MALICE IN MALMÖ

by Torquil Macleod

  And the fingerprints that Eva Thulin had found in Litmanen’s apartment did belong to a cleaner. The Spanish woman had been questioned and had confirmed that she’d cleaned the place on the Friday, two days before the murder. Litmanen had been going out as she arrived. She confirmed that he was often away, though he liked to have the apartment regularly cleaned even if he wasn’t around. She also confirmed that he had a laptop computer and mobile phone. She’d seen him use both.

  All this Anita had reported to Commissioner Dahlbeck before he left work in the late afternoon for a game of tennis. Though in a hurry, he’d seemed pleased with their progress and said that she was handling the dual investigations ‘competently’. After her second glass of red wine, she wasn’t sure if ‘competently’ was a compliment or a criticism. But he’d definitely been happy about her appearance in front of the cameras. She’d given nothing away. She had even referred to the victim by the Swedish name that Litmanen had on his apartment door so they wouldn’t get a sniff of him being Finnish; that would have given them a bone they’d have quickly got their teeth into.

  Anita stirred herself and made her way into the kitchen. She knew she should have something to eat and then pack a bag for her Stockholm trip. As she opened the fridge to peruse its contents, her mobile phone rang in the living room. It was probably Kevin. As she wandered through, it occurred to her that she hadn’t got any food in for him. They would have to have a carry-out on Saturday night.

  ‘Hi!’ she called breezily into the phone.

  ‘Is that Inspector Sundström?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said warily.

  ‘It’s Martin Glimhall.’ She knew immediately who he was – a crime reporter from one of the local papers. She’d known him for some years. ‘I was there when you made your press statement this afternoon.’

  ‘I saw you.’

  ‘I got the feeling that there was more to it. I know the name Mikael Nilsson was on the victim’s door, but I can’t find out anything about someone with that name in that part of Västra Hamnen that fits your description of the deceased.’

  ‘You’ll have to look a little harder then.’

  She heard him laugh at the other end of the phone. ‘I think there’s something more than meets the eye here, Anita. Surely you can give me something. Off the record.’

  ‘On the record, Martin, I’ve got nothing to add. It’s too early to release details. We don’t want the investigation compromised.’

  ‘Come on, Anita. I know you. Remember, I was there when you shafted Alice Zetterberg at her press conference last year.’

  ‘I didn’t shaft her. I would never do that to a colleague.’

  ‘Oh yeah. I saw your face when she had to backtrack. The word is you’re not pals.’

  ‘I don’t know where you get your information from, Martin. We were friends years ago.’

  ‘That’s fine by me. I just thought I’d ask you first. Now I’ll just have to go and speak to your “friend”.’

  ‘Why would you speak to Alice Zetterberg? She’s nothing to do with this case.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Then he was gone.

  Anita returned to the kitchen. Martin Glimhall must have got his wires crossed, or else he was trying to wind her up so that she’d spill some information. Bloody journalists were always stirring things up. And she was going to meet another one tomorrow. She’d fixed up to see Sanningen editor, Elin Ljung, at eleven o’clock. She had to admit she’d been surprised to learn that a woman was at the helm of such a sleazy publication. And it was telling that Ljung’s response to being contacted by the police was a resigned ‘who have we upset now?’ Anita hadn’t elaborated, other than to say it concerned one of her reporters. It was clear that the paper had no idea that Sami Litmanen was dead. It was likely to come as a nasty shock.

  CHAPTER 20

  Anita took a taxi to Malmö Airport, which was half an hour’s drive east of the city. The taxi was a precaution in case she slept in, which of course she didn’t. She always found it difficult to sleep when she knew she had to travel the next day or had an important meeting; she’d been awake for half an hour before the alarm was due to go off and had showered at five. This was going to be a critical day. She hoped that she would learn a lot more about The Oligarch.

  The Indian taxi driver had been chatty when she got into his cab and she’d made a half-hearted attempt to sound interested in the conversation. Before they’d left the city limits, he’d told her all about his family and that he came from Chandigarh in northern India and how much she would like it as it was a modern town with wide streets. So sophisticated, like Sweden; that’s why he felt at home here, though he wished it was a bit warmer. By the time he turned off the E65 to head to the airport, they were sitting in silence. It had begun to rain as they were passing Svedala. Anita’s mood, however, was far from dreary; she felt excited and stimulated by the prospect of taking a lead in this case. Commissioner Dahlbeck’s backing was giving her the self-assurance to make decisions and direct the investigation with confidence. With no Moberg breathing down her neck, she was experiencing a sense of freedom she wasn’t used to.

  Malmö Airport, with its sleek, low, bright-yellow frontage, had been built in the early 1970s, though it had had a makeover ten years ago. It loomed through the taxi’s windscreen as the wipers fought against the rain. Anita liked it. It was small, provincial and intimate, unlike Kastrup with its huge, soulless concourses and over-priced shops and eateries. Nor did it have the heaving crowds of passengers; here you were a person, not a number. Malmö’s direct routes were restricted to a few internal destinations, some places in Eastern Europe and a handful of holiday hot spots. More importantly, there were frequent flights every day to Stockholm. Anita’s 7.30 Norwegian Air flight to Arlanda would only take an hour and five minutes. She bought herself a coffee from the 7-Eleven and watched her fellow travellers gathering: inter-city commuters, business people and others heading for a weekend break or a day trip to the capital. She didn’t envy the commuters. Her job might be demanding, frustrating, often boring and sometimes even dangerous, but she wasn’t a slave to routine.

  The weather was clearer as she watched the countryside get sucked in by the train from Arlanda Airport to the centre of Stockholm. Soon the farms and fields and trees were swallowed up by the urban sprawl of the capital’s outskirts. She hadn’t eaten on the plane so she decided to grab a bite at the Central Station before walking in the direction of Gamla Stan. Having bolted down an indifferent sandwich, she headed out of the station. She reached the water’s edge and passed the Vasä bridge, which links the modern city to the old medieval heart of Stockholm across the Norrström. She cut along Fredsgatan, which was the next street back from the waterfront. Sanningen’s offices were located in a solid, red-sandstone, turn-of-the-19th-century building that had been given a modern make-over with a high, glass-panelled entrance. Above the desk in the airy reception area was emblazoned WE ALWAYS FIND THE TRUTH in gaudy red letters. At what cost? thought Anita. An unsmiling receptionist said that Elin was waiting for her and that Anita was to take the lift to the third floor.

  Anita wasn’t sure what she thought a female editor of a sleazy tabloid rag should look like, but it certainly wasn’t the small, middle-aged woman that greeted her near the entrance to the lift. Anita knew that Elin Ljung was forty-five, yet her shoulder-length hair was already going prematurely grey (which she did nothing to disguise) and her face was thinly lined – maybe the result of her highly pressured job. She wore minimal makeup, and barely nodded to the latest fashions. But the brown eyes were fiery and determined; Anita found them disconcerting, even a little frightening. She could imagine what useful weapons they were when Ljung was making the tough editorial decisions which were part of her everyday life. The smile that greeted Anita, however, was a surprise and didn’t show any of that world-weary intolerance she’d so often come across when dealing with the press over the years.

  Before taking her into her office, Ljung politely ask
ed Anita if she’d like a coffee. The office was a high-ceilinged room with copies of Sanningen’s more sensational front pages splashed across the walls. Anita spotted both Jimmy Brantling and Claes Svärdendahl among them. On the wide desk sat a massive computer screen next to an open laptop, and a huge television dominated one corner of the room. The news was playing silently. While Ljung retreated behind her desk, a young man brought in a couple of coffees and plonked them down. He exchanged a bashful smile with his editor. ‘He’ll go far if he plays his cards right,’ she said with a glint in her eye after he’d closed the door. Anita didn’t think she was referring to his journalistic skills.

  ‘So, how can I help the Malmö police? You’re a bit out of your patch,’ Ljung added as she swung back and forth on her chair.

  ‘I want to know about Sami Litmanen.’

  Ljung immediately stopped swinging and sat bolt upright. ‘How do you know about Sami?’

  ‘We know that Sami Litmanen is The Oligarch.’

  Ljung gave a low whistle. ‘There’s only a trusted handful of people in this building who know that. What’s he done to come to the attention of the police?’

  ‘He hasn’t done anything. Someone did something to him.’

  ‘Is he injured?’ Ljung’s concern sounded genuine.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s dead.’ Ljung’s face went white. ‘He was murdered on Sunday.’

  ‘Murdered?’ She was seriously shaken now. Anita took a sip of her coffee to allow Ljung to take in the news. She had just lost her prize newshound – permanently. ‘How come we’ve heard nothing about it?’ Her journalistic instincts had quickly returned.

  ‘We’re keeping it quiet at the moment, so make sure nothing appears in Sanningen yet.’ It was a threat, gently delivered.

  ‘Of course, we’ll cooperate fully. But when the story breaks, I would appreciate it if we could get in there first.’

  ‘We have a deal then.’

  ‘Can you tell me how he died?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A hint? Off the record?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘If you’re being so cagey, it can’t have been nice.’ If Anita hadn’t known better, she would have sworn that there was a hint of suppressed excitement in Ljung’s voice. ‘Do you know who killed him?’

  Anita’s eyes swept round the walls. ‘Maybe someone up there.’

  Ljung’s eyes followed Anita’s. ‘You think it’s one of the people Sami’s exposed?’

  ‘It’s an obvious starting point, though we’re not ruling out anyone at this stage. It would help if we could learn a bit more about Litmanen. He’s a shadowy figure. He was living in Malmö under another name, Mikael Nilsson. We couldn’t understand why he was living there when most of his targets were based up here.’

  ‘For that reason, really. Stockholm may be the big capital city, but in the celebrity world it’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody else. Sami could keep out of the limelight in Malmö. He’d come up here in various guises and then disappear again. It was a practical decision, too. Copenhagen’s just across the Bridge and he could fly to anywhere he wanted quickly. He often met up with some of the people he was investigating in foreign locations.’

  ‘We found all his passports.’

  Ljung gave a little snort. ‘We’ve got more in the office here. He never used them illegally, mind you,’ she added quickly. ‘Trying to cross borders, that sort of thing. He liked to have them in case one of his targets, or intermediaries in the process of contacting his targets, wanted proof of whom he claimed to be. And I suppose he’d need them for some of the hotels he used. I don’t think he actually used them that much. They just seemed to help him get into the role. He had business cards made up, too.’

  ‘We didn’t find any of those.’

  ‘He probably destroyed them as he rarely used the same character twice.’

  ‘Can you tell me a bit about him? We’ve virtually nothing to go on. How long has he worked here? What did he do before?’

  Ljung opened up a can of snus and popped a sachet under her upper lip. ‘Not exactly sure, though it’s probably about ten years. I’ve been here three. As you must know, he’s Finnish. He worked for papers over there for a number of years; outgrew Finland and thought there were better, more lucrative possibilities over here. He was on Aftonbladet for a while before moving here. I don’t know much about his personal life, though I believe his mother is still alive and is living in Helsinki. He was never forthcoming about that side of things. His work always came first, second and third. He kept his privacy.’

  ‘While invading others’,’ Anita commented dryly.

  ‘You could see it like that. We see it as getting at the truth.’

  ‘Even if you distort it?’ Anita gave herself a mental slap. By letting her feelings show, she was being unprofessional. She wanted information from this woman, not hostility.

  Ljung didn’t appear to take offence. ‘It’s just the nature of our business.’

  ‘I get the impression that Litmanen was initially more interested in what I would call “serious targets”. People like the unscrupulous businessman Nils-Åke Rydén, and Folke Allinger and all that right-wing stuff.’

  ‘God, he was scum. Yes. He felt strongly about a number of the people he went after.’

  ‘Yet, latterly, he seems to have concentrated on so-called celebrities.’

  Ljung grinned. ‘Change of direction by the newspaper owners. That’s why I was brought in. Sales were going down. The world’s become obsessed with celebrity culture, and we’re no different here in Sweden. These are the public figures that we talk about, constantly want to read about; many set themselves up as role models. At Sanningen, we like to puncture a few of the myths these celebrities create about themselves.’

  ‘Like Claes Svärdendahl over there.’ Anita waved at the wall.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘We identified an initial seven potential suspects, which are now down to four, whom we think might have good motives to go after Litmanen because of his work on your paper. Claes Svärdendahl, whom I hope to see later today; the boxer, Absame Madar Geesi, who lives in Malmö; and the aforementioned Folke Allinger and Nils-Åke Rydén. I believe Rydén’s only recently come out of prison, possibly carrying a mammoth grudge.’

  ‘And Sami was murdered on Sunday? That’s the fourteenth.’ Ljung swung round on her seat to a pile of newspapers on a table behind. She thumbed through the heap and fished one out. ‘Monday’s edition.’ She flicked it open. ‘Page five.’ She held it up for Anita to see. There was a typical paparazzi shot of a man, arm outstretched, trying to shove away the cameraman. The photo was slightly blurred. The man appeared to be extremely angry, his mouth wide open in mid yell. ‘It was Nils-Åke Rydén’s coming-out-of-prison party up in Umeå. We sent along one of our snappers.’

  ‘That was thoughtful.’

  ‘We wanted to see if he was showing any remorse. The shot confirms that he wasn’t. The point is that it was on Sunday evening, so you can take him off your list.’

  ‘That helps. Any of the others, or people I haven’t mentioned, who might have threatened The Oligarch, or you, or anybody at the newspaper?’

  Elin Ljung, twirling a biro in her fingers, looked thoughtful. ‘Claes Svärdendahl did come here shouting the odds. You wouldn’t have thought he had a leg to stand on. After all, he was caught with a couple of prostitutes.’

  ‘Which The Oligarch had provided.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got no sympathy. He could have walked out. No one forced him to have sex with them. By all accounts, he was a bit of an athlete.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Burst into the building demanding to see Sami. Of course, Sami wasn’t here. He hardly ever comes into the... came into the office. Didn’t like being seen; used a back entrance. Svärdendahl didn’t believe the receptionist. Then he came charging up into editorial and starting shouting about how all us bastards had ruined his life. S
ecurity removed him from the building after we threatened him with the police. If he’d been caught with prostitutes here and not in Russia, he would have gone to gaol, so he got off lightly. It would have done him good to spend a bit of time behind bars.’

  ‘I also hear that Absame wasn’t too happy either. Came in search of Litmanen, too.’

  Ljung waved her hand airily. ‘That got a bit fraught. He went berserk and smashed up the reception area. Made a good story, though. Fortunately, he didn’t get as far as the lifts or he might have done some of us serious physical damage. The police were called. He said he’d kill The Oligarch if he ever caught up with him. I actually felt a bit sorry for him, as it was his trainer who was the real villain.’

  ‘He’s disappeared,’ said Anita ponderingly.