Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries)
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‘Hope you haven’t been waiting around. I was in the pool.’
Serneholt showed them into a massive living room. Through wide windows at the back they could see a large outdoor swimming pool. Like Lindegren’s home, the walls proclaimed the fact that art was important. Yet the surroundings were less formal, and Anita suspected that Serneholt actually collected paintings for their own sake.
‘Drink?’
‘No thanks. We need to ask you about Pelle Munk.’
He rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel and then threw it over a nearby sofa.
‘That man is a genius.’
‘I don’t see any of his paintings here.’
With a pleasant smile he pointed upwards. Anita could now see that there was an area overhanging the far end of the room. Though the building was single storey, the large roof space allowed for a mezzanine floor.
‘Follow me.’
They ascended a spiral staircase and came into a light, airy gallery with white walls and pine timbers. There were about a dozen works displayed. All were abstract, though Anita had now seen enough of Munk’s work to pick out his paintings.
Sernholt went over to a small console by the wall, touched a button and music began to play. It was a vaguely familiar classical piece, though Anita couldn’t name it. There were two black leather sofas, back to back, in the middle of the space – each one facing a display wall.
‘I come up here when I’m pissed off, put on some music and just let the art flow over me. It restores my faith in the universe. Munk’s art is like that. Life-affirming. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘I’m afraid it’s lost on me. I think Hakim has more appreciation.’
Serneholt raised a disbelieving eyebrow as he watched Hakim examining one of Munk’s paintings.
‘That’s Reflex.’
To Anita it was a series of squiggly lines.
‘Acrylic on aluminium. All these are from his most creative period.’ Sernholt pointed at a painting, which was on a canvas. It seemed to be split in the middle. The top half was green with a red surround, while the bottom half was purple with a blue surround. ‘Saturday & Sunday. I think it’s stunning.’
To Anita it was more like a bad weekend.
‘I’ve studied Munk and his work. Met him a few times, of course. His work is spontaneous. Not planned at all.’ Serneholt’s excited enthusiasm for the subject was at odds with his laidback persona. ‘So a painting can change in form or feel at any stage. It allows him to explore colour, light and texture. And his main inspiration? Classical music. Depending on what he’s listening to shapes the painting he’s working on. I found out what he was listening to while creating all these. That’s why I’m playing Mahler’s Fifth now because he painted Outcome over there while listening to it. If I listen to the same piece, it allows me to connect with the painting and the artist at the same time.’
Anita had had enough of the lecture.
‘I believe that you’re the biggest private collector of Munk’s work.’
‘Sadly, I only have nine. I’ve tried to get more, but without success.’
‘So, you’ll be interested in his new exhibition?’
His eyes lit up. ‘Of course! It’ll be a great event and I’ll have my chequebook out. It’s such an exciting prospect. The Swedish art world is holding its breath.’
Hakim had moved onto the next painting. Anita sceptically wondered if the young man had any idea what he was gazing at. The Impressionists were the outer limit of her artistic appreciation.
‘We’re trying to track the theft of a couple of Munk’s paintings.’
‘Ah, yes. Shadows from over in Ystad. One of his earlier pieces. Not his best, in my opinion.’
‘And Dawn Mood from a house in Limhamn. That’s the one we’re really investigating.’
‘Now, that’s really worth stealing. I would have bought that myself, but I was in Bali at the time.’ In response to Anita’s quizzical glance. ‘Extended holiday. It’s tiring doing nothing, so I needed a break in the sun. No, by the time I heard that Dawn Mood had appeared in a Stockholm gallery, it had been snapped up by some businessman down here.’
‘And you haven’t been approached by anyone wanting to sell it to you?’
Serneholt laughed. ‘No such luck. Not that it doesn’t happen. I’ve been tipped the wink before. But that’s not my style. That’s not how I collect.’
‘But works like Dawn Mood can be stolen to order?’
‘Yes. It happens all over the world. Even in our law-abiding Sweden,’ he gently mocked.
‘With your knowledge of Munk and that particular art scene, what would your money be on?’
He rubbed his ear as though trying to get water out of it. ‘Sorry. Organized crime goes in for this sort of thing. But I don’t know whether there’s any down in these parts. That’s more your department than mine. I would talk to Stig Gabrielsson in Malmö.’
‘He put us on to you.’
Sternholt puffed out his lips in amusement. ‘Did he? Well, there’s a man who knows where everything is - or can be found. Anything he tells you can be taken with a large pinch of salt. Did he imply that I might have Dawn Mood?’
‘Not exactly,’ Anita answered guardedly. ‘He reckoned that the painting might be out of the country by now. Germany possibly.’
Serneholt folded his arms and casually leant against the end of one of the sofas. ‘That sounds like he’s saying it’s not worth investigating. Don’t be put off, Inspector. Gabrielsson is unscrupulous. I’ve dealt with him on a few occasions in the past. Then he popped up the other week trying to sell me an unknown Munk that had turned up. It was very good. To the inexpert eye, one could easily have been fooled. The colours were right and the composition was typical of the great man, but there was something about the brushwork that wasn’t quite as it should have been. I’ve spent so long looking at these paintings that you begin to understand the flow of his style. Gabrielsson protested his innocence, of course, but I still sent him away with a flea in his ear. He must have known it wasn’t an original. If not, he’s in the wrong business. Probably has a team of tame artists somewhere churning out fakes, which he sells to gullible businessmen who don’t know any better. If Dawn Mood was stolen to order, I would put my money on Stig Gabrielsson being involved in some way – if not in the theft, then in the desposal.’
A run round Pildammsparken didn’t help her sense of restlessness. There were two cases that didn’t seem to be getting off the ground, though they would have to take a closer look at Stig Gabrielsson’s activities. It was all the personal problems that seemed to be mounting. She was upset by the Lasse situation and his distancing himself from her. It was difficult not to take it personally, even though the truth was that he was infatuated with the wretched Rebecka. Maybe a summer stuck with her on Gotland would make him see sense. The nagging doubt that Anita couldn’t remove was that his infatuation might turn into love. And love was also on her mind. She couldn’t get Ewan out of her head, however hard she tried. It was so stupid. So pointless. She got herself a drink.
As she poured a glass of red wine she also had a more immediate concern. Westermark. She hated the fact that she had to report to him. And he was delighting in her discomfort. The bloody briefcase. It was daft not handing it straight in. Now she had given him more ammunition. She was also dreading the inevitable “move” he would make. The more she said “no”, the more he would contrive to make her life as difficult as possible. But if she didn’t stand up to him, he would take it as encouragement. Swedish laws on sexual harassment were complicated enough, but if it reached a stage where she had to make a formal complaint, she might as well just quit. She might win her case, but her career would be down the drain. She would be earmarked as a trouble-maker. The men would assume she had led him on in the first place. Once the atmosphere in a team is soured, it never recovers. She would be seen as the bad apple.
As she came back into the living room she spotted the offending a
rticle. She put down her drink and lifted the slim, leather case onto the coffee table. She took out her notebook and looked up the combination again. She scrolled the numbers round on the first set of dials – 061 – and then repeated the process on the other – 132. Then she flicked the catches and the lid sprang open. She rummaged through the bank papers yet again. None seemed to be remotely relevant. The golf magazine she quickly discarded. She searched all the compartments of the case. Nothing there either. No secret love letter. No clue to any untoward behaviour at all. No hint of another woman. Then there were the two DVDs. One was Casino Royale. She couldn’t stand Bond films. Björn had loved them and had dragged her off to the cinema whenever the latest one came out. She put it down to it being a “boys’ thing”. The other DVD was a Kurt Wallander story – Before the Frost. She could see where Olofsson’s tastes lay – adventure and crime. She rather enjoyed the Henning Mankell books because they were set in Ystad, a place she knew well. She liked the local references. Nostalgia set in and, for lack of anything better to do, she decided to put the Wallander DVD in her recording machine. She had watched one or two episodes of the popular TV crime drama before and Krister Henriksson, the actor who played the titular hero, was always good value.
Anita sat back, clicked the remote control and settled back with her glass of wine for an hour or so of undemanding entertainment. Except what came on the screen was totally different. The man sitting in the old-fashioned, upright chair was somehow familiar. He spoke in English.
‘This is an important time for Sweden, and the work you have put in so far is vital in the battle against the enemies of Christ. You have so many in your midst. Your streets are full of the heathen, the tainted, the coloured, the depraved, and, of course, the malevolent Jews. Yet feeble governments have welcomed them into your country over many years and what has Sweden got in return? Attacks on your womenfolk, the spread of drugs amongst your youth, and the theft of jobs from the native people of your beautiful land.’
It was the clerical dress and the north eastern English accent that brought it back to her. He had been on TV the day before she went back to work. And here he was spouting out his anti-Semitic, anti-Muslim, anti-everything sentiments. Anita watched in a mixture of appalled fascination and rising indignation as the cleric regurgitated his Holocaust denials, his railing against the tide of immigration and the Muslim threat from within Sweden’s borders. In short, he was attributing all Sweden’s ills to the minorities within the country’s society.
‘I know that it is important to you all that Sweden is restored to the proud, God-fearing country that you so love. But before that can become a reality, you must be in the forefront of a battle to cleanse your society of the alien races that infest your streets. Your hero, Gustavus Adolphus, said: “War is not a river or a lake, but an ocean of all that is evil.” Your war is here and now. Take courage, for the one true God is with you in your work.’
The screen went black and the words “Bishop Clive Green” appeared in white lettering.
Anita sat in shocked silence. Her emotions were seething. She had no religious beliefs herself, but she couldn’t credit a supposed man of God coming out with such grotesque views. To her, he was distorting the facts, playing with dangerous ideas and appealing to the baser instincts. What distressed Anita most was that Bishop Clive Green’s gospel of hatred would strike a chord with many disaffected Swedes, of which there were a growing number. Immigrants were blamed for everything. It was poisonous opinions peddled by such people as Green that were presumably influencing the likes of the “Malmö Marksman”. It was only a matter of time before those with far right-wing views would turn words into action. She knew that even the foreign press had picked up on the corrosive campaign carried out by both Neo-Nazis and Muslim youth on Malmö’s dwindling Jewish community. Attacks had increased in recent years and there had been little sign of official action or sympathy, even after the chapel at a Jewish burial site was firebombed. Also, there had been harassment from various quarters of the large Muslim community, and there was continuing unrest in areas of the city like Rosengård, which had seen rioting the year before.
Anita gazed at her untouched wine. More to the point, what was this DVD doing in Martin Olofsson’s briefcase? And who had made the recording? It wasn’t of the interview that Bishop Green had given on the television. The message was so specific to Sweden that there was probably a reasonable chance that it was made in the country. Most worrying of all, who was it aimed at? Bishop Green was very sure of his audience. Preaching to the converted? By his tone of voice, most definitely. And that disturbing call to action at the end! It was nothing less than incitement to violence. Yet all this bile was delivered in measured tones. That’s what made it so chilling.
CHAPTER 20
‘Yes, I was at Buckley Mellor Chemicals for five years.’ Bo Nilsson’s thin face was impassive. The contrast between Nilsson and Moberg was comical. Nilsson’s height didn’t exceed by much the large computer screen on his desk. Moberg loomed Brobdingnagian on the other side. Nordlund was next to him.
‘And before that?’ Moberg growled. For some reason he had taken an instant dislike to Nilsson.
‘At a finance company in Lund.’
‘It wouldn’t happen to be owned by Dag Wollstad?’
Nilsson feigned surprise at the question. ‘Yes. He bought it over in 1992. Is that significant?’
‘Not necessarily. So, you’ve been a Wollstad man for nearly twenty years.’
‘I don’t think he has any complaints about my work. In fact, he holds me in quite high regard,’ he added pompously.
‘Know him well?’
‘Not well, no. I have been at business meetings at which he has been present, and the occasional company social event. Like the Trotting Derby out at Jägerso a few years back.’
‘Did you win anything?’
Nilsson was momentarily taken aback by the question. ‘A little. I don’t believe in gambling as a rule.’ This was accompanied by a polite laugh. ‘It’s not good practice for an accountant. It was merely a harmless flutter.’
Nordlund wrote something in his notebook.
‘Let’s get back to the chemical company,’ said Moberg. ‘Presumably, through your job, you became familiar with the production processes involved. The chemicals, poisonous substances, that sort of thing.’
Nilsson rearranged the position of a calculator on his desk. Everything neatly in its place.
‘I assume you are trying to tie me in with the substance that caused Tommy’s death.’ Before Moberg could interrupt, Nilsson held up a restraining hand. ‘I heard it from Daniel Johansson. The answer to your question, Chief Inspector, is that I did not need to know what went into Buckley Mellor products. I am still ignorant of the processes. I merely helped to keep a tight control of the budgets and ensure that each year the company achieved its profit forecasts. At that time I was not the finance director, but the number two.’
Moberg was becoming irritated by this pedantic number cruncher. ‘But you knew people who produced the pharmaceuticals. People with know-how.’
‘They were colleagues. Nothing more. I hope you’re not suggesting that I could possibly have had anything to do with Tommy’s death.’ Despite his size, Nilsson wasn’t afraid to eye-ball the chief inspector. ‘I hardly think it is in my interests to kill my employer.’
‘But who was your employer? Ekman or Wollstad?’
‘Tommy Ekman, of course.’
‘But weren’t you put into this company to safeguard Wollstad’s investment? To be his eyes and ears?’
Nilsson stared hard at Moberg before answering. ‘I don’t know where you got that idea from. Wollstad recommended me because he felt I could do a good job for his son-in-law. Which I did. Still am doing, despite the appalling events which have engulfed us.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that a man like Dag Wollstad didn’t ring you up from time to time to check that everything was running smoothly here?’
Now Moberg was convinced that Nilsson was lying.
Anita made sure she arrived at the polishus before Westermark had dragged himself out of his bed, or someone else’s. She placed Martin Olofsson’s briefcase on his desk and hurried out again. She popped into her own office and slipped the bishop’s DVD in her desk drawer. Casino Royale remained in the briefcase. It really had been Casino Royale. She wanted time to think through how best to reveal the bishop’s “message” to the team – and she wanted to do an internet search on Bishop Green first. She switched on her computer. The one that she and Lasse had shared at home had disappeared with him off to university. Not that she was a great e-mailer or interested in surfing the net. But just occasionally it would have been useful to have a computer in the apartment. Like last night. The sudden urge to look something up had to be done through the traditional route of reference books. If that proved fruitless she would have to look up whatever it was at work the next day.
There were a lot of entries for Bishop Clive Green. The sixty-eight year-old cleric had been born of humble origins near Newcastle. He had studied theology at a Roman Catholic seminary outside Durham. His early life was uneventful and included spells in Africa and South America. In the 1970s he became involved in a society that was set up to oppose the liberalism of the second Vatican council. Then his increasingly hard-line views started to cause the Vatican unease. Some believe that he was made a bishop in Argentina in the hopes of keeping him quiet. It seems to have had the opposite effect, and his opinions became more strident, particularly his Holocaust denial stance. Eventually, the Vatican acted and he was ex-communicated. Since then he had moved around to wherever his views found a home. Had Lutheran Sweden played host to the rogue Roman Catholic? If it had, there was no way of knowing when he was recorded or where he was now. The interview that Anita had briefly caught on television had taken place in Switzerland, though Sweden was the only country to air it. It was now on YouTube and had received an alarming number of hits.