Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (7 page)

‘Unless he’s down here.’ Anita’s reasoning wasn’t greeted with any enthusiasm.

‘So, we can’t rule him out. Get hold of his photo and have it distributed. Now, Henrik, what about H?’

‘I’ve got people trawling through the CCTV footage but that’s going to take time. But without the letters or any clue as to his identity, we’ve nothing to go on.’ He paused and consulted his notebook again. ‘One thing though. I mentioned to Ebba Carlsson about the letters from this H character, but she said that Lovgren hadn’t told her about them. However, she did say that Lovgren had mentioned that she felt she was being followed. Not regularly; just occasionally. One incident specifically. As she was punching in her code to get into her apartment block, she was aware of someone standing behind her. Then, when she turned round, the person was gone. Spooked her.’

‘No description?’ Nordlund shook his head. ‘Well, it might be H. Keep digging. But quickly. Anita, I want you to talk to the journalist again. Find out for definite the position of the body when he entered the living room.’

‘He’s coming in at three to give a statement. I’ll catch him then.’

‘And we need to speak to Roslyn again. I want to be in on that. He could well be the key.’

‘I’m just off to speak to Lovgren’s mother,’ said Anita. ‘If anybody’s going to come out with the truth about Roslyn, it’s a mother-in-law.’

He had been flicking between the TV channels. He had all that morning’s newspapers strewn around the floor. All the media were full of Malin Lovgren’s murder. The great and the good, the celebrities and the non-entities all came out to say what a wonderful person and creative talent Malin Lovgren had been. What a loss, they intoned gravely. Some even managed tears. Where the reports were sketchy, everybody seemed to have an opinion. After asking how could this happen in Sweden it turned to the theme of Sweden going to the dogs. Where were our traditional values? Nowhere was safe any more. At least Prime Minister Olof Palme and Foreign Minister Anna Lindh had been killed in public places, but this was in the actress’s own home. The unspoken implication was that the influx of foreign refugees lay at the heart of this national disintegration. After all, hadn’t Anna Lindh been stabbed in the Stockholm department store by Mijailo Mijailović, a Swedish-born Serb.

What had alarmed him was when the Chief Inspector had come on the TV for his press conference. Though he was keeping police findings close to his chest – either that or they had no idea as to who had done it – the large man had mentioned that they were going through CCTV from the Värnhems torget area. He cursed to himself. That was so stupid of him. He tried to think back to his movements on the night. Where were the cameras? Where had he been standing? His palms began to sweat. But he was positive that there wasn’t a camera at the front of the apartment block. He went over the other events of the night and thought whether there were other things he should worry about – other details that the police could pick up on. Then they might come on his trail. If they did, he would have to rely on his training. He knew how to look after himself. Though he was better with his hands than with a weapon, he always had the gun. And he knew how to use it.

Anita stopped at the traffic lights at the interchange. When the lights flicked to green she turned the car into Lundavägen, the wide thoroughfare that she used to travel on regularly when she had been married to Björn. Then they had had a nice apartment in Lund. Björn was making a name for himself in academic circles and at first life had been lively in the university community. She used to drive in every working day along this road, in the other direction, when she had been Björn’s “pretty little cop”. It had taken her a long time to realize that her job was an amusing curiosity to him. Unlike his colleagues, whose partners tended to be teachers or in some way connected to the university, Björn could turn up with a member of the police force at parties and functions. These occasions had often been fun, but Anita had never been able to escape the feeling that she was an outsider. She was never really accepted, because academics, by their very nature, were fighting the system. In their eyes, however pleasing to the eye she might be, she was still there to uphold it.

After Lasse was born and her shifts at work became more erratic, the “pretty little cop” novelty had begun to wear off. Björn found comfort in the arms of some of his more attractive students – and Anita had found out. She still had his name. She had never been bothered to change it back to Ullman.

The car slipped along in the stream of traffic under the railway bridge. Familiar landmarks passed before she turned right into Östra Fäladsgatan. The road was wide with an avenue of trees running down the middle. She decided to park here and walk round to fru Lovgren’s. Next to the 1940s apartments on her right was Rostorp, a group of streets made up of neat rows of pleasant dwellings. All were similar shapes with steep pitched roofs, and each had a reasonably sized garden plot. In the summer the trees in full leaf broke up the military precision of the houses along the straight roads – in winter their regimentation was exposed.

Anita sat in her car. She knew she was reluctant to get out. She hated having to talk to the family of the recently deceased, especially in tragic circumstances. Breaking the news of a death was particularly difficult. In this case, fru Lovgren already knew. The whole of Sweden did. To lose a son and daughter must be the hardest thing for a mother to bear. Think of all the love you’ve invested in the little person that you’ve brought into the world. And then the worry never stops, however old they grow or independent they become. How would she cope if anything happened to Lasse? He was her life. There was no one else who could command her utter devotion. After Björn, she’d made sure that she never got close to any man emotionally, even if she had physically. Bitter experience had taught her to separate the two.

She had taken the precaution of calling ahead first to make sure Lovgren’s mother was in. Would there be photographers camped outside the house? Anita hoped for her sake that she would be left to grieve in peace, though her own visit wouldn’t help. Fru Lovgren’s house was on Beijersparkgatan. It was orderly and well cared for – and there were no photographers.

Anita rang the doorbell and waited. The lady who opened the door was in her late sixties. Her dyed blond hair was scraped back in a bun. Like her daughter she was small and had the same high cheekbones. She still had traces of the handsome woman she must once have been. And the piercing blue eyes that must sparkle when she was happy now expressed a deep sadness that words could never adequately articulate.

‘Anita Sundström.’ She thought it best to dispense with the formal police title.

‘Come in.’ Without further words fru Lovgren showed Anita into the living room. Despite its immaculate neatness, it had a homely feel. Anita could never show people into her home at short notice because she would be embarrassed by the mess. She always needed fair warning.

‘Do you mind if we talk in the park? I don’t think I can speak about my Malin in here.’ She indicated the numerous photos of her daughter around the room. A proud mother, indeed. ‘Too many memories.’

‘Of course not, fru Lovgren.’

‘It’s Britta.’

She left Anita while she went to put on a coat and hat. Anita took a closer look at the photographs. They covered the actress’s life from childhood snaps through to a couple of shots that must have been taken at film premieres. There was her wedding picture, too. Lovgren and Roslyn had made an attractive couple. In her wedding photo Malin looked genuinely happy. As a young girl on a beach she had a winning smile. In the premiere photos, though she was beaming for the cameras, she didn’t seem to be enjoying her moment in the spotlight.

He reached the edge of the park. He tried to get a vigorous walk in most days. Keep in decent condition. He had done five circuits of the park today and felt good. When the weather got a bit warmer he would start running again. His exercise gave him time to think and he had a lot on his mind at the moment. He was still worrying about the CCTV. The more he thought about it the more he was convinced that he would have been captured on tape. But so would a lot of others, unless there was a camera at the apartment block entrance. He had walked past there this morning and hadn’t spotted one.

He waited for the green bus to pass. As he was about to cross the road he saw Malin Lovgren’s mother. He had seen a lot of her in the park. She had been accompanied occasionally by Malin herself. It was in this very park that he had seen Malin in the flesh for the first time. On reflection, it would have been better if he had made his move then; out here in the open. Then he suddenly realized that fru Lovgren wasn’t alone. Shit! It was too late. He was halfway across the road and that policewoman with the glasses was heading straight towards him. He fought back the natural inclination to veer away. He held his nerve and forced his legs to keep moving. And then she was past him. He kept straight on. He didn’t look back.

Anita didn’t think she had ever been in Beijers Park before. It wasn’t as ostentatious as the city’s major parks, and the more appealing as a result. A tree-lined path ran round the edge, which was used as a track for joggers. One heavily-built woman was doing an impression of running, though her progress was painfully slow. A couple of dogs were running around the large open area of grassland in the middle, at the far end of which was a small lake. Anita and Britta Lovgren passed a huge wooden carving of a red squirrel some way from the entrance before a word was spoken. It was Britta who broke the silence.

‘I can’t make sense of what has happened. My girl was so lovely. Why would anyone…?’

Anita instinctively put a reassuring arm round the older woman’s shoulders until she was sure that Britta was ok. They wandered on towards the lake. Overlooking the water was a tearoom, which was locked up and deserted at this time of year. Geese waddled round the edge of the water.

‘We’re trying to put together a picture of your daughter. Maybe that will give us a clue as to who might have wished her harm. I don’t really know where to start. Was she happy with her life?’

Britta looked straight ahead as they walked, as though she was by herself. ‘I think so. She loved acting. Always did from being a little girl. Not that she was a show-off.’ She smiled at the recollection of some long forgotten incident. She didn’t share it with Anita.

‘And all the fame?’

Britta shook her head. ‘No. That didn’t make her happy. Mick loved it. That’s why they split their time between here and Stockholm. She didn’t like Stockholm. Too many false people, she said. They wanted to know her because of what she was, not because of who she was.’ Turning to Anita, ‘Does that make sense?’ Anita nodded.

‘She didn’t make many friends up there. A few from her early days, when she was a struggling actress. Most of the people they mixed with were Mick’s friends.’

‘Why did she live in Värnhem? Presumably they could have bought a fantastic house anywhere in Malmö.’

‘They had a very expensive apartment in Stockholm. She wanted something different down here. She was more comfortable out of the public eye. I don’t think Mick was too pleased, but he was never in Malmö much. It was her sanctuary. She could be herself. Surrounded by ordinary people. Her people. And near her mamma.’ Britta stopped. She took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

Anita waited before asking her next question. ‘I’ve heard or probably read that your daughter was, at times…temperamental.’

Britta raised a wistful smile. ‘She didn’t suffer fools gladly. She came across a lot of fools. That’s why she escaped into her painting. She could be alone with that. In many ways she was prouder of that than of the acting.’

They had reached the lake. They stood staring at the water from a little wooden jetty. A couple of ducks disappeared under their feet and emerged the other side.

‘I am afraid I have to ask. Was she happy with Mick?’

‘He’s a charming man.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

Britta faced her. ‘Are you married?’

‘Divorced.’

‘Did you love your husband?’

‘Once.’

Britta turned her attention back to the water and the ripples left behind by the ducks.

‘They had their arguments, like any couple. Maybe more than most. I don’t know. The things they wanted from life were often very different. But I think she loved him as much as she did when they first married.’

Anita knew she had to stray onto more sensitive ground. ‘Was there anybody else in her life? Romantically, I mean. Or in Mick Roslyn’s life?’

Anita was expecting anger but none came. ‘I don’t know. I never asked. Malin’s father left us when she was young. Other women. Yet he died lonely. No, I didn’t want to know.’

‘Do you like your son-in-law?’

‘That is very direct.’ Britta’s eyes were fixed on some point in the middle of the pond. ‘Mick has always been good to me. He makes me laugh. He made Malin laugh. And cry. Mothers don’t get to choose the boys their daughters marry, so we have to be grateful if we like them. I was lucky.’

‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘He rang me about…before I heard it on the radio.’

The cold was starting to get to Anita. ‘I had better go. Do you want to walk back?’

‘No. I’ll stay for a while. I love this little park. So did Malin. We often walked here together.’ Anita knew that Britta was now holding back the tears. It was time to let them out.

‘Thank you, Britta. I am really sorry.’

Britta Lovgren gently put a gloved hand on Anita’s arm. Then she gave it a sudden squeeze. ‘You will find who has done this, won’t you?’

Anita put her own hand on Britta’s. ‘We will. I promise.’

Ewan and David had taken refuge in Café Simrishamn 3 in Möllevången. This area of town had a real ethnic feel to it. This was where the immigrants mixed with the students to create a vibrant community – it showed that incomers and Swedes could co-exist quite happily left to their own devices. But things were changing, warned David, who had lived in the area some years before. The Öresund Bridge connection was bringing in Danish commuters, who were adding to the already climbing domestic property prices. The effects of the combination were starting to show on Möllevången. It was becoming more desirable, rents were going up and the old locals were being squeezed out.

Up four steep steps, Café Simrishamn 3 was cosily chaotic. None of the furniture matched and no one cared. The staff were friendly, the coffee was good and the pastries were delicious, particularly the carrot cake. The clientele was mainly young and many were working on their computers, which looked incongruous next to the traditional tealights on the tables. Ewan decided this would be an excellent spot to come and write up his travel piece. The hotel room was too impersonal. Here the atmosphere might even inspire him to write something above the humdrum stuff he usually churned out.

Despite the worry of going to the police headquarters in a couple of hours, Ewan found himself beginning to unwind. Police stations made him nervous, which is probably why he would have made a pathetic crime reporter. Some people were like that with hospitals. With him it was police stations. And dentists. Here in the café those concerns had faded, and after Alex had joined them he relaxed for the first time since his arrival in Sweden. Then his mobile rang. As he took the phone out, he hoped it wasn’t Brian pestering him for some update on the murder. It wasn’t.

‘Hello?’

‘Ewan.’ He recognized Mick’s voice. It still had a hint of Geordie.

‘Are you ok?’

‘Look, I’d like to see you.’

‘Sure. When?’

‘Bengt is bringing me back from Lund this afternoon. Can we meet?’

For some reason Ewan found himself lowering his voice. ‘I’ve got to go to the police station at three. Make a statement.’

‘After that? Say half four?’

‘I bloody hope I’ve finished by then. Where do you want to meet? A bar or somewhere?’

‘No, no.’ Mick sounded quite emphatic. ‘I have to be very careful. Your hotel?’

Ewan was surprised at this cloak and dagger stuff. Was Mick worried that the press would hound him? Or did he think he was such a big name that he couldn’t go anywhere incognito? Ewan gave him his room number and the call ended abruptly. Ewan stared at his mobile before putting it away. David and Alex looked at him expectantly, their excitement obvious at being so close, albeit at one remove, to the biggest story in Sweden since the Boxing Day tsunami disaster. Maybe Mick wasn’t being as precious as Ewan had first thought. On reflection, there had been genuine fear in his voice.

Anita was making her way back to the Polishus on Porslinsgatan when she decided to call into the apartment on Östra Förstadsgatan. Luckily there was a space near the front entrance to park her car. She had bought the five-year-old Volkswagen in Germany a couple of years before. It made a change bringing a car across the Baltic to Sweden. They usually went the other way - to Poland, stolen in great numbers. The joke was that the Polish tourist board slogan was:
Go to Poland. Your car is already there
.

There was a young policeman on guard at the door who let her in when she flashed her warrant card. He couldn’t be much older than Lasse. She hoped that Lasse would never consider the force. She wanted a good look around. On the day the body was discovered there had been too many people about. She wasn’t trying to find anything in particular that would give her a clue as to the murderer, but more to get a feel for the murder scene. And to make some sense of what had gone on in here that night, because the consequences had really hit home as she had left Britta Lovgren.

Anita had looked back to see the small, forlorn figure of a devastated mother, standing alone by the lake. God knows what thoughts were going through her mind. What memories were being stirred? Now she was a broken woman who had been cruelly deprived of the daughter whom she loved, possibly worshipped. Even from some distance, Anita had been able to see that Britta Lovgren was crying. Swedes were not good at showing their feelings. Were they embarrassed by them? Probably, Anita concluded. Yet, beneath the national cool, there was a melting-pot of emotions that were keenly felt yet rarely expressed publicly.

Grief wasn’t handled well either. Anita knew that she still hadn’t come to terms with her father’s tragic death. Nearly fourteen years ago now. When her father was living in Stockholm, after her parents divorced, he had decided at the last minute to take a trip with some fishing buddies to Tallinn. They never came back. All the friends were lost among the 852 death toll in the
MS Estonia
ferry tragedy. Her marriage hadn’t lasted much longer after that. Had she tried to turn Björn into a surrogate father-figure? If she had, then Björn had been found wanting. Why had men caused her such heartache? And was it heartache that lay behind Malin Lovgren’s murder? Someone who loved her too much – or too little? It was certainly someone who knew her, Anita was sure. The mugs in the kitchen pointed to that.

She was now standing in the living room. Like the rest of the apartment it said more about Lovgren than it did about Roslyn. This was her domain. Her taste. Her things. Her pictures and photographs. There were two of her mother, and one of an older man who could have been her father. The whole apartment was more homely than Anita had imagined it would be when she was first called to 35B Östra Förstadsgatan. Fashionable, yes. The furniture was expensive. Yet it wasn’t a home, except for the kitchen, that you would see featured in a glossy lifestyle magazine.

Anita wandered through to the studio room. When she had talked to the journalist in here she hadn’t taken in the paintings. She recognized some of the locations. In one were some of the large fishing boats in Simrishamn. And that looked like the little village of Baskemölla, just beyond Simrishamn. It was at the end of Anita’s favourite beach. Lilla Vik was a little piece of paradise, which had cast its spell over her from childhood onwards. She had taken Lasse there often when her mother was still living close by. Usually without Björn, who was forever disappearing on yet another academic conference. Sadly, Lasse had grown out of beaches. The more she was finding out about Malin Lovgren, the more she liked the sound of her. Beyond the studio was a small bedroom that had been turned into a study. There were two plain bookcases. A lot of art books. Again, this must have been Malin’s space, though the computer, fax machine and telephone must have enabled Roslyn to keep in touch with his projects on his brief trips to Malmö. There was little point in going through the drawers, as forensics would have done a thorough job on the contents.

Despite being a spacious apartment there was only one main bedroom. The adjoining bedroom was used as a dressing room. Obviously they didn’t have people to stay here. Stockholm was where they entertained. If the murder had been a crime of passion then the killer probably wasn’t going to be someone drawn from their social set. The deed would have been carried out in the capital and would now be Stockholm’s headache.

Anita stared out of the window at the modern block opposite. The
Systembolag
was busy. She watched a young couple go into the Värnhems Juveler next door. An engagement ring? A wedding ring? She couldn’t imagine Roslyn being seen dead in a jeweller’s like that or being happy living opposite the ugly building that housed it. Above were four floors of apartments. No one had seen anything. The curtains had been closed, but when they weren’t it must be easy to look into this apartment with its big windows. She hoped that the CCTV would throw up something.

Then there was all the building going on beyond the
Systembolag
block. A huge new shopping centre called
Entré
was springing up and was due to open next year. Anita wondered what Malin had thought of that development. It would bring hoards of shoppers and, if successful, turn Värnhem into a more affluent area. Her downbeat bolt-hole would go upmarket. Would she have stayed?

Anita went back into the reception room. On the night of the murder someone had walked through here and into the kitchen. The person followed Malin. She was going to make that person a cup of tea. She couldn’t have been aware of any danger because she must have turned her back. This person wasn’t a perceived threat. Then the murderer had grabbed her from behind, killed her in the kitchen and then dragged her into the living room and placed her on the sofa. Was the sofa significant?

She walked into the small hallway. The door hadn’t been forced. Malin must have let her assailant in. Either she knew him or he had talked his way in. If it had been the stalker, Crabo, she surely wouldn’t have let him over the threshold. Victims didn’t usually let their stalkers get that close, though there had been that strange business with the reclusive Agnetha Fältskog from ABBA and her persistent Dutch fan. This H might be different. Malin might not have known that he was H.

Of course, the killer might have been here all the time. She had got back home about 9.30 p.m. No. That didn’t add up. She wasn’t killed until at least a couple of hours later so there would have been other evidence. You wouldn’t wait so long to give a visitor something to drink. The killer must have come in later. And that killer knew something about combat techniques. Then there was the problem of the body slipping onto the floor, or being pushed there. Someone else coming in after? It didn’t make sense. Then her mobile went off.

‘Anita Sundström.’ It was Olander. Strachan had just finished his statement and they had taken prints. Olander wanted to know whether they should just let him leave now.

‘Keep him there. I’ll be five minutes. I need to speak to him.’

Olander was waiting at her desk when Anita arrived back at the Polishus. He showed her Ewan Strachan’s statement. She glanced over it and saw nothing new that would be useful. But she still wanted a word with him.

‘Bring him up here,’ she told Olander.

A few minutes later Ewan appeared at the door with Olander. Anita indicated that Olander could leave them and he shut the door behind him.

‘Please. Sit down, Mr Strachan.’

Ewan rustled up a smile as he took a seat opposite her desk. ‘I hope that’s the end of it officially. Did you really need to take my prints?’

‘Only to eliminate you from our inquiry. Your prints will be around the apartment and, of course, on the body.’

Ewan grimaced. ‘Hadn’t thought of that.’

Anita suddenly became conscious of the mess her desk was in. Papers and files everywhere. Two empty paper coffee cups and a half-drunk bottle of water. She picked up the paper cups and popped them into the bin. Moberg had moaned about her untidiness, but as long as she did her job properly, what was the problem?

‘I’ve had a look at your statement. One thing I need to clarify with you is when you entered the living room. This is really important.’ She pressed her glasses up against the bridge of her nose. ‘Was Malin Lovgren on the floor or was she sitting up on the sofa?’

‘On the floor,’ Ewan answered immediately. ‘Why?’

‘We are just making sure.’

‘That’s why I knew there was something wrong. You walk into a room and you see someone flat out on the floor, it’s obvious, unless they’ve been drunk from the night before and haven’t reached their bed. That has happened to me more than once, I must confess.’ The glint had returned to his eye. His amusement caught her off-guard and she found herself looking into his eyes. She noticed for the first time that they were deep blue, which was slightly at odds with his reddish hair.

‘And you had never met Malin Lovgren previously or had any contact with her before you went round to the apartment?’

‘Of course not. She wasn’t in Edinburgh with Mick. That other young actress was there. Can’t remember her name. Tilda something. Bengt Valquist’s girlfriend. The guy who produces Mick’s films.’

‘Ok. That’s all.’

‘So, officially, I’m not a suspect?’

‘I would say so.’

‘Good, then I can interview you in my new capacity as crime reporter for
Novo News
. Inspector Sundström, have you anything to say to the press about your current murder investigation? On or…’ with a smirk on his face, he tapped his nose knowingly, ‘…off the record.’

She wasn’t going to fall into that old trap again. ‘You’ll have to ask Chief Inspector Moberg.’

Ewan put on a mock-horror expression. ‘I can’t do that. He frightens the shit out of me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Seriously, we might be useful to each other.’

‘How?’

‘Well, I can talk to Mick Roslyn in a way that you can’t. Maybe he knows something that he’s not telling you, or feels he can’t. Old friends and all that.’ This interested Anita. Maybe she could use Strachan’s university connection. She had this strong feeling that Roslyn was the key to the murder, even though he might be an innocent party. She knew that Roslyn hadn’t told her the full truth when she had interviewed him. He was holding something back. Could this journalist get something vital out of him? She had nothing to lose, as the investigation was desperately short of leads.

‘If you find out anything, talk to me first. Then maybe I can help you.’

Ewan’s face lit up. ‘I need all the help I can get,’ he joked. ‘As it happens I’m meeting Mick,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘in about twenty-five minutes. If there’s anything to report, I’ll call you. Better give me your mobile number.’

Anita tore off a piece of paper from the corner of an official memo and wrote down her number. She handed it to him.

‘I’ll put it in my mobile so I won’t lose it. By the way, if we’re going to help each other, it might make life easier if you call me Ewan. You seem to have difficulty with Mr
Straak-en
,’ he mimicked her pronunciation of his name.