Anita wasn’t listening, as she had just had a thought.
‘And why did he try and resist arrest if he was innocent?’ continued Olander. ‘The fact that he made straight for his hidden gun shows he was expecting a police visit at some stage.’
Anita was back again. ‘He must have known we would track him down eventually. He had been in the flat. I think he was just scared because he realized we would jump to the obvious conclusions, which we have. But there’s one question we haven’t asked Mednick. We know from the tapes that he was watching the apartment for some time. If he didn’t kill Malin Lovgren, then he probably saw who did.’
Ewan stood in the car park outside the back of the polishus smoking a cigarette with a local journalist called Kurt Ekholm. He worked for Aftonbladet, which was a popular national tabloid. This murder was right up his street. Ekholm had been standing next to Ewan in the crowded room in what turned out to be quite a short news conference. The commissioner had said a few words of introduction. His hardly suppressed grin told its own story. Then he had introduced Chief Inspector Erik Moberg. Ewan didn’t understand a word of what the angry policeman was saying, though he wasn’t looking as happy as he should have been at that moment. All the following questions were in Swedish so Ewan had collared Ekholm afterwards to try and get information out of him, as David hadn’t been available to translate.
‘It is not so much,’ Ekholm said between puffs of his cigarette, which Ewan had offered him to break the ice. ‘They are arresting this fellow who is helping them with their inquiries. This fellow has a military background. They say they are not looking for any other persons. They must be thinking he is the one. He was brought to this place on last night.’
‘And you think they have got it right?’
Ekholm shrugged extravagantly. ‘Who knows with Swedish police? They not always right. Is good for newspapers,’ he said with a wry grin.
Ewan glanced round at the polishus. It was a very large, very modern building. Five storeys high with alternate sections in red brick and beige tiles. Despite the muted scheme, it was more colourful than any other police headquarters he had ever seen. It was topped off with a tangle of antennae on the roof. Due to the surrounding streets and canal, it was triangular in shape, with the entrance and car park at its base. The few gangly, leafless trees near the glass-windowed entrance did little to soften the general feeling of functionality. This was a place designed to tackle crime, not to win architectural awards. It was at its most impressive round the other side, where it stood astride the bend in the canal. It reminded Ewan of a latter-day castle or cathedral. He coined a phrase in his head, “the cathedral of crime”. He thought he would use it in his next piece, until he realized that it didn’t make any sense. He was disappointed that there had been no sign of Anita at the press conference. Was she somewhere in that mass of offices and corridors?
‘This big story in England?’ Ekholm asked.
‘No. I’m here because I work for one of the top newspapers in the north of England,’ Ewan lied to cover the embarrassment that might come out if he had to admit he was working for a second-rate magazine with a third-rate editor. ‘Newcastle, that’s where Mick Roslyn comes from.’
‘Ah, Geordie!’ Ekholm laughed.
Ewan nodded. ‘Mick Roslyn’s a Geordie boy.’
‘You know him?’
‘No.’ He could sense that Ekholm smelt an angle on his story and he wasn’t going to provide him with one.
The sun glistened off the cars. It even contained a hint of warmth. As he had assumed that Sweden would be like the Arctic, Ewan was pleasantly surprised.
‘What happens now?’
‘If the prosecutor thinks the facts is strong against this suspect, she will go in the court no longer than three days and ask for this fellow to be held. The court it must decide to keep this fellow in häktet or to—’
‘Sorry?’
‘Häktet. Like prison. Or let him go. If they say prison, the Prosecutor has after two weeks to build the case.’
‘Thank you. That’s really useful. Doesn’t work in quite the same way in Britain. Well, not according to the all the detective dramas on TV.’
Ekholm took a last puff of his cigarette, dropped it onto the ground and crushed the dying ember under his foot.
‘And Mick Roslyn is famous in Newcastle?’ He was fishing again.
‘No. No one has ever heard of him. Except his parents,’ Ewan joked.
Ekholm gave him a puzzled look. ‘So why are you at Malmö?’
‘I was doing a travel article when this came up. Thought I’d stay on and find out more when the murder took place. Play up the local connection.’
‘Oh, well, we like to give our visitors something special. A good murder, eh?’ Ekholm laughed at his joke. ‘It sells newspapers. It is sad that there is no sex in the story as well. That sells even more newspapers.’ He was still chortling when he left Ewan.
The duty officer unlocked the door and let Anita in. She knew she shouldn’t be there, but Moberg was busy with the commissioner after the press conference, so she had time. Halvar Mednick didn’t move. He was sitting on the wooden bed, which was attached to the wall. The only other furniture in the cell was the table, also attached to the wall under the barred window, and a chair tucked under the table. It wasn’t meant to be homely. It was a place for concentrating minds.
‘How are you?’ It was a stupid question but Anita hadn’t been quite sure how to begin. Here was a man who had been arrested for the murder of one of Sweden’s most famous personalities. Things weren’t rosy and the commissioner, the public prosecutor and Moberg all believed him to be guilty. And so would public opinion once his name appeared in the press, which it would after Sonja Blom went to the district court. When he turned his wounded gaze on her he didn’t come out with the sarcastic reply she anticipated.
‘I didn’t kill her. I told you that.’
‘So you did. It’s just that when you have a gun pressed against your head, it’s hard to take in.’ Now she was being sarcastic. Stop it. This wasn’t helpful.
Mednick flicked an imaginary object away with the toe of his shoe.
‘I was frightened.’
So was I, screamed Anita to herself, but she didn’t say anything. She pulled the chair away from the desk and sat opposite the prisoner.
‘I need to ask you a couple of things.’
‘I’ve told them everything.’
‘I’ve got a couple of questions that they didn’t ask.’
He screwed up his face and shook his head.
‘My lawyer says I’m not to say anything without him being present.’
Anita edged her chair a little closer to the bed so that their heads weren’t far apart. She fixed his stare. ‘You told me you didn’t kill Malin. Answer these questions and I might just believe you.’
The natural mistrust in his eyes faltered for a moment. Anita knew she was falsely raising his hopes, but she didn’t have time to waste.
‘When you entered Malin Lovgren’s apartment, did you go into the kitchen?’ Anita already knew the answer.
‘I told them. I went into the reception hall or whatever you call it. Then into the living room. That’s where I found her.’ His voice trailed off.
‘Did you go into any other rooms?’
He shook his head vehemently. ‘Once she slid out of my arms onto the floor I freaked out. I just ran out. Though I think I shut the front door.’
‘But not into the kitchen?’
‘Why?’ He treated it as though it was another stupid question.
‘Ok. How long were you watching the block that night?’
‘I was there from about eight. She came back around half nine.’
‘From half eleven onwards did you see anyone entering the block?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Yes.’
Anita suppressed a growing excitement.
‘Recognize the person?’
‘Yes.’
&nb
sp; ‘And?’
‘It was the man who lives on the first floor. Gunnarsson. His name’s by the buzzers on the front. I know all the residents by sight.’
Anita couldn’t hide her disappointment. Maybe she had been clutching at corroborative straws. If no one had entered, then possibly Moberg was right. She stood up and put the chair back in its place.
‘As a matter of interest, why did you go into the apartment?’
‘I just needed to talk to her. Tell her how I felt. Tell her that I cared and that I was here to look after her, which is more than her husband did.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was never there. He was married to the most fantastic woman in the world and he was always pissing off.’ She looked at the crushed human being in front of her and wondered what mental torments he was putting himself through. The psychiatrists would have a field day with this one. Put together a celebrity fixation with an anti-Muslim complex and throw in God-knows-what sort of hideous childhood experiences, and he could expect to enjoy years of expensive therapy at the taxpayers’ expense.
She knocked on the glass pane of the cell door to attract the attention of the duty officer. She felt pity for Mednick. He had probably been fine until his spell in Afghanistan. At least he’d come back alive, which was more than an increasing number of British and American soldiers were able to do. The key rattled in the lock and the door swung open.
‘There was something.’
Anita turned quickly. Mednick was rubbing his temple with the fingers of his right hand as though he was trying to squeeze out a memory.
‘I went and got a kebab. It was the only time I wasn’t watching the apartment. It was when I was coming back. The entrance door. I’m sure it was swinging back into place. Yes, it was.’
‘So you didn’t see anybody actually go in?’
‘They certainly can’t have been coming out. I would have seen them.’
At last, something to go at. They had checked all the comings and goings of the other residents and their visitors that night. No one had come in after Gunnarsson at 11.35, according to the reports she had gone through before coming down to the cells.
‘I assumed it was someone visiting one of the other apartments,’ continued Mednick, who had stopped toying with his temple.
‘And the time?’
‘About twenty to twelve.’
‘And did anybody come out before you went in?’
‘No.’
So, whoever went in at twenty to twelve was still in the building when Mednick discovered the body. Had that person heard Mednick come in? Were they still in the apartment all the time? Or skulking on the stairs? If that were the case, then they were dealing with a cool customer. Maybe the Säpo theory wasn’t a figment of Roslyn’s creative imagination after all.
‘By the way, can I have a cup of tea sent in?’
He looked pathetically grateful at the suggestion. ‘Don’t drink tea, but a coffee would be…you know.’
CHAPTER 21
‘What do you want doing with Roslyn?’
Moberg didn’t answer Nordlund. The bar of chocolate he’d bought from the machine after the news conference didn’t taste nice. Was it the chocolate, or the doubts that Anita Sundström had put into his mind and that he hadn’t been able to dismiss during the press questioning? That was why he hadn’t revealed more details, such as the CCTV footage, Mednick handling the body and the pendant turning up in his apartment. The commissioner had been quite short with him afterwards. ‘This was a golden opportunity to give the press some real information for a change. It would have made us look good instead of putting up with the shit they normally give us.’ Yet something had prevented Moberg from revealing too much. Too many mistakes had been made before.
‘Leave him for the moment.’
‘What if he wants to go? We can’t stop him.’
‘Tell him that there may still be a Säpo connection. He will know from the press conference that we’ve arrested an ex-military guy. That would fit in with his own suspicions.’
Moberg flung the uneaten chocolate into the bin. ‘That fucking woman!’ He got out his seat with surprising speed and glanced out of the window. ‘She gets on my tits.’
‘She’s not stupid.’
‘We’ve got an excellent case against this prick, but she’s not happy.’
‘Which means you’re not happy either.’ Nordlund paused. ‘Maybe we’re so keen to tie this one up we’re not looking at other possibilities.’
Moberg was still gazing outside. ‘You mean I’ve rushed into this.’
‘There’s pressure…’
Moberg pivoted round like a ship manoeuvring into its berth. ‘Henrik, you were in there with me in the interview. Mednick was shitting himself.’
Nordlund pulled out a white handkerchief and whisked it briefly across his nose. He knew why Mednick was nervous. A full-blown Erik Moberg interrogation wasn’t for the faint-hearted. It was like being gored by a raging bull. ‘Erik, maybe we have to take a step back. Our big problem is that we can’t place Mednick in the kitchen where we know, or are pretty sure, the murder was committed. There’s no evidence in the forensic report.’
Moberg gave a rueful grin. This was the nearest that Nordlund would go to admonishing him. Moberg hadn’t read the report right through, concentrating on the bits that fitted his case. His lips smacked as he pursed them.
‘Do you suggest I stop Blom from going to the district court?’
Nordlund stuffed his handkerchief back in his trouser pocket. ‘Too late for that. Anyhow, it would make us look ridiculous after the press conference. At least while Mednick’s locked up, it’ll stop further press speculation and keep the commissioner off our backs. It’ll give us time to gather further evidence against Mednick…maybe another forensic search of the apartment. They may have missed something. We can also pursue other avenues.’
‘The Säpo route?’
‘I’ve got the ex-Säpo operatives’ photographs. I’ll go out and see Roslyn and use them to persuade him to stay put. See if he recognizes his “Deep Throat”. If Mednick isn’t our man then the killer may have been more concerned with getting at Roslyn than at his wife.’
‘Ok. But keep this under your hat for now, Henrik.’
‘I’d have a word with Anita. She may have another angle worth exploring.’
Moberg snorted. ‘Tap into her feminine intuition.’
Nordlund was smiling when he left the office, as Moberg pretended to throw an imaginary object at him.
Ewan was busy putting his first murder investigation piece together for Brian. Though the press conference hadn’t been particularly illuminating, except of the way that the Swedish legal system operated, he had plenty of background. He had painted portraits of the main players in the tragedy. Mick Roslyn, the Geordie-boy-made-good in Sweden. Newcastle upbringing, then onwards and upwards in the glamorous world of films. Then there was the victim – his stunning actress wife. He built up the sultry Swedish beauty bit and sprinkled his description with facts he’d purloined from Google. The golden couple whose magical existence was cruelly cut short. A grisly murder on a cold winter night in southern Sweden. Strangled by an ex-military man.
Ewan was in a good position to fill in some details of the actual murder scene, though he made no mention of his role in the proceedings. Despite Anita telling him there was no connection, Ewan went as far as hinting that there might even be a link with the Olof Palme murder - he used it in reference to previous high-profile slayings in a country not noted for a huge homicide rate.
And central to the story was the sexy Swedish policewoman who was masterminding the investigation. Not true, though more newsworthy for British readers, who always wanted their stereotypes reinforced. The way he described Inspector Anita Sundström was as a brighter version of Britt Ekland with specs. It all made a merry mix among the mayhem of a murder case that was gripping northern Europe.
Ewan was sitting in Café Simris
hamn 3. The staff were beginning to recognize him and the service was now accompanied by a warm smile. Ewan bit contentedly into his cake as he read over what he had written. He particularly liked the way he had set the scene by juxtaposing the dourness of the city in winter with the glitzy world in which the victim moved. Brian would love it. Not that that could be regarded as a benchmark of quality. The only scoop that Brian had ever come across before was the sort used for digging out ice-cream from a carton. But it was a scoop because Ewan hadn’t found more than a couple of paragraphs about it in the Guardian and the Daily Mail among the British nationals he had picked up in Malmö that morning.
He ordered another coffee. He sent off the piece to Brian with a covering email, then stretched his arms. Now it was time to go back onto the Internet and discover more about the fate of the Earl of Bothwell. How had he ended up imprisoned in Malmöhus? His mind went back to Anita’s call this morning. He was still cross with himself. Maybe he should call her and thank her for telling him about the press conference. If they had found someone to pin the murder on, then maybe she would have time on her hands. Could he ask her out for a meal? His time in Malmö might be limited if this man was charged. The trial wouldn’t be for months and he would have to go back to Newcastle. He would have no reason to stay, except the real reason he didn’t want to leave Malmö. Inspector Anita Sundström.
Moberg found Anita in the car park. She had gone to her car with the idea of taking it home and cleaning it up properly. On opening the door she had recoiled at the smell and slammed the door shut. That was when she saw Moberg heading in her direction. She groaned inwardly. She wasn’t in the mood for another Moberg blast. So when she was greeted with an unexpected smile, she was immediately on her guard.
‘Heading home?’
‘Need to clean the car. Bit smelly.’
Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Page 16