Menace In Malmö

by Torquil Macleod

  ‘Passable,’ Hakim admitted reluctantly.

  ‘Get onto whoever and see if anything comes up. And the boss man? Could we get Gradin and his missus to help put together an identikit?’

  ‘I’m sure they will. Well, herr Gradin will. His wife was terribly upset.’

  ‘Well, this bald bugger’s not the driver in the van, so he must still be around somewhere. They may still be operating.’

  ‘Without Fuentes?’ Hakim wondered.

  ‘Good point,’ Moberg mused.

  ‘They’ve probably moved somewhere to regroup,’ observed Brodd, who wanted to be part of the conversation.

  ‘Yes. They’ve lost their front man and possibly two of their workforce. What I can’t understand is why kill the young guy? It’s not as though it’s an industrial accident. Someone beat the hell out of him.’

  ‘Sounds like it could be this bald fellow,’ said Hakim. ‘Both Joneberg and Gradin mentioned how intimidating he was.’

  ‘And Joneberg’s a big man,’ confirmed Brodd. ‘It takes something special to make him cautious.’

  ‘OK, let’s keep digging. But fast. Baldy may have already disappeared, but here’s hoping. Oh, by the way, I need to let you know that we’ve had word from the Kristianstad station that they’ve got a match on the fingerprints at the murder scene up at the farm near Höör.’ Moberg scanned a piece of paper on his desk. ‘They turned nothing up over here but when they went international, they found him. He’s called Daniel Foster, aged twenty-two, from somewhere called Hereford in the UK. He was part of a gang that stole slates off roofs. Got a suspended sentence that time, as it was a first offence. Then he did nine months of a year’s sentence in prison for GBH. So, he’s got a record of violence, and, apparently, the farmer was beaten up first before being shot. They’ve sent a photo through, which they’ve already distributed to the media. An officer is coming over from Kristianstad this afternoon to check on forensics’ findings on the car that was left at Mobilia.’

  ‘The British are causing trouble everywhere,’ Brodd joked.

  ‘Anyway, the whole force needs to be on the alert. There’s probably a dangerous gunman running around the streets of Malmö.’

  CHAPTER 24

  Anita and Zetterberg walked along together but apart, each one wishing she was somewhere else. The trendy, redeveloped Waterfront was thick with cafés and bars. Anita was feeling the heat and looked enviously at the tourists and young Maltese enjoying their cool beers – and eating. Her stomach was starting to rebel. And the sweat on her face would soon cause her glasses to irritate her nose. At the end of the promenade, a short flight of wide steps led to the quay where the cruise ships berthed. One giant craft, which looked more like several apartment blocks inelegantly welded together, had a stream of passengers reboarding. Their next Mediterranean destination would be just another short-lived visit, and the memories would quickly fade until they were renewed by photos and films.

  It was Anita who spotted Linus Svärd first. He was shaking hands with a middle-aged couple who were both as large as each other. Linus wore that rictus grin that he must keep going until the last of his tour party had passed. The relief on his face was palpable when the couple waddled off in the direction of their ship. The prettiness Anita remembered had long faded. The cheek bones and wide girlish lips were immediately familiar, though the wavy blond hair was now cut short. All the old feelings of anger and frustration came flooding back. Life appeared to have taken its toll on Linus; Anita hoped it had. He wore a white linen jacket, a cotton shirt, beige slacks and white sneakers. Dressed for his clients. He didn’t notice their approach as he was counting his tips. He must have done well; satisfaction was writ large upon his face. That was soon wiped away when Zetterberg strode up to him. ‘Linus Svärd?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said guardedly in English.

  She spoke in Swedish. ‘I’m Detective Alice Zetterberg, Skåne County Cold Case Group. This is—’

  ‘I know who this is,’ he said bitterly. He was staring hard at Anita. ‘You were the one who...’ He left the sentence incomplete.

  ‘Inspector Sundström is here at the wish of the police commissioner.’ The inference was clear.

  ‘I knew you’d come eventually. Carina warned me. But I didn’t expect her.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s part of the package. You’ll find that I have an open mind, so it would benefit you to speak to me. Us,’ she added after a meaningful pause.

  Linus was still holding his tips. He shoved them into his pocket.

  ‘We need to ask you some questions. You’re entitled not to answer them, but we’ve talked to the Maltese police and I’m sure that, through them, we can make life unpleasant for you here.’ Anita was quietly seething at Zetterberg’s high-handed threat. She knew the only way they could finally prove that Linus was the murderer was to get him to open up.

  ‘Do the Swedish police specialize in bitches?’

  ‘Only when suspects don’t cooperate.’

  Linus’s eyes darted from Zetterberg to Anita and back to Zetterberg. ‘I’ll talk to you. I’ve nothing to hide. But she,’ he said raising a finger at Anita, ‘is not to be there. I don’t trust her.’

  ‘The commissioner wants her to be present so we won’t be accused of fitting you up. We’ll record everything,’ Zetterberg took out a small, hand-held recorder before glancing towards Anita, ‘so nothing can be twisted or misinterpreted.’

  ‘How do I know what I say won’t end up all over the newspapers?’ This was accompanied by a glare at Anita.

  ‘I’m glad to say we’re more responsible these days.’

  Linus wavered. ‘All right.’

  ‘Shall we start now? Here is as good as anywhere.’

  ‘Can’t. I’ve got another group in fifteen minutes. Come to my apartment at ten tomorrow. It’s—’

  ‘I know. We’ve been there.’

  ‘At ten then,’ said Anita, speaking for the first time. ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘She’s made contact with Linus,’ Szabo said, putting down his mobile. ‘She and Sundström are seeing him tomorrow morning. We should know a lot more after that.’

  ‘Did you tell her about Larissa?’ asked Erlandsson, hanging her bag over the back of her office chair.

  ‘Mmm... not too pleased.’

  ‘It’s hardly our fault that she’s in Oslo on some librarians’ conference.’

  ‘Our new boss isn’t exactly the world’s most patient person. And I bet she’s making your friend Sundström’s life as awkward as possible.’

  Erlandsson sat down. Should she tell Szabo that she had confided in Anita about aspects of the case? She thought better of it. She didn’t know her new colleague well enough yet, and she couldn’t trust him not to go straight to Zetterberg and land her in it.

  ‘We’re not exactly stretched here. Do you fancy a drink after work?’

  ‘Sorry. Got a previous engagement.’ After some difficulty, she’d managed to rearrange her second date with Maria.

  There was no one on the hostel desk as he sneaked out. He was relieved at this because he was afraid they would ask if he’d picked up his passport. And he was leaving without paying. Not that he had any luggage with him that would give him away, other than the small knapsack he’d bought to put the rest of his newly bought clothes in. It just looked like he was going out for a wander round the city. He’d already been to the nearest station, which was the cavernous underground one at Triangeln, and had failed to work out the complicated ticket machine. He’d have to go to the Central Station to buy his ticket to Copenhagen. Once there, he would decide how to progress further. Probably a train to Germany and beyond, depending what was available.

  The good weather of the last few days had broken, and drizzly rain spat down from leaden skies. It might be a precursor to heavier showers, and he hurried on over the bridge by Kungsparken and along Slottsgatan. He constantly glanced over his shoulder, on guard in case McNaught was around. He tried to reassure himself
that the Scottish bastard had moved on and was looking elsewhere.

  By the time he’d recrossed the canal that circumferenced the old part of Malmö, the rain was more persistent. At the station, he made for a ticket desk and bought a single to Copenhagen. There was a train in ten minutes. The woman behind the desk directed him to the platforms below the main concourse. As he went down the escalator, he realized that this was the very one that McNaught had been travelling up the day before last. The thought nearly made him lose his nerve. Then it was superseded by a more practical one. What was the Danish currency? He still had some Swedish money left, but didn’t know how far it would go. Could he change it? He had never done anything like this before.

  The Copenhagen train was due in five minutes. He counted his money again. He still hadn’t worked out how much it was worth because he was forever trying to mentally convert it to sterling. He slipped the notes back into his pocket. It was then that he noticed an elderly woman in front of him reading a newspaper. He almost threw up. There was a photo of himself on the inside page. It was an old one taken at the time of his arrest and imprisonment. He had no idea what the headline read, but there was no escaping the fact that they had discovered who he was and they were looking for him. Now the scraggy beard that he’d grown since his escape from the camp made him appear slightly different. And he was thinner. It might be enough to stop people immediately recognizing him. He readjusted his new baseball cap, pulling it further over his eyes, and sidled away from the woman, keeping his head down until the train pulled up alongside the platform.

  He was still nervous as he took a window seat. He scanned his fellow passengers, and none were reading newspapers. Most were engrossed in their phones or chatting quietly. He knew there was a stop at Triangeln and then one more, called Hyllie, before crossing the bridge into Denmark. He couldn’t relax yet, as he knew that at Hyllie there would be police and security personnel checking the incoming trains. Brad had reassured him that outgoing trains were fine. If he just kept his head down, he would be all right.

  After travelling for a few minutes underground, the train eased into the cathedral-sized Triangeln station. The doors swished open, and a flood of new passengers embarked. Many had large suitcases and were making their way to the airport that Brad had mentioned. Some had to stand in the aisle, as there were no seats left. Danny felt himself relax for the first time since he had left the hostel.

  After another few minutes, the train emerged into the open. The window soon became streaked with rain. One last stop and he’d be free. It was then that he heard the voice: ‘’Scuse me.’ The language was English, but the accent was unmistakeably Scottish. Danny slumped down as best he could and eased down his cap to try and cover his face. He shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He heard the voice again, only closer this time. McNaught was pushing his way through the train and was now in this carriage, steps away from his prey. Danny tensed, desperately trying to stop himself quivering. The beatings and the humiliations came flooding back. He could almost smell the brutal strength of the man who was only an outstretched arm away. Then he was past. Danny squinted up and saw the bald head moving slowly down the carriage. He must know that I’m on the train, Danny thought wildly. He must have seen me get on at the Central Station. He knew he couldn’t stay. He’d have to jump off at the next station; the last stop before Denmark. He sensed that some of the passengers were stirring, getting ready to alight. He would follow them, in the opposite direction to McNaught.

  Danny managed to squeeze past the stacked cases and squashed travellers and move towards the door. About half a dozen people were waiting there. The door opened and he slipped out. The station was built of cold concrete and was partly covered by the road and massive shopping complex above. There was a wide stairway leading up from the platform, and that’s what the passengers were heading for. He tried to lose himself in their slipstream, though there weren’t enough of them to completely block him from any eyes watching from the stationary train. He was on the third step, his gaze fixed, zombie-like, straight ahead of him when he heard a couple of people shouting in annoyance. He glanced behind and saw McNaught pushing his way off the train and onto the platform. He’d seen Danny.

  It was sheer fear that propelled Danny upwards, pushing his way through the startled people in front of him. At the top, he hesitated. There were huge modern buildings all around. A backward glance, and he saw McNaught mounting the steps two at a time like an over-muscled gazelle. Danny found himself running along the road that spanned the station below. There was no hiding in the massive glass-fronted building opposite. And to reach it, he would have to cross a wide open carriageway, which would give McNaught a clear shot. But the road that he was on was as straight as an arrow. He had to get off it! Ahead, an enormous car park beckoned, enticing him with momentary cover, if only he could reach it. The first shot scuppered that idea as he felt a fierce jolt in his right shoulder. It nearly took him off his feet, but he had the presence of mind to veer off down the only gap available: the steps descending to the other platform. A second shot whizzed past his head as the first step took him a fraction below McNaught’s line of fire. Realizing he’d been shot, he scrambled down, waiting for the pain to hit him. Near the bottom, he tried to jump the final six steps in one go. He landed awkwardly and fell, his left hand instinctively wrapping itself round the blasted shoulder. He lay in a crumpled heap, his nemesis halfway down the stairs. McNaught stopped, legs slightly spread, and in a measured fashion, raised his gun, cupped in both hands, for the final kill; Danny unable to crawl away.

  But the shot he heard didn’t come from McNaught’s gun. Stupefied, Danny watched him turn and flee up the steps, a policeman wielding a pistol following him. He watched in disbelief, too shocked by events to feel relief. Then the pain kicked in.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Upper Barrakka Gardens were ablaze with reds and pinks and oranges, laid out in the Victorian tradition of formal bedding; another hangover from the British, thought Anita. But unlike the parks in England she was used to, these beds were shaded by palm and banyan trees.

  In the centre was a fountain, the tinkling of which cooled the senses in the stifling heat. Beyond the fountain was a large, bronze statue. 'Lord Strickland,' Anita read aloud. Kevin would have been able to tell her all about him. Once again, she missed his enthusiasm for history, his incessant chatter and light-hearted banter.

  Anita walked through one of the tall archways behind the statue and looked over the parapet. A battery of eight cannon, one of which is fired every day at noon, guarded the old port. The view beyond was breathtaking. The sunlight on the limestone of Fort St. Angelo and Point Vedette across the Grand Harbour gleamed with a soft, yellow radiance, and the startling blues of sea and sky seared the scene like the confident daubs of an artist's brush. Anita sat in the sun for a few minutes, letting its warmth saturate her bones, before retreating to a seat under the spreading fronds of one of the palms in the garden beside the fountain so she could cool off. She closed her eyes and felt relaxed for the first time on the trip. Then she became aware of someone standing in front of her. She opened her eyes slowly and automatically raised her hand to shade them. It was Linus Svärd.

  ‘I’m innocent.’

  Anita felt uncomfortable. He shouldn’t be here talking to her without Zetterberg being present. And she didn’t want to speak to him in an informal setting. This had to be played by the book.

  ‘This is not the place to—’

  ‘Why did you blab to the press? Why?’ It came out as a distorted mixture of anger and pleading.

  Anita found she couldn’t answer. She didn’t know how to justify her actions now she was faced with the man she’d thrown to the wolves. But why should she?

  ‘Because you got away with murder.’

  Anita felt at a disadvantage with Linus towering over her. She was mentally pinned to her bench.

  ‘You really believe that?’

  ‘Yes.’

&nbs
p; He slowly shook his head. ‘You are so wrong.’ He slumped down on the bench beside her. She had to get away. This was unnerving. ‘I couldn’t have harmed Göran. I loved him.’ He raised his eyes and gazed at her. ‘Do you know what love is like?’ She didn’t answer.

  Linus stood up again. ‘You and your boss were so convinced that it was me. You didn’t bother looking elsewhere.’

  Anita found her voice at last. It sounded hoarse. ‘Should we have?’

  Despite the park being full of tourists busily snapping the Grand Harbour in the early evening light, the only sound Anita could hear was the fountain playing behind Linus’s back.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, tell me.’

  There was a hint of a smile. ‘I can’t talk without your colleague being present. I’ll see you at ten tomorrow.’

  ‘Klara’s just got back from that shooting at Hyllie station,’ said a wide-eyed Brodd who had burst into Hakim’s office as he was busy at his computer.

  ‘Any fatalities?’

  ‘No. A young guy was chased by some loony with a gun according to early reports. He was shot in the shoulder but he should be OK.’

  ‘It’ll be some gang vendetta,’ Hakim proclaimed confidently. They were common in Malmö these days.

  ‘He’d probably have been killed, but with all the cops and security people checking the incoming trains for immigrants, they were on the spot and reacted quickly. He’s been taken off to hospital.’

  Hakim returned to his computer. Brodd shrugged as he realized he had no more useful information to impart. Then he had a thought. ‘Oh, by the way, an Inspector Blentarps from Kristianstad is in with the boss right now.’

  ‘And?’ Hakim’s interest was piqued again.

  ‘He’s been over to forensics, and the car they found at Mobilia did have Daniel Foster’s prints on it. So after the murder, he took the car and abandoned it here, so may well still be around town.’