Menace In Malmö

by Torquil Macleod

  ‘Except Carina.’

  ‘I assume she must have known before the rest of us. Things had got really bad between Malta and meeting up in Knäbäckshusen that summer. I hadn’t seen Lars-Gunnar in the meantime. By the time I got to Skåne, it was obvious he was heading in a bad direction.’

  ‘How did you feel about Göran fucking up your friend?’

  ‘I didn’t believe it at first. Until Carina came and begged me to get Göran to stop supplying him. I became angry and confronted Göran. He just laughed and said it was Lars-Gunnar’s life; if he wanted to destroy it, that was his problem.’

  ‘Angry enough to kill him to protect a friend? Or murder him because he jilted you?’ Zetterberg asked accusingly.

  ‘No! No.’ Linus waved his hand emphatically, causing the ash from his cigarette to scatter and flutter towards the floor. ‘I didn’t kill Göran. I know it looks as though I had reasons...’ He stopped. His eyes began to moisten. ‘Despite everything...’ His voice grew hoarse. ‘Despite everything he did, I still loved him.’ Anita had to strain hard to hear his next words: ‘I still do.’

  ‘But you know that Carina had a row with Göran shortly before he died?’

  Linus found his voice again. ‘We all did, except Lars-Gunnar. The rest of us were in the garden of the cottage, and Carina had cornered Göran in the kitchen. The window was open. She ended up slapping him and saying some pretty nasty things to him. I was mortified to hear this in front of the others. It was true, of course. By then, the rest of them had had enough of Göran.’

  ‘Why didn’t he just leave?’

  Linus shook his head dolefully. ‘He was going to, but I persuaded him to stay. I still thought we could build bridges. If I hadn’t, he might be alive today.’

  ‘And what about the threat he made to Carina?’

  ‘What threat?’

  ‘About your precious Ivar suffering the most?’

  ‘That was nothing. He was just grandstanding. Lashing out against Ivar because he knew we all loved him. Anyhow, even if there had been some sort of threat, he certainly never had the chance to carry it out.’

  ‘Do you know that Göran was still alive when he was found?’ Zetterberg expected this news to shock Linus.

  It did, and Linus’s mouth dropped open. His voice was almost inaudible. ‘But he was... you know... when I found him with...’

  ‘We now know that he was still alive when the young boy, Kurt Jeppsson, found him. Not only that, he said something.’ Anita could tell that Zetterberg was deliberately testing Linus. If he had killed Göran, then could the dying man have implicated him?

  ‘What did he say?’ A bead of sweat appeared on his temple.

  ‘“Burnt it.” That’s what he said.’ Was that relief or puzzlement on his face? Anita wasn’t sure. ‘Mean anything?’

  As Linus shook his head, Anita could tell he was now miles away. Was he back in that chapel? Zetterberg stared hard at the man whose life had changed irrevocably that night.

  Anita couldn’t help finding out what he had been up to since his disappearance from Sweden. ‘How come you ended up back here in Valletta?’ Zetterberg flashed her one of her trademark looks of annoyance. She was merely there to take notes and keep quiet.

  Linus pulled himself together. ‘I was taken with the place on that first visit. And after I left Sweden, I worked on a number of digs around the Mediterranean. Egypt and Syria mainly. God, what a mess Syria’s in now. What they’ve done in Palmyra is unforgiveable.’ There was more than a hint of rage. ‘Sicily as well. It’s just over the water. So Malta seemed an ideal place to use as a base.’

  ‘So why are you a tourist guide for wealthy Americans?’

  ‘They tip well,’ he said flippantly.

  ‘The real reason?’

  ‘Ah, the truth.’ He squinted at the whirring fan above his head. ‘Disgraced myself on a dig in Egypt five years ago. Pretty Arab boy. Didn’t go down well, and now I’m persona non grata in that line of work. That’s why I’m in here,’ he said indicating the apartment. ‘Down on my luck. My only friend, Carina, came to the rescue. And when she comes over to write, I vanish and stay with a friend over in Sliema. They’re not crazy about gays here, but we’re tolerated, in case you were wondering.’

  ‘As far as I can judge, Carina’s the only one who thinks you’re innocent.’ Zetterberg was taking over again. ‘Now, she’s either doing that because she really thinks you are or she’s trying to make up for the fact that she killed Göran and ruined your life. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think. I merely exist.’

  ‘That’s not an answer,’ Zetterberg spat back fiercely.

  ‘All I know is that I didn’t kill Göran.’

  ‘You’ve had years to mull it over. If it wasn’t you, which one of your supposed friends do you think did?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Once they were out in the street, Zetterberg turned to Anita. There was a look of triumph in her eyes. ‘I think you got it wrong all those years ago. He didn’t do it.’

  CHAPTER 27

  Everything about Malta has a maritime ambience. Wherever you are, the sea is never very far away, and the entire history and culture of the island are inextricably linked with its pervasion. The main thoroughfare in Valletta had seemed eerily quiet the previous night after her meal and late night stroll to avoid having to go back to the hotel and Zetterberg – all signs of life hidden behind grills and shutters – but today, it was teeming with humanity: little shops opening in unexpected niches, café tables springing up on the pavements like mushrooms, and golf cart lookalikes for ferrying tourists around negotiating their way through the crowds like dodgems.

  Anita sat down in the shade of a parasol in Republic Square under the watchful eye of a statue of Queen Victoria. Behind her stood the flamboyant frontage of the Bibliotheca, the National Library of Malta. She needed a fika, so ordered a black coffee and a local delicacy called kannoli, which the waiter explained was a crunchy, cigar-shaped biscuit filled with ricotta cheese and candied fruit. She reckoned she deserved it after having to stay virtually silent throughout an interview with the man who for over twenty years she had been convinced was a murderer. She had found it so hard not to intervene; there were things she wanted to ask Linus Svärd. Though it wasn’t a comfortable thought, the experience had begun to undermine her long-held convictions about the case. Linus had sounded plausible in a way that he hadn’t all those years before. He was more mature now. Gone was the gauche young man she’d encountered. His life had gone from bad to worse, and now he was eking out a living showing disinterested travellers around historical sites that would be forgotten the moment they reached their next port of call. And he was living off the charity of the one old friend that didn’t believe him to be guilty, according to Zetterberg anyway. And she had to admit that Zetterberg had made an interesting point about the crime novelist – did she really believe that Linus was innocent or did she know he wasn’t guilty because she was the killer? At the time of the murder, they had known that Lars-Gunnar took drugs and was probably wasted on the night it happened, but they hadn’t discovered the drug connection with Göran, nor had they known about Carina’s efforts to get Göran to lay off Lars-Gunnar. So many things were now emerging that weren’t obvious at the time. Was the original investigation so flawed? It wasn’t a happy thought. Yet circumstances had changed, and the united front that Nordlund’s team had faced had disintegrated over the years, and the fractures that had appeared were revealing new information that they hadn’t been privy to. And if the suspects had been more forthcoming, would Prosecutor Renmarker have allowed them to take action?

  The smiling waiter arrived with her fika. She took a long swig of coffee. It helped to subdue the craving that had been growing throughout the interview. If Zetterberg had been more relaxed about the whole thing, she might have persuaded Linus to serve up something to drink. She then took a massive chunk out of her biscuit. Delicious! Around her, all the table
s were occupied by a mixture of holidaymakers and older locals passing the time of day. The only hurrying was being done by the waiters and waitresses who brought the customers their orders from the Caffe Cordina across the street. Anita was also being sucked in by the relaxed atmosphere after escaping the constant irritation of being in Zetterberg’s presence. After Alice’s declaration that Anita had been wrong about Linus, she had dismissed her with a ‘You can do what you like for the rest of the day. There’s nothing else to be done here and I’ve got to report back to my team on my case.’ What had irked Anita was not so much the possibility of being mistaken about Linus, but that the investigation was beginning to develop, and she was totally excluded. Life would be intolerable if Zetterberg cracked a case she had failed to.

  She went through each suspect again with what she’d gathered from the Linus interview, what little Zetterberg had revealed, and her useful chat with Bea Erlandsson. Lars-Gunnar now had motive and opportunity if he wasn’t as totally wasted as people thought. Carina was now definitely in the frame. But the two lovers, Ivar and Larissa? Was their alibi unbreakable? Carina had said at the time that she heard them at it that night, so probably it was. Yet Anita had been intrigued by Ivar’s discovery of the Björnstahl letter. Zetterberg had quickly dismissed it. But her own acquaintance with academe, through her marriage to Björn, had given her an insight into the in-fighting that could go on and the constant battle for prestige and acceptance. Ivar and Göran were rivals in the same field. Ivar wasn’t going to share his discovery with Göran, which had only caused further friction between Linus and his boyfriend. Throw in Göran trying to seduce Ivar, and it was a toxic mix. But enough to lead to murder? What she had to do first was to see if she could find out the significance of this Björnstahl discovery and how Ivar used it. She polished off her biscuit and drank the last of her coffee. The Bibliotheca was just behind her. Maybe she could find the answer inside.

  Anita went through the impressive portico of the Bibliotheca and pushed open the large wooden door. The library was the last great building erected by the Knights of St. John in Valletta before Napoleon threw them off the islands on his way to invading Egypt. It was blessedly cool inside, and Anita enquired at the reception desk as to whether they had any references to Jacob Jonas Björnstahl. The pleasant, bespectacled man picked up a phone and talked to someone elsewhere in the library. ‘They will look and see if they can find anything for you. If you don’t mind waiting.’ Anita was quite content to hang around in the reception area. A grand staircase with wide stone steps led directly up from the entrance hall and branched to right and left to reach the next floor. From a high, ornately decorated ceiling above the stairs hung a low lamp which illuminated a bust of Dun Karm Psaila, the Bard of Malta, who peered studiously down at her from his marble pedestal. She attempted some small talk with the receptionist and explained that she was from Sweden; hence her interest in Björnstahl, who was also Swedish and may have come to Malta. It sounded so vague, and she could tell the receptionist was only feigning interest out of politeness. It was with some relief on his part when the phone rang and he answered it. ‘If you would like to go upstairs, they have found a book for you. Turn right at the top there,’ he said pointing to the stone staircase, ‘and make yourself known to the librarian.’

  She walked into a vast space on two levels, the second accessible by stairs leading onto a balustraded balcony. Every vertical space was lined with books, and at one end of the room was a recess supported by Doric pillars, above which was a coat of arms in plaster relief. There were only three other visitors in the room, two poring over books whilst the third was idly flicking through a newspaper. She was greeted by a cheery librarian, who showed her the book he had found; but before she could read it, she had to register as a researcher. She filled in a form and showed her passport. With the registration complete, Anita retreated to a desk and gingerly opened the old book: Briefe auf Reisen durch Frankreich, Italien, die Schweiz, Deutschland, Holland, England und einen Theil der Morgenländer – Jacob Jonas Björnstahl. The first disappointment was that it wasn’t in Swedish. The second, that it wasn’t in English. It was in German. She racked her brain for the vestiges of her school German. As she quietly turned the pages, she realized it was a journal of journeys in France and Italy during the early 1770s, the book originally being published in 1777. There was a handwritten note to the Malta reference at the front of the book, written in English. She found it on page 172. Though she wasn’t entirely sure what it was about, it seemed to be referring to a voyage Björnstahl had taken from Toulon to Civitavecchia, the port of Rome. He’d left Toulon on 4th December, 1770, and appeared to describe the ship as being like Noah’s Ark and the Tower of Babel in terms of the languages spoken on board, which included French, Spanish, Swedish, Provencal, Arabic and Malti. Her German didn’t stretch to fully comprehending the reference to Malta, other than that it had something to do with the Punic language. That didn’t sound very interesting. She spent another twenty minutes going through the book, but at no point could she find any evidence of Björnstahl having actually landed on Malta, let alone spending some time there.

  Anita closed the book and took in her surroundings. This was exactly the sort of place Björn would love to study in and wander around, like the Carolina Rediviva library at Uppsala University where he now worked. That is until he was distracted by the next attractive woman who passed his way. The combined knowledge these heaving shelves supported brought back to mind another of her life’s regrets – that she hadn’t gone to university. But she knew in her heart of hearts that it was really a fanciful idea, as she hadn’t the powers of concentration or the patience to apply herself to serious learning. Her job as a cop was similar to that of an academic in terms of research, asking questions and drawing conclusions. But her line of work demanded faster results!

  She took off her glasses and gave them a thorough wiping with the hem of her skirt. Was this just a dead end? She could look Björnstahl up when she got back to Sweden, but then what? If Ivar’s Björnstahl find had any significance, it was because of Malta. And it wasn’t as though she could go and ask Ivar, as Zetterberg would ensure she wasn’t allowed near him. It wasn’t her case. Yet without any answers, it was nagging at her. She popped her glasses back on. There was only one thing for it – she would have to go back and see Linus.

  The pain in Danny’s shoulder was excruciating. He knew they had taken the bullet out last night, though it might just as well have still been in there. But he must be grateful that he was still alive. How had McNaught found him? He couldn’t shake him off. His throat was dry, and it wasn’t through a lack of fluid intake; it was fear. McNaught was still out there. To make matters worse, he couldn’t make a break for it, as his ankle was strapped up. He had sprained it in the final jump down the concrete steps at the station. He was stuck here. Would McNaught be able to get into the hospital? At least there was a policeman on guard outside the door. They were taking precautions.

  He leant over and gingerly picked up a glass of water and drank thirstily. It didn’t make any difference. What was he to do? He hadn’t been interviewed properly since he’d had the operation. The doctors had wanted him to rest. To the hospital he had given his name as Grant Mitchell. The name of the character from the British soap opera Eastenders was the only one that had popped into his head. He hoped that they wouldn’t connect him to the photo of the man wanted for Leif’s killing. He still wasn’t sure how he was going to explain McNaught’s attack. Mistaken identity? Innocent tourist in the wrong place at the wrong time? It wouldn’t wear for long. And it showed what a serious situation he was in – he was implicated in a murder he hadn’t committed on the one hand and on the other, McNaught was so desperate to keep him quiet that he was willing to risk killing him in a public place. What was his best option? There wasn’t one.

  CHAPTER 28

  When Anita buzzed Linus’s apartment, he wasn’t best pleased that she’d returned. He reluctantly let her
in, and when she entered, he went into the gallery window, which had a small table and two rickety wooden chairs squeezed into the space. He sat down in front of a cool beer, which had only recently been opened. Anita thought it looked tempting.

  ‘Lost your partner?’ he enquired.

  ‘No.’ Anita sat down on the other chair, uninvited. Below, she could see the street, and the workmen who were noisily renovating the building opposite. There was a steady procession of cars making their way down the steep, narrow road, edging past the phalanx of parked vehicles. Where the traffic was heading to along such a claustrophobic thoroughfare was difficult to ascertain.

  Linus took a swig. ‘Get the impression that your colleague doesn’t like you much.’

  ‘Then she’s got something in common with you.’ He managed a hollow laugh. ‘I’m not here about you. I want to know about Björnstahl.’

  He shot her a quizzical glance. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In that case, can I offer you a beer?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He got up and wandered into the next room and returned with an opened bottle of Cisk. It was cool to her touch and tasted refreshing after the unrelenting heat of the pavements outside.

  ‘If you want to know about Björnstahl, you should really talk to Ivar. He knows more than me.’

  She couldn’t admit that there was absolutely no chance of that happening. ‘It’s simpler talking to you while I’m here. Saves a trip to Uppsala.’ He seemed to accept the explanation. ‘I’ve just been to the Bibliotheca,’ she hurried on, ‘and found the book of his travels to France and Italy and other places. The mention of Malta is restricted to a couple of pages which cover the time he seemed to be sailing from Toulon to Rome. My German is pretty hopeless these days, but he appeared to be comparing the ship he was on to Noah’s ark and was on about the number of different languages being spoken on board. Do you know the significance of the reference?’