The concrete buildings became more interesting and less boxlike as the train came nearer Malmö Central. As the line approached the station a canal appeared on the left-hand side and tall, elegant apartments in a variety of colours overlooked the water. The austere station platforms gave way to a lively and pleasant tiled terminal with shops, food outlets and a tourist information area. A cosy tunnel of a building. Here Ewan picked up a Welcome to Malmö map. He decided to find his hotel first before he planned his movements and discovered where Mick Roslyn’s flat was situated, the venue for the following morning’s interview.
The Hotel Comfort was less than five minutes’ walk from the station. Situated in the old docks area behind the station, Ewan’s heart sank when he saw the solid red façade of the four-storey building. It had all the appeal of a Travelodge but inside it was better than the outside suggested. The large atrium, tiled floor and comfortable mock-tartan-clad chairs were more promising. The woman on reception was very friendly and spoke immaculate English. She informed him that the hotel had a no-smoking policy for which he quietly cursed sulky Val. She would have done it on purpose. The receptionist also told him that the establishment was allergy adjusted. He hadn’t a clue what that meant. His room was small, functional and noisy – they were in the process of building the City Tunnel project, an underground railway connecting Malmö Central directly to the Öresund Bridge.
It was still light enough to go for a wander to gain his bearings. Map in hand and his new Rough Guide to Sweden under his arm, Ewan made for the centre of the city. He crossed over the canal by the elegant station exterior, with its Italianate clock tower, and headed into Stortorget, Malmö’s oldest square. Impressive buildings surrounded the statue of King Karl X Gustav on his horse in the middle of the square, encircled on three sides by trees. The surprisingly flamboyant town hall, built in 1546 in the Dutch Renaissance style (according to the book), took up one sizeable corner of the square. Behind it towered the spire of Sankt Petri Kyrka, one of the city’s main churches and oldest building. In a gap in the corner of Stortorget was the entrance to its smaller companion square, Lilla Torg. Here among the cobbles and old colourful sixteenth century buildings were the bars and restaurants which the young and trendy of Malmö made a beeline for at the end of the day. Being neither young nor trendy, Ewan settled for a drink in a bar called the Moosehead to watch the Swedish world go by. He wasn’t sure whether the beer was expensive as he hadn’t got his head round the exchange rate yet.
It was true that the streets of Sweden were paved in golden-haired beauties. And many other different hues, too. It really wasn’t fair that a country with such a small population should have such a high percentage of attractive people. Ewan started to count the ugly ones just to make himself feel better. His attention returned to the map. The address that Mick’s PA, Agnes, had given was on Östra Förstadsgatan. Based at Mick’s production headquarters in Stockholm, she had arranged the eleven o’clock meeting in Malmö, and for a photographer to come at 11.30. Apparently Mick was coming down from Stockholm first thing as he had some engagement that night, but promised to be there on time. Malin would be in residence and he might get the chance to have a word with her. The hint Agnes gave was that it could depend on what sort of mood Miss Lovgren was in at the time. She wasn’t as keen on meeting journalists as Mick. According to the map Östra Förstadsgatan could only be about twenty minutes’ walk from his hotel. Agnes had said that it was opposite the Systembolag, the state-owned off-licence.
Ewan also cast around for a few sights to visit in the afternoon after his interview. He had promised the deputy editor of the morning paper that he would do a travelogue piece on Malmö for the Saturday Lifestyle section. That way he could split the cost of the flight so Brian didn’t have to fork out for the full trip. That had placated Brian who found it impossible to exclude budget constraints from any decision he made. He would visit the Malmöhus castle, which now incorporated a museum. He would also take in one of the many parks, for Malmö was a city of large green spaces.
After finishing his beer Ewan sauntered back to his hotel. It was dusk now. The neatly laid-out shops were all aglow, if not very busy, the restaurants looked inviting, the bars were starting to fill while commuters were beginning to gravitate towards Malmö Central. He would go back and have a shower, and then come out again for something to eat and to try and savour the city’s night-time atmosphere. But he took a wrong turning out of Lilla Torg and found himself walking along a darkened street behind the Rica Hotel Malmö. It was only by chance that he caught a fleeting glimpse of someone whom he thought he vaguely recognized. But then the woman, along with a companion, disappeared into a doorway of a modern apartment building at the end of the street. Ewan shook his head. No, he was mistaken. Definitely.
CHAPTER 4
The chatter in the bar was loud and lively. It was extraordinary to be in Sweden: the bar could have been in any town in Britain. Which probably explained why The Pickwick had a large ex-patriot clientele. He struck up a conversation with two of the regulars. Alex and David were both British, both lured to the country by Swedish women and both were now separated from their sirens. But they had stayed. Alex now had another woman in tow, David was between girlfriends. Ewan had found the bar by accident and had almost beaten an immediate retreat when he had seen the British décor and ye olde traditional bric-à-brac and wooden-framed pictures that cluttered the walls and windowsills. There were photos of the Queen and Prince Philip and a model of a Spitfire hanging from the ceiling. And then the final British touch - a dartboard, which was in noisy use. The only concession to Swedishness was the tealights on every table. It was the Bombardier pump that had persuaded Ewan to give it a go. He was pleased he had stayed because the atmosphere was congenial, the company interesting. As they sat on a low-slung, thick leather sofa opposite the bar he was also picking up pointers as to what to see during his limited time in Malmö.
Alex seemed to be a perpetual student, having gone back to university as the only way of being able to find a job in Sweden, while David was running his own export business. Both were members of the Malmöhus cricket club. It had never occurred to Ewan that they would play cricket in Sweden. Eventually, Ewan managed to steer the conversation round to the subject of Mick Roslyn. Mick certainly didn’t mix with the ex-pat set and they assumed he spent most of his time in Stockholm. Many of his films were set there. ‘He’s big over here,’ said Alex in a strong Glaswegian accent.
‘The Swedes reckon Roslyn understands them. The way they think,’ put in David, who certainly hadn’t lost his estuary twang despite having spent twenty years in Scandinavia.
‘The Swedes seem very normal. Like us really.’ Ewan’s assessment was based on exchanges in the restaurant round the corner where he had an evening meal, the barman in Lilla Torg earlier and the hotel receptionist.
Alex and David exchanged smiles. ‘They may seem the same on the surface but they are very different, believe you me,’ said David.
‘But you reckon Roslyn has got under the cultural skin of the nation?’
‘So they say,’ Alex nodded. ‘But I still don’t understand a lot of his films. Sometimes he tries to out-Bergman Bergman.’
‘But with more tits,’ David smirked.
‘Yes, he’s not afraid of exposing a lot of flesh.’ Ewan was all for a bit of gratuitous nudity, but it helped if it seemed to fit in vaguely with the plot. With Mick’s films, much of it seemed to be there for shock value.
‘Are you meeting Malin Lovgren? She’s a bit tasty,’ Alex pronounced and David nodded agreement.
‘Maybe. If I’m lucky.’ Ewan’s accompanying leery grin won him some laughter and another pint.
His vigil continued. She had gone out earlier in the evening. It was the first time he had glimpsed her for twenty-four hours. He knew she was at the TV station, but there had been no point in following her there. She had returned at about half nine. Now she was in the same corner room. What was she doing? A
nd where was the man? Why did he leave her so often?
At this time of night it was bitterly cold but he didn’t feel it. Not tonight. He was wellwrapped up and his baseball cap kept his head warm. Excitement was starting to mount. Adrenaline, he supposed. This was the night. He had decided to make his move. He took one last drag of his cigarette then flicked it away. It landed next to the hardly touched kebab he’d regretted buying twenty minutes before. He didn’t know what the outcome would be, but he had to stop all the tension that was building up inexorably inside him. He would explode if he didn’t do something positive. The only thing that troubled him was that the man might have returned while he had been buying his kebab. But the chances of that were slim. He’d only taken ten minutes.
He glanced around to make sure no one would see him. A couple of taxis passed and a local green bus came into the station opposite and waited under the neon-lit Skånetrafiken sign. Once the bus pulled out there were only the two drunks left. They seemed too caught up in a world of their own to notice him. He glanced at the turning clock face on its tall pedestal at the end of the bus station – 12.03. Then he saw a couple coming out of the Broderstugan bar just down the road. They wandered hand-in-hand towards the apartment block entrance. He cursed and slipped out of sight into the shop doorway. They stopped to kiss, before the cold drove them off. No one else. This was it. He kept in the shadows for as long as possible until he crossed over the road to the main door of the apartments. He knew the combination so he would have no trouble getting in.
CHAPTER 5
Ewan woke early. He eased himself out of bed and went over to the window. Parting the curtains revealed another dull, grey day. Before he could gather his thoughts the workmen on the underground began in earnest. He felt a bit queasy. It was nothing to do with anything he had eaten or drunk the night before but more a nervous tension as to how the morning would play out. He needed a cigarette. Like a naughty teenager he sat in the en-suite bathroom to have a smoke as though no one was going to be able to smell it in there. After flushing the offending cigarette stub down the toilet he showered and shaved. Even after his best efforts the bathroom mirror didn’t offer much encouragement. The boyish looks, which had given him a certain cheeky charm, had disappeared into his more swollen middle-age. Only the eyes showed there was still some life left in the carcass. He put on his black shirt in an effort to disguise the weight he was becoming increasingly conscious of but lacked the willpower to do anything about.
He decided to skip breakfast. Cheese and cold meats weren’t his idea of starting the day the proper way. Computer bag slung over his shoulder, he walked past the station out of which were emerging the day’s first commuters, wearing the blank, zombie-like expressions fellow office workers anywhere in the world would recognize. He still felt sick so he was quite happy to walk the tension off. About fifteen minutes later he reached Triangeln, a large modern glass and white-pillared temple to shopping, pinned into place by a skyscraping Hilton Hotel.
Though it was too early for shoppers, he was able to buy himself a coffee on the first floor. The café court was situated in the middle of the complex on a podium that floated between the shopping floors, which swooped up on either side. Ewan sat down on a chair with a ridiculously high back, turned on his laptop, and took a gulp of coffee as he waited for the computer to spring into life. He spluttered and the coffee nearly came back up. After it had stripped his stomach lining it would threaten to shred his intestines once it got that far. None of the guidebooks had warned him about the dangers of Swedish coffee.
Ewan tapped idly at the keys in an attempt to get started on his travelogue article, but he didn’t feel inspired. To take away the taste of the coffee he bought himself an ice cream. Full fat. What would Mick be like? Ewan’s thoughts drifted back to Durham. Through the prism of time he couldn’t even recognize himself, physically at least. That was another person. Yet the man he had become was shaped in Durham. Distorted, more like. But the Mick of all those years ago was sharply defined in his mind. Mick was someone a timid first-year student like himself happily latched onto. As his friend you could take shelter within Mick’s aura of confidence. Mick was always at the centre of things, which meant that Ewan was always there too. The tolerated guest even if he hadn’t been invited. Often Mick hadn’t been invited, either, but he still turned up to be welcomed with open arms.
And yet Ewan couldn’t help feeling slightly uneasy at Mick’s magnanimous summons to Malmö. He hadn’t expected it. And he knew the nagging in the back of his mind was a natural consequence of past experiences. There had always been a reason behind everything that Mick did; a sub-text that couldn’t be read at the time. The ulterior motives would only be comprehended later. Maybe success might have negated the need to be duplicitous. A great career, ravishing wife and enviable lifestyle. And yet?
Ewan made sure he turned up on time. He was surprised that the apartments weren’t more prestigious, on the outside at least. He had seen plenty of elegant blocks on the way from the hotel. The Systembolag opposite had some seedy-looking customers at that time in the morning. Värnhem didn’t strike Ewan as the city’s most salubrious area.
The apartment stood at the end of the busy Östra Förstadsgatan, where it opened out in to yet another square, Värnhemstorget, which had a small interchange bus station. The block curved pleasingly round at right angles into the next street, which was the beginning of the wide-avenued Kungsgatan. Number thirty-five B must have been a very smart building when it was on the edge of Malmö, but time hadn’t been kind to it. Light beige in colour, the rendered concrete was surprisingly appealing. Mick and Malin lived on the fourth floor. A mesh metal grille covered the entrance with what looked like a cage door in the middle of it, barring his way to the formal wooden and glass-panelled front door. He looked at the list of occupants on the wall and pressed the buzzer for the flat marked M Lovgren. There was no answer. He tried again. No response. !t would be typical of Mick to drag him all the way over to Sweden and then not turn up. Maybe his flight was delayed.
The wind whipped up. Ewan shivered. A third press of the buzzer was as fruitless as the first two. Then he saw someone coming out of the main double door and approaching the grille onto the street. The door opened and a woman in her twenties opened the cage door on her way out. Ewan smiled at her, but got no response. However, he managed to step inside before the door clanged shut. Once through the swing doors he was at the bottom of the block’s stairwell. The staircase was wide and had once been elegant. Now it needed a lick of paint. The lift was to Ewan’s right and the door was open. He was tempted to save the climb but his fear of enclosed spaces got the better of him – and this lift was particularly narrow.
Ewan was panting heavily by the time he reached the top floor. The Roslyn apartment was straight in front of him. As he regained his breath he looked at his watch: 11.08. He didn’t like being late himself – he hated it even more in others. And it appeared that if Mick was going to turn up he would be fashionably late. He pressed the doorbell. He could hear it ringing inside. If someone didn’t come to the door soon he was going to lose his nerve. A second attempt didn’t stir any occupants. Mick should be here, must be here. Ewan tried the door handle. It opened. Now he was left with a dilemma. Should he go in or should he wait outside? Do nothing and he could be standing here for ever. No interview and he would have to face the wrath of Brian brandishing his P45. He half-opened the door and knocked on it loudly. Silence. ‘Mick?’ he called out. Then he tried ‘Miss Lovgren?’
Ewan stepped into a narrow lobby. Some coats hung from a line of hooks. To his left there was a toilet. Ahead of him the door was open. Through it was a reception room with only a small table and two chairs of the very minimalist Scandinavian style. A large unused fireplace took up one corner. The high ceiling was impressive. These apartments had been built for the wealthy citizens of Malmö, possibly in the 1920s, Ewan concluded. The wooden floor was beautifully polished – there wasn’t a carpe
t or rug in sight. Ewan began to panic. He didn’t want to be caught here. He thought of turning tail, but found himself rooted to the spot. Ahead of him was a door leading into a further hall with what looked like a bathroom beyond. To his right, elegant wooden double doors were slightly ajar, through which shone a finger of artificial light.
Three slowly taken paces got Ewan to the door. Opposite must be two very large picture windows if the still-drawn curtains were anything to go by. The light came from two ultra-modern, squat table lamps flanking a buff-brown leather sofa. It looked expensive. This wasn’t IKEA territory. Where the hell was Mick? It was at that moment that he saw the slumped figure on the floor next to the sofa. In that strange light he wasn’t even sure it was a figure at first until he made out the thick blond strands of hair that covered her face. She was wearing a long black skirt, which had ridden up her legs. Her jumper was a deep blue. Ewan just stared. Was this a drunken repose? He took a step nearer. He couldn’t hear her breathing. As he peered closer he noticed how stiff the body appeared.
Ewan began to tremble. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t meant to happen. He must phone for help. But he had better make sure. Carefully, he got down on his haunches so that he was hovering just over her body. With a quivering hand he gently brushed back her hair. Then, without knowing why he did it, he slipped a hand under her rigid body and cradled her. He found he was stroking her hair. Malin Lovgren was a truly gorgeous woman. She was beautiful in life, now beautiful in death, despite the blueish-purple hue of her face, which gave her a ghostly look. His hand was still on her hair when he heard someone cry out, ‘What the fuck are you…!’
Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Page 3