Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries)

by MacLeod, Torquil

  ‘Douglas, the youngest, had a son called John, who was born in 1960. I phoned the Register Office and they have a record of a John Douglas Calthwaite Ridley marrying in Carlisle in 1984. The Church of Scotland on Chapel Street. His bride was a Vanessa Janette Johnson. The thing is, John’s Carol’s first cousin and there’s only a year between them in age. I thought, if we can find him, maybe we can find her.’

  ‘That’s where we can take over. I’ll get onto headquarters.’ Ash was about to whip out his phone when Jennifer Todd held up her hand with a broad grin on her face.

  ‘No need. John’s names helped. He was obviously named Douglas after his dead uncle, but it was Calthwaite that was unusual. Probably a family name going way back. Anyway, I put John Douglas Calthwaite Ridley in a couple of search engines and came up with a match. An obituary.’

  ‘That’s no fuc...bloody use,’ cursed Ash, quickly correcting his oath.

  Jennifer was still smiling. ‘The obituary was from two years ago. It was in the Worcester Evening News.’

  Anita clapped her hands. ‘Well done, Jennifer!’

  ‘So why did Graeme go down to Worcester if John was dead?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? He went to see the widow. Vanessa Ridley.’

  The sun was shining when Fraser emerged from the main entrance of the school. He was glad to be out. The listening lesson hadn’t gone well. The students hadn’t listened. He wandered over to the centre of Kungsgatan, the long, tree-lined pedestrian avenue that swept up to St. Pauli Kyrka and beyond. Curling, brown leaves were fluttering down and another autumn was imperceptibly taking hold of the urban landscape. The weak sun still had some warmth in it, and Fraser plonked himself down on a bench next to a green lamppost, and closed his eyes. He was grateful that he hadn’t ended up further north. Swedish winters could be unrelentingly severe on both body and soul but were easier to cope with in Skåne. Often the season was no worse in Malmö than he’d experienced growing up in Glasgow. It just seemed to go on longer and sometimes seemed to skip spring altogether before jumping straight into summer.

  ‘Can I join you?’

  Fraser glanced up. He didn’t bother suppressing a heavy sigh. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Another chat.’ Westermark sat uncomfortably close. Fraser shifted along the bench. Westermark was pleased with himself. Sydsvenskan had run a short but prominent piece on the Greta Jansson murder and had alluded to a romantic connection to an unnamed professor from Uppsala. The other papers would soon be on the trail, and he knew that they would be camped outside Anita Sundström’s apartment. Of course, Moberg had gone berserk when he saw the article, claiming that he would castrate the person responsible. The chief inspector might well suspect him of the leak but he wouldn’t be able to prove it. For Westermark it was a win-win situation. The spotlight was on Anita’s ex-husband – that would put pressure on the professor and embarrass Anita. And his tip-off to the attractive reporter at Sydsvenskan would be worth a quid pro quo shag.

  ‘Last time we spoke, you said you fancied Greta Jansson.’

  ‘No. You said that.’ Fraser couldn’t control his temper. He wondered if Anita Sundström had said something to this sleazy cop. It had been indiscreet to mention that he had asked Greta out on a date.

  ‘Touchy, aren’t you? Anyway, the day she left the school for the last time was Friday, September 28th. Do you remember what you were doing that night?’

  Fraser tried to calm himself. ‘Not specifically.’

  ‘It was only just over a fortnight ago.’ Westermark managed to inject a dollop of disbelief into his voice.

  ‘Most Friday nights I have a drink with colleagues after work. Then I usually end up at my local, The Pickwick.’

  ‘You English are obsessed with pubs.’

  ‘I’m Scottish.’ This guy was really winding him up.

  Now Westermark knew why he didn’t like this man. Another bloody Ewan Strachan.

  ‘Did you go anywhere near Lilla Torg that night?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ barked Westermark.

  Fraser looked startled. ‘Well... I think—’

  ‘You were in Mello Yello early that evening.’

  ‘I can’t rem—’

  ‘We’ve got you on CCTV. Six twenty-two.’

  With a flicker of panic in his eyes, Fraser backtracked. ‘Yes, of course. I was going to meet some pals there. But they didn’t turn up, so I went off to The Pickwick.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘I actually went home to get something to eat first. Then on to the pub.’

  ‘How long were you in The Pickwick?’

  ‘I don’t know. Until about ten.’

  ‘I’ll double-check.’

  Fraser shifted on the bench. The wooden struts were biting into his backside. ‘What’s the big deal about Lilla Torg?’

  ‘That’s where Greta went to meet a friend. We think she may have met her killer there. You weren’t following her, were you?’

  ‘Of course not. Look, I don’t know what crazy thoughts you’re conjuring up, but I didn’t kill her. I don’t know why you’re harassing me – there were plenty of people who fancied her.’

  Westermark’s eyes glinted. ‘Like who, for instance?’

  Fraser tapped his feet nervously on the ground, scuffing away some fallen leaves as he did so. He was already regretting his impetuosity.

  ‘Just spit it out.’

  ‘Andreas. Andreas Holm; my head of department... he liked Greta.’

  By the time they reached the Thelwall Viaduct south of Manchester, the M6 traffic had grown heavier, and Ash was forced to reduce his speed. For this, Anita was thankful. Britain had too many huge trucks, too many fast cars and too many bad drivers. It was a combination that had her wistfully thinking how calm Swedish roads were. There, she felt safe. Here, it was like the dodgems. And Ash’s erratic driving wasn’t helping.

  The decision to head off to Worcester had been taken quickly. A call to directory enquiries had produced a number for Vanessa Ridley, and Ash had managed to catch her before she left for the shops. She gave him her address. Fort Royal Hill. Ash had estimated that he could do the trip in four hours. They would be at Ridley’s house by half past two. They had high hopes that this was the lead they were after, especially as Ridley confirmed that she had been visited by Graeme Todd in the summer. Before they left, Anita had pressed Jennifer Todd to see if she could remember any other trips that her husband had made after his visit to Worcester. Nothing had come to mind until they were getting into the car. She had come rushing out of the house. There had been one. In late August. Graeme had gone across to the North East for the day, but she didn’t know exactly where.

  Ash was muttering as the car was reduced to a crawl. ‘They’re always having accidents along this stretch. It’ll be just our luck.’

  Anita’s mobile started to vibrate in her pocket. She took it out with some dread. After leaving Fellbeck, her phone had come to life as soon as they neared Penrith and the motorway. There had been five missed calls from Björn. She just didn’t want the hassle. It was still ringing in her hand.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’

  It was Björn again. Reluctantly, she answered. It seemed to be the only way to get rid of him. ‘What do you want, Björn?’ she said wearily.

  ‘The fucking press!’ he shouted at the other end. ‘There are masses of reporters outside your door.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Reporters. I tried to go out and they started bombarding me with questions. I rushed back in. When Lasse went out, they did the same to him. But he managed to run off.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Some shit has tipped them off. It was in Sydsvenskan this morning. Didn’t name me as such, but hinted. Someone has told them where I’m staying. Must be one of your lot. Only they knew where I was going to be.’

  ‘No. Can’t be.’ Then she fell silent. Of course it could. She knew exactl
y who would play that sort of trick.

  ‘And the police think I did it.’

  ‘Did they say so?’

  ‘They didn’t have to. What am I going to do?’

  Anita was fed up. Why should she have to sort out Björn’s mess? He had used her and lied to her. She was tempted just to let him wallow in his own muck, but it would affect Lasse – and probably her if Westermark was behind this.

  ‘Does Inspector Nordlund want to see you again?’

  ‘Yes, I’m due at the polishus at three.’

  ‘Right. There’s a back door to the apartment block. You can make your way onto Kronborgsvägen. After your interview, book into some quiet hotel and keep your head down.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to fucking do!’ he said angrily.

  Anita snapped her mobile shut, cutting Björn off. She, too, was furious. Ungrateful bastard. A few moments later, the mobile rang again. Anita switched it off.

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Long story.’

  The traffic was now bumper to bumper. Ash waved at the serried ranks of vehicles ahead. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’

  ‘Tell me about Andreas Holm.’

  Fraser had regretted it the moment he had mentioned his colleague’s name. He had panicked. This bloody detective had put him on the back foot. He was pushing and needling him, and he needed to divert his attention. But it was true. Andreas Holm did pay too much attention to Greta. Now that he had blurted out his name, he was unsure about how much he should reveal to Westermark.

  ‘Holm appointed Greta.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he tends to appoint young, attractive women if he can. I slipped through the net.’

  His joke didn’t wash with Westermark. ‘But presumably there’s more to it?’

  Fraser was paying more attention to his shoes than to his questioner. He found Westermark’s unrelenting stare difficult to match. ‘He’s a bit creepy around some of the female staff. I could tell Greta was uncomfortable.’

  ‘How old is he? Married?’

  ‘Late thirties. Yes, he’s married, but I’ve never met his wife.’

  ‘Other than being a creep, what makes you think he might have gone that bit further with Greta?’

  Fraser fidgeted with his hair. ‘There were rumours.’

  ‘What rumours?’

  ‘Before he came to Malmö, he worked up north. Not sure where. But I heard that something happened at the school he was working at. Don’t know the details. Don’t even know if it’s true. But apparently he left under a cloud.’

  ‘Fiddling with kids?’

  ‘No, nothing to do with the students. He’s not like that. It was a female member of staff.’

  ‘So, you can see he’s in a bit of a fix.’ Anita summed up her edited explanation of how Björn had come to be a suspect in the Greta Jansson murder.

  ‘Bit awkward for you, Inspector.’ Ash sympathised.

  The traffic had cleared and Ash had cranked up the speed. They weren’t far north of Birmingham now. He reckoned they would be in Worcester in an hour. Anita gazed out of the window. The landscape had flattened out. She marvelled at how green everything was. Autumn wasn’t as far advanced here as in Cumbria.

  ‘So how long ago did you split from Björn?’

  ‘I left him in 2000. It was my Millennium present to myself.’

  Ash laughed. ‘And I take it from what you’ve told me, it was his interest in young female students that was the problem.’

  ‘Not for him. I know you British think that Sweden is obsessed with sex and is the home of the open marriage and all that, but that isn’t my style. Björn’s, yes. Mine, no.’

  ‘Funnily enough, not mine either.’

  Anita gave him a sceptical glance. Ash grinned again. She had come across too many randy cops in her time; Karl Westermark being top of the list. She had seen too many police marriages hit the rocks. Long hours away from home. Colleagues thrown together. These things happened.

  ‘Like your Björn, my Leanne had a penchant... that’s the word, isn’t it? She had a penchant for policemen of a higher rank than her husband. And there were a lot of them. She didn’t think I was ambitious enough. She wanted to mix with a better sort of cop. Go to those fancy dos where the bigwigs hang out. I think you’d call her an “aspirer”. Bloody Thatcher produced a nation of those, and we’re living with the consequences now. Self-interest everywhere.’

  Ash paused, as if to collect his thoughts.

  ‘Good looking, Leanne. So she had plenty of takers. I loved her enough to turn a blind eye for a while. Persuaded myself that it wasn’t really happening. Except, as a policeman, your instincts never stop working. I knew what was going on, but wouldn’t accept the truth. Until one of them started to boast about it. You know what cop shops are like for gossip. Whispers behind your back. Sniggers when you walk into a room. It made the job untenable.’ He started to drive even faster, and Anita watched the twitching speedometer with alarm.

  ‘So, I applied for a transfer. Leanne wouldn’t come with me, so we divorced.’

  ‘Did she end up with this man?’

  ‘Roller? No, he was married. Dumped her when he thought it might cause him a problem. Probably was told to stop the affair because it might harm his chances of getting to the top.’

  ‘“Roller” is a strange name.’

  ‘Ah, that’s his nickname. He’s called Royce Weatherley. Rolls Royce. We call the car a “Roller”. It’s probably a British thing. We’re big on nicknames.’

  The car slowed down to a manageable 80mph.

  ‘Is he still on the force?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s the bloody Deputy Chief Constable of Northumbria Police.’ The car speeded up again.

  Anita thought she had better change the subject quickly.

  ‘You’re not from the North, so what brought you up?’

  ‘Leanne. She’s from Wallsend.’ The new tack hadn’t seemed to work, but he did slow down a touch. ‘Met her on holiday in Majorca. Free and single. I’m an Essex boy. Born and bred in Braintree. Great little town. My kid sister, Sarah, still lives there. Her husband Calum’s a Jock but he seems to love it there, too. I was on the Essex force. Our holiday romance turned into marriage, but she never settled down south, so when Abigail was one, I got a transfer to Northumbria Police. Of course, they think that anybody who comes from south of Middlesbrough is a Cockney. So that became my nickname. They’ve no idea of geography. Mind you, they’re friendly enough people, but I never really fitted in. The accent didn’t help. Always an outsider.’ Anita could sympathize. She wasn’t a true Scanian like most of her colleagues. Her accent was different too. ‘Then Roller came along.’

  Again, the speedometer began to climb.

  ‘Interesting that Jennifer said that Graeme went to the North East. I wonder why?’

  This had the desired effect. Ash manoeuvred back into the middle lane.

  ‘I was wondering that. First Worcester, then across the Pennines. He was certainly following a trail. I only hope Vanessa Ridley can supply an answer, otherwise our trail is going to go cold.’

  CHAPTER 30

  Moberg wanted an update on both the Graeme Todd and Greta Jansson cases. More importantly, he didn’t want to go home. His wife was now refusing to cook him meals. In one way, it was a godsend, as her culinary skills weren’t the reason he’d married her. However, it was inconvenient, as he had to buy a meal for himself on the way home. And, once through the front door, her silence was more maddening than her constant nagging had been. If he could have afforded it, the divorce would already have been under way. He dismissed from his mind the decision whether to call in at the China Box or pick up a pizza, and concentrated on the two matters in hand.

  Round the table in the middle of the meeting room – now turned into the nerve centre of the two investigations – were gathered Nordlund, Westermark, Wallen, Hakim and forensic technician, Eva Thulin. Another young detective, called Mjallby, had been brought
into help. On both of the walls running between the door and the window were whiteboards, on which there was a plethora of names and photographs. The images of the two victims featured prominently – two bodies; the only obvious connection between them was the sea into which they had been unceremoniously dumped.

  ‘Let’s begin with Graeme Todd. Wallen, in Sundström’s absence, you can fill us in.’

  A nervous Wallen cleared her throat. Moberg was so intimidating that she had hidden in the ladies’ toilet until the last minute. She always felt better when Anita was by her side. She could stand up to the chief inspector if the going got tough.

  ‘I spoke to Anita an hour ago. She was on her way to some town that’s impossible to pronounce.’ She wrote WORCESTER on the whiteboard.

  Moberg glanced enquiringly around the table. No one else knew where it was either.

  ‘She and the English detective have discovered who, in theory, would be the beneficiary of the will. The only problem is that no one seems to know where the woman is.’

  ‘So why is she going to this place?’

  ‘She hopes to talk to someone who is connected to the family.’ She stared down at the notes she had taken from her brief conversation with Anita. ‘Anita was going to see a cousin’s wife. The woman is called Ridley. Apparently, Todd did the same.’

  ‘Does she think it’s promising?’

  Wallen gave a little cough. ‘She hopes so. If not, then she’s not sure what they’ll do next.’

  ‘She’d better find something to justify the fucking flight and expenses. The commissioner was giving us earache about budgets only yesterday. How are we meant to do our job?’ Moberg was beginning to redden. It was a danger signal they all recognized. ‘Right, anything at this end?’

  Wallen shook her head. ‘Not really. I’ve talked to the Ystad police and they’re asking around. I’ve revisited the places we know Todd went to on the day he disappeared, but nothing new has emerged. There’s no CCTV covering the place in the square where we think Todd was picked up. Or at least was seen waiting to be picked up.’

  Moberg waved a gorilla-like hand in Nordlund’s direction. ‘Henrik, please have some better news.’