Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries)

by MacLeod, Torquil

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you seem a little old to be involved in this business.’ Westermark gestured round the room at the work on the walls. ‘Advertising.’

  A thin smile was returned. ‘My colleagues may be younger, but Tommy wanted a mature hand on the financial tiller. The young people bring a fantastic energy to the company. That doesn’t mean that they’re good with money. One of my roles is to make sure budgets are kept within certain parameters. The creative mind can conjure up ideas that are expensive to execute, particularly when it comes to TV commercials. For example, if the creatives spend too much on filming a commercial then we can make less on the project. I know it annoys Daniel Johansson, but, at the end of the day, we are here to make a healthy profit.’

  ‘So, how did you end up working here?’

  ‘I worked for one of Tommy’s father-in-law’s companies for many years. I believe it was Dag Wollstad who recommended me to Tommy.’

  Westermark had had enough. ‘OK. That’s all.’

  ‘Is the company doing well financially?’

  Westermark sighed heavily at Wallen. Couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut?

  ‘Yes, fine. Why do you ask?’ Nilsson sounded offended by the question.

  ‘It was just to establish whether Ekman had any financial worries.’

  ‘I don’t know about his personal finances, but he had nothing to worry about here, I can assure you.’

  The room was totally devoid of character. One table. Three chairs. A barred window. It smelt of stale hopelessness. It wasn’t designed to uplift spirits. It was a place for hard truths. Anita felt nervous. This was ridiculous. Why was she putting herself through this? She opened her snus tin, distractedly took out the little packet of tobacco, shoved it inelegantly under her top lip and felt it safely nestle next to her gum. It made her feel a bit better.

  All the way up Lundavägen she had been on the point of turning round. It was still warm, yet she was forcing herself to go into the cold, impersonal world of Malmö Kirseberg prison. Some of the inmates were in there because of her efforts, though not the man who would be coming through that door any moment. He had put himself in there because of her. How would he react to seeing her? The door opened. She was about to find out.

  She was shocked at his appearance. Ewan Strachan looked thin. In just a few months he had lost the chubbiness that he had had on his arrival in Malmö in February. The slightly greying red hair had been shaved off, which only accentuated his pallid features. Even the blue eyes that had so caught her attention had lost their mischievous sparkle, partly because his right one was marred by a heavy bruise. He shuffled in and blinked at her as though he had just come out of a dark place. His surprise was replaced by the hint of a smile. Anita nodded at the prison officer who was accompanying Strachan. He hesitated.

  ‘It’s all right. Official police business.’

  He accepted her lie and left the room. The door clanged and silence sat between them. She noticed the grazes on his knuckles. He had been in a fight. But he was an obvious target. He caught her gaze. Her heart gave a little leap. This was what she had been dreading. The whole point of this meeting was so that she could move on. Bury their past. Not that their “past” had amounted to much. Not even a kiss. Apart from their official dealings, there had only been four social meetings, and the last one was ruined when she realized that he was Malin Lovgren’s killer and he had confessed to the murder. Two murders, actually. And therein lay another moral dilemma that was deeply rooted in her mind and impossible to dig out. Why, at his official charging, hadn’t she mentioned the death of the Durham University student? Debbie Usher had been the love of Ewan’s life before she had been stolen away from him by his best friend, Mick Roslyn. After Roslyn had casually cast Debbie aside, she had committed suicide – the official verdict - by throwing herself off the top of Durham cathedral. But Ewan had confessed to her over their one romantic dinner that he had pushed her. So, why hadn’t she added this crime to the charges against Ewan Strachan? She had told herself it was nothing to do with Skåne County Police. The Lovgren murder was what they had been investigating. The one question she had never attempted to answer - was it to keep him in Sweden?

  ‘Hello.’

  She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I hoped I would see you at my trial.’

  She stared at the table. She didn’t look at him when she answered.

  ‘They didn’t want me anywhere near the courtroom. I was the one who got it wrong.’

  Ewan smiled at the memory. ‘I noticed that your fat chief inspector took all the credit.’

  ‘How’s...?’

  ‘Not a bowl of cherries. As you can imagine I’m not very popular in here. Half my fellow inmates have photos of Malin Lovgren stuck to their walls.’ There was no bitterness in his voice. Just the usual self-mockery that she had enjoyed.

  So she didn’t have to engage him in eye contact, Anita started to root around in her bag. She produced a packet of cigarettes and pushed them across the table. Now she looked at him. This time Ewan laughed.

  ‘I’ve given up.’ But he still took the packet and pocketed it. ‘They might be useful.’

  Anita stood up. ‘I shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake.’

  ‘I’m glad you came.’

  She stood awkwardly, not sure whether to go to the door and walk away forever. His eyes were pleading with her to stay.

  ‘How’s Lasse?’

  This took her off guard. Lasse had never met Ewan, but she had been interested enough in their developing relationship to imagine introducing him to her son. Lasse had been her life, particularly after her divorce from Björn ten years before. They had done everything together. They were a mutual support system. Now he had left home to go to university and had a girlfriend, Rebecka. For the first time the awful truth had dawned on Anita that she needed Lasse far more than he needed her. Rebecka had created a hint of daylight between them. The distance wasn’t wide as yet, but Anita could see the signs that would stretch the divide. Rebecka was young and self-absorbed and demanded Lasse’s full attention. She hadn’t lifted a finger to help all week on her first and, so far, only visit to Anita’s apartment. Anita had tried to tread carefully and hide her annoyance. And when that had proved too difficult and she had said anything even slightly critical, Lasse was immediately on the defensive. The week had become tense. She was already having to cope with the fall-out from the Lovgren case. Her career was in a mess. The one thing she thought she could cling to was Lasse, and he was no longer there for her. Having counted the minutes before their arrival, she had been relieved when they left. Though it hadn’t stopped her from crying for hours after the front door had shut behind them. Had she been weeping for the loss of the one secure relationship in her life?

  ‘He’s in love.’

  ‘Ah.’ As though he was reading her mind he said, ‘The girlfriend?’

  Anita nodded. This was a chance to tell someone. Get it off her chest. Not let it fester. She knew that Ewan would listen sympathetically. The thing that had attracted her to him in the first place had been the ease that she had felt in his company. It certainly hadn’t been his looks. Yet how could she even think about confiding in a killer?

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Will you come and see me again?’

  Anita shrugged non-committedly. She took the few paces to the door and knocked on it to be let out.

  ‘By the way, I never got the chance to tell you, Anita.’ She looked at him as she heard the door being opened behind her. ‘I love you.’

  CHAPTER 11

  He had noticed the bus stop before when he had been getting to know Malmö. Part of his reconnaissance. It was on Ystadvägen, the main road out of town to Sweden’s most southern point. Even at this time of night the road was quite busy, but life on the street was quiet. He had also clocked an empty restaurant below the block of apartments. Ethnic of course. How could people eat such muck? No wonder it closed. Mayb
e the owners had gone home. More likely they were still here scrounging off the state system.

  Where he stood, on the other side of the street, was neatly grassed. There was a large white building to his right. It was some sort of school and totally deserted at this time of night. There were enough trees to give him cover and he had already worked out a simple escape route. It was just a case of waiting for the right type of victim to come along to get on or off a late-night bus. The lights from the buildings would enable him to pick the right target. As he waited, he could feel the same thrill of anticipation that he got from what he loved doing most. He had always been good with guns. He had been brought up with them. They were second nature. You started with animals. Then it was only natural to move on. Anyway, they were no better than animals that he was shooting at. Terrorising. That was the only way they were going to listen. That was what his voice had told him and he was happy to obey.

  A young couple wandered up to the bus stop. They held hands. The man was tall and blond. His partner was darker but he was sure that they were Swedish. Suddenly he tensed. A bus was approaching from the Ystad direction. A yellow regional Skånetrafiken bus. It stopped. He couldn’t see if anyone was getting off. The couple disappeared inside. The bus pulled out into the road and left behind it a man. The man’s back was to him. His clothes suggested that he was an immigrant, but you couldn’t tell these days. Even Swedes didn’t dress distinctively any more. The man turned. He was middle aged. He had a cigarette in his mouth and a box of matches in his hand. He struck the match and in that instant he could see that the man was a foreigner. No doubt about it. He aimed. A car went past between him and his target and the man began to move. He smiled to himself. A moving target was more fun, more of a challenge. He gently squeezed the trigger.

  Moberg was seething. He slammed his office door so hard that it nearly came off its hinges. Everybody in the vicinity knew whose door it was, even without seeing the chief inspector. Knowing looks were exchanged. It was a common occurrence, though this was louder and more violent than usual.

  Henrik Nordlund was the first to venture in for the meeting that had been arranged to review the progress of the Ekman investigation. It was in Moberg’s office, which was a bigger version of all the other featureless offices on the corridor. It had one desk with a computer on it. As a technophobe, Moberg hated it and tried to use as little as possible. In one corner of the room was a separate plastic-topped table with half a dozen chairs round it for meetings. There was a large whiteboard on the wall for attaching information to or for writing names on during investigations. There was also a holiday wallchart on which there was a thick, black felt-tipped line running through the months that Anita Sundtröm had been absent. Moberg was sitting behind his desk eating a chocolate bar. Judging by the crushed wrapper which had missed his waste-paper basket, it wasn’t his first of the morning. Before Nordlund could speak, Moberg swore. Then he swore again and took a bite out of the bar.

  ‘I take it that your meeting with the commissioner didn’t go well.’

  ‘Not just him. That bitch Blom was there too.’ Moberg was referring to the public prosecutor, Sonja Blom. ‘That bastard Wollstad had been straight onto the commissioner. Upset by our suggestion that his daughter may have been involved. Wollstad hadn’t liked my attitude or my “insinuations”. Jesus, I can’t believe how weak-kneed Dahlbeck is being. Wollstad barks and lapdog Dahlbeck jumps to attention. But I did get one dig in. I asked our wonderful commissioner how Wollstad knew details of the investigation that hadn’t been made public or even revealed to his daughter. That had the wanker spluttering into his cappuccino.’

  There was a knock on the door and Westermark and Wallen came in. Wallen appeared particularly nervous. Like many in the polishus, she was frightened of Moberg. She wished Anita was here for moral support.

  ‘OK,’ Moberg grunted. ‘Before we start, just to let you know that Kristina Ekman and Dag Wollstad are officially off limits. For the moment. If we go down that route we have to tread very carefully. The evidence has to be so strong that even Blom will have to get off her snotty little arse and do some prosecuting.’

  ‘But we have to consider that Kristina Ekman was a possible victim.’

  Moberg nodded in agreement with Nordlund. ‘Yes, we can look into that, whatever Wollstad says. My money is on Wollstad having something to do with this business. He certainly had commercial connections with Ekman. Gave him a foot up. Ekman’s agency does the advertising for some of his companies. It probably enabled him to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Westermark. ‘Ekman & Johnasson’s financial director was brought in from one of Wollstad’s other companies. Bo Nilsson. Older guy who doesn’t seem to fit into the trendy advertising scene.’

  ‘Probably put in there by Wollstad to protect his investment,’ Nordlund suggested.

  ‘And keep an eye on young Tommy.’ Westermark smirked. ‘If he was being a naughty boy, then Wollstad would find out pretty quickly.’

  ‘You can’t escape Wollstad,’ sighed Moberg. ‘But we’ve got to look at other alternatives. Anyone in the frame at the agency?’

  ‘We spoke to Elin Marklund. She didn’t seem too distraught by her boss’s death. Very composed. She wasn’t letting on if she was the one who Ekman had sex with. But she’s got a husband, so she’s not likely to.’

  ‘Has she got an alibi?’

  Westermark glanced at Wallen. She gulped before she spoke, her voice hoarse. ‘Marklund left the office after their drinks party at 9.57. She took a taxi home. She lives down in Skanör.’

  ‘How can you be so sure when she left?’ Moberg asked.

  ‘I checked with the taxi firm.’

  ‘So, either Ekman had sex with her in the office or he found someone else on the way to his apartment. Or even someone in the apartment. We need to establish his last movements. Did he go somewhere on the way home?’

  ‘We know that Ekman must have been the last to leave the office. Could he have met someone there after Marklund left?’ They took a moment to absorb Nordlund’s suggestion.

  ‘Westermark, what about anybody else at the agency who might have a motive?’

  ‘Marklund may have shagged Ekman, but she doesn’t have an obvious motive. Unless he was a crap lover.’ Only Moberg smiled. ‘As for opportunity? Hard to tell, because we don’t know when the poisonous crystals were put in the shower. Johansson might have a motive. In theory he has the most to gain. He ends up with the company. But that might not mean much if Wollstad has the biggest financial stake in the agency.’

  ‘Check that out with the company’s money man... what’s his name?’

  ‘Nilsson. On the face of it no one seems to have an axe to grind. They all seem to like him. Or so they say.’

  Wallen gave a little cough. It attracted Moberg’s attention. ‘Well?’

  ‘I was wondering if someone at the agency could have taken Ekman’s keys. Then let themselves into the apartment before replacing the keys later the same day.’

  ‘Why didn’t you think of that Westermark?’ As Westermark was about to speak, Moberg waved away his unheard objection. ‘Right, Klara, talk to Ekman’s PA or whoever, and find out if that is a remote possibility.’

  Moberg pushed himself away from his desk. Not a simple task. ‘Well, we need to work out how and when the crystals were planted. And then figure out who could possibly have access without breaking in. Klara might provide a possible answer to that one. At least we’ve got a bit of breathing space. The commissioner’s getting agitated by last night’s shooting. If he’s not careful, that’ll become a political hot potato.’

  ‘Is the immigrant dead?’ asked Westermark.

  ‘No. He’ll live. Either this gunman is a lousy shot or he’s just trying to scare people. But that’s Larsson’s problem. We’ve got our own headaches.’

  CHAPTER 12

  It was good to get out of Malmö. The day was bright again, and the hour-and-a-half-long drive
to Simrishamn along Sweden’s southern coast would be pleasant. A night with Sandra usually cheered her up. This was a last minute decision because Lasse had emailed to say that he and Rebecka couldn’t come down for the weekend. Rebecka wasn’t feeling well. Anita assumed it was a diplomatic illness. She didn’t want to see Anita. Anita was disappointed, though not surprised. If only she could spend some quality time with Lasse alone. But there was little chance of that happening these days.

  Another reason to escape Malmö was because she felt useless and unwanted. Moberg and the team were heavily involved in the Ekman murder, and the rest of her colleagues seemed to be running around trying to catch a gunman with a grudge against immigrants. All she was doing was trying to find some art thief who had a thing about Pelle Munk paintings. Not a very satisfying state of affairs.

  The dual carriageway out of Malmö towards the coast wasn’t too busy on a Saturday morning. The countryside of Skåne always looked at its best at this time of year. The trees were out, the earth responding to the early summer sun and the bright yellow of the oil seed rape gave a rich and colourful texture to the landscape that was so missed during the winter months. It was the openness that Anita enjoyed. As a youngster, during the family’s two years in Durham in the 1970s, she had always felt constrained by the hedges and walls that divided the fields in the British countryside. She hadn’t seen them as defining boundaries, but more as barriers. The Scanian landscape was all about freedom – it’s only obstruction was the sea. And that was where the tamed and untamed met. To Anita it was a glorious union. The only thing she would have imported from England was the Lake District fells. They would add the grandeur that her beloved Skåne lacked.

  And the final reason to slip away from Malmö? Ewan Strachan. In hindsight the visit to the prison had been a mistake. She had thought that by seeing him she would be able to start afresh. That her feelings for him were nothing more than a passing fancy. That she had merely been flattered by his attention. That she had temporarily fallen for someone who hadn’t been after “one thing”. Someone who had made her laugh when life hadn’t seemed very funny. The experience had also rekindled memories of the happiest time in her childhood when her family had been a family. If they had stayed in Durham, her parents might not have divorced. Maybe that was fanciful. She had been too young, or too busy making new friends, to notice the cracks that must have been there. Yet it was in Durham that Ewan and Mick Roslyn had become friends, where enmities had started that would lead to three deaths - and her meeting the man she was now trying to convince herself that she never really loved. Far from being able to dismiss him from her mind, she found herself worrying about him. She had found out that he had been placed in solitary confinement for his own protection. She could see the evidence of the fight he had been in. Next to being a paedophile, killing a national icon – and a sexy one at that – was guaranteed to make him the target for every macho maniac in the prison. And she knew that he suffered from claustrophobia. Solitary would be playing havoc with his mind. She couldn’t begin to image the mental torture he was going through. But he was a killer. And that fact was killing her too - inside.