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

by MacLeod, Torquil

  ‘I was recommended by Dag Wollstad himself. I was put in a position of trust. How could I—‘

  ‘Quite easily. Advertising agencies are notorious for their extravagance. Making expensive commercials, client wining and dining... it must be simple to salt a little off here and there. Then a bit more. And so it grows.’

  ‘But why would I? I have a perfectly decent salary.’ Nilsson was starting to regain his composure.

  Westermark pushed himself away from the table. ‘We’ve been looking into your bank account.’

  ‘You’ve no right—‘

  ‘We’ve every right when we’re investigating a double murder. We’ve discovered that your account has gone up and down like a fucking yo-yo in recent months.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had things to spend it on...’ Nilsson blustered.

  ‘We know you have. At the trotting track. At the casino. You seem to be a bit of gambler.’

  Nilsson hurriedly glanced around the bare room in search of invisible help. ‘It’s the odd flutter.’

  ‘It’s more than that, isn’t it? Why else were you embezzling Ekman & Johnasson?’

  Nilsson shook his head vigorously, though his eyes were now fixed on the table.

  ‘You see, this gives you a motive to kill both Tommy Ekman and Martin Olofsson. With both of them out of the way, you’re in the clear. No one knows about your financial thieving.’

  ‘You can’t possibly be accusing me of...’ Nilsson sat with his mouth open in horror. From the body language of his inquisitors, that is exactly what the two policemen were thinking.

  Nilsson pulled a handkerchief from his suit jacket pocket and dabbed his forehead. Then he nervously twisted the material in his hands as his accusers sat impassively. Every movement seemed to rubberstamp his guilt.

  Nilsson then neatly folded the crumpled handkerchief and replaced it carefully in his pocket. He was back to his neat movements. A man once again in control of his thoughts and feelings. He rallied.

  ‘I had no idea that Tommy was investigating me. Nor that the bank was either. How could I have killed anyone if I didn’t know what they were up to? I had no motive.’

  It was Moberg’s turn to lean forward. ‘But we know you were stealing from the company.’ They didn’t know for sure. Or, more to the point, they had no proof.

  Nilsson was about to object again before deciding against it. ‘Yes. All right. I did. But it was only a temporary measure. I had a personal liquidity problem. I was going to pay it back. Every öre. That’s the truth.’ This confession didn’t seem to be doing the trick. Nilsson became panicky again. ‘Please, please, believe me! I had nothing to do with the deaths of Tommy or the banker.’

  There were no customers in the gallery when Anita and Hakim arrived. And there was no sign of Stig Gabrielsson. The supercilious assistant sat at her desk cutting up pieces of art board with a shiny new scalpel. She informed them, without bothering to look up, that Gabrielsson was in Germany, then Denmark, on business. Anita and Hakim exchanged glances. Delivering stolen Munks? was the unspoken question. When was he due back? The next day. Or the day after. She never knew with Stig. Not that she seemed bothered one way or the other.

  ‘Tell him to contact me as soon as he returns,’ demanded Anita to a still bowed head.

  Before they left, Anita let Hakim have a brief wander round. When they emerged into the sunshine, he said. ‘Some good things and some real rubbish.’ Anita didn’t bother to ask for an explanation of which was which. She wouldn’t know the difference.

  They stood in the shade of a plane tree and watched the traffic stream past.

  ‘So, is Gabrielsson over in Germany flogging the stolen paintings?’ Anita asked.

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘I’m not sure if he stole the paintings, but I’m sure he knows something about it. Maybe after the event.’

  They began to walk up the street in the direction of the library and Slottsparken.

  ‘Is it worth finding out who actually painted the fake Munk?’ Hakim suggested. ‘Sometimes, when a well-known artwork is stolen and doesn’t reappear again, copies can be sold to collectors who think it’s the missing original. Gabrielsson might be up for such a scam. He could make more money selling two or three fakes than getting rid of the original.’

  ‘That’s a thought. Maybe Gabrielsson was testing out his con on Serneholt. Serneholt is an acknowledged expert. If he fell for it, then anyone would. But he wasn’t taken in.’

  They came to a halt opposite the library. The old part, visible from the road, resembled a German schloss. It was built of red brick and looked solid and reassuring. The 1997 annex, designed by the Danish architect, Henning Larsen, reminded Anita of a couple of biscuit tins and was tucked away behind. Some people liked its innovative style, but Anita’s taste in architecture was similar to her taste in art – she remained unimpressed.

  ‘One thing still nags me, Hakim. Whoever stole the Lindegrens’ painting somehow managed it without breaking in. It could still be that Lindegren’s wife left the house unlocked. But, if so, the thief was bloody lucky to stumble across the property that particular night. No, someone got in and out without disturbing Michaela Lindegren. And that disturbs me.’

  They crossed the road and wandered into the park.

  ‘It seems strange,’ observed Hakim, ‘that Gabrielsson implied that Serneholt might have the paintings, and that Serneholt virtually accused Gabrielsson.’

  ‘And neither of them have time for Lindegren. I’m sure Serneholt wasn’t happy to have missed out on Dawn Mood.’

  Hakim stopped abruptly. ‘Serneholt said that he had nine Munk paintings. Yet there were only seven on display on that upper floor.’

  ‘You are observant. They might be in another part of the house. Or in another property. He’s rich enough. But the other two might be our missing paintings. He certainly can’t show them off publicly. I think we’ll pay our playboy another visit tomorrow.’

  ‘Blom says we’ve got enough to hold Nilsson for now. He’s admitted to the embezzlement, which gives him the motive to kill both Ekman and Olofsson. He had opportunity in both cases, as he doesn’t have any alibis – and he could have had access to the crystals that killed Ekman. What Blom wants is positive proof. At the moment it’s all circumstantial.’

  Moberg was convinced that they had their man. He was sitting with Westermark and Nordlund in the sports bar on Östergatan. At that time in the late afternoon it was almost deserted. Old football matches were being replayed on the TV screens. Moberg needed a cold beer after his confrontation with Blom. Every meeting he had with that woman either wound him up or drove him to drink. High-flying prosecutors from Stockholm were a natural irritant. At least she had allowed them to keep Nilsson in custody for another forty-eight hours.

  ‘Any chance of a confession?’ enquired Nordlund. ‘That would save some time and trouble.’

  ‘He still denies it, despite the evidence stacking up against him.’ answered Westermark as he toyed with his beer bottle.

  ‘Do we know why Nilsson started gambling?’ Nordlund asked.

  ‘Do we need a reason?’ asked Moberg.

  ‘It just seems strange that such a methodical man, who his wife described as being “mean”, should suddenly get hooked on gambling. There must be a root cause. Find that out and we might get a better idea of the man and how he operates. It takes a lot to push someone from embezzlement to meticulously planning the murder of two people.’

  Moberg drained his glass. ‘You may have a point, Henrik. Anyhow, we need to get weaving. I want Nilsson’s apartment taken apart, I want someone down at the pharmaceutical company to find out if he got any dodgy stuff from there, and I’m going to grill the little bastard again. He did it. And we’re going to bloody well prove it!’

  CHAPTER 24

  Anita was woken by the thud of Dagens Nyheter hitting the floor of her hallway. Five o’clock. The free newspaper was always delivered at 5 o’clock. Normally she wouldn’t hear it
, but she had been awake for some time. So many things flitted through her mind as she vainly tried to get back to sleep. The thought that Lasse was slipping away from her into the clutches of a girl she didn’t like plagued her. The fact that she had poured out her heart about Ewan to some bloody adolescent with a psychology degree and a scrawny goatee hadn’t helped. What irked her was that her feelings for Ewan seemed stronger now than before. How the hell was she meant to “move on”? Axelsson was an idiot. The revelations hadn’t made her feel better. They had made her feel stupid. Finally, all the permutations at work were confusing. She no longer knew where she stood. Was Moberg conspiring to get rid of her? Was he deliberately undermining her confidence? She was on a case, then off again. She was being sidelined when the department was being stretched to the limit by the murders of two of the city’s leading businessmen, not to mention the immigrant shootings, which had got both the ethnic communities and local politicians putting the pressure on. And as she tossed and turned, there was the spectre of Karl Westermark. Their loathing was mutual yet, deep down, was she was flattered that he so obviously “wanted” her? All these conflicting emotions raged as the early morning sunlight winked through the chinks in the Venetian blinds; she realized how easy it would be to succumb to Westermark’s animal desires - and her own. It was almost a year since she had last had a man. It was much longer since she had actually enjoyed sex. She imagined Westermark would be a good, but selfish, lover. The horror at the direction in which her thoughts were travelling made her get up and head for the kitchen. A strong coffee would dispel the demons of the night.

  Skånerost did give her a boost and the time sat at the kitchen table enabled her to order her thoughts. In the cold light of day they weren’t quite as bad as they had appeared at 2 in the morning. But only just. Dagens Nyheter was full of speculation about the “Malmö Marksman”. Mad immigrant hater, hired gun, spurned lover, inter-gang rivalry and even a maverick Mossad agent. Take your pick. The newspapers, as usual, were doing their best to exploit everyone’s anxieties. There was also a small piece on the progress the police were making into the death of banker, Martin Olofsson. A spokeswoman had said that they had a significant lead on the case. She knew that this was only the commissioner’s attempt to give the press some positive news, to deflect the fact that the investigation into the rogue gunman terrorizing the city was going nowhere. Whether it really was a “significant lead”, she was unsure. Moberg and Westermark seemed to think it was. The trouble was that she didn’t know enough about the case to make a real judgement. That in itself was infuriating. She must crack this Munk business quickly and then they would have to involve her in the big investigations, if not Moberg’s, then with Larsson on the “Marksman” case.

  She pushed the newspaper away and poured herself a second coffee. The trouble was that she had hit a blank wall. She was pretty sure Gabrielsson was involved, but he was out of the country. Maybe their visit to Serneholt would reveal something. But without a search warrant she couldn’t root around to see if he had the two stolen paintings stashed away somewhere. All the other avenues she and Hakim had looked down had proved to be dead-ends. The two thieves with a penchant for stealing works of art in the Skåne County Police records both had alibis. One was in hospital on the night of the Lindegren theft, after falling out of a third storey apartment building in Halmstad while trying to escape the owner who had returned home to find his house being burgled. The other was dead. He had lost his fight against liver cancer. Unless there was a new kid on the block that they hadn’t heard about, then she didn’t know where to turn.

  An hour and half later she picked up Hakim from the polishus and they made their way out of town to Serneholt’s home. Anita couldn’t help noticing that Hakim appeared pre-occupied, even nervous.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ came the defensive reply.

  ‘Look, I’ve got a son not much younger than you. I can tell you’ve something on your mind.’

  Hakim ran his hand across his mouth before replying. ‘It’s daft really. Embarrassing.’

  ‘When it comes to embarrassing, you’re talking to the department’s queen. Whatever it is, just spit it out.’

  ‘It’s my parents.’

  Anita stopped the car at a set of traffic lights. She glanced sideways at the young man. ‘Your parents? What about them. Are they giving you a hard time over the job?’

  ‘Oh no. It’s just that...’ Another awkward pause. The light turned green and Anita’s foot gently squeezed the accelerator. ‘They want to meet you.’

  ‘Meet me?’ she spluttered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’ She was gently amused. ‘To see that I’m not leading their son astray?’

  ‘Please don’t mock me.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m not mocking you, Hakim. I’m just surprised.’

  ‘I think they want to know that I’m doing a good job. That I’m showing you respect and not letting my family down. Living up to their standards.’

  Anita grinned at the road ahead. ‘Old-fashioned parents. I like that. Of course I’ll meet them. When?’

  The relief on Hakim’s face was obvious. Anita suspected that he had also had a sleepless night worrying about Anita’s possible reaction to his rather unusual request.

  ‘After work today. Only if it’s convenient,’ he added quickly. ‘Just for a cup of tea or coffee. You don’t have to stay long.’

  Anita smiled.

  ‘I’d be delighted to meet your parents.’

  ‘Shit!’ Anita wasn’t happy when there was no answer after ringing Serneholt’s doorbell. She sent Hakim off to ask at the neighbouring house if they knew where Serneholt was. He came back to say that Serneholt had left early that morning to catch a flight to Stockholm. He was due back sometime this evening. The neighbour only knew about it because Serneholt was expecting a delivery and the neighbour was going to take it in for him until he returned.

  ‘A pity he didn’t give the neighbour his keys. Wouldn’t mind an hour by ourselves in there.’

  She caught Hakim’s disapproving scowl.

  ‘Don’t worry. I was only musing. OK. Let’s go back to town. I’ll ring him tonight and we’ll come back tomorrow morning.’

  On the way back into the centre of Malmö, Anita pulled the car into a self-service garage area off busy Lundavägen and parked the car.

  ‘You can drive the car back to the polishus. I’ve got something to do.’

  Hakim looked puzzled. ‘What?’

  ‘You have to learn not to question a senior officer’s instructions.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Anita got out of the car and Hakim moved over to the driver’s side.

  ‘I’ll see you when I get back. In the meantime, see if we have anything on Serneholt on file. Handling stolen goods would be a nice start.’ She slammed the door car shut and watched Hakim manoeuvre it back onto the main highway. Then she crossed the road and headed towards the prison.

  Nilsson’s apartment was modest and neat. It was in an unassuming red-brick block just behind Linnégatan. It was a Limhamn address and that was what probably mattered to Nilsson, concluded Westermark. The block was one of four forming a square that hemmed in a large area of garden. The garden didn’t consist of much more than lawn and a hedge running round its perimeter, but it was a place where residents could sit and relax in the sun. There were one or two flowering cherries and a small border on one side full of berberis and hypericum. As Westermark, with Wallen’s assistance, poked around the one-bedroomed apartment, he found it difficult to imagine why someone on Nilsson’s salary would want to live here. Maybe this was downsizing caused by his financial recklessness.

  Westermark glanced through Nilsson’s CD collection in the living room. Lots of ABBA and easy listening. Westermark sighed heavily. He had Nilsson down as a ‘seat-at-the-opera’ type, but there wasn’t even a Mozart or a Sibelius. His DVDs were mainly history documentaries, with a few rom coms thrown in. We
stermark wandered into the small kitchen and glanced down into the garden below. An old man was sitting on a bench reading a newspaper. A mother was playing with a child of about three. She wasn’t attractive enough to keep his attention for more than a moment. He was more interested in calculating how long it would take Nilsson to walk to Martin Olofsson’s house in Vikingagatan. He reckoned it wouldn’t be more than about ten minutes. Easy to get there, hang around for Olofsson to turn up (though they hadn’t found any witnesses yet), kill him, set up the car to make it look like suicide and then pop back to the apartment. His thought process was disturbed by a call from Wallen in the bedroom next door. ‘Karl!’

  Wallen was holding up a photograph of a young woman. She was pretty. It wasn’t a family shot. The skirt was too short, the pose too provocative and the smile too inviting.

  ‘Found it in his bedside table. Inside a bible.’ She turned the photo over. ‘Signed. To Bo. Love Milena.’

  ‘Any other signs of her in here?’

  ‘No. Nothing in the wardrobe or drawers.’

  ‘Take the photo round to the neighbours. Find out if she visited Nilsson.’

  Wallen gazed at the photo. ‘Do you think she’s the reason that Nilsson took up gambling?’

  ‘We won’t find out if you don’t go and do as I tell you. Now!’ Westermark added sharply. Wallen reddened and scuttled out of the room.

  ‘Police business?’

  Anita shook her head. Ewan was mocking her in an affectionate way. The black eye had healed, though he was still as gaunt as the last time she’d seen him.

  ‘I’m glad you came, whatever the reason.’

  She wanted to say that she had come to reassure herself that everything was over between them. That the strange love link they had formed no longer existed. She wanted emotional closure so she could get on with her life. Yet, as she sat opposite him in the same room they had talked in before, she knew it was hopeless. She wanted to lean over and kiss him; to hold him close and feel his arms around her.

  ‘I’ve got a friend.’