‘He’s not here.’
Westermark eyed fru Valquist up and down. Even in her youth she wouldn’t have been fanciable. Before he could say anything more she burst out with, ’Can’t you people leave him alone.’
Westermark half-turned to the hovering Olander and gave him a knowing smirk. He was going to have to toughen up Olander after the police assistant had spent too much time fannying about with Anita Sundström.
‘This is a murder case. If we want to talk to him, we’ll fucking talk to him whenever we like.’
Fru Valquist’s cheeks automatically sucked inwards in horror at the policeman’s use of the ‘f’ word. ‘There’s no need for language like that, young man. If my husband was at home he would take you to task.’
‘I haven’t got time. Where is he? We need to speak to him now!’
‘He went back to Stockholm,’ she replied defensively. ‘On Saturday. He was very upset after speaking to that policewoman.’
‘Shit!’
Fru Valquist aimed another withering look but said nothing.
‘At his apartment?’
‘I think so.’
‘What do you mean, you think so?’
‘I have tried to ring him a couple of times, but there’s been no answer.’
‘Is he with Tilda Tegner?’
‘Don’t talk to me about that trollop,’ fru Valquist huffed. ‘That’s why Bengt is so upset. Her and Roslyn,’ she shuddered. ‘Awful, simply awful.’
‘If your son rings, tell him to contact us right away.’ Fru Valquist recoiled at the aggressive tone in his voice.
Anita drove into an early 1980s housing estate of uniform red brick houses, built before the mining villages that peppered the countryside around the city of Durham had fallen into permanent decline. Murrayfield Drive was one of the many characterless cul-de-sacs. Anita confidently parked the car as she had now got the hang of it. By the twitching of the net curtains she was expected.
Mrs Gazzard, a roly-poly lady, made a fuss of her. ‘Come on in, pet. I’ll get the tea. Just been to the Co-op and got these nice biscuits and some Battenburg cake.’ It was lovely to hear the Durham accent again. The ex-inspector was waiting in the sitting room, reading his paper next to the coal- effect fire. A large flat-screen TV dominated the corner of the room. He rose from his chair and towered over Anita. He had thick grey hair, with a lick of grey moustache above lips that were clamped round a pipe. Anita wondered when she had last seen someone smoking one. A swathe of beer belly put a strain on the top of his trousers and showed that exercise hadn’t been high on his agenda since retirement. He held out his hand and smiled broadly.
‘By, they have better-looking coppers in Sweden than over here.’
She took that to be a compliment. ‘Anita Sundström,’ she said, taking his outstretched hand. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Inspector Gazzard.
‘Forget the inspector lark. Been retired ten years. Call me Billy.’
They exchanged small talk until Mrs Gazzard came in with a tray of tea, chocolate biscuits and slices of gaudily-coloured Battenburg cake. On a raised eyebrow from her husband, she retreated. ‘I’ll leave you to your business. But it’s lovely to see you. All the way from Sweden. Imagine. They will be excited at church when I tell them.’
After she left Gazzard apologized. ‘Sorry about that. Brenda thinks anybody south of Yorkshire is exotic, so someone from Sweden...’
‘No, she has been very kind.’
‘To business.’ He put his pipe back in his mouth, then immediately pulled it out. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘Not at all.’
‘You mentioned on the phone last night that you were after some information on the death of Debbie Usher.’
‘Background really.’
‘What does a death in Durham in 1983 have to do with a Swedish investigation in 2008, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I don’t know whether it has been reported over here but a well-known actress, Malin Lovgren, has been murdered in Malmö. Her husband was at Durham University – and so was the man who is helping us with our inquiries.’
‘And do they happen to be Ewan Strachan and Michael Roslyn?’
Anita glanced at him quizzically. ‘Yes.’ She hadn’t mentioned either of them on the phone. ‘Roslyn was the husband. He is a famous film director in Sweden. The man we have in custody is Ewan Strachan.’
‘So they have caught up with each other again.’ He drew on his pipe reflectively. ‘I know about Ewan Strachan. He used to write sports reports in one of the local papers, so I knew that he had stayed in the area. But I had no idea what Michael Roslyn had got up to.’
‘It doesn’t seem to surprise you that they met up again.’
‘Oh, it surprises me all right. However, what doesn’t is that something unpleasant’s happened. How did this actress die?’
‘Strangled. Chokehold. Apparently they both did judo.’
‘Aye, they’d been big mates and then they fell out over Debbie Usher.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
Anita took a biscuit and realized how hungry she was, not having eaten since a very early breakfast. Gazzard puffed on his pipe and let out a curling waft of aromatic smoke. It made her twitchy and she wanted to get out her snus, but he might find it odd, a woman stuffing tobacco in to her mouth.
‘Nice girl was Debbie, by all accounts. Nice-looking, too. From her photos, that is. She was a mess when she hit the ground after she went over the top of the tower. Do you know the cathedral?’
‘I do actually. I lived in Durham for a couple of years when I was younger.’ The cathedral had been the first thing she had seen every morning when she opened her bedroom curtains.
‘Well, you’ll know that it’s a hellava fall. It seemed pretty straightforward. A student jumping off the cathedral. They get depressed. Exams get them down. The Dean and Chapter used to lock the tower during exam times. Don’t know whether they still do. Strange thing about Debbie was that it was just before Christmas. Virtually the end of term, when students are getting excited about going home for the holidays. It was about eleven o’clock at night. A couple of students, John Wilson and Alison French, were canoodling, or some such, close to the cathedral when this body descends from the heavens. Sickening experience for the poor youngsters. We were called in as a matter of course. Seemed like an ordinary suicide. Not that any suicide is ordinary, I suppose.’
‘But you didn’t think it was suicide?’
He pointed the stem of his pipe at Anita. ‘No, I bloody didn’t. Sorry, didn’t mean to swear.’ He glanced nervously towards the door. If he thought that was swearing, he should hear what she had to put up with from Moberg. She placated him with a wry grin.
‘I went along with it at first. There appeared to be a tale of love and rejection behind her wanting to kill herself. And her friends did tell me that she’d been depressed after her break-up with Roslyn. Do you know about the involvement of Roslyn and Strachan?’
‘Yes. Ewan Strachan was in love with her, and then Mick Roslyn stole her away, before leaving her.’
‘That’s right. I was able to establish all that. So, on the face of it, she might have had plenty of reasons to jump.’
‘So what changed your mind?’
‘First of all, there was no note. Now suicides don’t always leave a note, as you know. But jumping off one of the country’s most historic buildings is a grand gesture. She was rejected in love and I’m sure she would have wanted to explain her actions. Her parents were heartbroken. By all accounts, she was very fond of them. She didn’t seem the sort to have left no message.’
‘Did you have any concrete evidence?’
‘I wondered why she’d decided to wait until so late to jump. At that time, normally nobody is around except maybe the odd drunken student on the way back to one of the colleges. The cathedral’s locked up well before then. Why wait up the tower for hours, then jump when no one can see you?’
‘Wor
king up the courage to do it?’
‘I think if you wait that long, you’ll have talked yourself out of it by then. There was something else. I went over John Wilson and Alison French’s statements again. Something stood out. According to Wilson, he thought he heard a cry. This wasn’t substantiated by French but she was too distraught to remember much. And she had had too much to drink. But it made me think. If you’re going to jump to your death, do you cry out? I think you just do it. On the other hand, if someone has shoved you over…’.
Ewan knew that he had to act now before he went completely mad in his cooped-up hell. He must talk to Anita. When he had been taken from his cell, he assumed that he was to be interviewed again and that that would be his chance. To his surprise, he was shown into a furnished room by the young officer Olander, who announced that someone was here to see him.
‘I need to speak to Inspector Sundström. It’s very important.’
‘That is not possible. The inspector is away at the moment.’
‘What do you mean away? Where?’ Ewan demanded.
‘I cannot say.’
This was disquieting news. ‘When will she be back? I have got to speak to her.’
‘Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Thursday. I am not sure. If you want to speak to Inspector Westermark or Chief Inspector Moberg, I will tell them.’
‘No,’ Ewan snapped. ‘Forget it.’
‘The British consul is outside. I will bring him in. I have to remain here while you speak to him.’
Olander went to another door, which he was about to open.
‘Look, whatever your name is, can you make sure that as soon as Inspector Sundström returns that she comes and speaks to me. I have vital information that she needs to know.’
Moberg put down the phone. Westermark hovered by the window.
‘Henrik says that he’s getting nowhere with the Andreas Tapper crash. Talked to the Norrköping cops and Traffic. They’re not stonewalling him, but they aren’t being over-helpful either. They’re a load of wankers up there. Anyhow, I’ve sent him round to Valquist’s place in Södermalm and he’ll have a talk with him. If necessary, he’ll drag the bugger back here and we’ll give him the works.’
Moberg got out of his seat and hoisted his trousers up. ‘Now I had better go and see the commissioner and tell him his prize catch has to be thrown back. It’ll do fuck all for his credibility. He’s not going to be pleased. Neither will that snooty bitch of a prosecutor.’
‘The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Debbie Usher had been killed. There were only two possible suspects - Strachan and Roslyn. I was sure one of them managed to get her up the tower. I don’t know what he did to persuade her or abduct her, before hoisting her up and over the edge. Then he’d have had to wait until the next morning to slip out when the tower was opened up for the tourists.’
‘Did you interview them?’ Anita was now totally engrossed.
‘Yes. Informally only. Me boss thought I was wasting me time. Neither had an alibi for that night. Both said they were working in their rooms. I couldn’t find anyone to corroborate their stories, nor did I find anybody who sighted them near or in the cathedral that day. The last sighting anybody had of Debbie was in the Bailey, when a friend said she saw her walking past the Shakespeare Tavern, heading in the general direction of Palace Green and the cathedral. It was about five. She was by herself.’
‘What was their reaction?’
Gazzard put down his pipe. ‘Each one blamed the other. Not for killing her, but for her death. Strachan said that she must have jumped because she had been rejected by Roslyn. Roslyn said that she jumped because Strachan refused to have her back. Both could be true, of course. Roslyn had caused all the mischief in the first place. But one of them was lying. I knew it. I know it still. I could never prove anything, so it got filed away as yet another sad suicide. I’ve never forgotten it. Cases like that prey on your mind, don’t you think? Unfinished business. Unsatisfactory. It still niggles. And now you come here and you’re probably asking yourself the same questions.’
He leant down and picked up his cup of tea.
‘And who do you think did it?’ She braced herself. ‘Mick Roslyn or Ewan Strachan?’
CHAPTER 31
As soon as Anita left the housing estate she parked the hire car at the side of the feeder road, just past the pub. She stared blankly out of the windscreen. She didn’t take in the school bus that passed, or the cars carrying the kids back to their homes. Tears were welling up in her eyes. Why was she feeling this way? Why did she care so much? Then the flood came. She jammed a handkerchief against her eyes in an attempt to stem the stream of moisture. Her shoulders heaved. All this churned-up emotion because ex-Inspector Gazzard had come out with the name that she now realized she hadn’t wanted him to say. Ewan Strachan.
Moberg’s meeting with Commissioner Dahlberg and Prosecutor Blom hadn’t been one of their best. The commissioner had thrown the expected tantrum. ‘What do you mean it wasn’t Mednick! I’ve gone on record on TV saying that we’d got the killer. It makes me look ludicrous.’
While the commissioner had blustered, Blom had roasted Moberg without having to raise her voice. Cutting and cruel, she had called into question his ability to run the case. She had a particular way of saying the word ‘incompetence’ that left no one in doubt as to its meaning. It took a Moberg eruption to bring the meeting back to a rational level. ‘I thought we were all on the same fucking side! You can play your political games but this is about catching a killer now. You can round up your scapegoats later.’
After that Moberg filled them in on Strachan, Valquist and Nordlund’s failed efforts to establish whether Andreas Trapper had died suspiciously or not. The only decision reached was to move Roslyn out of the safe house. They could no longer justify the expense.
Back in his cell Ewan had time to reflect on his brief meeting with the British Consul. Martin Tripp was a British, Malmö-based businessman who had landed the consular roll by default and had never been called upon to do anything beyond the occasional official drinks party. A murder charge was way beyond what he thought was his remit or his area of expertise. Exporting paper was more his thing.
‘Dreadful business.’ After he’d said it five times, Ewan’s filthy look had shut him up.
Scanning the room, Tripp shook his head. ‘This sort of thing doesn’t do the British image much good over here.’
‘It doesn’t do my image any bloody good either!’
‘Quite. I take your point.’ He brushed an imaginery thread from his jacket lapel. ‘Did you kill the actress?’
‘No, I didn’t’.’
‘Well, that’s something. Thought I’d better ask. Are they treating you well?’
‘They haven’t started with the thumbscrews yet,’ Ewan retorted sarcastically. ‘Actually, they don’t have to – their coffee is just as effective.’
Tripp looked askance. He didn’t know what to make of this belligerent Scotsman. He just wanted to get out of the room as soon as possible so he could say he had discharged his duty.
‘You know some awful northern rag has somehow got hold of the story? The embassy says the Foreign Office are worried it will be picked up by the nationals.’
‘Bloody Brian!’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s nothing.’ Ewan could see that Brian hadn’t wasted any time making capital out of his appalling situation. And only one person was going to come out of this with a pay rise and promotion - and that was his idiot editor.
‘They want to keep this business under wraps.’
‘That’s not what I want to hear.’
‘Oh, yes, quite.’ Tripp realized he had put his foot in it. ‘I’m sure they’ll do their best in the circumstances,’ he said in an attempt to back-track.
After establishing that Ewan didn’t want a lawyer, he was able to escape. His sense of relief was as palpable as Ewan’s frustration.
Ewan kicked his chair. He knew
he might be able to get out of this if only he could speak to Anita. He should have mentioned it before. He conjured up her smiling image as he fought another bout of escalating panic. The distraction worked. But where was she?
The lights on the cathedral were magical. The awesome stone edifice on the rock above the loop in the river rose majestically out of the darkness. The slender twin towers at the west end complemented the massive trust of the one at the centre of the building. Anita stood in Wharton Park above the railway station and stared across at the floodlit building and the neat Norman castle nestling in its mighty shadow.
Memories came rushing back. Durham had played a special part in her life. It was only now that she realized why it had meant so much to her. It had been the last time the Ullmans had been happy as a family. Her dad had loved it. An escape from Sweden, which hadn’t become the socialist utopia he had hoped for as a young man in the 1960s. In his opinion, the country had been seduced by capitalism, whereas Britain was under a Labour government during their time in Durham. Retrospectively, Anita had been surprised at his stance, given that he worked for Electrolux, a symbol of successful Swedish free enterprise. He had enjoyed the mateyness of those he worked and socialised with. As for her mother, this friendliness freaked her out. Where had the famous British reserve she had heard about – and had hoped for – disappeared to? But this was the North East, where strangers were affectionately called “pet” and people spoke to you on buses. Her mother’s natural Swedish suspicion had been gradually worn down over their two-year stay and she had begun to enjoy the chatty neighbours and shopkeepers and being asked next door for a cup of tea. And the more relaxed she became, the more the family seemed to bond. Anita realised that there must have been serious divisions in her parents’ partnership before they came to Britain. Durham had papered over those cracks and even strengthened their relationship for a short time. It was the only period in her childhood when she felt really secure. If only they had stayed. Maybe all their lives would have turned out differently.
Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Page 23
