Authors: Torquil MacLeod
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ The tall, balding policeman spoke as he pushed the door open. When the blond one came in behind him, Björn’s heart sank.
‘I’m Inspector Henrik Nordlund and this is Inspector Karl Westermark.’
‘Unfortunately, I’ve already had the pleasure.’
‘Please sit down, Professor Sundström.’ Nordlund smiled. Westermark scowled.
Björn took a seat at the table. He readjusted his light linen jacket. It was a stupid choice to make as he had rushed off to the station that morning. It was too thin for this time of year. And this room wasn’t warm enough to stop him shivering. Westermark immediately took it as a sign that the professor was frightened. He didn’t intend to let him relax.
Nordlund sat opposite Björn, while Westermark, arms folded, leant against the closed door. No escape.
‘Thank you for coming down from Uppsala.’
Björn waved it away.
‘How long did you know Greta Jansson?’
‘She was in her second year when she came into my Romantic Poets group. That would be just over two years ago. She was a keen student.’
‘I bet she was,’ Westermark sneered.
‘She loved the English romantic poets. Shelly, Byron, Keats, Coleridge, Blake.’ Björn noticed Westermark pull a face. He beamed at the detective. ‘If you’re interested, I can recommend
The Longman Anthology of Gothic Verse
. It’s a good place to start.’
‘Don’t be so fucking funny.’
‘I prefer our own poets.’ Nordlund spoke quietly. ‘Gustaf Fröding.’
‘Ah, Fröding. Interesting choice. He studied at Uppsala. A lot to be said for him.’ Again Björn fixed Westermark with a mocking stare. ‘Fröding wasn’t very successful with women.’
‘And you fucking are, I suppose.’ Westermark was becoming belligerent. He was now standing next to the table, hovering over Björn.
‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.’
Björn was amazed at the ease with which he had got under Westermark’s skin. It would make him a less effective interviewer.
‘Karl, that’s enough,’ ordered Nordlund. Westermark retreated to the door and took up his former position. He would make this Sundström pay.
‘What was the basis of your relationship with Greta?’ Nordlund continued.
‘After a few months, we became lovers.’
‘It became a steady relationship?’
‘After time, yes.’
‘Was that ethical? Impressionable young student and older tutor.’
Björn shrugged. ‘It happens.’
‘So, you were very much a couple?’
‘Yes. We loved each other.’
Westermark shook his head. It was plain what he was thinking.
‘And were you still a couple when she came to Malmö?’
‘Of course.’ For the first time, Björn was on the defensive.
‘Only, one of Greta’s colleagues had the impression that she was escaping from someone.’ Westermark had regained control of himself and was back in the fray.
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘Yet her departure from Uppsala was quite abrupt, according to her friend Ulrika Lindén. I assume you know her from her Uppsala days?’
‘Yes. She was a good friend of Greta’s from university. And the reason Greta’s departure was so quick was because the teaching job in Malmö suddenly came up. Good opportunity for her. Foot on the ladder.’
‘Did you visit her after she moved here?’
Björn hesitated. ‘No.’
‘Isn’t that strange for a couple of lovers?’
Björn regained his composure. ‘I was very busy with a new term and Greta wanted time to settle into her new surroundings.’
‘Yet you’ve been to the apartment.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Your fucking fingerprints are all over it.’ Westermark knew that wasn’t entirely true, as certain areas of the apartment had been wiped clean of any prints. However, the comment had the right effect, and he was enjoying Björn’s growing discomfort. He now took a seat alongside Nordlund. Björn found his close proximity across the table intimidating.
‘Once. The weekend before last. I had a key. Let myself in. She wasn’t around. That’s why I approached Anita. Inspector Sundström. I thought something was up.’
‘And how did you get the key?’
‘Greta sent it to me.’
‘And was she expecting you that weekend?’
‘Well, no. It was a surprise visit.’ Björn began to weave tiny patterns on the table top with his fingertips.
‘So why did you think something was up?’ Nordlund sounded almost sympathetic.
Björn appeared to be studying his finger movements. Then he gave a nervous little cough. ‘The truth is that I hadn’t heard from her for a few days. That’s why I came down to Malmö.’
‘Maybe she didn’t want to hear from you.’ Björn just wanted to hit Westermark.
‘I didn’t hear from her because she was dead.’
‘When was it you last actually spoke to Greta?’ The level, precise tone of Nordlund’s voice contrasted with Westermark’s aggressively acerbic outbursts.
‘I can’t remember. About a week or so before she disappeared.’
Nordlund gave Björn a half-smile. ‘We’ll have to take a look at your mobile phone.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘It may give us some useful information.’
‘I can’t see how.’
‘Just hand it over.’ Westermark thrust his hand across the table. Björn looked at it before slowly reaching into his pocket. He wavered for a moment before placing his mobile in Westermark’s outstretched palm. Westermark flashed an immaculate set of white teeth at Björn. The urge to belt him was almost unsuppressible.
‘There’s one other thing we need to clear up, Professor,’ Nordlund continued. ‘Where were you on the weekend of September 28th and 29th? It’s the weekend we believe Greta disappeared.’
Björn raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Uppsala.’
‘You can prove that?’
‘If I have to.’
‘Well, you may have to, because a man describing himself as Greta’s father turned up on the Saturday morning.’ Westermark glanced up at Nordlund as he was flicking though Björn’s mobile.
‘Her father’s dead,’ said Björn, bringing his gaze back to his inquisitors.
‘We know that. The neighbour met this man. In fact, she gave him a spare key.’
‘I don’t know who it was.’
‘Karl. Have you a camera on your phone?’ Westermark nodded. ‘Good. Can you take a picture of Professor Sundström and then go over to Greta’s apartment block and ask the neighbour if she recognises him.’
Westermark’s mouth creased into a sizeable grin. ‘Of course. Professor, would you be kind enough to pose for me? I want a really good likeness.’
Björn held up a restraining hand. ‘Don’t bother.’
The drive into Carlisle took about twenty-five minutes. The ancient city had seen its fair share of violent history over the centuries, as warring Scots and English families had clashed. The whole Border area between the two fractious countries had been like the American Wild West, and Carlisle was the Dodge City of the Middle Ages. The two symbols of certainty and safety in those troubled times remained – the red sandstone cathedral with its maternal air, and the proud, inviolable medieval castle, now rudely and ungratefully severed from the rest of the town by a dual carriageway. The other significant landmark that towered over the city was the tall and slender Dixon’s chimney, a relic of the industrial age when Carlisle’s textile mills did a roaring trade and the sophisticated railway network sped their products to all parts of the country and the empire beyond. At the crossroads in front of the chimney, close to the offices of Cumbrian Newspapers, Ash turned left into a street of back-to-back brick houses, a legacy of the days when the city grew dramatically in the second half of the 19th century. Ash managed to find a parking space in the tightly packed road.
‘That’s where Doris Little lived,’ he said, pointing to a neat front door across the street. ‘We knock on a few doors and see what we come up with.’
It was the fifth door Ash knocked on that was opened by the friendly, talkative neighbour they desperately needed. Every street has one fount of all knowledge, and Ethel Braithwaite was it. A woman in her seventies, she was neatly dressed with fiercely permed hair, as though she was constantly ready to receive visitors at short notice. Her gestures were expansive and her chatter non-stop. Despite Anita’s protests, she had insisted on serving up a pot of tea. Ash had cheekily suggested that some cake would be nice too. At least when she was in the kitchen, they had a break. The living room was immaculate and littered with souvenirs from various seaside resorts. A rotating pendulum clock with a transparent case adorned the mantelpiece, antimacassars were draped on the sofa and chairs, frilly net curtains keeping out prying eyes covered the windows, and the obligatory photos of family and friends cluttered the sixties sideboard. In the corner, on an antique gate-leg table, was a bottle of port with two glasses. She must have had regular company.
‘Doris was a lovely neighbour. Friend really. I’ve been in this street for nigh on twenty years. Came here after Bob died.’ She paused so they could take a reflective glance at her husband’s photograph, which took pride of place on the wall above the small bookcase. ‘And she spent most of her life here. Funny you should come asking about her. That man who traces family trees came to see me too; the one they had that article about in the
Cumberland News
last week that died in Iceland or somewhere.’ Her words came out in a joined-up gabble and Anita was having difficulty understanding everything she said, as her Cumberland accent was quite thick. While Mrs Braithwaite had been in the kitchen, Ash promised he would act as interpreter. ‘As I say, couldn’t have been nicer, though in the last few years she kept herself to herself. I used to go round and do little jobs for her. Keep her company. Couldn’t believe it when she died. Just went in her sleep – best way to go, I suppose.’
It was only when she stopped to take a sip of tea that Ash was able to jump in with a question. ‘Do you know if she had any brothers or sisters?’
‘Just a sister. Now she was very pleasant too. Always wore nice coats. Hoopers’ best. I like people who make an effort to look nice.’ This was accompanied by a reproving frown in Anita’s direction. The customary blue jeans, old, red jersey and brown leather jacket obviously didn’t come up to scratch, particularly for a woman in a position of authority. But she was foreign. She was pleased to see the polite, British policeman was wearing a suit and tie.
‘Name?’ Ash prompted.
‘Isabelle. Of course, we all knew her as Belle. She would come and visit her sister once a week, regular as clockwork. Always had a pleasant word for me if I was there. Naturally, I would leave them to chat. Didn’t want to overstay my welcome. Of course, that stopped when Belle died. Now when was that? Certainly after 2000. Did you see the Millennium Bridge they put over Castle Way? Don’t think much of it myself. It corroded in no time—’
‘Sorry to interrupt, Mrs Braithwaite, but what was Belle’s surname?’
‘Didn’t I say? Ridley, of course.’
‘Why “of course”?’
‘Sorry, you don’t come from round here, do you? You sound a bit southern to me. Ridleys, the butchers. Up on Scotland Road. Stanwix. Belle was married to Richard Ridley. That’s how she could afford to shop regularly at Hoopers.’
Ash scribbled the names down on the incomplete family tree that Jennifer Todd had drafted before they set off for Carlisle.
‘Is Richard Ridley still alive?’
‘Oh, no. Long dead. I have an idea that Belle played the merry widow after he went, if you know what I mean.’
Ash raised his eyes in recognition of what she was implying.
‘Any kids?’
‘Yes. Two, I think. Bit wild they were. Had a reputation for it.’
‘Can you remember their names, Mrs Braithwaite?’
‘Call me Ethel, for goodness sake.’
‘Well, Ethel?’
‘Michael was the boy. He’d started in his dad’s shop. But he was into motorbikes. Killed in an accident on Hartside.’
‘Hmm, I’m afraid, despite our warnings, the bikers still wipe themselves out up there,’ Ash shook his head sagely. ‘Dangerous bends. Do you know when he died?’
‘Sorry, dear, it was so long ago. He wasn’t that old. Well before his dad.’
‘Was he married?’
‘Too young. Such a shame.’
‘That means he had no kids.’ He flashed a disappointed glance at Anita. ‘I assume, from what you said, the other was a girl. That would be Doris’s niece?’
‘Yes. What was she called? Tearaway. Carol, I think.’
‘Is she still about?’
‘Not that I’ve heard. Carlisle was too small for her. Left when she was young. I don’t know what she did, but Belle and Doris never mentioned her. Funny that, actually. As though she didn’t exist.’
CHAPTER 28
‘He’s in trouble.’
These were not the words Anita wanted to hear when Nordlund rang on her return to the guest house after the visit to Carlisle.
‘He’s admitted that he was in Malmö the weekend that Jansson disappeared.’
‘The “father”?’
‘Yes.’
Deep down, she had already reached that unwelcome conclusion.
‘What did he say he was doing?’
‘He said that he’d come down to see Greta Jansson because she wasn’t returning his calls. Said he was getting desperate.’
‘The idiot!’
‘It fits in with what her colleague had said about her trying to get away from someone. It
was
Professor Sundström. He’d gone to her apartment. She wasn’t there. He saw the neighbour and, on the spur of the moment, pretended to be Greta’s father and borrowed the key. That’s why we found his fingerprints.’
‘What did he do after that?’
‘Got drunk. Then went back to Uppsala the next day. He came down the next weekend to see you and get you to try and find her.’
‘What about the phone call to the school?’
‘He denies that.’
Anita took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose with her left hand. It always seemed to be sore when she was stressed.
‘Have you got him in custody?’
‘No. But I’ve told him to stay in Malmö. Westermark wasn’t very pleased, but he’s been very touchy lately.’
‘What? More than usual?’
Nordlund gave a little laugh. ‘I’ve put him in charge of going through all the CCTV from the Lilla Torg bars. A trawl through the footage of that Friday night might show where she went. And also who she left with, if that’s where she met her murderer. We have to start somewhere.’