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

by Torquil Macleod

Hakim spent another hour searching through all the rooms in the apartment. There was nothing to indicate who Akerman may have been in her former life. Besides the two Malmö paintings, the photo was the only connection with her past. It was also difficult to assess her character. Her home was fashionable, neat and cold. Add her computer files to the mix, and she was obviously an efficient, well-ordered woman. She was wealthy, yet nothing about her surroundings was overtly ostentatious. She didn’t mix with her neighbours. Did she have any friends out here? Her emails were virtually non-existent; mainly practical ones to do with travel, insurances and bills. She had no social media contacts. Julia Akerman kept the lowest of profiles.

  The apartment had few books. Most were romantic fiction in English, probably picked up at airports to fill in time on her regular journeys. They were similar to the types of book she had on the Kindle they’d found at the Malmö apartment. They seemed a world away from the life she lived. There seemed no romance here that he could detect. There were no books about Switzerland or guidebooks on the Vaud, so she hadn’t taken much interest in her chosen country, despite being here for five years. Was it purely a place to hide away from the world?

  Finally, he sat down on her bed. He had already been through the drawer of the bedside table on which he’d found the photo. Nothing unusual there. Now he looked through the other drawer. It had one item in it. A bible. It was well-thumbed. He flicked to the front. There was an inscription – Till Ebba, med kärlek från mamma. Juli 1990.

  So, the murder victim in the park was called Ebba. That was a start.

  Lacaze and Hakim walked into the centre of the village. Near the far end of the main street stood the church, perched above the road below. Steps ran up from the pavement to the concourse in front of the building. Four pollarded plane trees with tufts of leaves guarded the entrance. The 19th-century church had a bell tower moulded to the main structure of the building in the neo-Grecian style. Below the belfry was a clock, and below that, a pedimented doorway. The faded yellow sandstone softened any potential air of austerity. When the bells suddenly tolled three, they gave Hakim a fright. They were thunderous. He couldn’t imagine living close to a sound that loud springing into life every quarter of the hour. After the third strike, and with the noise fading away into the now warm afternoon, a figure appeared at the entrance. Hakim had expected the pastor to be in a full black cassock. This fair-haired man of about forty was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt.

  ‘Pasteur,’ said Lacaze to Hakim. ‘His English, better than my English.’

  ‘Hello,’ said the pastor, and he held out his hand for Hakim to shake.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Come in,’ the pastor said, waving his hand towards the door.

  Hakim found himself hesitating. He had never entered a church before. There had been no reason to. The occasional visits to mosques with his father were his only experience of religious buildings. No case had ever required him to step inside a church or a synagogue. The pastor noticed his reticence.

  ‘It is OK. All faiths are welcome in our church.’

  Hakim felt obliged to follow him inside. He could justify it to himself as it was important to the case in hand, yet, irrationally, it was a strange, uncomfortable moment. Once inside, he relaxed. It wasn’t what he expected. Two blocks of modern beechwood pews were slightly unaligned, causing the aisle to taper to a central cross at the end where the chancel would normally be. Plain round pillars, painted a strident peach, supported a gallery on three sides, and an enormous organ filled the side above the door with its impressive array of pipes. It was more like a concert venue than a church. Hakim and the pastor sat down in one of the pews while Lacaze wandered around.

  ‘It is about Julia Akerman.’

  ‘The gendarme explained. It is so shocking. We will say prayers for her. This world can be so wicked.’

  Hakim felt he had to nod in agreement. ‘I know. And we intend to catch the person who killed her. But we know so little about her. This has been her home for the last few years?’

  ‘Yes. I have been here three years, and she came here on a number of occasions. Not regular. She was away on business a lot.’

  Hakim didn’t think it was appropriate to elaborate. ‘What kind of person was Julia? I am trying to build a picture of her.’

  ‘Beautiful, of course. Swedish people often are.’ Then he looked rather embarrassed as he realized he was addressing a Swede who had none of the physical characteristics associated with the country. ‘Julia was always friendly,’ said the pastor, hurrying on. ‘She even came to one or two of our social evenings. They can be fun,’ he added in response to Hakim’s sceptical expression.

  ‘Have you ever been to her home?’

  The pastor shot back a puzzled expression. ‘No, now I think about it. I am not sure if any of the other members of the congregation have either.’

  ‘Did she seem worried about anything lately?’

  ‘I do not think so. She was here two Sundays ago. She was as she always is. Very polite. Her French was improving. She was pleased about that.’

  ‘You don’t know if she had a boyfriend… or girlfriend?’

  ‘Not that we knew. It did seem strange that someone so pretty did not have a husband or partner. Maybe she was too busy with her career.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But I think Julia liked to come here. She liked the peace. And the company of the congregation. Her escape from her busy life.’

  Hakim called Chief Inspector Moberg. After his meeting with the pastor, he had bid farewell to Lacaze. The station was just round the corner and down the slope from the church, and the hourly train back to Lausanne would be departing in forty minutes. Hakim had gone up the bank at the back of the church and was standing in front of the castle. The twin towers of the medieval fortress plunged skywards, their red pyramidal roofs resembling rocket heads. It was now a museum.

  ‘A whore!’ was Moberg’s exclamation on hearing Hakim’s discoveries.

  ‘Clients throughout Europe. She flew in and out once or twice a month in most cases. Certainly to Malmö.’

  ‘And have you got names for these clients?’

  ‘Yes. She had two in Malmö. One is called Markus Asplund.’

  ‘The name means nothing.’

  ‘The other one will. Axel Isaksson.’

  ‘Axel Isaksson!’ Moberg was incredulous. ‘The politician?’

  ‘Yes, it’s him; Akerman’s got a wealth of information on all her clients.’

  ‘Brilliant! He’s the bastard that’s always giving the police a hard time if we get the slightest thing wrong. He had a field day with the Westermark business. Axel Isaksson,’ he repeated. Then Hakim heard a bark of laughter. ‘And the wanker is always banging on about family values and how people give up on marriage too easily. He didn’t have to live with my wives! I’ll enjoy hauling him in.’ Moberg chuckled again. ‘That’s good work, Hakim.’

  Hakim felt ridiculously pleased. The chief inspector had never used his first name before.

  ‘Have the Swiss police been cooperative?’

  ‘Reasonably. But Inspector Boniface in Lausanne doesn’t want me to take any computer material out of the country. They like to keep tabs on their residents. Everything’s a bit secretive here. You know they don’t have freedom of information in Switzerland?’ Hakim couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice.

  ‘We could do with that here. Too bloody open for our own good. Anyhow, I’ll ring this Boni-thingy fellow.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ve downloaded all we need.’

  ‘You’re learning,’ Moberg said approvingly. ‘When are you coming back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ve got to report to Boniface first thing.’

  ‘Right. We’ll get onto these two “clients”. If they’ve got something to lose – and Isaksson has his reputation for starters – then they’ve got a motive.’

  ‘One more thing. I think Julia Akerman’s real name was Ebba. But Ebba what, I don�
��t know.’

  CHAPTER 19

  Next morning, Hakim had a meeting with Inspector Boniface. For convenience, as Hakim had a plane to catch later in the day, they met at the Prefecture again. This time, he took the Metro up the hill. He explained what he had found out about Julia Akerman.

  When Hakim had finished, Boniface said, ‘So, she had no clients here in Switzerland.’

  ‘Not that I could find.’

  ‘Good. Nothing for us to investigate. Anyway, her activities would be legal here. But, as a precaution, I had Lacaze bring in her computer to the Sûreté last night. We might find things that we need to keep our eye on.’

  As they shook hands outside the Prefecture, the rain began to fall again.

  ‘At least you return with two possible suspects. Why you have such a ridiculous law on prostitution is beyond me – you prosecute the client, don’t you?’ Boniface gave a Gallic shrug. Hakim wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. Despite his misgivings about the trade, he was proud that Sweden was liberal enough to see the prostitutes as the exploited partners in the exchange and that they should be protected.

  The train journey back was miserable. The rain continued, and the lake and the mountains beyond were lost in the mist. He wanted to get back home to Sweden. The case was developing, and he wanted to be at the centre of it.

  While he waited in a virtually deserted airport upper departure lounge away from the shops and the eateries, he noticed a sign in the corner: Espace de recueillement. He went into the small meditation room and found a curved wall, seats and a bench. On a table were carefully laid a Koran, a bible and a Jewish book, which he thought might be the Torah. Appropriate religious clothing was also available for the traveller’s use. The solitude was slightly marred by the piped music impinging from the departure lounge outside. Nevertheless, he spent fifteen undisturbed minutes in the room and found himself praying. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe this case had disturbed him more than he realized. Maybe it raised issues about his own life that he hadn’t faced before. Maybe he was beginning to feel that his relationship with Allah shouldn’t be the only meaningful one in his life.

  The plane back to Kastrup was on time. At the last moment, he made an impulse purchase at an airport shop. It was a silly little cowbell with the Swiss flag painted on it. His mother would like it. As he queued up for the security check, he felt the computer memory stick in his pocket. He was leaving Switzerland with a lot more than a tacky souvenir. What did play on his mind was how Julia/Ebba had found her clients.

  The crossing had been fine, and Anita hadn’t felt squeamish or seasick. She wasn’t a good sailor, and had had second thoughts about taking the catamaran from Simrishamn to Allinge on Bornholm. But it was a favourite trip of southern-based Swedes, who enjoyed the charm, beauty and less-expensive beer of the Danish island an hour away in the Baltic. It was somewhere that she felt she must take Kevin, and, if the weather stayed pleasant, it made for a good day out. Kevin was already clicking away with his camera as the catamaran eased into Allinge with its brightly painted buildings and distinctive smokehouse chimneys artistically positioned above its picturesque harbour. As they disembarked, they could see that it was bursting with sailing boats of all sizes, from ocean-going yachts to small craft. A market was in full swing on the quayside, and, with the promise of bargains, Anita automatically gravitated towards it. With the Swedish krona relatively strong against the Danish krone, this was a good time to buy. Kevin soon lost interest in the stalls and wandered off to take some more photographs. They met up for a coffee and Danish pastry at a café above the harbour, where Anita showed off her two purchases – a summery blue dress and a new pair of sandals, which she was wearing.

  ‘The others were pretty worn,’ she explained as she tucked into a large cream-filled bun.

  ‘Well, I’ve been to the tourist information,’ Kevin said, producing a batch of leaflets. ‘This is a very interesting island.’

  ‘And I’ve a horrid feeling you’re going to tell me what you’ve found out,’ she joshed.

  Totally unabashed, he went on to tell her about the history of Bornholm and how it had changed hands between Denmark and Sweden over the centuries. ‘Then the Germans took it over in 1940. They used it as a listening station, as it was part of the Eastern Front. At the end of the war, the Russians bombed it because the German commander had been given orders only to surrender to the Western Allies. Then the Soviets landed and held the island for a year before handing it back to the Danish on condition that no NATO troops, particularly the Americans, were stationed here.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘There’s plenty more.’ Kevin couldn’t help noticing Anita’s lack of interest. In fact, she was feeling slightly embarrassed that she knew virtually nothing about a place she had visited many times. ‘But it’ll keep.’

  ‘Try again after I’ve had a couple of beers,’ she joked. ‘I might be more receptive.’

  He laughed. ‘I do go on. But when you’ve got no one in your life to natter to, I have to make the most of a captive audience. And, sadly for you, that’s what you are for the next week.’

  ‘How do you want to play this?’

  Wallen was sitting opposite Moberg in his office. The chief inspector drummed his thick fingers on the desk top. He had been wondering himself ever since Hakim had given him the names of Axel Isaksson and Markus Asplund.

  ‘What do we know about Asplund?’

  Wallen glanced down at her notebook, on which she had scribbled down the results of a few phone calls. ‘He’s a businessman.’

  ‘What in?’

  ‘Travel. He runs Malasp Travel. I think I’ve booked through them before. Tenerife. It’s a made-up name; an amalgam of Malmö and Asplund.’

  ‘I gathered that. They’ve got a few places.’

  ‘Ten offices. Mainly in southern Sweden. He’s fifty-one. Married with two grown-up kids and lives up in Växjö.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a trek.’

  ‘But he’s got an apartment here in Malmö. On Östra Rönneholmsvägen.’

  Moberg gave a leer. ‘So, while his wife is safely tucked away in Växjö, he can play away from home here in Malmö. Perfect arrangement,’ he said almost wistfully. ‘But why doesn’t Akerman, or whatever she’s really called, charge him? I suppose we’ll have to ask. Do you know if he’s in town at the moment?’

  ‘No, he’s not.’ Wallen consulted her notebook again. ‘But he’s due back at the main office tomorrow morning.’

  ‘That’s your first appointment.’

  ‘I’ll sort that out. But what about Isaksson?’

  Moberg blew out his cheeks. ‘That’s going to be trickier.’

  ‘Because of what he is?’

  ‘I know exactly what he is! He’s a shyster politician who’ll jump on any bandwagon that suits his cause. I don’t have to tell you what a hard time he gives us in the police. Any wrong moves and he’s on us like a shot. And each time, it increases his popularity. If we charge in – and I know I can be a bit like that…’ Wallen suppressed a smirk. Everybody who had ever worked with Moberg knew he was exactly like that, but she was surprised by his self-awareness; not a quality she had associated with the chief inspector. ‘We have to be damned sure of our facts before we tackle him. Our beloved commissioner and that harpy of a prosecutor will put every obstacle in our way before we’re allowed near the sod. What background have we got on him?’

  Again, Wallen turned to her notebook.

  ‘Aged fifty-five, married with four children. Brought up in Sjöbo and started his political life there.’

  ‘God, I might have known he’d come from Sjöbo.’ Sjöbo was a Scanian town known throughout Sweden for being associated with strong opposition to immigration. It had made headlines when the municipality refused to accept refugees in 1987, and the result was the adoption of a combined immigration and integration system in the “Aliens Act” a couple of years later.

  ‘He may be right wing, but he’s no
t as far right as the Sweden Democrats. They had a lot of votes from there in the election.’

  ‘Anyone who shits on the force is a prick in my eyes. What else?’

  ‘He’s been on the city council for ten years. There have been rumours that he may stand for parliament in the general election later this year. During his time on the council, he has been involved in education. And, more recently, the Real Estate Office.’

  ‘That opens him up for dodgy dealing.’

  ‘Not a whisper. He seems whiter than white. Regular churchgoer. And he makes a big thing of the family and how it seems to be breaking down in modern society.’

  After splitting from three wives, Moberg wasn’t in a position to cast any stones in Isaksson’s direction. But he did. ‘Can’t stand sanctimonious people like that.’ Then he brightened. ‘But we know he’s been a wicked boy. I wonder what his wife, church and council colleagues will think of him consorting with a prostitute. That’ll wipe the smug look off his face.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Hakim made his way straight back to the polishus. He wanted to make sure that Moberg was up to date with everything, and find out if they had made any progress with the two names he had supplied from Julia Akerman’s list. The sun in Malmö was hot, and its brightness was in pleasant contrast to the gloom of the Switzerland he had just left. He dumped his cabin case in his room and knocked on Moberg’s door. He found the chief inspector in his shirt sleeves and with beads of sweat on his brow and upper lip; the small fan on his desk wasn’t having the desired effect.

  ‘Heat’s all right in bloody Spain but has no place in Sweden.’ He waved for Hakim to sit down.

  Hakim produced his computer stick and placed it on Moberg’s desk.

  ‘From Akerman’s computer?’ Hakim nodded confirmation. ‘Well done.’ He wasn’t sure if the chief inspector was praising him for his mission in Switzerland or for taking evidence out of the country without Swiss authorization.

  ‘Are we any closer to finding out who Julia Akerman really was?’