Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (24 page)

The trees gave him good cover. He could see her wandering around the living room of the ground-floor apartment, with a cup of coffee in her hand. He had been here on the edge of Pildammsparken for half an hour. At nine on a Saturday morning there were usually joggers and dog walkers about. Today the sky looked unpredictable and there was a sharp south-westerly wind. The clouds scudded across the sun and spots of rain tapped among the leaves of the beech trees.

He wasn’t sure when and where he would strike. This was purely a reconnaissance mission. Stake out her home. He knew that he needed to get the pair together. It would then fit the pattern he had set. He’d already been to the young Arab’s apartment block. He’d had to be careful as he had carried out two of his attacks in the vicinity, including the killing of the couple outside the ethnic supermarket. The whole area was on high alert. Anyhow, it would be better to kill them in another part of the city. It would spread the fear and snuff out a potential problem at the same time. That’s what the voice had told him.

Now he could see that she was organizing herself to go out. She was gathering her things and then she disappeared from sight. A couple of minutes later she came out of the side entrance of the apartment block and walked straight towards him. He didn’t flinch. She was quite attractive for a police inspector. The short blonde hair he liked. Under her old leather jacket, the jeans and T-shirt showed off her figure, which was still good for her age. But the clothes were slovenly, he thought. Why couldn’t professional people dress better these days? And the glasses were off-putting. He never fancied women in spectacles. She got into her battered Volkswagen and he watched her drive off. He stepped through the trees and zapped his car lock. He jumped in, started the car and pulled out into the street. He could see her car some way ahead. He wasn’t sure where she was heading. With luck she would pick up the Arab.

Anita drove along the coastal road of Limhamnsvägen. To her left were a series of impressive apartment blocks with magnificent sea views, while on her right was an expansive ribbon of green belt that ran down to the shore. Much of the area doubled as part-time playing fields. She saw some white-clad men heading towards a metal container at the edge of one of the fields. She recognized them as members of the local cricket club. The container would house their equipment, she supposed. She remembered her father taking her to a cricket match in Durham when they were living there. He thought that he should try and understand the quintessentially British sport. It had totally defeated him, though she had enjoyed playing round the boundary and marvelling at the size of the mighty medieval cathedral that dominated the background. Today, Malmöhus’s cricketers had the Turning Torso as their backdrop. It was strange to reflect how the two buildings had played their part in her life and were now always synonymous with Ewan Strachan. She would always marvel at their grandeur, but would forever hate them.

The road twisted away from the old cottages that were once the heart of Limhamn, and came under the shadow of the vast cement works that dominated the landscape at this end of the bay. It was a sprawl of grey cylindrical blocks of concrete, ugly chutes, a complicated system of metal piping, and topped off with a slender apology for a chimney. It overlooked the old harbour and Ön. “The Island”, beyond the cement factory, was tethered to the mainland by a man-made causeway. It was being developed into a highly desirable residential area. Easy to see why, as long as you didn’t look back towards Limhamn. The panorama was breathtaking. The water of the Sound between Sweden and Denmark was blue and inviting. It shimmered and twinkled under the Öresund Bridge, elegantly curving to the left, while, in the other direction, the Turning Torso loomed like a benevolent ghost; straight ahead Copenhagen was framed on the skyline. Ön was now covered in cleverly designed houses and smart apartments, all making the most of the vista. This was a place on the up, literally. More and more developments were commandeering the limited air space and jostling with one another for the best aspect. But you had to pay for the privilege. Jesper Poulsen could afford it.

Anita parked her car and approached the first in a series of pristine white blocks. Each of the apartments had circular balconies – with sea aspects of course – and large Art Deco style bay windows, behind which Anita assumed were the living rooms. Dividing the blocks were stretches of neatly-mown grass, which extended to the waterline beyond. Anita glanced towards the bridge. For a moment she thought of Jörgen Lindegren and his missing painting. She could almost see his house from here. That investigation was on hold. She had more important matters on her mind.

Jesper Poulsen wasn’t in.

Anita came out of the apartment block and decided she would make her way down to see Elin Marklund. She lived in Skanör, on the peninsula about half an hour’s drive south of Malmö. As she headed for her car she noticed someone jogging along the northern shore of the small island. This part was still bereft of buildings, though Anita supposed it would disappear under expensive concrete before long. The jogger wore a dark blue hooded top. Anita watched him reach the grassed area and begin to head along the path on which she was standing.

When the jogger reached Anita, she blocked his way.

‘Do you mind?’ he snapped.

‘Jesper Pouslen?’

He pulled up. He wasn’t breathing very heavily, though sweat covered his face.

Anita took out her warrant card. ‘Inspector Anita Sundström.’

He pushed the hood from the top of his head. Poulsen was a wiry man. She knew he was thirty-eight. His very blond hair was cut so short that it resembled facial stubble. The deep blue eyes were glacial. A legacy from his German grandfather?

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘I already made a statement to the police a couple days after Ekman died.’

‘Can we sit over there?’ Anita moved towards the water’s edge and sat down on a bench. After watching her for a few moments, Poulsen reluctantly followed. Instead of sitting down next to her, he started to do stretching exercises, using the end of the bench like a piece of gym equipment.

‘Keen jogger?’

Poulsen didn’t bother to answer her.

‘The morning of the Geistrand Petfoods pitch, you were in really early.’

‘So? I had work to finish.’

‘And you were the only one in the office at that time?’

‘No one else would be that daft.’

‘It meant that you could have gained access to Tommy Ekman’s office?’

‘And stolen his keys? Of course I could have. But I didn’t.’

‘Did you go out of the office during the day?’

‘Damn right I did. We’d put so much work into the pitch that I treated myself to a couple of pints round the corner in Lilla Torg.’

‘By yourself?’

‘Yeah. Outside the Moosehead.’

‘For how long?’

‘About an hour. I wanted to get back and find out how the pitch had gone.’

‘Time?’

‘I left on the dot of twelve. Back about one.’

Anita gazed out to sea. The wind was whipping up the water.

‘I get the impression that you weren’t very keen on Ekman.’

He stopped his exercising and stood with his hands on his hips. ‘I thought he was an utter arsehole. I didn’t fall for all that false charm that the girls in the office loved. But he was a brilliant businessman. A ruthless bastard. He made things happen. E&J was on an exciting journey, as the cliché goes. I was happy to go along for the ride even if we had arguments along the way.’

Anita took her snus tin out of her bag and unscrewed the top.

‘You shouldn’t be using that filthy stuff,’ Poulsen said in disgust. ‘No wonder it’s banned in the rest of the EU.’

Anita defiantly popped a sachet under her top lip. Poulsen pulled a disapproving face.

‘Why did you come to Malmö?’

He made a sweeping gesture which spanned the bridge to the Turning Torso. ‘What’s not to like?’

‘There must be more to it than that.’

‘When I came over from Copenhagen, property was a lot cheaper. It was a good opportunity workwise, too. E&J were just starting to go places. I could help make that happen. Get in on the ground floor. Besides, I was pissed off with the Copenhagen scene.’

Anita nodded. She could understand. But she could sense that there was something more to Poulsen’s move across the Öresund.

‘Someone described you as a “leftie”.’

He grimaced. ‘It doesn’t take much to be considered a leftie in an advertising agency. If you’re slightly to the left of Mussolini, you’re considered subversive.’

‘So, why advertising?’

‘That’s the first interesting question you’ve asked so far, Inspector Sundström. I can’t really justify it. Others in the business would say we help create jobs, lubricate economies, keep the commercial world ticking over. Most of that is crap. The reality is that we make people discontented because what they once thought of as luxuries, we have persuaded them are essentials. We appeal to their worst instincts – all dressed up in that horrible word “aspiration”. The reason I’m in advertising? I just love the creative process. When we get it right, it gives me a buzz like nothing else. It’s a purely selfish emotion. But it doesn’t sit happily with my conscience. Maybe that’s why I do all this running. Work out my frustrations, clean out my brain.’

‘Maybe you should put this in your book.’

‘I have thought...’ Poulsen stopped himself when he saw Anita’s wry smile.

‘Apparently all copywriters want to produce the “great novel”.’

He had the grace to grin. ‘It’ll get written one day. I’ll make you buy a copy.’

Anita was now benefiting from the snus. It kept her calm.

‘Will your novel include your Lebensborn mother?’

‘What the fuck!’ He took a menacing step towards Anita.

‘It’s obviously a touchy subject.’

‘It’s none of your business. I think we’ve said enough.’ He turned away towards his apartment block.

‘It could be why you killed Tommy Ekman. And Martin Olofsson.’

Poulsen stopped. Slowly he turned around. ‘That’s madness.’

‘I suspect one of the reasons you moved over from Denmark was because of your mother. Or, more to the point, your grandparents.’

Poulsen came back to the bench and sat down next to Anita. His temple throbbed, though he was trying to keep his anger in check.

‘Have you any idea what my grandmother and mother went through?’

‘I should imagine it was tough.’

He snorted in derision. ‘My grandmother fell in love with a German SS officer. By the time she gave birth, he had been killed on the Russian front. Or that’s what they told her. The bastard was probably already married and survived the war. Himmler encouraged that sort of thing. My grandmother’s parents disowned her and she was taken in by the Lebensborn home. It means the “fountain of life”. What a sick joke when you think of the lives that were devastated by it. You know that the nurses were ordered not to respond when the children cried, whether it was for food or a simple hug. Emotions were expunged. They were programming the future generation of world rulers from the cradle.

‘After the war my grandmother had nowhere to turn – no Danish family, no German family. Then my mother was taken from her and put in a home. God knows what abuse she suffered there. The Danish authorities wanted these children out of sight – they didn’t want reminders that there had been fraternization with the occupying forces. Literally sleeping with the enemy. They had their hands full. There were well over five thousand “German babies”.’

As he twisted his hands Anita realized that Poulsen was not a man who could forget, or forgive.

‘My grandmother was so distraught that she walked into the sea over there somewhere,’ said Poulsen pointing in the direction of Denmark, ‘and was never seen again. One less national embarrassment.’

‘What happened to your mother?’

‘When she was ten she was taken in by an uncle. He tried to be kind, but word got out, and her school life consisted of other children telling her that her father was a Nazi war criminal and her mother a prostitute. She never got over the shame, even when she found fellow sufferers after Danske Krigsbørns Forening was formed.’

‘I’ve heard of Children of War Denmark. They share their experiences, don’t they, and get counselling?’

‘My mum didn’t join until it was too late. She was very ill by then, but it gave her some comfort knowing that other people had gone through the hell that she had. She didn’t have much time to share her experiences, but one thing she did have in common with the others was guilt.’

‘Why? It wasn’t their fault.’

‘They were atoning for the sins of the parents. It makes no sense, but it’s true nonetheless.

‘What about your father?’

‘I don’t know who he is. I’m the result of a one night stand. She could never trust anybody to form a long-term relationship. She brought me up as best she could and then I took over caring for her when she became ill.’

‘And you escaped to Malmö when she died?’

He nodded. ‘Escape is the right word. I learned at an early age how ugly intolerance is. We’re too quick to judge. Look at all the problems we have now. Anyway, two months after Mum died the E&J job came up.’

The wind was getting stronger. The fleeting clouds were looking more threatening.

‘Of course, I soon began to realize that there are just as many bigoted people over here. The far right seems to be coming out of the woodwork all over Scandinavia. I leave behind the Danish People’s Party and find the Sweden Democrats instead. They’re all scum. Despite that, I’d prefer to live in Malmö than Copenhagen any day. You’re not even legally allowed to live with a non-EU spouse over there these days. No wonder they’re all coming over to Sweden.’

He stood up to stretch his legs. ‘So, who told you about the Lebensborn connection?’

‘Bo Nilsson.’

He raised his almost-bleached eyebrows. ‘That’ll have come from Ekman.’

‘How did Ekman know?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe he did some checking up on me before he gave me the job. It only came up once. He seemed interested. Fascinated, actually. After he saw that it wasn’t a subject I wanted to talk about, he never mentioned it again.’