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

by MacLeod, Torquil

  Anita sent Hakim round to the back of the house. He returned to say that there was no one around, but that there were lights on inside. This made Anita angry. She was damned if she was going to waste another journey out here. She tried the door. It was unlocked.

  ‘I’ll go in and call out,’ announced Anita in response to Hakim’s worried frown. ‘If lights are on, he must be here somewhere.’

  Hakim reluctantly followed her in.

  ‘Hello!’ There was no reply.

  They walked into the huge living room. Anita called again. Her voice echoed round the space. It was strange that so many lights were on in the morning despite the grey day. Spotlights glared from the ceiling and table lamps illuminated the darker corners. Hakim hopped from foot to foot nervously. He was uncomfortable at being party to his boss’s illegal entry.

  ‘He must be somewhere,’ Anita said, scanning the room. ‘He’d be stupid to leave his door unlocked with all this expensive art around.’

  She went to the windows and glanced out at the swimming pool. The water wasn’t as inviting as it had been on the day they first came. She turned round. ‘I’ll look about. You pop up the stairs and check that none of his precious Munks are missing.’

  Anita went through an open door in the far wall. She found herself in a large dining area with a baronial suite of heavy oak, which sat fourteen. There was no sign of Serneholt. Suddenly she heard Hakim cry out, ‘Oh, my God!’

  She rushed back into the living room. Hakim was leaning over the gallery balustrade shaking violently. The electric light accentuated his ashen face.

  ‘He’s...he’s...’

  The next moment he was violently sick.

  CHAPTER 26

  By the time Eva Thulin arrived with the forensics team, Anita had managed to gather her thoughts. Her first reaction on seeing a horror-struck Hakim had been to get him away from the dead body of Ingvar Serneholt. She took him out into the garden and sat him down on the grass. A cop’s first death was always a jolting experience at the best of times. But to find a man with his throat cut and his blood spattered everywhere was a real shock. Hakim would eventually get used to it, but at the moment he wasn’t going to be much use. Anita had immediately rung the polishus. She re-entered the house and gingerly ascended the spiral steps. Serneholt was slumped on one of the sofas, his head arched back, his mouth gaping as though yelling into the wind. The pose laid bare in gory vermillion the neatly cut throat. The macabre thought struck Anita that the pattern of the blood that striated the black leather sofa resembled one of Pelle Munk’s more flamboyant works of art. The blood had dried, and was gleaming in the spotlights. Both blood and lights pointed to the conclusion that the murder must have taken place during the night. Certainly after nine-thirty, when she had rung Serneholt to arrange this morning’s meeting. He was dressed in a casual shirt and trousers, though he had no shoes or socks on. His bulging eyes were gazing at the wall where Munk’s painting Saturday & Sunday had been. Anita could see that it had been cut out of the frame. Did Serneholt disturb their Munk thief? That might explain the lack of footwear, though he might well be the type to pad about the house in bare feet. Yet he was sitting in a relaxed position. Had he let someone in and then been taken by surprise from behind by his visitor? That might explain the unlocked front door.

  Anita didn’t touch anything. Eva Thulin would go mad if she did. So she stood and observed. That’s what Henrik Nordlund had taught her. If you’re first on the scene of a crime, use that precious time to take in as much detail as possible before the circus of forensics and crime squad detectives wade in and distract you. There was no sign of a drink anywhere. If Serneholt had been expecting a guest, he would probably have offered something. She stared at the blank space where the painting had been. She assumed that as Serneholt had described Saturday & Sunday as “stunning”, then it must have been one of the main pictures in his Munk collection. So it was worth stealing. Maybe the thief was also the murderer. There may be similarities with the Lindegren break-in. She needed to check. It was interesting that the painting chosen was on traditional canvas and not one of the works on a metal sheet. Easier to transport and hide. Simple enough to put two and two together and come up with the probability that the likely murder weapon was the same instrument that was used to cut the canvas. A scalpel? Eva Thulin could confirm that and also tell her whether the painting was cut out before or after Serneholt’s murder. “Before”, and there would be no traces of blood on the inside edge of the frame. “After”, and there would be. Even if the perpetrator had wiped the scalpel after the killing, Thulin’s technicians and their fancy equipment would still be able to discover some traces. “Before” would point to a burglary and then the thief being disturbed by Serneholt. “After” would probably indicate that Serneholt had let the murderer in. One other thought occurred to her, as her eyes flicked from one painting to the next – it wasn’t likely that Serneholt had anything to do with the original Munk thefts. When she heard vehicles drawing up outside the house, she made her way down the spiral staircase back into the living room. A counter-thought popped into her head. Was this bloody scene the physical evidence of the falling out of thieves?

  While Eva Thulin’s team of technicians went about their business, Anita was relieved to see Nordlund come through the door.

  ‘The chief inspector and Karl are busy with Nilsson,’ Nordlund explained. Thank God for that! Anita wanted to shout. She quickly explained the situation, and left Nordlund to inspect the scene while she went to find the neighbour Hakim had spoken to the day before. Valerie Wigarth was already at the end of Serneholt’s drive talking to Hakim, who had regained some semblance of his old self. Wigarth had come out to see what all the fuss was about. Hakim nodded to show Anita that he was all right.

  ‘I know it’s awful,’ Anita agreed with Wigarth, after the latter had expressed her horror that such a thing could happen in such a pleasant and law-abiding neighbourhood. ‘However, you can help us by answering a few questions.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ she said, wringing her hands. Anita put Valerie Wigarth down as the sort of woman who would delight in telling her friends what an appalling experience it all was, while enjoying their envy that she was playing such a vital role in the investigation.

  ‘Do you know what time Serneholt returned last night?’

  ‘Exactly. Two minutes past nine. He came round to collect the parcel that was left for him. The one he asked me to look out for. I know the time because I have a clock in the hall.’

  Anita glanced over to Wigarth’s house, which was a short distance away. It wasn’t as big as Serneholt’s, though it still oozed prosperity beyond Anita’s sphere.

  ‘I know your house isn’t that close, but were you aware of any visitors that Serneholt may have had last night?’

  ‘I think he did. I am sure I heard a car pull up.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘After ten. I’d gone to the kitchen to make a warm milk drink. It helps me sleep, you know. It was definitely after ten. Probably about ten thirty. That’s when I usually make my drink.’

  ‘You didn’t see the car?’

  She shook her head apologetically.

  ‘Did you hear it go?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I’m pretty sure I did. Yes, I’m positive. I was in the bathroom at the time. I was getting ready for bed. I didn’t think much about it because Ingvar tended to have late visitors. He often has parties, and there are cars everywhere. He had one the other night. More of a night person than a morning one, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘But what time was that?’ Anita said, trying to get the exasperation out of her voice.

  ‘Oh, well, that would have been about quarter past eleven.’

  On returning to the murder scene she caught up with Nordlund and Thulin. Thulin confirmed that the murder could have been committed by a scalpel blade - and that there was evidence of traces of blood on the inside of the frame. ‘Whoever had done this was pretty n
ifty with their weapon of choice,’ was Thulin’s verdict.

  ‘By the way, the neighbour heard a car arrive about half ten and leave forty-five minutes later. How does that fit in with the time of death?’

  ‘At the moment I’d put the death between ten and twelve. But we’ll need the medical examiner to give us a more precise time.’ Thulin looked down at the body and the blood spatters everywhere. ‘And I was just opening a tin of ravioli when the call came in.’

  Anita came down the staircase with Nordlund. They walked over to the picture windows and looked over the serene water of the swimming pool, achromatized by the heavy cloud cover. ‘The chief inspector wants me to front this case.’ Anita’s features sank into a frown of disappointment. ‘Publicly, that’s how it has to be. But, as far as I’m concerned, it’s your case, Anita.’ Anita could have hugged him. She was back in business.

  Eva Thulin organized the removal of the body, as Nordlund looked on. He then went in search of Anita, who had been checking all the windows and entrances with Hakim. They met in the dining room.

  ‘No signs of a break-in,’ reported Anita. ‘Just like at Lindegren’s home. My guess is that Serneholt let the killer in.’

  ‘Is it your art thief?’

  ‘Looks that way. The likelihood is that they were discussing Serneholt’s art collection. That’s why they were up in the gallery. Otherwise, if it had been a normal social call, I suspect he would have entertained in the living room.’

  ‘What’s your first course of action? I have to tell the chief inspector something when I go back,’ Nordlund added with a wry smile.

  ‘After a further look round here, we’ll do a house to house to see if we can establish if anyone saw the car that came last night. It might not be our murderer. He might have come later. But we do need to identify the visitor. Then I need to discover exactly where Stig Gabrielsson was last night.’

  ‘He’s your main suspect?’

  ‘Unfortunately, he’s our only one at the moment.’

  ‘All right, I won’t get in your way any longer. I’ll head back.’

  As Nordlund turned to leave, he stopped for a moment. ‘Serneholt is another Gustav Adolf fan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The painting,’ Nordlund said, pointing to a portrait of the whiskered king at the opposite end of the surprisingly formal dining room, which contrasted sharply with the rest of the house. ‘Dag Wollstad had one in his home.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Anyway, good luck. And don’t forget to report to me first.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Henrik. You know me.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  There were still a couple of technicians at work when Anita went back up to the scene of the crime. She wanted one last look while Hakim went off to fetch Serneholt’s laptop to take back to the polishus. There might be something on it that would give them a clue as to the events which had led to the death of this rich art collector. The motive for the murder seemed plain enough. The missing painting. But why had their thief gone so far? Stealing paintings didn’t naturally sit in the same criminal bracket as murdering people. There must have been more at stake – it can’t have been a simple burglary that went wrong. The body was now gone, but the blood spatters remained. She gazed at the back-to-back sofas. Serneholt had been sitting relaxed, possibly at ease with his guest. Was he discussing his love of Saturday & Sunday when he was attacked? The killer must have leant over from the sofa behind to be at Serneholt’s back. Why wasn’t he sitting next to him? It seemed more natural if they were discussing the work. Otherwise, the murderer would initially be facing the painting on the opposite wall. Anita looked at the picture’s squiggly silver lines, which she could now see were created by the metal showing through the blue paint. It did have an almost hypnotic quality that she hadn’t appreciated on first viewing. She had been put off by the pretentious title. Restore? Revolt? Oh yes, Reflex. There was something about the painting that seemed faintly familiar. Of course it was. She had been here before, she chided herself. Yet something was still niggling her as she descended the staircase. Try as she might, she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  CHAPTER 27

  Moberg was feeling increasingly frustrated. Nordlund had reported back about the Serneholt murder. It was another complication. He had told Nordlund that he was to keep on top of the case. He felt nervous letting Anita Sundström anywhere near it. He knew he couldn’t remove her from this one, as it appeared to be tied up with her on-going Munk investigation. It just added to the crap flying around an ever more paranoid polishus as the murders multiplied. To make things worse, despite the numbers assigned to tracking down the “Malmö Marksman”, Larsson’s team weren’t getting anywhere. The gunman didn’t seem to exist. The only grain of satisfaction Moberg could gain from the situation was that at least at his end he had made progress. He was convinced that they had their man. Yet, annoyingly, they couldn’t actually place Nilsson at the scene of either crime. They were concentrating mainly on the Olofsson murder, as that was going to be, in theory, easier to prove. The only sighting of anyone out of the ordinary around Olofsson’s home was a jogger, who had been noticed a couple of times late at night before the murder – and hadn’t been spotted since. The jogger wore a hood, so no one could actually say whether the figure was male or female. The only identifying feature was a small, black backpack. And there was no confirmation that he or she had been around on the night of the murder. That’s the trouble with working on a case which relies on wealthy people in their fancy houses barricaded behind high walls and hedges. Nobody sees anything. Besides, whoever the jogger was, it can’t have been Nilsson. The description was of someone taller.

  As for the Ekman murder, Moberg was equally sure that Nilsson had somehow got hold of an old can of Zyklon B. Further discussions with Buckley Mellor Chemicals only reiterated what they had said before, that nothing was missing. Nordlund had talked to the main scientist on-site who claimed that none of the products that they produced at the plant could have been responsible for the manner of death that was described to him. Information from a rather disreputable dealer in Nazi memorabilia in Göteborg had established that it was still possible to get hold of Zyklon B if you had the money and contacts. According to their police colleagues in Göteborg, the dealer claimed he had never actually seen a can in real life and certainly had never supplied one to any customer. They were more likely to find the item in Germany or Poland. Westermark and Wallen had spent the day virtually ransacking Nilsson’s office, his apartment and that of his “girlfriend”, and had found nothing resembling a can of Zyklon B. Forensics had been over each location thoroughly, and couldn’t find a trace either.

  Moberg sighed and wondered what delights his wife would have waiting on the table for him tonight. He might pick up an Indian carry-out on the way home, just in case she served up those disgusting meatballs she was so proud of. They were always mushy and underdone. At least his other two wives had been able to cook. If she produced something edible, he could eat both. The culinary distraction couldn’t quite dislodge the irksome thought that Nilsson wasn’t exactly the kind of person who would ferret around Europe finding obscure Nazi poisons. He suspected that it would take time to locate and obtain a can of Zyklon B. And there hadn’t been that long between Tommy Ekman instigating the financial investigation into Nilsson’s activities and his murder. That murder had needed planning. It didn’t sit conveniently. Still, Nilsson had to be their man, and if the only way to get a conviction was to frighten a confession out of him, so be it.

  Anita was having a problem trying to find anybody who had seen the car that Valerie Wigarth had heard the night before. Not that witnesses tended to be particularly forthcoming at the best of times. In general, Swedes don’t like being disturbed in their own homes, and often have little or no contact with their neighbours. Fortunately, Wigarth had been an exception. Without her they would have had nothing.

  Anita had dropped Hak
im at the polishus with Serneholt’s computer and told him to head off home. He had had a traumatic day. She only hoped that his mum didn’t serve up a tomato-based dish tonight. She had given him instructions to be at work early the following morning to go through police records to see if Serneholt had had any previous brushes with the law. But now her immediate priority was to talk to Stig Gabrielsson. And he was in his gallery when she walked in late that afternoon. He didn’t look surprised to see her.

  ‘Lost another Munk?’ he asked jovially.

  ‘Yes.’

  Gabrielsson was taken aback by her answer. ‘Really? Which one? Where from?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me.’

  ‘Come on, Inspector, I’ve been away. And you know that because you called in before. Inga told me.’

  ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘Arrived by train this morning. Haven’t had time to steal anything.’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘Copenhagen.’

  ‘That’s only half an hour away. I’m no mathematician, but by my reckoning you could easily have nipped across to Malmö last night.’

  Gabrielsson suddenly lost his good humour. ‘Look, what the hell am I meant to have stolen?’

  ‘Saturday & Sunday.’

  Gabrielsson gave an involuntary whistle.

  ‘That’s an important work. Or is Serneholt just pretending it’s gone to get you off his back. That would be typical of the creep.’

  Anita looked straight at him. ‘He’s not pretending anything. He’s not even pretending to be dead. The thief slit his throat last night.’

  Anita found herself sitting inside the Pickwick pub. She was in a corner nursing a pint of Bombardier. Ewan had said it was good. The bar wasn’t full, as many of the early evening customers were in the street, gathered round the wooden tables that hugged the outside wall. The hanging baskets full of petunias and lobelia swayed in the slight breeze. Despite the warm summer evening, Anita was happy to be inside. She was enjoying listening to the banter, both in Swedish and English, from the diverse, multi-national clientele which frequented the popular hostelry. She had also ordered some food. It would save her having to worry about making something when she got home. This wasn’t really a matter of soaking up the atmosphere of Ewan’s world; more an excuse not to go back to what was becoming an increasingly lonely apartment. After her last conversation with Lasse, the apartment had suddenly seemed less like his home. She knew she was being stupid and maudlin to think like that. It was still full of his things. They were solid reminders of his physical presence, but somehow she felt that he’d moved out, both mentally and emotionally. Anita was fighting the voices in her head which were telling her that her son was gone. She had been deserted.