MALICE IN MALMÖ

by Torquil Macleod

  ‘I’m Lothar,’ he said in English.

  ‘Inspector Anita Sundström.’

  ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’

  ‘We spoke on the phone yesterday.’

  ‘Of course. You were concerned about Titti.’ This was the diminutive that Kristina’s family knew her by. It had also been the key that had enabled Anita to unlock the mystery of Kristina’s part in the ‘Malmö Marksman’ shootings. The German’s approach was friendly, though there was no offer to talk in more conducive surroundings.

  ‘As I said yesterday, we had a sighting of a woman of about Kristina’s age outside her apartment building in Drottningtorget. At about ten minutes past nine, two masked men bundled this woman into the back of a van and drove off.’ Goessling nodded in concern. ‘A white van, which may or may not have been used in the kidnapping, was subsequently found burned out.’

  ‘I appreciate your concern. I know from the press that this has happened before, with the Uhlig family and that young guy...’

  ‘Mats Möller.’

  ‘Exactly. I don’t know who this woman is but, fortunately, it’s not Titti.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The broad beam again. He switched it on like headlights. ‘I spoke to her this morning. She was quite amused at the thought of someone wanting to abduct her.’

  ‘It’s not really something to treat lightly.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He took the admonishment with a shrug.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Switzerland. A combination of business and pleasure. Wollstad Industries has banking interests over there.’ Anita was sure they did: that’s probably how they funnelled money out to Dag Wollstad in South America. ‘Of course, the children are at school outside Lausanne. She’s taking them out for the weekend.’

  ‘We could check that she’s left the country. Flights etcetera.’

  ‘You’re awfully suspicious, Inspector,’ he joked. ‘But you wouldn’t find Kristina flying with the hoi polloi. She uses the company plane. You can take it from me that she’s safe and sound.’

  There was no reason not to believe him. He was certainly unconcerned.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He showed her to the front door and gallantly opened it for her to pass through.

  ‘Your English is very good.’

  ‘To get on today you need good English. The international language of business. We Germans would like it otherwise...’ He shrugged in acceptance of his country losing that particular battle. ‘I spent a year in London working at Sotheby’s. The auction house.’

  ‘Even in Malmö, we’ve heard of Sotheby’s. So, you collect beautiful objects?’

  ‘What is the point of life without them?’

  ‘Is Kristina one?’

  Goessling frowned, not quite sure how to take her remark. Without responding, he followed her out to the car. There was no sign of Kevin. Goessling noticed Anita scanning the parkland and the trees beyond.

  ‘Looking for something?’

  ‘Someone. My companion has gone walkabout.’

  ‘What the hell does he think he’s doing?’ Goessling snapped. ‘You can’t just wander around here.’

  Anita spotted Kevin coming out of the trees. ‘It’s all right, he’s here.’

  Kevin sauntered over the grass towards them.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Goessling barked at him as he approached. ‘Titti doesn’t like strangers on the estate. She’s very private.’

  Kevin stared at Goessling in surprise.

  ‘He’s English. He can’t help himself.’

  ‘He looked upset,’ said Kevin when they’d reached the gates and turned onto the road.

  ‘These people are very precious about their property.’

  ‘Nice property if you can get it. I found another wild boar in that bit of wood. Amazing creature. Seemed docile enough, but piss it off and I suspect it could do you some serious damage. Anyhow, how did you get on with the handsome kraut?’

  ‘He was charming until he saw you! Actually, I got nothing. He claims that Kristina is in Switzerland visiting her kids and banking the company profits. Talked to her this morning.’

  ‘Could be lying.’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘He might if he’d kidnapped her himself.’

  CHAPTER 33

  Sunday morning. Anita decided to go for a run round Pildammsparken opposite her apartment. She got up early and left a gently snoring Kevin in bed. Her runs round the park were often liberating: a great way to throw off troubled sleep and give her time to organize her thoughts for the day ahead. It was also good to get some fresh air into her lungs. She had neglected regular exercise of late and was feeling that she was putting on unwanted weight. Kevin’s renewed presence in her bed had brought this home to her more forcefully. Not that the skinny sod seemed bothered by her extra pounds; he was still easily aroused. But that was probably because he was a man.

  The early sun shone brightly as she pounded down the avenue of tall trees that led to the Plate, the huge circular area that was a magnet for Malmö folk during the summer months. Walkers, picnickers, or those just chilling out flocked here in the warm weather – and many events were held within its impressive barricade of beeches. At this time in the morning though, there were few people about. Another runner, a couple of dog walkers and an old man sitting on a bench with his eyes shut.

  She ran a couple of circuits. The second was far slower than the first but to compensate for her legs, her mind was working overtime. Who was that woman abducted in Drottningtorget? She couldn’t believe that Janet Adem had dreamt the whole thing up, but no one had come to them to report a missing person. The rural location of the burnt-out van was suspicious and didn’t fit the pattern of the spate of vehicle fires that was plaguing Malmö at the moment. She had pondered Kevin’s thought that Lothar von Goessling might be behind it. What would he gain? The ransom, certainly. But then, where would he go? Not easy to fade into obscurity, as he must be known in wealthy circles in both southern Sweden and Germany. A playboy with expensive tastes? If that were the case, he’d be better off sticking with Kristina Ekman. All the same, it might be worth checking out lover boy.

  After a very slow third circuit, she decided to call it a day. She wiped the sweat away from her forehead. A nice shower was called for and then a leisurely breakfast. Maybe she could persuade Kevin to rustle up a full English fry-up. After her vigorous exercise, she wouldn’t feel so guilty tucking into bacon, egg and sausages. She walked back along the avenue towards Roskildevägen. She was nearing the end when she stopped; a black car with smoked-glass windows was gliding along the street in her direction. She stepped behind the nearest tree trunk. She wasn’t quite sure why – it was an instinctive reaction. The car slowed down to a crawl as it passed her apartment building. Then it speeded up and disappeared down the street. She was in no doubt who the car belonged to. Dragan Mitrović was keeping an eye on her.

  Zetterberg hadn’t arrived back from Stockholm when Anita got into work on Monday morning. But Dennis Årnell was there. The uniformed officer bounced into her office with a cheery hello.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Inspector?’

  Despite the obvious efforts to cover up his grey hair, and the deep tan that turned the lines on his face into dried-up river wadis, she could tell he must be near retirement age. And the stomach on him would make it hard for him to chase any criminals under seventy.

  ‘Wherever you’ve been, you’ve certainly caught the sun.’

  ‘Yeah. Tenerife. Lovely hotel by the beach. Great way to relax. Have to admit,’ he said, taking a seat opposite Anita’s desk, ‘I did cheat a bit by having some tanning sessions before I went. Otherwise I’d have turned into a beetroot in no time.’

  That explained the barman’s description of him. ‘When did you go away exactly?’

  He appeared puzzled at the question but answered ‘Two
weeks ago. Monday. That would be the fifteenth. Why?’

  ‘The Sunday before you left, you met up with Folke Allinger in a bar in Hyllie.’

  Årnell was immediately on the defensive; the amiable demeanour gone in a trice. ‘I might have.’

  ‘I’ve talked to the barman who served you.’

  ‘Big deal. I had a few drinks.’

  ‘You know that Folke Allinger spent time in prison?’

  ‘I thought our remit was to give people a second chance.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘That’s my business,’ he said stubbornly. Anita could tell he was angry. She had punctured his post-holiday euphoria. She was pleased.

  ‘And it’s my business when Allinger is a murder suspect.’

  ‘Who’s he meant to have murdered?’

  ‘Sami Litmanen.’ He looked at her blankly. ‘The Oligarch.’

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘You may have heard of the murder of Mikael Nilsson before you flew off?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, shifting uneasily on his seat. ‘I didn’t connect it.’ Was he lying?

  ‘But you cautioned Mikael Nilsson in 2015.’

  ‘Did I? I’ve cautioned a lot of people in the last forty years.’

  ‘Did you realize then, or later, that this man might be The Oligarch? The man who put your drinking buddy in prison?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  ‘I repeat, how do you know Folke Allinger?’

  ‘We go way back.’

  ‘To your White Justice days?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he blustered. ‘I don’t... I never...’ That confirmed her suspicions.

  ‘Cut the crap. You were a member. You’re not the only cop.’ It deflated his indignation. ‘What I want to know is why you met up with Allinger.’

  He rubbed a well-tanned hand across his mouth before answering. ‘I meet up with Folke about once a month. On this occasion, it was earlier than usual because I was going to be away for a fortnight. That drink was like the start of my holiday,’ he added feebly.

  ‘Tell me what happened. How long were you in the bar?’

  He wasn’t looking at her any more. ‘Two, three hours.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We went back to my place. I’ve got one of those new apartments down in Hyllie. Had a few more drinks.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Where did Allinger go after he left you?’

  ‘I poured him into a taxi.’

  ‘Why not the train?’

  ‘He was too pissed. God knows where he would have ended up. I gave the taxi driver extra money to take him inside his house when he got to Ystad.’

  ‘I’ll need the name of the taxi firm.’ He nodded.

  ‘Folke didn’t commit that murder. He was in no condition to do anything that night.’

  There was nothing more to say, but it didn’t stop Anita giving him a parting shot.

  ‘It amazes me that people who join organizations like White Justice because they don’t like people with different-coloured skin spend their leisure time trying to change the colour of their own.’ She knew it was feeble, but it made her feel better.

  An hour and a couple of phone calls later, and she had the confirmation that Folke Allinger had been deposited at his home at 19.16. The taxi driver had had to wake him up and virtually carry him into the apartment. Folke Allinger was no longer a suspect.

  CHAPTER 34

  Anita reported her findings on Folke Allinger to a surprisingly bleary-eyed Zetterberg at about eleven. Her boss didn’t seem particularly interested as she was now convinced that Claes Svärdendahl was their man. As she left Zetterberg’s office, Brodd and Erlandsson shuffled in, doubtless to be told to redouble their efforts to prove that the television presenter was not just sitting in his car phoning his young children, but actually heading off to Västra Hamnen to kill Sami Litmanen. Anita happily left them to get on with it. Time not spent in Zetterberg’s company was time well spent.

  After a brief chat with Hakim to let him know not to bother following up on Allinger, Anita decided to take herself out into the sunshine and find somewhere for a fika and a think. She found herself close to Värnhemstorget. She took her coffee out onto a pavement table. There was always a great deal of activity round the square and it was ideal for people-watching. Much of the busyness was centred around the small bus station, as green city buses snaked in and out disgorging and swallowing their passengers. A couple of dads wandered past pushing baby buggies. How times had changed. There were so many stay-at-home fathers these days that every Malmö playground had more than its fair share of men pushing their kids on swings, launching themselves at roundabouts that were going too fast or watching fearfully as their youngsters scrambled ever higher up climbing frames. Maybe Lasse should become a lattepappa; fathers who are never far from a cup of coffee. He disliked his low-paid job in the restaurant. He had jacked in his studies twice now – once after the wretched Rebecka dumped him and again a few months ago. The reason he gave Anita was that he wanted to spend more time with Leyla, and both working and studying didn’t suit that plan. Anita hoped it wasn’t an excuse to loaf around at home. Jazmin also found working in a corner shop a drudge. But she was more driven than Lasse. She wanted to work with immigrant communities but needed some qualifications to get a decent job. Anita had already offered to help them out financially if Jazmin wanted to do a course at the university. She knew Jazmin was tempted but didn’t want to accept what she saw as charity. Anita was now in negotiations with Lasse’s father to see if he would help out, too, but she wasn’t holding her breath.

  With immigrants at the forefront of her mind, she saw one that she knew loitering round the bus station. It was Absame, presumably about to make a delivery for his boss. At first she didn’t move, unsure whether to go over and speak to him; Dragan Mitrović’s threat still clouding her mind and her judgement. But her indecisiveness didn’t last long: she found herself leaving the safety of the café table. A combination of disappointment that Folke Allinger wasn’t the murderer and being unconvinced that Claes Svärdendahl was guilty persuaded her that this was the only option left at this moment in time.

  Absame spotted her as she crossed over the road to the bus station. He didn’t bother running. She didn’t pose a threat.

  ‘You hassling me?’

  ‘No. I just want to satisfy myself that you aren’t a killer.’

  ‘Herr Mitrović says I’m not. He also told me that you wouldn’t be bothering me no more.’

  ‘He was wrong.’

  He shook his head. ‘You won’t learn, lady cop, you won’t learn.’

  ‘Learn what?’

  The grimace of despair was replaced by one of pity. ‘My boss is a dangerous man to cross and you’ve pissed him off. Push him too far and...’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You won’t be a cop no more. You won’t be anything.’ That left nothing to the imagination.

  ‘Why do you work for him?’

  ‘He looks after me. I’m just an unwanted immigrant in this country. It was OK when I was boxing fine. Everybody wanted a piece of me. But after the shit in the papers, I was nothing again. Bottom of the ladder. This may not be the sort of life God planned for me, but I’ve got a place to live, food to eat and money in my pocket.’

  Anita didn’t know what to say. She’d had similar conversations with Jazmin, and she’d been born in Sweden.

  ‘Are you going to leave me in peace?’ He tapped the pocket of his jacket. ‘I’ve got business to transact and having a cop around puts off the punters.’

  Anita walked back to the polishus with a troubled mind. There had been no point trying to nick Absame for drug dealing. That was up to the Drugs Squad to sort out. It would only antagonize Dragan Mitrović even more. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t scared; not so much for herself, more for her family. Her foremost responsibility was to protect them, and she had potentia
lly put them in danger. After work, she’d pop over to Rosengård just to make sure everything was all right.

  Further thoughts were put to the back of her mind when she ran into Klara Wallen, who was licking an ice cream. It was hot enough to justify it.

  ‘How’s things?’ Anita asked.

  Wallen finished a lick. ‘Frustrating. We’ve drawn a blank on the missing woman. There’s been a public appeal for witnesses. Nothing yet.’ She took another slurp of her ice cream.

  They wandered over to the grassy park, the polishus looming above them. The sun made the red brickwork glow, but to Anita it was a gloomy place now Zetterberg was sitting in Chief Inspector Moberg’s office.

  ‘I wish we had more CCTV.’

  ‘That’s Sweden for you. I was talking about this to Kevin the other day. Britain is saturated with cameras, apparently. There are over six million in the country; they reckon that’s one for every eleven people.’

  ‘You’re not serious!’

  ‘Genuinely. Not that it helps Kevin much, as he has to deal with a lot of rural crime. Not many cameras out on the hills. In the cities, it’s different.’

  ‘The trouble here is getting licences to put up permanent cameras. You have to jump through so many hoops. They make it so flaming difficult. You’d think the authorities would try and make our lives easier so we can keep the streets safer – and find out who it is who’s been taken in Drottningtorget.’ Wallen nearly dropped the last of her ice cream in her ardour. Anita could see her point, though she was happy that Sweden hadn’t descended into a snooper state like the UK.

  ‘Has Alice Zetterberg given you any guidance on the abduction?’

  ‘Huh! No. She’s too busy trying to prove Claes Svärdendahl killed The Oligarch. Sent me away with a flea in my ear with instructions to find the “phantom woman”. Her words. I think she half-believes that Janet Adem has made it all up.’