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

by MacLeod, Torquil

  She was now standing outside her apartment on Roskildevägen. She had her car doors and boot open, as well as having wound down all the windows. The short drive back from the Polishus car park had been extremely smelly. She had scrubbed the passenger seat down and sprayed around the inside of the vehicle with two different types of air freshener she had found under the kitchen sink. They were ancient and she wondered whether cans of air freshener had sell-by dates. Their combined odours didn’t make much difference. In fact, they nearly made her gag. They seemed to attack her throat in the same way that ladies’ toiletry sections did in smart department stores, where all the scents fight each other to attract the customers’ attention, but cumulatively are a rather nauseous combination. She decided to leave all the windows open and to keep an eye on the car from the living room while she phoned her mother. She doubted whether the car would be stolen, as the thief would be overcome by the pong.

  She had been feeling guilty about her mother. She hadn’t visited her in Kristianstad for weeks. They talked regularly on the phone but there was always the unspoken rebuke about lack of filial visits. She loved her mother, but they drove each other mad, which was why she always found excuses not to invite her across to Malmö. Her parents’ break-up had hit her hard because she adored her father. He had stayed in Stockholm while she had gone back with her mother to Simrishamn to live with her maternal grandmother. Her teenage years had been difficult and she had been glad to escape to the National Police Academy in Stockholm and spend some time near her father. And then his drowning severed that side of her life. After her grandmother’s death – Anita had left home by then – her mother had moved to Kristianstad to live with her sister, Aunt Fanny. Both had been unlucky in love and enjoyed their mutual moaning about men, life and the price of fish. Anita’s visits to Kristianstad only depressed her and she always rushed back to Malmö at the first excuse. The horrid truth was that she feared that she would turn into her mother.

  Inside her living room she could see the car just a few feet away. Passers-by would get a whiff, and assume some occupant had been sick after too much booze. God knew what her neighbours would think. Not that it mattered, as there was only one other person in the block she ever talked to. It was time to ring her mother. As she stared at the phone, her mind went back to Nordlund’s call to Moberg earlier.

  Andreas Tapper was dead. He’d died six months before in a road accident. Taken to drink after being shoved out of Säpo and was drunk at the wheel when he drove off the E4 north of Norrköping, where he was living at the time. That was the official version. So “Deep Throat” couldn’t be Andreas Tapper, as Roslyn claimed to have seen his contact in recent months. Did “Deep Throat” exist or was he a figment of Roslyn’s fertile imagination? Moberg had wondered, not unreasonably. Nordlund said that he had tracked down a brother, Linas, who lived in Västerås. He would get out there tomorrow, snow permitting. But, she was now more interested in Bengt Valquist. She would plump for an emotive murder over a cold conspiracy killing every time. She picked up the phone and rang the familiar Kristianstad number.

  CHAPTER 25

  There weren’t many people standing alongside Henrik Nordlund as he waited on the platform at Centralstationen on a bitterly cold Sunday morning. Stockholm was a city that suited all seasons, and snow suited its fine buildings best of all, Nordlund had always thought. As Skåne had escaped heavy snow so far this winter, he enjoyed the visual freshness that it brought to the capital. The locals were less enthusiastic as they had endured it for some weeks and were praying for signs of spring.

  By the time the train left the dreary suburbs behind and the snowbound countryside took over, Nordlund had lost interest in the view out of the window and thought about how he was going to tackle Linas Tapper. He couldn’t decide whether this was a complete waste of time or whether they were onto something genuine. On hearing about Andreas Tapper’s death he had flirted with the idea that such an accident could have been staged. The car Tapper was driving hadn’t hit another vehicle. It had veered off the motorway because, it was alleged, he was drunk at the time. They had found a huge amount of alcohol in his bloodstream.

  Nordlund had managed to establish that Tapper had been stationed in Stockholm at the time of the Palme assassination, so he could have known what had gone on behind the scenes. But the timing of his death didn’t seem right. Six months ago. Did that fit in with Roslyn’s documentary timetable? Even if it did, would his brother know anything? Brothers often didn’t get on. Would he even speak to him? Would he even be there? Or was he looking into the wrong man? Nordlund acknowledged that he had rather pushed Roslyn into identifying Andreas Tapper in the first place.

  Nordlund reached Västerås in mid-morning and took a taxi out to Råbykorset, an area of faceless apartment blocks that were made grimmer by the unrelenting winter weather. Nordlund crunched his way to the entrance of Linas Tapper’s block and made his way up to the first floor apartment. The name by the bell only had Linas Tapper on it, so he wasn’t married, or certainly wasn’t sharing his apartment with anyone. He had to wait for the door to be answered. When it was opened he could hear a television playing loudly in the background. The man standing in front of him had a vague resemblance to the photo that Nordlund had of his brother in his pocket. He was unshaven and bleary-eyed. Maybe the fondness for drink ran in the family. He had a head of thick dark-brown hair above restless blue eyes. Out of his mouth hung a half-smoked cigarette. He wore a black T-shirt and old jeans.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Inspector Henrik Nordlund.’ He held up his warrant badge.

  Doubt immediately crept across Tapper’s face.

  ‘Police? What do you want?’ Tapper was about to close the door.

  ‘It’s not you,’ he put in quickly. ‘I want to talk about your brother.’

  Tapper’s demeanour changed. He opened the door wide to let Nordlund in.

  The unfavourable impression that Nordlund had formed on seeing Linas Tapper’s appearance at the door was challenged on entering the living room. The blaring telly was large and brand new. So was the sound system near the window which opened onto the small balcony. Beyond were snow-laden pine trees. Out of the other window was the next block of apartments. The furniture wasn’t as new. It was more local flea market than IKEA.

  Linas Tapper appeared behind Nordlund. The cigarette was gone but he had a mug of coffee in his hand. He didn’t bother to offer Nordlund a drink but did wander over and turn the television off. He then slumped in an old armchair. He didn’t invite Nordlund to sit down either, so the inspector sat in a wicker chair opposite.

  ‘I suppose you’ve been sent to warn me off.’

  ‘Warn you off about what?’

  ‘Andreas, of course. I assume you’re connected to Säpo.’

  Nordlund adjusted his coat, which had got ruffled up under his thighs when he sat down. ‘No. I’m from Malmö. Skåne County Police.’

  Tapper smirked. ‘I should have recognized that daft accent. So what brings you up to this civilized part of the world?’

  ‘As I said, your brother. He died in a car accident six months ago?’

  ‘Yes. And the bloody authorities reckon he was drunk. He was a good driver even when he was pissed. No other vehicle involved. They did it!’

  Nordlund didn’t take his eyes off Tapper. ‘Who did it?’

  Tapper flashed Nordlund an incredulous glance. ‘Säpo, of course. Shut him up. So nothing would come out. That’s why I went to the local police, down in Norrköping. Asked questions. I was fobbed off. It was like an official iron curtain came down.’ He stared into his mug ‘They did it.’

  ‘But why would Säpo want to kill him?’

  ‘He knew about the Palme murder. He knew what really took place. Not all the shit they said that happened.’

  Nordlund could feel the hairs rising on the back of his neck. ‘How do you know this?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Andreas got kicked out of the service four years a
go. After twenty-three years. Said he was no longer performing to a high enough standard. Become a liability.’ Tapper almost spat the words out. ‘Drinking too much. I know Andreas liked his liquor, but he could control it. Always had. The bastards didn’t even give him a full pension. No wonder he was bitter.’

  ‘I can understand that. But what I can’t understand is why Säpo would want to kill him?’

  Tapper gave a dry, mirthless laugh. ‘I told you, he knew who was behind Palme’s killing.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because he told me one night. Right here, in this room. We’d had lots to drink and he opened up. When he was working for Säpo he never spoke about his work, so I was surprised when he started talking about it. It all came flooding out. Or some of it, anyhow.’

  ‘Exactly what came out?’

  Tapper was about to launch into his story when he pulled himself up short. Suspicion suddenly distorted his features. ‘You still haven’t told me why you’ve come all the way from Malmö to talk about my brother.’

  ‘We’re looking at the possibility of a connection between your brother and an on-going investigation.’

  Tapper jumped out of his seat and spilled coffee in the process. It spattered across the wooden flooring, but Tapper ignored it. ‘I fucking knew it! The Malin Lovgren murder. Mick Roslyn.’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘You don’t bloody have to.’ Tapper paced the room in some agitation.

  ‘Why do you think there’s a connection between your brother and the Lovgren murder?’ Nordlund asked pointedly.

  ‘Because…’ He stopped moving.

  ‘Because it’s you who’ve been talking to Roslyn. You’re his “Henrik Larsson”, or what he likes to call his “Deep Throat”.’

  Tapper’s face lit up in delight. ‘Really? “Deep Throat”?’

  ‘Herr Tapper, I think you need to tell me everything.’

  Anita got out of the shower. She felt better for the long dousing. She even found that she was looking forward to her drink with Ewan Strachan. She had been in the office about nine to see whether there had been any developments. She had interrupted a conversation between Moberg and Westermark. They had stopped talking when she came into Moberg’s office and she assumed Westermark had been telling the chief inspector about his exploits the night before, which were bound to include lurid details of his latest conquest.

  Moberg hadn’t any positive news. Forensics hadn’t been able to place Mednick in the kitchen, so there was the possibility that they would have to let him go. They could charge him with possession of an unlicensed firearm, resisting arrest and threatening a police officer, but the murder charge wouldn’t stick unless they unearthed something new in the next few days. There was no sign of Valquist on the CCTV, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been to the apartment that night. He was becoming their prime suspect. As for the Andreas Tapper connection, Roslyn had confirmed that the initial contact with “Deep Throat” has been about five months ago, a month after Tapper’s death. ‘So, unless he’s contacting Roslyn from beyond the grave, I think that link is dead,’ joked Moberg. But he was hoping to hear from Nordlund later and that end of the investigation would be cleared up.

  Before she left, Moberg had asked, just in passing, if she knew whether “her journalist friend” was still around. She told them that Strachan was flying back to the UK tomorrow morning from Kastrup. Moberg and Westermark exchanged glances, which she had interpreted as the usual pathetic boys’ reaction to anybody they thought she might currently be connected with emotionally/romantically/sexually. Normally, she shrugged off their innuendo-laden reactions, but this time she felt embarrassed. And that disconcerted her. There was nothing going on, she had thought defensively.

  Then she and Olander had headed back to Lund to establish Valquist’s movements before he went back to his apartment in his parents’ home. This entailed dragging some disgruntled students out of bed and getting them to confirm, between yawns, that Valquist had given his talk and that a few of them went for a drink afterwards. He left at ten so that story held up.

  Now she caught herself in the semi-steamed-up mirror. Her body wasn’t that bad for her age. She twirled round to see her bottom. Then laughed at herself. That was still nicely shaped. She still had a snygg rumpa, as Björn had called it in the days when he was still interested. As she dried herself she wondered how long it had been since she had last had a man. Ages. And she had tried hard to forget that occasion, as he had been a definite mistake. Too much drink at a midsummer party in Simrishamn.

  Though she had Lasse, she had often found it difficult to be on her own, with no other half. No mutual support. He was always sympathetic but there were certain things she didn’t feel it was right to burden him with. And now he had gone away to university. There was no one to confide in after a bad day at the office. No one to take her frustrations out on or to share the funny moments that had happened at work. She had spent the last few years being strong for Lasse. That strength she had had to take into the workplace, too. The police might be changing and the number of women joining the force was now substantial, but in the upper echelons female officers still had to prove themselves to some of their sceptical male colleagues. They had to be twice as good just to be judged on the same level as the men, especially in serious crime. It had made her harder, more abrasive sometimes. It wasn’t really her. It was a front.

  In her early days she had broken down and cried in front of a senior male officer. His pitying look was seared on her memory. She had sworn it would never happen again. It hadn’t, though she had retreated into a cubicle in the ladies on the odd occasion to sort out her feelings, with a hanky stuffed in her mouth to stem the tears of frustration or humiliation. She was aware of her vulnerability and, to her shame, believed it to be a weakness and not a sign of her humanity.

  In front of the mirror she rubbed her wet hair vigorously with the towel. Well, sod Moberg, sod Westermark, sod the lot of them; she was going to enjoy her drink tonight.

  Nordlund had a coffee in his hand now. He had made it himself while Linas Tapper had gone and had a quick wash and brush-up. Nordlund watched the kids playing in the snow below. Most were immigrants, many from war-torn Iraq. How did they exchange their warm climate for the cold of Sweden? At least they no longer had the fear of being blown up every time they went shopping. Not that they were receiving a warm welcome from many native Swedes, who regarded them with suspicion. Some with downright hostility. Tapper was smarter and more alert when he returned, though he had a glass of whisky with him. He took a sip before he started his story.

  ‘It began that night, last April. Andreas suddenly turned up. I hadn’t seen him for months. He had been drinking. He was drinking more after he left Säpo. His wife left him after he lost his job. Silly cow. He was really down. So I helped him polish off the bottle of Absolut he’d brought. Suddenly he came out with it. “We did it, you know,” he said. I didn’t know what he was talking about until he mentioned Palme. He didn’t go into detail, but he implied that members of Säpo were behind the killing. It was a set-up. A right-wing element in the security police thought Palme was getting too pally with the communists, blacks, lefties, you name it.’

  ‘Was Andreas one of these right-wingers?’ asked Nordlund.

  ‘I never thought so. I was under the impression he actually admired Palme. But he didn’t like the flood of immigrants coming in. They’re bloody everywhere. These apartments are full of them. Most can’t speak Swedish.’

  Nordlund let it pass. ‘So, if Andreas knew about the murder, why didn’t he come out and say something? Especially after he was chucked out.’

  Tapper shook his head and forced a smile. ‘I asked the very same question.’ He took a swig of his whisky. ‘He said he was scared shitless. “You don’t mess with these guys”. His very words.’

  Tapper stood up and went back into the kitchen. He re-emerged with the bottle of whisky. Nordlund noticed it was Bells. ‘Were
there any details?’

  Tapper pursed his lips. ‘Not really. Wasn’t that enough?’

  Of course it wasn’t, but Nordlund wanted to get as much information out of him while he was talkative. ‘So your brother’s death…?’

  ‘It was them, of course,’ he said bitterly. ‘Couldn’t afford to let him get out of control. He might blab something. They must have set it all up. Shut him up for good.’

  Nordlund surveyed the room again, the faded furniture and the new electronic equipment. He had got money from somewhere very recently.

  ‘Where do you work, herr Tapper?’

  Tapper gazed over the rim of the raised glass. ‘At the Willy’s supermarket. Other side of the road into town. Why?’

  Nordlund gestured towards the television. ‘Nice and new. Expensive?’

  ‘I can afford it,’ Tapper said defensively.

  ‘I didn’t think shelf-stackers at Willy’s were paid so much.’

  ‘What makes you think I stack shelves?’

  ‘If you had been a manager, I’m sure you would have said so.’

  Tapper sullenly sank back into his whisky.

  ‘Right, what about Mick Roslyn? How did that happen?’

  Tapper refreshed his glass from the bottle, which was disappearing rapidly. It was not Nordlund’s idea of a Sunday breakfast. ‘I saw an article in Expressen about a film company that were doing something on Olof Palme. So I thought they might be interested in what my brother had said and what had happened to him.’

  ‘So why all the cloak and dagger stuff with your “Henrik Larsson” bit?’

  This time Tapper laughed. ‘I phoned up Roslyn’s company and got someone called Valquist. As soon as I said I knew who had killed Palme I could hear he was getting all enthusiastic. So, I thought there might be some kronor in it for me. He was wetting himself with excitement by the time I had finished. That’s why I invented all the “Henrik Larsson” shit. Arranged to meet Roslyn in a dark car park in the centre of Stockholm to add to the sense of mystery. I pretended to be Andreas, without giving a name of course. I reckoned if I told Roslyn the truth about my brother he might have second thoughts and bugger off. He was impressed by the titbits I gave him. I said he could have more if he paid me. He agreed, so the next time we met up he gave me some money, and I gave him some more information. We met a few times. Nothing wrong with that,’ he finished off defiantly.