Mammon in malmo, p.16
Mammon in Malmö, page 16
CHAPTER 26
Hannah Roth tidied up the magazines in the reception of Malmö Eye Care. Then she went over to the computer on the desk and checked the appointments. Tomorrow was going to be another busy day. All good for business.
Hannah was invariably the last one to leave work. Normally, she didn’t mind, as she didn’t have anyone to rush home to. Of course, if she’d met him in other circumstances, things might have panned out differently. It was something she’d learned to live with. Her resignation not to dwell on what might have been was fortified by her two passions – her role as a dispensing optician and the synagogue community. Her professional life gave her immense satisfaction; clients appeared to value her calm and authoritative advice and her friendly manner. As did Hugo Carlgren, the senior partner, who often passed on any appreciative comments. And she had returned his loyalty for twenty years.
The synagogue gave her the spiritual stability she needed, and a sense of belonging in a world that was becoming increasingly unsettling. The community had shrunk in recent years. When she was a child, the congregation had been around two thousand. Now it was less than five hundred. She fondly remembered the summer youth camps at Höllviksgården. For someone who didn’t make friends naturally, she’d treasured two in particular from that time and she’d been close to them all these years. But now they had both left the area, and she missed them dreadfully. Then she met Magda Forsell. Magda was a breath of fresh air. Returning to the faith of her mother, she was a colourful recent addition to the congregation. And they had got on so well. Then Magda had been diagnosed with cancer. It seemed so unfair that such a strong, lively character should be destined to succumb to such an erosive disease. Then Hannah’s thoughts wandered to Anita Sundström, and she wondered how she was getting on. She had no idea what task Magda had had in mind for Anita when she’d mentioned that the police detective was no longer on the force, but she knew that it was important to the dying woman.
Hannah went through to the rear of the building and into the small office which doubled up as a coffee area for the staff. She sat down at the computer and brought up on screen the article she’d found last Thursday night after work. This time, she clicked ‘Print’. As the printer took its time to swing into action – this was one piece of equipment that wasn’t new – she crossed the passage to where the two well-appointed consulting rooms were situated. Since Preben Agger’s arrival, Hugo Carlgren had not only invested significantly in the latest diagnostic equipment, he’d also enhanced the patient/client experience by improving the aesthetic surroundings. Hugo liked to make the distinction between patient and client: the optometrist had patients, the dispensing optician and optical assistants had clients. He’d worked hard to build up the practice, which is why he’d taken on Agger as his partner nearly two years ago – a young man who was too full of himself, in Hannah’s opinion. The two young assistants just went all giggly and girly around him. He lapped it up. So silly.
Hannah went into Agger’s consulting room to make sure it was ready for tomorrow morning’s first patients. He was never as tidy as Hugo and had left the eye chart switched on yet again! In the background, she could hear the printer chuntering away in the office. She was finding it hard to concentrate; the cloud that had been oppressing her over the last few weeks was reaching its nadir. She had to do something about it. Then she thought she heard the click of the front door opening. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was nearly half past six. Surely it couldn’t be a client – whoever it was must realize they were closed. She would have to get them to come back another time.
It was cold in Lund the next morning. Hakim and Bea Erlandsson sat in the car park outside the University History Department – a rather nondescript, four-storey, red-brick edifice, singularly unimpressive compared with some of the other buildings on the campus. Students were milling around on their way to lectures and tutorials. Max Berg was due in for a ten o’clock seminar, and Hakim wanted to catch him beforehand. Zetterberg had insisted that she didn’t want any fuss. Two police detectives marching in wouldn’t create a good impression. That was fine by Hakim. He was slightly overawed by the atmosphere of academe. Lund was an elite institution: founded in 1666, it was the second oldest university in Sweden. As he watched the activity, part of him was envious. He liked the thought of studying, but university had never been a realistic option. Being the only son, he’d been expected to get work as soon as he could in order to contribute to the family economy, as his father had never earned much more than a minimum wage since escaping to Sweden. Erlandsson had been to university: the only one in the team to do so. It was yet another reason for Zetterberg to resent her. No wonder she never brought the subject up.
A blue Saab drove up Helgonavägen and parked next to a tree three spaces along from them. Out stepped Max Berg. He was a well-built man, with a luxuriant thatch of greying blond hair. Erlandsson knew he was in his mid-sixties, but he appeared vigorous for his age. Despite the chill, he was dressed in a white cotton shirt and a blue, creased-linen jacket. Bea and Hakim got out of their car and strode towards him. As Berg turned to face the two detectives, Hakim’s attention was caught by his piercing blue eyes. He had a suave, confident demeanor and a physical mien to match: his skin was tanned and the square jaw sported just enough stubble to indicate he could grow a beard if he wanted to. He was in the process of lighting up a panatela cigar. The panatela looked ridiculously thin in his chunky fingers. He blew away the first puff of smoke as Hakim spoke.
‘Professor Max Berg?’ He nodded. ‘I’m Detective Hakim Mirza and this is Detective Bea Erlandsson. Skåne County Police.’
Both proffered their warrant cards. Instead of being taken aback, Berg’s face broke into a languid smile. ‘This looks horribly official. Have I done something wrong?’
‘Not at all. Just routine enquiries.’
‘That’s why we thought it would be better out here,’ put in Erlandsson, who gave an impromptu shiver. She’d have preferred to go indoors.
‘Can I ask what it concerns?’
‘Do you know Sven Haglund?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Berg’s brow furrowed. ‘I read about his death. Awful.’
‘What was your connection with him?’
Berg drew on his panatela and let out a plume of smoke. ‘Sorry about this. Filthy habit. But it relaxes me before I face the inquisitive horde in there. The younger generation know how to keep me on my toes. Right, my connection with Sven. You know his real name was Isak Czapnik?’
‘Yes.’
‘He approached me through Martin Glimhall. He’s a local journalist.’
‘Oh, we know herr Glimhall,’ said Erlandsson with a smirk.
‘I helped Martin out with an article he wrote.’
‘The one about Per Engdahl and the Malmö Movement,’ said Hakim.
‘Yes, that’s the one. The article piqued Sven’s interest and he wanted to know more about Sweden during the war and the post-war period.’
‘What sort of things did he want to know?’
‘Well, mainly the Swedish attitude towards the Jews. I assumed it was because he was Jewish himself. I told him about the negativity towards Jewish asylum seekers fleeing Germany in the thirties. Fine if they were using Sweden as a country of transit; not so fine if they intended staying. The way round the problem was to find a sponsor so that the refugee wouldn’t be a burden on society. Attitudes began to change, and during the war, we took in loads of Danish Jews escaping the occupation. This was also reflected at the end of the war. The White Buses – you know about those? And there was Raoul Wallenberg in Hungary, of course, and his astonishing rescue mission.’ Erlandsson nodded, though she really had very little knowledge of either. ‘We had become more welcoming by then. Of course, Nazis were welcome, too, thanks to people like Engdahl. Sven was interested in that. And the projects that had helped the German war effort.’
‘Like what?’ Erlandsson asked.
‘Well, you know. All that iron ore coming out of Kiruna. Shipped out of Narvik in Norway, and Luleå down the Baltic coast. I’ve read estimates that Swedish ore kept the German war effort going for an extra two years. It accounted for four out of every ten German guns. And our ball bearings too. They kept the tanks rolling and the Luftwaffe flying.’
‘I thought we supplied both sides in the war,’ commented Erlandsson.
‘You’re right. But the Germans got far more than the Allies.’
‘Niclas Almqvist’s family were tied up with ball bearings,’ said Hakim.
‘Yes, that’s right, though the main source was Svenska Kullagerfabriken in Gothenburg. Sixty per cent of SKF’s production was allocated to Germany.’
‘This is what Haglund talked to you about?’
‘Pretty much. He was really upset when he heard about the Nazi gold.’
‘What Nazi gold?’
‘Well, that’s how the Nazis paid for everything; how they paid the neutral nations that supplied them – Switzerland, Portugal... Sweden. It mainly went through Swiss banks. The Swedish National Bank had their Swiss partners stamp the gold bars with the Swedish insignia. It concealed their origin.’
‘Which was?’
‘The Nazis had plundered the gold reserves of the countries they occupied. And, of course, a lot came from the Jews: money, artefacts, jewellery; and items like tooth fillings taken from the inmates of the concentration camps. All melted down into gold bars.’
‘That’s horrible,’ shuddered Erlandsson.
‘There are still literally tons of it that very few people know about, all tucked away in Swedish bank vaults. But how is all this tied up with Sven’s death?’
‘We don’t know; it may have nothing to do with it,’ said Hakim. ‘The reason we’re here is that your name appeared on Haglund’s computer calendar.’
‘Ah. Yes, that makes sense. We met a couple of times.’
‘Where?’
‘Once at his office on Nobelvägen. And another time at his apartment.’
‘So you’ve been in both?’
‘Yep.’
‘Do you mind if we take your fingerprints? Just so we can eliminate you from our enquiries.’
‘Sure, no problem.’
Berg finished his panatela, dropped it on the ground and smothered it underfoot. ‘Anyway, I must get on. I’ve been away a week, so they’ll be thirsting for knowledge in there. Look, I’ll be in Malmö this afternoon. Is that any good?’
‘Yes, thank you. Just ask for Bea here – Inspector Erlandsson.’
‘Inspector Erlandsson. I’ll do that. It’ll be a pleasure,’ he said with a friendly smile.
Hakim had another thought. ‘By the way, did Sven Haglund ask about any present-day right-wing groups? As part of his interest in Per Engdahl, I mean.’
‘Not really. It was mentioned in a general way. After all, there are a lot of them around. The Nordic Resistance Movement and the Hard Line party over the water in Denmark. But then, that’s not my official field of study, though it is something I’m seriously concerned about. Hence my involvement with the Liberty Conference. My academic expertise doesn’t go much beyond the sixties. And my books tend to relate to the Second World War; origins through to aftermath. They’re still in print and available from all good bookshops,’ he twinkled.
Hakim’s mobile buzzed. ‘Sorry. Better take this.’
He listened for about half a minute.
‘Right, we’re on our way. You’ll have to excuse us, Professor. We’ve got to go.’
Erlandsson gave him a quizzical look.
‘Incident in town,’ was all Hakim would say. He nodded to Berg. ‘We’ll let you get on. Thank you for your time.’
‘No peace for the wicked.’ Berg gave them a cheery grin and walked off, raising his arm in valediction.
Hakim and Erlandsson headed for their car.
CHAPTER 27
Hakim and Erlandsson made their way into Malmö Eye Care, which was located underneath an unassuming residential block on Köpenhamnsvägen. In the waiting area opposite the reception desk sat two women and two men. All looked crushed. One of the women was snuffling into a tissue. As Hakim and Erlandsson passed the neat racks of spectacle frames, a uniformed officer nodded towards the back of the practice, where a forensics technician passed them white, disposable crime-scene suits.
There, opposite a kitchen-cum-office, were two adjacent consulting rooms. The activity was taking place in the second one. Olovsson, Wallen, Eva Thulin and two of her forensic technicians were squeezed into the space, which was already fighting to house a large, high-backed patient’s chair, a long desk sporting a wide computer screen and keyboard, a swivel chair, an optical machine on a moveable table, a small wash-hand basin, and a row of low-level cupboards. Amongst all the clutter, the object of their focus was plain to see. On the patient’s chair was slumped the body of a woman, her eyes wide and staring. Her mouth was open; her lips and gums had a bluish tinge and there was evidence of a frothy secretion at one corner.
‘Hello, Hakim,’ Eva Thulin said cheerfully as she glanced up from her position bending over the body.
‘Hello Eva. Who is she?’ This was directed at the team.
‘Hannah Roth,’ replied Olovsson. ‘The dispensing optician.’
‘Who found her?’
‘Preben Agger. He’s the junior partner. This is his consulting room.’
‘My first optician!’ said Thulin gleefully.
‘We’ve already had “she didn’t see that coming”,’ observed Wallen wearily.
‘I don’t think she did. I think she was probably attacked from behind.’
‘How did she die?’ Hakim asked.
‘It looks like asphyxiation due to suffocation: facial congestion, bluish-purple discolouration, petechial haemorrhages in the whites of the eyes and round the lids. And this’ – Thulin triumphantly brandished an evidence bag with a small fragment of what appeared to be ripped plastic inside – ‘may have been the culprit. I’d need to get it back to the lab, but my best guess is it’s part of a plastic bag. He... and I think it was probably a “he”... had the strength to get it over her head and hold her until she stopped breathing.’
‘In this chair?’
‘No. There are fresh scratches on the floor in the office through there,’ Thulin said, pointing to the door. ‘I think the victim was attacked in there. She certainly struggled. That little bit of plastic was found under the printer table. I suspect she clawed at the bag while the assailant was holding it in place.’
‘And then she was hauled in here?’
‘Plonked on the chair. He took the bag off and wheeled her into position.’
‘And I think the reason is clear enough,’ said Wallen.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Hakim.
Wallen pointed in the direction the body was facing. There, on the wall, was a computerized eye chart. On the illuminated screen was a large, digitized letter D. Before the D, scrawled in black felt tip, were the letters J and U, and after it, the letter E.
‘Oh, crap,’ hissed Hakim.
‘Exactly,’ agreed Wallen.
‘Why are the other letters for “Jew” written in?’ Erlandsson asked.
‘Well,’ said Wallen, ‘I asked Agger about that. He said they use the Snellen chart, and this is part of that. It only uses nine letters, and J and U aren’t among them. And from a practical point of view, the killer probably couldn’t work the projector properly. Not being able to compile the right letters in the right order, he had to improvise.’
‘Did the killer switch the machine on?’ Hakim asked
‘Don’t know,’ shrugged Wallen.
‘How do you get the letters up on the screen?’
‘With that remote,’ she said, nodding towards the desk and the bagged-up handset. ‘Easy enough to use if you know what you’re doing. Clearly, he didn’t.’
‘Is the marker pen around?’
‘There are some in the office,’ said Olovsson. ‘There’s a whiteboard in there for coffee rotas, staff holidays and other things.’
‘We’ll check them out,’ said Thulin, who was directing one of her assistants to take photographs.
Hakim tore his gaze away from the screen. ‘Zetterberg’s going to love this. And the commissioner. Have we got Sven Haglund’s murder all wrong?’
Each police officer quizzed a member of staff to try and establish the sequence of events. Wallen was talking to Preben Agger.
‘I just can’t believe it. How could such a thing happen?’ a distraught Agger said in between gulps of the coffee Erlandsson had made for all the staff. Sitting in the other consulting room, which belonged to Hugo Carlgren, the senior partner, they were surrounded by the same paraphernalia as in Agger’s room.
‘It must have been a dreadful shock.’ That was the most consolation Agger would get. Wallen needed facts. ‘What time did you come in this morning?’
‘I was in at half eight. We open at nine.’
‘Was anybody else here?’
‘Emma. She opened up. Actually, that’s not true. She said the door was unlocked. She assumed Hannah had forgotten to lock up before she left last night.’ He stopped and gave a strange, involuntary gurgle. ‘Sorry. I just can’t take it in. Fortunately, Emma didn’t go into my room. I can’t imagine how that would have freaked her out.’
‘Quite.’
‘I told her not to go in there when I came out. She knew something was wrong. She said I looked as white as a sheet. I felt sick, really. I was in a state of shock, I suppose. Then Hugo arrived shortly after. I showed him’ – he jerked his thumb in the direction of his consulting room – ‘in there. Of course, he was terribly upset. Hannah’s been with him forever. Part of the furniture. He was very fond of her.’ Did his voice hint of something more there? Wallen wondered briefly. ‘He was too upset to call the police, so I did it.’
‘Last night. When did you leave?’
Agger took a deep breath. ‘Must have been about quarter to six. My last patient left at nearly half five. I had a quick word with Hugo before I left. It was to set up a partners’ meeting for Friday lunchtime. Then I went home.’
