Menace In Malmö

by Torquil Macleod

  Wallen, who hadn’t contributed to the interview, was surprised at being asked. ‘I got the impression that you’re sure he did it.’

  ‘All the evidence points in that direction.’

  ‘He seemed frightened to me. I wouldn’t have thought that someone capable of cold-bloodedly beating up an old man and then shooting him would be the type to be so obviously scared of something.’

  ‘I think you misjudge this type of criminal. He befriends an old man, susses out the place and, when he discovers where his money is, kills him. I suspect that’s why he beat him up first... to find out where the money was.’

  It was plain to see that Blentarps thought it was a straightforward case of robbery and murder.

  ‘So, who do you think tried to kill Danny?’

  ‘An accomplice. They fell out over the money. What we need to find out next is who this other person is.’

  Wallen was far from convinced. She knew that people could easily quarrel over amounts of money as small as four thousand kronor, but it was hardly a sum you’d kill for. And she was sure Chief Inspector Moberg would agree.

  It was hardly the homecoming Anita was expecting. After two nights without much sleep thanks to Zetterberg, and another flight, she just wanted to put her feet up for a few hours. After entering her Roskildevägen apartment, the last person she wanted to see was her ex-husband. With the events of the last few days, she’d forgotten that Björn was staying over the weekend on a visit to see their granddaughter, Leyla. Bitterly, she remembered she should have been enjoying the delights of the Lake District instead of running into Björn wandering out of the shower with a towel wrapped round his waist. Once upon a time, she would have been pleased at such a sight. Now, with his middle-aged paunch spilling over the top of the towel in an unflattering way; his chest also turning to flab; and his thinning wet hair slicked back, accentuating the lines around his eyes; Anita could see how much he’d aged since their last meeting a couple of years before. And now she knew that he’d been unfaithful to her far earlier than she had suspected, if Zetterberg was to be believed, this wasn’t a good moment to run into him. His greeting didn’t help.

  ‘Oh,’ he said in surprise, ‘I thought you’d buggered off with your Brit boyfriend.’

  Anita left him to dress without saying a word.

  ‘Is it something I said?’ Björn ventured when he entered the kitchen, where Anita had made a fresh pot of coffee.

  She stared at him fiercely. He was now dressed in his familiar black T-shirt, jacket and trousers. Didn’t he ever wear anything else?

  ‘No. I should be on holiday, but it’s been cancelled.’

  ‘Hardly my fault. Or is everything still my fault?’ he said with a supercilious smile.

  She wanted to yell at him. Demand to know whether he had slept with Carina Lindvall while she was caring for his young child. But there was no point; he would deny it, and that would only make it worse.

  ‘Do you want some coffee before you go?’

  ‘Go?’

  ‘You are down here to see our granddaughter.’ She was trying to control her temper.

  ‘Yeah. Of course. I’m due to meet them in Folkets Park at three and then we’re going back to their place afterwards. I’m buying them a Chinese. I had offered to take them out for a meal, but they thought it might be difficult with Leyla.’

  ‘You could have offered to babysit and given them the money to go out on their own. They could do with a break.’

  ‘Oh.’ He frowned. ‘Hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘But you never think, Björn.’ Anita couldn’t keep the disapprobation out of her voice.

  ‘Hey, hold on. What have I done?’ He looked genuinely taken aback.

  ‘Nothing.’ She was too tired to spark a full-blown row. Björn would never change; he was too self-centred.

  His face brightened. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’

  ‘No. You go. You rarely see Leyla, or Lasse. Go and enjoy their company. I can see them anytime.’

  Half an hour after Björn had left, Anita got a call from Moberg.

  ‘How was Malta?’

  ‘Sunny.’

  ‘Nail your guy?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Never mind.’ It didn’t sound as though Moberg was the slightest bit interested. ‘Look, there have been developments in the Egon Fuentes case.’ He went on to tell her about the scam, how it worked, Egon’s role in it, the dodgy building supplier and the bald-headed man. Then he told her about the shooting at Hyllie and the man who had attacked Daniel Foster.

  ‘Blentarps thinks it’s an open-and-shut case of a burglary gone wrong, or some such. Klara Wallen thinks there’s a lot more to it. She said she thought Foster was really frightened of someone or something. I think it may well be connected to our case. He just happens to be English. And the bald man who attacked him sounds similar to the man described by both the building supplier and the customers we found.’

  ‘What’s your next move?’

  ‘We’ve agreed to keep Foster under guard for the time being. Blentarps has shoved off back to Kristianstad. He’s back over on Monday with a colleague. I think they’re going to charge Foster. So, I want you to go down to the hospital tomorrow and have a go at the lad before they get to him.’

  ‘Won’t that upset Kristianstad?’

  ‘Fuck Kristianstad! This is still technically our case because he was shot on our patch.’

  It wasn’t going to be the Sunday Anita had planned.

  CHAPTER 30

  Björn returned at about ten. Anita heard him come in as she was finishing a glass of red wine, the first from a new bottle that perched on the coffee table. Instead of unwinding after her trip, she had phoned Klara Wallen to get the lowdown on Danny Foster and her colleague’s impressions of him from the interview at the hospital. Anita wanted to be abreast of all the facts before she talked to him the following morning. She had also been doing a little digging of her own on the Göran Gösta case, which she now knew she couldn’t let go of. If Linus Svärd wasn’t responsible for Göran’s death – and it was beginning to dawn on her that her long-held conviction about his guilt was gradually eroding – then she was duty-bound to help find out who the real killer was. This would be difficult without causing ructions with Zetterberg and antagonizing those in authority. She would have to be subtle; not her strongest attribute. Anyhow, she had managed to track down the original prosecutor on the case and had arranged to meet him the following afternoon. She had a busy day ahead.

  ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ said a beaming Björn. ‘I love that smile when she wrinkles up her nose.’

  However resentful Anita might be towards her ex-husband, she couldn’t help smiling herself as she thought about their granddaughter. Leyla had added a joyous new dimension to her life. In a strange way, it had even made her redouble her professional efforts, feeling somehow that she could help make the world a safer place for Leyla to live in. She knew that was a ridiculous conceit. Nevertheless, it was a maxim she happily clung to. And following that principle meant helping to solve a twenty-one-year-old mystery. So, instead of giving Björn a hard time – her natural instinct – she offered him a glass of wine.

  Björn took his jacket off and settled down on the daybed. She let him prattle on about his evening with Lasse, and he asked if she would like to come out to lunch with them tomorrow. Apparently, Jazmin’s brother and girlfriend were turning up, too. He insisted that Lasse also wanted his mother there. She didn’t relish playing happy families and was about to reject the offer – but then agreed, as it might be useful to speak to Hakim after she’d seen Danny Foster.

  ‘Do you come across Ivar Hagblom at all up in Uppsala?’

  ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  Björn scoffed: ‘Bit flash for my taste.’ Anita managed to stop herself laughing. Pot, kettle, and black sprang to mind. ‘Always on the TV, spouting off about some Middle East disaster or the latest on
Syrian immigrants; or seen at some film première with his decorative wife. Why?’

  ‘He was involved in my first murder case. Don’t you remember? The one at Knäbäckshusen. 1995.’

  ‘Of course. Never solved, was it?’

  ‘It’s been reopened.’

  ‘Heavens! After all this time. You working on it?’

  ‘No.’

  He grinned. ‘Are you sure?’ Even after all these years he still knew her.

  ‘Not officially. It took place near Ivar Hagblom’s parents’ place. It was a group of ex-Lund students. There was one of yours there,’ she couldn’t help blurting out.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Carina Lindvall.’

  ‘Goodness! I’d forgotten she was in one of my classes.’ Anita bet that he hadn’t. ‘Hasn’t she done well for herself?’

  Despite the fact that she was desperate to know when Björn had been sleeping with Carina Lindvall, she managed to avoid going down that potentially acrimonious alley.

  ‘Hagblom was into Jacob Björnstahl at the time of the murder.’

  Björn swirled the deep red wine round in his glass. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. Björnstahl was into the Middle East, though he never got beyond Constantinople.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We’ve still got a Björnstahl scholarship at Uppsala.’

  ‘Apparently, Ivar found some writing by Björnstahl on Malta while he was doing his doctorate. A letter. Something no one had ever seen before.’

  ‘That would have helped his career.’

  Anita leant over and topped up Björn’s glass. ‘Can you do me a favour? Can you find out if Ivar used the Björnstahl letter as the basis of his thesis? It was done at Lund. Presumably you still have contacts?’

  ‘Anything for you, madam,’ he said in a gentle, mocking tone.

  She let that one go. ‘I don’t know much about Björnstahl. There’s nothing much on the internet.’

  Björn liked nothing more than an attentive audience: ‘Such a pity. He was so famous in his time, yet he’s nothing more than a dusty footnote in history.’ Björn warmed to his theme. ‘He was a brilliant linguist, allowing him to converse with the likes of Rousseau, Voltaire and the Pope. Of course, he started as a student in Uppsala. Apparently, on his first day at university, he was asked to act as an opponent in another student’s dissertation discussion, and did so in fluent Hebrew and Greek. He must have been quite something,’ he said gleefully, his eyes lighting up. This was the enthusiastic Björn she had fallen for – intelligent, articulate and handsome. How could he have drifted so far? ‘He went to Carl Linnaeus’s lessons in Uppsala and that opened up the door to Rousseau, whom Björnstahl hailed as his god. But, obviously, he’s best known for his travels.’

  ‘I found a book describing some of them in the National Library in Valletta. Unfortunately, it was in German.’

  ‘I think it was translated into various languages, such was his fame. He acted as a private tutor to supplement his income, and this gave him the chance to travel. I think he spent three years in Paris. He went all over Europe... and England, too.’

  She poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Do we know what he was like as a person?’

  ‘He was much admired by foreign scholars and, I believe, he was very religious. But that wasn’t out of the ordinary at the time. I think he was a generous person, full of energy, yet restless. I suppose he had an endlessly enquiring mind. I suspect he wasn’t easily distracted.’

  ‘Unlike you?’

  Björn pulled a pained expression. ‘Harsh.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘His father was a soldier. So, too, was his grandfather, who was killed in some cavalry action. His brother was in the navy and ended up in Holland. So he didn’t come from an academic background, yet became a professor in Uppsala and was appointed Professor of Oriental and Greek languages in Lund, though he never lived to take up the position. King Gustav the Third had asked him to go to Turkey. Never made it back.’

  ‘Died in Salonika.’

  ‘Yes. Part of the Ottoman Empire in those days. He left Arabic, Turkish and Persian manuscripts to Uppsala, and his outstanding salary was used to finance his titular scholarship.’ He sank back into the cushions. ‘What intrigues me is how Björnstahl can have any real connection with your murder.’

  She wondered that herself. Yet her gut feeling was that Zetterberg was wrong to be so dismissive of the Björnstahl letter. Opposite her sat an academic who, when he wasn’t contemplating sex, could be excited and stimulated by his subject and be fiercely protective of his work. Had the same thing happened to Ivar Hagblom all those years ago?

  Anita arrived at the Skåne University Hospital at around ten o’clock the next morning – another bright day. She’d already been to the polishus and, much to her amazement, had found Chief Inspector Moberg at his desk. There had been a development which might prove useful to Anita when talking to Danny Foster. CCTV at Hyllie station had revealed some slightly blurred images of the constantly moving assailant. But they were clear enough to show the figure wielding a gun was bald-headed and of stocky build, and could well be the man described visiting the builders’ merchant’s and the Gradin family home. ‘See if Foster can tell you who he is. I’m sure there’s a connection.’ were Moberg’s final words on her departure.

  As she’d walked down through the quiet Sunday streets of Malmö on the way to the hospital, she had decided on a charm offensive, and Danny was astonished when she presented him with a box of Aladdin chocolates, the Swedish cliché gift of choice. This had thrown him, as had her assertion that the Malmö police were not convinced, unlike Inspector Blentarps, that he was the killer of Leif Andersson. The third card she produced was being able to talk to him in fluent English, so well that he actually asked if she was British. Though he was still in pain, she could see him almost relaxing, despite his eyes occasionally flitting towards the door as though he were expecting someone to burst in at any moment. She eased her way into her questioning:

  ‘I’ve never been to Hereford. But I was in Worcester a few years ago.’

  Danny brightened. ‘I used to go to Worcester sometimes on the train. Good pubs.’

  ‘I only went into one.’ It had been with Kevin Ash on the Graeme Todd murder. At that stage, she hadn’t been sure what to make of the British policeman. Now he was probably moping around Penrith with a week’s wasted holiday on his hands. She would ring him later. ‘Shall I open the chocolates for you?’ Anita could see that it was impractical for Danny to open them with one hand. He nodded. She undid the cellophane and presented the box to him. He took one gingerly. He wasn’t sure what to make of Inspector Anita Sundström. ‘Mind if I help myself to one, too?’ Again, he nodded.

  She still had the half-eaten chocolate in her mouth when she asked casually: ‘So what brought you to Sweden?’

  This took him by surprise. The other detective had been so keen on pinning the murder on him that he hadn’t asked the most obvious question.

  ‘Work.’

  ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘Labouring. Laying paving. Drives and patios. That sort of thing.’ Straightaway, Anita realized that Moberg’s instincts had been on the nose and that this young man was possibly the key to the Egon Fuentes case.

  ‘Hard work, I should imagine,’ she commented chattily. Though undoubtedly strong, she had a shrewd idea that he hadn’t been as thin as this when he left England.

  ‘Very. Long hours.’

  ‘Good pay, too.’

  He gave a dismissive grunt. ‘Didn’t see any.’

  ‘That sounds strange. Working for nothing?’

  ‘We were promised plenty of money when we’d finished over here. But we were never going to see any.’

  ‘So why did you stay? Why not just go back to England?’

  At first Danny didn’t say anything, as though he had conflicting thoughts. Other than Leif, this was the first really friendly Swede he’d come across. Or the first he was al
lowed to talk to, anyway. But he was still frightened.

  ‘Can I ask you something first?’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘The man who attacked me. Did this.’ He glanced at his shoulder and grimaced. ‘Has he been caught?’

  It was earlier than she had planned, but she produced the images from Hyllie station. ‘This man?’

  Danny flinched when he saw the familiar face; the one that had wreaked havoc with his waking and sleeping hours these last months. ‘Yes. Him.’

  ‘Not yet. We’re looking for him.’ She could see this wasn’t the reassurance he was desperately seeking. ‘I’m sure we’ll pick him up soon. Unless he’s got away to Denmark already.’

  Danny stared towards the window for several seconds before turning his fearful gaze towards Anita. ‘He won’t be in Denmark. He won’t leave until I’m dead.’

  CHAPTER 31

  And then it all came pouring out...

  Danny Foster had been brought up in a small village outside Hereford in the West Midlands of England. His mother had died when he was young and he’d been brought up by his father. Their relationship hadn’t been good and he hadn’t done well at school. His older sister had tried to steer him clear of the wrong crowd, but she had a family of her own to bring up so he was left to his own devices most of the time. Boredom was the biggest problem in a rural area with few amenities. He started with petty thieving, and then moved on to stealing roof slates and reselling them. The gang was caught, but his young age – and the fact it was his first offence – saved him from a custodial sentence. After leaving school, he was unable to keep a job (which were few and far between for someone with no decent qualifications in an economically deprived area). With little money and copious amounts of cheap cider fuelling his frustration, he got into a brutal fight which saw him badly beating an innocent man out on his stag do.

  His nine months in prison had been a sobering experience and when he left, he was determined to turn his life around. He wasn’t welcome in his father’s house, so he stayed with his sister until it became obvious he would never get a job where his prison record was known. So he headed for London in the hope of a change of luck.