‘It’s about your paintings.’
Munk shuffled over to a table and picked up a packet of cigarettes. As he took one and hunted around for some matches, he waved to her to sit. Anita sat down gingerly on the unoccupied wooden chair, but the splatters of paint appeared dry. Munk gave up his search for a match and tossed the unsmoked cigarette back onto the table. Instead he picked up a scalpel in his left hand and idly tapped it up and down on the table top.
He turned to Anita. He gestured to the unfinished paintings. ‘I am afraid I’m not selling at the moment. I have an exhibition coming up. Maybe you can buy then.’
‘Herr Munk, I’m not here to buy. I’m investigating the theft of your paintings. Particularly the one from the home of Jörgen Lindegren. Dawn Mood. Another was stolen from a gallery in Ystad.’
Munk was now standing close to Anita, still clutching the scalpel. His proximity made her feel uncomfortable, but it was probably easier for him to understand what she was saying. Suddenly his face creased into a smile. Then morphed into a throaty laugh.
‘I must be coming back into fashion. I’m flattered that someone thinks they are worth stealing.’
‘Your paintings are still worth quite a lot of money.’ She nodded at the nearest easel. ‘And with a new exhibition coming up, the value of your old works are likely to escalate. So Lindegren told me.’
He flapped his hand in front of his face as though swatting away a fly. ‘The man’s an idiot. The only value art has to someone like that is monetary. He doesn’t feel anything. He doesn’t see anything. He’s not moved by art.’
‘But you went to his house when he unveiled the painting for his friends.’
‘Karin’s idea. Thought it would be a good way to publicize the exhibition. I hated it.’
Anita could see that she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. It had been a long shot anyway. She stood up.
‘It was nice to see you again.’
‘And you.’ Munk grinned. ‘You’re still a pretty girl.’
Anita found herself blushing. To cover her confusion she pointed around the studio. ‘I’d make sure that these are locked up securely. The thief may come after your new works.’
Anita was glad to escape the paint fumes and get into the fresh air. The smell wasn’t helping her hangover. As she feared, the visit had been a complete waste of time. If Munk wasn’t careful, he would have his latest paintings stolen too. She was about to get into her car when a blue Volvo turned off the main road and came to rest beside her vehicle. Out stepped a tall woman with long blonde hair and a short floral summer dress. She may have been twenty years older than when Anita had last seen her in a bar in Stockholm, but there was no mistaking Karin Munk. Not that the recognition was reciprocated.
‘Who are you?’ She had her father’s brusqueness.
‘Karin. It’s me. Anita.’
Karin tilted her head back as though she were appraising a painting. Then her mouth spread into a broad smile.
‘Anita! I don’t believe it. You still look...’
‘You’ve worn well, too.’ They both laughed and hugged each other.
‘So, what are doing here?’ asked Karin as she disengaged herself. ‘This is extraordinary.’
‘Unfortunately, it’s on police business.’
Karin suddenly looked worried. ‘Is Dad—‘
‘No, no, he’s fine. It’s just that we are investigating the thefts of two of his paintings.’
Relief flooded across Karin’s face. ‘I know one went from Ystad. Has another gone?’
‘Yes. In Limhamn. Just the other day.’
‘Which one?’
‘Dawn Mood.’
Karin clicked her tongue in disappointment. ‘That’s one of Dad’s favourites. I hadn’t heard anything in the press about it.’
‘The owner didn’t want it publicized. It’s best to keep these things quiet until we’ve had time to ask around.’
‘Getting anywhere?’
Anita shook her head.
‘Were you all right with Dad? He’s quite deaf these days.’
Anita smiled: ‘I made myself understood.’
‘Got a virus a few years back. Virtually knocked out his hearing altogether. Can’t listen to his beloved classical music any more. It was always his inspiration. Something to do with the frequency. It now sounds like a high-pitched whine. Sad.’
‘But he’s still putting together a new exhibition.’
‘Oh, yes. It’s his comeback.’
‘We think the thefts might be connected to that.’
Karin gazed at Anita. She shook her head. ‘You haven’t changed. Well, not much.’
‘Married, divorced and have a son at university.’
Karin laughed. ‘You have been busy. But I’m surprised you’re looking into missing paintings.’ She paused. ‘Is it because of that other business with the... in the papers?’
Anita shrugged. ‘Probably.’
An awkward silence followed, which was eventually broken by Anita. ‘Must be off.’
‘Nice to see you, Anita.’ Karin fished in her bag and took out a business card. ‘Look, next time you’re this way give me a ring and we’ll meet up for a drink. I’m only over at Hammenhög.’
Anita glanced at the card. Karin Munk, Art Restorer.
‘I’d like that.’
Moberg and Nordlund sat in Rörsjöparken on the opposite side of the road from the polishus. They licked ice creams. Being a sunny Sunday, the area was full of shouting kids, attentive dads, madcap dogs, teenagers trying to look cool and a lot of tanning flesh - not all of it ideal for public display. But Swedes don’t need much encouragement to expose themselves to the sun god. Moberg had used the case as an excuse to get out of the house. His wife had invited her brother’s family round for a barbecue, so he was more than happy to manufacture a reason not to play host to in-laws he couldn’t stand. Nordlund was glad of the company. Weekends were lonely times. Westermark and Wallen hadn’t been so keen to come in to work. After keeping them hanging around for a couple of hours, Moberg had let them go and they had dashed out of the polishus like a couple of naughty school kids released by the teacher after detention.
The meeting had been frustrating. Westermark had been through Ekman’s office computer. Most of the files and emails were to do with the business. A few personal emails, but nothing to make Westermark think that Ekman was having affairs all over the place. One or two emails to female members of staff, including Elin Marklund, were flirty in tone. But nothing overtly sexual. The only folder that didn’t seem to fit in was one entitled Sjätte November.
‘I assume the sixth of November is referring to Gustav Adolf’s Day. But there were no files in the folder. Totally empty.’ Westermark had nothing insightful to add, other than maybe Ekman had been planning a party for the staff ** to mark the anniversary of the death of Sweden’s greatest monarch at the Battle of Lützen in 1632. ‘Perhaps he was treating the little darlings to Gustav Adolf cakes,’ he added facetiously.
Wallen had been through Ekman’s iPhone, office and home phone records. Again, the sort of calls you would expect him to make. A lot of business contacts. Personal calls to his wife and to Dag Wollstad. Nothing untoward there. But they were still checking out all the names on the lists.
‘Are we sure he didn’t have another mobile?’ Moberg had asked Wallen. ‘Men who play around have been known to have a spare phone. Pay as you go, so it can’t be traced.’
‘We haven’t found anything. According to his wife and his secretary he only had the one.’
Moberg finished his ice cream first and licked his lips. ‘So, where are we, Henrik?’
Nordlund was watching a young couple snoozing on the grass near a large weeping willow tree.
‘If we can’t find connections to other women, then Kristina Ekman’s motive disappears. Or the jealousy motive, anyhow. We certainly need to establish who he actually made love to that night. If it was Elin Marklund, it may only be a rec
ent thing. According to Westermark, she hasn’t been with the company long.’
‘I agree. We need to know the movements of every person in the advertising agency that day. There are over forty staff, so that’ll keep Westermark and Wallen busy tomorrow. My gut feeling is that it’s someone in the office. But it takes a huge amount of hate to actually commit murder as cold-bloodedly as our killer did. We have to find a person with that big a grudge.’
Now Nordlund had finished his ice cream. ‘It’s funny that empty folder. November 6th. Wonder if it had something to do with Wollstad? He had Gustav Adolf’s portrait hanging on his wall.’
‘Maybe the old man’s got a thing about ancient royals and his son-in-law was pandering to him. Anyway, I think Gustav Adolf’s a bit old to be brought into this case.’
CHAPTER 14
Anita was in work early on the Monday morning. It wasn’t the urgency of the case that had made her leave her apartment at seven, but the need to have people around. Her visit to Sandra’s had done her good. She had done too much moping during her enforced absence from the polishus. Getting together with friends had been a boost. She would even look up Karin Munk soon and take her up on that drink. And at work she was surrounded by colleagues who, whatever she thought of some of them, took her away from the quiet apartment that no longer seemed the same without Lasse.
She took out of her drawer the typed list of visitors to Lindegren’s soirée. She sighed as she thought of all the potential interviews they were going to have to get through. All they would probably end up doing was antagonizing several important people, who wouldn’t be able to shed light on the theft anyway. Munk himself hadn’t given her any ideas. In fact, he seemed flattered and amazed that anyone would want to steal his paintings. She suspected that Munk had never been particularly bothered by the financial rewards of his work. He was still living in the same shambolic house that he had bought thirty years or so before. She would also have a word with the art fraud and theft boys up in Stockholm to see if they had any ideas. They might have the names of fences or disreputable dealers who would be able to shift Munk paintings, no questions asked. Unless the paintings had been stolen to order for some collector. Then there would be little chance of retrieving them.
Hakim was surprised to see Anita in so early. It was now eight.
‘Good weekend?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled at some memory. ‘Very good. And you?’
‘Yeah. By the way, I called into see Pelle Munk yesterday.’
Hakim looked at her expectantly.
‘Nothing of any use.’
Hakim took a magazine out of his bag. ‘I’m afraid this is going to complicate things.’ He handed it over to Anita. ‘Pages 38, 39 and 40.’
Anita opened it. ‘Not the sort of thing I would have expected you to read.’
‘It’s my mother’s.’
Anita found the relevant feature – a big glossy spread about Jörgen Lindegren’s unveiling of Dawn Mood. There were several photos of grinning people with champagne flutes and canapés. Among them Jörgen and Michaela Lindegren, Commissioner Dahlbeck, the cream of Malmö society and a far from excited Pelle Munk, whose strained smile spoke volumes. He’d rather be a hundred miles away. And there, prominently, was the painting. Any potential thief would only have to see the magazine, and the house, the room and the position of the painting were all displayed in glorious colour. All that was missing was a big finger pointing the way.
Anita managed a strangled cry as she slapped the magazine down on her desk. ‘Well, that’ll save doing a lot of pointless interviews.’
‘It still doesn’t explain how the thief waltzed off with the picture without having to break in.’
‘I know,’ Anita said reflectively. ‘Makes one think it’s an inside job. Insurance number?’ She waved a hand in the direction of the magazine. ‘He certainly went to a lot of trouble to make sure the world knew he had the painting.’
‘If he needed the money, wouldn’t he make sure the most expensive painting in his collection got taken? He had a Corot in there.’
‘You do know your art.’
‘If the Corot had been taken, the insurance would be more.’
‘Nevertheless, we need to check out Lindegren’s financial situation. Is he in trouble? And have a word with his insurance people. How much it was insured for, and if Lindegren has all his works of art covered. If it was only the Munk, then we might be onto something.’
‘I think I know how it was done.’
Moberg raised an eyebrow. He needed all the help he could get with the case, and he was hoping that anything Eva Thulin could supply might point him in some more helpful direction. That’s why he had made the effort to turn up at Thulin’s office.
‘I’m still not completely sure of the substance that was used to create the actual gas... the hydrogen cyanide. Problem is that there’s no physical evidence left. However, what was nagging me was that the pellets or crystals used would have been dangerous to the person handling them. More importantly, if they were just placed in the drain then they would probably have started working straight away. They turn into a lethal gas once exposed to the air. I’m pretty convinced that Ekman’s death wasn’t caused by the water in the shower reacting directly with the crystals.’
‘So how on earth could the killer set off the crystals at precisely the right time?’
‘That’s the clever bit. We’ve searched the drains and the sewer outside and, believe it or not, we found the answer. We found a minute trace of jelly.’
‘Jelly?’ Moberg snorted incredulously.
‘Yeah. Ordinary jelly. Those cubes of concentrated jelly you can buy in any supermarket.’
‘This is ludicrous.’
‘Not as daft as it sounds. Brilliantly simple, in fact. Our killer needed the crystals to activate when Ekman was in the shower. I think that the perpetrator pushed the crystals or pellets into the jelly. Then he placed the jelly under the drain cover. Along comes Ekman, gets in the shower and turns it on. The hot water from the shower then melts the jelly. That, in turn, releases the crystals into the air. Ekman probably started to feel the effects and must have turned off the shower. The water wasn’t running when he was found. Tragically, turning off the water will have only made the situation worse. The fan in the shower would have speeded up the process of spreading the now lethal gas around the room. It wouldn’t take much of the substance to kill him. And the beauty of the scheme is that the killing agent evaporates in the air. The evidence literally disappears. And the method of activation is flushed down the drain by the shower. We just struck lucky with our trace of jelly.’
Moberg could hear the admiration in her voice. He never understood the forensic technicians. He found them a strange bunch with a warped sense of humour. Probably due to too many hours poking around dead bodies, sniffing out weird substances and obsessing over blood stains. But they had their uses.
‘That’s the last time I’m going to let my wife make me jelly. But what about the crystals? We need to know where to look.’
‘Sorry. I can’t be much help there. The effects on Ekman’s system are similar to the ones suffered by the Jews in the gas chambers. The Germans tended to use Zyklon B. It was originally manufactured as an insecticide for delousing clothes. Then they discovered it worked on people. Apparently it took ten grams to kill an insect, but only nought-point-three grams to kill a human being.’
‘Could it be Zyklon B?’
‘I doubt it after all these years. The Second World War was a long time ago. Could be a modern equivalent. Your best bet is to have a look at pharmaceutical companies. That’s all I can think of.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel any better.’
Westermark and Wallen were ploughing their way through the members of the Ekman & Johansson staff and checking everyone’s movements for the entire day before Tommy Ekman’s death. They took separate rooms so that they could get through them as quickly as possible. Wallen noticed that Wester
mark had taken most of the women, with one obvious exception. Elin Marklund. Moberg had given them strict instructions that Wallen was to talk to her. It was time that they confirmed their suspicions that Marklund was the woman that Ekman had made love to before his death. If it wasn’t her, the team would have to look somewhere else. It would also help fill in his movements that night. If they had made love in the office then he was unlikely to have gone anywhere else afterwards. He would have gone straight home to his apartment and then called his wife. Despite Westermark’s objections, Moberg insisted that Klara Wallen tackle Marklund. He reasoned that Marklund was more likely to confess to a woman than an abrasive male officer. He knew what Westermark was like and he didn’t want to run the risk of Marklund clamming up because Westermark was pushing her too hard.
Wallen greeted Marklund with a smile. She always admired confident women and she put Marklund in that category. She envied their self-assurance. Her own rise through the ranks had been steady rather than spectacular. She was the first to admit that it should have been quicker because, unlike other female colleagues like Anita Sundström, she hadn’t been encumbered by bringing up a family. She had had a husband. Now she had a partner. But no kids. It wasn’t a biological disappointment. She just didn’t want any. Now, at the age of forty, nephews and nieces filled the void that might have been there. Children were fine as long as you didn’t have to live with them. As Marklund took her seat opposite the desk in Ekman’s office, where Wallen was holding her interviews, she wondered if this elegant woman was a mother.
‘We’re talking to everyone in order to establish their movements on the day before Tommy Ekman died.’
‘Why?’ Marklund asked.
Wallen was taken off-guard for a moment, as Marklund was the first person to challenge the statement.
‘We need to know how each member of staff spent their day. Who could have had access to this office? And who left the building during the day? We believe someone took Ekman’s apartment keys from his desk and went round there some time that day – and then returned them that evening.’
Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Page 8
