‘Your fish and chips.’ A pleasant young man said in English and put down a plate in front of her. ‘Anything else I can get you?’
‘No thanks.’
The interruption allowed her to refocus her thoughts on more immediate matters. After her chat with Gabrielsson she had returned to the polishus and gone over with Nordlund what they knew of events surrounding Serneholt’s murder. At least they had the late night visitor. The odds were on the murderer being the Munk art thief. And she had Gabrielsson, too. His alibi sounded flimsy. He was only half an hour away from Malmö by train. He could then have driven out to Serneholt’s, killed him, stolen the painting and returned to Copenhagen. He claimed that he had had a meeting in the early evening, then went down to the bars in Nyhavn and ended up having a meal by himself. Spent the night in a friend’s apartment – the friend was away. Basically, he couldn’t prove any of it, though he reckoned that the attractive waiter who served him would remember him. He had left a hefty tip. His trip to Germany had been lucrative. Anita was going to head over to Copenhagen first thing in the morning to check Gabrielsson’s story and, on her return, Nordlund suggested that they run-through all the evidence. By then they should have the forensics and initial medical examiner’s report.
She took another sip of beer. It wasn’t bad. She had developed a taste for British beer during her year in London with the Met. Then she heard a raucous laugh. She recognized the wild-haired Scotsman, whom Ewan had befriended. Alex was greeting a couple of men sitting on stools at the bar. As she watched him shake hands and joke she suddenly wished Ewan was with her.
The voice had sounded angry. It still reverberated around his head. He was happy to obey, and he had known where he would strike next. He had planned it in advance because he knew that a lot of foreigners shopped in the area. He slipped through the wire-mesh gate. This side of the complex was surrounded by a huge fence. There were a number of cars parked near the gate. Beyond was what may once have been a large industrial site. He didn’t know what it had been before because he didn’t know Malmö that well. The huge metal building immediately in front of him was the rear section of the supermarket. Even at this time of the evening there was a lorry unloading produce. Everyone involved in the operation had a swarthy skin. This was definitely the right place to be. They were all a possible target, but this time he was determined to create more of an impact. It was the shoppers he was after.
Adjoining the back of the supermarket and the building next to it was a low-slung metal roof, supported by tall posts painted in a garish yellow. Under its shelter were more parked cars. Beyond was a second-hand clothes shop and an Allsorts outlet. As he waited he could hear the traffic on busy Ystadvägen coming from the other side of Allsorts. In front of him there was another main road. Lantmannagatan met Ystadvägen at a major junction at the extremity of this group of buildings. He would hardly call it a retail complex. Too shabby for that. He had thought that he would be able to escape over Lantmannagatan and disappear into the mass of apartment blocks on the other side of Ystadvägen. But he had dismissed this idea, as the road was too wide and he would have to cross an open area beyond between a school and the apartments before reaching cover. He would return the way he had come. He’d melt into the side streets once he was across the car park.
His first plan had been an audacious swoop into the supermarket itself and take out a number of the shoppers. That would make the front pages around the world. But he decided it was too risky. His work must continue. The second-hand clothes shop was closed, so no one would come in behind him. The roof cast a long shadow at this time of day, so he could hide behind one of the parked cars and pick off a couple of people coming out of the supermarket. He took out his gun, held it by his side and waited for possible targets.
It could have been anyone. There was hardly what he would have called a native Swede in sight. It was a young couple who took his fancy. He was tall and wore a dark t-shirt and jeans. She had long black hair and a green top with the supermarket logo. She must be one of the girls who worked on the tills, going home after her shift. They each carried bulging plastic bags. Kill them now and they wouldn’t be able to produce more of their kind. He balanced his hands on the top of the car roof and took aim. The couple seemed lost in their own thoughts as they ambled towards him, oblivious to their fate. This would soothe the fevered voice.
CHAPTER 28
It didn’t take Anita long to walk to the new Triangeln underground. It was one of the two new stations built underneath the city to take the line from Copenhagen through to Malmö Central. It had caused disruption for years, and only cut a few minutes off the old journey time. Many thought it a waste of public money. Anita rather liked it. Triangeln had two entrances, and she approached the one nearest Möllevången. Even at that time in the morning there was a forest of bicycles near the station entrance. Many were parked haphazardly, some had wheels or pedals missing – a security precaution. They were tightly packed and, not being a cyclist herself, Anita wondered how some of the bikes could be disentangled. The entrance itself, she mused, had an appropriate shape. It looked like an enormous, aero-dynamic cycling helmet. Inside, the engineers had dug deep, and it took three separate escalators to reach the cavernous platform. It was an extraordinary space – like a vast cathedral nave with a gigantic curved roof. In the centre, instead of an aisle, was a long platform, with sturdy concrete pillars, which seemed to stretch into infinity. Lights, softer than neon, mesmeric in their different hues, blinked, sometimes rhythmically, sometimes randomly, in parallel lines along the grey expanse of the wall on the other side of the track. Free art for the commuters interested enough to work out its significance. It was like no other underground station she had ever been to. She had got used to the old-fashioned stuffiness and claustrophobic environs of the London tube during her time at the Met. Triangeln was the antithesis; a cold, awesome, subterranean temple to transport, and Anita loved it. Down here she could escape the Malmö landmark that defined her life. The Turning Torso taunted her from every part of the city. Its 54 storeys of white Rubik’s cube dominated the townscape and oversaw every aspect of city living – and was a constant reminder of what she had done. In the depths of Triangeln station she could pretend it didn’t exist.
The Copenhagen-bound train slipped in three minutes late. The new route hadn’t improved the service’s time-keeping. Commuters and holidaymakers headed for the airport converged on the open doors and pushed their way on board. Anita managed to find a seat. The carriage was full. Many in Malmö worked in Copenhagen. A lot were Danes who found housing cheaper on the Swedish side, but still earned their living in the Danish capital. Anita picked up a free Metro newspaper. The killing of a young couple last night had taken place early enough to make the front pages of all the local papers. It was a mindless, cold-blooded attack. She read on. It sounded as though it was outside the second-hand clothes shop she frequented. She knew the supermarket well, too, as it had a wonderful selection of fruit and vegetables. She always bought dates, figs and other exotic indulgences from there whenever she was in the area. It was also uncomfortably close to where Hakim and his family lived. She hoped the Mirzas hadn’t been shopping there at the time. It was their nearest supermarket, and catered for those from the Middle East. She was glad not to be in the polishus this morning because she knew there would be pandemonium. The commissioner would be panicking, and the politicians would be shouting for immediate action in the face of the press coverage that was elevating the “Malmö Marksman” to mythical status.
The train sped over the Öresund Bridge before diving down into a tunnel below sea level and coming to a halt beneath Kastrup Airport. All the heavy luggage disappeared as the holidaymakers disgorged onto the platform. Danes returning from foreign climes took their place and the carriage filled up again. After her investigation was over she would treat herself to a holiday in the sun. Greece or Italy. Maybe she could persuade Lasse to come without Rebecka. Some hope. Of course, now s
he had a murder on her hands, it might go on for ages. At least Moberg would take more interest in the case now instead of bawling her out all the time because she couldn’t find the art thief. So much hinged on this trip to Copenhagen. She had taken a photo of Gabrielsson on her mobile phone to show to the staff at the restaurant he claimed he ate at. He certainly wasn’t acting like a man who had committed a particularly gruesome murder. And if he did have an alibi, then she didn’t know where to turn next.
Nyhavn was already quite busy with morning coffee drinkers. Overlooking the water, this had once been a rough quayside area with bars bursting with sailors, prostitutes and those looking for a wild time and a fight to finish off the evening. Now it was all smart restaurants and cafés. The old clientele had long been banished, and now the prosperous locals mingled with the tourists at the waterfront tables. Anita found the restaurant where Gabrielsson had supposedly dined. Outside were a couple of tourists drinking in the sights and sounds of a new Copenhagen day. At another table, a young businessman was engrossed in his financial paper. Anita sat down and waited to be served. She might as well have a relaxing coffee while she worked.
A girl came out to take Anita’s order. When she returned, Anita asked in Danish, ‘Were you working two nights ago?’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘No. I only do mornings. But Franco was.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘He’s due in about half an hour.’
Anita was on her second coffee when Franco turned up in a leather jacket over his waiter’s shirt and waistcoat. Her heart sank. He had Mediterranean good-looks accentuated with sexy stubble. If he was the one who had taken Gabrielsson’s eye, then she had no suspects left. The girl sent Franco out to see Anita as soon as he had taken his jacket off. He greeted her with a perfect set of white teeth. He would be wasted on Gabrielsson, Anita thought, as she forced herself to concentrate on the reason for her visit.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ he said in poor Danish.
‘I believe you were working here two nights ago,’ she replied in English. He grinned gratefully.
‘Yes.’
Anita took out her phone and brought up Stig Gabrielsson’s photo. ‘Was this man in that night?’
Franco screwed up his eyes. Then he nodded slowly. ‘Si. Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘He gave me a big tip! He seemed to like me.’ She could see why.
‘Do you know what time he left?’
Franco raised his hands dramatically. ‘It must be, oh, about eleven. Maybe after.’ Then he suddenly slapped the top of his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘He paid by card. We will have a record of the time on his bill.’
‘That was a waste of time. But the coffees were nice.’ Anita was describing her trip to Copenhagen to Nordlund, Hakim, Wallen and Eva Thulin. They were in one of the conference rooms. Nordlund was letting Anita chair the meeting. ‘The waiter identified Gabrielsson and the copy of the bill I have here,’ she said, waving a small piece of paper, ‘confirms that he paid for his meal at 11.17. What time do you estimate the murder took place, Eva?’
‘Now we reckon between ten thirty and midnight at the latest.’
‘Given that it would have taken him fifteen minutes to walk to the station then catch a train over the bridge, there’s no way he’d get to Serneholt’s before midnight. So, that rules him out, though I still think he may have a connection with the first two thefts. But I doubt he’d touch Saturday & Sunday with a bargepole, given how it has been acquired.’
‘Any sightings of the car that went to Serneholt’s?’
‘Nothing,’ said Wallen, who had been drafted in to help while Moberg and Westermark were trying unsuccessfully to bully a confession out of Nilsson. His lawyer had advised him not to answer any more of their questions and the interview had been terminated when Moberg lost his temper and had become threatening.
‘What can you tell us about the murder, Eva?’
‘Neatly done. The assailant got behind Serneholt. Probably kneeling on the other sofa. His throat was sliced right to left, which makes me think that the killer is left-handed. The blood traces on the inside of the frame indicate that the painting must have been cut out after the murder.’
‘Would the murderer be covered in blood?’ asked Wallen.
‘Not too much. Probably the left arm, but the assailant was behind his victim, so most of the blood went forwards and sideways.’
‘I was just thinking that there might be some in the murderer’s car, if he’d come in one.’
‘We’d better go over Gabrielsson’s car, just in case,’ said Anita. ‘OK, Hakim, any luck with Ingvar Serneholt’s background?’
Hakim got out a notebook and scrutinized his scribblings. ‘His family money came from his father, who was high up in the Swedish Match empire. They made a fortune in the days when people lit fires and smoked cigarettes.’
‘You mean when Henrik was young!’ laughed Anita. ‘Sorry, carry on.’
Hakim returned to his notes. ‘Serneholt’s father left his money to Ingvar. As an only child, he got the lot. He did work briefly as an accountant when his father was alive, but as soon as he died he left. He worked in an art auction house in Stockholm for about a year, then seems not to have worked since. Moved down to Malmö fifteen years ago. He’s appeared in the papers from time to time, usually in the gossip columns. A lot of lady friends. Went out with the actress Maria Broman for a couple of years. As for breaking the law, he has a couple of speeding fines and he was done for possession of cannabis in 1999. And he was once attacked in a club here in Malmö by a cuckolded husband. Serneholt had to go to hospital, but didn’t press charges.’
‘Well done, Hakim. Does the husband have a name?’
‘Ingelin. Victor Ingelin.’
‘When was it?’
‘Two years ago.’
‘Let’s check him out. We need to talk to Serneholt’s set. It might throw up some art world connections. Anything else?’
There was silence around the table. Then Nordlund spoke. ‘I suppose the key thing to ask is whether the murderer was after the painting and killed Serneholt because he was there, or whether the murderer was after Serneholt and wants us to think that he was killed for the painting.’
After the others left, Anita and Nordlund had a brief chat. She wanted his approval of her approach. The senior detective thought she was handling the situation well so far, but she would find it more testing the longer the investigation went on. And, as there were no immediate suspects, they could be in for a long haul.
‘Do you think the Ekman and Olofsson case will be wound up soon?’ asked Anita, partly out of curiosity and partly because she wanted Westermark out of the way for as long as possible.
‘The chief inspector seems convinced that Nilsson is the perpetrator.’
‘But what do you think?’
‘All the evidence that we have points in his direction.’
Anita picked up the reticence in his voice. ‘But?’
Nordlund composed his thoughts before he spoke. ‘It’s the way that the two men were killed that intrigues me. The first was very clever and well thought out. Where he got the idea from I haven’t a clue. But the Olofsson murder – why bash him over the head and then make it look like suicide when the killer must have known that it would take us five minutes to realize it wasn’t? Very different MOs.’
‘Except they both involved gassing of some sort.’
‘Exactly. Very German. The chief inspector even thinks that Zyklon B may have been used. To me the killer is being very deliberate, giving us a message. Or sending someone else a message.’
‘That echoes my thoughts when I first came across Olofsson’s body.’
‘If it’s not Nilsson, have we got a mad neo-Nazi running around?’ Nordlund wondered.
‘With the “Malmö Marksman” picking off immigrants, that’s the last thing we need.’
Nordlund pulled a face in agreement. ‘Anyhow, must get on. Oh, just one other thing
. You’ve been in Martin Olofsson’s house?’
‘Yes. Spoke to his wife.’
‘There weren’t any paintings or images of Gustav Adolf anywhere?’
‘Not that I remember. Why?’
Nordlund shook his head. ‘It’s nothing.’
It was lunchtime, and Anita was alone in her office, checking through Serneholt’s police record to see if anything jumped out at her. She scooped the last of her Turkish yogurt from the pot as she stared at the screen. There wasn’t anything. The door opened and she assumed it was Hakim coming back with something to eat. But it was Karl Westermark standing in front of her.
‘You’ve got your own little murder now, Anita. Well, Nordlund has.’
Anita ignored him. She dropped the yogurt pot in the bin.
‘Getting anywhere?’
She had to look at him to answer. ‘Ask Henrik Nordlund. As you say, he’s in charge.’
‘No need to be like that. I’m just being friendly.’
‘I’d have thought you’d be too busy cracking your case to bother coming in here.’
Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Page 18
