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

by MacLeod, Torquil

  ‘I spent quite a lot of time in here on that day. We were in early because we were running through the final pitch. Around eight. Tommy was doing the introduction, selling the agency, etcetera. As the account manager on the prospective business, I did the marketing strategy. Daniel Johansson then did the creative work and Sven Lundin, our head of media buying, discussed where we were going to place their advertising spend. Then we all went down to the conference room for a full rehearsal to make sure the equipment we were taking with us worked OK. Got to Geistrand Petfoods’ head office at Fosieby Industriområde at about twenty past eleven. We were presenting at half past eleven, though they were running late, so we didn’t get in until about twenty minutes to twelve. Three agencies were in for the account and we were the last on. Tommy was brilliant.’

  Marklund stopped. For a second she had lost her train of thought. Did Wallen detect a sign of moisture in the corner of Marklund’s eye? Then she was businesslike again.

  ‘We were meant to have three-quarters of an hour, but it overran to about an hour because they asked a lot of questions, which is usually a good sign. Got back to the office at about one and, after sorting ourselves out, met up in the conference room for something to eat and a de-brief.’

  ‘You all came back at the same time?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was about to go on. ‘No, actually. Daniel wasn’t there. He borrowed my car. Said he had to go somewhere. We’d driven over in two cars. Mine and Tommy’s. So Bo and I went back in Tommy’s car.’

  ‘So how long was Johansson out of the office?’ Wallen was sensing that there might be something significant here.

  ‘Probably about forty minutes. Then he joined us for a sandwich in the conference room.’

  ‘What about the rest of the day?’

  ‘I never left the office. Then Tommy phoned through to say that we had won the pitch. It’s great to get a quick answer, as you can sometimes be hanging round for days before they let you know. Because it was such a big slice of business Tommy wanted to celebrate, so all the people who worked on the pitch went up to his office for champagne.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Ten, eleven, maybe.’

  ‘And you were the last to leave?’

  Marklund nodded. ‘As I’ve said before.’

  Wallen smiled an acknowledgement. ‘That’s fine. Oh, one last thing. Does your husband know that you made love to Tommy Ekman that night?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t...’ It was out before she could stop herself. Marklund stared at Wallen in horror. The professional mask had slipped and the guilt was plain to see.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Wallen said quietly.

  Marklund’s head dropped. ‘Please, please, don’t tell my husband.’

  ‘Is he away?’

  Without looking up, Marklund nodded.

  ‘I doubt it has any bearing on the case.’

  Marklund clenched her fists in anguish. ‘I love my husband. It was stupid what I did. Moment of weakness. He’s away so much.’ Then she glanced at Wallen. ‘That’s no excuse, is it? I never want to hurt him. I don’t want to lose him.’

  Wallen was disconcerted by the change in this apparently ultra-cool businesswoman.

  ‘Please.’

  Wallen recognized the vulnerability. They had one less suspect.

  CHAPTER 15

  Martin Olofsson had left his journey as late as possible. By working in the cottage that day instead of in the office he had managed to stretch the weekend to three days. He had left his wife Carolina at their holiday home on the coast at Vik and was heading back to their house on the edge of Limhamn. During the summer months Carolina liked to be away from the city, so she could indulge her love of walking and cycling along the beautiful southern coastline of Skåne. He was often tempted to stay with her, but the needs of the bank wouldn’t allow him to be away for too long. Another couple of years and they would sell up in Malmö and move to Vik permanently when he retired. The children had left home years before and now they had three young grandchildren. He wanted more time with the little ones. And more time for golf and his other interests, particularly his latest passion, which had dominated his thoughts in recent months. Not even Carolina knew about that.

  Of course, they might buy a small apartment, so that they had a city crash-pad. It would be useful for Carolina’s shopping trips, visits to the theatre or taking in a concert. And he would still have the occasional meeting or social function to attend. He wasn’t going to give up work entirely. A consultancy role would serve him nicely.

  He manoeuvred the Mercedes off the motorway and into the sprawl of the urban outskirts of Malmö. It was getting dark, though the sky was clear. Another pleasant evening. He had eaten before he left, though he would pour himself a whisky when he got home and settle down to a spot of television before going through those papers he needed to discuss at the 9.30 meeting he had arranged with Kurt. He hoped the outcome wouldn’t lead to a trip up to Stockholm later in the week. He wanted to avoid that. He was tired of travelling and staying at hotels.

  He had now reached Vikingagatan and its reassuring avenue of verdant trees, with branches gently swaying above the pavements – a plump green canopy in summer, a mass of bony fingers in winter. The street was deserted except for what looked like a late-night jogger. He slowed down as the car came abreast of the familiar white wall that fronted onto the street. The large house loomed in the gathering darkness. He had reluctantly had to admit to Carolina that it was getting far too big for them. They rattled around inside it. Yet he was proud that he had risen in the world and been able to afford such a property with its grand, colonnaded, semi-circular balcony overlooking Vikingagatan. He enjoyed the envious and admiring glances of the passers-by when sitting out there. He turned the car left into the side street where the black wrought-iron gates guarded the entrance to his home. They opened automatically and he pulled the car up in front of the double garage. He had had that built five years earlier – this, too, opened at the press of a button and the Mercedes slid inside. He switched off the lights and for a moment he was in darkness. He felt for the briefcase on the passenger seat next to him with his left hand while at the same time he began to open the car door with his right. He was startled by the sound of the back passenger door opening up behind him. He half turned to see who was there but it was too dim. Then something heavy hit his head and he swiftly descended into total blackness.

  Anita held two cups of coffee. She glanced at Moberg’s closed door and wished that she was inside. She knew that Moberg was having a morning meeting to discuss the latest developments in the Ekman murder. She should be in there. The case sounded intriguing, from what she had managed to wheedle out of Nordlund. She knew that he was keen for her to be part of the investigation, yet there was no moving Moberg. What annoyed her even more was Klara Wallen’s involvement in the investigation. Wallen was a useful cop, but she’d be eaten alive by Moberg and Westermark. Anita was convinced that she wouldn’t fight her corner.

  She headed along the corridor and pushed her way into her office. Hakim was on the telephone as she entered. She put the coffee down on his desk as he was finishing off his call.

  ‘Thank you. That’s been most helpful.’

  Anita sat down and looked across expectantly.

  ‘That was the insurance people. Yes, the Munk was well insured. But so are his other works of art, so it’s unlikely to be an insurance scam. He would make more selling it on the open market.’

  ‘What about his financial situation?’

  ‘I’m going round to his bank later today.’

  ‘Of course, he could do both.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Steal the painting himself. Claim the insurance and sell the painting privately.’

  Hakim gave her a sceptical shrug.

  ‘OK, it’s a long shot. I would still love it to be him.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, while you’re at the bank I’m seeing someone Stockholm have put me onto. An art dealer o
ver on Fersens Väg. Apparently he can fill me in on the legitimate art scene – and the not-so-legitimate.’

  ‘She’s frightened to death her husband will find out. She broke down. Full of remorse.’ Wallen was reporting her conversation with Elin Marklund to Moberg, Westermark and Nordlund.

  ‘Well, if you will shag the boss. Silly cow.’ This seemed rich coming from Westermark.

  ‘So, you don’t think she’s in the frame?’ Moberg asked.

  ‘I think the only thing she’s guilty of is adultery. It’s unlikely that you make love to someone and then kill them the same night.’ Wallen glanced at Westermark. ‘If you’re a woman, that is,’ she added.

  ‘I agree,’ said Moberg. ‘What about those who had access to Ekman’s office on at least two separate occasions that day?’

  Westermark flicked through his notes. ‘According to his PA, Viktoria Carlsson, no one went in other than those who attended the early meeting before their presentation and then, when the team came back from Geistrand Petfoods, Ekman was in the office by himself most of the time during the afternoon. Carlsson didn’t go out for her lunch until Ekman returned and then another secretary covered while Ekman was having sandwiches with the presentation team in the conference room. This other girl swore that no one entered Ekman’s office – and then Carlsson took over again. Carlsson did say that Bo Nilsson, the financial guy, popped in briefly during the morning to drop off some spreadsheets when Ekman was at the presentation. So he was in there alone. When challenged he just came out with the same story.’

  ‘Did Nilsson leave the building afterwards?’

  ‘Went for lunch and a wander round in the sunshine,’ Westermark confirmed.

  ‘So, he had the opportunity. Check him out. He’s connected to Wollstad so that’s worth looking into. Anyone else?’

  Wallen coughed nervously. ‘Daniel Johansson didn’t come back from the Geistrand Petfoods presentation with the others. He borrowed Elin Marklund’s car. She didn’t know where he was going or what he was up to.’

  ‘How long was he out for?’

  ‘She reckoned about forty minutes. Then they had a de-briefing meeting in the conference room.’

  ‘He didn’t mention that to me,’ said Westermark. ‘He implied that he came back with the others.’

  ‘Right, find out what he got up to in that missing time. Were both Johansson and Nilsson at the celebratory drinks in Ekman’s office that evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, both could have returned the keys. Basically, anybody who was having drinks in Ekman’s office could have put the keys back, if they’d already been in there during the day. That might narrow the field down a bit.’

  ‘In theory.’

  ‘That’ll do for starters.’ Moberg turned his attention to the thin file on his desk. ‘You’ve all read Eva Thulin’s latest forensic findings.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’ Westermark shook his head from side to side to confirm his disbelief. ‘Jelly!’ Another shake of the head.

  ‘Could it actually be Zyklon B?’ Moberg mused.

  Nordlund held up a sheet of paper. ‘I printed this off the Internet. This is what the tin looked like. Could be cat food if the contents weren’t so deadly. These little greyish white pellets did the damage when mixed with air. There may be a few tins kicking around. Probably with demented collectors.’

  ‘That’s a bit bloody morbid.’

  ‘Nazi memorabilia comes in all weird shapes and sizes,’ Nordlund answered. ‘For many, it’s an obsession.’

  ‘But the chances of it being the real thing are unlikely.’ Moberg frowned. ‘My bet is we’re dealing with a modern equivalent. And that means pharmaceutical companies. We need to establish who would have connections with these sorts of companies at the advertising agency. We know Wollstad does. But let’s eliminate the Ekman advertising people first before we return to him. Right, let’s get moving.’

  As the three detectives filed out, the office phone sprang into life. Moberg leant over and the receiver disappeared into his giant fist. He held it to his ear. ‘Yes!’ he barked.

  He listened for a few moments. ‘Suicide. Don’t you think we’ve got enough on our plate at the moment?’ He listened some more. ‘All right, I’ll put someone onto it.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Anita had walked down to the Gabrielsson Gallery from the polishus. It was another pleasant morning as she strolled along the canal side. On the opposite bank the sun bathed the apartment blocks on Södra Promenarden in a gentle light before it promised to become too warm for comfort later in the day. A noisy mother duck marshalled her young on the still waters of the canal. Anita’s initial annoyance at being excluded from Moberg’s team had abated. She had decided that instead of feeling sorry for herself she would do her best to solve the Munk case as quickly as possible so that Moberg would have to involve her in the Ekman murder or, at least, give her a more interesting case.

  She turned into Fersens Väg. The wide, tree-lined street stretched all the way down to the glass-fronted Malmö Opera. The Gabrielsson Gallery was in an old grey building on the right hand side. On the pavement immediately in front of the doorway was a round advertising display stand with a conical roof. The building was several stories high and the main entrance was up three steps, under an elegant arch and through a large wooden door with glass panels. The gallery was on the ground floor. Once Anita had shut the door and stepped inside, the noise of the street dulled and she entered a hushed world of artworks. The building was traditional but the display was modern. Expances of bald, white space between the paintings. It was where potential buyers could contemplate the creations on show without distraction, where they could reflect on influence, implication, inspiration or even beauty. To Anita, however, the most creative things on show were the prices.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  An immaculately dressed young woman gave Anita a snooty look. She could tell by the way Anita was dressed, in blue jeans, red t-shirt and a creased beige jacket that she wasn’t a potential purchaser. The jacket had been the only thing Anita could find when she had rushed out of the apartment a couple of hours before.

  ‘I’m here to see Stig Gabrielsson. He’s expecting me.’

  ‘Really?’ The woman stretched the word out as far as it was possible to go, which gave her time to inject a huge dose of incredulity.

  ‘Police. Tell him Inspector Sundström is here.’

  The woman turned on her high heels and disappeared into a back office. She reappeared with Gabrielsson. He was more casually dressed than his assistant. His light-coloured, crushed linen trousers and jacket, crowned with swept-back dark hair and goatee beard, fitted the artistic image. His movements were mannered and slightly effeminate as he limply shook Anita’s hand and waved long fingers towards two chairs in the corner of the gallery. The assistant retreated behind her desk and glared. Anita was obviously lowering the tone.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’m looking into the theft of a Pelle Munk painting. Two, in fact.’

  ‘Dawn Mood and Shadows.’

  ‘You are very well informed, herr Gabrielsson.’

  He held up a hand. ‘Stig, please. And word gets round quickly in the art world. I’m surprised a senior detective is chasing after Lindegren’s painting.’

  Anita smiled. ‘He has connections.’

  ‘Of course he has.’ He too was grinning.

  ‘Is he one of your clients? I notice that you weren’t at his Munk unveiling.’

  ‘That’s not surprising. We don’t like each other. He fancies himself as a collector. Really he is a peasant. He thinks that people will see him in a sophisticated light. He bought a painting off me once. Never again. Tried to knock me down on the price. When that didn’t work he approached the artist directly for another piece, assuming that he wouldn’t have to pay my commission. Fortunately, the artist in question told him where to shove a paint brush and he came back to me and bought the original painting at the galle
ry price. The point is that he wanted to own a painting by a well-known artist and not possess it because he thought it was good or actually liked it.’

  ‘Hence the Munk.’

  ‘Absolutely. He initially approached me about buying a Munk. I didn’t have one, but I did put him onto a gallery in Stockholm. That’s where he picked up Dawn Mood. Wish I hadn’t bothered now.’

  ‘Why do you think the Munk paintings have been stolen, and where do you think they may have ended up?’

  Gabrielsson stroked his beard for a moment then glanced around the gallery before he spoke. ‘The timing is interesting. You know Pelle has a new exhibition coming up soon?’

  ‘I had heard.’

  ‘It’ll be quite an event in the Swedish art world. We haven’t seen an original Munk for nearly ten years. If these new paintings are as good as his previous work they will sell for huge amounts of money. If that’s the case, then the value of the old ones will increase enormously. Not that they’re cheap now. Still worth millions of kronor. A Munk is still eagerly sought after. So, either they’ve been stolen with the new exhibition in mind or they’ve been stolen to order with a collector in mind.’

  ‘In Sweden?’

  ‘Not necessarily. He’s very popular in Germany. And a number of galleries in America have his work. If they’ve been stolen to order then they may well be out of the country by now.’

  ‘If they’ve been stolen to resell here, who would the thieves approach?’

  Gabrielsson offered her a bashful grin. ‘Sometimes gallery owners. People with contacts. No questions asked.’

  ‘Like yourself?’

  ‘Ah, it has been known. I see myself as a facilitator.’

  ‘Yes, Stockholm told me that you occasionally “facilitated” art in the direction of very private collections.’

  With a hint of self-mockery, ‘In my defence, I only do so if I think the collector really appreciates his art. I have no time for the Lindegrens of this world. Anyway, I supply Stockholm with enough information to keep everybody happy.’