Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (19 page)

‘We need a confession,’ Westermark hissed.

‘Without one we still haven’t got enough to take to the prosecutor. Blom will go berserk when we tell her that Mednick’s not guilty. She doesn’t like being made a fool of in public. The commissioner’s even worse. We’ll all pay the price, so we had better make sure any case we have is watertight.’

‘I’m still not sure that the Debbie Usher story is complete,’ said Anita. ‘What happened to her could be the key to this case. Just now I’ve been onto the Durham Constabulary, but they haven’t many details of the case as it was years ago. Filed as a suicide. But I have the name of the detective who looked into it. He’s retired now, but he still lives in the area.’

Moberg finished chewing his first piece of pizza. In a sudden burst of guilt, he pushed the pizza box into the middle of the desk. ‘Help yourselves.’ Westermark and Olander tentatively reached over and took a slice each.

‘Right. If you can get hold of this ex-detective get on a flight tomorrow and find out the full story. I don’t even know where this Durham place is. Is it near London?’

‘No. It’s in north-east England. Not too far from Scotland.’

‘There are flights over there, aren’t there?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘Daily from Kastrup to Newcastle.’

Moberg picked up his second slice. ‘Ok, that covers that angle. I’m still waiting to hear from Henrik up in Stockholm on the Andreas Tapper car crash. What else have we?’

‘Bengt Valquist,’ Anita suggested.

‘The business partner. Is he a serious contender?’

Anita nodded to Olander. This was his chance to impress. ‘He had opportunity. No alibi for the time of the murder. And he had a motive. Two actually. One, Roslyn was playing around with his girlfriend. Secondly, and the strongest, was talk of Malin wanting to push him out of the company.’

‘Right. Let’s shake him up a bit. I think that’s a job for you, Westermark. Olander, you can go along with him. It’ll give you an insight into another kind of policing.’ Anita knew what that would entail.

Ewan lay on his cell bed. His head was swimming. He was too frightened to succumb to a panic attack. How the hell was he going to get out of this?

Anita turned the car onto the sliproad of the A1, which skirted round the south of Newcastle. This was Ewan territory. He should have been working here today but, instead, was sitting in a cell in the polishus in Malmö. She couldn’t make her mind up whether he should be locked up or not. He didn’t look like a killer. Then again, killers rarely do, except in television dramas. She had found the interrogations hard. This was a man whom she was beginning to like. She had enjoyed his company. And she knew that he had probably been in love with her, or thought he was. The beseeching looks he had directed at her were enough to make her wince inwardly. She had wanted to say that she would do her best to give him the benefit of the doubt. He would get a fair hearing from her, even if not from the likes of Westermark, who had obviously made up his mind. When she had gone through her scenario of the night of the murder, Ewan had appeared dazed. Shattered. She couldn’t help but feel a tinge of guilt. She knew she shouldn’t because she was only doing her job. She crossed over the River Tyne and past the concrete mass of the Metrocentre. As the road swept up a gradual incline away from the Tyneside conurbation, she saw the Angel of the North; its powerful, rust-coloured, metallic aeroplane wings opened wide in welcome to those arriving in the region. How many times had Ewan passed this spot? Anita wondered. And what was the point of her visit to ex-Inspector Gazzard anyway? Maybe he could throw some fresh light on the feud between Ewan and Mick Roslyn. Was Debbie Usher really the catalyst for Malin’s murder? But would that help them convict Ewan? If nothing else, the trip would give her an excuse to visit Durham again, but after visiting Inspector Gazzard. He lived on the edge of an old pit village about five miles west of the old cathedral city. If the case against Ewan was to be proved, then Gazzard might confirm the motive. Was part of her hoping that he wouldn’t?

‘He’s not here.’

Westermark eyed fru Valquist up and down. Even in her youth she wouldn’t have been fanciable. Before he could say anything more she burst out with, ’Can’t you people leave him alone.’

Westermark half-turned to the hovering Olander and gave him a knowing smirk. He was going to have to toughen up Olander after the police assistant had spent too much time fannying about with Anita Sundström.

‘This is a murder case. If we want to talk to him, we’ll fucking talk to him whenever we like.’

Fru Valquist’s cheeks automatically sucked inwards in horror at the policeman’s use of the ‘f’ word. ‘There’s no need for language like that, young man. If my husband was at home he would take you to task.’

‘I haven’t got time. Where is he? We need to speak to him
now
!’

‘He went back to Stockholm,’ she replied defensively. ‘On Saturday. He was very upset after speaking to that policewoman.’

‘Shit!’

Fru Valquist aimed another withering look but said nothing.

‘At his apartment?’

‘I think so.’

‘What do you mean, you think so?’

‘I have tried to ring him a couple of times, but there’s been no answer.’

‘Is he with Tilda Tegner?’

‘Don’t talk to me about that trollop,’ fru Valquist huffed. ‘That’s why Bengt is so upset. Her and Roslyn,’ she shuddered. ‘Awful, simply awful.’

‘If your son rings, tell him to contact us right away.’ Fru Valquist recoiled at the aggressive tone in his voice.

Anita drove into an early 1980s housing estate of uniform red brick houses, built before the mining villages that peppered the countryside around the city of Durham had fallen into permanent decline. Murrayfield Drive was one of the many characterless cul-de-sacs. Anita confidently parked the car as she had now got the hang of it. By the twitching of the net curtains she was expected.

Mrs Gazzard, a roly-poly lady, made a fuss of her. ‘Come on in, pet. I’ll get the tea. Just been to the Co-op and got these nice biscuits and some Battenburg cake.’ It was lovely to hear the Durham accent again. The ex-inspector was waiting in the sitting room, reading his paper next to the coal- effect fire. A large flat-screen TV dominated the corner of the room. He rose from his chair and towered over Anita. He had thick grey hair, with a lick of grey moustache above lips that were clamped round a pipe. Anita wondered when she had last seen someone smoking one. A swathe of beer belly put a strain on the top of his trousers and showed that exercise hadn’t been high on his agenda since retirement. He held out his hand and smiled broadly.

‘By, they have better-looking coppers in Sweden than over here.’

She took that to be a compliment. ‘Anita Sundström,’ she said, taking his outstretched hand. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Inspector Gazzard.

‘Forget the inspector lark. Been retired ten years. Call me Billy.’

They exchanged small talk until Mrs Gazzard came in with a tray of tea, chocolate biscuits and slices of gaudily-coloured Battenburg cake. On a raised eyebrow from her husband, she retreated. ‘I’ll leave you to your business. But it’s lovely to see you. All the way from Sweden. Imagine. They will be excited at church when I tell them.’

After she left Gazzard apologized. ‘Sorry about that. Brenda thinks anybody south of Yorkshire is exotic, so someone from Sweden...’

‘No, she has been very kind.’

‘To business.’ He put his pipe back in his mouth, then immediately pulled it out. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘Not at all.’

‘You mentioned on the phone last night that you were after some information on the death of Debbie Usher.’

‘Background really.’

‘What does a death in Durham in 1983 have to do with a Swedish investigation in 2008, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘I don’t know whether it has been reported over here but a well-known actress, Malin Lovgren, has been murdered in Malmö. Her husband was at Durham University – and so was the man who is helping us with our inquiries.’

‘And do they happen to be Ewan Strachan and Michael Roslyn?’

Anita glanced at him quizzically. ‘Yes.’ She hadn’t mentioned either of them on the phone. ‘Roslyn was the husband. He is a famous film director in Sweden. The man we have in custody is Ewan Strachan.’

‘So they have caught up with each other again.’ He drew on his pipe reflectively. ‘I know about Ewan Strachan. He used to write sports reports in one of the local papers, so I knew that he had stayed in the area. But I had no idea what Michael Roslyn had got up to.’

‘It doesn’t seem to surprise you that they met up again.’

‘Oh, it surprises me all right. However, what doesn’t is that something unpleasant’s happened. How did this actress die?’

‘Strangled. Chokehold. Apparently they both did judo.’

‘Aye, they’d been big mates and then they fell out over Debbie Usher.’

‘Can you tell me what happened?’

Anita took a biscuit and realized how hungry she was, not having eaten since a very early breakfast. Gazzard puffed on his pipe and let out a curling waft of aromatic smoke. It made her twitchy and she wanted to get out her snus, but he might find it odd, a woman stuffing tobacco in to her mouth.

‘Nice girl was Debbie, by all accounts. Nice-looking, too. From her photos, that is. She was a mess when she hit the ground after she went over the top of the tower. Do you know the cathedral?’

‘I do actually. I lived in Durham for a couple of years when I was younger.’ The cathedral had been the first thing she had seen every morning when she opened her bedroom curtains.

‘Well, you’ll know that it’s a hellava fall. It seemed pretty straightforward. A student jumping off the cathedral. They get depressed. Exams get them down. The Dean and Chapter used to lock the tower during exam times. Don’t know whether they still do. Strange thing about Debbie was that it was just before Christmas. Virtually the end of term, when students are getting excited about going home for the holidays. It was about eleven o’clock at night. A couple of students, John Wilson and Alison French, were canoodling, or some such, close to the cathedral when this body descends from the heavens. Sickening experience for the poor youngsters. We were called in as a matter of course. Seemed like an ordinary suicide. Not that any suicide is ordinary, I suppose.’

‘But you didn’t think it was suicide?’

He pointed the stem of his pipe at Anita. ‘No, I bloody didn’t. Sorry, didn’t mean to swear.’ He glanced nervously towards the door. If he thought that was swearing, he should hear what she had to put up with from Moberg. She placated him with a wry grin.

‘I went along with it at first. There appeared to be a tale of love and rejection behind her wanting to kill herself. And her friends did tell me that she’d been depressed after her break-up with Roslyn. Do you know about the involvement of Roslyn and Strachan?’

‘Yes. Ewan Strachan was in love with her, and then Mick Roslyn stole her away, before leaving her.’

‘That’s right. I was able to establish all that. So, on the face of it, she might have had plenty of reasons to jump.’

‘So what changed your mind?’

‘First of all, there was no note. Now suicides don’t always leave a note, as you know. But jumping off one of the country’s most historic buildings is a grand gesture. She was rejected in love and I’m sure she would have wanted to explain her actions. Her parents were heartbroken. By all accounts, she was very fond of them. She didn’t seem the sort to have left no message.’

‘Did you have any concrete evidence?’

‘I wondered why she’d decided to wait until so late to jump. At that time, normally nobody is around except maybe the odd drunken student on the way back to one of the colleges. The cathedral’s locked up well before then. Why wait up the tower for hours, then jump when no one can see you?’

‘Working up the courage to do it?’

‘I think if you wait that long, you’ll have talked yourself out of it by then. There was something else. I went over John Wilson and Alison French’s statements again. Something stood out. According to Wilson, he thought he heard a cry. This wasn’t substantiated by French but she was too distraught to remember much. And she had had too much to drink. But it made me think. If you’re going to jump to your death, do you cry out? I think you just do it. On the other hand, if someone has shoved you over…’.

Ewan knew that he had to act now before he went completely mad in his cooped-up hell. He must talk to Anita. When he had been taken from his cell, he assumed that he was to be interviewed again and that that would be his chance. To his surprise, he was shown into a furnished room by the young officer Olander, who announced that someone was here to see him.

‘I need to speak to Inspector Sundström. It’s very important.’

‘That is not possible. The inspector is away at the moment.’

‘What do you mean away? Where?’ Ewan demanded.

‘I cannot say.’

This was disquieting news. ‘When will she be back? I have got to speak to her.’

‘Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Thursday. I am not sure. If you want to speak to Inspector Westermark or Chief Inspector Moberg, I will tell them.’

‘No,’ Ewan snapped. ‘Forget it.’

‘The British consul is outside. I will bring him in. I have to remain here while you speak to him.’

Olander went to another door, which he was about to open.

‘Look, whatever your name is, can you make sure that as soon as Inspector Sundström returns that she comes and speaks to me. I have vital information that she needs to know.’

Moberg put down the phone. Westermark hovered by the window.

‘Henrik says that he’s getting nowhere with the Andreas Tapper crash. Talked to the Norrköping cops and Traffic. They’re not stonewalling him, but they aren’t being over-helpful either. They’re a load of wankers up there. Anyhow, I’ve sent him round to Valquist’s place in Södermalm and he’ll have a talk with him. If necessary, he’ll drag the bugger back here and we’ll give him the works.’

Moberg got out of his seat and hoisted his trousers up. ‘Now I had better go and see the commissioner and tell him his prize catch has to be thrown back. It’ll do fuck all for his credibility. He’s not going to be pleased. Neither will that snooty bitch of a prosecutor.’

‘The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Debbie Usher had been killed. There were only two possible suspects - Strachan and Roslyn. I was sure one of them managed to get her up the tower. I don’t know what he did to persuade her or abduct her, before hoisting her up and over the edge. Then he’d have had to wait until the next morning to slip out when the tower was opened up for the tourists.’

‘Did you interview them?’ Anita was now totally engrossed.

‘Yes. Informally only. Me boss thought I was wasting me time. Neither had an alibi for that night. Both said they were working in their rooms. I couldn’t find anyone to corroborate their stories, nor did I find anybody who sighted them near or in the cathedral that day. The last sighting anybody had of Debbie was in the Bailey, when a friend said she saw her walking past the Shakespeare Tavern, heading in the general direction of Palace Green and the cathedral. It was about five. She was by herself.’

‘What was their reaction?’

Gazzard put down his pipe. ‘Each one blamed the other. Not for killing her, but for her death. Strachan said that she must have jumped because she had been rejected by Roslyn. Roslyn said that she jumped because Strachan refused to have her back. Both could be true, of course. Roslyn had caused all the mischief in the first place. But one of them was lying. I knew it. I know it still. I could never prove anything, so it got filed away as yet another sad suicide. I’ve never forgotten it. Cases like that prey on your mind, don’t you think? Unfinished business. Unsatisfactory. It still niggles. And now you come here and you’re probably asking yourself the same questions.’

He leant down and picked up his cup of tea.

‘And who do you think did it?’ She braced herself. ‘Mick Roslyn or Ewan Strachan?’