Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (11 page)

He was in the sports bar on Östra Förstadsgatan when he heard that a man was helping the police with their enquiries. Ewan had gone to the bar with Alex to watch a mid-week FA Cup replay. English football was big in Scandinavia and all the Premier League matches were shown every weekend in Sweden. The place was almost empty. The freshly falling snow had put off the punters. The bar was sparsely furnished, with only the TVs passing for décor. There were no fripperies, no stylish touches, no imaginative flourishes. Beer and football were the only reasons for punters to come in. And warmth. Ewan had just bought in their second beer and the Swedish pundits were still giving the viewers the benefit of their knowledge and score forecasts when the broadcast was interrupted by a newsflash. An earnest female newsreader came on. Behind her Ewan recognized a picture of Malin Lovgren. He put his glass down and strained to understand what was being said. Then the cameras went over to a reporter standing in the swirling snow outside the police headquarters. It didn’t last long and he had to ask Alex to enlighten him.

‘The police have taken someone in for questioning.’

Ewan smiled. ‘Blimey, that’s quick.’

‘Doesn’t mean they’ve got the right one. They’ve cocked up before.’

They turned their attention to the match, which was just kicking off. But Ewan couldn’t concentrate. Before coming out he had had a call from Brian to know whether there were any fresh developments. He was keen. A bit too keen. He was putting the pressure on. Ewan had managed to fob him off with some scraps of information on Olof Palme that he had found on the Internet. That had only whetted Brian’s appetite further. He had already run upstairs to the managing director and promised him that a massive scoop was in the offing. The bloody halfwit! Ewan had tried to impress on him that there was nothing concrete yet. Now had come this piece of news. Ewan wondered who on earth it could be. Could they have tracked down some ex-secret service operative so quickly? If they had, could they make a murder charge stick? It was puzzling.

At half-time Ewan went to the toilet. When he had finished he took out his mobile and made a call. ‘What about that drink?’

It had been another long day by the time she answered her mobile. Anita was sitting at her desk going over the events that had shaken her, then got her mind racing again. The after-shock of her experience in the loft of Mednick’s apartment block only hit home when she was sitting in her car near the park. When she had got into the vehicle she had been fine. Calm even, given the near-death situation she had just been through. Then she had begun to tremble. She couldn’t control her limbs. Then bile had gushed up from her stomach to her throat and she had been sick. All over the passenger seat. Fortunately, she had been alone. Then she had cried. Uncontrollably. A man had walked past and hurried on. He hadn’t stopped to ask her if she was all right. The sight of a woman sobbing had caused him embarrassment. She could tell by the way he pretended not to notice her.

Anita had done her best to mop up the mess but the car stank all the way back to the polishus. Moberg had told her to go home. Relax. Open a bottle of wine. But she knew that if she did that then she would just keep replaying the whole horrible scene over again in her mind. And in one of those replays she might not come out alive.

She had cleaned herself up in the ladies’ before reporting back to Moberg who, though pleased with himself, was smarting at the bollocking that the public prosecutor, Sonja Blom, had given him for rushing in to make an arrest without a warrant or her say-so. Moberg had explained that it wasn’t an arrest but simply a matter of asking Halvar Mednick nicely if he would like to come down to headquarters and answer a few friendly questions. Then he had lost his temper and told her that they had just caught a ‘fucking murderer’ and hadn’t the time to wait around for her ‘fucking permission’ to do his job. Moberg knew he would pay for his outburst later, but it had made him feel good at that moment. Sonja Blom was not the best person to cross. He told Anita that he and Nordlund would do the initial interview and he was certain it wouldn’t take long to get a confession. Anita was not so sure.

‘Tell you what you could do,’ he said like a teacher who can’t think of what task to give a persistent student who has finished their work too quickly, ‘You can go over to see our Mr Roslyn and tell him that we are making progress with the case. You can even tell him we’ve arrested someone and that his theory about Olof Palme is a load of bollocks.’

‘Do you want me to let him leave the safe house?’

Moberg scratched his stomach. ‘Better not. Forget the Palme stuff. I think I prefer him out of the way for the moment until this is all tied up. He’s the sort of guy who will rush off to the press with his bleeding-heart story.’

Anita knew exactly why he didn’t want Roslyn running around free. Moberg didn’t want any of the limelight taken off himself. Besides, Anita had her own reasons for talking to Roslyn. She wanted to ask him a question.The car still stank horribly all the way to the farmhouse outside Vellinge, south of Malmö on the E22 to Trelleborg. The sky was threatening snow and she wanted to get back to Malmö before it started. Right now she knew that Moberg would be piling the pressure on Halvar Mednick to get him to confess. He was such an intimidating presence that she had seen a number of suspects and non-suspects crumble under his aggressive interrogations. She hadn’t much sympathy with Mednick, but she had this nagging feeling that they were after the wrong man. So much pointed to him, yet the way he had said “I didn’t kill her” had the sound of a man who believed it to be true.

The farmhouse was long, low-slung and narrow, like so many in Skåne. It stood by itself at the end of track surrounded by dark fields waiting for the new planting. No fences or hedges broke up the landscape around it. There were a few winter-weary trees behind the farm buildings, which needed a lick of paint. So did the farmhouse; its once brilliant whiteness now grubby and peeling. That was why it didn’t attract attention. That was why the Skåne County Police had squirrelled Mick Roslyn away here.

She asked the policeman who met her at the door how Roslyn was getting on. ‘Pain in the arse,’ was his succinct reply. Mick was watching television when she came into the main room. He had the remote control in his hand and was idly channel-hopping. When he saw Anita, he threw away the remote but left the TV on, which immediately irritated her.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked without bothering to get up. He had let himself go in the twenty-four hours he had been at the farm. The artfully dishevelled appearance had descended into the merely dishevelled. The designer stubble was sprouting into a fledgling beard, which went neatly with the black rims under his eyes. Mick Roslyn hadn’t slept much recently.

Anita went straight to the television set and switched it off to make sure she gained his full attention. She knew that she should just tell him about the arrest and get out of there. But she couldn’t. In fact, she knew that what she was about to ask would probably come back and haunt her. Certainly get her into trouble with Moberg. After what she had been through today she no longer cared what anybody thought.

‘Monday night?’

‘What about Monday night?’ Mick’s eyes narrowed as though the light in the room was too strong.

‘You told us you were in a meeting.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But you weren’t, were you?’

She could see he was about to bluster, but he realized that it was a waste of time. They must have checked. So he didn’t say anything.

‘That means you have no alibi for the night your wife was murdered.’

‘I shouldn’t bloody need one.’ His anger was instant, just as it had been in the interview room in the polishus. He wasn’t used to being challenged. She had riled him and that was a positive sign. Nordlund had once told her that getting a suspect to lose their temper was a great way of getting them to drop their guard. Then they might let something slip out as their carefully prepared thought process had been thrown out of the window.

‘We have to look into every possibility. You wouldn’t expect us to do otherwise.’

‘I was in Stockholm. I was nowhere near Malmö.’

‘All we need to do is confirm you
were
in Stockholm when you said you were. You certainly weren’t at the meeting you said you attended. You lied,’ she said pointedly. ‘So I’m going to need you to provide us with proof that you were up there that night. And this time, the truth please.’ She knew Moberg would have a fit if he knew what she was doing. He was running the investigation and she was prying into an area that was closed to scrutiny. Mick Roslyn was not a suspect. If Roslyn kicked up a fuss then she might even be hauled in front of the commissioner. Even talking their chief suspect into handing over his gun without a shot being fired wouldn’t shield her from official wrath.

‘I was working on the Palme documentary. I told you that.’ He avoided any eye contact. He was flustered.

‘You’re saying no one can vouch for your whereabouts all afternoon and evening, until you got your flight first thing in the morning?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘By my reckoning, if you had a fast car…and I assume you have at least one…you could have got down here to Malmö and back up to Stockholm in that time. Just.’

‘You’re not seriously suggesting—’

‘I’m only saying that it is physically possible.’

Mick was out of his seat. He glared at her. ‘This is bloody unreal. I can’t believe you’re even asking me this.’

‘You’ve lied once. Why should I believe you now?’

He shook with fury. ‘Because I was with her!’

Anita let the silence settle on the room. Mick stormed over to the window and stood transfixed. The first feathering of snow was descending from a darkened sky.

She addressed his back. ‘Who is she?’

‘I loved my wife, you know.’ The anger had abated. ‘I wouldn’t have done her any harm.’

‘Who
is
she?’ Anita repeated. Gentler this time.

‘Tilda. Tilda Tegner. She’s an actress. She was in my last film.’

‘And you spent the evening with Miss Tegner?’

He half turned. ‘Yes. I’m not proud of what I did.’

Anita nearly screamed at him. Björn had said the same thing to her, more than once. Men seemed to use it as a get-out clause in their fidelity contract. It made everything ok.

‘Would Miss Tegner corroborate this?’

Mick looked genuinely appalled. ‘This won’t come out, will it?’

‘I don’t know.’ She knew it wouldn’t because he now had an alibi and therefore would never be considered a suspect. But she wasn’t going to let him off the hook just yet. ‘We may have to speak to her. For corrobaration.’

‘Bengt mustn’t know.’ He played distractedly with his wedding ring. Anita wondered how long he would go on wearing it. While it remained on his hand it would be a constant reminder of his unfaithfulness. Ewan Strachan had been right; Roslyn was “a ladies’ man” and he hadn’t changed his ways. He had a beautiful wife, yet he still couldn’t keep his hands off a younger model.

‘Bengt Valquist?’ Mick nodded. She could see that might not go down too well with his close associate. Bedding his girlfriend. It wouldn’t look good if it came out in the press, either. Public sympathy would soon dissipate.

‘What makes you think he doesn’t know already?’ She let that little grenade explode. ‘All right, that’s it.’ Anita bent down and turned the television back on. ‘I don’t have to interrupt your viewing any further.’

Mick appeared bewildered. Anita headed for the door, which she opened. ‘Oh, by the way, we’re interviewing a suspect at headquarters. He was arrested this morning. The Chief Inspector Moberg thought you might want to know.’

She didn’t wait for his reaction.

She had no idea why she had agreed to meet Ewan Strachan for a drink. She didn’t really want to see him; she was incredibly tired and she wanted to wash away the day in a hot shower. But the bathroom was half-painted. She had started it three weeks ago. The initial burst of enthusiasm had quickly gone down the plughole and now the project had turned into a pain. She couldn’t face the lonely apartment by herself. Not tonight, or not yet anyway. If only Lasse were at home she could talk things through with him. He would cheer her up. Reassure her that everything would be all right. She had left the farmhouse on a high. She had felt good. She had made the confident Roslyn uncomfortable. But it was a cheap victory.

By the time she had got back to Malmö she was starting to worry about Roslyn making a complaint of harassment against her. She was a natural worrier. Lasse had often said that she could worry for Sweden if it ever became an Olympic sport. Lasse could always sense when something from work was bothering her. He would sit her down with a cup of something or a glass of wine and let her pour out her worries. And once they were out, they didn’t seem so bad. She had often felt guilty that he had to do the job of a husband or a partner. At his age he shouldn’t have to listen to his mum moaning on. But he did. An old head on young shoulders. Now that he was gone, there was no one to speak to.

So now she was sitting in the Mellow Yellow bar in Lilla Torg nursing a glass of red wine, with Ewan Strachan sipping a beer opposite her. She was too weary to feel self-conscious about the fact that they were easily the oldest customers in that evening. She had been expecting him to try and pump her for information on the case but he hadn’t. She had mentioned that they had a suspect who was helping them with enquiries, though he had already seen that on the TV. She didn’t reveal how the suspect had come into police custody.

‘Was that stuff that Mick told you of any use?’ Ewan asked when the first conversational exchanges had run into an awkward silence.

‘We’re looking into that. The only thing I can tell you is that the suspect at the polishus doesn’t seem to be connected with Mr Roslyn’s documentary.’

Ewan looked disappointed. That was a good story gone for a Burton. Never mind, he wouldn’t tell Brian just yet.