Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4)

by Torquil Macleod

  ‘That long apart?’ Moberg weighed in sceptically.

  ‘Isn’t it striking that it’s also in the back?’ countered Wallen.

  ‘Right. We’ll bear that in mind. But first, we need to know who the hell she is. Have we had any luck with the trawl through the apartments in the vicinity?’

  ‘We haven’t turned up anything,’ admitted Wallen. ‘No one of the victim’s description appears to be missing.’

  ‘What about the pendant?’

  ‘Old but cheap.’ Thulin held it up to the light in its clear plastic bag. ‘It’s strange for a woman who can afford expensive manicures to be wearing such an inexpensive item round her neck.’

  ‘Maybe it was a family heirloom,’ Wallen suggested.

  ‘Could be. It wasn’t made in Sweden,’ continued Thulin as she twirled the bag slowly around in the light. ‘I’m going to have it tested to see where it might come from. Could be up to a hundred years old.’

  ‘In that case, she could be a religious type,’ opined Moberg. ‘Ask around in the local churches.’ He pointed at the other plastic bag. ‘So, we’ve got a key but no apartment to go with it. Joggers?’

  ‘No luck there either,’ said Hakim. ‘I’m going back down to the park tonight to ask the ones who go out late. If she was a regular, then they’re the most likely to have seen her or know who she is.’

  ‘I’ve prepared her description for the papers and the TV stations if that’s what you think we should do. That may turn up something.’ Why did Moberg feel surprised that Wallen had actually taken the initiative for once? Maybe he should let Sundström go on holiday more often.

  ‘Go ahead with that. And the hospital?’

  ‘Brodd was looking into that,’ Wallen confirmed.

  ‘Em… nothing, Boss. So far that is.’ Wallen wondered how much questioning Brodd had actually done. And she found it irritating that he always called Moberg “boss”.

  ‘So, we’ve got fuck all.’ He really should have eaten before the meeting.

  CHAPTER 6

  Kevin felt invigorated after his swim. As he towelled himself down, he noticed that the beach was now nearly deserted. He must have been in the water longer than he thought. A fair-haired couple were coming towards him on their way off the beach. Kevin put them in their thirties. She was as tall as her well-built partner, and carried an ethnic woollen bag; and he, iPod earphones clamped to the sides of his head, had a windbreak tucked under his arm.

  ‘Lovely day,’ Kevin said as they passed, and flashed them his best grin. He was in the mood to be friendly with the locals.

  The man’s hooded eyes didn’t even flicker, and he offered no acknowledgement, but the woman smiled back in surprise.

  ‘Hej.’ Then she paused. ‘Are you American?’

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘I’m English.’

  Her square-jawed, sour-faced partner seemed anxious to move off. She ignored him.

  ‘Are you on holiday?’

  ‘Yes. I’m staying with a Swedish friend at that house up there.’ He pointed to Anita’s rented cabin.

  ‘We are staying here, too.’ Her English was good, if somewhat stilted. ‘We are in the house at the end.’

  ‘It’s so fantastic here,’ Kevin said with genuine enthusiasm.

  ‘It is. Are you walking up?’

  He nodded.

  Without saying a word, the woman’s partner wandered on ahead, making absolutely no effort to join in the conversation.

  ‘Sadly, we have only one day left of our holiday. We have rented the house, but we have to go back to Stockholm on Friday.’

  They started to climb the bank.

  ‘Benno and I will be back in our offices on Monday.’

  Kevin now couldn’t think of anything to say, so, to break the silence, he asked what they did for a living.

  ‘My husband, Benno, does IT. I am in marketing.’

  ‘Sounds exciting.’

  ‘Not really.’

  By this time they had reached the top of the bank.

  ‘I am Fanny.’ Kevin managed to cut off a silly smirk before it spread across his face. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘I’m Kevin.’

  She smiled once more and then hurried after her silent husband. Kevin wondered why a nice girl like Fanny was married to a miserable sod like Benno.

  There was no sign of Anita when he returned from the beach, so Kevin showered and changed. As it was still warm, he made the bold decision to wear shorts. They never did his thin legs any favours, and he was conscious of how pallid he looked, particularly with his shaved head, compared to the Swedes on the beach. In fact, he found his body rather unappealing and envied many of his more muscular colleagues. At least at the age of fifty – a milestone he had reached in April – he hadn’t run to fat like many of his contemporaries. Smoking helped, too.

  Anita wasn’t to be found in the kitchen or the living room. So, he wandered out onto the porch, which faced the side of the next house. He lit up a cigarette. It felt good, though he had a tinge of guilt smoking in such beautiful, natural surroundings. Another assumption he had made was that the Swedes were incredibly health-conscious. Yet he had been amazed watching people jumping off the trains arriving at Malmö Central Station and immediately lighting up on the platforms. That would not be allowed in Britain in this day and age.

  ‘Over here!’

  He turned his head and saw Anita waving to him from the back of the house next door. She had a glass in her hand. A second later, she had disappeared round the corner. Kevin stamped out his half-smoked cigarette and wandered over to the neighbour’s house. More sensibly, it had been built with the whole of the back of the building facing the sea, not side-on like Anita’s cabin. It had a verandah, with stylish, cedar outdoor furniture. Sitting on one of the chairs was Anita, who was sporting light-blue, short-cropped trousers and a striped blue-and-white sleeveless T-shirt. Her sunglasses were perched on the top of her head – it was strange to see her without spectacles on. But it was the neighbour who really caught Kevin’s eye. A large man with a thinning mane of white hair sat upright in a wicker chair. He wore a light-beige summer suit with a white, collarless shirt. A neatly folded, faded red handkerchief protruded from the breast pocket of his jacket like a dried blood stain. He must have been even larger at one time, but the years – or illness – had taken their toll, and his figure had diminished. The wide blue eyes that shone out from his gaunt face were searching and alert. The long fingers of his right hand were wrapped round a tumbler, while the left clutched a wooden stick that was resting against his chair. If he was in pain, he didn’t show it. Kevin estimated that he must be in his eighties. Yet, for all his physical frailty, it was impossible not to be aware of his compelling presence, even before he uttered a word.

  ‘This is Albin Rylander,’ said Anita, introducing him. ‘And my friend from England, Kevin Ash.’

  Rylander raised a sardonic eyebrow. It was the bloody shorts! Kevin knew he shouldn’t have put them on.

  ‘Welcome to Sweden. Please forgive me for not rising. It takes a lot of effort. Help yourself.’ Rylander waved at the table. On it was a tray with a bottle of gin, a very good malt whisky, a couple of small bottles of tonic, a glass dish with slices of lemon, and a plastic ice box. Kevin could have murdered a beer but was too polite to ask, so he fixed himself a gin and tonic.

  ‘Cheers!’ Kevin said, raising his glass and taking the seat next to Anita.

  ‘And whereabouts in England do you come from, Kevin?’ The English was perfect, with the vaguest hint of an American accent.

  ‘From Cumbria. But originally from Essex. That’s near London.’

  ‘I know Essex, or parts of it,’ Rylander said, with a gleam of recognition in his eye. ‘I once visited Greensted Church. They say it’s the oldest wooden building in Europe. I’m not a religious man myself, but even I found it a deeply spiritual place. I was based in London for a couple of stints.’

  ‘Albin has been all over the world,’ a
dded Anita for Kevin’s enlightenment. ‘A diplomat.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Rylander reflectively. ‘I liked London a lot. But I hope I don’t upset you by saying that Washington was my favourite haunt. Of course, I spent more time there.’

  ‘I’m not upset. It must be living up north for so long that these days I can’t take more than a short visit to London without wanting to escape.’

  Rylander looked nonplussed. ‘I cannot understand that. I love the rhythm of the city; the constant clamour, the restlessness, the intrigue… the knowing that you’re at the centre of things.’

  ‘So, why are you here, away from all that buzz?’

  Rylander smiled at Kevin pleasantly. ‘To die.’

  Two gins later, they were back in Anita’s kitchen, and she was briefing Kevin on her neighbour as she prepared a salad. They had moved on to red wine.

  ‘Cancer. Less than a year left. Perfectly open about it. Doesn’t seem to worry him unduly. But he’s come back to Skåne. This is where he was brought up.’

  ‘Returning to his roots.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Any family? Wife and kids?’

  Anita shook her head with a wry grin. ‘He’s gay.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘He’s not everybody’s cup of tea, as you say, but I like him, even if I don’t always agree with his political views.’

  ‘I thought diplomats weren’t meant to express their views.’

  Anita started to mix up a salad dressing.

  ‘After he retired, he was often on TV giving his opinions. And I’m sure that his views were well known behind closed embassy doors during his time in the diplomatic.’

  ‘And what did he talk about on telly?’

  ‘East-West relationships mainly. He’d been posted all over the place in his early days. Then he had a spell in East Germany before eventually getting the top prize; Washington. He was very pro-Reagan in the 1980s. Much of this became public after he retired and returned to Sweden. The Americans loved him, apparently. Always gets a warm welcome when he goes back; not that he’s ever likely to make it there again now. You’ll find lots about him on Google.’

  ‘I read something the other day about how close the links were between Sweden and America during the Cold War. Stuff’s come out recently. I thought you lot were meant to be neutral.’ Kevin, who had a natural love of history, had been boning up on Sweden before his visit.

  ‘We’ve always been scared of Russia. That’s why we were neutral during the Second World War.’

  ‘Not that neutral.’

  Anita poured the dressing onto the salad and put the wooden bowl on the table.

  ‘Sore point.’

  Kevin finished his drink. He looked up at Anita. ‘Help yourself,’ she said, nodding in the direction of the bottle. He poured himself some wine and topped up her glass.

  ‘I must ask Albin about his political views next time. That guy Edward Snowden, who leaked all those sensitive documents from the US: according to him, Sweden’s been working with the Yanks since the Fifties. And apparently, your lot had an agreement with the American National Security Agency about ten years ago. He claims the Swedes have actually been spying on the Russians for the Americans.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not into all this spying stuff.’ When she saw that she had deflated Kevin’s escalating enthusiasm, she felt bad. ‘But I’m sure Albin will be more than happy to chat to you. Just don’t get him started on Putin, if you want my advice.’

  After a leisurely meal, Anita sent Kevin out onto the porch while she did the dishes. He had offered to help, but she said it was his first night, so he was excused. It was slightly cooler, and Kevin wanted to change out of his shorts and put on a jersey, but thought it might look a bit feeble. He put the second bottle of wine Anita had opened on the table, poured himself another drink and took a seat. He cradled his glass against his chest. He could hear the lapping of the sea below. It was a beautiful spot, and the evening promised even greater delights once they retired to Anita’s bedroom. He was taken by surprise when she suddenly appeared in a tight-fitting tracksuit and baseball cap.

  ‘Just a fifteen-minute run along the beach.’

  ‘Oh, I met the other people holidaying in the house beyond Rylander’s. On the beach, after my swim this afternoon. She seemed very nice. Fanny.’

  ‘You’ll find that funny. Isn’t that what you British call—’

  ‘I know. It’s pathetic.’

  ‘So, you’re chatting up other Swedish women behind my back?’

  ‘No chance of that. Her miserable husband was there. Didn’t say a word. Very rude.’

  ‘Stockholmers!’ she snorted contemptuously. And then she was off.

  Kevin took advantage of Anita’s disappearance to slip into the bedroom and change into a pair of trousers and a jersey. When he returned, he lit up a cigarette and happily inhaled. Life was good. He just hoped that Anita’s exercise wouldn’t make her too tired for what he hoped would be an active night. The sun was fading fast, and dusk enveloped the landscape. There was a light coming from Rylander’s house. He might have a chat with him in the next day or so.

  Was that a movement in the trees where the bank began its slump to the sea? Maybe it was a bird, or some kind of animal. He took a sip of his wine. Was it instinct that made him stare hard into the gathering gloom? It was something, but any further inspection was swiftly dispatched as Anita came jogging up the bank and stood panting in front of him.

  ‘That was quick.’

  When she got her breath back, she said, ‘I shouldn’t have had all those drinks first.’

  She took a few paces towards the door. ‘I’m going to pop into the shower. Give me five minutes and then bring the bottle to the bedroom.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Hakim was tired when he dragged himself into the polishus. He had been at Pildammsparken until nearly midnight, long after the last jogger had gone off to bed. The numbers had dwindled as the light had faded, though there were one or two diehards who made it through the gloom. He had spoken to a number of people, most of whom were annoyed that they had to stop mid-run, and some even jogged on the spot while he tried to talk to them. He had gleaned one possibly useful piece of information. There was one particular blonde woman, who sometimes wore a baseball cap, who was known to run early to late evenings reasonably regularly. Could this be their victim?

  His first port of call was to report to Moberg. The chief inspector wasn’t in his most communicative mood. Hakim wondered if he’d had another night out on the town with Brodd. Moberg merely grunted when he gave him his update.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no clear description of the regular jogger, but it could well be our victim.’

  ‘Follow it up.’

  Hakim got himself a coffee and returned to his office. Much as he liked working with Anita, he was grateful that, this time round, he wasn’t squashed into a single room with her. Here he had space to work and think. He sat down at his desk and looked at the phone. Should he contact Anita and ask her if she knew who the blonde jogger might be? That was her running patch. Then he dismissed the idea. He knew her British “friend” was holidaying with her, so she wouldn’t be too happy to have that interrupted. He had never met Kevin Ash, but he hoped that it would work out because Anita needed a man in her life. He had sensed that after Lasse had moved out to cohabit with his sister, Anita was lonely, restless. Though Lasse was still in Malmö, it wasn’t the same.

  Pontus Brodd wandered into the room unannounced and plonked himself in the spare chair. This wasn’t the first time he had done this since Hakim had moved back to the polishus a month ago. It bugged him.

  ‘Had a bit of a night of it. The boss can’t half drink,’ Brodd said, shaking his head. ‘You should come out sometime.’

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  Brodd gave him a sceptical glance. ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Ah, religious thing is it?’

  ‘Look,
Brodd, what do you want?’

  Brodd blew out his cheeks. ‘I’m just about to see the boss. Going around first to find out if anybody has any updates to tell him about.’ Sucking up is what you mean, Hakim reckoned silently. ‘Klara Wallen has nothing, but she did put out the description of the victim to the press et cetera.’

  ‘I’ve already reported to the chief inspector about what I came up with.’

  ‘Oh, have you?’ Brodd’s tone managed to combine surprise and annoyance.

  He levered himself out of the chair with accompanying sighs. ‘Anything then?’

  ‘Ask the “boss” himself.’

  Kevin couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he supped his breakfast coffee. He hadn’t enjoyed sex like that since… he couldn’t remember when. Anita was a good lover. No, she was better than that. The day was warm and promised to get hotter. They were sitting on the porch having strong coffee, with a choice of egg, ham or cheese to put on slices of bread. There was also a tube of caviar, which Kevin had tentatively tried. He’d spooled out a worm of pink gunge and spread it over his bread. It tasted salty. He wasn’t sure if he could cope with Swedish breakfasts for the next fortnight.

  ‘I thought I’d take you to Glimmingehus today. It’s a castle. Not far.’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  They exchanged smiles. Then Anita glanced beyond him and waved. Kevin stretched round to see who she was gesturing to. The man with a satchel slung over his shoulder was squat and was wearing a black leather jacket and trousers. Above the biker’s outfit, the grinning face sported a thick red beard. Kevin put him at about his own age, perhaps a little younger.

  ‘God morgon, Anita.’

  ‘Hej Klas! Vilken härlig moron!’ He walked over the grass towards them. ‘Klas Lennartsson, this is Kevin Ash. From England.’

  ‘Hi there. Nice to meet you.’ He sounded American. They shook hands. ‘Is this your first visit?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘And do you like Sweden?’ he asked, with a willingness in his voice that Kevin would say the positive thing.

  ‘Very much so.’ Kevin glanced at Anita. ‘Very much so.’