‘Shall we get that?’
Anita spun round and saw Jennifer Todd with a small trolley, which was nearly full.
‘No, I’ll buy it. Maybe we could have some later.’
‘Just put it in the trolley. It’s my treat. Besides, you look as though you might need a glass or two.’
‘Do I look that bad? Must admit, I’ve had a sleepless night. But that’s a long story.’
Jennifer took the bottle and placed it in the trolley.
‘I know what will buck us both up. We’ll pop over the road to Booths and have a cup of tea.’ Anita smiled. The British answer to every crisis. It was coffee in Sweden.
They were soon ensconced in a window seat in the Booths restaurant, with a large pot of tea. It was on the first floor above the shop. Jennifer Todd had explained that, despite its modest size, Penrith had an inordinate number of supermarkets. Through the full-length window, Anita could see virtually the whole town, and the Pennines stretching away to the far distance. The view lifted her spirits.
‘Graeme used to call this our Café Nervosa,’ said Jennifer Todd as she poured tea into the two cups. For a moment, Anita thought Jennifer might start crying, but she brought any emotion under control.
The reference escaped Anita.
‘Café Nervosa. It’s in Frasier. The American comedy. It’s where Frasier and Niles go.’
‘OK. We get that in Sweden too.’
Jennifer took a sip of tea and sighed. ‘That’s better.’ She replaced the cup on the saucer. ‘I expect you want to hear if I’ve made any progress.’
Anita nodded.
‘Well, I’ve hit our first two dead ends. Doris’s uncles – James Little’s older brothers – were just the right age to be involved in the Great War, so I thought it was worth pursuing that route. Both John and David initially joined the Border Regiment and, according to the National Archives and military records sites, neither made it through. John died at Ypres in 1915 and David two years later at Paschendale. David’s body was never found. Lost in the mud. Imagine losing two of your sons.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Anyhow, neither were married, so no children there. We need to know about the sister, Daisy, and whether Doris had any siblings. If she had, are there any offspring? They would be in line to inherit, as opposed to any obscure relatives going back through Doris’s grandparents.’
Anita glanced out of the window. ‘I expect we’re going to come across a lot of dead ends. If the London heir hunters couldn’t find anything, then we’re looking for a needle in a haystack, as you say over here.’
‘But Graeme found someone.’ There was a hint of pride in Jennifer Todd’s voice.
Anita’s gaze was fixed on a distant peak. ‘He did, didn’t he?’
‘Bloody Sundström was investigating this case before the fucking body even turned up.’ Westermark was furious. Nordlund sat passively while Moberg devoured a sandwich. ‘It’s bad enough that she went poking around Jansson’s apartment, but she’d also interviewed Fraser. Twice!’
‘We know that her ex-husband was worried about Jansson and thought she’d gone missing. He asked Anita for help,’ Nordlund explained calmly.
‘If he was so worried, why didn’t he come to us? That’s our job.’
‘You can ask him yourself soon. I spoke to him this morning and he’s coming down by train today.’
This didn’t seem to placate Westermark. ‘What else was Sundström up to? What did she find out?’ Then a thought struck him. ‘If the professor killed Jansson, maybe Sundström has been covering up for him. Wiped away the prints.’
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid!’ Bits of sandwich came flying out of Moberg’s mouth as an accompaniment to his howl of indignation. ‘She might be a pain in the arse, but she’s a straight cop.’ He turned to Nordlund. ‘Do you think she knows more than she’s told you?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. But I’ll speak to her again.’ This was to placate a simmering Westermark. He wanted co-operation, not confrontation, if this investigation was going to succeed.
Moberg seemed happy. ‘Right, Westermark, what about the teacher?’
‘I’m pretty sure he had the hots for her. I can tell.’
‘We bow to your experience,’ Moberg said sardonically. ‘Have you anything more than a bollock-based hunch?’
‘Not really’,’ he admitted. ‘But I would like to pull him in for a serious chat. Put a bit of pressure on him. There’s something not right about him.’
Moberg sighed. ‘Not yet. I think our priority is the professor. By the way, what’s he professor of?’
‘English literature,’ Nordlund replied.
‘No wonder he and Miss Aren’t-I-Brilliant-At-English teamed up. As soon as he steps off the train, I want him in here.’ Moberg grinned at Westermark. ‘Try rattling his cage.’
Ash arrived before twelve. Jennifer Todd went off into the kitchen to make him a cup of tea while he took a seat in her husband’s snug office. There was a battered, battle-grey filing cabinet, a tall bookcase with books and directories, a couple of small chests with drawers full of microfilm, and a computer on the desk. Above the computer were two wall shelves devoted to Todd’s large collection of maps.
‘Did you have any luck?’ Anita asked when Ash had made himself comfortable.
‘Yes and no.’
Ash dropped some pieces of paper on the table in front of the computer. The top one was a marriage certificate. Anita’s eye immediately went to James Little’s spouse, Doris’s mother. Florence May Oxley. Just then, Jennifer came in bearing a small tray with a mug of tea, and a plate of digestive biscuits.
‘My favourites!’ said Ash as he grabbed a biscuit off the plate before Jennifer had a chance to put it down. ‘Absolutely starving. Didn’t have time for breakfast.’
Jennifer placed the tray next to Ash as she glanced at the marriage certificate. ‘Oxley is a good name to work with; it’s not that common. But I see she doesn’t have any parents named on the certificate.’
‘Well, I hate to put a dampener on things, but I’ve also been on to the London probate research company, Lampard & Horne. They grudgingly gave me some info after I said this was to do with a murder investigation. They’re adamant that there were no leads from the maternal side. Florence Oxley had been born in a workhouse in 1899. Barrow-in-Furness; it’s at the tip of southern Cumbria,’ he said in reply to Anita’s enquiring look. ‘It was at 1, Rampside Road, if you’re interested. I didn’t think workhouses existed by then. Smacks of Charles Dickens.’
‘What’s a workhouse?’ asked Anita.
‘It was where the poor were shoved when they had nowhere else left to go,’ Jennifer explained. ‘They did unpaid work in return for food and accommodation. A lot of old people who couldn’t survive outside ended up there too. Grim places. They lasted until the 1920s or 30s. You know the guest house on the corner near the pub? That was originally built as a workhouse.’
‘You know, I’m learning so many new things on this case, you wouldn’t believe,’ said Ash with a wide grin. ‘Anyway, Florence Oxley’s origins are unknown. Father unknown. Mother probably staggered off to the workhouse to have her kid. It was definitely illegitimate. She died when Florence was still very young.’
He took a long swig of tea before dunking his second biscuit into the mug and chewing on the gooey result.
‘We’ve drawn a blank on James’ siblings. We know that the brothers died in the First World War. Jennifer’s phone call saved me looking for them. The sister Daisy died in 1904. Pneumonia. Only three days past her seventh birthday.’
Anita was beginning to get despondent.
But Jennifer said, ‘I know what would be useful! It’s something Graeme did when he was hunting for information. He talked to the neighbours. You could try and speak to people in Doris’s street. She hasn’t been dead that long. People will remember her. Unless she was a total recluse, you’ll get information. They tend to be pretty chatty in Carlisle.’
�
��I’ve just come from there!’ Ash groaned. ‘But you’re right, Mrs Todd, that’s the way to go.’ He suddenly brightened. ‘You want to come, Inspector?’
‘You might as well, Anita. Not much you can do to help me here.’
‘OK.’ She turned to Ash. ‘Didn’t you say you had some good news?’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ Ash said smugly. ‘Better news, anyway. Well, I think it is, though I don’t have a clue how it fits in. The Cumberland Building Society was very helpful. I’ve discovered where Graeme went on his mysterious trip in August. He must have paid for the train by cash, as he took out two hundred and fifty pounds from his business account at an ATM in Penrith on the morning of August 14th. He must have also used cash for wherever he was staying. Certainly didn’t use his debit or credit card. But he can’t have had enough for an evening meal, because then he used his plastic. On that Tuesday evening, he dined at an Indian restaurant.’
‘Typical,’ sniffed Jennifer. ‘I wouldn’t let him have curries. Not good for him.’
‘But where?’ Anita said in exasperation.
‘Oh, sorry. Worcester.’
‘Worcester?’
‘That’s right. It’s in the Midlands. Beyond Birmingham.’
‘The mysterious way Graeme was acting, I always assumed that his trip was something to do with the Doris Little case.’
Ash picked up his third digestive. ‘We’ve got to find out who he went to see... and why.’
CHAPTER 27
Björn Sundström paced around the interview room liked a caged animal. He hadn’t seen anyone for an hour since that rude blond detective waiting for him to alight from the train had dragged him to the polishus. He hadn’t even been offered a coffee. What had really hacked him off was the farce of him coming here of his own volition, though he knew he had no real choice. Anita had made that plain enough. The man Nordlund, who had phoned him, had sounded reasonable. So why this lack of action? And, on a practical level, where was he going to stay the night? He could bunk down at Anita’s, as she was out of the country. But he wasn’t sure what sort of reception he would receive from his son. He was conscious that he had made a fool of himself in front of Lasse. It pained him that he might have irreparably damaged their relationship. Maybe a hotel would be a better idea. He just wanted to get the interview over, and then he could go back to Uppsala and start putting his life back together. He now wished that he hadn’t singled out the pretty, little, blonde student in his English Romantic Poets group two years ago. The special attention he had shown her had led him to this frustrating and worrying impasse. What’s more, he didn’t like cops. Anita was the only one he had had any time for. After seeing her again, he now knew what a fool he had been to let her go; to freeze her out of what had been a great relationship. Too many younger temptations. Anita was still a fine-looking woman. And level-headed. She hadn’t been dazzled by his reputation, unlike so many of the others. He had had to make an effort with her. But she had been worth the chase. What a fucking idiot he was!
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ The tall, balding policeman spoke as he pushed the door open. When the blond one came in behind him, Björn’s heart sank.
‘I’m Inspector Henrik Nordlund and this is Inspector Karl Westermark.’
‘Unfortunately, I’ve already had the pleasure.’
‘Please sit down, Professor Sundström.’ Nordlund smiled. Westermark scowled.
Björn took a seat at the table. He readjusted his light linen jacket. It was a stupid choice to make as he had rushed off to the station that morning. It was too thin for this time of year. And this room wasn’t warm enough to stop him shivering. Westermark immediately took it as a sign that the professor was frightened. He didn’t intend to let him relax.
Nordlund sat opposite Björn, while Westermark, arms folded, leant against the closed door. No escape.
‘Thank you for coming down from Uppsala.’
Björn waved it away.
‘How long did you know Greta Jansson?’
‘She was in her second year when she came into my Romantic Poets group. That would be just over two years ago. She was a keen student.’
‘I bet she was,’ Westermark sneered.
‘She loved the English romantic poets. Shelly, Byron, Keats, Coleridge, Blake.’ Björn noticed Westermark pull a face. He beamed at the detective. ‘If you’re interested, I can recommend The Longman Anthology of Gothic Verse. It’s a good place to start.’
‘Don’t be so fucking funny.’
‘I prefer our own poets.’ Nordlund spoke quietly. ‘Gustaf Fröding.’
‘Ah, Fröding. Interesting choice. He studied at Uppsala. A lot to be said for him.’ Again Björn fixed Westermark with a mocking stare. ‘Fröding wasn’t very successful with women.’
‘And you fucking are, I suppose.’ Westermark was becoming belligerent. He was now standing next to the table, hovering over Björn.
‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.’
Björn was amazed at the ease with which he had got under Westermark’s skin. It would make him a less effective interviewer.
‘Karl, that’s enough,’ ordered Nordlund. Westermark retreated to the door and took up his former position. He would make this Sundström pay.
‘What was the basis of your relationship with Greta?’ Nordlund continued.
‘After a few months, we became lovers.’
‘It became a steady relationship?’
‘After time, yes.’
‘Was that ethical? Impressionable young student and older tutor.’
Björn shrugged. ‘It happens.’
‘So, you were very much a couple?’
‘Yes. We loved each other.’
Westermark shook his head. It was plain what he was thinking.
‘And were you still a couple when she came to Malmö?’
‘Of course.’ For the first time, Björn was on the defensive.
‘Only, one of Greta’s colleagues had the impression that she was escaping from someone.’ Westermark had regained control of himself and was back in the fray.
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘Yet her departure from Uppsala was quite abrupt, according to her friend Ulrika Lindén. I assume you know her from her Uppsala days?’
‘Yes. She was a good friend of Greta’s from university. And the reason Greta’s departure was so quick was because the teaching job in Malmö suddenly came up. Good opportunity for her. Foot on the ladder.’
‘Did you visit her after she moved here?’
Björn hesitated. ‘No.’
‘Isn’t that strange for a couple of lovers?’
Björn regained his composure. ‘I was very busy with a new term and Greta wanted time to settle into her new surroundings.’
‘Yet you’ve been to the apartment.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Your fucking fingerprints are all over it.’ Westermark knew that wasn’t entirely true, as certain areas of the apartment had been wiped clean of any prints. However, the comment had the right effect, and he was enjoying Björn’s growing discomfort. He now took a seat alongside Nordlund. Björn found his close proximity across the table intimidating.
‘Once. The weekend before last. I had a key. Let myself in. She wasn’t around. That’s why I approached Anita. Inspector Sundström. I thought something was up.’
‘And how did you get the key?’
‘Greta sent it to me.’
‘And was she expecting you that weekend?’
‘Well, no. It was a surprise visit.’ Björn began to weave tiny patterns on the table top with his fingertips.
‘So why did you think something was up?’ Nordlund sounded almost sympathetic.
Björn appeared to be studying his finger movements. Then he gave a nervous little cough. ‘The truth is that I hadn’t heard from her for a few days. That’s why I came down to Malmö.’
‘Maybe she didn’t want to hear from you.’ Björn just wanted to hit West
ermark.
‘I didn’t hear from her because she was dead.’
‘When was it you last actually spoke to Greta?’ The level, precise tone of Nordlund’s voice contrasted with Westermark’s aggressively acerbic outbursts.
‘I can’t remember. About a week or so before she disappeared.’
Nordlund gave Björn a half-smile. ‘We’ll have to take a look at your mobile phone.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘It may give us some useful information.’
‘I can’t see how.’
‘Just hand it over.’ Westermark thrust his hand across the table. Björn looked at it before slowly reaching into his pocket. He wavered for a moment before placing his mobile in Westermark’s outstretched palm. Westermark flashed an immaculate set of white teeth at Björn. The urge to belt him was almost unsuppressible.
‘There’s one other thing we need to clear up, Professor,’ Nordlund continued. ‘Where were you on the weekend of September 28th and 29th? It’s the weekend we believe Greta disappeared.’
Björn raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Uppsala.’
‘You can prove that?’
‘If I have to.’
‘Well, you may have to, because a man describing himself as Greta’s father turned up on the Saturday morning.’ Westermark glanced up at Nordlund as he was flicking though Björn’s mobile.
‘Her father’s dead,’ said Björn, bringing his gaze back to his inquisitors.
‘We know that. The neighbour met this man. In fact, she gave him a spare key.’
‘I don’t know who it was.’
‘Karl. Have you a camera on your phone?’ Westermark nodded. ‘Good. Can you take a picture of Professor Sundström and then go over to Greta’s apartment block and ask the neighbour if she recognises him.’
Westermark’s mouth creased into a sizeable grin. ‘Of course. Professor, would you be kind enough to pose for me? I want a really good likeness.’
Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Page 14