‘Are you suggesting he didn’t do it?’ Moberg asked.
‘Not at all. I think there’s a strong possibility that he did. But the reason must run deeper. How did he get to know her? Was it before she moved to Switzerland? He travels a lot, so did he make any trips to Switzerland in the last year? Did he meet her there as well as here? Shouldn’t we be looking into his background more? We might find the missing connection there.’
Moberg nodded as he took in what Hakim had just said. He couldn’t help but be impressed by the boy from Rosengård. ‘OK. There’s stuff we can follow up there. I want to know everything about him, from his bank accounts to his eating habits. Talking of habits, have we had any luck on the semen stain, Pontus?’
‘Sorry, Boss, we’ve drawn a blank there. Neither Asplund nor Isaksson are on the DNA database. No reason why they should be, as neither has a criminal record.’
‘So, we’ll have to get samples from them. That might be difficult in Isaksson’s case. He’s bound to kick up a stink. I had a meeting with the commissioner and Prosecutor Blom this morning, and they don’t want us to approach the tosser until we have some definite proof of his connection with Akerman.’
‘What about the spreadsheet?’ Hakim pointed out.
‘Yes, but the way you got hold of it wasn’t exactly kosher.’ Moberg suddenly felt awkward using the expression in front of a Muslim. Fucking political correctness! ‘For it to stand up in court, we’d need to get the information officially through the Swiss police. I suspect that would take forever. Despite what our superiors think, I’m going to pay Axel Isaksson a visit tomorrow. Friendly, of course.’
Laughter tinkled round the room.
‘Right, tomorrow I want everyone to concentrate on Asplund. Do we know if there’s any connection between him and Isaksson other than that they both appear to be Akerman’s clients?’
‘Asplund denies ever meeting Isaksson, though he’s heard of him,’ Wallen answered.
‘Haven’t we all? OK, another visit to Asplund might be a good idea. Keep the pressure on. Asking him for a DNA swab should put the wind up him.’
Wallen and Hakim gathered up their notes.
‘Beer?’ Moberg suggested to Brodd.
‘Sorry, not tonight, Boss.’ Moberg’s face fell. ‘Having a drink with a rather attractive young lady.’
Moberg couldn’t help betraying his scepticism.
‘On a promise?’
‘You never know!’ Despite his cheeriness, his answer didn’t carry great conviction.
‘Oh, by the way, did anything emerge from your visit to Sjöbo?’
‘Nothing of interest. The nursing home was a waste of time. I’ve got a list of staff and patients, but there’s no Akerman connection. And I asked around about Isaksson. He’s popular there, even if he’s left them for the big city.’
‘We’ll see how popular he is when all this comes out.’
CHAPTER 24
Kevin was sitting by the harbour at Simrishamn. There was now a gentle breeze, which took the edge off the heat of the day. The crowds had dispersed now that the ice cream and fast food outlets had closed. He sat on one of the benches that faced the sea. Three old men along from him were busy discussing some important topic, or maybe what was on the telly tonight. He couldn’t tell. Would he be in a relationship with Anita long enough to attempt to learn some Swedish? Or was it worth it? People seemed to speak excellent English here. And as long as they understood him when he ordered a beer, he would be fine. He was gasping. He wished Anita would hurry up. She had called into the police station to see Stefan. She was to do it casually in case Alice Zetterberg was about. That was half an hour ago. It was all right admiring the harbour in the bright evening sunlight, but there was a limit. It would look better with a glass in his hand.
‘Beer?’
Anita was standing behind him.
‘Bloody right!’
They went to a bar on Storgatan. In the summer it’s a pedestrianized area and they sat outside.
‘Well?’
‘Well nothing.’
‘Oh, that means that we can concentrate on the holiday.’ Kevin was relieved.
‘But I’m not happy with “nothing”. It’s as though no one at the station is involved. Except for Zetterberg. And she’s not telling them anything.’
‘Maybe everything is straightforward, and there’s nothing to it. A suicide and an accident.’
Anita lowered her voice as though they might be overheard, though the nearest drinkers were a couple of tables away.
‘Stefan says he doesn’t know where the motorbike is. And they haven’t had an autopsy report back on Rylander’s suicide. That’s nearly a week!’
Kevin looked at an animated Anita over the top of his glass.
‘Maybe they’ve been busy.’
She shook her head. ‘This isn’t any ordinary body we’re talking about. He was a well-known figure. He’ll probably have a memorial service in somewhere grand like Lund Cathedral.’
‘I’d like to visit that sometime. Sounds really interesting. Lund Cathedral.’
‘Don’t change the subject. I might give Eva Thulin a ring. She’d know. The point is: I’m beginning to think Klas was right about Rylander’s suicide.’
‘Stop it, Anita. This is fanciful.’
‘Is it?’ she came straight back at him. ‘A man, albeit suffering from cancer, takes his own life in the middle of telling his story to the world. He actually chooses Klas to write it. We know from Klas that there was some big secret he wanted to reveal. It doesn’t come out. Klas goes off to Berlin to see somebody who seems to have the answer. I get that excited text. Next thing, he’s dead – and so is Rylander’s secret.’
‘You’re turning this into a conspiracy theory.’ There was too much talk. He wanted a second beer.
‘No note either. And you saw somebody watching the house – twice.’
‘I could have been mistaken.’
‘You’re a cop, for God’s sake! You don’t make these things up. Have you seen this person since the suicide?’
‘Well, no.’
‘What about the couple next door? Your girlfriend on the beach?’
‘They were just some young Stockholmers on holiday. Surely you can’t suspect them. They were going on Friday, anyhow.’
Anita tapped her half-empty glass thoughtfully.
‘No, I don’t for a minute think they were involved. But they might have heard or seen something that night. What were they called?’
‘She was Fanny. I think he was Benno.’
‘Surname?’
‘It wasn’t a police interview. A few words exchanged staggering up your bank.’
‘I can find out from the letting agent.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Kevin getting up.
‘What?’
‘I’m getting another beer. Top up?’
Anita shook her head. She watched Kevin make his way inside, and she could see him ordering another drink from the girl behind the bar. She knew that she might be reading too much into the situation. She had thought that Klas was just being ridiculous when Rylander died, but his own death had put everything into a different perspective. Though nothing in itself was out of the ordinary – and cock-ups did happen; people didn’t do jobs quickly enough – there were little alarm bells going off. Yet why was she doing this? She was enjoying Kevin’s visit. She had started to genuinely relax. Was she spoiling his holiday? Carry on like this, and their whole fledgling relationship might come to an abrupt end. Maybe she should just let it lie.
Kevin returned, sipping his beer. He sat down. ‘Why don’t we have a bite to eat here? There’s some nice-looking grub inside. Then we can head home and maybe – I don’t know – maybe have afters.’
Anita grinned back. ‘OK. But between the meal and the “afters”, I just want to make a small detour.’
‘Where?’ he said despairingly.
‘To see Moa Hellquist.’
�
�Why?’
‘Because she happens to live on the way back.’
Moa Hellquist lived off Kristianstadsvägen on Backgatan. Her home was a small cream house behind a neat hedge. It was as unassuming as the nurse herself turned out to be. Anita had left Kevin in the car because she didn’t want to have to keep translating for him.
Hellquist lived alone with her West Highland terrier dog. If she had been married and had had a family, there was no obvious evidence. After Anita had refused a coffee, Hellquist fussed the dog as she waited for the inspector’s questions.
‘Moa, you must understand that I’m not here in any official capacity. I’m here because I know that Klas spoke to you after Albin Rylander’s suicide.’
‘I know. Klas thought it was odd.’
‘Did you?’
Hellquist gave the dog another rub.
‘Yes, I suppose I did. I know it’s a strange thing to say about a man who was dying of cancer, but he was full of life. Does that sound stupid?’
‘Not at all. What was he like the day before he died? Did he seem depressed?’
‘No. Just as normal. Always had time for a chat. I think that’s what he liked. He wanted to talk about things, anything really, while he still had breath to do so. That’s why he always looked forward to his sessions with Klas.’
Anita could sense that Moa was uneasy talking about the subject. Rylander had been in her care. She wondered if there had been any official investigation by the medical authorities into the number of pills that Rylander had got hold of. The dog was acting as her comfort blanket.
‘Klas said you couldn’t understand where all the pills that must have killed him came from.’
Hellquist pulled a pained expression. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Could he have stored them up? Just pretended to take them?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she replied slowly. ‘He was on morphine sulphate. They’re slow-release tablets so he could manage the pain. And though he didn’t show it, he was suffering a lot. I saw him take them regularly. He took two one hundred milligram tablets a day. I gave him four weeks’ worth at a go. But he had nearly run out, and I was due to give him his next batch when he… died.’
‘So how many would he have needed with the alcohol to kill himself?’
‘Between ten and twenty tablets, plus half a bottle of whisky. That seems to the amount he drank, apparently. That would depress his breathing and render him unconscious. Coma and respiratory arrest would lead to death.’
Anita took time to process the information before proceeding.
‘What did you do you when you found him?’
‘Well, I could see he was dead. I phoned for an ambulance and called the police.’ Hellquist adopted a quizzical expression. ‘That’s odd. I hadn’t thought about it before. Though I called for the ambulance first, the police arrived before the medics.’
‘And this was Inspector Zetterberg?’
‘I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, but I didn’t like her.’ Anita offered a sympathetic smile. ‘She didn’t want me to hang around.’
‘Did she ask you about the tablets? Where he might have got that many?’
‘Didn’t seem interested.’
‘And no follow-up questions?’
‘No. I thought there might be some comeback, but no.’
‘One last thing. The couple who were staying next door. From Stockholm. Were they still around when you arrived?’
‘I saw them most mornings. Seemed nice. Well, she did. He looked moody. I can’t remember seeing their car. I know she said that they were due to leave that Friday morning. Probably made an early start. It’s a long drive.’
Anita got up. She leant over and made an effort to stroke the dog. The terrier immediately ducked out of the way.
‘Thank you for talking to me.’
Hellquist stood up. Anita realized that she was glad to get rid of her uninvited guest. They walked to the door together.
‘So sad about Klas, too. A lovely man.’
‘He was, wasn’t he?’
Hellquist held the door open.
‘Just one more thing, Moa. Was Zetterberg by herself?’
‘No, there was another detective with her. Well, I assume he was a detective as he wasn’t wearing a uniform.’
‘Local?’
‘Might be, but I’ve never seen him before. I know most of the people at the station by sight through my work at the hospital. This man was a large fellow in his fifties. He was entirely bald. Didn’t speak in my presence.’
As Hellquist closed the door behind her, Anita stood thoughtfully at the top of the small flight of steps. Now, who was this other detective?
CHAPTER 25
Axel Isaksson’s detached house was modest. It wasn’t too big or too small. It was just sufficient for the image of an incorruptible man you could trust and had the courage to articulate what you were thinking. A home like this, among lots of similar detached houses with their regular-sized gardens, showed that Isaksson was no better, or no worse, than the average Swede. He fitted in. He was one of us. Except Chief Inspector Erik Moberg knew that he would take an instant dislike to the man, though he had never actually met him in the flesh. Moberg tended to take instant dislikes to people – it saved time. It was well known that Isaksson was quick to criticize the police. They were an easy target, and it was a simple way to garner cheap popularity among an increasingly sceptical public. Ironically, if Moberg hadn’t been a cop, he might have voted for Isaksson’s right-leaning brand of politics. Isaksson never went as far as the Sweden Democrats when it came to the hot topic of immigration, but disapproval was often implied. His line was: where had the all old Swedish virtues gone? Hence his championing of family values. To some, it struck a chord. To others, it seemed hopelessly out of tune with modern life and living in a country with a divorce rate that had reached a forty-year high the previous year with over 25,000 couples separating. As Moberg himself had done his bit to inflate the figures, he felt even more antipathy towards the man he was about to meet. Yet this model family man with strong Christian beliefs appeared to be paying a prostitute for sex that he presumably wasn’t getting at home. Moberg could smell a hypocrite a mile off.
The sun was warm again as Moberg eased his substantial frame out of the driving seat of his car. He prayed that the weather would break soon as he slipped on his jacket. It covered his already sweat-stained shirt. His approach would be very informal, which was why no one else was with him. He needed to rein back; not mention anything inflammatory like the nun’s habit. He knew he was taking a risk. Commissioner Dahlbeck would haul him over the coals if this interview went wrong and someone as high profile as Isaksson complained of police harassment. Moberg waddled up the garden path.
It was Isaksson’s wife who answered the door. She showed him through the house and into the back garden, where Axel Isaksson, cup of coffee in hand, was sitting at a wooden garden table covered in paperwork.
‘And this is meant to be a paperless society,’ said Isaksson as he rose from his chair.
‘It’s much the same with the police.’ Moberg was on his best behaviour. He even managed a kind of lopsided smile.
Isaksson wasn’t as tall as he looked on the television. He had short, greying, ginger hair that was receding at the temples. The nose was long – a feature relished by cartoonists to give their subject a distinctive look – and was accentuated by the thin-rimmed spectacles. The eyes behind the glasses were hard and uncompromising. The intense stare was even unnerving for someone like Moberg, who had met the gazes of murderers, rapists, arsonists and abusers. Despite the pleasant greeting, this man wouldn’t pass up a chance to promote himself at someone else’s expense. Moberg would have to tread carefully, as he realized that he had taken the inevitable aversion to the politician. It was as Isaksson offered his hand to shake that Moberg tried to gauge whether this man could have run up behind Julia Akerman and knifed her in the back. He wasn’t overweight, and the hands
hake was firm. Yes he could, concluded Moberg as he tried to balance on the flimsy garden chair where Isaksson indicated he should sit.
‘Chief Inspector Moberg. I know your name, but from where…’ Isaksson made great play of thinking about where he had come across it before.
‘The death of Inspector Karl Westermark.’
‘Ah, yes!’ Moberg knew that Isaksson had the answer all along. ‘The detective who shot himself in front of a fellow officer while you listened in from another room.’
‘The same.’
‘I recall it was Inspector Anita Sundström who was the one who witnessed it all. I hope she has been able to return to duty after such an experience.’
‘She’s serving again.’ Moberg was trying hard not to rise to the taunt. Isaksson had described the whole incident as a “shambles”. How could they let a murdering policeman get away with suicide instead of bringing him to justice? The implication was that they had given him a way out.
‘Anyhow, how can I help you today, Chief Inspector?’ said Isaksson as he picked up a packet of cigarettes from the table. ‘I haven’t got long. There’s a council meeting in an hour.’ He took out a cigarette and popped it into his mouth. He flicked a plastic lighter with his right hand, the implication of which was not lost on Moberg. ‘Not a nice habit. My only vice. My wife won’t let me smoke inside. Good for her.’
‘I expect you’ve read about the murder in Pildammsparken of a woman in her thirties?’
Isaksson blew out a plume of smoke. ‘Of course.’
‘The woman in question was called Julia Akerman. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Should it?’ This was accompanied by another exhalation of smoke.
‘Julia Akerman had a Swedish passport, but she lived in Switzerland.’
‘I can tell you now, Moberg, that I have never been to Switzerland.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t. Akerman was a frequent visitor to Malmö. In fact, she rented an apartment on Kronborgsvägen.’ None of this information seemed to be having any effect on Isaksson, who sat impassively smoking opposite him. ‘We believe that her real name was Ebba. But it was her profession that is of particular interest.’
Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) Page 13