Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries)

by MacLeod, Torquil

  Before driving cross-country to Vik, Anita briefed Hakim on what she wanted to dig up on Gabrielsson. Basically, anything he could find, from known associates to whether the gallery was viable. She knew that she should take Hakim with her, but she wanted to work alone on this. It would give her time to think. And it would also give her the chance to prove that she was working on a positive lead, even if it had been dismissed by Westermark and Moberg. She was turning it into a challenge.

  The weather had broken, and the rain followed her most of the way across to Simrishamn. Despite the dismal light, the auriferous oil seed rape fields and the fresh green of the trees lifted her spirits. This was her Sweden. Ten minutes after leaving Simrishamn she was driving down the narrow lanes – they could hardly be described as streets – of the lower part of Vik. It was an old fishing village that had attracted weekenders, including a number of dreaded Stockholmers. The single-storied cottages were quaint and picturesque. Some had moss-covered roofs, pleasingly contrasting with the ones constructed of the more traditional red corrugated iron. Most of the homes were whitewashed, and nearly all were well cared for with neat garden areas. Anita parked her car close to the small harbour, where a couple of pretty little brightly-painted boats bobbed on the ebbing tide, and walked along to Olofsson’s weekend home. She knew nobody would be there, as Carolina Olofsson had gone to stay with her daughter in Gothenburg. It was the neighbours that Anita wanted to talk to. See if she could discover more about Martin Olofsson and his habits. If he were having an affair, then it was over here in the east and not in Malmö.

  The Olofsson’s weekend cottage was neat, even by Vik standards. The bottom half of the building was made of stones cemented together with traditional mortar outlined in white paint. The top half was whitewashed. In the window was a model of a ship. That appeared to be compulsory round these parts. The rain gave the garden a sparkling, heavy lushness after the recent dry spell, and dabs of colour were splashed about at random. Anita wasn’t sure what the flowers were called, but she appreciated their beauty.

  When Anita knocked there was no reply from the immediate neighbour. If most of the properties were owned by weekenders, then she wasn’t going to have much luck. But the house on the opposite side proved more successful. She found Matilda Blomquist relaxing with a coffee. Blomquist invited Anita in while simultaneously expressing the village’s horror at Martin’s death. ‘Terrible business,’ she repeated three times as she poured Anita a coffee from her thermos jug. Blomquist also insisted on bringing out some cinnamon biscuits. She was a middle-aged woman who had time on her hands, but she was a full-time resident and therefore a potential source of useful information.

  Anita trod carefully at first. She established that Blomquist knew the Olofssons well, particularly Carolina. ‘Such a nice woman. Devoted to Martin.’

  ‘What did Martin get up to when he was down here?’

  Blomquist helped herself to another biscuit. ‘Not much. Liked to relax after a busy week in Malmö. Loved his golf, of course. Nearly every weekend I would see him taking his golf clubs to his car. I’d get a cheery wave. I think it was his way of unwinding. He’d be away for the day. Carolina would go out walking.’

  ‘Right up until recently?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He was golfing last weekend. It would be the Saturday.’

  ‘These biscuits are very nice.’

  It was the right thing to say. ‘I make them myself.’

  Anita took a bite and gave an appreciative nod. ‘Did you ever discuss politics?’

  ‘That’s a funny question. Not really, though I do know that Carolina is a strong Social Democrat because she campaigned for them at one election.’

  ‘And Martin?’

  ‘Don’t think he was interested. Just let Carolina get on with it.’

  ‘Did they ever discuss religion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or the influx of immigrants?’

  Blomquist sniffed loudly and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘That’s the only cross words we ever had in all the years they’ve been coming here. I happened to mention the number of immigrants I’d seen on a visit to Malmö. It was a shopping trip. I like to go when the summer fashions are coming in. Luckily, we don’t have them round here. Immigrants, I mean. But my comments upset her. She said that Sweden had always welcomed them. They need a safe haven. That’s what she said. She got quite heated.’ Blomquist bristled at the memory. ‘Haven’t dared mention the subject again.’

  ‘One last thing, then I’ll leave you in peace. Was Martin a lady’s man?’

  ‘Not in a flirty way. But he was a gentleman.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that he had another woman?’

  Matilda Blomquist was so shocked at the suggestion that she couldn’t answer immediately. When it came out it was an indignant: ‘Martin? Never!’

  Anita turned the car off the main road, drove past the verge-side apple trees and into the half-full car park of the golf and conference complex. It was made up of neat, red-roofed, low-slung buildings and exuded affluence. Anita couldn’t get her head round golf, but could understand the attraction of wandering around the Österlen Golf Club, which took full advantage of its coastal location. The big expanse of the Baltic was more interesting than small white balls. At the well-appointed clubhouse she managed to track down the club secretary and then talk to one of the members, who seemed more interested in propping up the bar than probing the greens. Both confirmed that Martin Olofsson had played regularly at the club, mostly weekends. When she asked the florid-faced member in the bar if Olofsson had mentioned another woman – all guys together enjoying a few drinks – the reaction was virtually the same as Matilda Blomquist’s. The suggestion was greeted with disbelieving laughter. Martin didn’t seem the type. Pleasant but boring was the verdict. After all, he was a banker.

  Anita wasn’t getting anywhere and was about to take her leave.

  ‘Had Martin been ill, before you know what...?’ enquired the member.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Anita answered. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just that he hasn’t played here for about a month. Maybe he was away.’

  That didn’t fit in with Blomquist’s description of Olofsson going off with his golf clubs.

  ‘No. He was here.’

  The member returned to his whisky. ‘Probably rushing off to Dag Wollstad’s place.’

  ‘Wollstad’s place?’

  ‘Yes. Saw him once turning into the entrance to Wollstad’s estate when I was driving past. When I mentioned it the next time I saw him here, he was a bit evasive. Maybe it was business. And none of mine.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Couple of months ago.’

  CHAPTER 21

  Anita had taken advantage of her trip to meet up with Karin Munk for lunch at Röken, a fish restaurant on the seafront at Simrishamn. She had rung up Karin on the spur of the moment outside the golf club, and Karin had said she was free and would meet her in half an hour.

  Röken was a basic but pleasant spot for a seafood lunch. A modern building near the yacht club, its wide windows overlooked the seemingly endless sea, which disappeared into a sunlit horizon. To the right was a curved wall of huge boulders that provided shelter for the closely-packed yachts, whose masts were swaying gently in the warm breeze. It was the kind of scene that Anita would have liked to paint if she had been remotely artistic. How would Pelle Munk have interpreted the view? she wondered.

  The first fifteen minutes in the restaurant had been awkward, as the two of them helped themselves to the free entrée salad and glass of beer. By the time their set meal of plaice and prawns in a lobster sauce arrived, they had moved on from the meandering small talk that is inevitable when an old friendship is rekindled, and had found a topic that sparked off the reminiscences. Old boy friends. Nils Kjellberg to be exact. Anita had dated him first.

  ‘After you dumped him, he came after me!’ smiled Karin at the recollection. ‘I usually ende
d up with your rejects.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Anita protested. ‘Tall, blonde, attractive, artistic and sophisticated. The boys thought that anyone from Stockholm must be exciting. You were quite a catch.’

  ‘I liked Nils. He was my first, you know. I lost my virginity in Dad’s studio,’ Karin said, her eyes flickering happily at the guilty remembrance. ‘I lured poor Nils in there on the pretext of showing him Dad’s pictures. Not that he was remotely interested in art. But it gave him a kick to make love to the daughter of a famous painter. That was fine by me.’ She sipped her beer. ‘That made him memorable. Trouble was, he couldn’t stop talking about you, so I dumped him too.’ They both laughed.

  ‘Oh, he was handsome boy.’ Anita had her own memories. ‘Remember that lovely head of hair he had?’ Karin nodded. ‘Virtually bald now. Ran into him in Malmö a couple of years ago. Shopping in Indiska. Buying something for his wife or girlfriend. Run to fat, too. Actually, he was embarrassed when he saw me. Couldn’t get out fast enough.’

  ‘How awful! Awful that he’s lost his looks.’

  The conversation moved effortlessly on to Anita’s marriage, Björn, Lasse, divorce and the life of a working single mother. As someone who spent her professional existence asking questions, it was a strange experience being interrogated by her old classmate. Karin seemed genuinely interested in what had happened to her since their last meeting in that Stockholm bar.

  ‘What about you, Karin? What have you been up to in the intervening years?’

  Karin swirled the last dregs of beer in her glass. ‘Not much. Never married. So never divorced.’

  ‘But you had great plans to be an artist. You were so talented at school.’

  Karin sighed. ‘There’s talented and there’s “talented”. It’s not easy to carve your niche in the art world; create a style that’s really yours. I wasn’t distinctive enough, and I couldn’t escape Dad’s shadow. His paintings are different. His work demands attention, whether you love it or loathe it. My work was well-painted. Technically good. But there was something missing. That indefinable quality that sets you apart. I could have gone and lived in some artistic community and churned out pictures for the tourists, but that’s not enough.’

  ‘But you’re still involved.’

  A rueful grimace. ‘Art restorer. Oh, I’m good at that. Because I understand and appreciate art, I can relate to the paintings I restore. I enjoy it. I help bring good paintings back to life. It’s not quite the same, though.’

  They had been talking for so long that they were the last people in the restaurant. The owner wanted to close up. Anita wandered out with Karin to where their cars were parked. The conversation had suddenly flagged and Anita’s mind was drifting back to work.

  ‘I saw a number of your father’s paintings at Ingvar Serneholt’s place.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Karin asked.

  ‘A rich collector. Family made money in matches. Loves Pelle’s work.’

  ‘What’s he got?’

  Anita gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘Can’t remember the names. They all look...’

  ‘The same?’

  ‘No.’ Anita tried to back-track. ‘Not at all. Just the titles aren’t always obvious from the painting. Or vice versa. Oh, I know! Something to do with the weekend.’

  ‘Saturday & Sunday?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  They reached the cars and they gave each other a hug.

  ‘Must do this again,’ said Anita.

  ‘Sure.’

  Anita unlocked the car door. Then she stopped as a thought struck her. ‘Karin, do you know a Stig Gabrielsson? Runs a gallery in Malmö.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve had a couple of restoration jobs through him. Why?’

  ‘He’s on our radar. Do you think he could be behind the thefts of your father’s paintings?’

  ‘I’d be surprised.’

  Anita shrugged. ‘Just a thought.’

  Westermark strode across Gustav Adolfs Torg, ignoring the busy flow of shoppers, office workers and tourists criss-crossing the cobbles. His mind was so focused that he didn’t even indulge in his usual passion of eyeing up the beautiful women of the city. Malmö had more than its fair share, many tall and blonde, but Westermark’s taste was eclectic. He was excited. He should have phoned in as soon as he knew, but he wanted to savour the delicious moment when he could break the news to Moberg. He knew the chief inspector would be pleased. A chance to score points over Anita Sundström. Not that he thought of her being a serious threat to his career advancement any more.

  Westermark quickened his pace. He never got over the thrill of a case coming together. From the moment he was involved in an investigation when nothing appeared to make sense, to the gradual discovering of evidence; the joining up of those seemingly unconnected dots, and finally things starting to slot into place. And if he was an integral part in the process, the final successful outcome was nothing short of exhilarating. Maybe sleeping with an attractive woman was the only comparable thrill. For a moment he was distracted by the thought of Anita Sundström. She was the unsettling presence in his life. Women had never been important, other than as a means of sexual recreation. Even as a child, his philandering father had, perversely, turned him against his mother. Why hadn’t she stood up to him? Why hadn’t she walked out? It hadn’t occurred to him that she had stayed to try and keep a fractured family together. Instead of his gratitude, she had earned his disdain for her weakness. The low esteem in which he had held his mother, before she withered away in a cancerous haze, was his starting point in judging women. Yet Anita Sundström challenged all his deep-rooted views. Beautiful as she was – and he had had a number of good-looking women – it was not just the physical attraction that set her apart. To him, she was strong, independent, and had the courage to stand up to people like Moberg. And she loathed him. He knew that. She made it plain. But what really drove his contradictory desires of hatred and lust was that he knew that she was a bloody good cop. And as long as she rejected his advances or challenged his growing status in the force through her own successes, he would put her down at every opportunity. He would use any mistake, any lowering of her guard and any means at his disposal to break her. Both in work and, eventually, in bed.

  By the time he reached the polishus he had pushed Anita from his mind. He took the stairs two at a time and rushed into Moberg’s office, where the chief inspector was discussing the case with Nordlund. Moberg was about to ball out Westermark for barging into the room, but held back when he saw the triumphant expression on his colleague’s face.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We’ve got the connection!’

  ‘Bo Nilsson or Daniel Johansson?’

  ‘Nilsson.’ Westermark paced the office in his excitement. ‘My contact at Sydöstra Banken, Lars Allbäck, told me that not only did they handle the Ekman & Johansson business, but also Bo Nilsson’s personal account.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was that type of bank,’ Nordlund ventured.

  ‘No, it isn’t normally. But for special customers they do oversee various accounts. And with Nilsson being connected to Wollstad, the bank was obviously happy to oblige.’

  ‘So he’s connected. Doesn’t make him a murderer, though the little bastard is hiding something,’ mumbled Moberg.

  ‘It does!’ Westermark sat down as he couldn’t keep his legs still. ‘A couple of weeks before he died, Ekman came round to the bank to have a meeting with Martin Olofsson. Apparently, Ekman wanted the bank to scrutinize the agency accounts because he felt that there was something going on. He thought money was missing. He wanted the bank, discreetly, to look into Ekman & Johansson’s financial structure, and Bo Nilsson’s role in particular. Basically, Ekman suspected Nilsson of fiddling the books.’

  Moberg ran his hand across his mouth. ‘If Nilsson had his hand in the till, that would give him a motive to get rid of Ekman. Afraid of being found out.’

  ‘And to kill Olofsson,’ Westermark carried on, ‘as he was the
one who was going to do some digging on the quiet. Lars Allbäck only found this out yesterday when he was going through Olofsson’s files.’

  ‘I think we had better find out if Nilsson had a gambling habit,’ said Nordlund. ‘He looked uncomfortable when you mentioned flutters at Jägerso.’

  ‘That might fit,’ said Westermark. ‘According to Allbäck, Nilsson’s account has fluctuated quite considerably over the past few months.’

  ‘Money going out on bets, money coming in from embezzling.’

  Moberg smiled at Nordlund’s observation. ‘Makes perfect sense. My God, we could have our man.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Westermark exclaimed animatedly. ‘We know he was in Ekman’s office by himself in the morning. The PA said he was dropping off spreadsheets. He went out to lunch and wandered around in the sunshine, according to his statement. He could quite easily have gone to Ekman’s apartment. Then he was back in Ekman’s office for the drinks celebration. He had the opportunity to take and return the keys. And, of course, he has the pharmaceutical connection with Buckley Mellor Chemicals for the poison.’

  ‘Right,’ said Moberg decisively. ‘We’ve a lot to do. Need to really go into Nilsson’s habits to see if there is a gambling problem. Full check on his finances. He may have other bank accounts outside Sydöstra. We also need to discover if Olofsson had actually found any financial impropriety at the agency. See if Johansson knew anything about the missing money. And we have to find out where Nilsson got to that lunchtime – and then check if he has an alibi for when Olofsson was killed. I want to know everything there is to know about this little bugger.’

  Why she was parked outside the gates of Dag Wollstad’s estate, Anita wasn’t entirely sure. What had seemed a good idea when she got into her car outside Röken didn’t seem so clever now that she had driven deep into the Österlen countryside. She was having second thoughts. She knew that Wollstad was off limits. Yet Martin Olofsson had made at least one trip here which, it seems, he didn’t want others to know about. That in itself was odd, as Olofsson was Wollstad’s banker. What was more normal? So why be secretive? Yet the timing was strange. A weekend? Maybe someone like Wollstad was always on the go, and expected everyone to fit in with his timetable, however inconvenient it was for everybody else. You didn’t say “no” to Dag Wollstad. The fact was that Olofsson was regularly going somewhere, presumably to meet someone. He set off, ostensibly to go golfing, but hadn’t been to the club for over a month. His wife was suspicious of his behaviour, yet no one else, apart from her, seemed to think that a romance was a likely scenario. At least by talking to Wollstad or someone in his entourage, she could verify the golf club member’s story. If she found nothing here, she would have to investigate some other avenue.