Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (20 page)

As soon as Anita left the housing estate she parked the hire car at the side of the feeder road, just past the pub. She stared blankly out of the windscreen. She didn’t take in the school bus that passed, or the cars carrying the kids back to their homes. Tears were welling up in her eyes. Why was she feeling this way? Why did she care so much? Then the flood came. She jammed a handkerchief against her eyes in an attempt to stem the stream of moisture. Her shoulders heaved. All this churned-up emotion because ex-Inspector Gazzard had come out with the name that she now realized she hadn’t wanted him to say. Ewan Strachan.

Moberg’s meeting with Commissioner Dahlberg and Prosecutor Blom hadn’t been one of their best. The commissioner had thrown the expected tantrum. ‘What do you mean it wasn’t Mednick! I’ve gone on record on TV saying that we’d got the killer. It makes me look ludicrous.’

While the commissioner had blustered, Blom had roasted Moberg without having to raise her voice. Cutting and cruel, she had called into question his ability to run the case. She had a particular way of saying the word ‘incompetence’ that left no one in doubt as to its meaning. It took a Moberg eruption to bring the meeting back to a rational level. ‘I thought we were all on the same fucking side! You can play your political games but this is about catching a killer now. You can round up your scapegoats later.’

After that Moberg filled them in on Strachan, Valquist and Nordlund’s failed efforts to establish whether Andreas Trapper had died suspiciously or not. The only decision reached was to move Roslyn out of the safe house. They could no longer justify the expense.

Back in his cell Ewan had time to reflect on his brief meeting with the British Consul. Martin Tripp was a British, Malmö-based businessman who had landed the consular roll by default and had never been called upon to do anything beyond the occasional official drinks party. A murder charge was way beyond what he thought was his remit or his area of expertise. Exporting paper was more his thing.

‘Dreadful business.’ After he’d said it five times, Ewan’s filthy look had shut him up.

Scanning the room, Tripp shook his head. ‘This sort of thing doesn’t do the British image much good over here.’

‘It doesn’t do my image any bloody good either!’

‘Quite. I take your point.’ He brushed an imaginary thread from his jacket lapel. ‘Did you kill the actress?’

‘No, I didn’t’.’

‘Well, that’s something. Thought I’d better ask. Are they treating you well?’

‘They haven’t started with the thumbscrews yet,’ Ewan retorted sarcastically. ‘Actually, they don’t have to – their coffee is just as effective.’

Tripp looked askance. He didn’t know what to make of this belligerent Scotsman. He just wanted to get out of the room as soon as possible so he could say he had discharged his duty.

‘You know some awful northern rag has somehow got hold of the story? The embassy says the Foreign Office are worried it will be picked up by the nationals.’

‘Bloody Brian!’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s nothing.’ Ewan could see that Brian hadn’t wasted any time making capital out of his appalling situation. And only one person was going to come out of this with a pay rise and promotion - and that was his idiot editor.

‘They want to keep this business under wraps.’

‘That’s not what I want to hear.’

‘Oh, yes, quite.’ Tripp realized he had put his foot in it. ‘I’m sure they’ll do their best in the circumstances,’ he said in an attempt to back-track.

After establishing that Ewan didn’t want a lawyer, he was able to escape. His sense of relief was as palpable as Ewan’s frustration.

Ewan kicked his chair. He knew he might be able to get out of this if only he could speak to Anita. He should have mentioned it before. He conjured up her smiling image as he fought another bout of escalating panic. The distraction worked. But where was she?

The lights on the cathedral were magical. The awesome stone edifice on the rock above the loop in the river rose majestically out of the darkness. The slender twin towers at the west end complemented the massive trust of the one at the centre of the building. Anita stood in Wharton Park above the railway station and stared across at the floodlit building and the neat Norman castle nestling in its mighty shadow.

Memories came rushing back. Durham had played a special part in her life. It was only now that she realized why it had meant so much to her. It had been the last time the Ullmans had been happy as a family. Her dad had loved it. An escape from Sweden, which hadn’t become the socialist utopia he had hoped for as a young man in the 1960s. In his opinion, the country had been seduced by capitalism, whereas Britain was under a Labour government during their time in Durham. Retrospectively, Anita had been surprised at his stance, given that he worked for Electrolux, a symbol of successful Swedish free enterprise. He had enjoyed the mateyness of those he worked and socialised with. As for her mother, this friendliness freaked her out. Where had the famous British reserve she had heard about – and had hoped for – disappeared to? But this was the North East, where strangers were affectionately called “pet” and people spoke to you on buses. Her mother’s natural Swedish suspicion had been gradually worn down over their two-year stay and she had begun to enjoy the chatty neighbours and shopkeepers and being asked next door for a cup of tea. And the more relaxed she became, the more the family seemed to bond. Anita realised that there must have been serious divisions in her parents’ partnership before they came to Britain. Durham had papered over those cracks and even strengthened their relationship for a short time. It was the only period in her childhood when she felt really secure. If only they had stayed. Maybe all their lives would have turned out differently.

Anita had loved her school and made lots of friends. Janet Trotter had been her best friend and the Trotters included her on a lot of their family outings. They had kept in touch for a few years and they had always meant to meet up again. Of course they didn’t, and the numerous letters turned into a solitary Christmas card. And that had stopped before Anita got married. Was Janet still living down there among the twinkling lights?

A train came zipping across the arcing Victorian viaduct at breakneck speed, heading north towards Edinburgh. It rushed noisily through the station below and brought Anita out of her reverie. She focused on the huge central tower of the cathedral. Twenty-five years ago Debbie Usher had either decided that life wasn’t worth living any more, or someone had been strong enough to lift her over the edge and send her tumbling nearly two hundred feet to her death. “In some ways her sin was worse.” Ewan’s words from his interrogation came back to her. They had struck her as strange at the time. Looking across at the cathedral, their spiritual implication was difficult to ignore. She didn’t know if Ewan was religious. Was it a case of an eye for an eye? But if he had done Debbie in, why bother to murder Malin? Unless Debbie’s death was to punish her sin, and Malin’s death to punish Mick’s? Debbie’s betrayal seemed to have wounded Ewan more than Mick’s selfish actions. Was it the chill air that made her shiver or the thought that Ewan Strachan could be a cold-blooded killer?

They were approaching Malmö and the traffic was thickening. Westermark had picked up Mick and was taking him to stay at his mother-in-law’s as Mick’s apartment was still a crime scene. Mick’s curiosity had been aroused by the detective who had come to tell him that his exile in the dreary farmhouse was over and that the police were sure there was no threat from ex-Säpo hitmen. He didn’t know whether it wasn’t strictly true, but it was what Moberg had instructed Westermark to pass on. When Mick asked what was happening with Ewan, to his surprise Westermark hadn’t held back. There had been none of the official cautiousness he had experienced with Sundström. Mick was left in no doubt that Westermark thought that Ewan was guilty of the murder. What was more, he got the impression that the detective had taken a serious dislike to his old university friend.

‘I don’t know how the bastard could have done that to you. Ok, so you screwed his woman. That happens. Inspector Sundström is over there at the moment. That place you were at university together.’

‘Durham? She’s over in Durham?’ Mick was surprised that they had followed up his Debbie Usher suggestion so thoroughly.

‘That’s right.’ To avoid ploughing through town, Westermark was now on the dual carriageway that skirted Malmö to the north.

‘What does she expect to find in Durham?’ Mick asked cautiously.

‘Haven’t a bloody clue. I think she fancies him. Probably trying to prove he’s innocent. He certainly has the hots for her.’ Westermark rammed his foot down and the car shot into the outside lane.

‘Sundström’s an attractive woman. Ewan was always a romantic idiot. And now he’s killed ….’ His voice trailed off. ‘I can’t really believe it. It hasn’t sunk in. I thought his bitterness would have gone by now.’

They sat in silence as Westermark worked his way round the inner ring road onto the top end of Lundavägen. A few minutes later he parked the car outside Britta Lovgren’s neat home.

‘Safely delivered.’ Westermark smiled. After spending the last hour with Mick, he thought of him as a kindred spirit. A man of the world who liked beautiful women. Just look at Malin Lovgren. He might also be a useful contact in the future. He liked the glamour of show business. If some of it could rub off on him by association, it would be nice. That was where the most attractive women gravitated to. ‘If I can be of any help, herr Roslyn, just ask.’

Mick nodded. ‘Thanks. And it’s Mick, by the way.’

That made Westermark feel good. ‘I’m Karl.’

Mick leant over to the back seat and picked up his overnight bag. ‘Look, erm…Karl. If you hear about any developments to do with Ewan Strachan, give me a call. Unofficially, of course. The police aren’t very forthcoming, but I think I have a right to know what’s going on. Could you do that for me?’

‘Don’t worry, Mick.’ Westermark winked. ‘I’ll keep you in the loop.’

Nordlund had had a difficult day. And it wasn’t getting easier. His frustrations over the Andreas Tapper car crash had been annoying. Finding Bengt Valquist was even more aggravating. When Erik Moberg had called, he was quite pleased to give his fruitless investigations a rest and get down to some proper police questioning. When he reached Valquist’s apartment in Södermalm the producer wasn’t there. Or wasn’t answering the door. So he went back into the centre of Stockholm to Roslyn’s company’s production office and managed to speak to a young woman called Agnes. She hadn’t seen Bengt Valquist since the previous Friday afternoon. He had been expected in the office that day, but he hadn’t turned up, which was unusual as he was normally very punctual and reliable. Why not try Tilda Tegner?

Nordlund had trailed back to Södermalm. Tegner’s apartment was ten minutes’ walk away from Valquist’s. She was in. Not that she was being very communicative. She was in a state of mental disarray. She hadn’t been able to contact Mick, so had no idea what was happening with him. Why had he told the police about their affair? She hadn’t dared to get in touch with Bengt and he had made no effort to contact her. Was he still in Lund? After all this, would she ever get any acting work again?

‘I haven’t seen Bengt since last week,’ she explained to the mature-looking policeman. He reminded her of her dad. ‘Maybe he’s still in Lund.’

‘No, herr Valquist left Lund on Saturday, saying that he was returning to Stockholm. He didn’t turn up for work this morning.’

‘Maybe he’s ill,’ Tegner suggested, knowing full well he was probably hiding from the world because of the embarrassment she had caused him.

‘He’s not answering his door. I think we’d better go round and see if he’s ok. I assume you have a key?’

The apartment was on the second floor. Nordlund rang the bell and received no answer. He turned to Tegner for the key. She handed it over and then hung back as he opened the door and let himself in. ‘Herr Valquist?’ The call was met by silence.

The apartment was very modern. No piece of furniture appeared more than a couple of years old. All the latest designs. Uncompromising and uncomfortable. On the walls there were lots of arty black-and-white photographs and two large framed Roslyn film posters. Both featured close-ups of Malin. No knick-knacks or personal touches seemed to intrude, except for one photograph perched on a glass coffee table of Tilda Tegner and Valquist holding hands on a beach somewhere. The kitchen and the bedroom showed no signs of life. Nordlund pointed at a closed door. ‘What’s in there?’

‘Bengt’s study.’

Nordlund opened the door. The tell-tale sign was the swinging feet. Nordlund would always remember how shiny the shoes were. Tegner’s piercing wail was the other sign that Bengt Valquist had hanged himself.

Moberg was in a foul mood. Valquist’s death had thrown him. Nordlund had explained that he had found a neatly compiled suicide note near the body in which Valquist had written that he was taking his life because he couldn’t live with the fact that Mick and Tilda had betrayed him. He had asked his parents to forgive him and said that he was leaving the Lund house and the Stockholm apartment to them. After calming down the hysterical Tegner, Nordlund had established that the handwriting was definitely Valquist’s, so that the death was unlikely to be suspicious, unless the pathologist or forensics came up with something unusual. The note didn’t contain any confession about Lovgren, so he was unlikely to be the killer. Moberg had quashed his natural sceptism. He could never fathom how any self-respecting man could kill himself over a mere woman.

And they weren’t getting anywhere here on the Strachan front either. Several people had been through his office already this morning and there wasn’t a Strachan sighting to be had. CCTV footage had produced nothing. No one in the Värnhem area had seen him on the night. One young woman, living on the second floor, did identify him from the following morning. He had gone in as she came out. Questioning the Hotel Comfort staff also drew a blank. The night receptionist confirmed that he had come in about 9.30 on the Monday evening. He hadn’t been seen again until the next morning.

When Ewan had awoken that morning he was amazed at how long he had managed to sleep. The first night had been like living through a horror movie. Each time he woke up he panicked, not knowing where he was. And each time, when he realized where he was, he panicked some more. This time he had stirred from his deep slumber with a clearer head. He lay on the hard bed and made a thorough review of his situation.

Was it as hopeless as he had first thought? The mention of Debbie had completely thrown him and it gave them the motive they were so desperately searching for. But that was just conjecture. Would any judge and jury accept that someone would wait twenty-five years to get his revenge? especially as the murder couldn’t have been premeditated. He doubted it. He was sure that they couldn’t use forensic evidence against him. Of course, he had been in various rooms in the apartment. He should have told them about the phone call to Malin the night before. That was just plain stupid. It had raised their suspicions and that was why he had ended up in the cell.

Ewan stood up. He did the silly little bending, stretching and head-twisting exercises his ancient osteopath had recommended to help the back pain that flared up occasionally. He had also suggested he sleep on a hard bed. He would have approved of the one provided by the Skåne County Police. By the time Ewan had finished, he had made a decision. If he couldn’t speak to Anita by the end of the day, he would insist on a lawyer.

Moberg’s temper hadn’t been improved any more by the late afternoon meeting he called on Anita’s return. His mood changed once Anita filled him in on her meeting with Inspector Gazzard and the ex-policeman’s final conclusion. Westermark beamed with delight when she mentioned that Gazzard was sure that Ewan Strachan had killed Debbie Usher.

‘A double murderer,’ he crowed. ‘I knew he was shifty bastard.’

‘And this old cop believes Strachan is responsible?’ quizzed Moberg.

‘Yes. He couldn’t prove anything. What surprised him was that they had got together again after all the bad blood between them. What didn’t surprise him was there was trouble when they did meet up.’

‘So we really are onto something. Well done, Karl.’

Westermark preened himself. Everything was going his way. Get this conviction and he would move ahead of Anita in the criminal investigation squad’s pecking order. This was the big one, the career-defining moment. His groundwork had triggered off this line of investigation, even if he had been carrying out Moberg’s initial instructions. Anita’s pathetic journalist would go down. She had lost. Then he would work on getting her into bed.

‘Our other lines of inquiry have come to dead ends. Valquist is literally a dead end. The Palme thing may still be true but I don’t think it has anything to do with us. So, Strachan it is. The circumstantial evidence is enough to hold him but not enough to convict him. I still can’t go to Blom without a sighting. We’ll start again in the morning. But we’d better find something.’

Anita returned to her office. There were still lingering misgivings. Nothing she could put her finger on. She liked cases to be cut and dried. No room for doubts. But tonight she was too weary to think about them. She would go home and get an early night’s sleep and get back into the office first thing in the morning. Then she would be able to concentrate. If Ewan had committed the murder someone out there must have seen him. The fact that it had been on a bitter winter’s night didn’t help, as not many people were abroad at that time. She was about to leave when Olander breezed in.

‘How was England?’

‘Useful.’ She didn’t really have the energy to go through her story again but she felt it was only fair to update him. He was so keen. After she had finished she picked up her overnight bag and made for the door.

‘Oh, forgot to tell you. Strachan is desperate to see you.’ Anita sighed heavily. She wasn’t in the mood for it. ‘Really insistent. Said he had some vital information for you. When I suggested he saw someone else, he didn’t want to know. Only you.’

‘Did he give you any idea what it was about?’

Olander just shrugged his shoulders. Anita stood there clutching her bag. She was undecided. A nice shower, a glass of Rioja and a good book - or going to the miserable cells? Did she owe Ewan at least that? He hadn’t mentioned their drink in front of the others, so he deserved a visit.

‘Ok. You come with me. Westermark will think I’m ploting to ruin what he sees as his case if I go in by myself, so a witness might be useful.’

The duty officer opened up the cell and Anita entered with Olander. Ewan, who had been glancing through a local newspaper, jumped up as soon as he saw her.

‘Ani…’ He noticed Olander. ‘Inspector. Where have you been?’

‘Durham. To see Inspector Gazzard.’ Ewan wore a puzzled expression until it dawned on him who she was talking about. ‘He remembers you.’

‘Yes. He talked to me about Debbie. I’m surprised he’s still working.’

‘He retired ten years ago. Now, what do you want to tell me?’ She had to admit that she was slightly apprehensive that he might come out with something personal. Something to do with them, their meetings. But she needed Olander there in case it was significant.

‘Yes.’ Ewan looked furtively at Olander. ‘I needed to tell you because I don’t think your colleagues would want to listen.’

‘I’m listening.’

Ewan gulped. His throat was dry. ‘It’s about Mick. Mick Roslyn. The night of the murder. Monday night. Mick wasn’t in Stockholm.’

Anita stiffened. ‘Where was he then?’

‘Here. Here in Malmö.’

The tiredness vanished. Now Anita was totally alert.
‘How do you know?’

‘I saw him.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know what it’s called. Some street near Lilla Torg. I had gone for a wander when I first arrived. On my way back to the hotel I saw him going into a building. At the time I thought I must be mistaken. Then when all this blew up and Mick said he’d been in Stockholm, I assumed I must have been seeing things. It’s only since I’ve been stuck in here that I’ve had time to really think about it. I know it was going dark but I’m now positive it was him.’

‘But he was on the Stockholm flight the next morning,’ put in Olander.

‘His name was on the flight list but I bet no one has actually checked whether he was on board,’ countered Anita. Back to Ewan: ‘Was he alone?’

‘No. That young actress was with him.’

 ‘Tilda Tegner?’

‘Yeah. The one who was at the film festival in Edinburgh. It was actually her I noticed first.’

Anita’s head was swimming with the implications. Her mind was flitting back over events, conversations and interviews that had taken place during the last week. A pattern was emerging.

‘Would you be able to remember the building where you saw him?

Ewan stroked his chin thoughtfully before shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so. Malmö was all strange and new then. I just know it was near Lilla Torg.’ Then he clicked his fingers in a gesture of remembering. ‘It was behind the Rica Hotel. I recall that. The building they went into was definitely modern. Opposite a car park, I think. Or an open space, anyhow.’

‘Sounds like Mäster Johansgatan.’

‘Will this help get me out of here?’ Ewan pleaded.

Anita looked at him. He trapped her eyes with his. Maybe she had allowed herself to be pushed into thinking that he was their murderer. Maybe he still was, but they had some checking to do first.

‘It might.’ She turned towards the door. ‘Come on, Mats. We’ve got work to do.’

‘Inspector, I think I’ve been set up. I think I’ve been set up by Mick.’

Back in her office Anita dumped her bag unceremoniously on the floor.

‘Shut the door.’

Olander did as he was told.

‘Do you believe him, Inspector?’

‘I’m not sure, Mats. I’m not sure.’ Did she want to believe him? ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

‘Are you going to tell the chief inspector?’

‘Not yet. We need to do a few things before we go in with this information. I want you to get onto the airline and the airport at Sturup and find out whether Roslyn
was
on the plane that morning. I also need you to check the taxi companies. Were there any fares that morning from Sturup direct to Östra Förstadsgatan?’

‘Ok, I’ll get straight onto that.’ Anita found Olander’s enthusiasm refreshing. ‘What are you going to do?’

Anita was scrambling inside her bag in search of her snus. With a triumphant flourish she produced it.

‘I’m going to ring Henrik Nordlund. I need him to make sure Tilda Tegner doesn’t contact Mick Roslyn.’

‘Why?’

She had the tin unscrewed and a sachet popped into her mouth before replying. ‘Because I think that herr Strachan may be right.’

Anita stood on the freezing platform. Olander brought her a coffee in a paper cup. Both were very tired. Anita had sent Olander off home at three and she had slipped into bed at five. The young police assistant had been a very useful sounding board as she had sifted through the facts and speculation to come up with a coherent case. But it would mean nothing without the discussion she needed to have in the next half hour, if the first train out of Stockholm was on time. It was. 9.56 a.m.

Among the wave of travellers sweeping in their direction was the familiar stooped figure of Nordlund with an anxious looking Tilda Tegner. She was dressed casually in black boots, jeans, a long turquoise coat and matching beret. Anita greeted them. ‘Hi Henrik.’ He smiled wearily back. ‘Thank you for coming down, fröken Tegner.’ Tilda didn’t reply.

‘Are we taking fröken Tegner to the polishus?’ asked Nordlund.

‘We’re here to do that. The chief inspector says you should go home and get sorted out before coming in.’ Olander flashed her a surprised glance.

Nordlund didn’t question her, though he shot her a doubtful look. He fished out of his coat pocket a brightly coloured mobile phone and handed it over to Anita. ‘Fröken Tegner’s. Roslyn tried to ring her three times last night and left one text. He wanted her to ring him.’

‘Can I have it back?’

‘You can have it when we’ve finished talking.’ Anita slipped the mobile into her bag and wondered whether she would ever be able to find it again.

On leaving the station Anita didn’t take Tegner towards the polishus but crossed the road to where the old Copenhagen ferry used to run in the days before the Öresund Bridge opened. The dock remained, though it served no function other than a waterscape for the elongated glass expanse of the new Malmö University education department. Students trailed in and out of the university building opposite. The water rippled in the wind. Black clouds scudded overhead.

‘Am I under arrest?’ asked Tegner.

‘No. You are helping police with their inquiries.’

‘So why are we here?’

Olander was wondering that, too. He only hoped that Anita knew what she was doing because the chief inspector had no idea what was going on here. When Moberg did find out, he’d make sure he wasn’t in the vicinity.

‘A little chat.’

Tegner pulled out a packet of cigarettes and nervously lit up. The smoke she blew out mingled with her cold breath. The cigarette seemed to give her courage as she pointed it aggressively at Anita. ‘It was your fault.’

‘What was my fault?’

‘Bengt. Bengt’s death.’ Anita had had a pang of guilt when she first heard about the suicide. ‘It was you who told him.’ This came out as an accusing shriek. A couple of passing students glanced over.

‘You slept with Mick Roslyn. I didn’t. You went behind your partner’s back. I didn’t. You betrayed Bengt. I didn’t.’

Anita’s words acted like a slap in the face. Tegner turned away, tears stinging her eyes. ‘Tilda,’ Anita’s voice softened. ‘I need to know about that Monday night.’

Tegner stared towards the water. ‘You know about that night.’

‘You said you were in Stockholm.’

‘That’s right, we were.’

‘That’s not what Mick told me. He said you were here in Malmö.’

Olander’s mouth dropped open. Tegner spun round. ‘Why should he tell you that? Why did he tell you about us in the first place?’

‘He told me because it’s true, isn’t it?’

Tegner sucked hard on her cigarette. With the other hand she wiped away a tear. Then she nodded.

‘Where did you spend the night?’

‘An apartment in Mäster Johansgatan. It belongs to one of Mick’s friends. He borrowed it for the night.’

‘Were you there all night?’

She shook her head. ‘Mick got a flight down that afternoon. He came straight to the apartment and got there about five. I left about eleven.’ Anita and Olander exchanged meaningful looks. ‘I drove overnight to Stockholm.’