CHAPTER 5
‘You’re sure you haven’t seen this man?’
The hotel receptionist screwed up her eyes to show that she really was concentrating. She shook her head again. Anita was showing her a photo that Jennifer Todd had emailed to her. Graeme Todd was a man of about sixty, with dark brown hair, thinning at the front. It was obviously dyed – the colour was uniform. Why did men of a certain age dye their hair? Anita wondered. It made their faces look older, their features more severe. Todd’s eyebrows were thick and his chin had fashionably short stubble. He had a mole close to his right nostril. The eyes were brown and piercing. Not a flicker of a smile. The man staring out from the A4 sheet of paper was confident, and probably a little vain. That was Anita’s interpretation anyway. She could be miles off the mark, though she had learned to make snap judgements about people over the years. Often she had been right.
‘And no one named Todd has checked in in the last few days?’
Again there was an apologetic shake of the head.
Anita was following up the call she had made to the hotel last night. It always paid to double-check. Maybe Todd’s wife had just got the wrong place.
‘Were you full on Monday night?’
‘No,’ the receptionist answered emphatically. ‘We only had half occupancy on Monday. And Tuesday.’
Anita thanked her. She left the hotel and shoved the picture of Graeme Todd into her bag. Maybe he was running away from his wife. Sweden was an excuse to leave and he had gone elsewhere. Her instinct was that he would turn up soon. She had Hakim checking incoming flights to Kastrup Airport. At least that would show that he had made it as far as Copenhagen. Standing on the pavement outside the hotel, she remembered how she had gone to see Ewan Strachan the day after the body of Roslyn’s wife was found. The journalist had been eating his breakfast. It was their second conversation. Now he dominated her thoughts in a way that a lover does. She took out her tin of snus, picked out a little sachet of tobacco and planted it under her top lip. If she couldn’t smoke, this was the next best thing to calm her down. And a visit to Ewan always caused her some anxiety.
Anita was standing outside Malmö Kirseberg prison when her mobile phone burst into life.
‘Anita Sundström.’
‘Hakim here.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Yes. A Graeme Laurence Todd arrived at Kastrup on an Easyjet flight from Manchester last Monday, October 1st. The plane landed at 13.45.’
‘OK. That’s fine. I’ll think we’ll forget about it until Monday. He’ll probably have surfaced by then. Have a good weekend.’
‘Aren’t you coming back?’
‘No. Something’s come up that I need to attend to.’
‘Need any help?’ She wished she could sound so enthusiastic these days.
‘It’s all right, Hakim. This is something I need to do myself.’
Anita tramped along the same corridors each time she visited Ewan Strachan. They always met in the same room. She always used the same excuse. It was “police business”. Ostensibly, she was still trying to find out if he had also killed his student lover, after Mick Roslyn had stolen her from him and then cast her aside. She knew the answer. Ewan had admitted pushing the girl off the cathedral tower in Durham back in his days at the university. She hadn’t mentioned it to the authorities, as he was going to be charged with the murder of Mick Roslyn anyway. That had plagued her conscience and she hadn’t really known why she’d done it until, after a certain amount of drink-fuelled analysis, she had admitted to herself that she wanted him to stay in Sweden. She hadn’t gone to the jail for several months. She knew it would be a futile exercise. She was in love with – and was loved by – a man who would spend the next twenty years of his life in prison. And he deserved to be there, which made her feelings even more contradictory, more confused and more tormented. She had tried to put an end to it by just not going any more. But then she went back. Not that Ewan was aware of this internal conflict between head and heart. She never articulated her feelings toward him. He was just grateful to see her and spend a few minutes in her company, for the visits were always short. Yet she could confide in him about her problems in a way that she had never been able to with Bjorn, and told him things she would never tell another living soul. Not even her few close friends. Ewan would listen, he would understand and he would often quietly advise. Then he would make her laugh. No one else could still make her smile, even when her world was at its most wretched. Yet the whole situation was preposterous – what a paradox! She was a cop. He was a murderer. A double one. And yet she still waited in the sparse, windowless room, with its battered plastic table and three uncomfortable chairs, in a state of nervous anticipation for the man who was publicly persona non grata, but who dominated her thoughts.
Ewan didn’t look well. She hadn’t seen him for nearly three months and the change was marked. He was even gaunter than he had been on her last visit. The shaved head didn’t help. The plump cheeks, the red hair and the mischievous, twinkling eyes that had been part of the man that she had surprisingly fallen for were now all gone. Though he did manage a smile, Anita couldn’t disguise her shock at his condition.
‘Christ, do I look that bad?’ This was accompanied by his customary smirk.
‘No. It’s just that you’re so thin. Aren’t you eating properly?’ She had reverted to her maternal default setting.
He played with his hands in a distracted manner. She could sense that there was something wrong.
‘What’s up?’
Ewan glanced up at her. ‘You haven’t been for a while.’ The tone was matter-of-fact and not admonishing. He was changing the subject.
‘Been busy. And now Lasse’s at home all the time, I have my hands full.’
‘It must be good. I mean having Lasse around.’
She sighed and pulled her snus tin out of her bag. ‘He’s driving me mad at the moment. I don’t know what to do with him.’ She went on to explain why he was causing her so much angst. Ewan listened, as he always did.
‘He’ll come good,’ he said when she had finished. ‘Give him time. Space.’
They fell silent.
‘You know, Anita. You’re the only visitor I’ve had in a year and a half. Except for the suited half-wit who calls himself the British Consul. He came a couple months ago to make sure I was being treated properly – probably thinks he’s upholding the Geneva Convention, or something. I don’t think he can wait for me to drop dead or be transferred.’
‘Do you want to go to a British prison? Maybe near your brother?’
Ewan raised a laugh. ‘You’re kidding. He’s a respectable lawyer. He only deals with genteel crime. Fraudsters, insider traders... not with your common-or-garden murderers. He’s washed his hands of me.’ He paused. ‘Besides, you’re here.’
An awkward stillness pervaded the dismal room. Their eyes engaged. She wanted to say so much to him, but the words stuck in her throat. She was afraid.
‘I love you.’
Anita was exhilarated and embarrassed at the same time. It wasn’t the first time that he had said it to her. She had never told Ewan that she loved him, even though she yearned to. It was a psychological barrier she couldn’t overcome. It seemed like an eternity before she said, ‘I know.’
Now it was her turn to change the subject. ‘I can see that something’s troubling you. Tell me.’
Thoughtfully, he ran his hand over the top of his shaven head.
‘Nothing really.’ Then he sat up in his chair. Was he going to tell her?
She didn’t find out because her mobile suddenly started ringing. She pulled an apologetic face as she took out her phone and saw who it was. ‘Lasse,’ she mouthed.
‘Hi. What’s up?’
‘Mamma. You’d better come home.’
‘Is it important?’
‘It’s Dad. He’s here!’
CHAPTER 6
As soon as she let herself into the apartment, the tall figure
of Lasse was there to greet her.
‘What is it?’ she said with concern. As Lasse hadn’t been forthcoming over the phone, she had dreamt up all sorts of awful scenarios on the drive back from the prison. ‘What’s he done now?’ It was an instinctive reaction. What on earth had brought Bjorn down from Uppsala?
Lasse nodded his blond head in the direction of the kitchen.
‘He’s in there.’ Then he raised a disapproving eyebrow. ‘He’s pissed.’
Anita was not at all happy to have been dragged away from Ewan just to have to cope with her wretched ex-husband. And a drunken ex-husband at that. Lasse’s call had put her into a panic and she had left Ewan hurriedly. Not even a proper goodbye, just a hurried ‘see you sometime’. Her last image of Ewan was of resigned disappointment on his face.
Björn Sundström was slumped on one of the two chairs in the small kitchen. He had obviously brought a bottle of red wine as a peace offering. It stood in front of him half-empty, a thimbleful left in the bottom of his glass. That didn’t improve her mood. He looked up at her. He must have been drinking all day. His eyes were glassy, trying to focus on her. It was a strange sight. Despite the fact that Björn had always been a party animal – they had first met when she arrested him after a rowdy gathering – he had usually been able to hold his drink. He liked to be in control. He had put a bit of weight on since she had last seen him three years previously when she had gone to his mother’s funeral in Örebro. She had always got on with her mother-in-law, even after the divorce, and had kept in touch for Lasse’s sake. Björn’s handsome face, that had so captivated her when young, had become jowly. The blond mane that used to be just long enough for him to casually flick over his ears for effect was now cut shorter. It didn’t suit him, as it accentuated how thin his hair was becoming. There was a pin-cushion of fair stubble, like a newly harvested corn field, around his chin. Again, this wasn’t like the old Björn, who had always been clean-shaven. He still wore his regulation black attire – trousers, t-shirt and jacket – though it seemed he hadn’t changed them recently, judging by their crumpled state. An impish Irish acquaintance had once described Björn, with his mop of blond hair and all-black clothing, as looking like a pint of Guinness. It had amused Anita – Björn had taken offence. He hadn’t taken himself so seriously when they were first married, but as he climbed academe’s greasy pole he had become more vainglorious and egocentric. Björn had been able to make her laugh in the early years of their marriage. Later, he had been better at making her cry.
‘I know I should have waited for you,’ Björn said with a wave of his hand in the direction of the bottle.
She walked over to a cupboard, took out a glass and put it on the table. She poured herself some wine. She didn’t offer to top up his.
‘I don’t usually have a drink at four in the afternoon,’ she said, ‘but this is Friday.’
He took the bottle and poured himself a glass before thumping it back down on the table. It was empty.
‘Have you come to spend some quality time with your son?’
For a moment, Björn gazed at her blankly before he took in what she had said.
‘Ah, sarcasm. I blame the years you spent in England for that. They love their fucking sarcasm and irony.’
‘You should know. You’ve taught their literature for long enough.’
‘So I have. And brilliantly, I may say.’
He took a slurp of wine before running his jacket cuff across his mouth.
‘So, if you’re not here to see your son, why have I the dubious pleasure of your company?’
Björn straightened up. He held out his hands in an expansive gesture.
‘To see my beautiful ex-wife.’
‘Very ex-wife.’
‘But you are beautiful. Still,’ he added as an unnecessary caveat.
‘Crap. What do you want?’
Björn picked up his glass and clutched it in both hands, as if it may try to escape him. Then he spoke in English.
‘All love at first, like generous wine,
Ferments and frets until ’tis fine;
But when ’tis settled on the lee,
And from th’ impurer matter free,
Becomes the richer still the older,
And proves the pleasanter the colder.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re on about,’ Anita said in exasperation.
He cocked his head and looked at her with a squint. ‘I think Samuel Butler got that wrong. When love goes cold, there’s nothing more unpleasant. But he got one thing right... The souls of women are so small, that some believe they’ve none at all.’
Anita couldn’t suppress the annoyed sigh. ‘A bloody woman. It’s always a bloody woman!’
‘But she’s special.’
‘Aren’t they always until you betray them? Remember, I’ve been there.’
He put his glass down on the table, spilling some wine in the process. ‘She’s disappeared.’
Anita suddenly burst out laughing.
‘She’s dumped you! At last, a sensible woman!’
‘You don’t understand. Greta’s vanished.’
‘So, what’s that to do with me?’
He slid his right hand across the table and earnestly grabbed Anita’s wrist.
‘I want you to find her.’ She pulled her hand free. ‘Anita, I’m begging you.’ And then he began to weep.
He had parked his car near the bridge at the bottom of the hill. The night was windy. It whipped the clouds across the sky, allowing the moon to appear only fleetingly. But it was enough to light his way. At least it wasn’t raining. And it usually rained in Cumbria in his experience. He crossed the bridge and climbed up the steep incline that led into the village. He knew where the house was that he was going to break into. The instructions had been very specific. He had no choice in the matter. The threat had been specific, too. It would have been easier to park in the village, but he didn’t want the risk of someone waking in the middle of night and spotting his car. The bank up from the bridge was almost vertical, and he was soon out of breath. Not getting any younger, he thought. It was madness to be here in the first place, but the consequences would be dire if he didn’t go through with it.
As he passed the first houses, he was relieved that there was no sign of life in any of them. At three o’clock on a Saturday morning, he reckoned that late-night revellers would have gone to bed and it would be too early for farmers to be out and about.
At the top of the bank, the village opened out, with a green running up the middle, on either side of which ancient cottages clutched each other, as if trying to keep warm in the chill air. At the other end of the green, he could just make out a vast tree, imperious in its solitude. Even from this distance, he could hear the leaves rustling eerily in the wind. Some were being prematurely ripped off their branches by the gusts. In a month they would all be gone. To his right was the chapel, and on the left, the village pub. He had clocked the landmarks on his drive through yesterday afternoon. He had needed to get his bearings. The house he had been sent to was behind him. Like many of the buildings in the village, it was 18th-century. It was large and sturdy and may well have been a farmhouse in a previous life. An owl hooted; it was so close that it made him start. There was no sign of life at the front of the house. He knew the only occupant slept on this side. His goal was the office at the back, overlooking the garden. He quietly retraced his steps. Right on cue, the moon made another brief appearance. It was out long enough for him to make out the gleam of the wrought-iron garden gate. He had been given very precise information about where to get in. How he got in was up to him. Once inside, he knew where to go. Through the small hallway and the kitchen, along the corridor, and the office was at the end. He wouldn’t have to waste precious time trying to find what he had been sent to get. He had been told exactly where it was located.
He carefully stepped along the stone path through the garden. Only when he reached the back door, did he dare turn on his tor
ch. The door was half-glazed with six clear panes. He knew it would be. This was the risky bit – breaking the glass. It might disturb the occupant, or possibly some light sleeper in the house next door. He nudged the pane closest to the handle. To no effect. He was being too pussy-footed. This time he gave it a juddering blow with his elbow. It smashed, and the cacophony made his heart leap painfully. It seemed as if the shattered glass was hitting the stone-flagged floor inside the house in slow motion. Fortunately, he was just calm enough to realise that the wind would muffle the sound. He waited for a few moments to hear if he had disturbed anyone. Nothing. He took a deep breath and gingerly poked his hand through the broken pane and flicked the latch. He was in.
CHAPTER 7
Anita let Björn lie in. She had managed to steer him onto the opened-out day bed in the living room the night before. He had made a cursory effort to seduce her by cupping a breast in his hand. She had easily evaded any other attempt. With Björn it didn’t actually mean anything – it was just a reflex action. There was one wistful moment when she saw him curled up on the sofa and remembered how wonderful their sex lives had been. Even when things had started to go wrong, the sex had been good right up to the end. Anita left him to go out for a run round Pildammsparken. It was her way of letting off steam or giving herself time to think.
She ran through the trees that lined the path and into the park. At the end was the area called “The Plate”, a large, circular, grassy space surrounded by tall beeches, clipped to form an imposing boundary. It was one of the city’s most popular destinations. At midsummer it was full of picnickers listening to live entertainment. Anita’s normal routine was to run three circuits of “The Plate”, but this time she veered off and headed to the lake on the other side of the park. She skipped up the bank and stopped at the top. She surveyed the calm water, which was glinting in the weak sun. A middle-aged woman was feeding the geese, who were noisily gobbling up the bread thrown in their direction. Anita suddenly felt tired and looked for an empty bench. She found one with a view of the old water tower, its conical roof looking like a wizard’s hat, on the other side of the lake.
Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Page 3