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

by Torquil Macleod

  ‘No. We’re going through all the Ebbas of about the same age we can find. But if she wasn’t born in Malmö, as it says on her passport, then she might come from anywhere in the country. Or somewhere else entirely.’

  Hakim now took out the photo he’d taken from Akerman’s bedside table.

  ‘This might help. There’s a good chance that these are her parents, or some relatives. If we have it blown up, we might be able to find the beach, if it’s in Skåne.’

  Moberg picked up the photograph and examined it.

  ‘Then there’s the church connection. She went to the local church in La Sarraz. There was a bible by her bed and a cross above it. She may have been a… anyway, she appears to have been religious.’

  Moberg laughed. ‘A frustrated nun!’

  ‘Maybe she’d considered entering the church and somehow got sidetracked.’

  ‘You can bloody say that again! But I’m not so sure. I think the nun outfit may have just been one of her kinky getups for some pious punter. Eva Thulin was on the phone half an hour ago and she says they’ve found semen on the habit.’ Moberg went silent for a moment, and then he clicked his fingers in triumph. ‘Now that would be nice! Axel Isaksson’s dead religious. Maybe Akerman was playing out his fantasies.’

  ‘Any DNA?’

  ‘They’re working on it. If it comes up as Isaksson’s, then not even the commissioner, the prosecutor or the frigging mayor can stop us talking to him.’

  They had a final drink on the quayside while they waited for the catamaran to return. The heat of the day had receded, but the early evening was soothingly warm, and the cold beers were most welcome. As far as Kevin was concerned, they had had a wonderful day mooching around Allinge. They had wandered along the coast and found a fish restaurant for their lunch. Afterwards, they had returned to the harbour area and, at a cluttered shop packed with arty metalwork, Kevin had bought Anita a chunky modern candelabra made of Danish iron, with square, clean-cut lines, which she had taken a shine to. She had been suitably grateful, and he’d been pleased because he’d got a better exchange rate using his British bank card than he would have had using Swedish kronor.

  He observed Anita supping her beer as she watched an elegant ocean-going yacht glide into the harbour and its crew jumping off to secure its moorings. She was such a handsome woman. He felt lifted every time she smiled at him – the playful grey-green eyes alight, and the high cheek bones creasing up above the open mouth. She made him feel good. He was wondering if he could spend the rest of his life with her. Yet, deep down, he knew it would never happen. It wasn’t practical. They lived in different worlds. To her, it seemed to him, this was a casual relationship with no strings attached. And he knew that she had been hurt in the past and that there would always be barriers that he would never be allowed to break through. He must count his blessings and take the relationship for what it was.

  Anita turned to him and smiled. Even with her sunglasses on, her face lit up. ‘Happy?’

  He stared at her for a few seconds before answering. ‘Very.’

  ‘Well, you’d better drink up. That’s our boat coming in.’

  The journey back was as smooth as the one out. When they got back to the house, they opened up one of the bottles they had bought at the supermarket in Allinge – Anita wasn’t going to pass over the opportunity to buy cheaper red wine. They took their drinks out onto the porch and watched the sun retreating into the shadows of the night, the sky aglow with vermilion and gold.

  ‘Forecast is fine for tomorrow,’ Anita commented.

  ‘Is the weather in Sweden always this good?’

  Anita’s snort was an eloquent reply.

  ‘What do you want to do tomorrow?’

  ‘Stay in bed with you.’

  Anita gave a coy giggle. ‘I mean after that.’

  ‘Why don’t we chill out? Flake out on the beach. I still haven’t really started that Scandi crime book I picked up at the airport. Turns out it’s about Iceland, not Sweden, and by a British writer. Got a female detective in it.’

  ‘You’ve got your own Scandinavian female detective already,’ she said mischievously.

  ‘Is that a come-on?’

  ‘Might be.’ Anita took a sip of her wine. ‘Anyway, it’s best if we stay here tomorrow because I expect Klas will turn up. He’s obviously dying to tell us what he’s found out.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve been wondering about that. I can’t think of any huge diplomatic thing happening in Germany in the late seventies or early eighties. Apart from all the Cold War rhetoric coming from Reagan and Thatcher that is. But something turned Rylander into a hawk.’

  Anita could feel another history lesson coming on. ‘Why don’t we take the rest of the bottle to bed?’

  The boyish beam on Kevin’s face stopped any further Cold War speculations, and he happily followed Anita back into the house, bottle in hand.

  They must have drifted off after their lovemaking, as Kevin woke up with a start when he heard a mobile phone. It wasn’t his own boring ring tone but Anita’s burst of jazz music.

  ‘Anita,’ he said as he gently shook her shoulder. ‘It’s your phone.’

  In a daze, Anita rolled out of bed, totally naked. Kevin watched her as she walked slowly out of the bedroom and into the living room to find her mobile in her bag, which was slung over the back of a chair. Kevin glanced at his watch on the bedside table. It was just after midnight. Who on earth was calling at this time of night? It was bloody antisocial.

  Suddenly, he noticed the tension in Anita’s voice. She was asking quick-fire questions. He didn’t understand the language, but he could interpret the tone. Any detective the world over would recognize it. Something had happened. But what? He got out of bed and slipped on his boxer shorts. He found Anita’s dressing gown on the back of the door and took it into the living room. As she continued to listen and talk, he helped her slip the dressing gown on. She gave him a grateful nod.

  Kevin went off and put the kettle on. He could see that, whatever the news was, they were unlikely to go straight back to bed. A cup of tea was always the answer. He could hear the call ending. A moment later, she stepped into the kitchen.

  ‘That was Stefan.’

  ‘From the police station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Anita was distracted.

  ‘Tea?’

  She nodded.

  As he fished out a couple of teabags, she spoke.

  ‘There’s been a terrible accident. It’s Klas.’

  Kevin swung round to face her. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘No. He’s dead.’

  CHAPTER 21

  Wallen was relieved that she had Hakim with her and not that lazy sod, Brodd. Moberg had got Brodd chasing up the National Forensic Lab in Linköping, where Sweden’s DNA national database is kept. The chief inspector was hoping that the semen stain on the nun’s habit would lead them to Axel Isaksson. Wallen wasn’t so sure that her boss’s wishes would be granted. The man that they were about to talk to, Markus Asplund, might well be the sexual culprit. But even if he was, it wouldn’t necessarily mean that he was their murderer.

  The travel agency’s main Malmö bureau was on Stora Varvsgatan in one of the plush new office blocks that had sprung up in the Västra Hamnen area north of the city centre. Gone was the huge industrial zone that had powered Malmö’s economy for so long, revolving around the famous Kockums shipyards. In its place, the “City of Tomorrow” was rising; the first district in Europe to claim to be carbon neutral using aquifer thermal energy storage systems to heat the buildings in the winter and keep them cool in the summer. As Wallen parked their police pool car in front of the high-rise building, she thought it might be interesting to see if the new technology really worked.

  It was pleasantly cool and calm as they stepped through the glass doors. A number of desks were neatly laid out, and already a couple of customers were in earnest conversation with a member of staff, who was pointing out figures on a computer s
creen while glossy brochures lay open on the workstation. Another agent was busy on the phone. Hakim noticed the posters on the back wall. Everything from the Swedes’ favourite destinations like Spain and Thailand, where they could rely on the sun, to more intriguing and exotic holidays or short breaks in Europe’s most sophisticated cities.

  An enthusiastic young man with short, gelled hair and a ready smile looked up from his desk.

  ‘And where do you fancy going? At Malasp Travel we can make your dreams come true. Let me help you plan that great holiday.’

  Hakim couldn’t help but give a little chuckle. He and Wallen didn’t exactly look like a “couple”. Klara was old enough to be his mother. Maybe he was her Arab toy boy!

  ‘We’re here to see Markus Asplund.’ Wallen flashed her warrant card. ‘Police.’

  The smile of greeting vanished immediately.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘No.’

  The young man sat dithering, not quite sure what he should do.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll want to keep us waiting,’ added Hakim, realizing that that the employee was worried about disturbing his boss.

  ‘Of course not. Sorry, I only started last week. I’ll… I’ll go and fetch him. Would you just take a seat?’

  He hurried off to the back of the office and knocked on a door. A few moments later, he reappeared. ‘Please go in.’

  Markus Asplund was a handsome man with the confident expression of someone who has made a success of his life. He was dressed in a pale-blue shirt and faded jeans. The look was casually downbeat, but the clothes must have come with a healthy price tag. His smile was broad and revealed a set of shining white teeth. Now Hakim recognized him. He had fronted some TV commercials for his company last year. It was the smile he remembered. He couldn’t help his first thought – would a man like this need to go to a prostitute? His second thought was that Asplund was trim and fit enough to have run up behind Julia Akerman and stab her in the back.

  ‘Please come in. Just bear with me for a second,’ he said apologetically as he quickly signed a piece of paper which he added to a small pile. Wallen noticed that he was right-handed. ‘Now, how can I help the police?’ He emphasized the word “police” as though there was obviously nothing for him to worry about – he would just be a good citizen and be as helpful as possible.

  ‘I’m Klara Wallen and this is Hakim Mirza.’ They both waved their warrant cards at him. His response was to indicate that they should both sit down opposite his glass-topped desk, which had three computer screens on it. He wheeled his swivel chair round the desk and positioned himself in front of them.

  ‘Can I offer you coffee?’ he said, pointing at a large coffee maker sitting on a table by the window.

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, then. Fire away.’ It was as though he was opening a meeting that he had convened. He was in control.

  ‘It’s about the death of Julia Akerman,’ Wallen started.

  Asplund looked at them blankly.

  ‘The young woman who was murdered in Pildammsparken,’ she prompted.

  ‘Ah, that girl. Awful. Not good from a travel-business point of view. As well as sending Swedes on holiday, we’re also very conscious of how we appear to tourists coming to Sweden. I know a lot come now because they’re into our crime fiction. But that’s what it is – fiction. They don’t want real murders.’

  ‘Precisely. And this “real” murder is the reason we’re here.’

  Asplund wore a puzzled expression.

  ‘You see, your name has come up in connection with this woman.’

  ‘What did you say she was called?’

  ‘Julia Akerman. Actually, that’s probably not her real name. It could be Ebba something.’

  Now he produced an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know of anyone of that name… or an Ebba something.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ Hakim put in. ‘I found your name on her computer.’

  ‘I’m a travel agent. I expect my name appears on a lot of people’s computers.’

  ‘This computer was in Switzerland. That’s where she lived.’

  ‘Well, there you are then.’

  ‘It was more in connection with her business transactions.’

  ‘We specialize in business travel. This office in particular. We’re surrounded by companies here. Half of Malmö’s business community uses Malasp Travel.’

  ‘Her business was prostitution.’

  This time, Asplund didn’t know what expression to call upon.

  ‘We certainly don’t go in for that sort of thing, I can assure you. What clients get up to in their own time is their own business, not mine.’

  Hakim pulled out a copy of Akerman’s client spreadsheet showing their names, details, and the amounts paid by them.

  ‘As you can see, your name is on here with another one that you’ll probably recognize. It’s a list of Julia Akerman’s clients. I think the figures are self-explanatory.’

  Asplund took the proffered spreadsheet and studied it. An eyebrow was raised; Hakim assumed he had reached Isaksson’s entry.

  ‘Do you know Axel Isaksson?’ Wallen asked.

  ‘Of course I know of him. Who doesn’t in Malmö?’

  ‘Have you ever met him?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘OK, apart from Axel Isaksson, do any of those names mean anything to you?’

  Asplund’s eyes flitted up and down the list. He shook his head. Then he handed it back.

  ‘I can’t explain it. I have no idea who this woman is. And as you can see, according to this, I haven’t even paid her anything. So, I can hardly be a client.’

  ‘True,’ said Wallen. ‘But she made regular visits to Malmö. At least once a month and—’

  ‘You can see from that,’ Asplund interrupted, pointing at the spreadsheet now back in Hakim’s hand, ‘that the woman travelled a lot. She might have used our services. I can check.’

  ‘On her final visit last week,’ Wallen continued, ignoring Asplund’s comment, ‘Julia Akerman had two appointments in her diary. On Monday there was one with AI. We can surmise from the spreadsheet that that is Axel Isaksson. On Tuesday, there’s an appointment with MA. Again, that looks suspiciously like Markus Asplund.’

  He threw up his hands. ‘I don’t know what to say. I repeat: I don’t know a Julia Akerman. I’m not a client. And even if I was, from those figures it looks like I didn’t pay for any sex, so I’m not guilty of anything illegal.’

  ‘But you do like anal sex?’ It wasn’t the sort of question that Hakim was used to asking.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘That’s what she’s got down for your sexual preferences on this spreadsheet. And she’d had anal sex a few hours before she was killed.’

  ‘I’m not fucking answering that.’ It was the first time that Asplund had appeared rattled.

  ‘Where were you last week on Tuesday the second?’ Wallen asked, keeping up the pressure.

  Without a word, Asplund reached over to his desk and picked up his smartphone. He clicked away for a few moments.

  ‘I was in Gothenburg Monday night. I’d been at our bureau there. I got the train down in the morning and reached Malmö after lunch. Went straight to the Södra Förstadsgatan outlet and was there for the rest of the day. We’d had a problem with a couple of hotels for a group we’d sent to China and Hong Kong. Needed to change them at short notice. Took a while to fix, but it got sorted. We’re that kind of organization. We believe in giving satisfaction.’

  ‘And the evening?’

  ‘I had a drink with a couple of my managers. Just an informal chat to touch base on various issues. And then went back to my apartment.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘At what time?’ Wallen repeated, ignoring his question.

  ‘Oh, I suppose about eight.’

  ‘So, you have no alibi for the time of the murder.’

/>   ‘I can assure you I didn’t kill her or anybody. I’m not capable.’ This was said with some vehemence. Then he became more matter-of-fact. ‘I was in my apartment, and I skyped the family at Växjö. You can ask my wife. My youngest, Erik, has Down’s syndrome. Sometimes Ella finds him difficult to cope with when I’m away. I wanted to check how everything was.’

  ‘Do you jog?’ Wallen continued to probe.

  Asplund screwed up his eyes. ‘That’s how she was killed, wasn’t it? I remember now. She was jogging. Well, I do run occasionally, but I prefer to do my exercise at the gym. When I’m in town here, I tend to go to the one near Triangeln station. The entrance by Sankt Johannes.’

  ‘If you could supply us with your home number, we’ll check the time of your skype.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ he said hurriedly. ‘It was about half eight. We talked for about twenty minutes.’

  ‘So, you still don’t have an alibi.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ said Wallen, rising from her seat. ‘We’ll be talking again very soon.’

  As they were leaving the room, Hakim turned back to a shaken-looking Asplund.

  ‘Do you ever go to America?’

  ‘America?’

  ‘Yes. Do you ever travel there?’

  ‘Of course. It’s a big destination for Swedes. Why do ask?’

  Hakim’s reply was an enigmatic smile.

  They drove back towards the centre of town. They were held up by a procession of cars with honking horns, and young people hanging out of the windows and heads popping through sunroofs. At the front of the queue was a truck, on the back of which was a pack of excited teenagers shouting and cheering. They were all wearing their distinctive student caps resembling sailor hats with a white crown and black peak separated by a dark band with an insignia. This was the day when the school leavers of Malmö publicly let their hair down and celebrated leaving their place of education. It was always a joyous event, with the boys looking smart in suits and the girls putting on their best dresses, and all taking to the streets. Hakim’s mind slipped back to his own graduation. It was a good day. Sunny like this one. They had paraded through the streets behind a drumming band of students and teachers. The only embarrassing element was that a number of parents – including his mother – had made placards with photos of the graduates when they were very young. His photo had not been flattering. Not all graduation traditions were good ones.