Authors: Torquil MacLeod
‘For a drink,’ replied Fraser, injecting as much defiance as he could muster that early in the morning. ‘She wasn’t looking for a relationship. Too busy getting over some guy from the university... up in Uppsala. Anyway, I told your colleague all this,’ he snapped. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’
‘She?’
‘Anita Sundström.’
Westermark swore under his breath. ‘When was this?’ he snapped.
Fraser thought for a moment. ‘A week ago. She came here. And I ran into her at The Pickwick on Friday.’
‘Had a cosy pint together, did you?’ Westermark sneered.
Fraser found all this hostility aggravating. Westermark was one of the few Swedes he’d come across who was confrontational. Most were totally the opposite.
‘What are you hanging around here for? Haven’t you got a class to teach?’ A still-incensed Fraser stepped back a few paces before turning. ‘We’ll talk again soon,’ Westermark called after the retreating school teacher.
Anita was due to meet Jennifer Todd at ten o’clock outside Morrisons in Penrith. After doing her shopping, Jennifer was taking Anita back with her to Fellback to continue their research. Ash was in Carlisle visiting the Register Office and the head office of the Cumberland Building Society. He was then returning to Fellbeck to report on his findings.
After a lighter continental breakfast – she couldn’t take another full English – Anita had wandered out into the town. She walked down the main street past the Alhambra cinema, and, to kill time, called into Joseph Carr’s antique shop. Porcelain seemed to be the main items on display. She was taken aback by some of the prices; even when she mentally converted them into kronor; with an advantageous exchange rate, they still appeared extortionate. All the time she was browsing, she knew she was putting off the inevitable. She beamed apologetically at the owner as she left, somehow feeling guilty for not buying anything. Joseph Carr, a bearded, bespectacled man in his late sixties, who had hardly raised his eyes from his book all the time she had been in, bade her farewell with a faint smile. She went straight into the newsagent’s next door. She could no longer cope without her snus, and asked for twenty cigarettes. She handed over eight pounds. As she was leaving, the woman behind the counter called, ‘You’ve forgotten your change.’ Anita looked at her blankly. The woman proffered some coins in the palm of her hand. ‘Eight pence.’
Anita took the money. ‘I’m sorry. We don’t get öre back in Sweden if the price is less than a krona.’
‘Fancy that! So are all your prices rounded up?’ The woman was enjoying engaging a visitor to the town in conversation. She had had a few Norwegians in before, but never a Swede.
‘No, often they’re not.’
‘Heavens, if we kept all our change, we’d make a handy little profit.’ The encounter ended in a mutual laugh and, as Anita left, the next customer was being told all about how weird the Swedish monetary system must be.
Her pack of cigarettes was still in her grasp when she got to the park opposite the station. Near one of the remaining walls of the ruined 14th-century castle, she slipped out a cigarette and felt the old, familiar thrill as she rolled it around in her fingers. She put it in her mouth. It had been a long time since she’d smoked. Snus had become her crutch. A wave of self-loathing flooded over her, but needs must. Shit! She had forgotten to buy matches. With a curse, she pushed the cigarette back into the packet. Ash would have a light, if she could wait that long.
Anita made her way across the road to the Morrisons store. As she was early, she decided to take a look inside the supermarket. It was more lavish than the average Swedish equivalent – a treasure trove of consumables. She found herself at the drinks section and marvelled at the selection. The only alcohol you could buy in a supermarket back home was under-strength beer. She picked up a bottle of Australian Shiraz and examined the label. It was similar to one that had been recommended by an old school friend who worked at the Nordic Sea Winery in her native Simrishamn. He was a useful contact.
‘Shall we get that?’
Anita spun round and saw Jennifer Todd with a small trolley, which was nearly full.
‘No, I’ll buy it. Maybe we could have some later.’
‘Just put it in the trolley. It’s my treat. Besides, you look as though you might need a glass or two.’
‘Do I look that bad? Must admit, I’ve had a sleepless night. But that’s a long story.’
Jennifer took the bottle and placed it in the trolley.
‘I know what will buck us both up. We’ll pop over the road to Booths and have a cup of tea.’ Anita smiled. The British answer to every crisis. It was coffee in Sweden.
They were soon ensconced in a window seat in the Booths restaurant, with a large pot of tea. It was on the first floor above the shop. Jennifer Todd had explained that, despite its modest size, Penrith had an inordinate number of supermarkets. Through the full-length window, Anita could see virtually the whole town, and the Pennines stretching away to the far distance. The view lifted her spirits.
‘Graeme used to call this our Café Nervosa,’ said Jennifer Todd as she poured tea into the two cups. For a moment, Anita thought Jennifer might start crying, but she brought any emotion under control.
The reference escaped Anita.
‘Café Nervosa. It’s in
Frasier
. The American comedy. It’s where Frasier and Niles go.’
‘OK. We get that in Sweden too.’
Jennifer took a sip of tea and sighed. ‘That’s better.’ She replaced the cup on the saucer. ‘I expect you want to hear if I’ve made any progress.’
Anita nodded.
‘Well, I’ve hit our first two dead ends. Doris’s uncles – James Little’s older brothers – were just the right age to be involved in the Great War, so I thought it was worth pursuing that route. Both John and David initially joined the Border Regiment and, according to the National Archives and military records sites, neither made it through. John died at Ypres in 1915 and David two years later at Paschendale. David’s body was never found. Lost in the mud. Imagine losing two of your sons.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Anyhow, neither were married, so no children there. We need to know about the sister, Daisy, and whether Doris had any siblings. If she had, are there any offspring? They would be in line to inherit, as opposed to any obscure relatives going back through Doris’s grandparents.’
Anita glanced out of the window. ‘I expect we’re going to come across a lot of dead ends. If the London heir hunters couldn’t find anything, then we’re looking for a needle in a haystack, as you say over here.’
‘But Graeme found someone.’ There was a hint of pride in Jennifer Todd’s voice.
Anita’s gaze was fixed on a distant peak. ‘He did, didn’t he?’
‘Bloody Sundström was investigating this case before the fucking body even turned up.’ Westermark was furious. Nordlund sat passively while Moberg devoured a sandwich. ‘It’s bad enough that she went poking around Jansson’s apartment, but she’d also interviewed Fraser. Twice!’
‘We know that her ex-husband was worried about Jansson and thought she’d gone missing. He asked Anita for help,’ Nordlund explained calmly.
‘If he was so worried, why didn’t he come to us? That’s our job.’
‘You can ask him yourself soon. I spoke to him this morning and he’s coming down by train today.’
This didn’t seem to placate Westermark. ‘What else was Sundström up to? What did she find out?’ Then a thought struck him. ‘If the professor killed Jansson, maybe Sundström has been covering up for him. Wiped away the prints.’
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid!’ Bits of sandwich came flying out of Moberg’s mouth as an accompaniment to his howl of indignation. ‘She might be a pain in the arse, but she’s a straight cop.’ He turned to Nordlund. ‘Do you think she knows more than she’s told you?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. But I’ll speak to her again.’ This was to placate a simmering Westermark. He wanted co-operation, not confrontation, if this investigation was going to succeed.
Moberg seemed happy. ‘Right, Westermark, what about the teacher?’
‘I’m pretty sure he had the hots for her. I can tell.’
‘We bow to your experience,’ Moberg said sardonically. ‘Have you anything more than a bollock-based hunch?’
‘Not really’,’ he admitted. ‘But I would like to pull him in for a serious chat. Put a bit of pressure on him. There’s something not right about him.’
Moberg sighed. ‘Not yet. I think our priority is the professor. By the way, what’s he professor of?’
‘English literature,’ Nordlund replied.
‘No wonder he and Miss Aren’t-I-Brilliant-At-English teamed up. As soon as he steps off the train, I want him in here.’ Moberg grinned at Westermark. ‘Try rattling his cage.’
Ash arrived before twelve. Jennifer Todd went off into the kitchen to make him a cup of tea while he took a seat in her husband’s snug office. There was a battered, battle-grey filing cabinet, a tall bookcase with books and directories, a couple of small chests with drawers full of microfilm, and a computer on the desk. Above the computer were two wall shelves devoted to Todd’s large collection of maps.
‘Did you have any luck?’ Anita asked when Ash had made himself comfortable.
‘Yes and no.’
Ash dropped some pieces of paper on the table in front of the computer. The top one was a marriage certificate. Anita’s eye immediately went to James Little’s spouse, Doris’s mother. Florence May Oxley. Just then, Jennifer came in bearing a small tray with a mug of tea, and a plate of digestive biscuits.
‘My favourites!’ said Ash as he grabbed a biscuit off the plate before Jennifer had a chance to put it down. ‘Absolutely starving. Didn’t have time for breakfast.’
Jennifer placed the tray next to Ash as she glanced at the marriage certificate. ‘Oxley is a good name to work with; it’s not that common. But I see she doesn’t have any parents named on the certificate.’
‘Well, I hate to put a dampener on things, but I’ve also been on to the London probate research company, Lampard & Horne. They grudgingly gave me some info after I said this was to do with a murder investigation. They’re adamant that there were no leads from the maternal side. Florence Oxley had been born in a workhouse in 1899. Barrow-in-Furness; it’s at the tip of southern Cumbria,’ he said in reply to Anita’s enquiring look. ‘It was at 1, Rampside Road, if you’re interested. I didn’t think workhouses existed by then. Smacks of Charles Dickens.’
‘What’s a workhouse?’ asked Anita.
‘It was where the poor were shoved when they had nowhere else left to go,’ Jennifer explained. ‘They did unpaid work in return for food and accommodation. A lot of old people who couldn’t survive outside ended up there too. Grim places. They lasted until the 1920s or 30s. You know the guest house on the corner near the pub? That was originally built as a workhouse.’
‘You know, I’m learning so many new things on this case, you wouldn’t believe,’ said Ash with a wide grin. ‘Anyway, Florence Oxley’s origins are unknown. Father unknown. Mother probably staggered off to the workhouse to have her kid. It was definitely illegitimate. She died when Florence was still very young.’
He took a long swig of tea before dunking his second biscuit into the mug and chewing on the gooey result.
‘We’ve drawn a blank on James’ siblings. We know that the brothers died in the First World War. Jennifer’s phone call saved me looking for them. The sister Daisy died in 1904. Pneumonia. Only three days past her seventh birthday.’
Anita was beginning to get despondent.
But Jennifer said, ‘I know what would be useful! It’s something Graeme did when he was hunting for information. He talked to the neighbours. You could try and speak to people in Doris’s street. She hasn’t been dead that long. People will remember her. Unless she was a total recluse, you’ll get information. They tend to be pretty chatty in Carlisle.’
‘I’ve just come from there!’ Ash groaned. ‘But you’re right, Mrs Todd, that’s the way to go.’ He suddenly brightened. ‘You want to come, Inspector?’
‘You might as well, Anita. Not much you can do to help me here.’
‘OK.’ She turned to Ash. ‘Didn’t you say you had some good news?’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ Ash said smugly. ‘Better news, anyway. Well, I think it is, though I don’t have a clue how it fits in. The Cumberland Building Society was very helpful. I’ve discovered where Graeme went on his mysterious trip in August. He must have paid for the train by cash, as he took out two hundred and fifty pounds from his business account at an ATM in Penrith on the morning of August 14th. He must have also used cash for wherever he was staying. Certainly didn’t use his debit or credit card. But he can’t have had enough for an evening meal, because then he used his plastic. On that Tuesday evening, he dined at an Indian restaurant.’
‘Typical,’ sniffed Jennifer. ‘I wouldn’t let him have curries. Not good for him.’
‘But where?’ Anita said in exasperation.
‘Oh, sorry. Worcester.’
‘Worcester?’
‘That’s right. It’s in the Midlands. Beyond Birmingham.’
‘The mysterious way Graeme was acting, I always assumed that his trip was something to do with the Doris Little case.’
Ash picked up his third digestive. ‘We’ve got to find out who he went to see... and why.’
Björn Sundström paced around the interview room liked a caged animal. He hadn’t seen anyone for an hour since that rude blond detective waiting for him to alight from the train had dragged him to the polishus. He hadn’t even been offered a coffee. What had really hacked him off was the farce of him coming here of his own volition, though he knew he had no real choice. Anita had made that plain enough. The man Nordlund, who had phoned him, had sounded reasonable. So why this lack of action? And, on a practical level, where was he going to stay the night? He could bunk down at Anita’s, as she was out of the country. But he wasn’t sure what sort of reception he would receive from his son. He was conscious that he had made a fool of himself in front of Lasse. It pained him that he might have irreparably damaged their relationship. Maybe a hotel would be a better idea. He just wanted to get the interview over, and then he could go back to Uppsala and start putting his life back together. He now wished that he hadn’t singled out the pretty, little, blonde student in his English Romantic Poets group two years ago. The special attention he had shown her had led him to this frustrating and worrying impasse. What’s more, he didn’t like cops. Anita was the only one he had had any time for. After seeing her again, he now knew what a fool he had been to let her go; to freeze her out of what had been a great relationship. Too many younger temptations. Anita was still a fine-looking woman. And level-headed. She hadn’t been dazzled by his reputation, unlike so many of the others. He had had to make an effort with her. But she had been worth the chase. What a fucking idiot he was!