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

by MacLeod, Torquil

  Hakim tried to speak, but found it impossible to get the words out through his swollen lips. Anita found herself cradling him like a child. Pew would pay for this. He must be somewhere near. His car was here and he wouldn’t want to leave Hakim for long. She phoned for an ambulance and then instructed Hakim to lie on the bed and wait.

  She stepped off the boat and saw Westermark wandering over towards her.

  ‘What have you done with Carol Pew?’

  ‘It’s OK; she’s safely locked in the car.’

  ‘Hakim’s in there,’ Anita said, indicating the boat with her thumb. ‘Badly beaten up.’

  ‘No sign of Pew?’

  ‘No. But he must be around here somewhere.’

  Just then they heard a scream. It came from the Porsche. They could see Carol Pew’s face pressed against the window. She was shouting. Though muffled by the glass, they could hear, ‘Nicky! Run! Run, Nicky!’

  Glancing over towards the shops, they saw the tall figure of a man with blond hair standing uncertainly at the edge of the car park, a large jerry can in each hand. His gaze quickly travelled from the car to Anita and Westermark. In a flash, he had dropped the cans and whipped out a gun. There was a single shot in their direction, the bullet loudly splintering off the concrete harbour wall behind them. Nicky Pew turned on his heels and made for the gap between the shops. He pushed past an elderly woman who momentarily blocked Westermark’s line of fire. For a man in his mid-fifties, Pew was surprisingly fit and agile. He was mounting the steps that led to Ales Stenar, two at a time. Westermark made after him. Just then the squad car from Ystad came down the road. Anita rushed over to it and quickly gave instructions to the two patrolmen to keep an eye on both Carol and the injured Hakim on the boat.

  She was soon running up the steps. Her feet were seriously throbbing, As she neared the top of the hill, she heard a couple of shots. On reaching the brow, she found a middle-aged couple cowering in the grass. She shouted ‘Police!’ at them and, without saying a word, they pointed along the path. Anita rushed on. There was no sign of either Westermark or Pew. A frightened young man was hiding behind the large site information board.

  ‘Stay there and get down!’ she shouted at him.

  Two more shots were exchanged as she reached a cattle-grid. She gingerly stepped over it, balancing on the metal rungs. The gunfire had come from straight ahead. In the dim light she could just discern the ancient stones of the ship, still impressive after centuries of wind and weather. The prow and stern were large, upright boulders, twice the size of the other stones forming the body of the vessel. She had often visited this megalithic monument of worship and burial and felt anger at its imminent desecration.

  She scoped the site for any sign of Pew and Westermark. They must be hidden behind the stones. Out on the Baltic, the light of a tanker glinted in the dusk. A shot rang out, betraying the location of one of the men. It came from the side of the ship on Anita’s right. Crouching, she ran across the wide expanse of grass separating her from the prow. On reaching the high end stone, she threw herself to the ground. A bullet zinged off the side of one of the smaller stones, only metres away. This was immediately followed by a volley of shots.

  And then nothing. All Anita could hear was her heart thumping and her uneven breathing.

  She eased herself up to a squatting position, her back pressed against the cold rock. Very slowly, she manoeuvred her way round the side of the stone. Still no sound. She wanted to call out Westermark’s name, but that would draw attention to her location. But she couldn’t stay here forever. If the light went, Pew would be able to make a dash for the fields beyond. She had to do something now. She steeled herself, counted to three, and swung out of her hiding place, pistol in firing position. Half way down the ship she could see the silhouette of a man standing, weapon in hand, over a lifeless shape on the ground.

  ‘Freeze!’ she shouted.

  CHAPTER 49

  ‘I believe this initiative will help make our communities safer, and will be an example to other forces around the country.’ Deputy Chief Constable Weatherley looked very pleased with himself as he beamed at the cameras of the television crews from the local BBC and ITV stations. Standing on the steps of Newcastle’s Civic Centre, he was immaculately dressed in his police uniform, the peak of his cap gleaming almost as brightly as his confident smile. This was a man that the public could trust.

  ‘One more question. And then we’ve got to get this show on the road,’ he joked.

  An attractive reporter with brown, shoulder-length hair poked her microphone towards Weatherley and asked with a knowing smile, ‘Is it true that you’re about to be appointed as Chief Constable of Lincolnshire?’

  Weatherley looked suitably humble. ‘I cannot deny it. So, let’s just say that this initiative is my leaving present to the people of Northumbria, whom I have been honoured to serve for so many years. Thank you.’

  Weatherley gave a little bow to show that the interview was formerly terminated. As he turned away, he saw Kevin Ash hanging around close by, with a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Hello, Cockney. Can’t keep away?’

  ‘Must be your magnetism.’

  Weatherley glanced back at the film crews, who were starting to pack up their gear.

  ‘I’ll be on TV a lot more once I take up my new job. Has television reached Cumbria yet?’

  ‘Very funny. Can I have a quick word?’

  ‘Supersonic. That quick enough for you?’

  ‘You are on good form, Roller.’

  Weatherley wasn’t pleased. ‘It’s “sir” to you.’

  ‘Not for long,’ Ash smiled. There was a hint of alarm in Weatherley’s eyes. ‘I’ve come to tell you that you’ve been rumbled at last. After all these years.’

  ‘And what the fuck do you mean by that?’

  ‘That’s not the sort of language they’ll expect to hear from their Chief Constable in Lincolnshire. But, of course, you should never sell the skin before you’ve shot the bear.’

  ‘What on earth are you babbling on about?’

  ‘Basically, it means you’ll never take up the job. It’s a Swedish saying; I’m surprised you’ve not heard it. Know a bit about Sweden these days, don’t you?’

  Weatherley was furious. ‘I’m not putting up with this shite from you. You’re messing with the big boys now.’

  Weatherley was about to turn away.

  ‘I just wanted you to know that Nicky Pew’s dead.’

  Weatherley stood stock still. ‘Of course he’s dead,’ he said slowly. ‘I killed him.’

  ‘No, I mean he really is dead this time. Not pretend dead.’

  ‘Say any more and you’ll be in serious trouble, Ash.’

  ‘Shall I call the TV people back? I’ve got quite a story for them. And I think it’ll go beyond the local telly. Might even make Cumbria.’

  Weatherley went quiet. Ash flicked away his cigarette butt.

  ‘I know you fabricated Pew’s death. After all, you were in his pocket.’

  Weatherley was about to argue the point before deciding against it.

  ‘You’ve been his man since the 1990s. It was you who tipped off Pew about the diamond shipment when you were serving in North Shields. Watch it, did you? Must have crapped yourself when it went wrong and Nicky shot that guard. But then it all suddenly worked out a treat. Nicky gives you Chapman and Hump. Suddenly your standing goes up. Then he disappears to Oz with Dobson. You follow, because Nicky’s got an even cleverer plan up his sleeve – give you Dobson and then the big one. You kill Nicky trying to escape. Nice touch, him winging your arm for credibility. You return a glittering hero while Pew vanishes and reappears as Peter Johansson in New Zealand. Then he starts a new life with his wife in Sweden. And he still has all the loot. I wonder how much of it he gave to you? Anyway, it’s all hunky-dory with everybody coming out a winner.’

  Ash pulled out another cigarette. Instead of lighting it, he used it to point at
Weatherley.

  ‘Then a few weeks ago, Pew’s new life, your reputation, the money – they’re all put in jeopardy when some nondescript probate researcher follows up the death of an old biddy in Carlisle. And the path leads, indirectly, to Carol. But who’d have thought that Graeme Todd would be clever enough to link Carol with Nicky? Not only that, but he finds out about the Commission Quay robbery. He goes to drunken old Billy Hump with a photograph from a Swedish newspaper. He confirms Carol’s identity, then, low and behold, there’s Nicky, risen from the dead. And that means money. Trouble is, Todd is greedy. He doesn’t realize how vicious the people are he’s trying to blackmail. They can’t afford to let their secret out. After all, there’s only one other person who knows it – and that’s you, Roller.’

  ‘You’re talking through your southern arse,’ Weatherley interjected.

  ‘I haven’t come to the best bit yet. Nicky and Carol torture the poor old heir hunter. Carol even uses the skills she picked up from her old man in his butcher’s shop in Carlisle. What they needed was to find out how much Todd really knew. Turns out he still has stuff on them back in his office at home. So Nicky calls you. Out of the blue, I imagine. That must have given you a nasty jolt. Not someone you wanted to hear from now your career’s on the up. Did he threaten you? He was good at that. So, you’re sent off to Fellbeck in the middle of the night for a little bit of breaking and entering. But that’s not all. They’ve also discovered that Billy Hump is in on the secret. That has to be dealt with, too. You run the poor bugger over. And you’re in a position to make sure that’s one hit-and-run that’s never solved. It was still a helluva risk, though.’ Ash shook his head in mock admiration. ‘But you carried it off, Roller; I’ll give you that.’

  Weatherley had regained his composure.

  ‘Facinating story. Might make a crime novel one day. Trouble is, Ash, you haven’t a shred of evidence linking me to any of this.’

  Ash lit his cigarette and sent a cloud of smoke in the direction of the council offices above.

  ‘George Dobson described Carol Pew as vindictive. Very apt, as it turns out. You should have heard some of the things she’s been telling our Swedish colleagues over the last couple of days. When she realized that you would probably get off scot-free – no doubt you’d come out with some tale about not actually seeing Nicky die when he fell over that cliff – it all tumbled out. Do you know what your big mistake was, Roller? You think with your dick. And I should know. You fucked up my life. But trying it on with Nicky Pew’s woman was a step too far. When he was safely out of the way in Australia, you tried to move in on his territory. But Carol was the love of his life, and he hers. She wasn’t in a position to resist your advances; she didn’t even tell Nicky because they still needed you to help start their new life. But she never forgot, nor forgave.’

  A suited PR man approached them. ‘Excuse me, sir, The Journal wants an interview now.’

  Weatherley stood open-mouthed. His upper lip was sweating.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Journal. They’re waiting.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said distractedly. ‘Em...no...mustn’t keep them waiting.’ He walked away from Ash like a man who had been dazed by an unexpected punch. Ash decided it was time for a celebratory drink.

  CHAPTER 50

  Anita left the hospital on foot at about five in the evening. She was back in sensible shoes. The rush hour traffic was heavy, with vehicles bumper-to- bumper stretching along John Ericssons väg and into Ystadvägen. It was easier to walk home than drive, even at the risk of being mown down by Malmö’s army of cyclists. The clocks going back at the weekend and the cold breeze off the Sound were portents of winter. Hakim had seemed cheerful enough and was due to go home tomorrow. The last three days had been stressful. Interviewing Carol Pew had been an unpleasant experience. She blamed everything on Nicky. And thanks to Westermark’s sharp-shooting, he wasn’t alive to contradict her. The tactic had worked in England; it wouldn’t work in Sweden. They had found the pruning saw. The grooves matched those on Graeme Todd’s wrist. It was her prints that were on it, not Nicky’s. Eventually, the whole sordid tale came spilling out, the details of which Anita had relayed to Ash.

  Then there was Greta Jansson. She had been busy on that front, too, though Björn was still wallowing in a cell, with another court appearance due in a week. As for Nordlund, Sejad Medunjanin was still firmly in the frame, and a huge number of officers were being employed to try and prove it. His funeral was scheduled for the following Tuesday, and Anita had been asked to say a few words on behalf of the department. She wasn’t sure she was emotionally up to it.

  As she reached the edge of Pildammsparken, her mobile rang.

  ‘Hi Anita, it’s Kevin. Kevin Ash.’

  ‘I know. Your name came up.’ She found herself grinning.

  ‘Just thought I’d let you know that Roller Weatherley has been arrested by Northumbria Police for the murder of Billy Hump. They’ve got a bucket load of other charges lined up, too.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Pity I couldn’t do the arresting myself. The only thing he did in Cumbria was a bit of burglary. Never mind, I’ll not miss his trial, even if I have to take some holiday leave. I bet Leanne doesn’t go!’

  ‘Revenge is best served cold?’

  Ash laughed at the other end. ‘Something like that. Anyway, have you got everything under control over there?’

  ‘Yeah. Coping OK.’

  ‘When this gets to trial, they’ll want Carol over here to testify against Weatherley. Maybe you could come over with her.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Oh.’ The disappointment was obvious in his voice. ‘So everything’s fine?’

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine. Just one more thing to do.’

  ‘Well, I’d better let you go.’ He sounded reluctant to end the call.

  ‘Thanks for calling, Kevin.’

  ‘No problem.’ He paused. ‘Anita?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She could hear him clear his throat. ‘Will you call me sometime? Other than about work, I mean.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  She allowed herself a smile as she put her phone away.

  Friday night. Westermark hadn’t felt this good for some time. He poured himself a second gin and tonic and turned the music up. It was ABBA. Now they were acceptable again, he didn’t have to feel guilty or girlie about listening to them. He might go clubbing later. Find a hot woman, bring her back, put on some moody music and give her a good time. What better way to celebrate two great results? Björn Sundström had been fingered for Greta Jansson’s killing and he, Karl Westermark, was a hero. The dramatic shoot-out at Ales Stenar was all over Sweden. The press had loved it. So, instead of Anita winning plaudits for discovering a murderous diamond robber whom everybody thought was dead, and solving the Graeme Todd case, he had stolen her thunder. He had stitched her up twice. Promotion was on the horizon and he would leave her in his wake.

  He wandered out onto the balcony. He was wearing a new tan shirt. It wasn’t designed to keep out the cold, yet he was in such an upbeat mood that he didn’t feel the evening chill. As he always did, he marvelled at the view; the Öresund Bridge with its constant toing and froing of vehicle headlights and brightly lit trains; the orange glow above Copenhagen across the water reminding him of the skies depicted in the biblical illustrations he had been shown at school when he was a youngster. Maybe next weekend he would book himself into a hotel over there and trawl the bars and clubs for a bit of Danish skirt. He would have another holiday, too. Visit his little sister in Boston before Christmas. In his seedy world of selfish pleasure and one-night stands, he had never found a woman in whom he could confide, trust with his innermost thoughts, inspire loyalty. Only Sigyn. She’d always felt for her brother an unconditional love, which made her blind to his shortcomings.

  He was disturbed by the ringing of the doorbell. It was odd that the visitor hadn’t buzzed from the apartment blo
ck entrance. Must be a neighbour. He was taken by surprise when he unlocked the door to find Anita Sundström standing in the corridor.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  Westermark smirked. ‘Of course,’

  He followed her into the living room. She was dressed all in black – short jacket, jersey and jeans. His hopes were suddenly raised. This could only be a social call. Anita scanned the room. Everything except the chestnut-brown wooden floor was in monochrome. The dining table and chairs in one corner were black, as were the sideboard, the lampshades and the thick surround of the enormous plasma television on the wall. The rest of the furniture was white and soulless. Black and white. That summed up Karl Westermark, Anita concluded. No grey areas in this man’s life. All or nothing. There were a couple of modern ceramics and a range of DVDs on a shelf, but not a book in sight. That was telling, too. She sat down on the long, white sofa, clutching her keys on her lap.

  ‘Drink?’ Westermark offered.

  ‘No thanks.’

  Westermark shrugged and went over to a tray on the sideboard that was crammed with bottles. He freshened his gin. He didn’t take a seat.

  ‘And to what do I owe this visit?’

  ‘I want you to come down with me to headquarters.’

  Westermark took a swig.

  ‘Why? It’s Friday night and I’m going to have some fun.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  There was something about the edge in her voice that alerted him. He could see she wasn’t relaxed. He was immediately on his guard.

  ‘If we’ve something on, why didn’t you just ring?’

  ‘Because, Karl, I’m here to arrest you.’

  Westermark burst out laughing. ‘Oh, just fuck off, Anita. I thought you might have come here to thank me for sorting out your case for you. But this? It’s some kind of sick joke, right?’