‘And no one has approached you to “facilitate” the Munk paintings?’
‘Not a whisper. Which is why I think they may have departed these shores. However, it might be worth your while speaking to Ingvar Serneholt.’
‘Serneholt? Like the singer?’
‘No relation. He’s a big Munk collector. Has at least half a dozen that I’m aware of. Never know, he might have gone direct.’
Anita’s mobile sprang into life. As she tried to retrieve it from her black hole of a bag, ‘Can you give me an address?’
‘Certainly.’ Gabrielsson stood up and wandered over to his assistant, who had been trying hard to overhear their conversation.
‘Anita Sundström.’
She listened to the voice at the other end.
‘A suicide? Where?’ She listened. ‘OK. I’ll get down there now.’ She snapped her phone shut as Gabrielsson came back with a piece of gallery headed notepaper.
‘Serneholt’s address.’
Anita took it and stuffed it into her bag. The chances of her remembering where exactly she’d put it when she got round to looking for it weren’t high. Usually the whole contents of her bag would have to be disgorged.
‘Thank you. Must go.’
The glint in Gabrielsson’s eye was back. ‘Suicide? Hope it’s not one of my clients. Worse still, it might be one of my artists. They do such things. Look at van Gogh.’
‘I’ll see if he has an ear missing.’
There were already a number of cars parked in the street when Anita arrived. She recognized Eva Thulin’s. That was good. She liked working with Eva. Not that a suicide was an exciting new case. She knew that she was being sent along because Moberg couldn’t be bothered to get involved, which was fair enough given the difficult investigation he and the rest of the team were working on. But she didn’t want to spend the next few years sweeping up all the stuff that he didn’t want to know about. And she didn’t like suicides. The emotional hurt and rejection of those left behind was often difficult to deal with. Sometimes Anita found it hard not to get involved. Suicides were also unsatisfactory because you weren’t looking for a guilty party. It was a criminal cul-de-sac.
The house was impressive. Whoever lived here had money. As Anita walked through the open wrought-iron gates all the activity was surrounding the double garage block to the side of the house. Eva Thulin emerged from the right hand garage in her usual plastic bodysuit, and smiled in recognition when she saw Anita.
‘Haven’t seen you for a long time. Good to have someone sensible for a change.’
Anita grinned and then nodded towards the garage.
‘Yes,’ said Thulin. ‘Interesting.’
‘Do we know who he is?’
‘A Martin Olofsson.’
Anita entered the garage and saw the tell-tale pipe leading from the exhaust through the window of the expensive, midnight blue Mercedes. The garage was spacious despite the big car sitting in the middle. The figure of a well-built man was slumped in the driving seat. All colour had drained from his face, which contrasted markedly with his dyed hair. Despite his efforts to appear younger, Anita immediately put him in his sixties. She turned to Thulin.
‘I didn’t think this type of suicide was very common these days. Isn’t it difficult with modern cars having catalytic converters? I’m sure I read somewhere that the converters take out nearly all the carbon monoxide of the fumes produced by the exhaust.’
‘You are a clever girl.’ Thulin leant on the open car door. ‘It was made to look like a suicide. Rather badly, as it happens. Anyhow, it certainly wasn’t carbon monoxide that killed Martin Olofsson. It’s the trauma to the back of his head. He was severely bashed more than once. Something solid. Metal implement? Not sure what was used just yet. He was dead before this mock suicide charade took place. I have no idea why the killer would want to make it look like suicide when it’s obvious that we would easily spot the real cause of death.’
‘Any idea of the time of death?’
‘Probably before midnight. I might have a better idea when we get the body back to the medical examiner.’
They walked back into the sunlight. Thulin wiped her forehead. It was hot in her bodysuit.
‘There’s a wall all round the property, except for the gates, so no one is likely to have seen anything. Do you know who alerted us?’
‘A neighbour. Heard the car running continuously this morning. Came round to check and saw the garage door closed. Rang in.’
‘Thanks, Eva. I’ll let you get on. Presumably your team are going to blitz everything in the area?’
Thulin spread her arms expressively. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’
Anita scanned the surroundings. Either the killer had scaled the wall or slipped in before the automatic gates closed. She saw an officer coming round the side of the house. It was Carl Svanberg.
‘We must stop meeting like this,’ Anita joked.
Svanberg didn’t return the smile. ‘No sign of a break-in.’
‘Well, that means that Olofsson was targeted deliberately. Do we know anything about him?’
‘According to the neighbour who found him, he was a banker.’
‘That probably doesn’t put him very high in the popularity stakes.’ Still no reaction from Svanberg. ‘Family?’
‘Wife over at their weekend place at Vik. My partner Lennart has tried to contact her, so far without success. But he’s been on to Simrishamn and they’re sending someone round to the house.’
‘Good. Right, now we know it was murder, this is a crime scene. We need it sealed off.’ She could feel a rush of adrenaline. ‘Then I’d better break the news to Chief Inspector Moberg.’
CHAPTER 17
Moberg hadn’t been happy with her call. The last thing he wanted was another murder on his hands. The one he was dealing with was complicated enough. He told Anita to stay put and he would come down and see for himself. His attitude had immediately raised Anita’s hackles. Moberg had spoken to her as though it was her fault that it was a murder and not a suicide. It was almost as if he didn’t believe her and was coming to check up that she wasn’t lying.
Anita went and told Thulin that she couldn’t remove the body, as Moberg wanted to see the scene. Thulin’s raised eyebrows said it all. She offered Anita a briefcase, which was now in a see-through plastic bag.
‘Found it on the passenger seat. It’s OK, you can touch it. I’ve dusted it for prints.’
It was in neat black leather with a combination. Anita took it out of the plastic and tried a few numbers, but it was a waste of time. She replaced it and walked round to her car in Vikingagatan and put the briefcase in the boot. She would get someone back at the office to open it. This gave her an opportunity to check out the house and the location more carefully. The concrete wall surrounding the property was a little over a couple of metres. The house was almost cross-shaped. The main body of the building, with its sharply pitched roof, faced the street. It had two sections jutting out – one with a fancy first storey balcony overlooking Vikingagatan. The other at the rear with its own pitched roofing. The end of the house, behind the double garage, also had a semi-circular balcony. This was simpler with a white metal balustrade. There were trees in the garden and all along Vikingagatan and also the side road onto which the gates opened. At this time of year they offered ample cover. The likelihood of finding any witnesses was remote, but they would have to do a house-to-house enquiry all the same. She would start with the neighbour.
By the time Anita returned to Olofsson’s house, Moberg had appeared. Her heart sank when she saw that he had brought Westermark with him. His loathsome grin, half-mocking and half-lecherous, immediately put her on the defensive.
‘Where have you been?’ Moberg demanded.
‘Talking to the neighbour who alerted us. He’s retired. He wasn’t sure what time Olofsson returned last night, as no lights went on in the house. It was only when he was walking his dog this morning that he heard
the car running inside the closed garage. Thought it was odd, so he came back ten minutes later and there was still no change, so he phoned the station. Of course, we’ll have to talk to everyone in the area to see if they spotted anyone suspicious.’
‘Do we know much about him?’ This was Westermark.
Anita answered his question by addressing Moberg. ‘He’s a banker.’
Moberg snorted. ‘That’s one less to bugger up the world.’ He arched his back wearily. ‘So, why make it appear to be a suicide when it obviously isn’t?’
‘The killer’s incompetent,’ suggested Westermark.
Anita gave him a withering look. ‘I think the killer knew exactly what he was doing.’
‘And what’s that?’ Westermark sneered.
‘I don’t know yet. Why bother otherwise? The killer might as well have just smashed Olofsson’s head in and left it at that. Maybe he’s trying to tell us something? Or tell someone something.’
‘Another of your great theories. Look what happened last time.’
‘That’s enough,’ Moberg ordered before Anita could respond. ‘Do we know what bank he works for?’
‘The neighbour says it’s the Sydöstra Bank.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘It’s a private bank. Only deals with wealthy clients and companies. Specialist stuff. The neighbour used to deal with them.’
‘Probably means that Olofsson’s a pal of the commissioner.’ Moberg turned round as Olofsson, in a body bag, was wheeled out of the garage. ‘Right, Westermark, I want you to get down to the bank and start asking questions. First thing is to find out where it is.’
‘Shouldn’t I be doing that?’ Anita asked with more than a hint of annoyance.
‘You can talk to the wife. There might be a domestic angle to this one. I can’t really see bankers bonking each other on the head. Give you a chance to nose around this lovely house. Isn’t that what women like to do?’
Westermark’s laugh was as condescending as the comment. Anita was furious as her two colleagues turned to go. As they reached the gate, Moberg swung round.
‘Oh, if you come up with anything, report it to Westermark in the first instance. I want him to keep an eye on this investigation.’
Westermark’s supercilious grin completed Anita’s humiliation.
‘You’re joking.’
‘No, Inspector, I’m not joking.’
Westermark had disappeared round the corner. Anita couldn’t let this lie. With great difficultly she managed to keep her temper in check. ‘Chief Inspector, you sent me down here to handle this case. Surely, it should be mine. And reporting to you directly.’
‘Then I thought it was a straightforward suicide. This is likely to be another bloody high-profile case. I can’t afford to be seen letting you loose on it. If it were some dead Arab or junkie, that would be fine. But you’re on probation as far as the commissioner is concerned. Get anything wrong on this one and you’re out on your arse. Probably quickly followed by me. I can’t afford to lose my job. What I suggest is that you be seen to do some good spadework on this investigation, sort out the thing with the fucking paintings and then I might... just might... be able to give you more leeway in the future. Understand?’
Anita pounded through the avenue of trees towards the huge circular expanse of green, known as “the plate”, in the centre of Pildammsparken. She was pushing herself harder than usual and her breathing was becoming erratic. As she stretched her legs they began to ache. She would do three circuits. She only attempted it three times when she was really fit or really furious. Today it was the latter. She couldn’t believe that she was having to work under that creep Westermark, who would exploit the situation to further his career at her expense – and probably “try it on” into the bargain. Anita began to run even faster, and started to pass more sedate joggers, who were startled at the speed she was building up. Of course, it couldn’t last and she came to a shuddering halt next to a bench and sank gratefully onto it. It took her a couple of minutes to get her breathing back under control.
A promising start to the day had ended in frustration and emotional trauma as she had taken a deeply shocked Carolina Olofsson to identify her husband’s body. She was too upset to get much information out of her other than that Martin had stayed an extra day down at Vik and set off about eight to head back to Malmö. And, no, she didn’t know anybody who would want to harm her beloved husband of nearly forty years. Anita had driven her back to Vikingagatan. As it was only the garage that was a crime scene, Carolina was allowed to stay in the house. A daughter was on the way down from Gothenburg to be with her, and Anita had waited until she arrived. What had really irked Anita was that Moberg’s jibe had some substance, as she had been fascinated wandering round Olofsson’s house and had made instant judgements as to the couple’s taste and decor. Conservative had been her conclusion. During her time on “sick leave” she had become addicted to property programmes, most of which seemed to be British. That only added to their appeal. If it hadn’t been for Lasse, she might have been tempted to return to Britain. And now Ewan was here. Was that another reason to stay?
As she cooled down she became aware of a hint of a chill in the air. She stood up. She would walk back to the apartment. One thing she had had the presence of mind to do was take Martin Olofsson’s briefcase into his home and ask Carolina if she knew the combination. She had: 061 132. Anita had opened it up in Carolina’s presence. It seemed mainly to consist of bank paperwork. There was also a golf magazine. One of his passions, Carolina had said. He was a member of the Österlen Golf Club and played at the Lilla Vik course when he had the time. Anita knew it well, but only from driving past it on the road. The only other items in the case were a couple of DVDs. Anita explained that she had to take the briefcase back to the polishus, as it had been found at the crime scene. She had neglected to inform Westermark that she had it – or even of its existence. That would give him another stick to beat her with, but she wanted to keep part of the investigation to herself for the moment. She would go and see Carolina Olofsson again tomorrow and take Hakim with her. Now the thefts of the Munk paintings hardly seemed important and she put them to the back of her mind.
After showering, she poured herself a glass of red wine and picked up the phone. She wanted to phone Lasse because he was good at lifting her spirits. She would even force herself to ask after Rebecka, though she hoped deep down that that relationship would hit the rocks soon. He would get over it quickly. Men did. The curse for women was that they didn’t. Anyhow, Rebecka wasn’t right for her Lasse. He deserved better. Anita had no problem persuading herself that jealousy wasn’t the reason why she didn’t want Lasse staying with Rebecka.
‘Sorry, Mum, can’t speak for long. We’re going out in a minute.’
‘You and Rebecka?’
‘Of course, who else?’ he chided. ‘One of her friends has discovered this fantastic bar, which we’re going to try out. And then we’re clubbing afterwards.’
‘So, she’s in better spirits. Didn’t seem to have much energy when she was down here.’ Anita could hear the bitterness in her own voice.
‘She was just a bit tired, that’s all,’ he said defensively.
‘And are you bringing her down for midsummer?’ Anita perked up at the thought. They might go down to Simrishamn. Or join the big celebrations in Pildammsparken. ‘What do you want to do this year?’
There was a momentary silence at the end of the phone. ‘About that, Mum. Rebecka’s folks have got a place on Gotland. They’ve invited me over there for midsummer. If the weather’s good, we might spend the rest of the summer there.’
Anita’s stomach gave a lurch. She was crushed. In the background she could hear Rebecka calling to Lasse to hurry up.
‘Look, Mum, must be going. I’ll ring you next week. Promise.’
For the next few minutes Anita sat perfectly still, the phone still clutched in her hand. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt s
o miserable.
This time it was for real. His guiding voice was clear about that. No messing about. No toying with “them”. That’s why he had ventured into the centre of Malmö. He had wandered through a busy Gustav Adolfs Torg. There were lots of young people milling around, happy to be alive. As he walked, unnoticed, through the square he checked out potential targets, those whose deaths would make him happy. The scum who were flooding into Sweden and destroying the country’s way of life, distorting traditional values and bringing crime and danger into safe communities. Anyone with a swarthy complexion or the run-down appearance of the typical immigrant. For him, they were easy to spot.
He wandered past the line of bus stops at the edge of the square and crossed the four lanes of road that divided the square from the gardens and cemetery beyond. He melted into the trees. From his vantage point he could watch little groups forming round each bus stop on both sides of the road. Though a target on this side of the road would be easier to hit, it would be a more satisfying challenge to take out someone on the square side. It would also cause more confusion, as bystanders would initially jump to the conclusion that the shot had come from nearby. That would give him extra seconds to disappear, with the minimum of fuss. He had plenty of cover and the dark would ensure his route out was untroubled.
He didn’t want to wait long in case he was spotted and aroused suspicion. He slipped out his gun. He had already lined up his target. Three lads approached a bus stop from the square. They were smoking and joking among themselves. There was no mistaking. Even with the occasional bus passing, he could hear their loud voices carrying across the still night. Whatever language they were speaking, it certainly wasn’t Swedish. He was only going to kill one. But which one? The tallest of the three was definitely the loudest. The leader of the group. What made his final decision for him was the way the young man glanced at a couple of giggling blonde girls as they sauntered past him. Stick to your own, you bastard. A moment later the young man lurched back as the bullet hit him in the middle of his forehead.
Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Page 10