Menace In Malmö

by Torquil Macleod

  ‘But if she is telling the truth, she’s given Larissa one.’

  ‘Only partly. Thumping about in the kitchen is hardly concrete. And remember, it would only have taken minutes for either of the women to leave the cottage, cross to the chapel, commit the murder, hide the skewer in the field and get back to her room.’

  ‘Except Larissa doesn’t appear to have a motive. Disliking someone is hardly a reason for murdering them. On the face of it, Ivar doesn’t seem to have an obvious motive either, other than he and Göran being highly competitive.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Göran hit on him on Malta, showing that he didn’t care as much for Linus as everybody thought. Ivar didn’t like the way Göran was treating his best friend, and the advance just exacerbated that dislike.’

  Szabo moved his leg to let a mother and young child past as they headed for the toilet. ‘What do we hope to get out of Ivar?’

  ‘Why he got two women to lie for him. And still lie for him twenty-one years on.’

  Szabo now knew that Ivar Hagblom had a lot more questions than that to answer.

  CHAPTER 39

  Kevin Ash got out his mobile phone. The coffee was steaming in front of him in what looked like a soup bowl: there was no handle. He was still trying to work out how to pick it up. The coffee shop was near the top end of Highgate High Street before its dramatic descent towards Archway. Outside, the street was busy. Every street in London seemed busy to Kevin; bees buzzing, frenetically focussed on their own purpose. No one seemed to walk anywhere. In genteel Highgate, the locals weren’t exactly rushing, but they were still moving with determination. After the initial thrill of being back in a big city, he found that it had only taken a matter of hours for the feeling to dissipate, and he found himself thinking fondly about the fells of the Lake District.

  Mind you, the prices hadn’t helped: this coffee was so expensive, he’d reneged on buying the chocolate brownie he’d had his eye on; and before entering the café, he’d spent a couple of minutes staring in an estate agent’s window and had nearly fainted at the money being asked for very modest dwellings. The world was going mad. Well, London was. In a trendy bric-a-brac shop, he’d seen a renovated garden chair for £250. It was exactly the same type as his ex-wife had thrown out for being too old-fashioned. It had ended up in a skip in the Byker tip, Newcastle’s finest recycling dump. Recycling down here was money for old rope; no doubt old rope went for an arm and a leg as well.

  These had been incidental distractions from his main purpose of locating Tyrone Cassidy’s residence and doing Anita’s bidding. He’d found Cassidy’s home in a leafy street that reeked wealth. It was gated, and it was difficult to see the house beyond the high walls and umbrageous trees. But he could tell it was a big Victorian pile. Too late, he’d spied a CCTV camera. He’d be on there. Hopefully, they’d just think he was an inquisitive passer-by. Then he’d done the rounds of local shops to try and glean some information about Mr Cassidy, who turned out to be well known and well respected. What he’d found out wasn’t helpful.

  ‘Hello,’ he said cheerily when Anita answered the phone.

  ‘Any luck?’ she immediately asked.

  ‘What about, how are you? How was your journey? How’s your holiday?’

  ‘I didn’t bother because I assume you’re having fun. But what about Cassidy?’

  ‘You’re single-minded, you. Nothing much to report so far. I found Cassidy’s gaff. Must be worth millions. The prices round here are eye-watering. Everybody I’ve spoken to thinks he’s the bee’s knees. Haven’t heard anyone say a bad word about him. Are you sure you’ve got the right man?’

  ‘He’s a brutal businessman who exploits vulnerable young men. He’s also a killer.’

  ‘Is that all? The people I’ve spoken to are a bit vague about what they think he actually does, other than being a successful businessman. One shopkeeper said that he thought Cassidy was in the building trade. He also said that a couple of years ago, he had a big extension built on his house, and he now runs his business from there. Which is a pity, as that means he hasn’t got an office I can visit. That’s the sort of place you can get information about his movements. So, that’s a dead end.’

  Anita was quiet at the other end. ‘No chance of breaking in?’

  He realized he’d just said ‘Fuck off!’ loudly, and he got some stern and disapproving looks from the other clientele as they tore their gazes away from their phones. He responded with a quickly mouthed ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Who are you saying “sorry” to?’

  He lowered his voice: ‘The nice people frequenting this coffee shop. It’s so posh that they serve coffee in cups without handles so you can’t pick them up until your drink has gone cold. And you pay a fortune for the privilege.’ He heard her chortle at the other end of the line. ‘Look, there’s no way I can get into Cassidy’s home. It’s like Fort Knox. Besides, it would be inadmissible in court.’

  ‘I know,’ she said gloomily. ‘It’s just that we’re getting nowhere here. We can’t work out how he got in and out of the country. We can’t even prove he was in Sweden at all. We’ve only got Danny Foster’s word for it.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Yes, I do. So, what’s your next move?’

  ‘To drink this coffee when the cup becomes touchable.’

  ‘Stop mucking about, Kevin. Remember my promise if you succeed,’ she said seductively. ‘Though I might not be allowed into the UK after Brexit.’

  ‘That’s a thought. There are plans to deport EU undesirables. Lucky for you, you’re very desirable.’

  ‘Flattery will only get you so far. Results will ensure you can go all the way.’

  ‘Well, I’d better see what I can do.’

  Zetterberg and Szabo eventually tracked down Ivar Hagblom having a late- afternoon cup of tea outside the cathedral. They had been directed there by his wife, and he was already expecting them. The weather in Uppsala was far pleasanter than it had been when they had set off from Malmö at the crack of dawn. Ivar was sitting at one of the outside tables; an empty plate with lingering crumbs of cake, a pot of tea and a half-filled cup in front of him. The beautiful, tall twin spires of the cathedral pierced the blue of the firmament in their never-ending quest to reach God.Ivar greeted them with a smile. ‘I often come here for afternoon tea. I can pretend to be British. And it’s an inspiring view of a truly great ecclesiastical building. It’s my favourite. Just look at the sun on the brick – it makes it look as though it’s on fire. A good place to escape from the library and my more earnest students.’

  Zetterberg was in no mood for small talk. ‘I think we’ll need somewhere more private.’

  ‘Oh, dear, is it that bad?’ The accompanying smile was self-mocking.

  They wandered up from the cathedral through the trees towards the back of the adjacent castle without anyone saying a word. All were gathering their thoughts, though the climb was starting to tell on Zetterberg.

  ‘That’s far enough,’ she ordered, slightly out of breath. ‘No one can hear us.’

  They had rounded the corner of the salmon-pink-stuccoed, rectangular building and were standing with their backs to the multi-fenestrated heights which comprised the rear wall. A detached wooden bell tower presided over a stand of cannon to their right; Szabo was struck by the similarity to the more modest one at Knäbäckshusen. From this vantage point, they had a splendid view of the Botanical Gardens with their symmetrical lines and geometrical topiary, and, further along the skyline, the cathedral and university town. Szabo had never been to Uppsala before. Maybe he’d bring his girlfriend for a romantic weekend when this was all over.

  ‘Obviously, I know why you’re here,’ Ivar said, opening the conversation. He was resting casually, arms folded, against the metal railing that cordoned off the bell tower. ‘Carina phoned me after you left her this morning. Larissa spilled the beans.’

  ‘Serious beans.’

  ‘I appreciate that. It’s been on my con
science all these years, Alice.’

  The friendly use of her name cut no ice with Zetterberg any more. ‘If it was on your conscience, why were you still lying about it to me last week? You all were.’

  ‘Protecting ourselves, I suppose. In case you mistakenly started thinking it was one of us.’

  ‘Yes, it was interesting that when we last spoke, you indicated that you thought it was Linus.’

  ‘That was the unfortunate conclusion I came to. To be perfectly honest, though I can’t condone what he did, I don’t blame him entirely. Göran was good at pushing people to their limits. I assume you’ve talked to Linus?’

  ‘Oh, I have, Ivar.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at the professor. ‘I can call you, Ivar?’

  He flashed a deprecating smile. ‘Of course, Alice.’

  ‘Well, Ivar, you might be surprised to know that we don’t think it was Linus. In fact, I’m almost certain.’ This conclusion produced a fleeting look of puzzlement from Ivar.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said uncertainly. Zetterberg knew she had got him on the back foot.

  ‘For him, yes. For the rest of you, no. Not one of you has an alibi.’

  ‘Then it’s serious.’ Ivar had quickly regained his composure. ‘Time for the truth. After the barbecue, I went off to try and find Linus. I was afraid he might do something stupid. I thought he might be suicidal. As it happens, I didn’t find him. When I came back, all hell was let loose down at the chapel.’

  ‘So, when did you decide to get the girls to alibi you?’

  He thought for a minute. ‘I suppose fairly quickly. We were all interviewed briefly that first night. Can’t remember who came up with the sex idea. Anyway, it fitted. And then I thought it was a good idea to get Carina to corroborate it, as she hadn’t an alibi either. She was working in her room, but no one had seen her. She was happy to cooperate.’

  ‘I bet she was. Presumably, she was easily persuaded, as you were screwing her behind your girlfriend’s back.’ Zetterberg wanted to build up the pressure.

  Ivar cringed. ‘So, you know about that? Not my finest hour.’

  ‘And did Larissa know?’

  ‘Heavens, no! I made sure that didn’t happen. She was bad enough when we did break up. If she had known then, we’d have finished long before we did.’

  The wind began to pick up, and the trees down the embankment swayed gently. Splashes of blue fought for space in a clouding sky. Zetterberg seemed distracted as though she was sensing this wasn’t playing out as she’d hoped. Ivar was too confident. He wasn’t back-peddling as she’d expected. She tried Björnstahl.

  ‘My little chats with your old friend Linus revealed what you’d discovered on Malta; the thing you were being so vague about when we last talked. It was a letter written by Jacob Björnstahl.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I gather in your sort of academic circles it was quite a find. Yet you didn’t want Göran to know anything about it. Is that correct?’

  ‘You could say so. It wasn’t something I would want to share with a rival.’

  ‘So he was definitely a rival?’

  ‘We were doing the same thing, in the same field, with the likelihood that we’d end up going for the same jobs.’

  ‘So, why didn’t you use it in your PhD?’ Zetterberg swung round to face Szabo. Where had this come from?

  It was Ivar’s turn to be distracted. A group of tourists were walking up the flight of steps leading up from the Gardens to the castle. ‘I couldn’t use it.’

  ‘Why?’ Szabo pressed.

  ‘Why?’ There was a doleful tone to his voice. ‘Because it disappeared. I lost it.’

  ‘Lost it?’ Zetterberg said, seizing back the initiative from Szabo. ‘When did you lose it?’

  ‘It was... erm... it was around the time of Göran’s...’

  ‘You had it at the cottage at Knäbäckshusen?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t want to leave it at the university. While we were at the cottage, I did some work on my thesis.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw it?’

  ‘That has driven me mad over the years. A few days before, I think. It was in our bedroom. I kept it in the bottom drawer of an old chest.’

  ‘And when did you realize it had gone missing?’

  ‘The day before the... But I just thought I must have misplaced it. There was a lot of drink consumed at that time.’

  ‘And drugs.’

  ‘And drugs,’ he conceded. ‘Then with the whole Göran business, the last thing I thought about was the Björnstahl letter. It was a few days later that I searched for it. Gone! It’s tortured me ever since. Was I so intoxicated or high that I’d done something with it? It’s the greatest regret of my career. And now that I’m at the same university where Björnstahl made his name, I’m constantly reminded of what I missed out on. I let a golden opportunity slip through my fingers.’

  ‘Could it have been stolen?’

  Ivar’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Stolen? Who would want to steal it?’

  ‘We know Larissa and Linus knew about it. Either of them could have.’

  Ivar shook his head vehemently. ‘No. No way. Larissa wasn’t interested. And Linus had no cause to. It wouldn’t have been of any use to him.’

  ‘Göran then?’

  ‘He didn’t know anything about it. I know he suspected I had something, but not that.’

  ‘What about his threat to Carina that you would suffer the most? If he had stolen the letter, that would have been a brilliant way of getting back at you.’

  ‘But he couldn’t have known about it. Only two other people knew of its existence.’

  ‘So, what about Linus?’ ventured Szabo, who was fed up being sidelined. ‘You’ve admitted that his relationship with Göran was at a low ebb. Could Linus have been desperate enough to win back his lover by giving away your secret?’

  ‘Look, Linus may have been many things, but he was always loyal to his friends. More than I have been, shamefully.’

  Zetterberg eyed Ivar, who was no longer the self-assured man of a few minutes ago. He had given them much to ponder. She was about to conclude the chat when Szabo weighed in again.

  ‘Why did your family put pressure on Prosecutor Renmarker to stall the case?’

  Both Zetterberg and Ivar were left open-mouthed.

  ‘What’s this?’ demanded Zetterberg.

  ‘Apparently, to ensure that the investigation went no further and that Inspector Nordlund and his team couldn’t interrogate Linus, Prosecutor Renmarker was, shall we say, “leant on” by a journalist from one of the Hagblom newspapers.’

  Zetterberg only just managed to hide her fury that Szabo was coming out with information that she wasn’t privy to. ‘Is this true?’

  The colour had drained from Ivar’s face.

  CHAPTER 40

  It was a pint that Kevin reckoned he deserved for all the tramping around he’d done on Anita’s behalf. One thing he did still like about London was the pubs, and this was a satisfying example. It was an old building on Highgate High Street with a dark, wood-panelled interior that gave it a Dickensian feel and an intimate atmosphere. There were cricket photos on the wall, so it must be the watering hole of some local team. Kevin had taken his pint and packet of peanuts, a winning combination in his mind, out through the back door to an extremely compact beer garden with wooden tables and benches. The drinking area overlooked Pond Square. The Square was ill-defined; the grit-overlaid expanse was more triangular in shape. Huge plane trees added interest, and the hotchpotch of well-kept Georgian houses on the periphery gave it an ambience of refinement. At one end, there was a public convenience, opposite which was the imposing white facade of the Highgate Literary and Scientific Institution. Kevin was starting to feel vaguely uncomfortable in this high-brow, high-maintenance world. And the only thing that would quell his disquiet was another pint of the excellent beer he’d just finished.

  He was about to rise when a suited figure slipped onto the bench
on the other side of the table. He was greeted by a half smile. The man was immaculately dressed with a sharp blue tie and crisp white shirt. He was tanned, with thinning hair that had gone grey at the temples. His nose was a prominent feature. It seemed to be pointing accusingly at Kevin, who was now firmly seated again. The grey eyes weren’t smiling. To anyone else, this could have been a well-heeled, middle-aged businessman who had popped into the pub on his way home from work. But to Kevin, he was nothing of the sort. He could smell a cop a mile off. A Met cop.

  ‘If you think I’m buying you a pint, you’re going to be disappointed,’ Kevin said as he examined the new arrival.

  ‘That’s not very friendly. But I’ll pass on that. Just here for a little chat.’

  ‘OK. I like football, cricket, pubs, history... now I do like history. Do you want to start with that?’

  ‘No,’ said the man, fishing a piece of paper from his inside pocket. He laid it out on the table and used the palm of his hand to iron out the creases. ‘This.’ He swizzled round the A4 piece of paper so that Kevin could see it. Kevin recognized his own face. A CCTV image. It was a close-up of him standing outside Tyrone Cassidy’s house.

  ‘Nice house,’ said Kevin. ‘I was thinking about buying it.’

  ‘It’s not for sale.’ Then the man gave Kevin a disparaging glance. ‘You couldn’t afford that house, even in your dreams.’

  ‘A man’s entitled to dream.’

  ‘You’ve not only been hanging around Mr Cassidy’s house—’

  ‘Oh, is that the owner’s name?’

  ‘You’ve been asking questions about him.’

  ‘I like to know who I’m buying off. Why are you so interested? Are you his estate agent?’

  The man wasn’t appreciating the humour. His hand went back into his inside suit pocket, and out came his warrant card. Kevin read: Detective Inspector Nicholas Sherington. He recognized the name. Anita had mentioned it over the phone – this was her Met contact and ex-colleague. That was a bit of a shock.