Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries)

by MacLeod, Torquil

  ‘What the fuck was she doing there?’ It didn’t take much to make Moberg angry when Anita Sundström was mentioned.

  ‘Greta Jansson was connected to Anita’s ex-husband.’

  ‘How?’ Moberg snapped.

  ‘Jansson was a student of his. They were also an item.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Westermark hissed. ‘Old git dipping his wick. Disgusting.’

  Nordlund knew his next remark would set Moberg off again, but it couldn’t be avoided. ‘Björn Sundström asked Anita to look for Jansson. He thought she had disappeared.’

  ‘Was the silly bitch doing this on police time?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Nordlund hoped it would qualify as a white lie.

  ‘And when was this?’ Moberg was still angry. If Sundström had been doing some private investigating, then she would get seriously bollocked. Just as well she was in England.

  ‘About the time that she disappeared. He had a key to the apartment, which he gave to Anita. She went there and checked it over. Thought there were a few odd things about it.’

  ‘What odd things?’ asked Westermark.

  ‘It appeared that Greta had gone away. Toothbrush and toothpaste missing. But the fridge had been recently stocked. The bed had been remade with fresh sheets and duvet cover. Of course, now it seems as if someone had gone to the trouble of making it look like she’d taken a trip. No bag, no cell phone, no iPad, but her iPod was still there.’

  ‘And what about fingerprints?’ Again this was Westermark, who was now paying rapt attention.

  ‘Jansson’s obviously. But not in the bathroom, where the toothbrush and things would have been kept. Nor the obvious ones you’d expect in the bedroom. No prints on the table in the living room, where we know she was with someone that Friday night. That was confirmed by the neighbour. Heard voices through the wall. Basically, someone seems to have wiped those areas clean.’

  ‘So the person knew what he was doing?’ Moberg asked rhetorically.

  ‘We did find Professor Björn Sundström’s fingerprints in the apartment.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ exclaimed Moberg in disbelief. ‘Why would a professor be on our database?’

  ‘He was arrested twenty years ago for a breach of the peace. Anita was the arresting officer.’

  ‘What?’ Westermark was incredulous.

  ‘Didn’t you know that’s how they met?’ Even Moberg had to laugh.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Westermark. ‘You said that the neighbour saw Jansson’s father, but before that you said that her parents were dead.’

  ‘The man who said he was her father obviously wasn’t.’

  ‘Could it have been the professor?’ asked Westermark.

  ‘We can’t say yet. We need to find out his movements. The “father” appeared the day after we think Jansson disappeared. Then again, we don’t know for sure when she was killed because the sea has done too much damage. Forensics may turn something up, but we don’t even know where the crime was committed.’

  Moberg drummed his fingers heavily on the table top. When he stopped, he spoke. ‘Where’s the professor now?’

  ‘Uppsala, I assume. That’s where he works.’

  ‘We need to talk to him. And you need to talk to Anita and get everything out of her that she knows about her husband’s involvement with Greta Jansson. He’s our only potential suspect so far.’

  ‘Well, maybe not.’ The older men stared at Westermark. ‘I think it might be worth looking into the school staff... I’ll start with Fraser.’

  Ash placed two pints on the small, round wooden table. Though the pub was full, they managed to secure a place near a freshly stoked fire that was roaring up the chimney. The atmosphere was cosily British. Pewter tankards alternated with dried hops hanging from the beams, which criss-crossed the low ceiling. Old pictures of the village hung on the uneven walls. The clicking of pool balls came from the room beyond the bar, behind which the jovial, bearded landlord was cracking a joke with one of the regulars. This was the part of the culture that Anita most enjoyed.

  ‘This is good,’ smiled Ash after he taken a substantial part of his draught. ‘Skiddaw is a nice pint.’ Anita took a tentative sip of her Scafell Blonde, a lighter beer. She thought it prudent to keep her wits about her.

  ‘You see, they’ve named the beers after the fells... that’s the local word for the mountains here in the Lake District. Hence, Fellbeck.’

  ‘I know. Our word for mountain is fjäll. That’s where you get the word from. The Vikings.’

  ‘Well, you learn something new every day. We used to come across here for weekends when the kids were young. Camping outside Keswick. Usually bloody rained and we’d all huddle round the Primus stove. Why are you smirking?’

  ‘Sorry. Sweden again. Primus is a Swedish company.’ She couldn’t help grinning. ‘And without Gideon Sundbäck, you wouldn’t have had a zip on your tent.’

  ‘Thanks! Now every time I go to the toilet, I’ll think of Sweden.’

  Though Anita kept mentioning Sweden, she was enjoying using her English again. She found it so easy to switch. Before the conversation had a chance to continue, Ash was out of his seat, empty glass in hand. ‘Want another one?’

  ‘I thought they had drink-drive laws over here,’ she found herself saying automatically. She regretted it as soon as it came out. Damn rules again. Ash didn’t seem remotely offended.

  ‘It helps to be a copper.’ With an exaggerated wink, he stood up and squeezed his way to the bar.

  When he returned to the table, Anita got back to the business in hand. To ensure that Ash didn’t try and sidetrack her again, she had pulled out her notebook.

  Ash sat down and smacked his lips. ‘Interesting session with Mrs Todd. At least the family tree is under way.’

  Anita glanced over her notes. ‘We’ve established that Doris’s father had three siblings – John, David and Daisy. They were all still at home in the 1901 census. John, the eldest, was thirteen then. Doris’s father, James, only seven. By the 1911 census, the boys were still there. They were all working on the railways like their father.’

  ‘Only natural, really. Carlisle’s always been a big railway town. One of the main employers. At one time, seven different railway companies shared the railway station.’ Anita arched an eyebrow. ‘I like trains,’ he said bashfully.

  ‘Daisy is missing. She would have been eighteen in 1911. According to Jennifer, she had either moved out and was probably in domestic service, or was dead. Are you going to check them out tomorrow at the Register Office?’

  ‘Yeah. It’ll show whether they had any offspring. They’d be Doris’s first cousins. And it’s their kids who would be the likely beneficiaries. That’s if Doris didn’t have any siblings.’ Ash gazed at his pint reflectively. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s going to be that simple. The original London heir hunting company gave up, and they had huge resources.’

  ‘Is it worth getting onto them to see how far they got? Might save some time,’ suggested Anita.

  ‘Good idea. Are all Swedish policewomen so sharp?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said pulling a face.

  He picked up his glass. ‘Well, it looks like our friend Mr Todd managed to track someone down. Trouble is, that someone might not have taken kindly to being found.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Anita bit into the last bit of her Karl Fazer chocolate bar. As far as she was concerned, it was the best thing to come out of Finland. The chopped hazelnut was her favourite. That would be another of her staple supports that she wouldn’t be able to buy in Britain. For a moment, she felt a ridiculous pang of homesickness. She would ring Lasse and discover how he and Hakim were getting on. But first, she had to make one of the most difficult calls of her life. She had to tell Björn that Greta Jansson had been murdered. Raped. For a split second, the unthinkable thought surfaced again. Did he already know? She dismissed it almost as swiftly.

  On the drive back to Penrith, Anita’s mobile phone
had started bleeping. Seven missed calls. They were all from Henrik Nordlund. When she had rung back, he had confirmed that the body in the harbour was that of Greta Jansson. He thought it best that she broke the news to Björn, and tell him he would have to travel down to Malmö as Moberg wanted him interviewed as quickly as possible. Nordlund also wanted Anita to give him any information she had on the Björn-Greta relationship. From Nordlund’s tone, Anita realized that Björn must already be on the list of potential suspects, yet she was unwilling to tell her colleague everything she knew until she’d spoken to her ex-husband.

  ‘Hello.’ Even from the one word utterance Björn’s speech sounded thick. He must have been on the booze the night before.

  ‘Anita here. I’m in England.’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’ve been better.’ He coughed as though clearing his throat. ‘Sorry. Life’s not good.’

  It wasn’t going to get any better, thought Anita.

  ‘Whereabout? Whereabout in England are you?’

  ‘Cumbria.’

  ‘Ah, the Lakeland poets. Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, De Quincey.’ She could hear the enthusiasm awaken in his voice. ‘Remember that Southey conference we went to in Keswick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The one where we went out with Caroline and em... Mike Evans. She was a Byron expert and he was into some obscure Welsh poet.’ He paused. ‘William Jones, that’s it! They were from Swansea University.’ He had started speaking English. It had been their language of choice for arguments. There were more expressive words and more expletives to play with when angry.

  ‘You must have been with someone else.’

  ‘Ah. Possibly.’

  They both knew the call was about Greta Jansson, but were putting off the subject for as long as possible. It was Anita who took the plunge.

  ‘It’s Greta.’ All she could hear was his breathing. It had quickened. ‘I’m sorry, she’s dead.’

  She could make out Björn gulping for air, followed by a low moan.

  ‘There’s no other way to tell you, Björn. She was fished out of the harbour.’ He began to sob quietly. Anita waited. Further details would just make things worse.

  Eventually, he spoke, his tone uneven. ‘I knew she was missing. I knew.’

  ‘You were right.’

  ‘Was it... was it an accident?’

  This time it was hard for Anita to speak. ‘I’m afraid not. She was murdered.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  Anita let the information sink in before adding, ’That’s not all; you’d better know – she was raped before being killed.’

  ‘This can’t be true. It can’t be...’ The voice trailed away to a whisper.

  ‘Björn, you’re going to have to be strong. Now listen to me.’ The practical Anita was taking over. ‘My colleague, Henrik Nordlund, will be ringing you shortly. He’ll want you to go down to Malmö.’

  ‘Why?’ The question was barely audible.

  ‘They’ll want to interview you. You’re going to have to think clearly.’ Nordlund was a probing interrogator. And if Westermark was involved, she knew, due to her own strained history with him, that he would give Björn a particularly hard time. ‘They’ll want to know all about your relationship with Greta. More importantly, they’ll want to know your exact movements over the weekend she disappeared. You’d better be prepared.’

  ‘They can’t suspect me! Can they?’ Anita was finding it difficult dealing with this new, crushed Björn.

  ‘Just tell them the truth. You have told me everything, haven’t you?’

  ‘I loved Greta. I really loved her.’

  ‘I know.’

  As Fraser approached the front entrance of the school among a throng of morose students, most of whom were too sleepy at ten to eight in the morning to talk about their weekend activities, he noticed the blond policeman loitering by the main door. He was chewing a toothpick. Fraser had taken an instant dislike to him when Westermark had turned up at his apartment the day before and whisked him off to see the bloated, grotesque body of his former colleague. His face was arrogant, with its piercing blue eyes, wide mouth and square jaw. Add to that his cropped hair, and Fraser reckoned he wouldn’t have looked out of place in an SS unit. This was the last thing he wanted right now. His mind was full of the lesson on English adjectives that he was going to try and drum into an unresponsive class.

  ‘Morning,’ Westermark said in Swedish. There was no warmth in the greeting. He didn’t even bother to remove the toothpick.

  ‘What do you want?’ Fraser asked irritably.

  ‘I need a word.’

  ‘It’s not very convenient. I’ve a class in ten minutes.’

  ‘I’m sure they can wait.’ Westermark was momentarily distracted as a couple of giggling girls in short skirts waltzed past. He watched them disappear through the swing doors. ‘We can either talk here or over there at headquarters,’ he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘OK, here. But make it quick.’

  Westermark moved away from the door and headed for the tree-lined path that ran the length of Kungsgatan. He kicked at some recently fallen leaves.

  ‘How well did you know Greta Jansson?’

  Fraser adjusted his knapsack. It held a number of the old books he’d used when first teaching English as a Foreign Language. They were heavy. ‘She was a colleague.’

  ‘Let me ask you again. How well did you know her?’

  ‘What the hell are you implying?’ Fraser’s tone was belligerent.

  ‘Greta was an attractive girl. She came down from Uppsala. Didn’t know anyone here. Lonely. Vulnerable. What the fuck do you think I mean?’ Fraser was taken aback by the sudden switch to angry aggression.

  ‘You’ve got it wrong. I didn’t know her well at all.’

  ‘But you fancied her?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I saw you yesterday. You were nervous as shit.’

  ‘Of course I bloody was,’ he exploded. ‘You were taking me to see a corpse. Unlike in your profession, it’s not something teachers do every day.’

  Westermark stared at Fraser before letting a supercilious smile play upon his lips. ‘Did you ever ask her out? For a date?’

  ‘For a drink,’ replied Fraser, injecting as much defiance as he could muster that early in the morning. ‘She wasn’t looking for a relationship. Too busy getting over some guy from the university... up in Uppsala. Anyway, I told your colleague all this,’ he snapped. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Anita Sundström.’

  Westermark swore under his breath. ‘When was this?’ he snapped.

  Fraser thought for a moment. ‘A week ago. She came here. And I ran into her at The Pickwick on Friday.’

  ‘Had a cosy pint together, did you?’ Westermark sneered.

  Fraser found all this hostility aggravating. Westermark was one of the few Swedes he’d come across who was confrontational. Most were totally the opposite.

  ‘What are you hanging around here for? Haven’t you got a class to teach?’ A still-incensed Fraser stepped back a few paces before turning. ‘We’ll talk again soon,’ Westermark called after the retreating school teacher.

  Anita was due to meet Jennifer Todd at ten o’clock outside Morrisons in Penrith. After doing her shopping, Jennifer was taking Anita back with her to Fellback to continue their research. Ash was in Carlisle visiting the Register Office and the head office of the Cumberland Building Society. He was then returning to Fellbeck to report on his findings.

  After a lighter continental breakfast – she couldn’t take another full English – Anita had wandered out into the town. She walked down the main street past the Alhambra cinema, and, to kill time, called into Joseph Carr’s antique shop. Porcelain seemed to be the main items on display. She was taken aback by some of the prices; even when she mentally converted them into kronor; with an advantageous exchange rate, they stil
l appeared extortionate. All the time she was browsing, she knew she was putting off the inevitable. She beamed apologetically at the owner as she left, somehow feeling guilty for not buying anything. Joseph Carr, a bearded, bespectacled man in his late sixties, who had hardly raised his eyes from his book all the time she had been in, bade her farewell with a faint smile. She went straight into the newsagent’s next door. She could no longer cope without her snus, and asked for twenty cigarettes. She handed over eight pounds. As she was leaving, the woman behind the counter called, ‘You’ve forgotten your change.’ Anita looked at her blankly. The woman proffered some coins in the palm of her hand. ‘Eight pence.’

  Anita took the money. ‘I’m sorry. We don’t get öre back in Sweden if the price is less than a krona.’

  ‘Fancy that! So are all your prices rounded up?’ The woman was enjoying engaging a visitor to the town in conversation. She had had a few Norwegians in before, but never a Swede.

  ‘No, often they’re not.’

  ‘Heavens, if we kept all our change, we’d make a handy little profit.’ The encounter ended in a mutual laugh and, as Anita left, the next customer was being told all about how weird the Swedish monetary system must be.

  Her pack of cigarettes was still in her grasp when she got to the park opposite the station. Near one of the remaining walls of the ruined 14th-century castle, she slipped out a cigarette and felt the old, familiar thrill as she rolled it around in her fingers. She put it in her mouth. It had been a long time since she’d smoked. Snus had become her crutch. A wave of self-loathing flooded over her, but needs must. Shit! She had forgotten to buy matches. With a curse, she pushed the cigarette back into the packet. Ash would have a light, if she could wait that long.

  Anita made her way across the road to the Morrisons store. As she was early, she decided to take a look inside the supermarket. It was more lavish than the average Swedish equivalent – a treasure trove of consumables. She found herself at the drinks section and marvelled at the selection. The only alcohol you could buy in a supermarket back home was under-strength beer. She picked up a bottle of Australian Shiraz and examined the label. It was similar to one that had been recommended by an old school friend who worked at the Nordic Sea Winery in her native Simrishamn. He was a useful contact.