Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries)

by MacLeod, Torquil

  They turned away from the lake. David pointed ahead of him. ‘One place you’ve got to see is Malmöhus.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The castle. It also served as a prison. One of the most famous prisoners was one of your lot.’

  ‘My lot?’

  ‘Yea. A Scotsman.’

  The main members of the investigation team were gathered in Moberg’s office. Anita, Nordlund and Westermark. There was quiet as they digested the information that Anita had passed on from Thulin.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ Moberg said. He was squeezed in behind his desk in a seat that was too small for him. ‘According to Thulin, Malin Lovgren was left sitting on the leather sofa. So how did she end up on the floor? Did the journalist lay her down there?’

  Anita was trying to make sense of it herself and chose her words carefully. ‘Eva reckons that the dead body was placed on the sofa and that it slid down before it became stiff. The position of the body on the floor wasn’t consistent with just being dumped there after being dragged in from the kitchen. It does fit with the body sliding onto the floor from the sofa. Eva found fibres on the back of the sofa so she must have been sitting there that evening. Of course, it may have been earlier on.’

  Moberg interrupted: ‘So, what she’s saying is that Malin was placed on the sofa and then slid off?’

  ‘Eva doesn’t think so. She’s pretty sure that the body didn’t reach the floor by itself. Left alone, the body would have been more likely just to flop over to one side, not forward. Eva believes it’s possible that it was handled again and slipped down into the position in which Strachan found it. By the time he discovered the body rigor mortis had set in.’

  ‘Could the killer have placed it there and then changed his mind? Let the body fall to the floor?’ This was Nordlund.

  ‘Eva doubts it. However, she’s can’t be totally sure. Still awaiting more from forensics. Prints et cetera.’

  Moberg picked up cup of water and sipped it thoughtfully. ‘We are now certain that the murder took place in the kitchen. The murderer then drags the body through to the living room and puts it on the sofa. Before, it didn’t make sense why he’d moved it. But if he set it up like that, it was deliberate. Was he making a statement?’

  ‘The killer wanted the body to be found by Roslyn?’ Anita suggested.

  ‘It would be the obvious room for him to go into,’ put in Westermark. ‘You’d be unlikely to go into the kitchen first.’

  ‘If Roslyn had turned up on time he would have found the body,’ added Nordlund.

  Moberg tried to shift in his seat, but there was no leeway for such a manoeuvre. ‘It seems that our murderer wanted to create the maximum impact on, we assume, Roslyn. So, whatever the motive, someone seems be to trying to get at Roslyn. Given the business he’s in, he must have upset a lot of people along the way. We could have a whole cast of bloody suspects.’

  ‘Upsetting egos is one thing,’ said Anita, ‘killing is another.’

  ‘If this murder is for his benefit Roslyn must know the person or, if he doesn’t, it’s someone who dislikes him more than Malin Lovgren. Maybe she’s just the unintended victim in all this.’

  There was a further silence as they absorbed this permutation.

  ‘From what Strachan told me this morning Roslyn was a big hit with the ladies at university.’

  ‘Once a babe magnet, always a babe magnet.’ Westermark smirked.

  ‘That’s something you won’t know anything about then,’ said Anita sarcastically. Westermark was about to come back with some smart-alec comment when Moberg cut in.

  ‘If he hasn’t changed, then there may be a few infuriated husbands or boyfriends out there as well. Better check his background, too. Let’s make sure he was in Stockholm last night.’

  ‘The only other problem,’ said Anita slowly, ‘is that there may be a second person involved. If Eva’s right and the body was disturbed, then someone else was in the apartment that night.’

  Malmöhus was a large, squat mass of red brick, low-lying with grassy ramparts and two circular keeps. Ewan and David made their way in over a moat. It had been an important stronghold in the days when Skåne was part of Denmark. Even today, Malmö had more in common with Copenhagen than a distant Stockholm. Within the castle’s walls were a number of museums – too many for Ewan to take in during one visit. He just wanted to get a flavour of the place for his piece. He did visit some of the furnished rooms with an assorted mix of Renaissance, Baroque, Rococo and Neoclassical styles. Downstairs there were lots of stuffed animals, including a gigantic elk. Ewan was staggered to see the size of the beast.

  The castle itself, though the interiors were spartan, Ewan found much more interesting. Here he could sense the history, as he hadn’t been able to in the fabricated areas that they had already visited. You could feel the cold strength of the building. The inhabitants would feel secure within these thick walls. And the prisoners would fear that they would never get out. People like Scotland’s own James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, who was imprisoned here by the Danes between 1567 and 1573. Ewan knew him well from Scottish history: the roguish and unscrupulous third husband of Mary Queen of Scots. He had been implicated in the murder of the queen’s second husband. Ewan knew he had done a bunk when they had been defeated at the battle of Carberry Hill. After one final embrace, Bothwell and Mary never set eyes on each other again.

  Not long after, Mary fled to England and what she thought would be the open arms of her cousin, Queen Elizabeth I. Mary was eventually executed but Ewan wasn’t sure what had happened to Bothwell, a swashbuckling but probably highly unpleasant figure. How had he ended up in a Danish prison?

  Ewan himself was now feeling trapped in Malmö. He wanted to go home, yet circumstances – and Brian – had condemned him to stay on.

  ‘Let’s start with Malin Lovgren’s movements. Henrik?’ Nordlund was the only one whom Moberg would defer to. He was the most experienced member of the team but hadn’t had the ambition to go on to be a chief inspector. He was a cop’s cop. Though nearing retirement, Nordlund still showed a commendable professionalism without the corrosive cynicism that many of his colleagues had for a system that they felt didn’t support the authority of the police. They often felt exposed to unfair criticism from the media, the public and above all, self-seeking politicians.

  Nordlund took out a notebook. ‘Malin Lovgren did her interview on Channel 4 during the seven o’clock national news slot. It was a short piece about her painting; nothing to do with films. She left the TV studio in Södergatan at 7.41 – checked out by reception. She walked up to Stortoget and met an old friend, an Ebba Carlsson, at the Scandic Kramer Hotel for drinks and a meal. According to Carlsson, they left shortly after nine and Lovgren was going to walk home. During the meal, Lovgren did mention that her husband was away but someone he knew from England was interviewing him next morning. Carlsson was under the impression that Lovgren was just going back to relax and wasn’t expecting any visitors.’

  ‘How long would it take to walk back from Stortorget?’ mused Moberg. ‘Fifteen to twenty minutes at the outside. So, she should have been back at her apartment by about half past nine.’

  ‘We can’t be sure she went straight home,’ cautioned Nordlund. ‘Basically, after she left the hotel restaurant, her movements are unknown. We’re still asking around. Someone may have spotted her entering the block.’

  ‘Did you ask her if Lovgren had any extra-curricular male friends?’

  Nordlund grimaced. ‘Yes. She was very cross when I mentioned it. Very protective. She said that once Malin had met Mick, that was it.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ murmured Moberg sceptically. ‘Keep an open mind on that one. What about anybody who might want to harm Lovgren – or people she didn’t get on with?

  ‘The only person she mentioned was a guy called Bengt Valquist. He’s Roslyn’s film producer.’

  ‘He came in here with Roslyn when we had that chat,’ said Anita.
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  Moberg frowned at the memory. ‘What about Valquist?’

  ‘Not much. Malin didn’t think much of him. Too highly strung, apparently. She always referred to him as “Mick’s poodle”.’

  ‘All right. What about Roslyn?’

  Westermark perked up. ‘He was booked on the first flight down to Sturup on Tuesday morning. But there is less good news about Jörgen Crabo. Our Stockholm colleagues went to his home and discovered he wasn’t there.’

  ‘Shit!’ exclaimed Moberg.

  ‘Hasn’t been seen for three days. Neighbours don’t know where he is.’

  ‘I hope they’re going to keep looking.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Westermark said smugly. ‘Once they found out that Malin Lovgren was dead they were crapping themselves. They’ll find him.’

  ‘Unless he’s down here.’ Anita’s reasoning wasn’t greeted with any enthusiasm.

  ‘So, we can’t rule him out. Get hold of his photo and have it distributed. Now, Henrik, what about H?’

  ‘I’ve got people trawling through the CCTV footage but that’s going to take time. But without the letters or any clue as to his identity, we’ve nothing to go on.’ He paused and consulted his notebook again. ‘One thing though. I mentioned to Ebba Carlsson about the letters from this H character, but she said that Lovgren hadn’t told her about them. However, she did say that Lovgren had mentioned that she felt she was being followed. Not regularly; just occasionally. One incident specifically. As she was punching in her code to get into her apartment block, she was aware of someone standing behind her. Then, when she turned round, the person was gone. Spooked her.’

  ‘No description?’ Nordlund shook his head. ‘Well, it might be H. Keep digging. But quickly. Anita, I want you to talk to the journalist again. Find out for definite the position of the body when he entered the living room.’

  ‘He’s coming in at three to give a statement. I’ll catch him then.’

  ‘And we need to speak to Roslyn again. I want to be in on that. He could well be the key.’

  ‘I’m just off to speak to Lovgren’s mother,’ said Anita. ‘If anybody’s going to come out with the truth about Roslyn, it’s a mother-in-law.’

  CHAPTER 12

  He had been flicking between the TV channels. He had all that morning’s newspapers strewn around the floor. All the media were full of Malin Lovgren’s murder. The great and the good, the celebrities and the non-entities all came out to say what a wonderful person and creative talent Malin Lovgren had been. What a loss, they intoned gravely. Some even managed tears. Where the reports were sketchy, everybody seemed to have an opinion. After asking how could this happen in Sweden it turned to the theme of Sweden going to the dogs. Where were our traditional values? Nowhere was safe any more. At least Prime Minister Olof Palme and Foreign Minister Anna Lindh had been killed in public places, but this was in the actress’s own home. The unspoken implication was that the influx of foreign refugees lay at the heart of this national disintegration. After all, hadn’t Anna Lindh been stabbed in the Stockholm department store by Mijailo Mijailović, a Swedish-born Serb.

  What had alarmed him was when the Chief Inspector had come on the TV for his press conference. Though he was keeping police findings close to his chest – either that or they had no idea as to who had done it – the large man had mentioned that they were going through CCTV from the Värnhems torget area. He cursed to himself. That was so stupid of him. He tried to think back to his movements on the night. Where were the cameras? Where had he been standing? His palms began to sweat. But he was positive that there wasn’t a camera at the front of the apartment block. He went over the other events of the night and thought whether there were other things he should worry about – other details that the police could pick up on. Then they might come on his trail. If they did, he would have to rely on his training. He knew how to look after himself. Though he was better with his hands than with a weapon, he always had the gun. And he knew how to use it.

  Anita stopped at the traffic lights at the interchange. When the lights flicked to green she turned the car into Lundavägen, the wide thoroughfare that she used to travel on regularly when she had been married to Björn. Then they had had a nice apartment in Lund. Björn was making a name for himself in academic circles and at first life had been lively in the university community. She used to drive in every working day along this road, in the other direction, when she had been Björn’s “pretty little cop”. It had taken her a long time to realize that her job was an amusing curiosity to him. Unlike his colleagues, whose partners tended to be teachers or in some way connected to the university, Björn could turn up with a member of the police force at parties and functions. These occasions had often been fun, but Anita had never been able to escape the feeling that she was an outsider. She was never really accepted, because academics, by their very nature, were fighting the system. In their eyes, however pleasing to the eye she might be, she was still there to uphold it.

  After Lasse was born and her shifts at work became more erratic, the “pretty little cop” novelty had begun to wear off. Björn found comfort in the arms of some of his more attractive students – and Anita had found out. She still had his name. She had never been bothered to change it back to Ullman.

  The car slipped along in the stream of traffic under the railway bridge. Familiar landmarks passed before she turned right into Östra Fäladsgatan. The road was wide with an avenue of trees running down the middle. She decided to park here and walk round to fru Lovgren’s. Next to the 1940s apartments on her right was Rostorp, a group of streets made up of neat rows of pleasant dwellings. All were similar shapes with steep pitched roofs, and each had a reasonably sized garden plot. In the summer the trees in full leaf broke up the military precision of the houses along the straight roads – in winter their regimentation was exposed.

  Anita sat in her car. She knew she was reluctant to get out. She hated having to talk to the family of the recently deceased, especially in tragic circumstances. Breaking the news of a death was particularly difficult. In this case, fru Lovgren already knew. The whole of Sweden did. To lose a son and daughter must be the hardest thing for a mother to bear. Think of all the love you’ve invested in the little person that you’ve brought into the world. And then the worry never stops, however old they grow or independent they become. How would she cope if anything happened to Lasse? He was her life. There was no one else who could command her utter devotion. After Björn, she’d made sure that she never got close to any man emotionally, even if she had physically. Bitter experience had taught her to separate the two.

  She had taken the precaution of calling ahead first to make sure Lovgren’s mother was in. Would there be photographers camped outside the house? Anita hoped for her sake that she would be left to grieve in peace, though her own visit wouldn’t help. Fru Lovgren’s house was on Beijersparkgatan. It was orderly and well cared for – and there were no photographers.

  Anita rang the doorbell and waited. The lady who opened the door was in her late sixties. Her dyed blond hair was scraped back in a bun. Like her daughter she was small and had the same high cheekbones. She still had traces of the handsome woman she must once have been. And the piercing blue eyes that must sparkle when she was happy now expressed a deep sadness that words could never adequately articulate.

  ‘Anita Sundström.’ She thought it best to dispense with the formal police title.

  ‘Come in.’ Without further words fru Lovgren showed Anita into the living room. Despite its immaculate neatness, it had a homely feel. Anita could never show people into her home at short notice because she would be embarrassed by the mess. She always needed fair warning.

  ‘Do you mind if we talk in the park? I don’t think I can speak about my Malin in here.’ She indicated the numerous photos of her daughter around the room. A proud mother, indeed. ‘Too many memories.’

  ‘Of course not, fru Lovgren.’

  ‘It’s Britta.’

  S
he left Anita while she went to put on a coat and hat. Anita took a closer look at the photographs. They covered the actress’s life from childhood snaps through to a couple of shots that must have been taken at film premieres. There was her wedding picture, too. Lovgren and Roslyn had made an attractive couple. In her wedding photo Malin looked genuinely happy. As a young girl on a beach she had a winning smile. In the premiere photos, though she was beaming for the cameras, she didn’t seem to be enjoying her moment in the spotlight.

  He reached the edge of the park. He tried to get a vigorous walk in most days. Keep in decent condition. He had done five circuits of the park today and felt good. When the weather got a bit warmer he would start running again. His exercise gave him time to think and he had a lot on his mind at the moment. He was still worrying about the CCTV. The more he thought about it the more he was convinced that he would have been captured on tape. But so would a lot of others, unless there was a camera at the apartment block entrance. He had walked past there this morning and hadn’t spotted one.

  He waited for the green bus to pass. As he was about to cross the road he saw Malin Lovgren’s mother. He had seen a lot of her in the park. She had been accompanied occasionally by Malin herself. It was in this very park that he had seen Malin in the flesh for the first time. On reflection, it would have been better if he had made his move then; out here in the open. Then he suddenly realized that fru Lovgren wasn’t alone. Shit! It was too late. He was halfway across the road and that policewoman with the glasses was heading straight towards him. He fought back the natural inclination to veer away. He held his nerve and forced his legs to keep moving. And then she was past him. He kept straight on. He didn’t look back.