As she neared Ystad she wrenched her mind back to the weekend. But it wasn’t going to be all play and no work. She would call into the gallery in Ystad to check out their Munk theft. In fact, she had decided that she would have a word with Pelle Munk himself. It was a long shot, but he might have an angle on the robberies.
Moberg was glad that he had brought Wallen along. She was the only one who could figure out how to operate the Ekmans’ coffee maker. She also had worked out in which cupboard the coffee was stored. The kitchen was straight out of a style magazine. Spacious, gleaming, ultra-modern, with every appliance and gadget known to woman. Not Moberg’s sort of thing. But just the kind of fitted kitchen that all three of his wives had nagged him about getting installed. All had been disappointed. He couldn’t justify the money to himself. As long as there was enough room to prepare his meals, then that was all that counted.
He had brought together the nucleus of the investigating team to Ekman’s apartment. He wanted Nordlund, Westermark and Wallen to get a feel for the place – to understand the environment in which their victim lived. To maybe discover a little more about Tommy Ekman himself. The truth was that they were going nowhere. Official pressure was starting to build. The news was in the papers this morning that Tommy Ekman had died in “suspicious” circumstances. They weren’t revealing any more at this stage. The ease with which the murder had been carried out was not the sort of information that they wanted the general public to absorb. There were enough nutters out there who might want to have a go themselves if details were released. Fortunately, Sydsvenskan were more interested in speculating about the identity of the gunman behind the latest immigrant shooting to make a big splash about the death of some advertising executive. All three victims had survived, but ballistics had confirmed that the same gun had been used in both attacks.
All four officers sat round the large kitchen table with their coffees. Westermark had even found some Gille cinnamon biscuits, which Moberg was already ploughing his way through. Kristina Ekman could afford to replace them.
‘Right, have we anything new?’ Moberg’s question was more in hope than expectation.
‘I managed to get hold of Ekman’s PA.’
‘Well?’ Moberg had tried not to bark but Wallen had been startled by his tone.
‘Viktoria Carlsson. That’s her name.’ Difficult cases, especially ones that didn’t have a proper focus, didn’t improve Moberg’s mood. Yet he managed to restrict himself to a heavy sigh and not a “fucking get on with it”, which was on the tip of his tongue.
‘Right...em... she said that Tommy Ekman kept a spare set of apartment keys in his office.’
‘Oh, bloody fantastic,’ groaned Westermark.
‘Apparently Ekman had lost his keys once when his wife was away and couldn’t get into the apartment. So, from then on he kept a spare set at the office. If he couldn’t get in he could pop back to the office and get the other keys. A precaution.’
‘And who knew about these keys?’ Moberg asked.
‘Viktoria didn’t know, but she assumed it was reasonably common knowledge. It was a joke around the office, about the occasion he was locked out. He didn’t like to appear foolish, so he wasn’t happy when the story came out.’
‘Where were the keys kept?’ Moberg asked.
‘In his desk drawer.’
‘Locked?’
‘Usually, but sometimes not. He didn’t always remember to lock it.’
‘And the day of the presentation?’
‘Viktoria wasn’t sure. But they were there the night before because she saw Ekman put them back in the drawer just as she was leaving work. She assumes he didn’t lock it, as it was unlocked the next morning.’
Moberg blew out his ample cheeks. ‘So, anybody at the agency could have walked into his apartment if they’d got into Ekman’s office on the day of the presentation. We’ll have to check everybody’s movements that day. From Stortorget to here and back? It would take about half an hour if they were quick. Christ, what a ball-ache.’
They had already been back upstairs to the en suite bathroom and thought about how the murder had been committed. There hadn’t been any great insights, as the crime still looked as horribly simple as it had when they had first come across the slumped, naked body of Tommy Ekman.
‘Still no sightings of Ekman between the office and here?’
Nordlund shook his head. ‘But we do know that he phoned his wife up at Illstorp at ten to eleven. He rang from here. That’s been confirmed. So, if Elin Marklund left around ten, there’s only about fifty minutes unaccounted for – and he would need fifteen of those to walk back to the apartment.’
‘Probably not long enough for a tryst in the office, but it doesn’t mean he couldn’t have shagged someone when he got home. After the call.’
‘Unlikely.’ Nordlund held his cup midway between the table and his mouth. ‘Eva Thulin and her people have been over all the bedrooms with a fine toothcomb. She says there’s no evidence of another woman - only his wife. He certainly didn’t make love in a bed.’
‘Down here then?’
‘Thulin didn’t find any tell-tale signs.’
‘My bet,’ said Westermark, ‘is that the randy bugger had it away in the office. That means Elin Marklund. I’ll speak to her again.’
Moberg took another biscuit. It was so thin that it disappeared into his paw before vanishing into his mouth. The biscuit didn’t stop him speaking.
‘That may prove who* he was screwing that night, but it doesn’t get us any further with anybody at the agency.’
‘No,’ said Nordlund. ‘However, it does give Kristina Ekman a motive. It could have been going on for some time. She finds out.’
‘Or Wollstad. We’re back to the bloody family again.’ Moberg began to drum his thick fingers on the table top. ‘Are we sure that no one else came in after Kristina left with the kids the morning before?’
Westermark answered. ‘According to the cleaner, there were no deliveries expected or workmen due. The post was delivered and the usual newspaper through the door. The cleaner was still around when the post arrived. She left at ten to go onto another house.’
‘Did she clean in the en suite that morning?’
‘No. She did the downstairs. The bedroom and en suite were to be done the next day. That’s how she found the body.’
‘I suppose what we really need to ask...’ They all turned to Nordlund. ‘Who would have access to the crystals? It’s not something you can just pick up at your neighbourhood Netto.’
‘You’re right there, Henrik. In theory, that probably rules out the agency crowd. Unless it’s something that you can get over the Internet. Of course, our friend Dag Wollstad has pharmaceutical companies. I’m sure they could rustle up something to do the job. Which brings us back to father and daughter.’
‘It doesn’t necessarily rule out the advertising agency people.’ Moberg was quite shocked that Wallen was advancing an opinion. ‘They do the advertising for some of Wollstad’s companies. One of them might be a pharmaceutical firm. At least that’s easy to check.’
CHAPTER 13
Anita woke up with a hangover. It didn’t happen very often these days and the older she got, the harder it was to take. She lay totally motionless in the comfortable bed in Sandra’s spare room. If she moved she would set her head off again. But the headache was worth it. She had had a good night with Sandra. They had wandered down Storgatan, which was pedestrianized during the summer months, had sat in the warm evening air and had consumed more beers than she should have done. A couple of friends had joined them before they had strolled along the harbour front. She had always loved it down by the water with the gaily coloured fishermen’s cottages, the smell of the seaweed and the cries of the gulls. Fishing these days was handled by industrial-sized vessels. A couple were in. They might be more effective and economical, but they had taken the romance out of the trade. During the summer there were always interesting private boa
ts around, too. It was a popular place for summer seafarers to pop into. There was one very sleek, sophisticated craft, which had come from Monaco. The wealthy owners were lounging on deck and enjoying being the centre of the locals’ curiosity. And, of course, there was the Sarpen, gently undulating in the water. It was a beautiful, two-masted, rigged sailing ship, which was used by naval cadets. Two summers previously Anita and Lasse had been out on her for an afternoon cruise with a number of friends. Lasse had loved it.
Anita had returned with Sandra to her apartment opposite the park and had had a perfect summer meal of cold herring and salads, followed by the local Scanian speciality cake, spettekaka, served with ice cream, and all washed down with a couple of bottles of Chardonnay. Though the booze had triggered a whole host of reminiscences and personal confessions, Anita hadn’t brought up the subject of Ewan, or even her problems with Lasse’s girlfriend. There was no more obvious a person to unburden her problems to than Sandra, yet something wouldn’t allow her to venture into either area. Sandra could be forthright, and might have given her a hard time about Ewan. But she would surely have been sympathetic about the Lasse situation. As she felt blindly for her glasses on the bedside table she stopped the self-analysing. It was hurting her brain.
She had never needed a coffee more than this morning. Skånerost. It was her favourite. It took no prisoners, especially when Sandra brewed it. And that would be just the ticket. She wanted to be reasonably alert when she saw Pelle Munk. She had phoned the day before to make sure he was around. She thought he had understood the conversation, though she had had to repeat herself several times and shout down the phone. He was probably drunk. She would call in that afternoon before she headed back to Malmö. She gratefully accepted the mug of coffee shoved in front of her on the kitchen table. Like her, Sandra wasn’t neat. The apartment was reassuringly chaotic, though Sandra’s appearance was not. Her short cropped fair hair and trim figure gave off an air of control. And her senior nursing job in the town’s hospital would be carried out with the utmost efficiency. It was only behind closed doors that she allowed her natural untidiness free rein.
It was some minutes before Anita had the energy to talk.
‘Whatever happened to Karin Munk?’
‘She’s back in Simrishamn.’
‘You’re kidding.’
Anita was surprised to hear that their old school friend was back in town. She had been the most ambitious of the group, and had been keen to follow an artistic career. Simrishamn was too small for Karin. It had to be Stockholm. She had been brought up there and had resented her father decamping to uncivilized Skåne when his artist’s eye had fallen in love with the light. When she first came to the school she had taken a long time to settle, but Anita and Sandra had taken her under their wing, her initial aloofness had melted away and she had been fun when in the right mood. Yet, at other times she had also been cold and uncommunicative, which they had put down to her artistic temperament. She had been by far the best artist in the school and great things had been expected of her. The last time that Anita had met Karin was when Anita was studying at Stockholm’s police academy. They had met up for drinks, but the evening had been awkward. Karin was being incredibly “bohemian” and she found it difficult to reconcile her obligatory anti-establishment views with the fact that Anita was learning how to uphold the law. Anita had joined the ranks of “the oppressors”. Anita couldn’t really work that one out. When some of Karin’s equally gauche friends had arrived, Anita had slipped away quietly and hadn’t been in contact since.
‘No. I think she came back to keep an eye on her dad. Her mum died about five years ago.’
‘Funny. She couldn’t wait to get out of here when she was younger. What’s she doing now?’
‘Something in the arty line. Not quite sure what. She was a bit vague. I ran into her a few weeks ago in the hospital. She brought Pelle in for some sort of check-up. He’s not looking in the best of health. Either too much booze or sniffing too much paint.’
‘Well, he can’t be at death’s door because he’s putting together a new exhibition, so I’m told. That’s why we think his paintings have been pinched, because he’s going to be back in fashion again. If the exhibition is a success, our thief is going to cash in. That’s our theory. It’s the only one we’ve got anyway,’ she mumbled into her coffee.
The drive out to Pelle Munk’s home from Sandra’s apartment only took about ten minutes. She passed the beach at Tobisborg, which was already busy with families enjoying the continuing sunny spell. Out in the serene Baltic, a large container ship shimmered in the distance. The main road was straight and fast, and Anita had to slow down to make sure of coming off at the right turning. Munk’s place was on the opposite side of the road to an apple orchard. The road itself was higher than the house, which was in a dip so that the rooms at the back looked directly at the bank. Anita pulled the car up next to a battered green Citroën parked on a patch of ragged grass under a large sprawling chestnut tree. The house was a classic, single-storied, stone Scanian farmstead. It was built round a quadrangle. Three blocks were whitewashed. Here were the living quarters and garage. The roof was corrugated metal painted a glossy rust red. The fourth side was what had been the wooden barn of the original farmhouse and, from memory, was where Pelle Munk had his studio.
All was quiet. Though the car was here, Munk might be out on a walk or down at the beach at Lilla Vik. What Anita remembered was that Munk constantly played loud classical music while he was painting. Karin Munk said that it had driven her mad as a teenager, but it was what helped her father concentrate. It inspired him. Anita walked across the cobbled courtyard and approached the kitchen door in the right hand corner of the complex. The official front entrance looked as though it hadn’t been used for years. She called out ‘herr Munk’. There was no reply. She tried the door, which wasn’t locked. She popped her head inside and called again. She came back out and headed towards barn studio. Her knock on the huge wooden door produced no response, so she went in.
The studio was a massive space. On the far side Munk had had an impressive floor-length window installed, so that the light could stream in. Around the room easels were strewn – only two of which held half-finished pieces. Canvases and sheets of shiny metal were stacked against the walls. The furniture consisted of a couple of ancient wooden cupboards smeared with years of paint and an equally mucky table on which sat an old ghetto-blaster, an opened packet of cigarettes and a full ashtray. That, too, was streaked with old colour. There were two battered chairs near the table. One had a number of books haphazardly piled on it. There were paint-stained rags lying all over the floor. Anita smiled. If her mother thought she was messy, she should see this! But Anita felt empathy for someone who could live and work in such a cluttered mess. It reminded her of her unfinished bathroom, which she had stupidly decided on a whim to re-tile and re-paint some months ago.
Anita wandered over to one of the half-finished paintings. This was a traditional canvas. The top half was a blur of colour; mainly yellows, oranges and dashes of purple. Could be the beginnings of an abstract sunset, thought Anita. Then again, it could be anything. Anita liked art, but she belonged to the “I-want-to-understand-what-I’m-looking-at” school. Her ex-husband, Björn, had always gently mocked her lack of understanding of the more obscure art forms.
‘Who are you?’ boomed a voice behind her. She swung round to see a tall man with tufts of straggly grey hair sprouting above a pinched red face that didn’t quite fit in with his body. In his heyday, when he had been constantly in the press, he had dominated any photographs because of his imposing physique. Now the man standing before her, though he still had the height and broad-shoulders, had lost weight. His clothes hung badly on him. Anita got quite a shock. Sandra was right – he didn’t look well.
‘You may not remember me, but I was a friend of Karin’s.’
He stared at her. ‘What did you say?’
Anita noticed that he had hear
ing aid.
‘I am Anita Sundström.’ She spoke slowly and loudly. Her voice echoed round the large space. ‘I used to know your daughter, Karin. We were at school together. I used to be called Ullman. Anita Ullman.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Again he stared at her. She found the examination disconcerting. ‘I remember you. Very pretty girl.’
Anita wasn’t sure if this meant that she was no longer pretty.
‘I now work for the police. In Malmö.’
‘And you’ve come to see Karin? She’s not here.’
‘No. I have come to see you, actually.’
Munk squinted in puzzlement. He hadn’t heard her correctly.
Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Page 7
