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

by Torquil Macleod

  ‘What did you make of Pastor Kroon?’ Wallen asked when there was an interval in Brodd’s munching.

  ‘Something weird about him. Funny sod.’

  ‘A useful one, though.’ Brodd nodded at her as he shoved another forkful of meat into his mouth. ‘At least we now know who Ebba really is. And we’ve got some good background. No wonder we couldn’t find any trace of her birth if she was born in Wroclaw. But we should be able to find out more about her past now. I’ll give Hakim a call before we leave so he can get some digging done. One thing’s clear, the passport’s definitely false.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Brodd said in between some complex chewing. ‘Someone might have fixed up a real one for her with the false name. Asplund could possibly have done that. He has travel contacts.’

  ‘She’d probably need more than tourist contacts to organize something as complex as that.’ Wallen put down her fork. She couldn’t believe she had cleared her plate so quickly. Brodd was still eating, but he’d put a mountain of the free salad on first. ‘Fancy Asplund’s name coming up like that! That’s the link to Isaksson we wanted. Interesting that both Asplund and Isaksson denied knowing each other.’

  ‘Isaksson probably doesn’t want to be associated with Asplund if he’s such a degenerate. Anyway, if you ask me,’ said Brodd, wiping his mouth, ‘we’ve got our man.’

  ‘Certainly everything points to Asplund. He must now be our prime suspect. Carries on with the young Ebba. Corrupts her, according to Kroon. They both end up in Malmö. Then we know they’re connected through her “business”. He probably met her the day she was killed. Now we have his DNA, we can match it up with that from the semen in her body.’

  ‘Do you mind! I’m still eating.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought that would put you off your food.’ She pushed her plate into the middle of the table. ‘The only thing we don’t know is why Asplund would actually want to kill her. What’s the motive?’

  ‘Maybe he was jealous of someone? Didn’t like what she did?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Is that where Isaksson comes in? Wallen wondered. She could see that Brodd was losing interest. He suddenly smiled at her.

  ‘Talking of jealousy, I think the chief inspector is jealous of me.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I haven’t been able to go drinking with him lately.’ He followed this statement up with a confidential wink. ‘And I’ve got another date tonight.’

  Wallen suppressed a smirk. ‘A date?’

  ‘Yes. Second one. She’s a bit of all right.’

  ‘Is she myopic?’

  He looked quizzical, then: ‘Oh, very funny.’ He pulled out a toothpick and began to de-meat his teeth. When he’d finished, he brandished the toothpick. ‘I’m a bit of a catch, actually.’ Wallen began to conjure up an image of some very plain woman with bad skin and thick glasses. ‘She’s blonde.’

  ‘A lot of Swedes are!’ Wallen was always piqued that she wasn’t fair-haired like so many of her contemporaries. It was the blonde Anitas of this world who seemed to attract the men.

  ‘Nora. That’s her name. Do you know, I think she’s into policemen. Some people think being a cop is sexy.’

  ‘Really,’ Wallen murmured sceptically.

  ‘Oh, yes. She’s very interested in what I do.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ Her various partners had never shown the slightest interest in her career. ‘Anyhow, I think we’ve been here long enough. While we’re in Sjöbo, I want to go and visit the nursing home where Boleslaw Pozorski is.’

  Brodd pulled a long face. ‘I’ve already been there. Besides, we’ll get nothing out of the dad if he’s got Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘But now we know his daughter’s name, we can find out when she last saw her father. She might have been there during her final visit to Sweden.’

  Brodd put away his toothpick. ‘Can I have a pudding first?’

  ‘No!’

  Moberg was coming out of China Box laden with a variety of oriental fare. This would keep him going until his supper. He had started off towards the polishus when his mobile phone went off. It took some ingenuity to retrieve it from his pocket without dropping his food.

  ‘Yes!’ he bellowed into the phone.

  ‘Eva Thulin here.’

  Moberg’s tone changed immediately. ‘Hi there. Have you anything for me?’

  ‘Nothing back from Asplund’s DNA sample yet. Should get that on Monday. But news on Isaksson.’ Moberg could feel a surge of excitement. ‘He made love to your victim while she was in Malmö. I’m surprised we found anything as I assumed she’d have protected sex.’

  ‘Not necessarily. She knew all about her clients, remember. Not any riff-raff off the streets. Probably explains her extortionate charges, too.’

  ‘One other thing: it’s Isaksson’s semen on the nun’s habit.’ When she didn’t get a reply, ‘Did you hear me, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Oh, I heard you all right, Eva. Many thanks. Enjoy the rest of what’s left of the weekend.’

  ‘That’s if I ever get finished here,’ he heard her start to moan, but by then, he was switching off the call. He stood in the middle of the pavement, and a huge grin slowly spread across his face.

  CHAPTER 32

  Kevin had gone out for a long walk along the coast and left Anita to carry on going through Klas Lennartsson’s research material. She had already started making her own notes as though she were working on an actual case. The events of the early hours of the morning were playing on her mind. Too many things weren’t right. But there wasn’t any evidence – real evidence that she had access to – that there had been any foul play in either Rylander’s suicide or Klas Lennartsson’s crash. Yet there were too many things that she couldn’t explain. The call to a harassed Eva Thulin hadn’t helped. She was in the middle of chasing up DNA results for an investigation that the team were working on. But she did confirm that Lund should have been able to handle the Rylander and Lennartsson autopsies if they had come in. Zetterberg had lied about that. So why had the bodies been taken to Stockholm?

  She returned to Rylander’s career. Germany seemed to be the key, according to Klas. He had worked at the Swedish embassy on Otto-Grotewohl-Strasse in the Berlin of the German Democratic Republic. Rylander was in Berlin for two years between 1974 and 1976, shortly after the GDR had at last been recognized by many Western states, including America. Immediately before that, Rylander had been in Bonn, so he must have been a bit of a German expert. He would have been in his mid-forties by the time he pitched up in East Berlin. Ten years before that, he had been in London, as well as having spells in Algiers, Amman and Buenos Aires. Back to London after Berlin, and eventually the big one – Washington. A very successful man. So, if he had been murdered, as Klas clearly thought, where along the line did he upset someone enough that they wanted him dead? The motive must have been the imminent appearance of his posthumous memoires. Who would they affect? Who would want them suppressed? There had been a few indiscretions along the way, but surely none bad enough for someone to set up the elaborate death of an already dying man. The trouble was that no one that she knew would be able to provide the answer that Klas had discovered in Berlin. Who was it he’d gone to see? This led to further scrutiny of Klas’s notes to discover a name. She couldn’t find anything. Klas didn’t appear to have written down the information.

  Anita left a note for Kevin to say that she was popping into Simrishamn. She decided to listen to the CD of Klas’s last interview, dated a couple of days before Rylander’s death, in the car. She packed away the notes along with all the CDs into the box file and threw it onto the passenger seat. She had already listened to sections of the conversations between Klas and Rylander. The old man was a good raconteur and had a fund of interesting stories and wise observations on world events of the 1970s and 1980s. But she could tell that near the end of each session Rylander’s voice began to break up; his flow distorted as tiredness got the better of him. Again, doubts crept back; maybe h
e really had got fed up with life and just wanted a swift conclusion. She put the CD into the player as she drove, and heard Rylander talking about his life after retirement and the many conferences he was asked to attend, committees he had sat on and TV interviews he had given.

  Anita drove to the far side of Simrishamn and called into the house of Klas’s cousin, Ida Svensson. After a sympathetic chat, she managed to get the keys to Klas’s house. Anita knew that most Swedes don’t entrust their keys to neighbours, but to family members, however far away they may live.

  Ten minutes later, she had parked on Stenbocksgatan and opened Klas’s front door. It was always a strange feeling going into the home of someone who had recently died, but it had been part of her job for over twenty years. There was always an element of sadness, especially if the death had been tragic or unexpected. The ghosts of the past, both good and bad, still lingered. This, of course, was particularly poignant, as Klas had been a person she had known and liked.

  Her first port of call was his study. It was a temple to Scanian history: shelves of books and box files, and old newspapers stacked in piles on the floor. Photographs of local landmarks haphazardly covered the walls. The room was an organized mess, much like Klas himself. The mahogany, rectangular desk with a green leather inset was as neat as Klas was ever going to get; everything in its dusty and disordered place. As she sat down in the hard wooden chair behind it, she had a strange feeling that someone had been there before her. It was the round-based lamp on the desktop that caught her eye. It had been moved – the telltale crescent of dust-free surface gave it away. She opened the desk drawers. They were crammed with what, to Anita’s untutored eye, looked like junk. In one, she found an old school year book. She flicked through it, and there was Klas beaming awkwardly out of the page alongside headshots of his classmates. It must have been his final year. A few pages on she found her own photo. She would be coming up for sixteen. Heavens, she had forgotten how long her hair had been then. The face staring out was of a bright-eyed innocent with the happy expression of one who was looking forward to whatever life had in store. Had that young girl really turned into the distrustful old bitch she often felt like these days? Wasn’t that the reason why she was sitting here right now? Had what she’d experienced in her police career – and a less than successful domestic life – really made her so cynical and unable to think the best of people? What would she tell her sixteen-year-old self? Don’t go near a police station, for starters. And secondly, if you see any handsome academics, run a mile!

  She replaced the year book. She got up and inspected the rest of the study. She could now see that some of the book shelves had been disturbed – the scuffed dust marks again looking suspicious. A night-time intruder wouldn’t have noticed. Then she went round the rest of the rooms. It had been a lovely house until Klas had taken it over and neglected it. He hadn’t the money or the time. He was not a man who had the practical skills to mend or repair his home. Anita suspected that changing a light bulb would have been a major challenge. Klas was a man who had lived in the past and not in the present. And was it Albin Rylander’s past that had resulted in his death? By the time Anita had returned to the study, she was convinced that someone had been in the house. Not burglars who were taking advantage of an empty building, but somebody searching for something who didn’t want anyone to know they had been there; trying to cover their tracks. Were they searching for Klas’s Rylander research material? It was a disquieting thought.

  Half an hour after her arrival, she was ready to leave. She had already phoned Stefan at the police station from Klas’s study. Luckily, he was on duty. She asked about whether there had been any official written report on the patrolmen’s visit to the holiday home in the early hours of the morning. He couldn’t find anything. In fact, he was surprised any patrol was in the vicinity and at that time. ‘They didn’t come out from here. Maybe they were from Ystad.’

  It was a thoughtful Anita who locked up the house. Already a plan was forming in her head.

  ‘I hope you’ve got a good explanation for being in a dead man’s home?’

  Anita swung round guiltily and saw the menacing figure of Alice Zetterberg hovering on the edge of the pavement.

  Holding up the keys, Anita said: ‘I got these from Ida Svensson, Klas’s cousin.’

  ‘Doesn’t answer my question,’ Zetterberg snapped back.

  ‘That’s all you’re going to get. You can’t arrest me for breaking and entering because I’ve had Ida’s permission.’

  The glare in Zetterberg’s eyes was almost manic. For a moment she didn’t respond. Then, at last, she spoke very slowly.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’m warning you to keep your nose out of business that’s not yours.’

  Anita smiled sweetly. ‘I wouldn’t do anything to upset an old friend like you, Alice.’

  Zetterberg flushed with fury, and she angrily wagged her finger in Anita’s face.

  ‘You’re heading for a big fall, Sundström.’ Without another word, she stalked back up the road towards the police station.

  Anita returned the house key and drove back to the cabin. On the way she continued to listen to Rylander. She could hear the sea in the background, so he and Klas must have been sitting outside. He was describing life in East Berlin and how few people would talk to him, as they were afraid that the Stasi would be listening in – or that anything they said to a westerner would be reported back to the authorities by an army of informers. But he said he was amazed at what the GDR was doing in terms of reconstruction.

  ‘You must go to Berlin, Klas.’

  ‘I would love to.’

  ‘Quite a place. Quite a history. I remember the first time I walked down Karl-Marx-Allee. I was staggered. This wasn’t the East Germany of western imagination, or that portrayed by the western press. It is an extraordinary boulevard, about ninety metres wide, over two kilometres long, stretching from Frankfurter Tor right up to Alexanderplatz. Had it been built in the 1920s, the architectural snoberati – I’m sure there’s no such a word, but you know what I mean – would have raved about it. In retrospect, it’s now viewed favourably by the postmodernists. It was built on one of the routes the Russians used to fight their way into Berlin in 1945. Originally, it was called Stalinallee, until de-Stalinization. It was used for May Day parades.’

  There was a long pause. Anita parked the car on the grass next to the house and was about to eject the CD from the player.

  ‘Ah, yes. I sometimes get forgetful. There was a specific reason I mentioned Karl-Marx-Allee. When my story’s fully told, you must have verification.’

  Anita took her finger away and listened intently.

  ‘No one will believe me, you included possibly, unless you know what I reveal can be corroborated. You must make that first trip to Berlin and head for 64 Karl-Marx-Allee. There you’ll find a man – not quite as old as myself – called Hans-Dieter Albrecht. Once I tell you the final part of my tale, you’ll realize his importance.’

  Anita ejected the CD and sat quietly with it in her hand. Had Klas deliberately not written down the name and address when he began to suspect that Rylander’s suicide wasn’t a suicide at all, and that he was being watched? He had been right to hide his research with them. Somebody had been in his house after his death. Right, she had things to sort out. Kevin would either have to fit in with her plans or just lump it.

  Kevin was still wet when he came back.

  ‘I was so hot after the walk, I couldn’t resist a swim. I’ve had a lovely time.’

  Anita passed him a cold bottled beer, which he gratefully accepted.

  ‘Anyway, how’s your day been? Get anywhere with that lot?’ he asked with a nod in the direction of Klas’s notes.

  ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Let’s sit out in the sun.’

  They made their way onto the grass where a couple of garden chairs and a picnic table had been placed by Anita before Kevin’s return. She wanted him to be
sitting down and relaxed before she told him what she (or possibly they) was going to do.

  ‘It’s a beautiful coastline along here. Magical.’

  ‘I’m going to tear you away from it.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Kevin, the bottle halfway to his mouth. ‘Where are you taking me?’ Then he took another swig of his beer.

  ‘Berlin.’

  His snort sent beer spurting through the air. Anita waited for the spluttering to stop and for him to compose himself as he wiped the alcohol off his T-shirt. When he had finished, he simply smiled and said, ‘Great.’

  ‘Is that all you can say? Don’t you want to know why?’

  ‘I don’t have to. I’ve never been to Berlin. Always been a place I thought would be interesting. And whatever we British may think of the Germans, we’re partial to their beer.’

  He was being annoyingly reasonable.

  ‘This is not a holiday, Kevin,’ she said sternly, as though she were reprimanding an eight-year-old Lasse. ‘Well, it is, but the Berlin bit isn’t.’

  ‘Why can’t we do both? I assume you’ve tracked down Klas’s contact.’

  ‘Yes. I heard it on the last CD of the interviews he did with Rylander. Said this man, Hans-Dieter Albrecht, would verify his story. Lives in a street called Karl-Marx-Allee. But this Albrecht must have told the story to Klas, so he can tell it again to us.’

  Kevin stood up. ‘I’m going to get another beer. Want one?’

  She watched him go inside. She couldn’t believe how easy it had been. She had expected some resistance, and that he would try and persuade her not to go, and say she was barking mad to meddle in something that had nothing to do with them. The truth was that she would have gone even if he had stayed behind, but she realized that she really wanted him to be with her. Give her support. Believe in her, however hare-brained the scheme was. That’s why she had carefully prepared an argument in her head as to why they should go, and then present him with the evidence to back up her reasons for pursuing their own investigation. And he had just agreed without the slightest quibble. Bloody men! She couldn’t fathom some of them. He came back with another bottle of beer, and hers poured into a glass; he knew she wasn’t a natural bottle-swiller.