Mammon in malmo, p.31
Mammon in Malmö, page 31
‘Evil personification of extreme wealth?’
‘No, something specific. Reference to a particular person or group... or something else?’
‘No, not beyond the Bible.’
‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘Well, we can discuss our lack of extreme wealth over a coffee. I’ll be in touch.’
Kevin Ash was grateful that the sea was calm enough for him to venture out onto the deck of the ferry. Though it was cold, the day was crisp and pleasant, with a few fluffy clouds dotting the clear blue sky. It had only taken him an hour to drive from Penrith to Heysham to catch the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company boat. He’d enjoyed the trip down in his hired Volvo SUV; so much smoother than his tired Toyota. He’d stripped the name of the hire company off the back window. An SUV seemed appropriate for a builder, which is what he was going to pose as for the next few days. Gerry Mowbray of Gerald Mowbray Quality Build, based in Braintree. Kevin had been at school with Gerry and had seen him progress from cowboy builder to respected developer. Kevin knew where Gerry’s skeletons were buried, and in their younger days, he’d helped him out of a serious scrape and a possible time behind bars. Gerry owed him big time. Borrowing his identity for a couple of days was a small pay-back that amused his friend. ‘Now it’s your turn to bend the law,’ he’d guffawed. Kevin knew if Reekie Holdings International were as ruthlessly efficient as Anita had indicated, they would check him out. Fortunately, the Gerald Mowbray Quality Build website didn’t feature the owner’s ugly mug. Anyway, it would be his finances they would be more interested in. Kevin had also taken the precaution of actually getting Gerry to book the ferry and hotel in his name. ‘Don’t reimburse me, Kev. Let’s call it quits.’ Kevin agreed.
And then there was the bait. The painting. Between them, Anita and Liv had found one by Dutch master Willem Kalf that had been presumed lost in the war. Kevin had never heard of the artist, though he was regarded as the Vermeer of still life. This particular work depicted a Chinese porcelain bowl stuffed with fruit, set on a damask cloth. Liv had found a black-and-white photograph in a pre-war catalogue and had got a commercial artist friend of hers to colourize it on her computer so that it looked like a modern photograph of the old master. This photo was firmly tucked into Kevin’s jacket pocket. He’d already made an appointment for the next day with Reekie Holdings International’s client services manager, David Whyte. His first task would be to try and worm his way past the monkey and get to the organ grinder. He knew from Anita that Hakim had found out that Morten Skipper was due to fly into the Isle of Man the next day.
Kevin peered over the rail. As the island’s coastline loomed closer, he reckoned he had just enough time to grab a quick drink in the bar. He was rather looking forward to his mission.
Anita tossed around under her duvet, unable to get back to sleep. She shouldn’t have yielded to the call of nature. Two and a half beers with Glimhall at The Pickwick had been the culprit. By the time she returned to bed, she was fully awake, and the discussion she’d had with the journalist was swirling around in her head.
She’d already set Kevin’s mission in motion. Yet again, she was taking advantage of him. She felt guilty because she knew he could never refuse her, however awkward, inconvenient or potentially dangerous the favours she asked of him may be. He’d already been suspended from duty four years earlier while carrying out enquiries on her behalf. This time he’d initially been reluctant, but, as usual, she’d persuaded him in the end. One of these days, she’d go too far. She resolved that this would definitely be the last time she’d exploit his good nature – but what the hell!... he enjoyed an adventure and it was serendipity that he was in the right place and had a couple of days to spare. It would be a major coup if he could confirm what Morten Skipper was up to. If anyone could pull it off, Kevin could.
Over their drinks, Anita and Glimhall had persuaded themselves that something was going to happen at the Liberty Conference. The more they thought about it, the more sense it made. They knew from what Hakim had told them – confirmed by Max Berg – that security would be incredibly tight. She knew from personal experience that nothing would be left to chance. But what shape or form would Haglund’s atrocity take? A bomb? It would be difficult to get one into the Malmö Live complex, and with the Prime Minister being present, all the buildings would be thoroughly searched as an obvious precaution. An attack by gunmen would also be difficult to achieve and would take some organizing. That would require a number of people, which would make the group more susceptible to detection by the security services. A lone gunman? A suicide bomber? Again, security would be checking everyone.
‘Of course, there’s the postcard’s reference to the inside man,’ Glimhall suggested after his third whisky.
That had set their minds whirring. Anita suggested Niclas Almqvist: ‘He could have been the third man in that hotel dining room.’ Glimhall reckoned that was unlikely given that he had repudiated the beliefs of his grandfather. He was on the conference organizing committee, after all. Anita argued that that would be the perfect cover. She knew Max Berg trusted Almqvist, but she thought the historian would naïvely embrace anyone he thought shared his anti-racist views. Almqvist was certainly top of Anita’s list. OK, she didn’t like the man, but there were other niggles: Hakim was sure Almqvist had heard of the Movement despite his denial; also, he’d been financially advised by Morten Skipper and had even had money in Reekie Holdings International. And Anita had seen for herself that Almqvist was an acquaintance of the Lockharts – and the count was up to his neck in the whole business. ‘It makes perfect sense that he’s the man on the inside. He knows what’s being planned for the conference. Maybe they were all together on the Isle of Man working out how they were going to put the Movement on the map.’ Glimhall was less convinced. However, he was enthused enough to find a window in his busy schedule to nip across the Baltic and have a poke around Lübeck to see if he could throw any light on why Haglund had been there only days before his murder.
Anita sat up in bed and got out a book to try and divert her mind. It didn’t work. The longer she stayed awake, the more she realized that Sven Haglund could have been a fantasist, albeit a dead one. Maybe she was wrong, and Kalle Birgersson had murdered him after all. She turned off the light and chided herself for involving herself in all this – she wasn’t even a damn cop any more!
CHAPTER 51
Kevin enjoyed a good night’s rest in the plush, if somewhat expensive, surroundings of the Regency Hotel in Douglas, the Isle of Man’s capital. It was the same hotel where Skipper, Lockhart and the mystery third man had been having lunch in Sven Haglund’s photograph. Kevin went for a blustery walk along the promenade. Like his hotel room, it overlooked the sweep of Douglas Bay, where the sea was appreciably rougher than it had been yesterday. On the ferry, it had almost been possible to pretend that it was late summer. Today, with the bitter wind gusting and grey clouds racing, the reality of early winter had struck with a vengeance.
As he glanced back to take in the grandeur of the elegant rows of tall, tightly-packed, white-fronted Victorian buildings along the adjacent road, he reflected on the relevance of the town to his present task. During World War Two, the British government had interned 14,000 ‘enemy aliens’ of Germanic and Italian stock on the island, accommodating hundreds in the handsome terraced rows of hotels and private houses in Douglas. Ironically, many of those internees were German and Austrian Jews who had escaped the Nazis.
This was Kevin’s first experience of the Isle of Man. In some ways, it reminded him of childhood trips to Essex resorts like Southend and Frinton, but the island definitely had more of a sense of the exotic. Everything on the surface was typically British, yet this was a different world: a self-governing British Crown Dependency. With its own parliament, government and laws, a twenty per cent upper rate tax, and discreet financial institutions that can keep your money hidden away from prying official eyes, it makes an attractive haven for the wealthy – and the perfect place, Anita had propounded, for a far-right organization such as the Movement to realize their ill-gotten gains.
Kevin drove out of Douglas and headed inland in time to make his eleven o’clock appointment. The urban landscape soon melted into pleasant rolling countryside, and the satnav guided him along a road lined with skeletal trees, and verges blanketed with dead leaves. He turned into what had once been a traditional, rubble-walled farmstead with extensive barns, now converted into plush modern offices but still maintaining a pleasing rustic air. A sign welcomed visitors to Reekie Holdings International – Protecting the health of your wealth.
David Whyte was an affable, middle-aged man, with a cheery grin beneath the tight curls of his prematurely grey hair. He spoke with a soft Edinburgh accent. Believing him to be a potential investor, Whyte had taken Kevin through some of the off-shore accounts that Reekie Holdings International could offer.
‘Look, David... it is David?’
‘Please, call me Dave.’
‘Right, Dave. Look, I’m not really here to invest, nor am I interested in tax planning or life care provision, for that matter.’
‘Oh?’ Whyte’s fixed smile flickered and died.
‘No. Can I be honest with you, Dave?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ve got something to sell. Something I was hoping to sell through you.’
‘OK...’ Whyte said guardedly.
‘I’ve heard that your oufit can move things on.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Paintings.’
‘Possibly,’ he said noncommittally, arching an eyebrow. ‘But, Mr Mowbray, I suggest if you’ve got a valuable painting to sell, you go through a reputable gallery or auction house.’
Kevin clicked his tongue. ‘Well, there’s a problem there, you see. This particular artwork has, shall we say, a murky history. It needs to be disposed of discreetly with no questions asked. Know what I mean?’
Whyte screwed up his eyes. There was more than a hint of interest there. ‘Do you mind if I ask what kind of history?’
Kevin did his best to look uncomfortable. He was about to reveal a lifelong family secret. It needed to be believable. ‘The painting is by a Dutch master.’ Seeing the look of incredulity on Whyte’s face... ‘No, I mean a real Dutch master.’ Kevin reached into his inside pocket and produced the photograph. He handed it over to Whyte to examine. ‘Apparently, the bloke – the artist I mean – is called Willem Kalf.’
Kevin could tell Whyte was interested even though he displayed a practised restraint. ‘I’m not an expert, you understand. It looks Dutch style. If it’s genuine, it might be quite valuable, I suppose.’
‘A bloody sight more than “quite”, I hope!’ Kevin said with a wink.
Whyte continued to examine the photograph. ‘I still don’t know why you’re approaching us with this.’
‘Well, how can I put this? The provenance is a bit of a problem.’
‘Ah.’ Kevin got the impression that Whyte was on more familiar ground. ‘Can I ask how it was acquired?’
‘There’s the rub... there’s the rub, Dave.’ It was time to talk man to man. ‘My dear old grandad acquired it... well, that’s a polite way of putting it... in Germany at the end of the war. Shall we say that it was in unusual circumstances? He stumbled across it in Hamburg. Or what we left of Hamburg.’ This was accompanied by a knowing chuckle.
‘Such things happened in those days,’ Whyte confirmed empathetically.
‘The trouble is that not only did my old grandad not have any provenance, but he also suspected the householder whose cellar he’d found it hidden in didn’t either. He was some high-ranking local Nazi official who’d most probably nicked it from some poor Jew. Unfortunately, Grandad wasn’t able to ask him. He and his wife and daughter were dead as doornails upstairs, having taken cyanide capsules.’
‘What a sad tale.’
‘Desperately. The thing is, Dave... and I’m going to be brutally frank with you...’ – Kevin looked pained – ‘I’ve hit difficult times. The business is struggling. I need to raise some funds, pronto. This is the one asset I can cash in on. But I can’t exactly troll along to the bank and say, “Look, fellas, will you take this painting as collateral?” now can I? You see where I’m coming from, Dave?’
‘I do, Mr Mowbray.’
‘It’s Gerry to my friends.’
‘I fully understand, Gerry. Can you bear with me for a moment?’ and he glided out of the swanky office. Kevin stared out of the window and watched the wind tugging at the manicured vegetation in the grounds. Had he over-egged it? He had to rein it in; he was enjoying himself too much. Whyte was probably checking up on him at that very moment. As long as they didn’t dig too deeply, he should be all right. And if, by any chance, he was rumbled, he would play the detective card. He knew, of course, that he had no jurisdiction on the island, but it might be enough to get him out of the building in one piece. He needn’t have worried. Whyte returned, the smile revitalized and even enhanced.
‘Look, Gerry, would you be able to come back tomorrow?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’d like you meet our CEO, Morten Skipper.’
‘What sort of a name is that?’
‘He’s Danish. I think he might possibly be able to help you out of your difficult situation. If you can leave me the photo of the painting...?’ Kevin feigned reluctance. ‘You can rely on our complete discretion.’
Kevin nodded.
‘Can I suggest ten o’clock? Where are you staying?’
‘In Douglas. The Regency Hotel.’
‘Excellent. We’ll send a car to collect you. Saves you driving.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You don’t play golf, do you?’
‘Sorry. Soccer’s my game.’
‘Pity. I could have treated you to a quick nine holes this afternoon. There’s an excellent course near here.’
‘Until tomorrow then,’ said Kevin, holding out a hand.
Whyte shook it vigorously.
‘Oh, I don’t suppose you brought the painting with you, did you?’
‘Not on your nelly.’ Kevin managed a sly smile. ‘It’s safely tucked away in Essex.’
‘Very wise,’ Whyte said with a laugh.
The coffee that Max Berg had promised Anita turned out to be a very early evening drink in the spacious Living Room Bar of the Clarion Hotel. Berg had spent that afternoon discussing details about the Liberty Conference, and it was a convenient location to meet. The trendily downbeat surroundings had pushed Anita into drinking a gin and tonic – this wasn’t beer country. Berg had a brandy. It was the kind of place where Anita felt uncomfortable. She also felt awkward on a high stool, with her legs dangling far from the safety of the floor.
‘Is it all sorted?’
‘We’re getting there,’ he said after gulping down his drink. He’d obviously needed it and was already thinking about ordering a second. ‘It’ll be a relief when it actually kicks off. There’ve been months of preparation. It’s very exciting, of course; a brave initiative. It will make a statement to the people of Sweden and, hopefully, the rest of the world. A message that we’re not sliding irrevocably towards totalitarianism.’ He was off on his crusade again. From Anita’s glazed expression, he realized that this wasn’t the occasion for sermonizing. ‘Sorry. It’s a passion.’
‘Nothing wrong in that.’
‘Another drink?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
He returned from the bar with another glass.
‘And you’re happy with the security?’ This was a subject that was continuing to prey on Anita’s mind. She was still wrestling with uncertainty about the target for Sven Haglund’s atrocity. The Liberty Conference? The Nobel Prizegiving? Or was the whole thing just a figment of Haglund’s imagination?
‘We’ve been reassured by all the services involved. And no one will be allowed to leave the confines of the Malmö Live complex. Honestly, Anita, there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘And you trust everyone on the committee?’
Berg’s glass was suspended in mid-air. ‘What an extraordinary question.’
‘Oh, it was just a daft theory that Martin came up with. An inside man.’ She wasn’t going to get into Haglund and the stolen postcard.
Berg put his drink down. ‘And did Martin suggest anyone in particular?’
‘Well, I did actually.’
‘Who?’
‘Niclas Almqvist.’ Now she was feeling like an idiot. Articulating the thought in front of Berg, it sounded ridiculous.
He gave a derisive snort. ‘I think not! He might have come from a family with a dubious record on the political front, but for all his superior airs, he’s a closet lefty, albeit a stinking rich one. He wouldn’t be involved in the conference if he didn’t think like I do.’
There it was in a nutshell. Max Berg trusted the man implicitly because his views dovetailed with his own.
‘It was silly to mention it.’
‘Besides, Niclas is a huge admirer of Garry Franklin. He’s the one responsible for getting him here.’
Berg was unaware that Anita had no intention of shelving her theory on his recommendation and was at that moment painting a scenario in her head: Almqvist inveigles his way onto the organizing committee then tempts Garry Franklin to the conference. Maybe Liv was right and Mammon is the codename for the operation planned by the Movement. Or possibly Mammon is Franklin! Rich as Croesus; a hate figure of the far-right – yes, it’s Franklin they’re after! Oh God – had she cracked it?! No... no, there would be more of a political furore if they killed the Israeli Foreign Minister. Imagine the kudos attached to that in the Movement’s circles. Or the American ambassador. Or the Swedish Prime Minister – his death might open the way for the Sweden Democrats and a very right-wing government. Worse still – take them all out! Making a supreme effort to appear calm, she sipped her drink and glanced at Berg. There was no way she’d get him to listen to what he would consider a totally outlandish theory. And there was no way she could tell him about what Kevin was doing on the Isle of Man, or the trip Martin Glimhall was making to Lübeck. He would think her deranged. Maybe she was.
