Menace In Malmö

by Torquil Macleod

‘Yes.’ It wasn’t much more than a whisper.

  ‘Where was he?’

  Larissa took a sip of water from a bottle Erlandsson had provided while they were awaiting Zetterberg’s return from Ystad. ‘He said he was out, looking for Linus. He was worried about him.’

  ‘So, wandering around by himself?’

  ‘As I said, he was worried. Linus was his best friend. He’d been upset by Göran’s treatment of him.’

  ‘Why did you lie? You claimed that you two were making love.’

  ‘He asked me to.’

  ‘He asked you to?’ Zetterberg’s contempt was clear. ‘Why did he ask you to give him an alibi?’

  Larissa fiddled with the water bottle’s blue plastic cap. ‘He didn’t want to have to explain to the police that he was... you know, out there. They might have jumped to the wrong conclusion.’

  ‘They might have jumped to the right conclusion if you’d told the truth.’

  For the first time, Larissa became animated. ‘Just that. Your reaction. He didn’t kill Göran. He was trying to find Linus.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘Well, of course...’ Larissa hesitated. It was as though, for the first time, she was contemplating what she had always thought to be impossible; or at least never dared to think. ‘No, he can’t have.’ The protest was far from fervent.

  ‘You’re guilty of obstructing the course of justice.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know that?’

  ‘Basically, you lied for Ivar because you were in love with him. Isn’t that true?’

  ‘I was fond of him.’ She drained the last of her water.

  ‘Obsessed more like. Isn’t that why you’ve come out with this now?’ Zetterberg was in her stride. She had her quarry cornered. ‘He chucked you, and yet you still chased after him to Uppsala. I think you can’t take rejection.’

  Perversely, this attack seemed to give Larissa more confidence. ‘I haven’t done this to get back at Ivar. It’s been on my conscience for the last twenty-one years. I’ve had to live with the fact that I lied to the police to protect my boyfriend. And I’m not stupid; I also realize that by telling you this, I’ve stripped myself of an alibi.’

  ‘True.’ Zetterberg leant across the table. ‘So what exactly were you doing that night if you weren’t being amorous with Ivar Hagblom?’

  Larissa cleared her throat. ‘I cleaned up in the kitchen for a while. I always felt responsible for keeping the place tidy because it belonged to Ivar’s parents. The others were a lot messier. I was always clearing up after them. I didn’t want Ivar to be given a hard time by his parents because we’d trashed their beautiful holiday home.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I went to our bedroom to try and relax. It had been a fraught day with the Göran/Linus fight on the beach.’

  ‘Did you hear Carina next door? That’s where she said she was working.’

  ‘No. But I was tired. I dozed off. Next thing I knew, there was a commotion. Carina came in and said that something had happened to Göran at the chapel.’

  ‘It was Carina who told you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And when did you first see Ivar after that?’

  ‘When Carina and I went down to the chapel. He appeared from somewhere. I can’t remember from where.’

  ‘OK. During the hour before Carina came into your room, did you either see or hear her, or Lars-Gunnar?’

  Larissa nodded. ‘Lars-Gunnar was in the garden. I noticed him from the kitchen. Zonked out as far as I could see. Obviously, I didn’t see him after I went to the bedroom. I didn’t see Carina at all. I assumed she was in her room.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Zetterberg allowing herself to sit back in her chair. ‘Yet Carina claimed that she heard you and Ivar having loud sex through the wall. Called you a “screamer”. Now, why did she do that?’

  Larissa screwed the cap back onto the empty water bottle. ‘Ivar must have persuaded her to say that. It backed up the alibi that we were in the room next door together.’

  ‘A double alibi. Extra insurance.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And why do you think Carina supplied you two with an alibi?’

  Larissa’s eyes lit up. ‘I would have thought that was obvious. It gave her one!’

  CHAPTER 36

  ‘Any sign of McNaught?’

  Moberg just grunted. Anita took that as a no.

  ‘Hakim’s found no trace of Tyrone Cassidy coming into or going out of the country. And that’s not all the bad news either.’ She glanced up at the street map of Malmö behind the chief inspector’s back. There were five red pins stuck on various locations. They represented possible sightings of McNaught. Judging by Moberg’s mood, they were false trails. ‘I’ve been onto a contact at the Met – Nick Sherington, a detective I worked with while I was over there.’

  ‘And what’s the bad news?’

  ‘We know all about Cassidy; the public Cassidy that is. He’s not only wealthy, he’s well connected, particularly in the police. Basically, Nick warned me off, in the politest way possible, of course. He hinted that they knew that some of Cassidy’s enterprises weren’t all kosher. Problem is that he’s untouchable. Reading between the lines, he’s got senior policemen in his pocket.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘I’m afraid they haven’t got the best reputation over in Britain. A lot of bad stories have come out of there over the last few years.’

  ‘I heard about Stephen Lawrence.’

  ‘Tip of the iceberg, I’m afraid.’

  ‘How trustworthy is your Nick Sherington?’

  ‘He’s a good detective. Well, he was when I knew him. But he’s probably right about Cassidy.’

  Moberg raised his great bulk with an exaggerated groan, stepped over to the window and gazed out. ‘Being a cop is hard enough without your colleagues being corrupt.’ Anita knew he was thinking of Karl Westermark. He lumbered round like a ferry about to dock. ‘Anything on McNaught’s background?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anita, flicking open a notebook. ‘I’ve managed to gather a bit of information. He was born in Dumbarton in 1974. That’s near Glasgow in Scotland. Joined the army at sixteen – The Gordon Highlanders. In 1994, the regiment was amalgamated with the Queen’s Own Highlanders to form—’

  ‘Just cut to the chase.’ Moberg was at his most irritable when things were out of his control; and McNaught roaming around Malmö was definitely one of those things.

  ‘He transferred to what is called “special operations” in 2001. Probably means the Special Air Service. We haven’t much chance of getting any information out of the military without a government request at a high level. If he was in the SAS, he may well have fought in the Second Gulf War. He was back in civilian life four years ago. Then he disappeared from sight.’

  ‘He’s good at that,’ Moberg muttered bitterly. ‘And Jack Harmer?’

  ‘The local Brighton police have informed the family. His dad is flying over tomorrow. At least we can get a DNA match – I’m afraid the body’s not really in a fit state to identify.’

  ‘Poor man.’ Moberg was capable of genuine sympathy on the odd occasion. ‘Wallen phoned in half an hour ago to say that Danny Foster is now in the safe house. We just have to make sure he stays bloody safe.’

  Anita flipped her notebook shut. Moberg returned to his seat and eased himself down. The chair sighed.

  ‘So, what are we going to do about Cassidy?’ grunted Moberg. ‘If we can’t touch him, we’re stuffed. He’s unlikely to oblige us by returning to Sweden and the scene of the crime. By the way, Brodd and the Kristianstad bunch haven’t located the camp yet. Still searching. The exercise will do Brodd good.’ It was the sort of physical exertion that the chief inspector himself should be undertaking, thought Anita.

  ‘As for Cassidy,’ she said slowly, ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  Zetterberg was like a cat on hot bricks. She paced round the Cold Case Group room, ignoring
her two junior colleagues who were waiting for her to come to some conclusion after the interview with Larissa Bjerstedt. Larissa had been allowed to go, with the proviso that she didn’t take any sudden trips abroad.

  At last, Zetterberg came to a halt in front of the suspect board. ‘We start afresh,’ she announced. ‘Except now we’re down to four. And now I‘ve broken all their alibis, the real investigating begins.’ Erlandsson and Szabo rolled their eyes. They realized that they were working with a boss who was quite happy to take all the credit for their efforts.

  ‘Is Linus Svärd no longer a suspect?’ Szabo asked.

  ‘I’m confident we’d be wasting precious time and resources on him. As I’ve said before, I’m convinced the timings are too tight to fit the scenario. And my gut instinct says he’s not capable of doing the deed. Besides, we now have people with equal opportunity, which we didn’t have before. And none of them liked Göran. Linus loved him. What we need is to find the trigger that set it all off.’

  ‘Are we including Larissa?’ Szabo asked.

  ‘Of course. She hasn’t got an alibi.’

  ‘But she admitted that.’

  ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I think it’s her way of getting back at Ivar. I’m convinced she’s done it purely out of spite. And maybe he did kill Göran, but Larissa still stays in the frame, though it’s difficult to look past Ivar and, particularly, Carina.’ The last name was spoken with some relish.

  ‘And Lars-Gunnar?’

  ‘I’m not sure about him. Larissa and Carina both confirmed he was in the garden, somewhat the worse for wear. But he wasn’t far from the chapel. He could have been there and back in the garden in a matter of minutes. As I didn’t get to speak to Lars-Gunnar, I want you, Erlandsson, to go and see him. Threaten him if necessary. I think he knows more than he’s letting on. And you can also go into the four suspects’ phone records. I want to know who’s been talking to whom since the beginning of this investigation. They all put up a united front, but now it’s starting to unravel.’

  ‘Do you want me to go with Bea to see Lars-Gunnar?’

  ‘No. We,’ she said looking directly at Szabo, ‘are going up to Stockholm and Uppsala as soon as possible. We need to have some serious conversations with Ivar and Carina. They’ve both lied in this and the original investigation. It’s time to get heavy with them – they’ve a helluva lot of explaining to do.’

  ‘You want me to do what?’ The disbelief in Kevin’s voice was heard in every syllable.

  ‘It shouldn’t be a problem. You’re a brilliant detective.’

  ‘Now you’re going over the top, Anita. I don’t mind being soft-soaped, but I know my limitations.’

  Anita had taken her time to work up to her request. He’d been delighted that she’d called, and she kept the small talk going for a few minutes. Then she’d asked him how he was filling in his days on holiday. ‘I’m watching a thing called Vikings on Amazon. It was the only Scandinavian thing I could find, as I wasn’t actually going to be spending the week with you. I’m already half way through the second series because I’ve nothing else to do.’

  ‘So you’re bored?’

  Kevin sighed. ‘Sort of. And I haven’t even got someone to be bored with,’ he said pointedly.

  ‘Well, I’ve got a cure for that.’

  Then she filled him in on the background to the Jack Harmer murder before asking him if he would like to go down to London and discover the movements of Tyrone Cassidy around the seventh and eighth of August. When he quite reasonably suggested that she go through the Met, she had to admit that that wasn’t a viable option.

  ‘So, you’re asking me, on my holiday, to snoop around some major villain who has just beaten someone to death; and this said-same violent villain the Metropolitan Police have warned you off because he’s got senior officers in his pocket?’ expostulated Kevin incredulously.

  After a short pause, Anita said: ‘And your problem is?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really. You’re bloody mad, woman. No. Correction. I’m the bloody mad one. So instead of looking forward to season three of Vikings in the comfort of my own, albeit dull, home, I’m going to be risking life and limb playing Philip bloody Marlowe with some seriously dangerous people. If either Cassidy or the Met get wind of what I’m up to, I’ll be up the flaming creek without a paddle,’ he spluttered. ‘They’ll probably snap my paddle. My career will go down the pan. And that’s looking on the bright side.’

  ‘Are you always this negative?’

  ‘Don’t play that game with me, you Swedish sorceress. And when do you want me to do this insane thing?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  She could hear him gulp at the other end of the line. ‘A last-minute train will cost a fortune.’

  ‘There you go again: being negative.’ She knew she had a nerve asking him to do her this favour, yet she never doubted that he would do it – after a bit of coaxing. But they had to play the game. ‘Look, I’ll refund the train fare.’

  ‘And what else do I get out of this? That’s if I live long enough.’

  ‘I’ll come over as soon as the case is solved.’ Then she uttered a little sexy moan. ‘And then I’ll make sure that your new bed witnesses some really hot action. I promise I’ll do things to you that’ll make you forget that you ever went to London.’

  ‘Why am I so easily bought?’ he huffed theatrically. ‘That’s the trouble with being so shallow.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ she laughed, relieved that he was on board.

  ‘One of these days, Sundström, you’re going to be the death of me.’

  Now that she was starting to appreciate how ruthless these people were, Anita fervently hoped that that wasn’t going to be prophetic.

  To Danny, the safe house was disturbingly similar to Leif Andersson’s single-storey farmhouse, which wasn’t reassuring. It was in better condition than Leif’s but appeared not to have been used for some time. Earlier in the day, he had been bustled out of a back entrance of the hospital by the female detective who had been there when the police first spoke to him. She called herself Klara something. He didn’t catch her surname. There had been four of them. They all wore casual gear, but it was obvious that they were police. He’d been bundled into a car, which hadn’t done his aching shoulder or his swollen ankle any favours. He’d sensed their nervousness; that wasn’t a positive sign either. McNaught was still out there, still gunning for him.

  He was ushered into the living room. It hadn’t much furniture other than a simple sofa and matching armchair, a wooden table with four chairs round it, and a small TV in the corner. There was a bookcase, but all the books seemed to be in Swedish. As he was trying to get his bearings, he was beginning to wonder if he should have been so candid with Inspector Sundström. It hadn’t stopped McNaught. Could they really protect him? Even if the Swedish police did intercept the madman, what then? Return to Britain? Cassidy or one of his mob would probably seek him out because as long as he was alive, he was still a danger. Even if he stayed in Sweden, Cassidy might send another assassin. Klara Wallen offered to make him a coffee, which he distractedly accepted.

  ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘we’ve found the camp.’

  Danny didn’t answer; he couldn’t see how that would help. Maybe, just maybe, if he could get word to Cassidy and promise never to be a witness against him, he would lay off him, leave him in peace. As he stared out of the window at the fields beyond, he knew that that was a hopeless thought brought on by desperation. And fear. Gut-wrenching fear.

  ‘You’ll be safe here,’ said Wallen, handing him a mug of steaming coffee. It was black. He hadn’t the energy to ask for milk. He took it blankly. His shoulder hurt. For a brief moment when he’d talked to Sundström, he had felt a weight lift from him. He had shared his horror with an empathetic listener. A listener who had assured him that McNaught would be caught. Then his nemesis had turned up – and escaped again. He was still out there. Danny anxiously scanned the fi
elds outside. But where?

  CHAPTER 37

  Anita slept incredibly well and didn’t wake until after nine. By the time she’d crawled into bed, she had been awake for thirty-six hours. She’d been so exhausted that she hadn’t even woken up in the middle of the night to worry about asking Kevin to investigate Tyrone Cassidy. When requesting the favour, she hadn’t really appreciated the possible danger he might face, but he was a big boy and could look after himself. However, now that she was brewing her first coffee of the morning, she was starting to have doubts. Maybe she’d put him under unfair pressure. She went back into her bedroom to phone him and tell him not to go. Too late: on her phone she found an SMS saying that he was on the London-bound train and would reach Euston Station just after eleven.

  Anita returned to the kitchen and noticed a scribbled note sitting on the top of the microwave. It was from Björn. He must have put it there on Monday morning.

  Sorry to have missed you last night. Are you avoiding me? Thanks for the bed for the weekend. Great catching up with Lasse and Jazmin; and isn’t Leyla a star? I think she’s going to be as stubborn as you.

  Hope you get away on holiday sometime, even if it is with your Brit boyfriend.

  See you sometime.

  Hugs and kisses,

  Björn

  PS By the way, my Lund contact confirmed that Ivar Hagblom didn’t use Björnstahl in his PhD. Any use?

  Anita held the note in her hand as the percolator hissed and bubbled ferociously behind her back. Typical of Björn in the middle of his thanks to have a dig at her private life at the same time. But that PS: Any use? She didn’t know. She couldn’t see the significance of it other than that it was strange that Ivar hadn’t used the Björnstahl letter after all. It would have been quite a coup within his academic circle. Was he the type to pass up such an opportunity? Not the Ivar that Linus Svärd had described. Maybe his heart wasn’t in it after the murder; his triumph over Göran no longer of any importance. Still...

  The drizzle streaked Bea Erlandsson’s windscreen. The weather had turned, though there was still no hint of an early autumn chill. She’d seen the forecast before she left home, and heavier rain was due this afternoon. The weather matched her mood. Zetterberg and Szabo were off to Stockholm, and she had drawn what she considered to be the short straw – Lars-Gunnar. After Larissa Bjerstedt’s revelations, Erlandsson was convinced that their murderer was either Carina Lindvall (though she hoped it wasn’t) or Ivar Hagblom. Lars-Gunnar was a sideshow. Nothing that Larissa had said had changed the evidence concerning him. Yet now she was sitting in her car watching the windscreen steam up, and having second thoughts.