‘Are you visiting Albin?’ Anita put in quickly.
‘Yes. Another session.’
‘Klas is writing Albin’s biography.’
‘Yeah. He has a wonderful story to tell. He’s had such an amazing career.’ Lennartsson couldn’t stifle his excitement. ‘It just fell into my lap. He actually asked me to write it.’ He shook his head incredulously.
‘Klas is our local historian.’ Anita felt the need to clarify the situation for Kevin’s benefit.
‘Yeah, but I’ve never written anything like this before. Of this importance. He’s such a well-known person in our country. He could have had his pick of biographers, but he said he wanted someone who was local and who he could trust.’ He looked delighted at the compliment that Albin Rylander had paid him.
‘Any juicy bits?’ Kevin joked.
Lennartsson was taken aback for a moment. ‘Not like that,’ he answered severely. Then he leant forward in a conspiratorial way. ‘But he has promised some shocks.’
‘What sort of shocks?’ asked Anita with a grin.
Just then, a middle-aged woman with neat, nut-brown hair swept up into a bun, and wearing a blue medical smock appeared from the back of Rylander’s house. She waved to them.
‘That’s Moa. She comes in every morning to give Albin his medication. She’s devoted to him. Of course, my sessions with Albin are restricted to about a couple of hours, as he gets very tired.’ When he judged that the nurse was out of earshot, and even though they were alone and there was no sign of Rylander, Lennartsson lowered his voice. ‘I don’t know what shocks exactly, Anita. He’s promised me these revelations when we’ve done the rest of the book. One thing I already know, but I can’t say what it is yet. It’s extraordinary.’ For a moment, Anita thought he was going to spill the beans, but then he thought better of it. ‘He’s sworn me to secrecy. I’m not allowed to tell anybody anything until after he’s dead. I fear that may only be months away. The manuscript mustn’t be presented to any publisher until a month after his funeral. I’ve had to sign a legal document, you know.’
‘Sounds as though he wants to get things off his chest,’ said a now-intrigued Kevin. ‘Guilty conscience?’
CHAPTER 8
Kevin loved Glimmingehus. The castle was unlike any other he had seen, albeit his knowledge was restricted to British versions and the more flamboyant châteaux he had dragged his bored wife Leanne round on a disastrous holiday in the Loire Valley. (He had wanted an alternative to her usual choice of vacation destination, which was invariably some Spanish beach. Needless to say, they went to Benidorm the following year.)
Glimmingehus, an imposing rectangular medieval fortress, was remarkably well preserved, with its cream stone walls and crow-stepped gables. There was a holiday atmosphere as the crowds – tourists and locals alike – soaked up the history, admired the views from the garret, marvelled at the jousting displays, then retired to the restaurant, satisfied that their cultural knowledge had been expanded in such a pleasant, entertaining way.
As Anita and Kevin stood in the courtyard, the conversation turned to Klas Lennartsson. Kevin had noticed the rapport that Anita and the local historian seemed to have. Ridiculously, it had awoken a pang of jealousy. Was Lennartsson a former lover? They hadn’t really discussed her past sex life. He knew all about her ex-husband, Björn, but had never dared venture further. He had certainly never tackled the subject of the man whose death she was so upset about when she was over in England during the heir hunter’s case. It was too private.
‘I was at school with Klas. I’ve known him since we were teenagers. He was a couple years ahead of me. He’s very nice. Very enthusiastic.’ Kevin started to admire the crude wooden pillory. ‘Not quite sure why Albin chose Klas. He’s fine writing about local rituals and ancient stones and things like that, but a major biography is quite an undertaking. I’m sure there’ll be a lot of publishers interested when it’s finished. They’ll probably bring someone else in to polish it up, I expect.’
‘I know Klas is local, but he sounds like a Yank.’
‘Picked up the accent when he had a couple of years over there at Penn State University. Went away Swedish, came back American!’ There was real affection in her voice.
‘He’s not an old boyfriend, is he?’
Anita giggled. ‘Klas? You’re kidding.’
Kevin was infuriated with himself for asking, but relieved at the answer. In celebration, he stuck his head and arms in the old pillory and began to pull stupid faces. He made Anita laugh with his antics. She was starting to loosen up with him around. This could be a good holiday. She had to admit she had enjoyed last night’s lovemaking. Kevin was an attentive lover, even if he wasn’t particularly demanding. She liked that. She knew she had been spoiled by Björn. He had taught her so much. But the trade-off between good sex and a disintegrating marriage wasn’t worth hanging around for. And Kevin was funny, and that was important to her. He would do nicely for the time being. The future would take care of itself.
Hakim stood at the murder site. The tent was still in place, and the police tape still cordoned off the killing ground. He knew that Thulin’s team had been over the area again and that there was a constable on guard over night. He had had a word with him about asking anybody passing who might be able to identify the blonde jogger – and also to make a note of anyone hanging around the site. Killers were sometimes known to return to the scene of their crime. It was a long shot, but they had nothing else to go on.
The day was beginning to drift away as he wandered around the perimeter of the Plate. He took a seat and watched the sun disappear behind the trees and the area being thrown into shadow. A man in his sixties, with a large, fluffy labradoodle in tow, came along the path. Hakim wearily stood up.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ and he asked for the hundredth time about a late-night, blonde jogger. Hakim showed him the artist’s impression of the victim. Again, there was the familiar shake of the head.
‘Don’t recognize her. But there’s a regular lady jogger that does the circuit round the Plate a lot. This time of night sometimes. Bit older. I think she’s a policewoman.’
‘About mid-forties? Lives on Roskildevägen next to the park?’
‘That’s right. Do you know her?’
Hakim nodded. So, the regular jogger was Anita! Moberg wouldn’t see the funny side of that.
It was another warm night. Kevin sat on the porch in the darkness, though the grass that ran across to Rylander’s house was bathed in clear moonlight. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of nights he had been able to sit outside at this time during his years living in Cumbria. He had left Anita’s side to come out for a smoke. She had fallen asleep in his arms after they had made love. He had enjoyed the sensation of holding her until his arm had started to seize up, and he carefully manoeuvred himself out of bed.
He slowly exhaled the smoke from his lungs and watched it dissipate into the night air. This was a heavenly spot. It fulfilled all his romantic visions of Sweden – the wooden house, the gentle sound of the sea, and the clear, star-spangled sky. And a lovely blonde Swedish woman in his bed. Life couldn’t get better.
He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out. He was about to get out of his seat when he thought he saw something in the trees facing Rylander’s. It was like the previous evening. Then, he hadn’t been sure what it was. This time it was different. He was almost certain that a man was hovering in the shadows. And a large man at that. In a glint of light, there was the shape of a head. Was he watching the diplomat’s house? Kevin wondered if he should call out. Then the figure was gone. He waited for a few minutes to see if he would return, but no one appeared again. He would mention it to Anita tomorrow. There was probably a totally innocent explanation.
CHAPTER 9
They had made an early start. Anita whipped along the main drag north before cutting off onto some minor roads. She said that Stenshuvud National Park was best first thing in the morning to avoi
d the crowds. They could have it to themselves. So, after a strong cup of Anita’s coffee, Kevin had emerged, still sleepy-eyed, into the sharp morning sunshine. It was about a twenty-minute drive on the main road up the coast. At a bend in the road, they turned right up a tree-lined bank. Kevin pointed out the gently swaying profusion of white cow parsley on the verges, which reminded him of the back lanes of Cumbria at this time of year. Anita laughed when she realized that he was referring to what the Swedes call “dog biscuits”. Past the trees the landscape opened out onto fields of yellow oilseed rape, now gone over; newly planted apple orchards; and swaying, unripened corn. Through a farmyard with a jumble of horseboxes, past a couple of hamlets hardly worth the name, and the sea came back into view. Down a steep, forested bank, they reached a dusty, deserted car park at the bottom. Kevin had Anita’s small backpack with their breakfast wrapped up inside and a bottle of water. Of course, there was also the obligatory thermos of coffee. It promised to be a hot day. They set off walking past the closed information centre, plunged into a thick blanket of beech and hornbeam trees, and onto a well-worn path which wound its way upwards. Anita led the way, which Kevin was happy with, as he could watch her sashaying bottom in her khaki shorts in front of him.
‘You must be used to climbing hills living near the Lake District.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘But you’ve all those wonderful fells.’
‘I come from Essex. It’s as flat as a pancake. That’s how land should be. That’s why I like it round here.’
‘And I thought you’d like this – it’s the only hill we’ve got!’
‘You call this a hill? The only time I’ve been up a real fell was with an ex-Army friend. Mark used to be in the SAS. Fitness freak. Got me drunk one night, and I stupidly agreed to go up High Pike with him. So, we went up just before Christmas. It started out OK until the wind picked up. Then it began to pour with rain. I wanted to turn back, but he was so far ahead, I couldn’t make myself heard above the wind and rain. Then there was a fifteen-minute hail storm. There’s nowhere to hide on those bloody fells. Then thunder and lightning! It was a nightmare. When I eventually staggered to the top, the weather actually cleared. But Mark had been waiting there so long for me to turn up, that I hardly had time to admire the view before he insisted we head back down. There was so much rain that the sheep trails had turned into bubbling torrents, and, to cap things off, I bloody slipped and fell into one. I’ve never felt so miserable in my life.’
He could hear Anita chortling at his story. ‘Do you always moan so much?’
‘Only when I’m dragged up hills.’
Anita turned round, still smiling. ‘At least you’re not moaning about this one.’
‘This one’s fine. Besides, you’re far better looking than Mark.’
‘I should hope so.’
When they emerged from the trees, they had reached the South Head. Broad heaths and dry meadows stretched across level sand flats which met the sea. Anita pointed out the beach he had swum off way down the coast. ‘Our house is somewhere over there.’ A further five-minute walk through more trees brought them out onto the North Head – a bald, rocky outcrop. Kevin found the scene astonishing. In the early morning sun, the sea was a wonderful ultramarine, the light playing on the calm water like a woman dancing in a blue lamé dress. Stenshuvud provided an uninterrupted view of the curving coastline of Österlen, with an infinite, thin line of pale sandy beaches. Inland, below them, was a valley, its contours totally obscured by a thick canopy of foliage. They were surrounded by the sounds of birdsong. They had the hilltop to themselves. Anita found some low-lying rocks, and she laid out their breakfast. To Kevin, the usual fare of eggs, cheese and caviar, washed down with strong coffee, seemed so much better up here in the warmth of their Baltic eyrie. They didn’t even bother to chat, as the view took all their attention. They watched a couple of yachts come close to the Head and then sail out again.
‘Probably from Simrishamn,’ Anita remarked as she shaded her eyes against the sun.
After a second cup of coffee, Kevin raised the subject of the person in the trees. ‘That’s the second night I’ve been aware of someone opposite Rylander’s house. Almost as though they were keeping watch.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Pretty sure. I’m a policeman after all. We tend to notice these things.’
Anita retreated into her coffee mug.
‘Maybe someone out for a late walk,’ she said eventually. ‘A dog walker. At this time of year, when the nights are short, people are often about at funny times. Especially if it’s warm.’
‘Probably something or nothing.’
‘Don’t worry. Nothing much happens round here. But you can ask Albin himself later. I know you’re interested in having a chat with him. I’ve asked him over for a fika this afternoon.’
‘Fika? What’s that?’
‘If you want to know more about Sweden, you can start with fika. It’s a sort of coffee break with cakes or something sweet with it. We’d better pick something up in Kivik on the way back. Anyhow, it’s a national institution because having coffee is an important part of our culture.’
‘Blimey! More coffee.’
‘This is Sweden.’
When Hakim entered Moberg’s office, Brodd was just leaving. He was smirking. He had probably been telling the chief inspector one of his dubious, sexist jokes. Hakim waited for him to go before speaking.
‘The jogger that has been seen regularly in that part of the park turns out to be Anita Sundström.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! I can’t escape that woman even when she’s on holiday.’
‘What woman?’
They looked round to see that Eva Thulin had slipped into the room.
‘What brings you here?’ Moberg asked rather ungraciously. A case going nowhere was not a situation that brought the best out of the chief inspector, especially when he had the commissioner on his back demanding the usual quick result.
‘I have some news.’
‘Well, then you are welcome.’ Moberg managed a half-smile.
‘The murder weapon,’ Thulin announced.
‘The knife?’
‘Yes. Interesting. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s probably a balisong.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘A butterfly knife.’
‘Ah,’ said Moberg in recognition.
‘As you know, the butterfly knife can be very dangerous. They tend to be about twenty-two, twenty-three centimetres in length. Blade: ten centimetres or so.’
‘Why are they called butterfly?’ Hakim asked.
‘It’s basically a folding pocketknife. It has two handles with the blade hidden within their grooves. It’s opened by the handles counter-rotating and revealing the blade.’ Thulin demonstrated the motion with her hands. ‘It’s possible to open and close it with one hand. It’s also very light and easy to conceal until the last moment, therefore making it an ideal weapon when you’re running up behind your intended victim.’
‘Sounds lethal.’
‘Oh, they can be. It was traditionally made in the Philippines and used as a pocketknife, with the added benefit that it could be used in self-defence. Because of the way they open, they’re also known as fan knives.’
‘And they’re illegal in Sweden,’ pointed out Moberg, whose interest had been piqued.
‘Exactly. They’re banned in many parts of the world. One place where there was a boom in butterfly knives in the 1980s was in America. There have been legal clampdowns in certain states since, but they’re still easy enough to get hold of. Ten dollars would probably be enough to buy one.’
‘Can we check these things out?’
‘Not really. If it came from Sweden, it’s illegal, so you can’t trace who sold it because there won’t be any records. And as we haven’t actually got the knife, we can’t identify a manufacturer. If I were a betting person, I might put my money on it coming from
America, though it could be from the Far East. Then again, to cause the damage it inflicted on that poor woman, it was a well-made blade, and the likelihood is that it was made in the States, where a lot of the better ones come from.’
Moberg looked thoughtful, and his fingers started drumming on his desk.
‘So, have we got to factor the United States into this killing?’
‘All I’m saying is that it could have come from there. Doesn’t mean it’s an American – possibly a Swede or someone else who got hold of it over there.’ Moberg pursed his lips. ‘Oh, by the way, the cross pendant is probably Eastern European. Polish possibly, so I’m told by someone who knows about these things. But it’s not worth anything.’
‘It meant something to that woman,’ observed Moberg. ‘God, this case isn’t getting any bloody easier.’
It was about midday when Anita and Kevin got back to the house. They had left their breakfast spot when the gunfire started from the Ravlund army firing range further up the coast, which coincided with the arrival of a boisterous group of teenagers on an end-of-term school trip. They stopped off at the ICA supermarket in Kivik and bought some cinnamon buns, berry muffins and Danish pastry twists for the afternoon fika with Albin Rylander. Anita would be the first to admit that she had bought what she liked and not what she thought her guests might.
As they rounded onto the edge of the grass, they saw Klas Lennartsson’s bike. Anita was surprised because he was usually gone by now. Maybe Albin was feeling stronger today. When they reached the porch, they found Lennartsson hunched up on one of their garden chairs. His face was drained and his eyes had a haunted look.
‘Klas, is something wrong?’ she asked in English.
He seemed unable to speak. Then, very quietly, it came out: ‘Han är död. Han är död,’ he repeated.
‘Albin’s dead?’
He nodded dolefully.
CHAPTER 10
Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) Page 4
