black oak panelling, wall-to-wall carpets – what more could you ask for a conversation of that sort? Possibly a couple of large glasses of beer, given that it was past two in the afternoon and that summer had finally arrived.
‘Cheers,’ Toivonen said, raising his glass.
‘Same to you, brother,’ Honkamäki said, raising his.
‘So, tell me,’ Toivonen said.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a great deal to tell, according to Honkamäki. Not considering the organization he was currently in charge of, but, because Toivonen was who he was, the message inherent in this – the things he wasn’t saying – ought nonetheless to be clear enough. Fredrik Åkare had an alibi from eight o’clock in the evening of Sunday, 2 June, until midnight, four hours later. An alibi chiselled in stone, and, just for once, he was the person holding both hammer and chisel.
The Sword of Justice Page 41