Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4)

by Torquil Macleod

  They both sat listening. It definitely was. The crunch of tyres on rough gravel. A car door opened and shut.

  ‘Lights,’ Kevin whispered.

  ‘Bit late for that.’

  They both stood up. Through the open door to the corridor and hallway, they could hear footsteps outside. Then someone tried the front door. It opened.

  CHAPTER 29

  Two uniformed police officers entered the house. Anita didn’t recognize them. The shorter one had the flap undone on his gun holster in readiness for use. He was the one who spoke.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The question was dripping in aggression.

  Anita had to take charge of the situation, as Kevin had no idea what the policeman had said, though he got the gist.

  ‘I’m Anita Sundström. I’m holidaying in the house at the end of this row.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question. This house is meant to be unoccupied.’

  Were they a passing highway patrol?

  ‘My friend here,’ Anita said, indicating Kevin, ‘thought he heard someone trying to break in, so we came to investigate.’

  ‘What did you hear?’ the officer said, turning to Kevin, who stared blankly back.

  ‘Kevin’s from England. He doesn’t speak Swedish.’ She stared straight at Kevin and said in English. ‘These boys want to know what you heard.’ Kevin frowned. ‘The sounds you heard from over here. That’s why you woke me and we came to investigate.’ Fortunately, she could see that he was cottoning on.

  ‘Yes… yes, that’s right. I thought it might have been glass breaking. So I woke Anita up, and she said we’d better take a shufti.’

  ‘What is a shoofty?’ the policeman said in English with some puzzlement.

  ‘Sorry. Have a look. But, as you see, nothing.’

  ‘And how did you hear these sounds when there is another house in the way?’

  ‘Ah, I was outside having a smoke.’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  The bigger policeman muttered something to his colleague.

  ‘How did you have a key?’ asked the shorter one. This was in Swedish and aimed at Anita.

  ‘When I knew that this was empty, I went to the letting agent in Simrishamn. I wanted to have a look around.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘It’s nicer than mine. Thought I might swap. You can ask them.’

  This seemed to placate the officers.

  ‘OK. We’ll have a look round and make sure there hasn’t been a break in. You can go.’

  Anita raised her eyebrows to Kevin and nodded towards the door. He didn’t know what had been said.

  ‘Oh, Inspector, I might as well take the keys back to the agents.’ The accompanying smile wasn’t warm. ‘It’ll save you a trip.’

  Dawn was breaking as they made their way back towards their house. Ribbons of golden light were replacing the stars.

  ‘That was interesting,’ ventured Kevin.

  ‘Wait till we get back,’ Anita said quietly.

  When they got home, Anita made her way into the kitchen and filled up the kettle. Kevin disappeared into the bathroom. She could hear him peeing loudly. Why did he never shut the bathroom door? Or put the toilet seat down? He’d been living on his own too long.

  By the time he returned, she had made them both a cup of tea. They sat at the kitchen table.

  ‘You covered up well,’ she said with a thin smile.

  ‘There wasn’t much else I could do. And we couldn’t exactly have told them the real reason we were in there. They’d think we were barmy.’

  Anita raised her cup and sipped her tea thoughtfully.

  ‘Didn’t it strike you as odd?’

  Kevin shrugged. ‘Not really. We’d do the same back in Britain if something looked suspicious.’

  ‘But how did they know someone was in the house?’

  ‘All the lights were on.’

  ‘What’s to stop somebody putting all the lights on when they’re at home? It’s no one else’s business.’

  ‘It was three in the morning. Not many people are likely to do that.’

  ‘But burglars aren’t likely to light up a house like a Christmas tree, that they’re trying to rob.’

  She took a further sip and then put the cup down firmly on the plastic table top.

  ‘At first, I thought they must have been a passing patrol. But because of the apple orchard, you can’t see that house from the main road.’

  ‘Someone else reported it,’ Kevin suggested.

  ‘Who? No one else lives round here. We’re the only ones.’ Then she wagged her finger back and forth. ‘They also knew the house was meant to be empty. How? Holiday lets that finish early aren’t exactly the sort of thing the local police are informed about; they’ve got enough on their plate. Besides, the letting agent wasn’t fussed, as they’d already been paid.’

  ‘All right, I admit that it’s a bit strange.’

  ‘So, how did they know we were there?’

  All Kevin could offer was a shrug.

  ‘More to the point, how did they know who I was?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Now Anita was looking out of the kitchen door as though she was concentrating on some object in the living room.

  ‘When he asked me for the keys to take back to Simrishamn, he called me “Inspector”.’

  CHAPTER 30

  The drive to Sjöbo took forty-five minutes. Wallen had reluctantly agreed to let Brodd drive. He had insisted, as he said he knew the small town reasonably well. She had only been there on a couple of occasions as far as she could recollect. She didn’t mind giving up her Saturday to work on the case, but why did she have to share it with Pontus Brodd? She had summoned up the courage to question Moberg’s decision. Instead of shouting at her, he had explained that sending a Muslim detective to interview a Christian pastor in a town known for its anti-immigrant stance might not be a good idea. Anita would probably have said bollocks to that and taken Hakim with her, but Klara could see where the chief inspector was coming from. So, it was Brodd she was stuck with, but she had made it clear that she would do the talking and he could take notes.

  Sjöbo sits in the middle of Skåne, virtually halfway between Malmö and Simrishamn. It grew in size after it became a halt on the train line between the two. Though the train has long gone, it is now the meeting point of roads that cross the region from east to west and south to north. Wallen remembered it was a dull town with few interesting buildings except round the central square. Sjöbo’s most incongruous feature was a large, old, Dutch-style windmill that now sits in the middle of a housing estate. From what she could remember, it was derelict.

  They entered on the road from the west. Instead of heading straight into the centre of the town, Brodd turned the car off to the left and they found themselves on a wide, straight road fringed by anonymous houses. Further along Planteringsgatan he took another left. He came to a stop in front of a modest single-storey house with a neat garden. The home of Pastor Elias Kroon was as unremarkable as those they had already passed.

  The pastor didn’t seem to want to let them in until Wallen explained that they were the police. He may have been a charismatic preacher in his day, but this was a remote and suspicious man. Probably in his mid to late sixties, he was nearly bald with, to Wallen’s mind, off-putting staring eyes. His nose was angular, his lips thick; and his stubbly chin indicated that he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. Medium height, he was still a fit man, as evidenced by the bicycle she could see through the window, propped up in the back yard. He had reluctantly shown them into a very sparse living room, totally devoid of anything on the walls except for a wooden cross above a crammed bookcase. Wallen immediately noticed there wasn’t a television. There was a wireless; it certainly wasn’t modern enough to qualify as being described as a radio. A bible was open on a table near the hearth. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a fireplace that looked as though it was actually use
d. There was a musty whiff about the house as though, even in the warm summer they were having, light and air never really penetrated the rooms. And to be honest, she wasn’t entirely sure whether the pastor had washed recently. Personal hygiene didn’t seem to be a priority.

  They all stood around awkwardly, as Kroon didn’t offer them a seat. Wallen heard Brodd mutter ‘Not very Christian.’ behind her.

  ‘We’re here because we’re investigating the murder of a woman in Malmö early last week.’

  Kroon didn’t speak. Wallen found his intense gaze disconcerting. She ploughed on.

  ‘This woman was called Julia Akerman. Does that name mean anything to you, Pastor?’

  ‘No.’ The voice was deep and rumbling.

  ‘We think she may have a connection with Sjöbo. We know that there is some link with Axel Isaksson, the politician. I believe he was a member of your church.’

  ‘He was. An important member. He was a believer.’

  ‘Do you mind if we sit down?’ said Brodd, who was finding it difficult to write his notes while standing up.

  Kroon nodded. Both Brodd and Wallen sat down on an old, worn, uncomfortable sofa. Wallen was wondering if they had done the right thing –the sofa, too, had an unpleasant smell – and she shifted uneasily before putting her next question to Kroon, who remained standing.

  ‘If he was such an important member, why did he leave your church?’ To Wallen’s annoyance, this had come from Brodd.

  ‘His political career took him to Malmö.’

  ‘So why isn’t your church operating now?’

  The pastor’s piercing eyes twitched as though Brodd had stumbled across a topic that pained him.

  ‘We live in an ungodly world. Fewer people want to hear the Lord’s word and live by his teachings. This is particularly so of the young, whom I did my best to help. But the foreigners that have invaded our land have brought evil beliefs with them and are undermining our society.’ Wallen thought she could be listening to one of Isaksson’s speeches. ‘Our numbers dwindled and it was no longer financially viable to keep the church running. I still hold prayer meetings here for those who wish to attend.’

  Looking around, Wallen thought few would want to venture into this uninviting room.

  ‘When did the church close?’ Again this was Brodd.

  ‘I believe in millennialism.’

  Brodd stifled a laugh. ‘What’s that? The end of the world?’

  Kroon gave him a pitying look. ‘No, not Armageddon; a new beginning. We are now in the penultimate age… the age when the final battle with Satan is being fought out.’ His eyes began to blaze, his voice became animated; his features bursting into life in front of them. He seemed to grow in stature. This was the tub-thumping preacher of the past, the passionate persuader. ‘Look at the Middle East today. Iraq and Syria. Look at the ghettos of Stockholm and Malmö full of immigrants. That’s where we must root out Satan from our midst. Defeating the devil is God’s mission on earth. When we win, we will see a New Earth in God’s kingdom.’ Then he produced an unexpected smile. ‘So you see, my “church” will never close. But the building closed its doors in 2001.’

  Wallen was glad that Hakim wasn’t present to hear Kroon’s invective. And they didn’t seem to be getting anywhere, so she jumped in before Brodd came up with yet another irrelevant question or remark.

  ‘We think Julia Akerman may well have some connection with Sjöbo. In fact, we think her real name was Ebba. We don’t know the surname. Did you have an Ebba amongst your congregation?’

  ‘We had two.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ebba Persson and Ebba Pozorski.’

  This was promising. Even Brodd was paying attention.

  ‘Our Ebba was in her mid-thirties. Born, we think, in 1979.’

  ‘Ah, that wouldn’t be Ebba Persson; she’s in her seventies. It could be Ebba Pozorski.’ At last, he sat down on a high-backed wooden chair, no longer wary of their presence.

  ‘How do you spell that?’ asked Brodd. ‘Doesn’t sound Swedish.’

  Kroon slowly spelt the name out for him. ‘She had a Polish father. Boleslaw.’

  ‘I’ve heard or seen that name somewhere,’ pondered Brodd out loud.

  ‘Can you tell us about Ebba Pozorski? Her family? What happened to her?’

  Kroon’s eyes seemed to be drawn to the cross on the wall when he eventually spoke. ‘Ebba’s mother was Swedish, or to be exact, first generation Swedish of Polish extraction. Elzbieta, as she was called, returned to Poland from time to time to visit her relations. I’m not sure where.’ He paused. ‘Actually, it was somewhere that used to be in Germany but became Polish after the war…’

  ‘Wroclaw? It used be Breslau.’ Wallen found herself being amazed that Brodd would know such a thing.

  ‘Yes, it was Wroclaw. It was on such a visit that Elzbieta met Boleslaw. He was older than her, but they became attached to one another. They married over there, and Ebba was born in Wroclaw. She must only have been an infant when they came to Sjöbo to live. They thought that Sweden would offer them a better way of life than in communist Poland.’ Kroon’s face darkened. ‘It was sad. Ebba was such a pretty girl. Very devout.’

  ‘She was wearing a cross when we found her,’ Wallen said.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded his head slowly. ‘I am pleased. She must have retained some of her faith.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Kroon leant over and picked up the bible, and cradled it as he talked.

  ‘The Pozorski family joined my church in the early days. It wasn’t easy for Boleslaw in a town like this, but we embraced him and his family.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, it sounds as though you don’t care too much for immigrants,’ Brodd said unhelpfully.

  Kroon held the bible up. ‘Those who follow the true path will always be welcome.’

  ‘Fine. Can we hear about the Pozorskis, please?’ said Wallen impatiently. This was a real breakthrough, and she wanted to make sure they got as much information out of Kroon as possible.

  ‘They were fully involved in the church and our activities. Little Ebba had let God into her heart, and the Lord’s beauty shone out of her. But then, when the child must have been about twelve or thirteen, Elzbieta died. Boleslaw found it difficult to cope. He turned to drink. He lost his job. And he lost control of Ebba. She became what you might call wild. She came under a malign influence within my own church. I will never forgive myself for being blind to the perverted designs of one of my own flock until it was too late. Ebba had turned to the path of sin and depravity.’

  ‘She became a prostitute,’ said Brodd as he looked up from his note scribbling.

  ‘It is awful to say, but I’m not surprised. She succumbed to the evils of the flesh. I fear damnation awaits her.’

  ‘Sorry, can I get this straight?’ Wallen said. ‘Are you saying there was a particular individual who corrupted her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He was sent packing. But by then, it was too late to save Ebba. She left Sjöbo and, so I was told later, went to Malmö. I never saw her again. Poor Boleslaw. His mind started to go. He has Alzheimer’s now.’

  ‘That’s it!’ exclaimed Brodd. ‘I knew I’d seen the name. He’s on the list of the nursing home. Boleslaw Pozorski.’ He said the name with such vehemence you would have thought he’d solved the case.

  ‘Pastor, who was the malign influence? Was it Axel Isaksson?’

  Kroon looked appalled. ‘Of course not. It was a man called Markus Asplund.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Jazmin wandered through the malls of Mobilia, which had now become an excellent shopping centre. It had most of the stores you’d find in the centre of Malmö. She had spent some time in Indiska. She loved the clothes there, but she couldn’t afford any at the moment. Next door, she browsed in Akademibokhandeln. She couldn’t believe how many cookbooks there were. Sweden must have the highest percentage of publishe
d chefs per head of population in the whole of Europe. She spent most of her time glancing through the shelves of feminist literature; she was hoping that the Feminist Initiative under Gudrun Schyman would at last gain a few seats in the upcoming September general election. She smiled to herself as she thought of how supportive Lasse was trying to be; more out of trying to please her than any conviction on his part. His politics were far from radical, but she was working on him. Sweden must change and adapt, and she wanted to be part of that process.

  After buying a book which she knew was an indulgence, as she and Lasse had little money, she compounded her guilt by having a fika at Espresso House. She took out the mobile Lasse had bought her and sent him a text to say that she would be home by lunchtime. Despite the café area being full of Saturday morning shoppers – she even had to move over to let a woman into the seat next to her – she was soon engrossed in her new book. She lost track of time, and suddenly realized she had been there longer than she had planned. In a panic, she quickly gathered up her bag and shoved the book inside. But something was wrong. She stared at the Formica-topped table. Where was her mobile? She bent down and looked on the floor. It wasn’t there. She then scrabbled inside her bag and emptied the contents out onto the table, knocking her cup and saucer onto the floor in the process. The cup broke.

  ‘Oh, shit!’

  She was now totally fazed. As she attempted to clear up the pieces of crockery, all she could think about was how cross Lasse would be.

  Why had she let Brodd persuade her to have lunch at the Gästgifvaregård? He wasn’t her idea of a dining companion. The ornate, baroque building was in Sjöbo’s central square. Brodd had said that the food was really good and inexpensive. She had to admit that she was now hungry, as she had skipped breakfast. The surroundings were faded plush. The high wooden doors, long windows, wainscots, plinths and urns gave it a somewhat over-the-top old-world feel. Wallen didn’t much like it; she favoured modern eating places. They wandered through a number of dining rooms until Brodd found one with an empty table that satisfied him. On Brodd’s recommendation, they both ordered bruna bönor med stekt flask. She preferred more imaginative dishes than this basic fare, but it would fill a gap. When the pork and beans arrived, she found herself tucking in. She had to admit it was really tasty.