Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (12 page)

‘We haven’t got any real leads yet,’ Anita admitted.

‘Well, bloody well find some!’

Anita got the impression that Westermark had been waiting for her to appear in the car park. It was just too convenient that they “bumped” into each other. There was no escape, as he was between her and her car. He flicked away his cigarette and there was that supercilious smirk again. He had one of those faces that women either wanted to smother in love or slap in hatred.

‘So, what are your plans for
my
Olofsson investigation?’

Anita put her hand into her bag and fished around for her car keys. She kept him waiting for an answer until she had eventually managed to locate them in a side pocket.

‘I’ll go over to Vik tomorrow and make enquiries. That’s if you think that’s a good idea,’ she added sarcastically.

‘Fine by me. As long as you keep me informed.’ He stroked his clean-shaven chin. ‘We should work closely together on this case, Anita.’

‘Not as close as you would like.’

‘Wrong end of the stick as usual. I’m only trying to help you. You need to work well on this one to restore your reputation. If you help me get a result, then it’ll look good for you.’ He waved up at the huge expanse of the police headquarters building behind them. ‘People round here might start to forgive you.’

‘Karl, you’re just so full of shit.’

The smile disappeared instantly. ‘Just don’t get snotty with me.’ He then allowed the smile to re-emerge, but there was no humour or warmth in it. ‘We could be good for each other. Just think about it.’ The implication was clear. It made Anita feel ill. Westermark was turning into a caricature. It would have been funny if Anita didn’t feel she was in such a weak position. Her standing in the team had been undermined by her own actions and Westermark had exploited it. He now had the power to make or break her.

She walked past Westermark to her car and unlocked the driver’s side door.

‘Maybe we should have a drink sometime?’

Anita opened the door. ‘Probably not a good idea.’

‘Then we could discuss why you still have Martin Olofsson’s briefcase.’

This stopped Anita in her tracks. She had meant to bring it in, but had forgotten. It was still in her living room.

‘There are papers in there that the bank wants back. When I checked, Thulin said she gave the briefcase to you. Doesn’t look good stashing away possible evidence. You’re not playing a very good game so far, are you? I want it on my desk first thing in the morning.’

Anita’s brush with Westermark was still preying on her mind when they turned into Ingvar Serneholt’s short drive. It was fifteen minutes out of Malmö between Staffanstorp and Dalby. The sprawling house was set by itself and surrounded by sweeping lawns. A number of pitched roofs indicated that this 1920s home had had plenty of additions over the intervening years. You wouldn’t get a place like this for under seven million kronor these days. Hakim hadn’t been able to find out much about Serneholt. He was in his early fifties and unmarried. He presumably had a private income, as he didn’t appear to have a job. The family had been involved in the safety match business at some stage, which is where the money must have come from.

After ringing the doorbell a number of times, the man who answered certainly wasn’t like the effete collector she had imagined. He had a towel thrown over his shoulder. His hair was still wet. He wore a white t-shirt and a pair of colourful Bermuda shorts. His hair and stubbly beard were starting to grey and there had been no attempt to conceal the aging process with unattractive dye. He was more faded Californian beach boy than art connoisseur.

‘Hope you haven’t been waiting around. I was in the pool.’

Serneholt showed them into a massive living room. Through wide windows at the back they could see a large outdoor swimming pool. Like Lindegren’s home, the walls proclaimed the fact that art was important. Yet the surroundings were less formal, and Anita suspected that Serneholt actually collected paintings for their own sake.

‘Drink?’

‘No thanks. We need to ask you about Pelle Munk.’

He rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel and then threw it over a nearby sofa.

‘That man is a genius.’

‘I don’t see any of his paintings here.’

With a pleasant smile he pointed upwards. Anita could now see that there was an area overhanging the far end of the room. Though the building was single storey, the large roof space allowed for a mezzanine floor.

‘Follow me.’

They ascended a spiral staircase and came into a light, airy gallery with white walls and pine timbers. There were about a dozen works displayed. All were abstract, though Anita had now seen enough of Munk’s work to pick out his paintings.

Sernholt went over to a small console by the wall, touched a button and music began to play. It was a vaguely familiar classical piece, though Anita couldn’t name it. There were two black leather sofas, back to back, in the middle of the space – each one facing a display wall.

‘I come up here when I’m pissed off, put on some music and just let the art flow over me. It restores my faith in the universe. Munk’s art is like that. Life-affirming. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I’m afraid it’s lost on me. I think Hakim has more appreciation.’

Serneholt raised a disbelieving eyebrow as he watched Hakim examining one of Munk’s paintings.

‘That’s
Reflex
.’

To Anita it was a series of squiggly lines.

‘Acrylic on aluminium. All these are from his most creative period.’ Sernholt pointed at a painting, which was on a canvas. It seemed to be split in the middle. The top half was green with a red surround, while the bottom half was purple with a blue surround. ‘
Saturday & Sunday
. I think it’s stunning.’

To Anita it was more like a bad weekend.

‘I’ve studied Munk and his work. Met him a few times, of course. His work is spontaneous. Not planned at all.’ Serneholt’s excited enthusiasm for the subject was at odds with his laidback persona. ‘So a painting can change in form or feel at any stage. It allows him to explore colour, light and texture. And his main inspiration? Classical music. Depending on what he’s listening to shapes the painting he’s working on. I found out what he was listening to while creating all these. That’s why I’m playing Mahler’s
Fifth
now because he painted
Outcome
over there while listening to it. If I listen to the same piece, it allows me to connect with the painting and the artist at the same time.’

Anita had had enough of the lecture.

‘I believe that you’re the biggest private collector of Munk’s work.’

‘Sadly, I only have nine. I’ve tried to get more, but without success.’

‘So, you’ll be interested in his new exhibition?’

His eyes lit up. ‘Of course! It’ll be a great event and I’ll have my chequebook out. It’s such an exciting prospect. The Swedish art world is holding its breath.’

Hakim had moved onto the next painting. Anita sceptically wondered if the young man had any idea what he was gazing at. The Impressionists were the outer limit of her artistic appreciation.

‘We’re trying to track the theft of a couple of Munk’s paintings.’

‘Ah, yes.
Shadows
from over in Ystad. One of his earlier pieces. Not his best, in my opinion.’

‘And
Dawn Mood
from a house in Limhamn. That’s the one we’re really investigating.’

‘Now, that’s really worth stealing. I would have bought that myself, but I was in Bali at the time.’ In response to Anita’s quizzical glance. ‘Extended holiday. It’s tiring doing nothing, so I needed a break in the sun. No, by the time I heard that
Dawn Mood
had appeared in a Stockholm gallery, it had been snapped up by some businessman down here.’

‘And you haven’t been approached by anyone wanting to sell it to you?’

Serneholt laughed. ‘No such luck. Not that it doesn’t happen. I’ve been tipped the wink before. But that’s not my style. That’s not how I collect.’

‘But works like
Dawn Mood
can be stolen to order?’

‘Yes. It happens all over the world. Even in our law-abiding Sweden,’ he gently mocked.

‘With your knowledge of Munk and that particular art scene, what would your money be on?’

He rubbed his ear as though trying to get water out of it. ‘Sorry. Organized crime goes in for this sort of thing. But I don’t know whether there’s any down in these parts. That’s more your department than mine. I would talk to Stig Gabrielsson in Malmö.’

‘He put us on to you.’

Sternholt puffed out his lips in amusement. ‘Did he? Well, there’s a man who knows where everything is - or can be found. Anything he tells you can be taken with a large pinch of salt. Did he imply that I might have
Dawn Mood
?’

‘Not exactly,’ Anita answered guardedly. ‘He reckoned that the painting might be out of the country by now. Germany possibly.’

Serneholt folded his arms and casually leant against the end of one of the sofas. ‘That sounds like he’s saying it’s not worth investigating. Don’t be put off, Inspector. Gabrielsson is unscrupulous. I’ve dealt with him on a few occasions in the past. Then he popped up the other week trying to sell me an unknown Munk that had turned up. It was very good. To the inexpert eye, one could easily have been fooled. The colours were right and the composition was typical of the great man, but there was something about the brushwork that wasn’t quite as it should have been. I’ve spent so long looking at these paintings that you begin to understand the flow of his style. Gabrielsson protested his innocence, of course, but I still sent him away with a flea in his ear. He must have known it wasn’t an original. If not, he’s in the wrong business. Probably has a team of tame artists somewhere churning out fakes, which he sells to gullible businessmen who don’t know any better. If
Dawn Mood
was stolen to order, I would put my money on Stig Gabrielsson being involved in some way – if not in the theft, then in the desposal.’

A run round Pildammsparken didn’t help her sense of restlessness. There were two cases that didn’t seem to be getting off the ground, though they would have to take a closer look at Stig Gabrielsson’s activities. It was all the personal problems that seemed to be mounting. She was upset by the Lasse situation and his distancing himself from her. It was difficult not to take it personally, even though the truth was that he was infatuated with the wretched Rebecka. Maybe a summer stuck with her on Gotland would make him see sense. The nagging doubt that Anita couldn’t remove was that his infatuation might turn into love. And love was also on her mind. She couldn’t get Ewan out of her head, however hard she tried. It was so stupid. So pointless. She got herself a drink.

As she poured a glass of red wine she also had a more immediate concern. Westermark. She hated the fact that she had to report to him. And he was delighting in her discomfort. The bloody briefcase. It was daft not handing it straight in. Now she had given him more ammunition. She was also dreading the inevitable “move” he would make. The more she said “no”, the more he would contrive to make her life as difficult as possible. But if she didn’t stand up to him, he would take it as encouragement. Swedish laws on sexual harassment were complicated enough, but if it reached a stage where she had to make a formal complaint, she might as well just quit. She might win her case, but her career would be down the drain. She would be earmarked as a trouble-maker. The men would assume she had led him on in the first place. Once the atmosphere in a team is soured, it never recovers. She would be seen as the bad apple.

As she came back into the living room she spotted the offending article. She put down her drink and lifted the slim, leather case onto the coffee table. She took out her notebook and looked up the combination again. She scrolled the numbers round on the first set of dials – 061 – and then repeated the process on the other – 132. Then she flicked the catches and the lid sprang open. She rummaged through the bank papers yet again. None seemed to be remotely relevant. The golf magazine she quickly discarded. She searched all the compartments of the case. Nothing there either. No secret love letter. No clue to any untoward behaviour at all. No hint of another woman. Then there were the two DVDs. One was
Casino Royale
. She couldn’t stand Bond films. Björn had loved them and had dragged her off to the cinema whenever the latest one came out. She put it down to it being a “boys’ thing”. The other DVD was a
Kurt Wallander
story –
Before the Frost
. She could see where Olofsson’s tastes lay – adventure and crime. She rather enjoyed the Henning Mankell books because they were set in Ystad, a place she knew well. She liked the local references. Nostalgia set in and, for lack of anything better to do, she decided to put the
Wallander
DVD in her recording machine. She had watched one or two episodes of the popular TV crime drama before and Krister Henriksson, the actor who played the titular hero, was always good value.

Anita sat back, clicked the remote control and settled back with her glass of wine for an hour or so of undemanding entertainment. Except what came on the screen was totally different. The man sitting in the old-fashioned, upright chair was somehow familiar. He spoke in English.

‘This is an important time for Sweden, and the work you have put in so far is vital in the battle against the enemies of Christ. You have so many in your midst. Your streets are full of the heathen, the tainted, the coloured, the depraved, and, of course, the malevolent Jews. Yet feeble governments have welcomed them into your country over many years and what has Sweden got in return? Attacks on your womenfolk, the spread of drugs amongst your youth, and the theft of jobs from the native people of your beautiful land.’

It was the clerical dress and the north eastern English accent that brought it back to her. He had been on TV the day before she went back to work. And here he was spouting out his anti-Semitic, anti-Muslim, anti-everything sentiments. Anita watched in a mixture of appalled fascination and rising indignation as the cleric regurgitated his Holocaust denials, his railing against the tide of immigration and the Muslim threat from within Sweden’s borders. In short, he was attributing all Sweden’s ills to the minorities within the country’s society.

‘I know that it is important to you all that Sweden is restored to the proud, God-fearing country that you so love. But before that can become a reality, you must be in the forefront of a battle to cleanse your society of the alien races that infest your streets. Your hero, Gustavus Adolphus, said: “War is not a river or a lake, but an ocean of all that is evil.” Your war is here and now. Take courage, for the one true God is with you in your work.’

The screen went black and the words “Bishop Clive Green” appeared in white lettering.

Anita sat in shocked silence. Her emotions were seething. She had no religious beliefs herself, but she couldn’t credit a supposed man of God coming out with such grotesque views. To her, he was distorting the facts, playing with dangerous ideas and appealing to the baser instincts. What distressed Anita most was that Bishop Clive Green’s gospel of hatred would strike a chord with many disaffected Swedes, of which there were a growing number. Immigrants were blamed for everything. It was poisonous opinions peddled by such people as Green that were presumably influencing the likes of the “Malmö Marksman”. It was only a matter of time before those with far right-wing views would turn words into action. She knew that even the foreign press had picked up on the corrosive campaign carried out by both Neo-Nazis and Muslim youth on Malmö’s dwindling Jewish community. Attacks had increased in recent years and there had been little sign of official action or sympathy, even after the chapel at a Jewish burial site was firebombed. Also, there had been harassment from various quarters of the large Muslim community, and there was continuing unrest in areas of the city like Rosengård, which had seen rioting the year before.

Anita gazed at her untouched wine. More to the point, what was this DVD doing in Martin Olofsson’s briefcase? And who had made the recording? It wasn’t of the interview that Bishop Green had given on the television. The message was so specific to Sweden that there was probably a reasonable chance that it was made in the country. Most worrying of all, who was it aimed at? Bishop Green was very sure of his audience. Preaching to the converted? By his tone of voice, most definitely. And that disturbing call to action at the end! It was nothing less than incitement to violence. Yet all this bile was delivered in measured tones. That’s what made it so chilling.