Menace In Malmö

by Torquil Macleod

  Christ, he was useless at this improvising. Anita was much quicker thinking on her feet. ‘Yes, yes. She was an O’Toole as well. Both my parents were called O’Toole. Their ancestors came over after the famine.’

  ‘It’s common enough,’ she conceded, though he could tell she wasn’t entirely satisfied.

  He pressed on swiftly before she had time to work out he was talking drivel. ‘You see I work for... for the Northern Catholic.’

  ‘I have to confess I haven’t heard of it.’

  ‘It’s only a small monthly publication covering the Catholic parishes of my part of the north of England.’

  ‘You don’t sound as if you come from the north.’

  ‘No, I was brought up in Essex. But it was God’s wish that I head north and do his work up there among the heathens.’ She remained stony-faced. ‘Sorry, do you mind if I ask you what your name is?’

  ‘Why?’ she said defensively.

  Kevin whipped out his notebook. ‘So I can use it in my article. That’s why I’m here. We’re doing a series of features on great modern Catholic benefactors, and Tyrone Cassidy was an obvious choice.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say, young man?’ The beam returned. ‘I’m Mrs Dillon. Kathleen Dillon,’ she added shyly.

  Kevin pretended to write her name down. ‘Kathleen, if I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, I’m doing this article on Mr Cassidy because my editor wants to put a little pressure on some of our richer parishioners up north. From what we’ve heard about Mr Cassidy, he’s exceedingly generous.’

  ‘Oh my, yes.’ Her pride was clear. ‘Do you know he paid for the entire cost of our new church hall?’

  ‘That’s staggering.’

  ‘He’s got a heart of gold, that man. Truly sent here by God.’

  ‘And I assume he attends Mass regularly every Sunday?’

  ‘Of course he does. Brings all the family, too. So nice. And then afterwards he always comes to our coffee and tea in the hall and mixes with the other members of the congregation.’

  ‘Except when he’s away on business, I suppose.’ Kevin was trying to get round to Sunday, the 7th of August, which was when Cassidy might well have gone to Sweden – the murder was committed the next day, according to Anita.

  ‘I don’t think that happens. Holidays obviously.’ Then she frowned and patted down her apron. ‘Funny you should mention that; he did leave straight after the service the other week. Off somewhere, as he’d didn’t come to the hall afterwards.’

  ‘Can you remember which Sunday? It’s just that I can follow this up and explain to my readers that even when he has important business, he still finds time to attend church.’

  She nodded in agreement. ‘You’re right, Peter. Well, let me think on it. It was just over two weeks ago.’

  ‘Would that be the seventh? Just for accuracy. I pride myself on getting all my facts right.’

  ‘Yes. You’re right, there. That was the very day.’

  For the next fifteen minutes Kathleen Dillon filled Kevin in on all the wonderful things that Cassidy did for the church; the St. Patrick’s Day parties, funding Sunday-school outings, and providing hampers at Christmas for the elderly members of the congregation who were no longer fit or able enough to make the pilgrimage to the church and enjoy the pensioners’ festive lunch in the hall. Kevin was now getting bored and was in the process of extricating himself from the now-garrulous Irishwoman. He had confirmed that Cassidy had headed off somewhere on that particular Sunday, but that by itself was of little use. He hadn’t got anywhere. He would head for Euston and get the first train back to Penrith.

  He was saying goodbye and thank you to Mrs Dillon while stepping slowly backwards in the direction of the church entrance, with his new friend in equally slow pursuit. Then she clapped her hands together. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what is my memory like? I’m getting that... what is it?... dyslexia?’

  Kevin’s heart sank. She’d thought of another thing that Saint Tyrone had done.

  ‘My sister. My dear, departed sister, Maureen.’

  Kevin tried to unglaze his eyes.

  ‘She died of cancer last year.’ The relevance was lost on Kevin. ‘Before she died, Tyrone Cassidy fulfilled her last wish to visit Lourdes.’

  ‘Very considerate,’ Kevin mumbled appropriately.

  ‘He flew her there. And me. With Father Goodwin, too, and three other elderly members of the church.’

  ‘That must have cost him a bit in air fares.’

  ‘Oh, no. We went in his private plane.’

  Kevin stood rigidly in front of her, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling. ‘Tyrone Cassidy has a private plane?’

  There was a big red circle drawn round the photo of Ivar Hagblom. As soon as Zetterberg and Szabo had arrived back after their early-morning flight from Arlanda, they had made straight for the polishus and were gathering the evidence for Zetterberg to present to Prosecutor Blom. Szabo was feeling hungover after far too many drinks at Sherlock’s the night before. Zetterberg seemed totally unaffected. Szabo had been grateful that she hadn’t propositioned him, though she had patted him on the head like a dog as he made for his hotel room. Erlandsson was feeling tremulous, as she was expecting Zetterberg to ask her where she had got her information from about Ivar’s PhD dissertation (that could be explained simply enough by saying she had contacted someone at Lund University) and the blackmailing of Prosecutor Renmarker (not so easy to give details without bringing Anita Sundström’s name into the frame). In fact, much to her relief, Zetterberg didn’t broach either subject.

  The case they were forming against Ivar Hagblom was compelling, but hardly watertight. Though the incidents in the escalation of his fractious relationship with Göran over the months leading up to the latter’s death were not in themselves enough to commit murder, the revelation of Göran’s probable discovery and subsequent burning of the Björnstahl letter was certainly enough to push Ivar over the edge. A real motive. Though Ivar had denied that Göran knew of the existence of the letter, surely he must have known. All the friends had heard Göran’s threat to Carina about Ivar. Surely Ivar must have put two and two together when he couldn’t find the letter just before the murder? But it was his subsequent actions that pointed to his guilt. He had no alibi and had coerced the two women in his life to provide one. Then his putting Prosecutor Renmarker under pressure to stall the case, in itself an illegal action as it was tantamount to blackmail, was the clincher as far as Zetterberg was concerned.

  ‘Won’t Blom want us to eliminate the other suspects before she allows us to go ahead with official questioning of Ivar?’ asked Erlandsson.

  ‘Of course she will,’ said Zetterberg in some annoyance, implying she was about to move onto that anyway. Referring to the photos on the board: ‘I’ve discounted Linus for reasons I’ve set out before. The timing from when he was seen on the beach to when Kurt Jeppsson heard the murderer leave the chapel was very tight. The original investigation thought the motive was to do with their broken-down relationship. I have to disagree. I think he loved Göran too much to murder him. Of course, he may have unwittingly caused his lover’s death by admitting to Ivar that he had told Göran about the Björnstahl letter. He denies doing so, however.’

  ‘We’ve tracked Lars-Gunnar down,’ said Erlandsson. ‘He stupidly used his mobile, which was traced to his in-laws’ holiday home on Öland. Taken refuge there. According to the local police who picked him up, he said he’d been freaked out by all the memories brought back by the reopening of the investigation. It rings true in light of his recent behaviour.’ Szabo nodded in agreement.

  ‘I’ll go with that,’ said Zetterberg briskly. ‘And all the others did say that they thought he was out of it on the night of the murder. That was one thing they’ve been consistent about. Which brings us to the girls. Larissa appears to have been in the kitchen, as heard by Carina. She was also in her room later, as she claimed, when Carina came in and told her that something had happ
ened at the chapel. And Larissa doesn’t appear to have a motive. Though she was the only other person to know about the Björnstahl letter, there’s nothing to suggest that she would have told Göran about its existence. The opposite, in fact. From everything we hear, she was protective of Ivar. Over-protective. She was obviously smothering him, which is why he turned to the charms of Carina Lindvall. No, the only niggling doubt I have is about Carina.’ She aggressively tapped the photo of the writer. ‘I’d love it to be her. She lied about Ivar and Larissa. It conveniently gave her an alibi. No one can vouch for her movements until she went to Larissa’s room. She had a motive: protecting Lars-Gunnar, who she seemed to have been genuinely fond of, even if she was being unfaithful behind his back. If the evidence growing against Ivar wasn’t so strong, I’d be after her. Right, anything else?’

  ‘You asked me to look into the phone records,’ said Erlandsson. ‘Lars-Gunnar wasn’t in touch with any of the others according to the calls made in the last couple of weeks.’ Erlandsson consulted her list. ‘A number between Ivar and Carina.’

  ‘We know they were in touch,’ said Zetterberg dismissively.

  Unperturbed, Erlandsson carried on. ‘Carina rang Malta a few times, and Larissa spoke to Ivar once.’

  ‘Obviously, Carina spoke to Linus. She warned him that it was likely that I’d turn up on his doorstep. I don’t think calls have much bearing on the case now.’ Erlandsson shoved her list back into a folder.

  ‘I suppose it boils down to who could have been on the beach to pick up the skewer,’ said Szabo, who was trying to untangle his booze-befuddled brain. How could Zetterberg drink so much? He’d never try and keep up with her again. ‘Linus was out and about; so too, Ivar. The others would have had to make a special effort to go down to the beach to find the skewer and pick it up. It’s not as though they would know it was down there in the first place.’

  ‘Good point. Another reason why we need to pull in Ivar.’

  Zetterberg’s mobile phone began to play the theme from Star Wars. She answered it. She listened carefully. ‘No, that’s fine. I’ll be along in ten minutes.’ She put her phone down. ‘That was Blom. Let’s get the show on the road!’

  CHAPTER 42

  ‘Are you ringing from Penrith?’ Though Anita was glad that Kevin had rung, because she wanted to apologize again for putting him in danger, she was too preoccupied for unnecessary chit-chat. The incident in the safe house garden had just indicated how edgy everyone was becoming. There was a clever, resourceful and ruthless killer out there who would stop at nothing to shoot their one and only witness to Jack Harmer’s murder.

  ‘No. Essex.’

  ‘Essex? Are you visiting your sister?’ Anita didn’t quite catch his reply over the noise of an aircraft taking off nearby. ‘Sorry, what did you say? Sounds as though you’re at an airport.’

  ‘Kind of. It’s a private aerodrome.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘Helping the most gorgeous policewoman in Sweden.’

  Anita was totally nonplussed. Then she began to get exasperated. She had specifically asked him not to do any more. He wasn’t to put himself in peril. ‘What have you been up to?’ she demanded.

  ‘I know how Tyrone Cassidy got in and out of Sweden.’

  ‘What?’ Anita gasped.

  ‘Our murdering wealthy benefactor owns a private plane. It’s a Cessna Citation CJ2. 2003 model. He bought it second hand in 2010 from an American. He keeps it here in Essex at the Hockley Heath Aerodrome. It used to be an RAF airfield during the last war.’

  Anita couldn’t contain her amazement. ‘How did you find this out?’

  ‘Thanks to Kathleen Dillon, a little old Irish lady of my acquaintance.’

  ‘And she gave you all that detail about his plane?’ Now she was incredulous.

  ‘No. She put me on the trail. I posed as someone from the Civil Aviation Authority doing a survey of flights in and out of the United Kingdom to EU countries over the last two months from small or private airfields.’

  ‘And they believed you?’

  ‘I said it was a consequence of the Brexit vote. Luckily, the guy I spoke to was only too happy to provide information, as he was obviously one of those deluded souls who thinks we’re going to put the Great back into Britain. I think that boat sailed in 1914. You know, I’m quite enjoying this pretending-to-be-other-people lark.’

  ‘But Cassidy?’ she said impatiently.

  ‘Yes. He flew out of here on Sunday, the seventh of August at 14:00 hours bound for southern Sweden. Somewhere called Tommy Lilly or something.’

  ‘Tomelilla.’

  ‘That’s it. Flew back in late Monday afternoon, August eighth. There was only Cassidy and his pilot on board on both flights. It wasn’t the first time he’d flown there either. And he’s also made recent trips to Norway and Holland.’

  ‘You are a fantastic man.’

  ‘Why, thank you, madam.’

  ‘I think you should go to the nearest pub and reward yourself with a pint.’

  ‘You can read my mind.’

  ‘And if you can read my mind at this moment, you’ll realize that you’re going to get some X-rated action when I come over.’

  Kevin nearly dropped his phone.

  Moberg was pleased to receive some good news at last. Anita didn’t enlighten him as to exactly how Kevin had found out. He wanted action. Hakim was immediately dispatched to Tomelilla. A quick check had shown up an old airfield in the area which was thought to have been abandoned.

  As soon as they could confirm that Cassidy’s Cessna plane had landed in Sweden on the 7th of August, they could prove he was in the country at the time of Jack Harmer’s murder. Then they could start extradition proceedings to impel him to face justice in Sweden. But it would be fruitless if McNaught got to their only witness first.

  Moberg, Anita and Wallen debated whether they should move Danny to another location. The alternatives were apartments in the city. Having got to know the rural safe house, Wallen now argued that any apartment could be easier for McNaught to infiltrate, and if shooting broke out, innocent people might get caught in the crossfire. Anita was also uneasy about transporting Danny from one location to another. Whatever precautions they took, there would be some spot on the route which would be vulnerable to an attack. The trouble was that they still had no idea where McNaught was. They had no new leads. Finally, Moberg decided that Danny should stay put.

  ‘One other thing,’ Wallen said. ‘Jack Harmer’s father. We’ve got a DNA sample off him. I persuaded him not to view the body. Too upsetting given there isn’t anything really recognizable. But he’s asked if he can speak to Danny. I think he wants to know about his son’s last weeks. It’s understandable.’

  The request left Moberg thoughtful. ‘OK. I’m not entirely happy about it. Get Brodd to take him down to the house this afternoon. He’s only got an hour, mind.’

  ‘I think he’ll appreciate it.’

  As Anita was leaving Moberg’s office, she saw Liv Fogelström coming in the opposite direction.

  ‘How are you?’ Anita asked.

  Liv’s face lit up as she held up her left hand. The sparkle coming from her ring finger was the reason for her happiness.

  ‘That must have cost Hakim.’ Anita held Liv’s hand and examined it. It wasn’t to her taste – too glitzy. But Liv clearly loved it. ‘It’s beautiful. Are you setting a date?’

  ‘Oh, no. Maybe next year. We’re not rushing things. We’ve got certain things to iron out first.’ Anita knew she meant Hakim’s parents.

  ‘Well, I’m pleased for you both. By the way, there’s something I want to ask you…’

  CHAPTER 43

  Ivar Hagblom was relieved to reach the reassuring surroundings of the Carolina Rediviva that Thursday morning. He’d hardly slept the last two nights since being interviewed by that seriously unpleasant policewoman. But it had been the younger detective who had really thrown him with the revelation about Prosec
utor Renmarker. He had safely assumed that that piece of information would never see the light of day. Why had Renmarker blabbed now? If he had kept quiet, everything would have blown over. But now it was out, there was no way he could convincingly deny it.

  And the damned Björnstahl letter! He had been so thrilled at its discovery at the time – he’d seen those few handwritten pages as a passport to speedy academic fame – and now he fervently wished that he had never unearthed them. He didn’t need a sharp-suited, expensive lawyer in a fancy office in Stockholm to tell him that he was in deep trouble.

  Yet the library was a sanctuary. The familiar faces of the staff, the accumulation of knowledge in the bulging shelves, the quiet serenity of the reading room; even the small museum with the magical remains of the 6th-century Codex Argenteus in the Gothic language. The Codex had always appealed to his love of linguistics, which unfortunately brought him back to bloody Björnstahl. He’d been up early and left the apartment before his wife had even stirred. He’d come in to prepare for a meeting with a talented PhD student. It hadn’t gone well, as he had been too preoccupied, and he eventually called it a day after apologizing for not giving the student’s work the proper attention it deserved. They rearranged a time in the following week. Ivar needed a break. He would go to the cathedral café and try and get his head round the paper on the present state of Syria, which he was scheduled to deliver at the beginning of September at a conference at Yale University.

  Ivar headed out of the main library doors and had reached the top step beneath the colonnades when he noticed a couple of camera crews poised behind the bollards that separated the library forecourt from the street. Behind them was a police squad car. Were they filming a new cop show? There were so many these days. Maybe it was the one Carina had been talking about the last time they met. He knew she was desperate to get her books on TV.

  Then it dawned on him that the cameras were trained on him. Suddenly a woman stepped forward. It was Detective Alice Zetterberg.