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

by MacLeod, Torquil

  Poulsen stared at Anita and then at Hakim. ‘Unless I go for a run, I never do anything on Monday nights.’ He sighed. ‘If you must know, I always write on Monday evenings. Or try to. It’s the only time I get.’

  ‘The great novel?’

  ‘I know it sounds pathetic. And I realize it means I haven’t got an alibi, but I had nothing to do with the deaths of those men. I didn’t even know who they were before their names appeared in the papers.’

  Anita noticed that the black backpack was still lying next to Poulsen’s desk.

  ‘We’ll take that away with us, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What for the hell for?’ Poulsen snapped.

  ‘We need it for forensics. If you’re innocent, then you have nothing to worry about.’ Anita nodded to Hakim, who leant over and picked it up carefully. He put it in a large plastic bag, which he had fished out of his pocket.

  Poulsen almost spluttered with rage. ‘I don’t know why you are picking on me. There’s probably about a dozen people in the agency who jog. Christoffer, Fanny... Elin... em... Niclas... they all jog. So does Emma. Are you taking away their stuff?’

  ‘Did you say “Elin”? Elin Marklund?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He had calmed down. ‘I got her into running when we were working together in Copenhagen.’

  Anita took a step towards the door. ‘We’ll get your bag back to you as soon as possible.’ Her hand was on the handle when she half turned to a still-seething Poulsen. ‘What do you know about Elin Marklund’s husband?’

  He was surprised by the question. ‘Not much. I know he’s in the oil business and I know they met while she was still working in Copenhagen. I was over here by then. But she’s kept her maiden name; presumably it’s easier for work purposes.’

  ‘What’s his surname?’

  ‘Pontus Stennevall. He’s never come to any agency social dos as far as I know. Always away protecting oil fields. Come to think of it, I don’t believe I’ve ever met him.’

  He followed them when they came out. The Arab was now carrying a plastic bag. Instead of heading for the police headquarters, they made their way through the shopping thoroughfares and on to Triangeln. He had no idea where they were heading. He was getting frustrated. No opportunity to take out his gun and finish them off. The streets were now too busy. There was no cover. Keep composed.

  They carried on past Triangeln down Södra Förstadsgatan before turning left. This was more promising. They were heading for Möllevångstorget. The square was full of market stalls with cheerful striped blue-and-white or red-and-white canopies. The stall-holders were mainly ethnic, as were most of the customers. He knew the area’s reputation as being home to many incomers, though it was now becoming more fashionable among Swedes. That would push the unwanted out. The cops would be more exposed here. And he had cover. He could pick them off and get away in the confusion, camouflaged by the stalls. But they went beyond the market and into Simrishamnsgatan, one of the streets leading off the square. They then disappeared through a doorway to the right. He idled past the window. It was a café. He could see the woman taking a seat near the back, while the Arab went to the counter. None of the tables and chairs matched and were set out randomly. He crossed over the road and weighed up his options. There was no point in shooting them through the window, as they were near the back of the café, and he couldn’t be certain of success. He could walk in and gun them down where they sat, but the layout and the number of people already inside would hamper his escape. He’d rather be in the open. He’d rather wait.

  Anita sat down in the Café Simrishamn 3 while Hakim bought them a couple of coffees. She was paying.

  Hakim came back with two mugs and a large cinnamon bun for Anita.

  ‘What next?’

  ‘The first thing we’ll do is go to the market. I want some fruit and vegetables. I’ve been eating too much crap lately now that I’m just cooking for myself.’

  ‘My dad comes here on a Monday most weeks. So it must be good because he’s very particular.’

  Anita took a bite out of her bun. It was nice, but not as good as the one Elin Marklund had given her.

  ‘Do you think Poulsen is our perpetrator?’ Hakim asked.

  Anita picked an unruly crumb from her bottom lip. Not very elegant, she thought.

  ‘Poulsen has possible motive. Well, he didn’t get along with Tommy Ekman. That might give him a reason to kill his boss, but not the banker. However, he’d have a strong motive if there is a political angle to the murders, which I’m now convinced more than ever there is. His views are blatantly obvious. And he had opportunity in all three cases. He was by himself on the morning we assume the keys went missing from Ekman’s office, and he was out of the building for lunch on the day the poison was planted. When we leave here, you can go to the Moosehead and check out if he was there that day. He has no alibi for the other two murders.’

  She looked vaguely around for the sign to the toilet. ‘As for the means, Martin Olofsson is easy. Clonk him on the head with a heavy spanner. Serneholt was killed with a scalpel. Advertising agency studios probably still use them, despite the technological revolution. And we must remember that a jogger with his general description was seen near Olofsson’s and Sernholt’s homes. If we prove that these are politically motivated killings, then Poulsen goes straight to the top of our list of suspects.’

  They finished their coffees and prepared to leave the cafe. The door with the “ladies” symbol seemed to be blocked by a table. She could either make a fuss or hold on.

  ‘Two more things we need to do, Hakim. When we get back to the polishus, I’ll check that Marklund’s husband, Pontus Stennevall, really did pop back over from Norway at the time of the Olofsson murder. He’s her alibi. And I want you to get hold of any CCTV footage from the pharmacist’s outside Entré for the day before Ekman’s murder. It’s the one just along from the Systembolag.’ It was also virtually opposite the apartment where Ewan had strangled Malin Lovgren. It’s where Anita had first met him. Little did she know the effect he would have on her life. Damn him!

  He was seated on a bench in the square waiting for them to come out of the café. From his vantage point he could see along Simrishamnsgatan. He had had to share the bench with a withered old man with a long grey beard. Another bloody Arab. The seat along from his was occupied by a whole group of them talking loudly and waving their arms. Is this how they repay the Swedes? Do nothing but scrounge off the state? Why don’t they bugger off to whatever Middle Eastern hell-hole they’d crawled out of? Maybe he would come back at a later date and send a few of these off to see Allah.

  He stiffened when he saw the woman and the young Arab step out of the café and head straight towards him. For a moment they disappeared from view, as a couple of cyclists crossed their path. He was now totally alert. He was going to strike here. He sat still and watched them closely. They were making for the first row of stalls, and the woman began inspecting the colourful display of vegetables. They were playing into his hands. He got up slowly so as not to attract any attention, and worked his way round to the opposite side of the row. When they were in his sights he would draw his gun and fire through the gap between the canopy and the trestle. Then he could make his escape through the throng and be shielded by the other stalls. He would cross the road – the traffic would hold up any potential pursuers and give him vital seconds. He would probably make for the new underground station at Triangeln.

  Anita was still casting an eye over the array of fresh vegetables and fruit. In her head she was trying to match the produce to recipes she could use when cooking for one. She had better not buy too much as it would go to waste. But the choice was so tempting.

  ‘Hello, Inspector.’

  Anita turned to see Hakim’s father, Uday, with a bulging shopping bag. Hakim was hovering around hoping that his father wouldn’t say anything embarrassing. The dreaded words “when Hakim was a boy...” sprang to mind. Anita stepped away from the stall to speak to Ud
ay.

  ‘I see you’ve been busy, herr...sorry, Uday.’

  Uday beamed back. She had remembered his name.

  ‘I come here every Monday. Not as good as Baghdad, but I mustn’t grumble.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t, father.’

  Just then a young female cyclist came to an abrupt halt between them and the stall. At the same moment there was a small explosion. Then another. The female cyclist tipped over and collapsed against Anita, who had automatically ducked as she had realised what had caused the sound. Someone cried out. Everything stood still for a second. Uday slumped to his knees, clutching his arm with his hand. Blood appeared through his fingers. His vegetables rolled across the cobbles. The cyclist moaned, still straddling her bicycle on the ground. Anita could see Hakim shouting and pointing. She jumped up. Someone was running through the maze of stalls. She quickly assessed the situation. The woman on the ground was still alive. Part of the handlebar on her bike was pulverized – it had taken most of the impact. Uday wasn’t critically injured. People were rushing to help. It was a communal reflex action. As the incident had happened so quickly, there was no time for panic to fully set in. Anita shouted at the stall-holder to ring for an ambulance and the police. And then she drew her pistol and ran after Hakim, who had dropped the plastic bag with Poulsen’s backpack in and was now in pursuit of a burly, blond man.

  He couldn’t believe it. That fucking cyclist had appeared from nowhere. He wasn’t sure if he had hit either of his targets. He couldn’t hang around and have another go because they had now disappeared below the level of the stall and were out of sight. Then he saw the young Arab cop pop up and point at him, and bellow something he couldn’t catch. He quickly turned and ran, bumping into two young women. One fell to the ground and the other shrieked when she saw the gun. He dashed along a line of stalls, then jinked left to avoid another. When he reached the main street that ran along the end of the square, he just ploughed on. A car screeched to a standstill as he used the bonnet to lever himself into the middle of the road. He heard screams and shouting behind him.

  Now there was no hindrance in the street in front of him. He stretched his legs. He would be clear soon. Down into the underground and out the other side, and he would be invisible again. He glanced over his shoulder. The young cop was in full chase. Did he have a gun? He realized that he was gaining on him. The glass roof of the station was straight in front of him. The entrance was on the other side. Coming up on his left were ranks of parked commuter bicycles. He would dodge behind them and try to pick off the Arab. Half way along he leapt to his left and ducked down behind a forest of spokes. He didn’t have time to take aim properly, but let off two shots. The Arab seemed to stumble. He didn’t wait to find out what had happened to him.

  He made a dash for the entrance of the station, barging past a woman with a child’s buggy. The buggy spun away from him. The woman yelled obscenities as she desperately tried to stop her baby tumbling out. He was now under the glass roof and on the first of the three down escalators. He ran down the moving steps and onto the next level. A swift glance back. The bloody Arab was still with him as he launched himself down the second escalator.

  At the bottom, he ran across the large atrium and turned to the right onto the last escalator, which tumbled down onto the station concourse. He leapt the last three steps onto the extensive platform. A train was just pulling out and a large number of people were walking straight towards him. When someone spotted his gun there was a terrified warning shout. The wave of panicking passengers parted like the Red Sea as people tried to get out of the way. He quickly looked over his shoulder and saw the Arab was still with him. He shouldn’t have looked. His foot caught the side of someone’s trolley suitcase and he fell forwards. The gun went off and the noise reverberated loudly around the cavernous space.

  It only took a second to get to his feet. He was now clear of disembarking passengers at this end of the platform, but could see a crush of people at the far end leaving by the other exit. He instinctively knew he couldn’t outrun the Arab and he would be held up by the crowd ahead. He sidestepped behind one of the colossal, grey, cement pillars supporting the lofty roof. He could hear the Arab slowing down. He nipped round the back of the pillar just as the Arab reached it. He grabbed the panting young man from behind and held his gun to the young policeman’s head.

  As Anita gave chase she managed to get her mobile out with one hand and speed-dialled the polishus. She could see Hakim way in front of her and then two shots rang out. She saw Hakim stumble and thought for a horrible moment that he must have been hit. He regained his footing and continued running after the retreating figure of the gunman. The bloody idiot. She knew he wasn’t armed. She got a voice on the phone. The gunman had vanished into the station. ‘Sundström here,’ she yelled. ‘Get any armed officers you can to Triangeln station now! There’s a gunman just gone down there.’ She didn’t have time to give any more information. She knew the response would be quick because the force had been on high alert since the last “Malmö Marksman” killings.

  When she got to the top of the first escalator she purposely regulated her breathing and psyched herself up for whatever may be ahead. Fortunately, her runs round Pildammsparken meant she was fairly fit. She hurried down the slow-moving staircase. By the time she reached the top of the last escalator frightened passengers were seething towards her in the opposite direction. It only took a few bounds and she was on the platform. She was just in time to see Hakim slowing down and then being grabbed by the throat and wrenched backwards, out of view. The gunman was four pillars down. With her pistol held in both hands, Anita made her way carefully to the next pillar. Her mouth was dry, and she could feel sweat starting to trickle down her back. Her hands began to shake ever-so-slightly. She had never wanted to be in this position again, after that dreadful day on the top of the Turning Torso. Now she was called upon to use a gun again, this time deep beneath the city, instead of high above it. She felt rising panic. She forced herself to stay focused by fixing Hakim in her head. It was him that mattered, not her. He was her responsibility. How could she face his parents if he didn’t come out of this alive? She had no idea who she was dealing with. Was this the “Malmö Marksman” or some other mad gunman? All she knew was that Hakim was in grave danger. A boy not much older than her Lasse. The thought made her angry. Her anger carried her to the next pillar. By the third pillar her fury was replaced by steely determination.

  ‘Hakim?’ she called out as she pressed against the side of the pillar.

  ‘Don’t come any nearer or I’ll blow his head off.’ The voice was gruff. Was that a Norrland accent? It wasn’t local anyway. Larsson had got that wrong.

  Then the man appeared. His arm round Hakim’s neck, his gun tilted under the young man’s chin. She would always remember the fear etched on Hakim’s face. In contrast, the gunman was almost relaxed. And he looked so ordinary. About forty, was Anita’s immediate calculation. Drab clothes, undistinguished blond hair, square-set jaw – no wonder he hadn’t been noticed. He was like a million others.

  Anita had already slipped her pistol down the back of her jeans, out of sight under the flap of her jacket, before stepping out to face him. She held her hands up to show that she wasn’t carrying a weapon.

  ‘I’m unarmed.’

  ‘Where’s your gun then?’ He knew she had one.

  ‘I dropped it back there in the confusion.’

  ‘If you let me walk out of here I’ll let him go.’

  ‘You’ll never make it. The station will be surrounded by police by now. Do the sensible thing and hand over the gun.’ Anita surprised herself at how calm she was.

  ‘No way. Any false move and I’ll kill you both.’ He suddenly laughed. ‘That’s what the voice told me to do.’

  The man was ranting.

  ‘What voice?’

  ‘The voice. She told me.’

  Anita had no idea what he was talking about. He was unhinged. Now she was
playing for time. Slowly the gunman began to edge backwards along the platform, with Hakim clamped to the front of his body like a shield.

  ‘Look, we can help you. We have people who can deal with any problems you may have.’

  ‘You don’t understand. There’s nothing wrong with me. This is a job.’

  Anita didn’t know what to make of this maniac. Job? What on earth was he babbling on about?

  ‘Take me instead of him.’

  The gunman pondered the offer. ‘That might be an idea. No one is going to shoot me with a female cop as my captive.’

  He motioned with his gun for Anita to come forward. Behind the man there was a sudden commotion. Armed police were piling down the far escalator. The gunman was distracted for a split second. Both Hakim and Anita sensed it. Hakim broke the gunman’s grip and threw himself forward onto the ground a split second before Anita whipped out her pistol from behind her back and fired. The bullet hit the man’s left shoulder and he twisted round like a top. He fired his gun but had lost his balance. The report was drowned by the whoosh of an approaching train as he tried to regain his footing and fire once more. Anita let off a second shot, aiming for the hand that held the weapon. It missed. The gunman tried to take avoiding action and moved too near the platform edge. Too late, he lurched backwards just as the 12:14 for Copenhagen swept into the station. The driver couldn’t stop in time.

  CHAPTER 39

  Anita didn’t know whether to hug Hakim or clip him round the ear. She met up with him at the hospital in the late afternoon. Uday’s arm was in a sling. The female cyclist had superficial wounds, and had already left the hospital. The mental scars would last a lot longer.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked Uday.

  ‘I am, thank you. Today was like being back in Baghdad,’ he added with a grin.

  ‘Hakim, take your dad home and I’ll see you tomorrow.’