In Bad Company (Sandhamn Murders) Page 3

  Why did she always feel so inadequate?

  There was a knock on the door, and Beyan Rezazi, one of the permanent staff at the shelter, came in.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but the inspector from social services is here.”

  Anna-Maria sighed and got to her feet. The talk of cuts was becoming increasingly persistent. The local authority had to save money, just like everyone else. She held out her hand to the woman in a navy-blue pantsuit, who introduced herself as Birgitta Svanberg.

  “Welcome. Can I get you a coffee?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. I’m a little short of time,” the inspector replied as she sat down. Anna-Maria didn’t recognize her; she must be new. There were frequent changes of staff at the local authority, particularly within social services. The inspectors looked increasingly stressed out.

  “Maybe I should start by telling you what we do here,” Anna-Maria said, running a hand over her graying ponytail. “Freya’s Haven has been here for about ten years. It was founded as a collective based on a nonprofit trust. We offer a shelter for those who need it, and everyone has their own room. The staff are knowledgeable and experienced, providing individually tailored support.”

  Way too eager. She was spouting clichés, sounding like an advertising brochure, and yet she couldn’t slow down.

  “The women who are placed here are given a contact who can offer structured counseling sessions with the aim of strengthening their self-esteem and helping them to deal with the trauma they’ve suffered. This also applies to the children, if they’re old enough.”

  Birgitta Svanberg showed no reaction to this torrent of words, which made Anna-Maria even more nervous.

  “We also arrange follow-up meetings with whoever places the women, and with anyone in authority who is important to them,” she went on. “We try to offer communal or individual activities, and we run a number of different projects. The aim is for the women who come here to live as normal a life as possible. They all carry out day-to-day chores, and they cook and wash up for themselves.”

  Still no reaction. What the hell was wrong with the woman? Did she have to sit there like a living statue?

  Anna-Maria tried to speak more slowly, with greater weight behind her words. Without the financial support of social services, Freya’s Haven wouldn’t survive.

  “We want the women to be able to return to an independent life, with a job and a place to live,” she said. Everything was geared toward building up their self-esteem, making them realize that they had a voice. She could almost weep when she saw how cowed and insecure the new arrivals were; they were so used to a situation where their opinions did not count, where they had no control over their lives. “We achieve excellent results, and we make a real difference to those who come here.”

  “Do you have data on the percentage who revert to their old ways?” asked Birgitta Svanberg.

  She made it sound as if she were talking about prisoners reoffending. Anna-Maria didn’t quite know what to say. “Sorry?”

  “Women who go back to their husbands in spite of the time they’ve spent here. What’s the situation after twelve months?”

  “We don’t keep records like that.”

  “So how do you know you achieve excellent results?”

  Anna-Maria’s mouth went dry. “We offer follow-up meetings for anyone who wants them.” She could hear how lame it sounded.

  “I understand,” said the woman, who didn’t appear to understand anything. She was a bureaucrat, a pen pusher who didn’t care about what the women here were going through. As far as she was concerned, they were simply a task to be ticked off. The budget had to balance—nothing else mattered. She wrote something down in her notebook. “As I said on the phone, we’re in the process of assessing a range of alternatives within the local authority. It’s possible we may need to concentrate our provision to a greater extent than at present.”

  Anna-Maria knew what that meant. Concentrate was code for “cut.” The council wanted to get rid of safe, well-run shelters until only a few places remained for the women who were worst affected—the minimum level required by law.

  Before long there would be a public bidding process, and whoever offered to take care of broken women for the lowest sum of money would win the contract. It reminded Anna-Maria of the so-called poor auctions in the past, when paupers and orphaned children were handed over to the farmer who demanded the least money to look after them.

  “We’ll be carrying out an assessment,” Birgitta Svanberg continued. “You’ll receive a questionnaire by email within the next week or so.” She got to her feet. “I’m afraid I have to leave; otherwise I’ll miss the ferry back to the mainland.”

  Her visit had lasted fifteen minutes at the most. Why had she bothered to come, if she wasn’t interested in looking around?

  Because you insisted on a face-to-face meeting, a little voice whispered. Had Anna-Maria really thought that the mere sight of Freya’s Haven would convince this soulless bureaucrat that it should escape any cuts?

  “Won’t you let me show you around?” she ventured. “The children love being here. Even those who’ve experienced the most terrible things at home feel better after a few days. There’s something about the air and the archipelago that heals damaged souls.”

  Nothing.

  Anna-Maria leaned forward. “I can’t overemphasize how important a safe, welcoming environment is for mothers and children who have undergone such trauma. They can stay here as long as they wish, and the children can attend school without worrying about what they’ll come home to. Once again—they really do heal with us.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to look around today. Another time, perhaps.”

  Anna-Maria nodded, although she wanted to scream at the fucking woman to get out and take her idiotic questions with her. Instead she accompanied her to the main door and said a polite good-bye before returning to her office and flopping down on the chair.

  It was bad enough fighting the despair and the feeling that the world was an evil place every time she heard another story about an abusive man. Fighting the politicians and their determination to save money was just too much.

  Anna-Maria rubbed her eyes; she was exhausted. Sometimes she wondered if she could get through one more day.

  CHAPTER 7

  The cell phone on the nightstand beside the hospital bed vibrated. Mina didn’t need to check the display to know that it was Andreis. He’d already called three times. She’d put the phone on silent after the first two calls, but she didn’t want to switch it off completely because of what her dad had said about her mom’s heart.

  The call went to voice mail.

  Why couldn’t Andreis leave her in peace? She didn’t want to speak to him. Not yet.

  It was too painful, in every way.

  If only she could hide under the covers, stay in the hospital, never leave. In here she didn’t have to think about the future or make any decisions.

  She had no idea how she could go on living with Andreis after what had happened. Or go back to Trastvägen. But she didn’t know how she was going to leave him either.

  The rain was hammering against the windowpane. A storm had swept in across the city during the afternoon, and the dark-gray heavens had opened. She ought to switch on the bedside lamp, but instead she lay there in the semidarkness.

  She didn’t even have the strength to press the button.

  Her phone beeped; presumably Andreis had left a message. She pictured him sitting there with his phone in his hand in the custody suite. She knew the police had arrested him after she’d been brought to the hospital.

  She made a huge effort and picked up the phone. Deep down she didn’t want to listen to the message, didn’t want to hear what he had to say, but she couldn’t help herself.

  His recorded voice aroused way too many emotions. She went hot and cold at the same time.

  “Forgive me, my darling,” he whispered.

  He sounded complete
ly different from the previous evening, when his pupils had been no more than tiny pinpricks as she’d cowered beneath his raised fists. This was the real Andreis, the man she’d fallen in love with.

  Lukas’s daddy.

  “I’m so sorry for what I did. You don’t know how much I love you. You’re my whole life. Please let me talk to you!”

  The phone was burning her hand. Tears poured down her cheeks.

  “Can’t you just answer when I call—”

  The message ended abruptly. Mina dropped the phone onto the bed. What should she do? Everything was such a mess, and she was so tired.

  The phone rang. Andreis. Again. As if someone else had taken over her body, Mina accepted the call on the fourth ring.

  “Darling Mina!” Andreis wept in her ear. “Can you forgive me?” An audible sob. “How are you? How’s Lukas? Where are you?”

  “We’re in the Southern District Hospital.”

  “I swear I never meant for this to happen. Everything went black, as if I’d turned into someone else. I don’t understand it, you have to believe me.”

  He’d never been like this, so naked and pathetic.

  “I can’t talk to you,” she mumbled.

  Lukas had spat out his pacifier and was moving uneasily in the crib beside her bed. Mina reached out and popped it back in his mouth. A stab of pain from her broken ribs made her gasp.

  “This can’t go on.” Every word that passed her swollen lips was agonizing.

  “You mustn’t leave me. I promise I’ll never do it again.”

  She’d heard that so many times before. His promises. She’d always believed him.

  “You need to get help,” she said quietly.

  “Please, please say you forgive me. I’ll do anything if you’ll just come home.”

  “I have to go.”

  “I can’t live without you, you know I can’t.” He sounded desperate and despairing. “I’m locked up in a cell at Nacka police station. It’s unbearable—you know I won’t cope.”

  Andreis panicked in enclosed spaces. Mina closed her eyes.

  “You and Lukas are the most important people in my life, Mina. Please forgive me.”

  The rain was lashing against the windowpane now.

  “I forgive you,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER 8

  Nora looked at her watch. It was time to go home if she was going to give the kids dinner at a decent hour. People had started to leave, but she still had so much to go through. She also needed to find a window to meet with Mina Kovač and familiarize herself with the domestic abuse case.

  I’ll stay for half an hour, no more, she promised herself. Then she would hurry home to Saltsjöbaden.

  “Still here?” Leila was standing in the doorway with an overripe banana in one hand. “Did you speak to Stockholm South about Kovač’s wife?”

  “Yes, we’re taking over. It’s simpler that way.”

  Erik Sandberg, the prosecutor, had been happy to accept Nora’s suggestion. Everyone had too much to do.

  Leila sat down and took a bite of her banana. “Shouldn’t you go home?” she said. “I thought Jonas was away all week?”

  Nora pointed wordlessly at the files and documents covering the surface of her desk. She had promised Jonathan that the charge against Andreis Kovač would be filed next week. She hoped she would be able to keep that promise, but the case material was extensive and complex—folder after folder containing details of the income streams that had passed through Kovač’s multiple bank accounts, making him a wealthy man.

  The Narcotics Division had provided enough information to enable them to calculate the turnover from the sale of cocaine, ecstasy, and amphetamines. It was possible to estimate both income and costs, the cash flow necessary to run any business.

  Kovač was making millions.

  “It’s lucky for us that not even criminal networks can deal only in cash these days,” Leila said. “Otherwise we’d never have been able to pin him down.” She took another bite, then made a face and threw the rest of the banana in Nora’s garbage can. “Today’s digital society makes things difficult for professional criminals, too.”

  “Everyone’s under scrutiny these days,” Nora agreed.

  Without the anonymous tip-off they would never have been able to piece the puzzle together. Kovač had a regular income in cash from illegal drug dealing. The amount of profit depended on where you were in the chain, and Kovač was very high up. A kilo of cocaine cost around four hundred thousand kronor, but could be sold on the street for at least twice as much, where a gram was the most common unit. Once the purchase price had been deducted and the minor players further down the chain had been paid, a significant profit remained—in cash.

  The problem was feeding this money into the financial system without the banks reacting and reporting a suspected irregularity to the authorities. If large amounts of cash were frequently paid into an account, alarm bells ought to start ringing. Following the financial crisis of 2008, national legislators had introduced a series of control mechanisms. The EU had also increased its regulation through special directives.

  “Look what I just got from the IT guys,” Nora said. “They’ve drawn a diagram.”

  She unfolded a large sheet of paper. Arrows in different colors illustrated all the connections where Kovač was involved in companies or bank accounts in one way or another. The paper covered half the desk, giving a clear overview of the extent of his business interests.

  “What do the colors mean?” Leila asked as she studied the diagram.

  “Red indicates sole ownership of a company. Blue is part ownership, and yellow shows the income streams.”

  When Nora and her team had started digging, they had discovered that Kovač owned a group of companies. This enabled him to move money around until it became impossible to trace the profits from his criminal activities.

  “This is an empire,” Leila said. “He’s a smart guy, you have to give him that. He’d have had a glowing career if he’d gone down the academic route instead. Particularly with those looks.”

  Nora wasn’t impressed by Kovač’s slick profile, but she had to agree with Leila. He’d built up a wide-ranging and lucrative organization to handle his illegal earnings from the drug trade. He must have had help. A structure of this caliber required expert knowledge of both company law and financial management.

  “Do you think Ulrika Grönstedt could be behind it?” Leila added.

  Grönstedt was one of Sweden’s finest defense attorneys, but this required a different skill set.

  “I don’t think she could do it,” Nora said slowly. “She’s good, but this needs both accountants and economists, people who deal with every transaction—companies being bought and sold, corporate decision-making, all the necessary legal documentation.” She followed one of the arrows with her finger. “However, I wouldn’t be surprised if her practice is involved.”

  “I’m sure they offer their clients a broad palette of services,” Leila said, still studying the diagram.

  When the team analyzed all the income streams, a clear picture had crystallized. Kovač chose businesses that handled significant amounts of cash—market stalls, restaurants, cab companies, construction firms. Enough to explain why a considerable volume of liquid assets was generated on a regular basis. The money was paid into small, carefully selected currency exchange offices that specialized in dealing with cash that then moved it on to accounts distributed among a large number of banks. Suddenly the money was in the banking system, and could be sent anywhere with the press of a button.

  “What do the broken lines mean?” Leila asked.

  “Those are companies he owned for a while, then sold.”

  By selling these companies, Kovač acquired untouchable profits that could legitimately be transferred to his parent company, which was registered in Bosnia and Herzegovina. However, the country was currently on the European Commission’s blacklist of nations deemed to be seriously negligent whe
n it came to combating money laundering. The simple fact that Bosnia and Herzegovina was linked to Kovač’s business affairs was enough to arouse suspicion. Other countries on the list included Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria.

  But it wasn’t illegal.

  “Nicely done.” Leila sounded impressed, but Nora wasn’t sure if she was referring to the diagram or Kovač’s smart moves. “And then he tries to convince us that he bets on the horses,” she said with a derisive sniff.

  When asked a direct question about how he had built up his lifestyle—the big house, the Rolex watch, and the top-of-the-line cars—Kovač had maintained that he often bet on trotting races and won. His winnings had provided the start-up capital.

  Nora could hear Ulrika Grönstedt putting the words into his mouth. “It is what it is,” she went on. “The main thing is that the charge holds up when we file.”

  “So you’re going for serious tax evasion?”

  “I am.”

  Nora had no doubt that Kovač was also guilty of money laundering, but after lengthy discussions and due consideration, she’d decided that the chain of evidence just wasn’t there.

  In other words, she was in the same boat as Narcotics, who didn’t have enough evidence to prove that Kovač was behind a major part of the drug traffic in Stockholm’s suburbs.

  “It’s better to focus on a charge where I stand a chance of gaining a conviction rather than taking a risk,” she said, massaging her stiff neck. Hopefully it would be enough to put Kovač behind bars for a long time.

  Nora’s cell phone rang; it was her daughter, Julia.

  “Hi, sweetheart.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  The guilt kicked in immediately.

  “I’m already on my way,” she said, deciding a white lie wouldn’t do any harm as she mouthed “Julia” to Leila.

  Nora gathered up her papers. It was six thirty; it would take her almost an hour to get home. Far too late to start cooking dinner for Julia, who ought to be in bed by eight.