Menace In Malmö

by Torquil Macleod

  ‘Are you sure you’re interested?’ He suppressed a smile.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Very well. I was amazed you’d even heard of him. He’s not exactly a Carl Linnaeus or Anders Celsius. But he is significant. I was curious about Björnstahl because he was the first Swede to really be interested in the Muslim world, and I’ve spent a lot of my working life in the Arab countries that fascinated him but, ironically, he never visited. His only connection with Malta was an observation on the Malti language, which was being hotly debated at the time. Maltese scholars such as Agius de Soldanis argued that the origin of the native language here was Punic.’

  ‘Punic?’

  ‘It’s a Semitic language spoken by the Carthaginians. You know, Hannibal and his elephants fighting the Romans and all that. Modern Tunisia.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘The language goes back to the Phoenicians. All very complicated. To cut a long story short, when Björnstahl was on his round-Europe trip, he got on the boat you mentioned and found people from all nationalities, hence the Noah’s ark reference, and the Tower of Babel alluded to the numerous languages being spoken. Being a philologist – a linguistics expert,’ he added on seeing Anita’s puzzled expression, ‘what really fascinated him was that among his fellow passengers there were Arab and Maltese merchants. He noticed that they could understand each other really well, which led to his conclusion that Malti had nothing to do with any Punic origins. He rubbished the theory put forward by the Maltese scholars. He said something along the lines that the Punic theory was nothing more than a dream.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem such a big deal.’

  Linus didn’t reply until he had taken a further swig of his beer. ‘It appeared that Björnstahl didn’t think so either at the time, because the only reference he seemed to have made to it was the few sentences in the book you’ve just seen, which came out a few years after his original observation.’

  ‘So what did Ivar find?’

  ‘A much-expanded argument by Björnstahl on the origins of Malti. Quite detailed.’

  ‘And it was definitely genuine?’

  ‘Ivar had no doubts. It was definitely Björnstahl’s signature at the end of the letter. Besides, who else was going to write about demolishing the Malti/Punic language argument? Rather an obscure subject to bother faking.’

  Anita still wore a doubtful expression. ‘I don’t really understand why Ivar saw it as such a coup.’

  ‘It’s not so much the subject matter, though that would be of great historical interest to some scholars. It’s that it was an undiscovered piece of writing by Björnstahl. It’s like finding an unknown play by Strindberg or undiscovered observations on some obscure plant by Linnaeus. This guy was seriously famous in his time. Royal patronage, the lot. It’s more about the person than the content. But this discovery was not made by an academic, but a student. Imagine the impact that would make. And probably did. As I lost touch with Ivar after the... you know what, it’s probably how he forged his reputation.’

  ‘OK, I get that, but how did it turn up here if Björnstahl never reached the island?’

  ‘We can only speculate on that. Ivar reckoned that Björnstahl must have written these observations on board the ship going to Italy. Maybe the letter had been written to one of the Maltese scholars and perhaps a Maltese merchant was asked to deliver it. Or perhaps Björnstahl accidently left it on board when he arrived at Civitavecchia. If he’d lost the letter, maybe that explains why he wrote so little about the subject in his later travelogue. Basically, no one will ever know how it turned up in that Brydone book. And I’ve never seen a happier man than Ivar when it dawned on him what he’d found. A dog with two tails. It couldn’t have been better with Björnstahl being a scholar of the Muslim world; it fitted perfectly into Ivar’s field of study. After that, he got into all things Björnstahl, according to Larissa.’

  ‘So, she knew about it?’

  ‘Well, I assume so. They were living together at the time.’

  Anita’s bottle had warmed up in her grip as she listened to Linus. She took a drink. She put the beer down. ‘Do you think Göran found out?’

  ‘He never said anything to me. Doesn’t mean he didn’t suspect. He may have worked it out that Ivar had found something to do with Björnstahl. It certainly hadn’t become public by the time we were at Knäbäckshusen. I think that Ivar was going to unveil it when he gave his doctorate presentation. Amaze the academic world. But that was a year or so off when I last saw him.’

  Linus got up and sauntered over to the table in the living room and fetched his cigarettes. He lit up and came back and hovered at the entrance to the gallery. He stared at Anita.

  ‘And what is life like on Malta?’

  ‘You mean the one you condemned me to?’ There wasn’t the anger of before. Anita didn’t rise to the bait. Linus took a quick puff. ‘The climate’s good. I couldn’t go back to Sweden now. Too damned cold. But like anywhere, however nice, it’s not easy when you’ve got no money. And I can’t live on Carina’s charity forever.’

  ‘Who do you mix with?’

  ‘I don’t mix much. There’s quite a Swedish set here now; and not just the Gollcher family – you may know of them; they’ve dominated the shipping business round here for about a hundred and fifty years. I hear Swedish voices all over the place. There are retired people who’ve come for the sun, or younger ones seeking a better life. I think a lot have moved here in recent years to work in the online gaming industry. I believe there’s even a Swedish club which meets somewhere in Sliema. Not my thing.’

  ‘Is it because you’re worried about someone recognizing your name from the past?’

  He flinched. ‘Maybe I’ll mix more when you and Inspector Zetterberg clear my name and catch the real killer.’

  Anita picked at her rabbit. She had decided to go for Malta’s traditional dish on her second visit to D’Office on Archbishop Street. She hadn’t set eyes on Zetterberg since they parted in front of Linus’s apartment that morning. The jazz music and the Mediterranean-style surroundings didn’t distract her thoughts. She was weighing up whether she should tell her about meeting up with Linus again. Of course, Zetterberg would go ballistic; talking to a witness behind her back on a case that she wasn’t even working on. But tell her what? That Jacob Jonas Björnstahl left some observations on the Malti language on a boat in the winter of 1770 to be found over two hundred years later? What bearing did it have on the case? As long as Ivar had an alibi, as a course to be followed it was dead in the water. There was obviously serious friction between Ivar and Göran over their work – and then the strange sexual episode thrown in. But was it enough to lead to murder? She couldn’t believe that it would. A blind alley, then. Yet it was still swirling around in her head when she tucked into her beautifully sickly pudding.

  Klara Wallen passed Chief Inspector Moberg’s office and was surprised that he was working so late. She knocked on his door and popped her head round.

  ‘I’m just off. Is there anything else I can do before I go?’ This wasn’t the Wallen of old, who wouldn’t have had the nerve to approach Moberg. But she was more self-assured these days and, though she really wanted to head home and see to Rolf’s needs, she appreciated that this was an opportunity to impress the chief inspector, as it was a case that was clearly important to him. And Anita was conveniently out of the way, so she could place herself at the heart of the investigation.

  ‘You were down at Hyllie shortly after the shooting yesterday?’

  ‘Yes. The local boys down there assumed it was gang related.’

  Moberg grinned. ‘Well, they were wrong. You know I’ve had a Detective Blentarps from Kristianstad over here checking on the car that was found at Mobilia?’

  ‘Yeah, I heard.’

  ‘And the prints they found matched those of the killer up at the farmhouse near Höör.’

  ‘So, he’s probably around Malmö somewhere.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He certainly
is. Daniel Foster is right in the heart of Malmö as we speak.’

  Wallen looked taken aback. ‘Where?’

  ‘In the Skåne University Hospital.’

  The penny dropped. ‘You mean the young man who was shot yesterday afternoon at Hyllie station is Daniel Foster?’

  ‘The very same. He was calling himself Grant Mitchell, but one of the officers who was sent to guard him recognized him from the photo that was put through by Kristianstad.’

  ‘So, that’s that solved. Though it’ll cause quite a stir when the press find out we’ve got another British killer in our midst.’ She remembered only too well the trial of Ewan Strachan for the murder of film star, Malin Lovgren – and the unfortunate connection with Anita Sundström.

  ‘Quite. But I don’t think it’s as simple as Detective Blentarps thinks it is. That’s the trouble with these provincial cops. Too busy looking at the bloody obvious.’

  ‘I don’t understand. As you say, they’ve got this Foster’s prints all over the murder scene – and on the car he stole from the farm. Besides, it’s not really our case, is it?’

  ‘The shooting in Hyllie is our case, even if the murder isn’t. So, we’re involved. What puzzles me is that the young man who was shot yesterday didn’t have the murder weapon on him.’

  ‘Won’t he have chucked it? His ticket was one way to Copenhagen, so he wasn’t intending to come back.’

  ‘Possibly. But what intrigues me is that, if the murder of the farmer was a robbery gone wrong as the Kristianstad police believe, who on earth is trying to kill this guy? And from the descriptions from eye-witnesses you’ve helped to coordinate down there,’ Moberg glanced at the notes on his desk, ‘the bald gunman sounds similar to the man working with Egon Fuentes on the paving scam. That’s why I want you to accompany Detective Blentarps when he interviews Foster at the hospital tomorrow.’

  That served her right for calling into the chief inspector’s office – her Saturday off would be ruined, and Rolf wouldn’t be happy.

  Anita didn’t know how long she’d been asleep when she was awoken abruptly by Zetterberg stumbling into the hotel bedroom they shared. Anita turned over and pretended to be still sleeping as Zetterberg groped around for the switch. A minute later, the room was ablaze with light. Even at the distance of a bed’s width, Anita could smell the alcohol. Zetterberg had been on the booze.

  Zetterberg disappeared into the en suite bathroom and left the door open. Anita could hear her peeing loudly. The snoring was going to be terrible tonight. Thank goodness they were flying back tomorrow morning.

  Zetterberg swayed out of the bathroom and sank onto her bed. She sat there for a few minutes and then burst out laughing. ‘Are you awake?’ she demanded.

  There was no point in pretending any longer. ‘Yes,’ Anita said wearily.

  ‘I can’t stand you, Anita Sundström,’ she slurred. ‘Never could, even before you slept with Arne.’

  ‘I never did.’ This was met with a contemptuous sigh.

  ‘But do you know what? I found out a very funny thing the other day.’ Anita just wished she’d finish and then she could try and get some sleep. She wasn’t in the mood for a row. ‘When I was interviewing that stuck-up tart Carina Lindvall, she told me something very, very interesting.’ She paused, and Anita thought that she must have forgotten her train of thought in her drunken state. ‘While she was a student, she was shagging your husband.’ Another rasping peel of laughter. ‘Just think of that. That’s what I call poetic... poetic... what’s the fucking word? Ah, yes, justice.’ She shook her head. ‘I should know that word. But you don’t.’ And then she flopped onto the duvet, still fully clothed. Moments later, Zetterberg was snoring.

  Anita turned away. She couldn’t sleep now. Zetterberg had planted a nasty seed. She’d divorced Björn because he couldn’t help jumping into bed with his most attractive students. That had started later in their marriage, after she had gone back to work and Lasse was a few years old. Or that’s what he had admitted to. She’d learned to cope with that over the years, even if she couldn’t entirely forgive. She’d often been too tired for sex, sometimes preoccupied with police cases she was working on, and wanted to spend as much quality time as possible with young Lasse. Now her brain was working overtime to try and do the maths. She had known that Carina Lindvall was one of Björn’s students, but at the time of the Göran Gösta killing, she had been left university two years. If she had been sleeping with Björn, it must have been at least during the academic year before that, if not before. God damn it! The bastard must have been screwing her while Lasse was just a little tot, long before she thought he had started to stray. Despite the sad and unedifying way the marriage had ended, those early years had been the happiest times, and the memories she still clung to when looking back. They had made the marriage worthwhile. Now Zetterberg had destroyed that once and for all.

  CHAPTER 29

  The constable guarding the room stood up as Wallen and Inspector Blentarps approached. Wallen could see Daniel Foster through the door’s glass pane before the officer let them into the small, private ward. The young man was drowsily sitting up in bed, his shoulder heavily strapped. The doctor on the floor had already filled them in on the state of the injury – the bullet had been removed but because the wound had occurred to the articulation of the shoulder joint, they had had to rule out the presence of bullet fragments in the area. The patient had suffered severe blood loss and was on antibiotics. He had also badly sprained his right ankle when he’d jumped down the station steps. He wouldn’t be running anywhere soon, the doctor had commented wryly. And he had also noted that Foster had received some physical blows fairly recently, one of which had cracked a rib, which were now beginning to heal. He warned them not to stay too long as the patient was weak after his experience.

  Inspector Blentarps was a tall, angular man with a receding hairline and melancholy eyes. Wallen thought he must be around sixty. He spoke with a soft voice, which made her wonder if he always took the part of the ‘good cop’. So, would she have to play the bad one? That wasn’t really her style. And now that they were in the same room as the murder suspect, was her English good enough to get through an interview – or understand fully what was being said so she could report back accurately to the chief inspector? How she wished Anita was with her.

  Once Blentarps and Wallen had taken a seat each side of the bed, the Kristianstad inspector asked if the suspect spoke any Swedish. He shook his head. Then he winced. She could see Foster was in a great deal of pain, and when he spoke, it was an effort. His first words were to confirm that his name was Daniel Willis Foster, and he was aged twenty-two. His last known address was in Hereford, England. Wallen had looked it up and seen that it was near Wales. She hadn’t really been particularly aware of Wales, or its geographical location, until the recent Euro football championships in which the Welsh team had reached the semi-finals. Rolf had been glued to the competition. Blentarps continued in reasonably confident English:

  ‘What do you know about the murder of Leif Andersson?’

  ‘Who?’

  Blentarps didn’t bother hiding his surprise.

  ‘He was a farmer who lived near Höör.’

  ‘I don’t know him,’ Danny said, virtually under his breath.

  ‘Can you speak louder, please?’ said Blentarps in his own quiet voice.

  ‘I don’t know him.’ This time it was audible.

  ‘That is most odd. I will tell you why. Can I call you Daniel?’

  ‘Danny,’ the young man mumbled back.

  ‘Danny. We have found your fingerprints all over this man’s house, and in a sort of camp in the nearby woods, and on the car belonging to herr Andersson that was found at a car park here in Malmö on Wednesday.’

  Danny realised things weren’t looking good. ‘You don’t think I murdered him, do you?’

  ‘To us, it is looking clear that you killed this man.’

  Danny let out a deep breath. ‘No, I
didn’t.’ Then he whispered: ‘Leif was kind to me.’ Wallen had to strain to hear. She was also having difficulty understanding his accent. Why didn’t they all speak like the posh people on Downton Abbey?

  ‘How? How was Leif kind to you?’

  ‘He helped me. He gave me food.’

  Blentarps nodded. ‘He was good to you. I understand. So let me ask you, why did you stole... I mean steal his car? And, so his daughter is saying, nearly four thousand kronor her father had in the farmhouse. You still had some money in your pockets when you were brought here to the hospital.’

  Danny tried to shift his position, as his backside was sore. He flinched at the pain in his shoulder, which seemed to pass through the whole of his back. At least he was alive. Had they caught McNaught? No one had said anything about him.

  ‘Leif was dead.’

  ‘I ask again: did you kill him?’

  ‘No!’ The physical forcefulness of his denial sent another shaft of pain zipping through his body. ‘He was already dead.’

  ‘Leif Andersson was badly beaten. We have information from the UK that you were sent to prison for attacking another man.’

  That was a bit of a shock. They already knew about his past.

  ‘That was the scrumpy talking.’

  Blentarps and Wallen exchanged blank expressions.

  ‘Who is scrummy?’

  ‘Scrumpy. It’s a drink. Cider. Made with apples. It’s very strong.’

  Blentarps had no idea what Danny was talking about and thought better of pursuing the subject. ‘What did you do with the gun after you shot Leif?’

  Tears were welling up in Danny’s eyes. ‘I didn’t have a gun. I’ve never had a gun.’

  Just then the doctor sidled into the room. He could see that Danny was upset and assumed that the detectives had been pushing him too hard, too early.

  ‘I think the patient needs to rest.’

  Walking back along the corridor, Blentarps gave Wallen a sidelong look. ‘What do you think, Inspector?’