‘And what has my chatting to a few pleasant Highgate folk got to do with the Met?’
‘Because we like to protect our important citizens. They’re entitled to their privacy. And since we got this,’ he said, tapping Kevin’s photo with a finger sporting a bulging gold ring, ‘we’ve done a bit of checking on you. Turns out you’re one of our own.’
‘I’m not one of yours. I come from a proper force.’
‘Don’t make me laugh. A load of sheep-shaggers.’
‘We care as much about our sheep as you do about your important citizens.’
‘No need for the lip. I can’t understand why someone with your accent ended up in some northern hole with a bunch of hillbillies. But that’s your problem. Let’s get down to business. My guess is that you’ve got some connection with Anita Sundström.’ Kevin didn’t reply. ‘She’s sent you down here to snoop around. She’s not only beautiful, but determined. Bet she’s still a great shag,’ he said winking suggestively. ‘The whole squad were trying to get into her knickers when she was with us.’ He left the implication hanging that he might have succeeded. Kevin resisted the urge to punch him in the face. ‘I tried to warn her politely that Cassidy is off limits. She’s wrong to pursue him.’
‘That’s not the only thing she got wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She told me you were a straight cop.’
Sherington was suddenly all controlled fury, and he stabbed the same ringed finger towards Kevin’s chest. ‘Look here, Ash. I’ll spell it out so even someone as stupid as you can understand. You’re to leave Tyrone Cassidy well alone. He’s out of your reach – and Anita’s. If you carry on, you can say goodbye to your career. When we’ve finished with you, you’ll have nothing left except your fucking sheep. And if you hang around these parts for much longer, Mr Cassidy’s friends might take exception, and you’ll end up joining Karl Marx in the cemetery down the road there. Get my drift? Go home.’
Kevin rose to his feet and picked up his empty pint glass. ‘I hope you’re not still here when I come back.’ He untangled his legs from the bench. ‘And I’ll send Anita your love.’
Zetterberg, too, was on the beer. She put her empty glass down. ‘I’ll have another.’ Szabo was only half way through his first drink. However, he felt unable to refuse the boss given that he had seriously upset her earlier on.
They were in the bar of Sherlock’s in Klostergatan. It was a boozy shrine to Conan Doyle’s great detective and an appropriate setting to discuss a police investigation. Zetterberg had soon become bored with the pleasant barman who was trying to explain in enthusiastic detail the huge number of beers available. She’d just pointed at one and said she’d have that. She’d actually paid for the first drinks while Szabo escaped to the toilet, which was an experience in itself. The room was adorned with Sherlock Holmes paraphernalia and through an antiquated speaker, the sound track from one of the Basil Rathbone Hollywood films in which he’d played the world’s most famous sleuth in the ’30s and ’40s came crackling out. Szabo, peeing in such incongruous surroundings, found the whole episode delightfully disconcerting.
After they’d finished with a shaken Ivar Hagblom, Zetterberg said that it was too late to head south to Malmö and they’d have to stay the night in Uppsala. She’d found a cheap hotel, and then they’d headed straight to the pub; not, however, before giving Szabo a blast as to how he knew about the PhD and Prosecutor Renmarker. He’d tried to brush it off by saying that it had come from Erlandsson, which was true. Zetterberg had been furious that Erlandsson hadn’t reported directly to her. She would have words when they got back on Wednesday. In the meantime, she was still cross that he hadn’t passed on the information. He’d apologized profusely and said that it was a misjudgement on his part. He hadn’t been sure how reliable the information was. It was a feeble excuse, and one that didn’t wash with Zetterberg, whom he knew would hold it against him in the future. He had sussed out that she was that kind of person. Nevertheless, she did concede that it had stunned Ivar, and his rather rambling explanation had satisfied neither of them.
Ivar admitted that it was he, not his father, who had approached the editor of one of the Hagblom newspapers. The man was an old family friend – and his godfather. He wanted to see if there was any way to stop the potentially bad press coverage that would inevitably surround the case once someone was charged. They would all have to appear in court, and their lives would be scrutinized in great detail. And he realized that if he got embroiled in a murderous scandal, it could seriously affect his future chances. Also, he claimed that he had wanted to save his friend Linus, as it was becoming clear that the police were closing in on him. The editor had put Ivar onto his leading investigative reporter, who had looked into the private lives of the main members of the investigation team and the prosecutor. He’d found nothing incriminating on the team members, but had been able to firm up on rumours about Renmarker, who had a bit of a reputation concerning female colleagues. It was simple then to apply the appropriate pressure. The prosecutor was easily persuaded. Renmarker had met Ivar and explained that if he would call off the press snooping into his private life, the investigation would go nowhere.
Zetterberg plunged into her second pint before speaking. ‘Is Ivar our man?’
‘It’s not looking good for him.’
‘How have the mighty fallen.’ She took another long gulp. She’d have downed her second before he’d finished his first at this rate. It might be a long evening. Szabo had a sudden, horrible thought: would she try it on with him?
‘Ivar and Göran have become great academic rivals,’ Zetterberg carried on. ‘So there’s tension already when they meet up in Knäbäckshusen. Malta is where it all started to go wrong. Göran is beginning to fall out of love with Linus; that’s if he really cared for him in the first place. This in itself upsets his friend Ivar, and Göran trying to snog him won’t have helped. Then Ivar discovers this Björnstahl material and is cock-a-hoop. This upsets Göran because he doesn’t know what it is. It’s probably eating away at Göran, especially if Linus won’t tell him. Or did Linus tell him? In that position, wouldn’t you?’
‘If I was desperate to keep my lover. Probably.’
‘I think when things were going from bad to worse at Knäbäckshusen, Göran wanted to get back at the rest of the group, who were starting to reject him. I believe his threat to Carina about Ivar suffering wasn’t just him venting his frustration, as Larissa claimed. I think he’d found out about the Björnstahl letter from Linus. That’s it! Linus spilled the beans, and Göran pinched the letter. Ivar admitted he’d been looking for it just before the murder. So, what did Göran do with it?’
Szabo was becoming excited. He clicked his fingers. ‘He burnt it! He bloody burnt it!’
Zetterberg’s eyes were ablaze. ‘Of course! His last words. That’s it, isn’t it? So, that night, Ivar comes back from looking for Linus, whom he doesn’t find.’ She put her glass down with a thump. ‘Or maybe he did, and Linus confesses that he’s told Göran about Björnstahl. Whatever. Ivar comes back, finds the skewer on the beach, sees Göran go into the chapel and follows him. He confronts Göran with the awful thing his rival has done – or, if he didn’t already know, a gloating Göran tells him that he’s burnt his precious letter. It tips him over the edge.’
‘And then he starts covering up,’ said Szabo, who was getting caught up in Zetterberg’s enthusiasm. ‘He gets the two girls to alibi him and then gets the investigation derailed. He was seriously taken aback when that was mentioned. He must have presumed that would always remain a secret.’
‘We’ve got to get back to Malmö as soon as possible tomorrow. I’ve got to see Prosecutor Blom straightaway and present our findings. I think she’ll agree we’ve got enough to officially bring Ivar down to Malmö for questioning. Then we can squeeze the truth out of him.’
Anita watched Danny Foster as he sat fidgeting near the living room window. The blind was down. She had
come back in after seeing the doctor out. The medic had said that Danny was all right, though he’d be happier if he were back in hospital. Anita had promised him that as soon as the matter was cleared up, she would personally return the patient to his care. She saw Danny lean forward to peek round the blind.
‘No!’ Anita ordered firmly. Danny sprang back, startled. He groaned, as he’d hurt both his ankle and his wounded shoulder in the process. ‘Sorry, but when it’s dark, we don’t want you looking out.’
‘In case I make myself a target.’ There was nothing Anita could say to deny it. She was annoyed with herself for betraying the tension that she and all her colleagues on duty were feeling after Kevin had called to tell her about his “accidental” meeting in a Highgate pub with DI Nick Sherington. The implication was clear – Cassidy would now know they were after him. She’d immediately spoken to Moberg about heightening security at the safe house. And to ensure that she was on top of things, she had decided to spend that night with Danny and the three officers scheduled for the overnight shift.
‘Why can’t you catch McNaught?’ Danny said accusingly as he sat down again.
‘It’s under control.’ Anita wished it were. ‘And you’re safe here.’ She could tell Danny was dubious.
‘What about Mr Cassidy? How are you going to deal with him?’
‘We’ve got a team working on in it London.’ That was a horrible lie, and she felt awful for deluding the young man, but what else could she do? Tell him that their only hope had been scuppered by a dodgy cop at the Met?
A tall, blond policeman brought in a couple a mugs of tea. Danny took one without a glance in the officer’s direction. Anita took hers with a nod of thanks. The officer left the room.
‘How did I get into this mess?’ Danny gazed at the steam slowly rising from his mug.
‘Life’s difficult. Things happen.’ It seemed an inadequate response. ‘I’ve a son about your age.’
Danny craned his neck up to look at Anita. ‘You don’t think of policewomen having kids. Don’t know why.’
‘We’ve had our ups and downs. Like you and your dad.’
He smirked. ‘If he could see me now, I’d get “I told you so, you no-good...” That sort of thing.’
‘I’m sure he’d be worried.’
‘No. He’d say I’ve got what I deserved.’
‘All parents worry, even if they don’t let on.’
Danny picked up his mug and blew on it. It rippled the surface of the milky tea. ‘I bet your son has never got into a bloody nightmare like this.’
‘He did once.’ Anita’s mind flitted back to the pier at Ribersborgsstranden. She still shivered every time she thought about it. ‘Like you, it wasn’t his fault. You can’t blame yourself.’
He sipped his tea thoughtfully.
‘Jack Harmer’s dad flew in today. It’s a nightmare for him and Jack’s family.’
Danny put his mug down. His eyes were tearing up. ‘Poor Jack. I don’t think I can take any more of this. I’m so frightened.’ Anita resisted her natural instinct to give the young man a supportive hug.
‘It’ll come to an end soon.’
‘Will it? Even if you catch McNaught, I’ll never be safe. Cassidy has people. There’ll be other McNaughts.’
‘We’ll protect you. I promise.’ She didn’t have time for more reassurances. The tall officer who’d brought the tea returned. Without speaking, he gave Anita an anxious glance. She was needed.
Anita closed the living room door behind her and followed the officer quickly down the corridor to the kitchen where another colleague, whom she recognized as Mikael Palm, was standing nervously near the window.
‘There may be someone outside. Nina Kovac thought she heard something.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s gone out there.’
A headstrong, impulsive policewoman wasn’t what was needed just now. ‘Right,’ Anita turned to the tall young man, ‘you go back in there and keep an eye on Danny. Turn the lights off, and for God’s sake keep him away from the windows.’ The officer swiftly left.
Anita pulled out her service pistol. ‘OK, Mikael, you go round the front and check all is clear. I’ll go out the back and try not to shoot bloody Nina.’ She flipped off the kitchen light and stepped through the back door. All was quiet. The grass was damp from the day’s rain. The dark clouds were now dispersing, and a waxing gibbous moon had broken through and was gleaming on the countryside around. The garden at the back of the house stretched towards a field beyond, which had recently been ploughed. It wouldn’t be ideal for McNaught to approach from that direction. The front wasn’t an easy option either, as here there was a long, straight drive down to the main road: no cover. But at the side of the house, there was a small copse of trees and some thick bushes at the boundary edge. She hunched down, her pistol held firmly in both hands in front of her. She listened intently. There was a faint sound coming from the direction of the copse. The crack of a twig. Anita tensed. As her eyes got used to the semi-dark, she could see a figure moving carefully among the bushes. She slowly unwound and stood up, her pistol pointing in the direction of the shape, her finger hovering over the trigger.
The figure stepped out from the shadow of the trees. A splash of moonlight lit up the unmistakable outline of a handgun in its hand.
‘Don’t move!’ Anita shouted out in English. ‘Drop the gun or I’ll shoot!’
‘It’s only me, Inspector,’ came back the reply in Swedish. ‘It’s Nina. It’s OK. Nothing out here.’
Anita exploded.
CHAPTER 41
St. Jerome’s & St. Jude’s was an uninspiring 1960s red-brick building with a tower that resembled a chimney stack. Originally, Kevin had assumed that someone with the money and influence of Tyrone Cassidy would have worshipped at the magnificent, domed St. Joseph’s on Highgate Hill. Maybe the well-established, wealthy worshippers there thought a newcomer flashing his cash was a bit vulgar for them. Instead, the more down-at-heel St. Jerome’s & St. Jude’s had benefitted from his munificence – the giveaway was the spanking new hall next door. Kevin realized this was his last chance.
After his meeting with DI Nick Sherington, he’d phoned Anita. She’d been deeply shocked that the detective she once knew had been bought by backhanders and had joined the ranks of the corrupt. It had also set alarm bells ringing. If Cassidy was aware of someone sniffing around, it was even more imperative from his point of view that McNaught deal with Danny.
‘We’ll have to be extra vigilant.’ Then her voice softened. ‘So will you, my darling.’ He couldn’t remember her calling him ‘darling’ before. He was thrilled. ‘I shouldn’t have got you involved. It’s too dangerous. Go back to Penrith tomorrow and forget about it.’
‘Does that make your promise null and void?’
She sniggered. ‘No. You did your best.’
‘You know Sherington hinted that you and he...’ He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t raise the subject, but it just slipped out.
‘Give me a break! I liked Nick, but I wouldn’t have gone to bed with him. Kevin Ash, my first rule has always been: never sleep with a cop. But I made an exception for you.’
Kevin felt foolish yet relieved, but Sherington had rattled him.
‘Sorry, it’s just...’
‘Look.’ Anita sounded concerned again. ‘Please. Please go home tomorrow. No more investigating. It was a bad idea in the first place. I don’t want you ending up in Highgate Cemetery.’
‘That’s because you’d have to pay an entrance fee every time you wanted to visit me.’
But in the end, he had promised. All the same, he was still standing outside St. Jerome’s and St. Jude’s. He knew it was partly because he still wanted to help Anita. But mainly it was because he wasn’t going to be warned off by a shit like Sherington.
The door creaked as he opened it. Inside, it was quiet. Unlike some of the Catholic churches he’d visited over the years, with their chapels and statu
es and over-the-top paintings and ornamentation, this was quite simple. And none of the claustrophobic darkness of the older churches; light flooded in through the clear-glass windows. Rows of plain wooden seats serried up to the altar, which was dwarfed by a gaudy mosaic of Christ on the Cross behind it. Now that the building was fifty years old, it was beginning to show its age and could have done with a lick of paint. Beside the altar was a woman in her seventies, who was gathering up the wilting flowers from last Sunday’s service.
‘Hello,’ Kevin ventured as an opening. ‘What a lovely church!’
The woman had tightly-curled, grey hair and bright eyes beaming out from a lined, careworn face. She may have ended up in Highgate, but this was someone who’d seen life. She wore an old-fashioned, brightly patterned, nylon full-length apron like the one Kevin’s gran used to wear for doing the housework.
‘It is, it is. Welcome to St. Jerome’s & St. Jude’s.’ The accent was unmistakeably Irish. ‘Have you come to pray, young man? If so, I will leave you in peace.’
‘Well, actually,’ he began, switching on his most winning smile, ‘I was wondering if you could help me.’
‘Father Goodwin is the man you should be speaking to.’
‘I’m sure you’re just as good. Is Tyrone Cassidy one of your fellow worshippers?’
She slowly put the bedraggled flowers in a plastic trug and eyed him suspiciously. ‘And who are you to ask?’
Kevin automatically reached inside his jacket for his warrant card and then stopped himself. It would get back to Sherington if he used his police authority. All the same, he took it out and flashed it so quickly she had no chance to read it. ‘I’m a journalist. The name’s Peter.’ Where that came from, he had no idea. ‘Erm... Peter O’Toole.’
‘Gracious me! Fancy having the same name as that actor fellow. Any relation?’
‘Yes, actually,’ he found himself saying. ‘Er, yes. On my mother’s side.’
‘Your mother’s side?’ she queried.
Menace In Malmö Page 29