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

by MacLeod, Torquil

  Listening to the recording didn’t do anything to help get into Nordlund’s head. It was a typical Nordlund-Westermark interview. Nordlund quietly trying to get to the nub of the matter, while Westermark blustered, threatened and sneered in equal measure. Björn had held his own, but the more information he revealed, the more it seemed to confirm his guilt. The fact remained that he had lied to her right from the beginning, both about his relationship with Greta and his movements around the time that she disappeared.

  After another coffee and an over-ripe banana she found hiding at the bottom of the fruit bowl, she played the tape through again. And again she gleaned nothing, other than Björn appearing even more culpable. The only question that wasn’t answered satisfactorily was the anomaly of the fingerprints. However, she had seen Prosecutor Blom in action in court and she would put up a convincing argument as to why there seemed to be a discrepancy. The rest of the evidence seemed so overwhelming that the fingerprints might not even become an issue. They proved Björn had been in the apartment, which he had reluctantly admitted to. Whatever had worried Nordlund was more subtle, more imperceptible than Anita could discern in the clear-cut conversation of the recording. Maybe it was something that Nordlund had seen during the interview that had raised his doubts. She wouldn’t even bother to attempt to get anything out of Westermark, who wouldn’t make any effort to co-operate. And why should he? He had stolen the case – and the subsequent glory – from under Nordlund’s nose. And she didn’t want to approach Björn’s lawyer as that would immediately get back to Moberg and ructions would inevitably follow. This was not her case. The only person she could talk to who was in that room was Björn.

  The irony wasn’t lost on her. The last time she had been in this miserable room, deep inside Kirseberg prison, was to see Ewan. It had been their final meeting. Now it was the other man in her life that was brought into the room and plonked down in the chair opposite her. The shock this time was Björn’s attire. The white t-shirt and faded, blue jeans was a dramatic sartorial change from his regulation black. He was pale and drawn, and confusion and fear were etched equally on his face. Anita didn’t know whether to feel pity or anger.

  ‘Hello, Björn,’ she said after the guard had left the room.

  ‘Is this another interrogation? It’s a dangerous business talking to me. The last one who did is now dead, I understand.’

  ‘This is no time for any of your flippant remarks, Björn,’ Anita snapped angrily. ‘Whether you’re a murderer or not, this case is responsible for the death of Henrik Nordlund. He was a good man who didn’t deserve to die. So I’m not taking any shit from you. You either answer my questions or I’ll leave you here to rot.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said contritely. ‘How’s Lasse?’

  ‘Bearing up. He’s got a new girlfriend to take his mind off things.’

  Björn beamed. ‘Chip off the old block.’

  ‘I bloody hope not. Now, I need to know one or two things. Like why did you lie to me about your movements? You didn’t tell me you went into Greta Jansson’s apartment on three separate occasions.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d look for her if I told you the full truth. I was desperate.’

  Anita took out her tin of snus. She didn’t offer it to Björn. ‘The trouble is that it makes you look guilty. You were with her the night she died.’

  ‘We argued. She threw me out. Then, when she wasn’t around the next day, I started to worry.’

  ‘The neighbour’s key. That was another thing you failed to mention.’

  ‘When she still wasn’t around a week later, I really panicked. You were the only person I could turn to. The only person I could trust.’

  I was convenient is what you mean, Anita thought ruefully. ‘All right. I want you think very carefully about each visit you made and where exactly you went when you were inside the apartment. Your exact movements in each room.’

  She knew this shouldn’t be a difficult task for Björn, who had always been a clear thinker.

  ‘The first time,’ he said contemplatively, ‘I just went into the living room. That’s where we had our confrontation.’

  ‘Not the bedroom?’

  ‘That’s where I was hoping to end up. Greta had other ideas,’ he said with a regretful grimace. ‘So, no to the bedroom. Obviously, I was in the hallway when I came in and went out.’

  ‘OK. You went back the next day when you pretended to be her dad.’

  ‘Yes. Shows I can think on my feet.’ He’s had a lot of practice at that, Anita reflected bitterly. ‘That time I went into nearly every room. Living room, kitchen, bathroom... and I glanced into the bedroom.’

  ‘Can you remember what you touched?’

  ‘Nothing much. Opened the fridge. Went into the bathroom and had a pee. Noticed her toothpaste was gone. That made me think I might have frightened her away. Maybe touched some of the books in the living room. Two were mine, anyway!’

  ‘What about the bedroom?’

  ‘Why the obsession with the bedroom?’

  ‘Just answer,’ she snapped.

  ‘Nothing, really. I didn’t lie on the bed and pine if that’s what you’re after. I just looked through the door.’

  ‘Was the bed made?’

  Björn looked pensive. ‘It was, actually. Fresh sheets. She mustn’t have had a chance to sleep in them.’ The last words caught in his throat and she could see his eyes starting to well up. She knew he would fight any display of emotion. It was the Swedish way.

  ‘And your last visit?’

  He was back in control of himself. ‘I was only in there a few minutes. I could see that nothing had changed and that Greta hadn’t been back. I realized she had disappeared, so I came to you.’

  Anita took out a notebook and scribbled a few lines.

  ‘Did you make a call to the school to say that Greta wouldn’t be going back?’

  ‘Of course not. Why should I?’

  ‘My colleagues think you did. Unluckily for you, it tied in with your stupid tale about being Greta’s father.’

  Björn sighed despondently.

  ‘One last thing. You mentioned that Greta talked about a new man in her life. Any ideas who it was?’

  ‘To be honest, at the time I assumed she was just making it up to get me out of the apartment. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’m convinced there was someone. If there was, he must have been pretty new on the scene; she hadn’t been down here that long.’

  ‘Her colleagues talked about her getting away from someone, presumably you, but no mention of a new man. She may have kept it quiet, though.’

  ‘She may only just have met him. And another thing, she wasn’t a great drinker, which was why I was surprised that she seemed pissed when I saw her at the apartment. I think she’d been with someone earlier that evening. Perhaps he came back after I’d left.’

  ‘There’s nothing on her mobile call log to suggest she rang anyone after you’d gone.’

  ‘Maybe the bastard just turned up.’

  Anita wasn’t listening. She’d just had an uncomfortable thought.

  CHAPTER 46

  Anita had another bad night, yet she was in a determined mood when she entered the main door of the polishus at seven o’clock the next morning. Her mind had been racing as she had tossed and turned. A herbal tea at half past two hadn’t helped. It was while she was in the shower that something Björn had said came back to her. She had listened to the interview yet again. Now she knew what Nordlund had heard. Now she had a clear idea of what action she was going to take.

  Headquarters was already busy. A suspect had been hauled in during the early hours of the morning. Sejad Medunjanin was well known to the Skåne County Police as a serial thief and drug dealer with a history of GBH. A knife was his chosen weapon; it didn’t make a noise. He had spent more time behind bars than on the streets. He wasn’t the only suspect to be brought in for questioning, and it was taking a lot of manpower to check out the growing
list of alibis. Commissioner Dahlbeck was no longer that worried about a dead British visitor when it looked far worse that one of his own officers should be murdered in a place used for family outings and relaxation. This suited Anita, as she was mystified as to what to do next in the Todd case. She was more concerned about finding out what her old friend and colleague had discovered; she was now convinced that Nordlund had been on the verge of solving the Greta Jansson murder.

  By the time Hakim came in just after eight, Anita was engrossed in some notes she had found in Nordlund’s file. She had also compiled some of her own. Hakim immediately knew it was nothing to do with their own case. But she was his superior so it wasn’t his place to question her, and he knew her well enough to trust that she knew what she was doing. However, he felt that they mustn’t give up so easily on the Todd investigation. Here was a chance for him to shine. Help to solve the case, and he would leave Malmö on a high. It would make it easier for him to be accepted in Gothenburg when he started there after Christmas.

  ‘Anita, can I borrow your car today?’

  She gave him a quizzical glance. ‘Yeah. Where are you going?’

  ‘I thought I’d go back out and nosy round the Johanssons’. Just ask around. I assume they’re still officially on the radar?’

  ‘Yes. But why the interest?’

  ‘I did some digging, and discovered that Peter Johansson is quite a rich guy.’

  ‘Well, admittedly, it looked a nice house, but nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Did you know that he owns all the houses around theirs as well?’

  ‘I thought she said— ‘

  ‘I know – “Stockholmers and Germans”. She lied. They also have a fancy apartment in Gamla Stan in Stockholm.’

  ‘Do you know what he made his money in?’

  ‘Property in New Zealand.’

  ‘It just sounds as though he’s doing the same over here.’

  ‘Well, we’ve nothing to lose. And I’m expecting a call or email soon from New Zealand about something else.’

  ‘What time is it over there?’

  ‘Ten hours ahead, but the person I’ve been talking to is doing me a favour. She sounded nice.’ He smiled at the recollection.

  ‘Whatever. I’m going out and won’t be around for a few hours.’ Anita shoved some papers into her bag. ‘Keep a low profile. We don’t want a police harassment charge on top of everything else.’ She gazed at him fondly for a moment then said brusquely, ‘Just don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘Are you sure? Are you really sure? You’re not pulling my plonker?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m sure.’

  Kevin Ash was sitting in a large, deserted hall, lined with tables and chairs. It was where the inmates of HM Prison Doncaster received visitors, if they had any. The only two other occupants were a large, unsmiling prison warder hovering near the entrance, and the shaven-headed George Dobson sitting opposite Ash. The purpose-built prison on the site of the old power station in Marshgate was the most modern one Ash had visited.

  He hadn’t arrived with any real expectations. Dobson was a wiry man with darting, intelligent eyes. Now in his mid-fifties, he had kept himself in good condition. And he was more forthcoming than most prison inmates Ash had had dealings with. Maybe it was the light at the end of the tunnel – the prospect of his imminent release – that made him more accommodating. Ash had opened the encounter with the offer of a packet of cigarettes, which Dobson had surprisingly turned down. They had kicked off the conversation by talking about his time in prison – or “Doncatraz”, as it was known by the incarcerated residents.

  With his years in the North East, Ash had learned to interpret thick Geordie accents, which was just as well in Dobson’s case.

  ‘I’m into cookin’ these days. Might try to get some chef work, like, when I get oot. If anybody gives us a chance’

  Ash was amused. ‘And what brought that on?’

  ‘Gordon Ramsey did one of his programmes in ’ere a few years back. By, that lad’s got a filthy mooth on ’im. But he was all reet. So impressed wi’ one of the boys, he offered him a job when he escaped from ’ere!’ He had a guttural laugh.

  Then they got round to Nicky Pew.

  ‘What went wrong that night on Commission Quay?’ Ash asked.

  ‘The silly tosser of a security guard tried to be a hero. Must admit I was surprised it was Nicky who pulled the trigger, like. Gary was the one into shooters. Liked to think he was bloody Reggie Kray.’

  ‘Who tipped you off about the diamond delivery?’

  ‘Nicky always played his cards close to his chest. No one was ever sure what he was thinking. It was a bit weird, like, ’cos we never normally did jobs in our backyard. Suppose this was a biggun and he couldn’t resist it. Twat.’

  ‘You know Billy Hump’s dead?’

  Dobson appeared genuinely surprised. ‘I heard about Gary. When did Billy gan?’

  ‘Beginning of last week. Hit-and-run. Outside his local boozer.’

  ‘He was thick as pig shit. Mind, he was all reet. Just mixed with bad company from an early age. Like the rest of us, except for Nicky of course. Who ran him ower?’

  ‘They don’t know.’

  ‘Typical police. If it were someone from somewhere snotty, they’d be like blue-arsed flies. A felon like Billy, and they don’t give a rats.’

  ‘Chapman and Hump reckoned that Pew stitched them up.’

  ‘Too bloody reet. I’m sure he did the same thing to me in Oz. He’d cocked up in the first place, so it was easier to cover himself by getting us oot the way. I’m glad the bastard’s dead. If he wasn’t, I’d track him doon after I got oot.’

  Ash fished out the photograph of the jazz event in Ystad.

  ‘Carol Pew’s been tracked down in Sweden. Calls herself Johansson now.’

  ‘Stuck up cow. Nicky was obsessed wi’ her. Sharp as a knife, she was. Not a woman to be crossed. Vindictive. Always thought she might have been behind a lot of wor jobs. Nicky was all front. She was the brains, I reckon.’

  ‘Well, if she was, it was never proved. Sounds doubtful to me; she didn’t even get his money from the diamond heist. You know Nicky was with another woman at the time he was killed?’

  ‘I heard that. Big surprise.’

  Ash pushed the photo across the table. He pointed to Carol Pew sitting in the audience. ‘That’s her now.’

  ‘Blonde now, then. Still a looker. Can’t deny that.’ Then Dobson went quiet. He started to shake his head very slowly. His eyes bulged, and Ash could see the vein on his forehead pulsing.

  Minutes later, Ash was rushing down a corridor with a warder. He showed Ash into an empty office and pointed to a phone.

  ‘Do you know what time it’ll be in Australia?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ the warder replied. ‘But I tell you something, I’d rather be there than here right now.’

  ‘So would I,’ said Ash as he hurriedly picked up the receiver.

  CHAPTER 47

  Hakim was enjoying the sense of freedom Anita’s sudden lack of interest in the Todd case had allowed him. He drove round the outskirts of Ystad and headed out on the Simrishamn road. As soon as he moved to Gothenburg, he would buy himself a car – he’d be able to afford it then. And he would keep it in better nick than Anita’s. The Peugeot was a mess.

  He was looking forward to Gothenburg. He was dying to get away from the stifling environment of the cramped family apartment and, particularly, his annoying sister. He grudgingly admitted that recently she’d been less trouble, now that she was hooked up with Lasse, but his father still wasn’t totally happy with the relationship, and there was still something of an atmosphere between them. What was weird was having your sister going out with your boss’s son. He smiled. He wouldn’t have to live with that problem after Christmas. He would miss Anita of course. They had a good rapport, and he had learned a great deal under her guidance. That was why this was such an exciting possibility. If he could help solve this
case, she would be impressed. It would be his leaving present to her.

  He eased the car onto the coast road. Now Peter Johansson was occupying his thoughts. It may be just a hunch, but something wasn’t quite right. Johansson was wealthy. He owned property. Four houses in the same place. Hakim had found no evidence that they were rented out in the summer. Of course, they might just be investments that he would sell on when the market was right, though Sweden wasn’t suffering the same property slump that much of the rest of Europe was subject to. Yet it was odd that such an astute businessman wouldn’t try to make some money on them instead of leaving them idle. Hakim decided to have a closer look at the properties. However, his first destination was going to be Kåseberga. Peter Johansson had his boat registered there. And it was the sort of place where he could pick up a bit of gossip.

  Hakim turned the car off the road and made his way through the village. He reached the tiny harbour just below the cliff where the famous stone ship, Ales Stenar, was situated. Even at this time of year, there were a few sightseers trekking up the hill to the ancient site, which overlooked the grim, grey Baltic. He pulled up in the cobbled car park next to a German motorhome, which dwarfed Anita’s old Peugeot. He gazed out seawards. The harbour walls enclosed a small haven where half a dozen craft rocked gently in the swell. Behind the car park, the little local museum and a collection of timber-built tourist shops were strung along the bottom of the cliff. Hakim got out and locked the car. He scrutinized the boats in front of him. One took his attention more than the rest. This vessel wasn’t just for pottering along the Scanian coast. Diamanten was a gleaming-white, sleek-hulled craft with highly polished, light brown decking and shining chromework. This was Peter Johansson’s boat. Hakim decided first to visit the shops and herring stalls to see if anyone knew anything about the New Zealander. Then, if the coast was clear, it might be interesting to have a look round the boat.

  The unremitting, grey cloud that blanketed the city gave it a drab winter feel, though it wasn’t especially cold for late October. Anita’s feet were uncomfortable. In her haste this morning she had put on a pair of ankle boots, a rare fashion extravagance. She had paid handsomely for them, only to regret the purchase during their first outing. They were too tight, and the thick heels made her clomp around inelegantly. Now she was wobbling over the cobbles of Lilla Torg with a photograph of Greta Jansson in her grasp. The pretty face stared up at her. What a waste of a human life! The passing pedestrians heading for the shops, and the office workers returning after lunch could have no idea of the turmoil in the mind of the blonde woman with the glasses, tottering past the old telephone box in the centre of the square. She was almost trembling with excitement and anticipation. She might not be any closer to finding Nordlund’s killer, but Greta Jansson’s was another matter. She now knew that her mentor really had been onto something.