She glanced across the compact office where Hakim was squeezed in behind his desk. Though the office was modern, this one wasn’t designed for two members of staff. The young police trainee didn’t bother to stifle a yawn. They hadn’t had much sleep over the last three nights.
‘Hakim, go home. Get your mamma to make you a nice meal, and then get some sleep.’
Hakim flashed Anita a grateful smile.
‘Don’t bother coming in until lunchtime tomorrow. Enjoy a lie in.’
‘What about the chief inspector?’ Khalid Hakim Mirza knew Chief Inspector Moberg’s notorious temper only too well, having now been attached to the Skåne County Criminal Investigation Squad for over a year. The chief inspector wasn’t the most tolerant or understanding of bosses.
She peered over the top of her spectacles. ‘Don’t worry about him. Now go!’
The tall, thin, swarthy young man with jet black hair quickly extricated himself from behind his desk. He turned his engaging smile on again as he left.
She knew she would miss him dreadfully when he moved on at Christmas. At first she had resented having Hakim dumped on her, but it hadn’t taken her long to become fond of him. It hadn’t been easy for him, coming from a Muslim immigrant background. It was bad enough coping with the in-built prejudices of some of his colleagues without having to deal with the friction his chosen profession caused among many of his peers, who were jobless, angry and resentful at the way modern Sweden regarded and treated them. She also had a special bond with Hakim – he had saved her life, and she his.
Christmas would also see the retirement of Detective Henrik Nordlund. That would be a wrench, too, as Nordlund had been her unofficial mentor over the years. He had been the sane voice in many a mad moment. The one person in the Criminal Investigation Squad she could turn to when things got rough. He was always there to advise her, and he had been the only member of the force to visit her when she had been suspended following the shooting incident on top of Malmö’s tallest building, the Turning Torso. She had become the unofficial scapegoat. Since then, she had rehabilitated both herself and her reputation by helping to clear up a number of murders connected to a right-wing group of businessmen in the Wollstad Case, as well as another homicide linked to a series of art thefts. But even after these successes, it didn’t mean it was all plain sailing. She still had to deal with chauvinist colleagues who found it difficult to come to terms with women working on the same level as them. Near the top of the list was Chief Inspector Erik Moberg.
Moberg was a huge man. That was the politest way to describe a seriously overweight officer whose answer to any crisis seemed to be to eat more. Throw in an explosive temperament and an appalling attitude to the opposite sex, whether they were colleagues or not, and you could understand why he’d had two failed marriages and his third was hanging by a thread. Unsurprisingly, he had no idea how to treat his female inspectors. At forty-four, Anita was still lively and attractive, and that seemed to obscure Moberg’s view of her as a competent detective. But he was no fool – he had never tried to take advantage of his position in any sexual way. That role was taken up by the reptilian Karl Westermark, Anita’s bête noire. Though a few years younger, Westermark – handsome in a stereotypically blond, square-jawed way – didn’t know whether his feelings towards Anita were those of loathing or lust. In fact, he experienced both. He saw her as his main rival in the team, and had done everything he could to denigrate her in Moberg’s eyes, yet still he couldn’t help thinking with his balls. To Westermark, any woman under a certain age was fair game, and it rankled that Anita had failed to succumb to what he thought were his obvious charms. Westermark had even resorted to trying to blackmail her into having sex with him. After that strategy had failed, his hold over her loosened dramatically when suspicion fell on him for tipping off the wealthy industrialist, Dag Wollstad, who had managed to evade justice by a matter of hours. Nothing could be proved, but he knew that Anita had suspected him. And that was enough to keep him at bay, a seething resentment never far from the surface. Except when he had drunkenly put his hand up her skirt at last year’s police Christmas party. He wouldn’t do that again.
Anita sighed and shut down her computer. She picked up the paper coffee cup on her desk and dropped it into the bin. Time to go home and open a bottle of red wine. Would Lasse be there when she got in? Would he have something for her to eat, or would she have to cook again tonight? She glanced at her son’s photo next to the computer. He had his father’s smile. But until last summer, he had been the antithesis of Björn. Lasse was only ten when Bjorn left. Anita’s almost overwhelming love for him had intensified when, even at that young age, he had shouldered his responsibilities and tried to take on some of his father’s role. The inevitable split had been caused by Anita’s academic husband’s extracurricular activities with a string of female students. Since the break-up, she and Lasse had created a mutual-support system. They had done everything together, from going to cheer on their beloved Malmö FF to holidays in Spain. Lasse himself had actually organized the last couple of foreign trips. He was meticulous to a fault, which reflected his naturally tidy habits and flair for organisation. Domestically, Anita was chaotic, and her handbag had always been a standing joke between them. He called it her “black hole” as she could never find anything once it had disappeared inside. But the most important aspect of their relationship, as far as Anita was concerned, was that they could always talk. They had no secrets. After a bad day at the office, she would come back to their apartment in Roskildevägen, and he would be a sympathetic ear.
When Lasse had left home for university two years ago, she had been distraught. It was like losing a limb. Then he had found his first serious girlfriend. The awful Rebecka, as Anita came to think of her, was a selfish little piece and seemed to enjoy driving a wedge between mother and son. And, heartbreakingly, Lasse was too smitten to see that they were drifting apart. Young love truly is blind. In her more rational moments, Anita knew perfectly well that it was pure jealousy on her part. Then, at the end of last summer, Lasse was dumped. Anita’s initial jubilation was tempered by the obvious hurt her son was suffering. She knew only too well how difficult it is to cope with rejection. The unfortunate side-effect of this emotional angst was that Lasse refused to go back to university – Rebecka was there. Anita suggested he move somewhere else. He wasn’t interested. In fact, he wasn’t interested in anything at all, and just moped around the apartment doing nothing and getting under Anita’s feet. After a while, her maternalistic understanding began to melt away as his behaviour started to irritate her. He no longer helped with the chores, and left everywhere a mess. This was a boy whose tidiness had often put his mother’s to shame.
Anita stood up. She was tired. It was getting dark outside. Winter wasn’t far away. She gazed out of her office window over the park across the road from the polishus. The large police headquarters building with its functionalist design and myriad windows looked out onto Malmö’s central canal on one side and Rörsjöparken on the other. The park was a good place to sit and relax on a warm summer’s day. Beyond the park she could see lights starting to glow in the buildings on the other side of the wide, tree-lined Kungsgatan. As she stood back, she suddenly glimpsed her reflection in the glass. She stopped and stared at a face she hardly recognized. She felt she had aged in the last two years. Wrinkles were starting to appear around her eyes, noticeable despite the black frame of her glasses. Her blonde hair was short and seemed to accentuate her features. Maybe she should start to grow it again, or was she now too old? Little bulges were now evident above the belt of her jeans. She wondered if the popular 5:2 diet Klara Wallen had recommended would help, but even dieting only two days a week would still probably be too much for her self-discipline. She was conscious that her thighs were a little thicker than they should be. Her arse would be the next to go. That had been like a magnet to Björn’s hands when he had been in love with her. But no one had touched it for ages. Unhappily,
she turned away from the window. The beauty she had taken for granted was now starting to desert her. And her self-esteem was eroding. She hadn’t had sex for what seemed like years. It was partly her own fault. She was in love with a man that she couldn’t have any kind of physical relationship with. She had put him in prison. Bloody Ewan Strachan. He was the man she had saved at the top of the Turning Torso when she shot film director, Mick Roslyn. And, as she later discovered, Mick was innocent – it was Ewan who’d murdered Roslyn’s wife. She still went cold whenever she thought back to that scene in the restaurant when Ewan had confessed. But by then she had fallen for him, and it was only her professional pride, stronger than she’d ever suspected, which resulted in Strachan being incarcerated in Malmö’s Kirseberg prison. It was a ludicrous situation. The relationship had no future. It didn’t really have a past. Nothing had happened between them. There hadn’t been time. She had tried to cut the emotional ties, but she had found herself making the occasional prison visit. The pretexts had always been related to the investigation. It was these trips that Westermark had somehow found out about and had tried to blackmail her with in order to get her into his bed. Now that was no longer an issue. She realized she had to make the break and lift her life out this emotional limbo. And soon. This had gone on for a year and a half. Why were things so complicated?
Anita clicked off the lamp on her desk. She put on her battered, brown leather jacket, swung her heavy, black handbag over her shoulder and made for the door. Then the phone made her jump. She stared at it and let it ring. She hadn’t the energy to answer it. It was too late. Then weary instinct took over and she picked up the receiver,
‘Anita Sundström.’
‘Klara here.’ It was Klara Wallen, the other woman detective on their team. Anita gave an internal sigh. Klara probably wanted to go out for a drink and discuss her domestic problems. Anita wasn’t in the mood.
‘I’ve got this woman on the line. She’s calling from England,’ Klara explained. ‘I think it’s better if you speak to her because my English isn’t very good.’
Anita had spent two childhood years in northern England, as well as a year on secondment to the Metropolitan Police in London, so anything that came up which involved speaking English, she was expected to handle. That’s how she had ended up meeting Ewan Strachan. Now she reluctantly agreed to take the call. She waited for the woman to be put through.
‘Hello, this is Inspector Anita Sundström speaking,’ she said in her near-perfect accent. ‘How can I help?’
There was panic in the voice at the other end of the line.
‘My husband. He’s gone missing!’
CHAPTER 4
Anita entered her apartment in Roskildevägen at twenty past nine. If it had been a couple of hours earlier, she might have considered a run in Pildammsparken opposite her home. But now she was far too weary. There was no sign of Lasse when she got in. So no food ready. At least he had gone out. Over the last few months, he had either hidden himself away in his bedroom chained to his computer, or been slouched in the living room watching rubbish on the telly.
The first thing she needed was a drink. There was a half-empty bottle of Chilean Shiraz next to the fridge. That would do for now. But what the hell? Tomorrow was Friday, and she had the weekend off. She would go down to the Systembolag and get herself a really nice bottle. Maybe two, as Lasse was sure to want some; not that he deserved any. She fished out a glass from the overhead cupboard and plonked it on the kitchen table. She poured out the wine. While it settled, she opened the fridge to see if there was anything to eat. She couldn’t be bothered to cook. The shelves were sparsely stocked. That meant a big food shop, too. She couldn’t rely on Lasse to do it. He was so weighed down with self-pity that he hadn’t even the inclination to push a supermarket trolley. What was she going to do with him? What was she going to eat? There were four meat balls left from a previous meal. There was some beetroot. She could make a sandwich, and a salad to pad it out. But that could wait. She picked up her glass and wandered next door.
In the living room, Anita went over to the window and closed the blinds, which blotted out the tall trees that formed the dense perimeter of the park on the other side of the road. She switched on a lamp and curled up on her IKEA day bed. She didn’t turn on the TV, as she was still mulling over the phone call she had had from England. It had taken a few minutes to calm the woman down. Eventually, Anita gathered that she was called Jennifer Todd and that she was ringing from Cumbria. It was an area that Anita had visited with her parents when they lived in Durham when her father was working at the nearby Electrolux factory. Anita had gradually coaxed some sort of coherent story out of her. Her husband, Graeme, had been on a trip to Sweden and had been due back that day. Jennifer had driven down to pick him up from Manchester Airport. He didn’t emerge from the Easyjet flight from Copenhagen. And he wasn’t answering his mobile phone. She hadn’t spoken to him for three days.
Once Anita had got that information out of the way, she asked what Graeme Todd was doing in Malmö. It was a business trip. What was his business? He was a probate researcher. Jennifer had initially used the phrase “heir hunter”. Anita hadn’t come across that term before. Jennifer’s explanation had been somewhat confusing, due to her agitated state, but it appeared that her husband was going to meet someone who would be the beneficiary of an old lady, a certain Doris Little, who had died without making a will.
Did Jennifer know who it was? No.
Did this person live in Malmö? She didn’t know.
When was the last time she had spoken to him? She said he had phoned her when he had arrived at his hotel on Monday evening. He planned to have two days in Malmö and then fly back today, Thursday. Anita suggested that maybe he had missed his flight and was having trouble with his mobile.
Where was he staying? That was one of Jennifer’s major concerns. Graeme was meant to be staying at the Hotel Comfort. Anita knew it. It was behind the Central Station. It was also where Ewan had stayed on his ill-fated visit. But when Jennifer had rung the hotel, they said that they had never heard of Graeme Todd and he had certainly not stayed there. Even Anita conceded that that was odd.
All Anita had been able to do was to reassure the woman that she would hand over all the information to the Missing Persons Unit. She knew that they wouldn’t actually do anything until Graeme Todd had officially been missing for three days, which meant nothing would happen until after the weekend. Not that she told Jennifer Todd that. It was the last thing the poor woman would want to hear.
Any further thoughts about the absconding Graeme Todd, whom Anita had assumed was probably playing away from home, as the British liked to refer to it, were banished when she heard the front door open and close. Lasse was back. He appeared at the door of the living room. He was tall and angular and, though he had Björn’s looks, he had inherited Anita’s high cheek bones and grey-green eyes. Fortunately, she hadn’t passed on her poor eyesight gene, and he had no need for glasses.
‘Anything to eat?’
‘I was hoping that you’d have something ready for me.’ She couldn’t keep the annoyance out of her voice. Another argument was brewing. Until he had gone away to university, they had hardly exchanged a cross word. Now it was almost a daily occurrence.
‘I’ll help myself.’
‘Where have you been?’ she called after him.
She heard a muffled ‘Out.’
This was driving her mad. She took a large gulp of wine.
It had been a good morning so far. Not much on, the weekend coming up, and she had a freshly brewed coffee on the desk, which was actually tidy for once. Then Chief Inspector Erik Moberg lumbered into the room. The light through the open doorway disappeared as he filled the space. ‘Where’s the kid?’ he asked, nodding at Hakim’s empty desk.
‘He’s doing something for me,’ Anita lied. Hakim should be catching up on some much-needed sleep. Anita hoped that Moberg was here to thank Hakim and herself for their
work on the arson case.
Moberg grunted. He held up a piece of paper in his meat plate of a hand. ‘I hear you had a phone call from England last night.’
‘Yeah. A woman thinks her husband might be missing in Malmö. I’m going to pass it on to Missing Persons, but he’s only been unaccounted for since yesterday afternoon. Probably just missed his plane. He may even have turned up by now, or at least got in touch.’
Moberg pursed his chubby lips. ‘I want you to check it out.’
‘Fine.’
‘If he still hasn’t turned up, I want you and the Arab to look into it.’
Anita bridled at Moberg’s turn of phrase, but she was also exasperated that she was going to be shoved onto some missing persons case.
‘Why us?’
‘Because the commissioner has got wind of it. Malmö has suffered enough bad publicity recently with shootings, race problems and an upturn in crime, without a foreign visitor disappearing as well. The city wants to encourage tourists and business people. This won’t help.’
‘But it’s not what we do normally,’ Anita protested.
‘Well, you shouldn’t speak English so bloody well, should you?’
‘What about the attack on the pensioner in Segevång? I thought you’d want me to help Henrik, now that the arson business is sorted out.’
‘Westermark can help Nordlund when he comes back from holiday on Monday.’
Anita was about to protest further when she saw that Moberg was becoming angry. The warning sign was the reddening of his cheeks.
‘Just do it.’
He turned away like a Baltic ferry manoeuvring out of harbour, and left. Not a mention of the successful arrest of the arsonist. Fucking typical.
Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Page 2
