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

by MacLeod, Torquil

  ‘Don’t sell the skin before you’ve shot the bear.’

  It was Ash’s turn to say, ‘Pardon?’

  Anita smiled. ‘Swedish expression. It’s the same as don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.’

  ‘I like shooting the bear better. Must remember that one.’

  ‘I’ve already been onto Malmö about tracing Carol Pew – or Ridley; she may have reverted to her maiden name.’ That morning, Anita had managed to get hold of Hakim, who had been at Kungsskolan doing interviews when she called. He said he would look into it as soon as he got back to the office. Other than moaning about Westermark, he’d seemed chirpy. ‘I suspect that it’s not going to be that simple, though. She might have a completely different name. Married again, or just wants to disappear.’

  Ash tossed his finished cigarette over the wall.

  ‘I still don’t really understand why she would want to kill Todd. That’s if she’s responsible at all. Even if she did have the money from the diamonds, surely there’s nothing that Todd could have done to put her in jeopardy. Torturing and killing someone is a bit of an overreaction.’

  ‘Perhaps he was blackmailing her.’

  ‘But with what? How could he prove anything?’

  Anita had to admit that Ash was right.

  Ash watched her finish her cigarette.

  ‘I have to say, Anita, to use another British expression, we might be barking up the wrong tree.’

  They came off the central motorway and up onto the road that crossed Newcastle’s Town Moor. Which was exactly what it was – a large expanse of green, right in the middle of the city. Cows could be seen grazing in the distance. It was a surreal urban sight. As they headed down the bank towards Gosforth, Anita could see a line of large, smart houses with gardens backing onto the open space. At the end, there was a big apartment block that commanded fantastic views across the moor, the city, and Gateshead beyond. ‘Expensive,’ Ash commented.

  The traffic lights at the bottom of the hill filtered them past a Kwik Fit garage and Ash took an immediate turn to the left. They were in Montagu Avenue, and now Anita could see the fronts of the grand residences, stylistically all at odds with each other. Ash drew the car up outside one, which was pretending to be late Georgian. It was a huge, cream-stuccoed edifice; covered in Virginia creeper, russet and gold in its autumn glory. The portal, flanked by Ionic pillars, had obviously been an afterthought and seemed out of perspective with the rest of the house. What had once been the front garden was now paved over, and a large four-by-four and a slick Mercedes were parked in front of a garage the size of a normal semi. A fierce laurel hedge lined the boundary wall and screened the ground floor from curious eyes. Ash turned off the engine and slid out his key. He just sat there looking straight ahead.

  Anita put a hand on his. ‘Kevin, don’t let the situation get to you.’ The last thing she wanted was this vital discussion dissolving into an unseemly personal vendetta.

  He glanced down at her hand, which she quickly withdrew.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll wait until he tells us what we need to know... then I’ll kick the shit out of him.’

  Mrs Weatherley ushered Anita and Ash into the spacious sitting room, explaining that her husband would be down soon. She was quite short with them and her body language made it obvious that she didn’t approve of Royce bringing work home in the form of junior detectives cluttering up her home. A large flat-screen TV dominated the room in its position above the mock-Adam mantelpiece, which displayed a row of what looked like Royal Staffordshire figurines. A coal-effect fire created the illusion of a warm hearth. The room was big enough for three sizeable, heavy, black-leather sofas, which sank into a thick, white pile. Why were the British so obsessed with carpets? Anita idly wondered. Scandinavia was colder but, except for the odd scattering of rugs, Swedish floors were bare. All this compacted fibre everywhere can’t be that hygienic; there’d even been carpet in the bathroom in the guest house she had just stayed in. Unlike the figurines, the art on the walls was not genuine. Even Royce Weatherley couldn’t afford a real Constable or Van Gogh. A huge gilt mirror adorned the wall opposite the fireplace. Next to a silver drinks tray on a highly polished mahogany table, a large, silver-framed photograph showed the uniformed Deputy Chief Constable and his wife at an official function. In the growing gloom, Anita spied through the French windows one of the neatest gardens she had ever seen. It was laid out mainly to lawn, in the middle of which was a fountain presided over by a trio of cherubs delicately balanced on a central pedestal. Flowerbeds and rockeries bordered the lawn, and in the far reaches of the garden were crammed conifers and rhododendrons.

  When Weatherley appeared, he certainly didn’t look the Don Juan that she had expected. He wasn’t much taller than Ash. Anita thought him presentable rather than handsome. His fair hair was swept back at the front. The darting eyes were sharp and observant as he took in his visitors. Maybe it was this air of confidence that had attracted Mrs Ash. He was wearing a dinner jacket and black tie.

  ‘Sorry about the monkey suit. Rotary Club.’ The accent was a strange kind of suppressed Geordie. Somewhere along the line he had tried to lose his local twang and hadn’t quite managed it. To compensate, he overemphasised the wrong syllables, making his style of speech somewhat ridiculous.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Cockney Ash.’ He didn’t offer to shake Ash’s hand. ‘How’s life among the Cumbrian sheep shaggers?’

  ‘Fine.’ Anita could see how restrained Ash was being.

  ‘And the missus?’ This time Ash flinched.

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘And this must be our guest from Sweden.’ His face lit up momentarily.

  ‘Inspector Anita Sundström of the Skåne County Police,’ said Anita introducing herself.

  Weatherley held out his hand. ‘Delighted.’ Anita shook it. ‘Take a seat, Inspector.’ As an afterthought. ‘And you, Ash.’

  As Anita and Ash took their places on the same sofa, Weatherley wandered over to the drinks tray and poured himself a large Scotch from a crystal decanter.

  ‘I would offer you one, but you’re both on duty. Rules is rules,’ he smirked, before taking a long sip of his whisky. He moved over to the fireplace and stood watching them. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’

  Ash briefly explained about the circumstances of the death of Graeme Todd in Malmö and how they had discovered that the connection was probably Carol Pew.

  ‘What we need from you, sir, is a background to Nicky Pew and what you know of Carol’s movements since he died.’

  ‘So, you think Carol may have ended up in Sweden? Interesting.’ Weatherley walked over to the drinks tray again and refreshed his glass. This time when he came back, he sat down on a sofa opposite his visitors.

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the world authority on the Pews. Never met him properly until his end, but Nicky was quite a character. Charismatic, some said. A villain, of course, but up until that night in North Shields he hadn’t pulled any jobs on our patch. Presumably you know about the diamond shipment that was being collected that night on Commission Quay?’

  Ash nodded. ‘I’ve told the Inspector.’

  ‘How he found out about it in the first place we’ve never discovered. Security was tight. It could have been anyone: one of the jewellery consortium, a Dutch source, someone at Imerson’s Security or, dare I say it, one of us. I was based in North Shields at the time and there was a rumour that someone was in Nicky’s pocket. But nothing was ever proved or fingers pointed. Of course, all hell broke loose when the security officer was killed. They made their escape with the diamonds across the river. That was a clever touch because they could disappear easily in South Shields on the other side. We found the dinghy abandoned.’

  ‘But you caught two of the gang pretty quickly, as I understand it.’

  Weatherley’s eyes brightened. ‘Yes, there were four of them. Nicky Pew, the brains; George Dobson, his right-hand man; young Billy Hump was the
driver, or in this case, the man in the dinghy. And then the enforcer, Gary Chapman. He was a real hard bastard. Sorry, Inspector, forgive the language.’

  ‘I’m fine with it.’

  ‘Two days later I picked up Hump and Chapman in a flat in Walker.’

  ‘How did you find them?’

  ‘Anonymous tip-off. To this day, I don’t know who. Maybe a neighbour had seen something suspicious. Mind you, in these close-knit communities they don’t easily give up their own. But it was a good start.’

  ‘Are they still in prison?’

  ‘Chapman died inside. Cancer. Billy Hump was released from Durham in 2007. His sentence was less because he hadn’t been on the quayside when the shooting took place.’

  Ash looked hopefully at Anita. ‘Maybe we should have a word with him.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re a bit late for that. He died in a hit-and-run.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two nights ago. Report came in from the Hexham station. Acomb.’

  ‘Do they know who did it?’ Ash couldn’t hide his disappointment at the news.

  ‘Not that I’ve heard. It’ll be some drunken hick out there, no doubt. Hump was a charva and won’t be missed.’

  ‘What about the others?’ asked Anita.

  ‘Pew and George Dobson got out of the country. Dobson was spotted in Sydney some months later. I went over to help with the investigation. The local police found Dobson and he was brought back here, eventually. He’s been in Her Majesty’s Prison Doncaster since 1996.’

  Ash turned to Anita, ‘So, Todd didn’t visit Dobson, but someone up here.’

  ‘Hump?’ Anita suggested.

  ‘Possibly. Sorry, sir, carry on.’

  ‘Well, to cut a long story short, we tracked Pew down to an area on the New South Wales coast around Wollongong. We hadn’t got much out of Dobson, but he had let that morsel slip. I was down under for about a fortnight. One evening, I was accompanying a local patrol in Austinmer, near the beach there. We were doing house-to-house. At one particular house the door was answered by a woman. Attractive. About forty. When I showed her a photo of Pew, she started. She tried to cover up and said she hadn’t seen anyone like that. But I knew she was lying. I asked myself in. There was an empty whisky bottle on the table. Then the back door opened. I’d never met the guy who walked in with a bag of booze, but I sure as hell recognised him. Nicky Pew. When he saw me, he was out like a shot and into a car. Frantically, I looked around for the two patrolmen, but they were nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t wait, so I jumped in the patrol car and gave chase.’

  Weatherley hadn’t told the story for some time and was enjoying retelling it to a new audience. He was becoming so animated that he hadn’t touched his second glass of whisky.

  ‘I hurtled after him down the Lawrence Hargrave Drive. It’s a scenic route that runs along the coast up to Helensburgh. Pew was driving pretty erratically, which I put down to the amount of booze he must have had. Though it was going dark, it was a clear evening, so I never lost sight of him. The fact that there wasn’t much traffic made it easier. I’ve been back since; they now call the route the Grand Pacific Drive. It’s a swish new motorway, but in the Nineties it was a cliff-hugging road prone to rock falls. Whether his car hit a bit of debris, or because he was drunk, I don’t know, but Pew crashed. I stopped my car. By that stage, I’d managed to call for back-up but I had no idea when they’d arrive.

  ‘I saw Pew stagger out of his car. He had a gun in his hand. He took a shot at me and it smashed my windscreen. Luckily for me, there was a police gun in the patrol car. He moved away to the edge of the road, which was high above the sea. I got out and shouted for him to stop or I’d shoot. He turned and shot again, hitting my left arm. I had no choice but to fire.’

  He paused for effect. His story was well-rehearsed.

  ‘As I say, it was a clear evening. I can see it all in my mind’s eye, as if it were yesterday; Nicky Pew dropping his gun, grabbing his chest and keeling over the edge. The back-up arrived moments later and I was carted off to hospital to be patched up. Yet I was annoyed. As I’d been on the case since the beginning, I so wanted to bring Nicky Pew to justice. He was the one who’d shot dead the security guard. Dobson was little consolation.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Anita. ‘Did you ever recover the diamonds?’

  ‘No. That was another disappointment. I assumed he’d fenced them by the time he reached Australia.’

  ‘But what about Carol all this time? Could she have got hold of the diamond money?’

  Weatherley paused for a swig of his whisky. He smacked his lips.

  ‘No, the poor cow missed out there. We brought her in after Nicky did a bunk. Of course, she denied knowing anything about his nefarious practices. And we hadn’t enough evidence to prove otherwise. She was genuinely shocked to hear that Nicky had killed someone. I believe the love died there and then. She stayed in Newcastle for a couple of years after Nicky’s death. Had to give up the smart home in Darras Hall, as the bank accounts were all frozen. The last I heard was that she’d gone to New Zealand to start a new life. I’m surprised to hear she might be in Sweden.’

  ‘Well, this heir hunter was keen to track her down,’ said Ash. ‘She was the only one in line for the inheritance, but that wasn’t much. But if she’d had some of the money from the robbery, then it might have been worth his while. Blackmail.’

  Weatherley’s smile was patronizing. ‘I think you’re on the wrong track there, Cockney. Firstly, I think there’s no chance that Carol got hold of Nicky’s ill-gotten gains. I heard that when she was in Auckland, she was living like a church mouse. Worked in some menial secretarial job. Hardly the high life. And Nicky was living with another woman before he died, so he was unlikely to let Carol near his cash. But even if she had managed to get hold of his money, how could this Todd character prove it enough in order to blackmail her? So, whoever was behind the murder of your heir hunter, I’d lay heavy odds against it being anything to do with Carol Pew.’

  CHAPTER 35

  ‘Where the hell does that leave us?’ Ash may have asked the question out loud, but it was one that Anita had been asking herself. Ash had already lit up as they got back into his car. They had just watched Deputy Chief Constable Weatherley get into a taxi.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Anita sighed. ‘It was quite a story.’

  ‘That case made his name,’ Ash said bitterly. ‘Word is, he was a very ordinary cop until the Commission Quay robbery. It’s like those film stars talking about their lucky break. That was his.’

  ‘You were very good in there,’ Anita said reassuringly. ‘You didn’t hit him once.’

  Ash laughed. ‘I didn’t, did I? Maybe a beer will help us think this through. First, we’d better check into the Premier Inn and then I’ll take you to Commission Quay. That might provide some inspiration.’

  Moberg was on the point of dragging himself home when his office phone rang. It was almost a relief to delay the inevitable.

  ‘Moberg,’ he barked into the receiver.

  ‘Westermark here. Just to let you know I’ve delivered Sundström’s car to forensics. It’s up to them now.’

  ‘Good. Do you know if they’ve had any luck with the other two vehicles?’

  ‘No. They’re short staffed at the moment. One sick and another on paternity leave.’

  ‘Paternity leave!’ Moberg shouted in frustration. ‘This fucking, useless country.’ Not having any children of his own, the thought of giving fathers six months’ paternity leave was anathema to him. ‘No wonder nothing ever gets done round here.’

  ‘They do have three cars to totally strip.’

  ‘I don’t fucking care. If they have to drag the sod away from his breastfeeding or nappy changing, or whatever the idle tosser’s doing, then make Thulin do something about it.’

  Moberg slammed down the phone. His job was stressful enough without this gumming up the works. He needed food.

  It was hard to
imagine what Commission Quay had looked like nearly twenty years before. Now, as they sat in the long car park which stretched over two thirds of the quay’s length, there were no sizeable vessels in sight. The most prominent boat was the Earl of Zetland, a floating restaurant. Behind them was a marina with masts bobbing unco-ordinatedly, trying to keep time with the tide. Fringing the marina were modern blocks of flats and town houses, none of which would have been built when Nicky Pew had planned his audacious robbery. The whole area had been redeveloped since then. Across the shimmering water were the lights of South Shields. That’s where the gang had made their escape, leaving a dead security guard in their wake.

  ‘Of course, it’s all changed now. The QEII came in here on her last voyage a few years back, but not many big ships these days. The ferries go from along there,’ said Ash, pointing further up the river. ‘They used to go to Scandinavia, you know, but don’t any more. Leanne and I went on one of those romantic weekend trips to Bergen from here. Won it as a prize in a police raffle. She spent most of the time heaving her guts out over the North Sea. And that was the romantic bit.’

  Anita wasn’t listening. She was trying to recreate the events of 1993. Everything had gone according to plan, until a security guard had bravely, or foolishly, tried to intervene. Had Pew taken the shooting in his stride? Or had it plagued him?

  ‘I’m still sure that what happened to Graeme Todd was as a result of what happened here.’

  ‘I hate to admit it, but maybe that prick Weatherley is right. Maybe we’re wrong about the Carol Pew connection. What if Todd innocently went over to Sweden to find her as the heir to Doris Little’s money, but ran into someone else? Maybe it was a mugging that went horribly wrong. Whoever did it believed that he had more money than he really had.’

  ‘No. There has to be more to it. Todd stayed at the Hilton when he didn’t really have the money to do so. He told Jennifer that this was the “jackpot”. Whatever the reason for his visit, he thought he was onto something lucrative.’