Then there was a flash of blinding light.
CHAPTER 6
She looked hurriedly around. Where the hell had she put her bag? It had the car keys in it. She was going to be late again. She knew she shouldn’t have gone for that run in Pildammsparken. But it had cleared her head, which she needed now that she had two days off work. She couldn’t see the bag in the kitchen. Where was it? The leisurely shower had taken longer than she had planned, too. And the pampering afterwards. That happened once in a blue moon. Even she admitted she didn’t look that bad when she wasn’t hassled, which she was most of the time these days. At such moments she could even imagine she appeared far younger than the forty-two she now was and usually felt.
She glanced at her watch – just past 12. She would never make Simrishamn by lunch. Should she ring Sandra now and tell her she would be a bit late? The overnight stay with her old friend would do her good. She needed to get out of Malmö. The place was suffocating her. Back home in Simrishamn she would blow the cobwebs away. Clear the brain. And a few drinks tonight with Sandra would be a laugh. Maybe some of the other girls would come round. And tomorrow morning, a walk along the lovely beach at Lilla Vik would dispel the inevitable hangover.
She moved into her bedroom. The bag wasn’t there either. The room was in a mess – so was the rest of the apartment but she wasn’t going to waste her precious two days off tidying up and cleaning. She would do that one night later in the week. Well, maybe. Though she knew she couldn’t possibly have left the bag in Lasse’s room, she went in anyway. Of course it wasn’t there. Then a pang of guilt. Her son’s room was tidy, everything neatly in its place - even his posters of a goal-scoring Zlatan Ibrahimovic and a sexily-clad Izabella Scorupco were perfectly aligned on the wall above his bed. How could Lasse be so organized? Just like his father. But Lasse was a student for God’s sake. Students were meant to be the messy ones, not their mums. She quickly shut the door. She missed Lasse, but he would be home for a few days in a fortnight’s time. They would do a few things together. That’s if there wasn’t anything too pressing at work. The cinema? Take in a concert? Usually they went to support Malmö FF at their stadium on the other side of the park but the Swedish season didn’t kick off until April. The Sky Blues hadn’t done much in recent years but Lasse was doggedly loyal. Yes, he was a loyal kid. Now that was different from his father.
The bag was in the bathroom, under the towel she had flung on the floor. Typical of it to hide there! She did a quick check of everything she needed. No, the keys weren’t in her bag. She cursed. Then she spotted them on the side of the basin with her mobile phone. Yes, she had been organized after all. She had simply put them there while she had applied some eye-shadow. One last look in the mirror. At least she had her new spectacles on, which had gone missing on several occasions. Lasse had called them trendy. Anita had called them expensive.
A minute later she was out of the apartment and across the road to where her car was waiting patiently on the park side of Roskildevägen. The ranks of trees guarding the edge of Pildammsparken were bare. She longed for the summer, but that seemed a long way off. They hadn’t had their share of snow yet this winter. She was about to open the car door when her mobile rang. Would she answer it or pretend she hadn’t heard it? It might be Sandra. Or Lasse. She took out her mobile. When she saw the number she sighed heavily. It was from work.
‘Anita Sundström.’
‘Anita, Paula here.’
‘Hi, Paula. Hope it’s nothing important as I’m just off to Simrishamn. It’s my day off,’ she added with exaggerated emphasis.
‘Sorry, Anita, not any more. There’s been a murder at Östra Förstadsgatan. Moberg wants you over there right now.’
Anita’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. ‘Some winos got into a scrap outside the Systembolag?’
‘No. This is a big one. It’s Malin Lovgren.’
‘But I just saw her on TV last night.’
‘Well, she’ll be on again tonight.’
As Anita edged her way through the door of the fourth-floor flat there were people everywhere. She recognized most of them. She had already had to push her way through a crowd on the street outside. They had been attracted by the sudden police activity. She was curious that Malin Lovgren should live here – had lived here. There were plenty of smarter places round town she could have taken with the money she must have made. If she’d had Lovgren’s money Anita would have chosen somewhere along Limhamnsvägen overlooking the sea. By the looks of it most of the polishus were here – the police headquarters was only five minutes’ walk away. And there was Chief Inspector Erik Moberg directing operations. A bear of a man, Moberg was hard to miss in a crowd. The general consensus at the polishus was that he was far too fat for his own good. He would have a heart attack soon if he didn’t cut down on his huge intake of food and drink. And the sooner the better, Anita thought unkindly. The badly dyed, nicotine-brown hair didn’t help his aesthetic appeal either. He was a good cop in a bad body.
Moberg turned and saw Anita. ‘Ah, Inspector Sundström, you’ve kindly decided to turn up.’ Anita bit her tongue. When he wasn’t trying to belittle her, he was undressing her with his eyes. ‘Nice of you to dress up.’
‘I hear it’s Malin Lovgren.’
‘Yes, we’ve got ourselves a proper celebrity this time.’ Anita knew Moberg would be loving this situation. This would get him on TV and in the national newspapers.
‘How?’
‘Strangled. Doctor’s been and gone. Body’s in there,’ he said nodding in the direction of the open double doors. As she turned to go into the room Moberg warned, ‘This is an important one, Anita. We need to pull out all the stops. The whole of Sweden will be watching us. We need a quick result.’
Inside the living room a police photographer was busy taking his ghoulish snapshots. Anita wondered what his family album was like. Eva Thulin, in a plastic bodysuit, was standing back examining the spot where the body lay. The experienced forensic technician was a friendly face. She smiled grimly at Anita. ‘I saw her on the TV last night.’
‘Same here.’
‘Wearing the same clothes.’ The photographer had finished and left the room. ‘Lovely woman,’ Thulin said as she bent down for a closer look.
‘When did it happen?’
‘Early days but I would guess between eleven and one this morning.’
‘The Chief Inspector said she was strangled.’
‘The colour of the face and the swollen tongue certainly indicate strangulation. And neatly done.’
Moberg came in. ‘Two lovely ladies together. It’s my lucky day.’
‘Did her husband find her?’
‘No,’ said Moberg. ‘It was a journalist. From England. That’s why I need you here. My English is crap. Yours is good, as we all know.’ Again the sarcasm. ‘Her husband is here, too. And a photographer. We need to talk to all three now and piece together what’s happened here.’
‘Where are they?’
‘I’ve got Mick Roslyn and the photographer in one of the bedrooms. I’ve only had a brief word. Got more sense out of the snapper – Mjallby, I think he called himself. Roslyn is very upset.’
‘Only natural, I would think.’
‘I never know with these arty types. Never seem real.’
‘And the guy who found her?’
‘Through there.’ Moberg gestured towards another set of double doors at the end of the room. ‘He’s shaken up, too. But don’t go easy on him. Never trust a fucking journalist. Certainly not him. Don’t like the look of him. And you’d better take young Olander in with you. Don’t want him complaining about police harassment in a foreign newspaper. One on one can be dangerous. Bastards like him can twist the truth unless you have a witness.’
‘I’ll go and find Mats. But first I’ll have a good look around.’
Moberg didn’t bother hiding his impatience. ‘I’ll do the looking, you do the talking.’ As usual, Anita tried her best to ignore him.
She found Mats Olander in the kitchen on the opposite side of the internal hall.
‘I thought it was your day off,’ Olander said brightly.
‘So did I!’
It was a beautiful kitchen. Every modern gadget you could think of, every appliance a top brand, every surface spotlessly clean. They must have a cleaner, Anita thought tetchily. It was more a creation of a style magazine than somewhere that was actually lived in. They probably ate out on their trips to Malmö and never actually cooked at home.
‘Anything of interest in here?’ Anita asked, knowing that Olander had an observant eye.
‘Yes. Those two mugs on the side.’
They were black and white striped with a badge on the front.
‘Football?’
‘Newcastle United. Newcastle’s where Mick Roslyn comes from.’
‘Yeah, my Lasse likes them. Alan Shearer, right?’
‘Used to play for them.’
‘And this kettle looks half full.’
A kettle was an unusual sight in a Swedish household. Olander must have read her mind. ‘Again, must be Roslyn. It’s actually British made, or bought there. There’s an adapter.’
‘Have you a spare pair of gloves? As you can see I didn’t come ready for such a situation.’
Olander fished out a pair of plastic gloves and Anita slipped them on. She inspected the mugs. Next to them was a box of teabags. Lipton’s English Breakfast Tea. Roslyn might live in Sweden but it seemed he liked reminders of home. ‘And no one has been in here since last night?’
‘Not sure. The photographer phoned us because Roslyn was too upset. Poured Roslyn a whisky. There’s a drinks cabinet in the living room.’
‘So she was about to make someone a cup of tea. What stopped her? What made her go back through there?’
‘Do you want forensics to go over all this?’
‘The whole apartment. But we had better let the Chief Inspector give that instruction.’
‘What instruction?’ Moberg had lumbered in.
‘I was saying to Mats that you would be ensuring that the whole apartment is gone over by forensics. Particularly in here.’ Anita nodded towards the two mugs.
‘Ah, a welcomed guest as opposed to an unwanted intruder.’
Thulin appeared at the door. ‘Lovgren wasn’t killed in the living room. Marks on the floor. The body was moved or dragged through there.’
‘What are you waiting for?’ Moberg shouted at Olander, ‘Get forensics to take this fucking place apart.’
Ewan wondered what was happening. He could hear lots of activity next door, but no one was coming to see him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone other than the huge policeman with the angry attitude. The uniformed policeman left in the room with him hadn’t said a word and didn’t seem likely to break his Trappist silence. Ewan still felt sick. Not so much from what he had seen and was caught up in, but from the punch that Mick had thrown at him. That was before the photographer pulled him off. First appearances hadn’t looked good, so Mick’s reaction had been understandable. This was all so weird. He had stepped into a Swedish surreal world; like one of Mick’s bloody films.
Ewan had spent time gazing out of the window watching the growing crowd. He had noticed the woman with the glasses come in. Was she police? Quite attractive. When he was interviewed, as he realized he must be, he hoped it was her and not that man mountain who liked to shout. One thing Ewan had noticed when watching all these Swedish films of late was that when the actors raised their voices there was no change in inflection, no subtle shifts of emphasis. It was as though someone had just turned up the sound to ‘yell level’. It sounded bizarre.
At least the room was interesting because this was Malin Lovgren’s studio. A number of watercolours were propped up against the walls, mainly seascapes. They were fresh and vibrant. Did they reflect her character? She certainly had some ability. He had been to too many gallery openings not to be able to spot the difference between the talented and the talentless. Two paintings were on easels. One was nearly finished. It was of a coastal scene. A fishing village with gaily painted cottages, a few boats and a low harbour wall. The other had hardly been started but there was the vague outline of a church. Would her paintings be worth more now that she was dead?
The door opened. It was the woman. And a young officer. She nodded to the uniformed policeman, who left the room. She was a vision of blue under her beige jacket. A blue jersey, rather tight-fitting striped blue-and-white pants and an elegantly sweeping scarf wound casually round her neck, with the two ends draped down over her breasts. Did she always turn up to murder scenes dressed like that? Ewan wondered. Her hair was short and blond with a centre parting that was no longer exact as the wind outside had tousled the effect she had tried to create. The wisps of flopping hair made her more natural, more earthy. Her eyebrows were so blond that they were scarcely visible, which drew one’s gaze hypnotically towards her clear grey-green eyes. The glasses acted as a perfect showcase for them. To Ewan, they formed a rather sexy combination.
‘Inspector Sundström,’ she said introducing herself. ‘Police Assistant Olander,’ gesturing to her colleague who looked too young to be a policeman. Her eyes scanned the paintings before she spoke again.
‘And you are Mr Ewan Strachan?’ She hardly had an accent, but she couldn’t quite get her tongue round his name, so it came out as Straak-en.
‘Strachan. Ewan Strachan.’
‘It was you who found the body of Miss Lovgren?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you move her?’
‘Er…no. I came in and found her lying there. Slumped on the floor. I think I was holding her when Mick came in. To see if she was ok. See if she was dead.’ Ewan realized he was starting to ramble so he stopped.
‘That’s when Mr Roslyn came in?’
‘That’s right. He went mad. Punched me on the side of the head.’ Ewan’s hand automatically went to the tender spot. ‘Before that there was this flash. It was the photographer. Instinctive reaction I suppose. Fortunately, he was quick-witted enough to get Mick off me.’
She moved over to the large curving window and took a peek at the throng below. ‘Then what?’
‘Mick was beside himself. But it was obvious that I hadn’t killed her. Even he could see that she was stiff. Must have been dead for a while.’
‘Are you used to seeing dead bodies?’
‘Only my mother’s.’ He stared down to his feet as though embarrassed. ‘I held her, too.’
She turned back and faced Ewan. ‘So what were you doing here?’
Ewan was amazed at how accurate her English was after the error-strewn efforts of the shouting policeman. ‘I came to interview Mick.’
‘You say, Mick. You know him?’
‘We were at university together. In England.’
Ewan went onto explain the arrangements that had been made for him to come over for the interview, where and when to meet and how he had come into the apartment on finding the door unlocked.
‘Just as a matter of interest, why Malmö and not Stockholm? That’s where they spent most of their time.’
‘I have no idea. The girl I dealt with to arrange the trip is based at his production company in Stockholm. And it seems odd because Mick was up in Stockholm yesterday and wasn’t coming down until this morning. Maybe it just fitted in with his schedule.’
She tugged thoughtfully at one of the ends of her scarf.
‘We will need to speak to you again, Mr Strachan.’
‘But I’ve got a flight back to Newcastle tomorrow.’
She smiled, though it contained no warmth. ‘That is not possible. Where are you staying?’
‘At the Hotel Comfort.’
‘Please leave your details with Olander here. We will speak later.’
‘But why? I haven’t done anything. I just found…I need to—‘
‘Later,’ she said brusquely and turned away. Then she paused at the door and swivelled round. ‘For the rec
ord, where were you last night between about eleven and one?’
‘In bed. Asleep. Where the hell did you expect me to be?’
Her eyes narrowed and the stare was uncompromising, but she didn’t say anything. Ewan wondered how he going to explain this mess to Brian?
Anita came out of the studio and closed the door behind her. Malin Lovgren’s slender frame was being eased into a body bag. The operation was being supervized by Thulin. The bag was about to be zipped up when Anita said, ‘Wait a second. Eva, did you notice whether she was wearing a pendant?’
‘No, she wasn’t, though there were signs that there had been something about her neck. But I really need to have a closer look because naturally there are a lot of abrasions in that area.’
‘Last night, on the telly, she was wearing a pendant. I noticed it because I’ve got one that’s similar.’
Thulin laughed. ‘They’re paying you too much.’
‘No. It’s not expensive. It’s just that it’s made by a girl I know in Simrishamn. Lotta Lind. She specialises in these colourful glass starfish designs. That’s why I noticed it last night. It was blue.’
‘She probably took it off when she got home.’
‘Possibly, but she still had all the same things on. We can soon check.’
As Anita left the room there was a loud rasping metallic sound of the zip finally closing the world of Malin Lovgren.
He hovered at the back of the crowd. Who was it? they wondered. Speculation was rife; theories were already being bandied about. It was a businessman, someone suggested. A prostitute, assured another. No, it was one of the alkies who spend their life in the Systembolag opposite. Committed suicide by mistake. It was a knifing, the policeman over there had said to the woman in the fur hat standing behind those two students. Malmö was turning into New York. It was dreadful. It was bound to have been committed by an asylum seeker. Couldn’t trust them. A drugs deal gone wrong.
Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Page 4