Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (25 page)

‘We think that Ekman and Olofsson, and a man called Ingvar Serneholt, who was murdered the other day, might have been part of a far-right group.’ She knew she was fishing. ‘Maybe that’s why Ekman was so interested in your German connection.’

‘Is that why you think I killed him?’

‘Not only him. A jogger, wearing a blue hooded top, was seen in the vicinity of both the Olofsson and Serneholt murders.’

‘Half the joggers in Malmö dress like me.’

‘Where were you on the evenings of Monday, the twenty-third of May and Monday, the thirtieth of May?’

‘I have no idea. I think you’ve wasted enough of my time, Inspector.’ With that Poulsen turned and jogged off.

He watched the man jog away from her as she remained seated on the bench. It appeared that she was working on her own. He wouldn’t bother to follow her any more today. He would wait until Monday, when he could pick her up again at the police headquarters. It was safer following her movements than the Arab’s. Then he could work out his strategy. He would have to think on his feet and grab his opportunity to strike where there was a safe escape route. And they had to be together. The voice was adamant. At least he had now seen both his targets.

He felt the inside of his jacket. The gun reassuringly nuzzled against his chest. It would be strange killing a white Swedish woman. He had never done that before.

Moberg’s wife hadn’t been pleased when he had left for the polishus after breakfast that morning. She had wanted him to go to IKEA with her to choose the new bed that she had been pestering him to buy for the last year. He had lost his temper and shouted that he had three fucking murders to solve and that a new bed wasn’t high up on his list of priorities just now. After slamming the door, he was quite relieved that he wouldn’t have to go back home until tonight. He wondered how long she would put up with his unreasonable behaviour. He must start making an effort – he couldn’t afford a third divorce on his salary.

Nordlund and Westermark were waiting for him.

‘Ander Genmar is on holiday,’ said Nordlund. ‘Interestingly, it was a very sudden decision, according to a couple of people at the group’s head office.’

‘I think this list shit is getting us nowhere.’ Westermark resented having to spend valuable time in Lund looking for Genmar and then wasting more time talking to office employees. ‘People take spur-of-the-moment holidays. Maybe he saw a good deal.’

‘Where is he?’ Moberg asked.

‘Spain,’ answered Nordlund. ‘He has a villa near Marbella. They usually go for the whole of September. He and his wife left two days after Serneholt was killed. It’s suggestive.’

‘I know Henrik is still backing Sundström up on this right-wing conspiracy thing, but we only have evidence to connect two of these people; through the Bishop Green film. The Wollstad association is pure fantasy. And we know Ekman couldn’t have been at this supposed meeting.’

‘Henrik?’

‘Karl may well be right. The trouble is we can’t ask anybody about the meeting, as we either don’t know who they are, or the ones that we do know are dead. Except for Genmar.’

‘Have we contact details for Genmar in Spain?’

‘Yes,’ said Nordlund. ‘I rang last night. However, there was no answer. Nor this morning when I tried.’

Westermark was restless. ‘Look, Chief, I think we should be concentrating on Nilsson. The big question we’ve got to ask ourselves is how he got the poison. Crack that and we’ve got him - and solved two murders. The Serneholt slaying has something to do with the art world, and nothing to do with the advertising agency. End of story.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Thank you.’

Elin Marklund went through to the kitchen. Marklund had seemed totally unfazed when Anita had turned up on her doorstep a few minutes earlier. The rain had come during the drive down the E6. She had branched off to Höllviken, the community that straddled the route to the peninsula. She drove on to Skanör and parked near a small, whitewashed church with crow-stepped gables at each end, which commanded a view of the distant Öresund Bridge. Skanör was a beautiful spot with protected wildlife wetlands spreading to the south. Anita could see a couple of avocets using their long curved beaks to plunder the muddy marsh. Beyond was the beach and a colourful line of beach huts. It was a place in which she would like to linger, but a combination of the rain and the need to talk to Elin Marklund overrode any such thoughts.

Anita had walked to Marklund’s house. It was situated not far from the church along an unmetalled road. The residents parked their cars on the grass verges around their homes. A smart red Saab sat next to Marklund’s quaint, white-fronted cottage. By the standards of this prosperous area, it was a modest home. Somehow it didn’t fit with Anita’s image of an advertising executive with a husband in the oil industry. As Anita waited after ringing the doorbell, she glanced at the yellow blanket of cowslips on the rough grass that surrounded the building. It was a wild flower that she loved. The lilac trees beyond were now in full bloom and their scent wafted on the breeze. Marklund had answered the door in old slacks, sloppy T-shirt and espadrilles, very much the off-duty look. Anita thought she was prettier out of her business uniform. There certainly wasn’t an ounce of fat on her. No kids, Anita thought with a tinge of envy.

The room was more traditional than expected. Anita had assumed a high-flyer to surround herself with trendy furnishings and arty knick-knacks from trips to exotic locations. This was more like a traditional Swedish house. An older person’s home. There was a model of a small sailing boat in the window. There were even a couple of brightly-painted Dala horses. Among the photos there were a couple of a girlish Elin with a grey-haired couple. Grandparents probably. On the mantelpiece was an old black and white photograph of a handsome young woman. Her thick, dark hair waved to just above her shoulders – a typical late 1940s style. She had a pretty smile.

‘That’s my grandmother,’ said Marklund as she came in with a tray bearing two mugs of coffee and two cinnamon buns.

‘Very striking.’

Marklund laid the tray down on the old wooden coffee table.

‘Granny was from Denmark.’

Anita took hold of her mug. ‘Thanks.’ She took a sip. It wasn’t as strong as she liked but it was much needed. ‘I’ve just spoken to Jesper Poulsen. I had an interesting chat. He was talking about his grandmother too.’

Marklund took a bite out of her bun.

‘I can’t imagine that had anything to do with the case.’

‘It might do.

Marklund didn’t disguise her surprise.

‘What do you make of Poulsen? I sense a lot of anger there.’

‘I like Jesper. A lot people don’t know what to make of him. He’s not the most diplomatic person, which doesn’t make him very popular in the office. Rubbed a few of his colleagues up the wrong way.’

‘Tommy Ekman?’

‘Particularly Tommy. He wasn’t used to staff standing up to him.’

Anita nibbled at her cinnamon bun. It tasted delicious. She hadn’t had one since Lasse was last at home. She decided to buy some on the way back.

‘The real reason for my call is that you weren’t entirely truthful about the day of the presentation.’

‘Wasn’t I?’

‘You left the office early - in your car. There were two cars – Ekman, Johansson and Lundin went to the presentation in the other. Where did you go?’

Markland appeared amazed. ‘I thought I’d covered everything. Yes, I did take my car because I needed to go to the pharmacist.’

‘The pharmacist?’

‘Tampax. My period came early. Caught me unawares. Would have been embarrassing at the presentation...’

‘Where was the pharmacy?’

‘The one outside
Entré
.’

‘Bit out of the way if you were going to Fosieby.’

‘My car was parked near the central station, so it was easier to go that way. And I know where the toilets are in
Entré
.’

Anita was thankful that Hakim wasn’t with her. Too much information.

‘What time would that be?’

‘I was at Geistrand Petfoods at twenty past eleven, so I must have left the office about half an hour earlier.’

‘If you went to
Entré
, then you must have passed Tommy Ekman’s apartment.’

‘I suppose I must have.’

‘Anyway, that explains it. We have to follow up everything. You understand.’

‘That’s your job.’

After Anita had finished her bun she got to her feet. ‘One last thing. Who does Pontus work for?’

‘Fraser Oil International.’

‘Thanks for the bun.’

The rain had eased a little as Anita headed down a tree-lined path that ran along the back of Marklund’s house and retraced her steps to the church, Marklund said it was a short cut. She reached her car and got in. For a few minutes she sat and watched trickles of rain run down the outside of the windscreen. She was concentrating hard. What had been wrong about the house? There was something.

Anita caught Moberg in mid-sandwich. In fact, it was more mid-meal, judging by the amount of empty plastic wrapping strewn around his desk.

‘Wasn’t sure if you’d be in today.’

Moberg grunted, as he was still demolishing his last mouthful.

‘I’ve been to see Jesper Poulsen, the copywriter; and Elin Marklund.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Yes.’ Anita sat down. ‘Marklund hadn’t told us that she set off early to the presentation in her own car. She says she went to
Entré
shopping centre to get some Tampax. That time of the month.’

Moberg put down the rest of his sandwich. ‘Please. Not while I’m eating.’

‘She would have passed Ekman’s apartment, so she would have had opportunity. She’s no motive though.’

‘And this Poulsen guy?’

‘He’s more interesting. He was the first in the office on the day of the presentation. Finishing off some radio scripts. That gave him about an hour alone in the building. Plenty of time to get the keys.’

‘How come this wasn’t clocked before?’ Moberg was annoyed. He hated sloppiness in his subordinates. ‘Anything else?’

‘Poulsen and Ekman didn’t get on. Fights over work. And Poulsen has strong political opinions. His mother was a Lebensborn child. I think it’s an obsession with him. Chip on his shoulder. Obviously loathes right-wingers. If Ekman and the rest were politically involved, then that would give him a good motive. He also happens to be a fanatical jogger with the same colour top and black backpack as reported in the sightings. I saw the backpack in his office.’

‘Pick it up. The backpack. Send it to forensics and see if Thulin can match it to anything in Olofsson’s car or Serneholt’s house. It’s a long shot, but we might as well clutch at a few straws. That’s all we’ve got.’

‘I’ll go first thing Monday.’

Moberg had returned to the remnants of his sandwich. ‘You know Westermark thinks that the political route is a waste of time.’

‘But what do
you
think?’

‘I think we need more suspects. The less we find on Nilsson, the more worried I am that he’s the wrong person.’

Anita wasn’t used to such admissions from the chief inspector. She could see that the lack of progress on the cases was getting to him.

‘At least Poulsen gives us another.’

‘This Ander Genmar has rushed off on an unexpected holiday. It might be a coincidence. Then again...’ Moberg leaned back in his chair. ‘Gut feeling about Poulsen?’

Anita tapped the desk top with her fingers. ‘Yes. It could be him.’

‘Do you want to bring him in?’

‘I’ll speak to him again on Monday.’

‘Is he methodical enough to plan Ekman’s murder?’ That was a good question which Anita wasn’t sure she could answer. ‘And we still have no idea how the murderer got hold of the means to gas Ekman.’

Anita shrugged. That was baffling. She made a move to go.

‘The Mirza kid. How’s he shaping up?’

‘He’s keen. A good eye. Methodical. I think he’ll make an excellent cop one day - if the system doesn’t wear him down.’

‘We need people like him.’ Anita was surprised at this admission. ‘Might shut the Sweden Democrats up. They were moaning on the other day that Sweden has taken in more Iraqis since the 2003 invasion than all the other major European countries combined.’

‘Hakim’s family came over here when he was young. He thinks of himself as Swedish.’

‘Maybe the people we’re dealing with disagree with that. And that definitely includes the “Malmö Marksman”.’

He followed her all the way from the apartment to Stortorget. She had got up early. He had expected her to leave for the polishus after seven. Instead she had emerged at quarter to nine. She hadn’t taken her car, so he had followed her on foot. At this time on a Monday morning it was simple to keep out of sight among commuters heading to work. He was feeling tense this morning. Maybe it was the target that was worrying him. The others had been easy. This policewoman was different. She was upholding the laws of Sweden, even though those laws had been twisted to allow in so many foreigners. But he had no choice. The voice had been insistent. As she walked, he could tell by the slight tell-tale budge that she was carrying a regulation police Sig Sauer pistol. He would have to bear that in mind when he struck. His other victims had had no means of defending themselves or fighting back.

She had walked across the bridge by the library, and stopped for a few moments. The sun glinted off the canal. She had better enjoy the sight now
because she was unlikely to see the day out. He wanted to make sure the killings were done today, and then he could disappear quickly. He didn’t want to stay in Malmö a minute longer than he had to. The murder of two cops would result in the whole country on the lookout for him.

In the corner of the square she hung around, checking her watch. He hovered, pretending to admire the varied architecture, while he took in ways of making a quick exit. When he glanced back, the young Arab was with her. He immediately felt for his gun. There wasn’t an obvious escape route, so he let them go into the building. He would bide his time.

Jesper Poulsen wasn’t pleased to see Anita again. Johansson had vacated the office to let them speak to him. This move had set off whispered chatter in the rest of the creative department on the other side of the glass.

Anita got straight down to business. ‘We need to know where you were on the evenings of Monday, the twenty-third of May and Monday, the thirtieth of May.’

Poulsen stared at Anita and then at Hakim. ‘Unless I go for a run, I never do anything on Monday nights.’ He sighed. ‘If you must know, I always write on Monday evenings. Or try to. It’s the only time I get.’

‘The great novel?’

‘I know it sounds pathetic. And I realize it means I haven’t got an alibi, but I had nothing to do with the deaths of those men. I didn’t even know who they were before their names appeared in the papers.’

Anita noticed that the black backpack was still lying next to Poulsen’s desk.

‘We’ll take that away with us, if you don’t mind.’

‘What for the hell for?’ Poulsen snapped.

‘We need it for forensics. If you’re innocent, then you have nothing to worry about.’ Anita nodded to Hakim, who leant over and picked it up carefully. He put it in a large plastic bag, which he had fished out of his pocket.

Poulsen almost spluttered with rage. ‘I don’t know why you are picking on me. There’s probably about a dozen people in the agency who jog. Christoffer, Fanny... Elin... em... Niclas... they all jog. So does Emma. Are you taking away their stuff?’

‘Did you say “Elin”? Elin Marklund?’

‘Yeah.’ He had calmed down. ‘I got her into running when we were working together in Copenhagen.’

Anita took a step towards the door. ‘We’ll get your bag back to you as soon as possible.’ Her hand was on the handle when she half turned to a still-seething Poulsen. ‘What do you know about Elin Marklund’s husband?’

He was surprised by the question. ‘Not much. I know he’s in the oil business and I know they met while she was still working in Copenhagen. I was over here by then. But she’s kept her maiden name; presumably it’s easier for work purposes.’

‘What’s his surname?’

‘Pontus Stennevall. He’s never come to any agency social dos as far as I know. Always away protecting oil fields. Come to think of it, I don’t believe I’ve ever met him.’

He followed them when they came out. The Arab was now carrying a plastic bag. Instead of heading for the police headquarters, they made their way through the shopping thoroughfares and on to Triangeln. He had no idea where they were heading. He was getting frustrated. No opportunity to take out his gun and finish them off. The streets were now too busy. There was no cover. Keep composed.

They carried on past Triangeln down Södra Förstadsgatan before turning left. This was more promising. They were heading for Möllevångstorget. The square was full of market stalls with cheerful striped blue-and-white or red-and-white canopies. The stall-holders were mainly ethnic, as were most of the customers. He knew the area’s reputation as being home to many incomers, though it was now becoming more fashionable among Swedes. That would push the unwanted out. The cops would be more exposed here. And he had cover. He could pick them off and get away in the confusion, camouflaged by the stalls. But they went beyond the market and into Simrishamnsgatan, one of the streets leading off the square. They then disappeared through a doorway to the right. He idled past the window. It was a café. He could see the woman taking a seat near the back, while the Arab went to the counter. None of the tables and chairs matched and were set out randomly. He crossed over the road and weighed
up his options. There was no point in shooting them through the window, as they were near the back of the café, and he couldn’t be certain of success. He could walk in and gun them down where they sat, but the layout and the number of people already inside would hamper his escape. He’d rather be in the open. He’d rather wait.

Anita sat down in the Café Simrishamn 3 while Hakim bought them a couple of coffees. She was paying.

Hakim came back with two mugs and a large cinnamon bun for Anita.

‘What next?’

‘The first thing we’ll do is go to the market. I want some fruit and vegetables. I’ve been eating too much crap lately now that I’m just cooking for myself.’

‘My dad comes here on a Monday most weeks. So it must be good because he’s very particular.’

Anita took a bite out of her bun. It was nice, but not as good as the one Elin Marklund had given her.

‘Do you think Poulsen is our perpetrator?’ Hakim asked.

Anita picked an unruly crumb from her bottom lip. Not very elegant, she thought.

‘Poulsen has possible motive. Well, he didn’t get along with Tommy Ekman. That might give him a reason to kill his boss, but not the banker. However, he’d have a strong motive if there is a political angle to the murders, which I’m now convinced more than ever there is. His views are blatantly obvious. And he had opportunity in all three cases. He was by himself on the morning we assume the keys went missing from Ekman’s office, and he was out of the building for lunch on the day the poison was planted. When we leave here, you can go to the Moosehead and check out if he was there that day. He has no alibi for the other two murders.’

She looked vaguely around for the sign to the toilet. ‘As for the means, Martin Olofsson is easy. Clonk him on the head with a heavy spanner. Serneholt was killed with a scalpel. Advertising agency studios probably still use them, despite the technological revolution. And we must remember that a jogger with his general description was seen near Olofsson’s and Sernholt’s homes. If we prove that these are politically motivated killings, then Poulsen goes straight to the top of our list of suspects.’

They finished their coffees and prepared to leave the cafe. The door with the “ladies” symbol seemed to be blocked by a table. She could either make a fuss or hold on.

‘Two more things we need to do, Hakim. When we get back to the polishus, I’ll check that Marklund’s husband, Pontus Stennevall, really did pop back over from Norway at the time of the Olofsson murder. He’s her alibi. And I want you to get hold of any CCTV footage from the pharmacist’s outside
Entré
for the day before Ekman’s murder. It’s the one just along from the
Systembolag
.’ It was also virtually opposite the apartment where Ewan had strangled Malin Lovgren. It’s where Anita had first met him. Little did she know the effect he would have on her life. Damn him!

He was seated on a bench in the square waiting for them to come out of the café. From his vantage point he could see along Simrishamnsgatan. He had had to share the bench with a withered old man with a long grey beard. Another bloody Arab. The seat along from his was occupied by a whole group of them talking loudly and waving their arms. Is this how they repay the Swedes? Do nothing but scrounge off the state? Why don’t they bugger off to whatever Middle Eastern hell-hole they’d crawled out of? Maybe he would come back at a later date and send a few of these off to see Allah.

He stiffened when he saw the woman and the young Arab step out of the café and head straight towards him. For a moment they disappeared from view, as a couple of cyclists crossed their path. He was now totally alert. He was going to strike here. He sat still and watched them closely. They were making for the first row of stalls, and the woman began inspecting the colourful display of vegetables. They were playing into his hands. He got up slowly so as not to attract any attention, and worked his way round to the opposite side of the row. When they were in his sights he would draw his gun and fire through the gap between the canopy and the trestle. Then he could make his escape through the throng and be shielded by the other stalls. He would cross the road – the traffic would hold up any potential pursuers and give him vital seconds. He would probably make for the new underground station at Triangeln.

Anita was still casting an eye over the array of fresh vegetables and fruit. In her head she was trying to match the produce to recipes she could use when cooking for one. She had better not buy too much as it would go to waste. But the choice was so tempting.

‘Hello, Inspector.’

Anita turned to see Hakim’s father, Uday, with a bulging shopping bag. Hakim was hovering around hoping that his father wouldn’t say anything embarrassing. The dreaded words “when Hakim was a boy...” sprang to mind. Anita stepped away from the stall to speak to Uday.

‘I see you’ve been busy, herr...sorry, Uday.’

Uday beamed back. She had remembered his name.

‘I come here every Monday. Not as good as Baghdad, but I mustn’t grumble.’

‘No, you mustn’t, father.’

Just then a young female cyclist came to an abrupt halt between them and the stall. At the same moment there was a small explosion. Then another. The female cyclist tipped over and collapsed against Anita, who had automatically ducked as she had realised what had caused the sound. Someone cried out. Everything stood still for a second. Uday slumped to his knees, clutching his arm with his hand. Blood appeared through his fingers. His vegetables rolled across the cobbles. The cyclist moaned, still straddling her bicycle on the ground. Anita could see Hakim shouting and pointing. She jumped up. Someone was running through the maze of stalls. She quickly assessed the situation. The woman on the ground was still alive. Part of the handlebar on her bike was pulverized – it had taken most of the impact. Uday wasn’t critically injured. People were rushing to help. It was a communal reflex action. As the incident had happened so quickly, there was no time for panic to fully set in. Anita shouted at the stall-holder to ring for an ambulance and the police. And then she drew her pistol and ran after Hakim, who had dropped the plastic bag with Poulsen’s backpack in and was now in pursuit of a burly, blond man.

He couldn’t believe it. That fucking cyclist had appeared from nowhere. He wasn’t sure if he had hit either of his targets. He couldn’t hang around and have another go because they had now disappeared below the level of the
stall and were out of sight. Then he saw the young Arab cop pop up and point at him, and bellow something he couldn’t catch. He quickly turned and ran, bumping into two young women. One fell to the ground and the other shrieked when she saw the gun. He dashed along a line of stalls, then jinked left to avoid another. When he reached the main street that ran along the end of the square, he just ploughed on. A car screeched to a standstill as he used the bonnet to lever himself into the middle of the road. He heard screams and shouting behind him.

Now there was no hindrance in the street in front of him. He stretched his legs. He would be clear soon. Down into the underground and out the other side, and he would be invisible again. He glanced over his shoulder. The young cop was in full chase. Did he have a gun? He realized that he was gaining on him. The glass roof of the station was straight in front of him. The entrance was on the other side. Coming up on his left were ranks of parked commuter bicycles. He would dodge behind them and try to pick off the Arab. Half way along he leapt to his left and ducked down behind a forest of spokes. He didn’t have time to take aim properly, but let off two shots. The Arab seemed to stumble. He didn’t wait to find out what had happened to him.

He made a dash for the entrance of the station, barging past a woman with a child’s buggy. The buggy spun away from him. The woman yelled obscenities as she desperately tried to stop her baby tumbling out. He was now under the glass roof and on the first of the three down escalators. He ran down the moving steps and onto the next level. A swift glance back. The bloody Arab was still with him as he launched himself down the second escalator.

At the bottom, he ran across the large atrium and turned to the right onto the last escalator, which tumbled down onto the station concourse. He leapt the last three steps onto the extensive platform. A train was just pulling out and a large number of people were walking straight towards him. When someone spotted his gun there was a terrified warning shout. The wave of panicking passengers parted like the Red Sea as people tried to get out of the way. He quickly looked over his shoulder and saw the Arab was still with him. He shouldn’t have looked. His foot caught the side of someone’s trolley
suitcase and he fell forwards. The gun went off and the noise reverberated loudly around the cavernous space.