Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (28 page)

‘I think that’s all for now, Elin. We’ll need to get this down as a full statement.’

Anita leant over and switched off the tape recording. She and Nordlund got up out of their chairs. Nordlund went to the door and opened it. A female uniformed officer came in to keep an eye on Marklund.

Anita stopped by the door.

‘One other thing. Tommy Ekman refers to some event or series of events that he was masterminding. Something to make people sit up and take notice. But there’s nothing specific in the files. Just hinted at.’

‘I wasn’t sure myself. That was until the “Malmö Marksman” started his shooting spree.’

The early morning sun tried its hardest to shine through the window of Anita’s car. All it really did was show up how dirty it had become since she’d given the vehicle a wash. She couldn’t remember when that was and promised herself to give it a thorough clean when she got home. There were so many domestic tasks she had neglected recently. Like finishing her bathroom. It was ludicrous to have such mundane thoughts when there was so much at stake. The last twenty-four hours had been hectic. Many discussions had taken place – many important decisions had been made. In the next few hours the cases should be resolved, if she had got her thinking right. She felt all the nervous tension of a sprinter on the starting blocks. Nordlund was next to her and Hakim sat fidgeting in the back. All of them were armed. She wasn’t going to let Hakim be exposed if the situation flared up this time. The car in front contained Chief Inspector Moberg, Westermark and Wallen. Behind her were three police cars with uniformed officers – two from Malmö and the other from Ystad. This was their patch, and Moberg, for once adhering to protocol, didn’t want to rub the local force up the wrong way by keeping them out of the loop. The five cars were parked on a quiet country lane near Illstorp. They had a search warrant and a warrant for the arrest of Dag Wollstad on charges relating to conspiracy and incitement to violence.

Anita had reported back to Moberg straight after her interview with Elin Marklund. The whole team had gathered together and listened as the tape was played back. The confession added flesh to the bones that had been taken off Marklund’s computer. One thing was unequivocal - Wollstad was heavily involved. Possibly the driving force. There was a series of emails between Ekman and Wollstad which left no doubt.

What hadn’t been on the tape was Marklund’s view that the “event or events” referred to by Ekman in one email to Wollstad was the work of the “Malmö Marksman”. This piece of news had been greeted with a shocked silence. Larsson had then been brought on board. Though they now knew the gunman was one David Löfblad, there was no mobile on him or personal ID. However, Larsson agreed that it made sense if he had been summoned down from the north to do each “job” – the word he’d used to Anita on the station platform. That would fit in with his disappearance after each shooting. Then he’d go back home. Far from being a local man as they had believed, he came and went as he was instructed. He was pointed in the direction of immigrant targets. The last attack at Möllevångstorget was an obvious one, given the ethnic market and usual customers. There would be a “safe house” provided for his use. The police up north had been through Löfblad’s phone records and there was nothing to tie him into Wollstad or any of the others in “The November 6
^th
Group”. They had been cleverer than that. He had bought at least four pay-as-you-go mobile phones lately in Umeå. None were found. He must have dumped each one after he had received his orders. A search of Wollstad’s house might produce the evidence they needed.

Last night there had been a high level meeting with Commissioner Dahlbeck and Prosecutor Sonya Blom, with frequent calls to national headquarters in Stockholm. Both were extremely nervous about moving against such a high-profile and influential figure as Wollstad. But the evidence against him was so compelling that they had reluctantly agreed to send Moberg in with a warrant for his arrest. Moberg was delighted. He would enjoy his next meeting with the arrogant Wollstad. The whole team was excited. They were on the point of blowing wide open a dangerous organization committed to causing civil unrest that might have operated for years without being detected. The only person who was subdued and seemed lost in a world of his own was Karl Westermark. Anita assumed that he resented her success. He had been right about the Ekman and Olofsson murders being connected – just wrong about the reason. It was she who had arrested the killer – not him. He had hardly spoken a word at the final briefing and had slipped away as soon as it had finished. That morning, as they gathered at the Polishus, he was preoccupied. No barbed comment, no lecherous leer, no gung-ho cockiness. Anita should have hated herself for it, but underneath she was rather pleased that Westermark seemed to be suffering.

At eleven o’clock Moberg got a call – they had been given the official go-ahead from the commissioner. With a broad grin he started up his car, and for the last couple of kilometres the rest followed in convoy, and then swept up the long drive. The officers poured out of the cars and, led by the massive frame of the chief inspector, headed for the main door. He was about to open it unannounced when Kristina Ekman appeared at the entrance. She was smartly dressed in expensive casual slacks and a short-sleeved floral top. Her blonde hair was pinned up. She was every inch the “ice maiden” that Moberg had come to regard her as.

‘Fru Ekman, we have come to see your father. We have a warrant for his arrest. If you’ll stand aside, we can go about our business.’

Her look was mocking.

‘You’re too late, Chief Inspector. My father isn’t here. In fact, he’s no longer in the country.’

‘Where is he?’ Moberg bellowed.

‘I have no idea.’

Moberg furiously brushed past her and barked out an order to search the house from top to bottom.

Over the next two hours the house was turned upside down. All the computers were impounded, files were boxed up and taken out and every member of the household was questioned. A van arrived to take all the potential evidence back to Malmö. The staff knew nothing, except that their employer had left in the early hours of the morning. Just before one, Moberg got a call on his mobile. Wollstad had left on his private jet, which he kept at Sturup airport, just after five that morning. The destination was logged as Malaga. The plane had spent an hour on the tarmac in southern Spain. After refuelling, it took off again. Spanish air traffic control had no record of where it was heading. Moberg stamped his foot in frustration.

At quarter past one he called a halt and they began to leave the estate. Moberg gathered together Anita, Nordlund, Westermark, Wallen and Hakim in front of the house. ‘The bastard has evaded us. He’ll be holed out where there’s no extradition treaty, you can sure of that. He has companies all over the world, so I’m sure he’ll live out his days in comfort.’ He was seething. ‘What really pisses me off is that someone back in Malmö must have tipped him off. That bitch Kristina was expecting us. Someone’s in Wollstad’s pocket and I’ll kill the shit if I ever get hold of whoever it is. I’ll be amazed if we find anything. They’ve had all night to get rid of any evidence.’ He could hardly bring himself to speak. ‘Come on!’

Moberg stalked off to his car, trailed by Nordlund, Wallen and Westermark. Kristina Ekman watched them from the doorway. There was triumph in her eyes. And for a split second Anita thought she saw a hint of a glance between Kristina Ekman and Westermark. It happened so quickly that she fancied she must have imagined it.

Anita nodded to Hakim and they went over to her car outside the main door. Kristina Ekman eyed them up.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Inspector Sundström.’ Even beautiful mouths could look ugly when they sneer, thought Anita.

‘Your father, your husband and their sick friends aren’t going to come out of Elin Marklund’s trial very well.’

‘We’ll see. I wasn’t surprised to hear it was Marklund, you know. I always thought she looked a bit crazy. I expect she’ll only get some paltry sentence. Our so-called justice system is pathetic. She should be shot.’

‘I thought you’d be grateful that we’ve found your husband’s murderer.’

‘
You
should be grateful that you’re still alive.’

The comment took Anita by surprise. It required a few seconds to process the remark. And then it was like scales falling from her eyes and restoring her sight. Of course, of course.

‘It all makes sense.
You
were at that meeting on April the sixteenth.
TE
. We assumed it was Tommy Ekman. But, of course, he was in Hong Kong. Your family call you “Titti”, don’t they?’ It was Titti Ekman who was there.’

There wasn’t a shred of emotion on Kristina Ekman’s face. Hakim stood there, dumfounded.

‘It was
you
who was giving the “Malmö Marksman” his orders. I didn’t understand at the time, but Löfblad referred to “The voice. She told me.” The attack at Möllevångstorget wasn’t just one of his random shootings to create fear.’ She could hardly believe it as she was saying it. ‘We were the targets. Hakim and myself. Were we getting too close to discovering the truth about your deranged group? Löfblad made a reference to the voice telling him to kill us. I thought that was he just babbling insanely. Jesus! You’re behind all this.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. I think it is time you left.’ She gazed at Anita and then at Hakim. It was a look of utter contempt. ‘Goodbye, Inspector Sundström. Thanks to your interference, I’ve got a business empire to take charge of.’

Kristina Ekman turned on her elegant heels and marched back into the house.

‘We’ve got to do something about her,’ said an incredulous Hakim.

Anita stepped towards the car.

‘I’m afraid we’re unlikely to prove she had anything to do with it unless one of the group testifies against her. Half of them are dead and the other half has fled the country.’

They got into Anita’s car. The sun was beating down. It was a beautiful June day. But to Anita it was grey and forbidding. And she knew it was going to get a lot worse when she arrested Ingvar Serneholt’s killer.

They drove along the winding country roads from Illstorp in silence. Anita was too busy thinking to bother about conversing with young Hakim. She couldn’t get it out of her mind that it was Westermark who had tipped off Wollstad. It was an irrational thought, yet it would explain his whole attitude and demeanour over the last couple of days. And what was his price? A fast car? A fancy apartment? A Swiss bank account? She loathed him, but she had always acknowledged that he was good at his job, despite being headstrong and over-confident. His personal behaviour was despicable at times, particularly in regard to her. Too often he thought with his balls. Maybe a place in the widow’s bed was the price he had asked. It would never be proved. Should she mention it to Moberg? No. She had no evidence. A guilty glance is hardly proof enough to finish a career. The more she thought about it, the more she was sure that it was Westermark, yet there was nothing she could do. She consoled herself with the thought that at least “The November 6
^th
Group” was broken up and Wollstad was hardly likely to return to Sweden. Kristina would run his conglomerate, though her activities would now always come under close scrutiny from the security services.

There was one positive to come out of this morning’s farce. Once Westermark knew that she knew, he would leave her alone. And she could visit Ewan again without fear of his stirring up trouble. She knew it would be sensible to cut her ties with the incarcerated Scotsman. Her involvement with Ewan was as foolish as it was pointless. It had no future. Yet at this moment in time she didn’t care.

They reached Brösarp and got onto the familiar main road that ran along the coast through Kivik and Vik to Simrishamn. All she had told Hakim was that they were heading for the centre of Simrishamn. She wasn’t sure how she was going to handle the situation when they got to Valfisken, the gallery in the library building. Pelle and Karin would be setting up the exhibition in the gallery area. The opening was due to have its launch tomorrow. Karin Munk had sent an invitation to the “Private Viewing – Plus partner”. Had Karin done it just to emphasize that Anita didn’t have one?

Anita drove her car through the centre of the town and it rumbled over the smooth-topped cobbles of Järnvägsgatan towards the railway terminal at its end. She turned right into Stenbocksgatan and immediately right again into the Simrishamn police station car park. The local force was based on the ground floor of a modern red brick office block. On the opposite corner, over the road, was the library.

‘I’m just popping into the station to let them know we’re here,’ she said to Hakim as she got out of the car.

‘Then what are we going to do?’

‘Arrest Pelle Munk.’

Valfisken was a very modern building of glass and brick, with steeply sloping panels of red roofing. They proceeded through the atrium entrance, down past the library to the gallery beyond. The exhibition was being mounted in the large, white open display area. The high, multi-pitched wooden ceiling created a sense of airiness that many similar artistic spaces lack. It was perfect for Pelle Munk’s colourful new works, which contrasted startlingly with the stark background. To Anita, the paintings looked just as inaccessible as the old ones. Nothing new there. The usual obscure titles too.
Tumult
,
Immune
,
Manipulation, Penetration
– and a rather gaudy effort defiantly called
Strong Response.
Was it an attack on his critics? Anita suspected only they would know.

Karin Munk was busy organizing a small army of helpers in the hanging of her father’s works. Anita could see that Pelle was missing. She hadn’t seen his car when they passed his house on the road into Simrishamn, so had assumed he would be at the gallery.

Karin noticed Anita and waved across. ‘Come for a sneak preview?’

Anita felt awkward. Here was Karin organizing her father’s come-back exhibition and Anita was about to make sure that Pelle would never attend the event.

‘Hi, Karin. It’s looking great,’ she lied.

‘I think Dad is going to be so proud.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Back home. Not feeling a hundred percent. I suspect it’s pre-show nerves. It’s been a long time.’

‘Actually, it’s Pelle I need to speak to.’

‘Really?’ Karin queried. ‘What about?’

‘Can’t say until I’ve seen him.’

Karin gave her a quizzical look. ‘You’ll find him at home. Sorry, I must get on. I’m still not happy with the lighting.’

‘Of course.’

Anita walked back with Hakim to the gallery door and out towards the atrium.

‘This is going to be awkward. I don’t want to go in mob-handed. I’ll pick up Pelle Munk and bring him back to the police station over the road. They’re expecting us, and I’ll formally charge him there.’

‘Have you any evidence?’

‘Enough to bring him in. I’ll tell you all when I get back.’

‘Are you sure you’ll be OK by yourself?’ Hakim asked with a hint of concern.

Anita was touched.

‘It’s going to be difficult enough as it is. I’ve known him since I was a kid. It’s going to destroy Karin. I think that’s one friendship that’ll be lost forever. Just when we were getting reacquainted.’

‘What shall I do?’

‘You like art. Go back in and tell me if it’s any good. Come across the road in about half an hour.’

Hakim wandered back into the gallery. Karin noticed him and came over.

‘Do you know why Anita wants to speak to my father?’

‘Sorry. No idea. She wouldn’t tell me.’

It took Anita ten minutes to reach Munk’s house. There was no sign of his car. She had realized that it must have been
his
car outside Ingvar Serneholt’s when Elin Marklund described it. The testimonies of Marklund and neighbour, Valerie Wigarth, plus the forensic evidence, meant that only Munk had the time to kill Serneholt. And a scalpel was an artist’s weapon. And she had seen for herself he was left-handed, too, which fitted Thulin’s prognosis. Pelle Munk had also been at Jörgen Lindegren’s unveiling of his painting. Somehow he must have got a key to allow him to get in later to steal it. So, he could have easily done both thefts – from Lindegren’s and the Ystad gallery. But there were still two questions that Anita needed answering. Why had Gabrielsson disappeared? And, more importantly, why did Munk want his paintings back? The interview would be revealing.

Anita knocked on the kitchen door. When there was no answer, she called out Pelle’s name. No response. She walked through the kitchen into the living room. It was as chaotic as she remembered it as a teenager. It smelt of stale nicotine. Old furniture with not a hint of co-ordination. An ancient television sat in the corner. On the stained coffee table in front of the telly stood an empty whisky bottle and an ashtray bulging with cigarette butts. A whisky glass lay on its side in the middle of the sofa. A couple of paintings hung on the wall. Traditional scenes. She remembered that they had been painted by Pelle when he was a young man. He could paint then, thought Anita. Again she called his name and was greeted with silence.

She went back through the kitchen and out into the courtyard. The garage, with its faded red timber doors, was to her right. She walked over to it and pulled back the catch. There was the ancient green Citroën. Even dirtier than her own car. She tried the driver’s door. It was locked. She peered through the window. A tartan rug lay across the back seat. Had it covered up Serneholt’s painting? Forensics would take the car apart. There would be traces of his blood somewhere. She closed the garage door behind her and walked over to the studio.

Anita was now fully alert. It suddenly occurred to her that Pelle Munk might not want to accompany her to the station. He was a big man, albeit not in the best of health. He had already killed. For once she was glad that she had her pistol with her. She took it out and gently pushed on the studio door. It creaked as it swung open. Slowly she moved inside. The room still had the two unfinished paintings on their easels that she had seen on her first visit. He hadn’t done anything more to them.

‘The pretty one. I thought you might come.’

Anita swung round with her outstretched arms pointing the pistol at the figure. The sun streaming through the large picture windows had almost bleached out the silhouette of Pelle Munk. Anita had to squint to focus on him.

‘You don’t need that,’ he said pointing at her gun. He was slurring his words.

Anita suddenly felt foolish and placed the pistol on the table behind her to show that she wasn’t about to use it.

‘I’m sorry, Pelle, but I need to take you in.’

Munk stepped forward and she could see him clearly now. He cocked an ear.

‘What?’

‘I need to take you in,’ she said loudly.

He glanced around his studio.

‘A stupid dream. Just look at them.’ He waved a hand dismissively in the direction of the two easels. ‘Crap.’

Anita didn’t understand what he was talking about. She watched him stride over to the first easel and he kicked it viciously. It crumpled in a heap of broken wood. He surveyed the wreckage.

‘You were bound to find out,’ he said bitterly.

Hakim had spent the last twenty minutes watching electricians putting up atmospheric spots to help highlight the paintings. He had enjoyed seeing them close up. They were not in a style to his particular liking but, unlike his senior colleague, he could appreciate the technique. That had always been his strong point. He had been a passably decent painter himself, but what had interested him – and it was something his father had taught him – were the methods used by the great artists, from the masters to the modernists. His father had joked that he knew his maulstick from his licked finish. What fascinated him was how Munk’s new paintings would compare to the ones he had seen at Serneholt’s home. But as he went round the walls, a shadow of concern crossed his features. There was something wrong. By the time he had inspected his sixth painting he was sure.

He eyes swept around the room. This wasn’t good. Inspector Sundström might be in serious trouble. He rushed out of the gallery. By the time he had reached the street, he had his mobile out and was frantically ringing her number. He was almost hit by a car as he blindly rushed over the road to the police station, with the phone buzzing in his ear.

Anita jumped when she heard her mobile burst into life. She put her hand in her pocket.

‘Leave it,’ a voice commanded.

Anita was taken completely by surprise. With the crashing of the breaking easel and the mobile ringing she hadn’t heard anyone come in. But she knew the voice straightaway before she saw Karin standing behind her. She was holding Anita’s pistol. In her left hand. The mobile continued to ring.

‘Karin?’

‘You must be cleverer than I imagined. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. I always thought you were too pretty to be bright, Anita. When you’re young, it’s looks that count. I was jealous of you. Maybe I still am. That’s why we could never really be friends.’

‘Karin, put the pistol down. It’s your father we want.’

Karin’s burst of laughter was shrill. ‘Not so clever then. You haven’t worked it out, have you?’

Anita’s mobile stopped ringing.

‘I know it’s difficult for you to take in—‘

‘Shut up! Dad has nothing to do with this.’

‘Please, Karin,’ Pelle Munk appealed to his daughter. ‘Stop this now.’

‘Sit, Dad.’ The painter slumped into the chair like the broken man he had become.

‘Are you saying you stole the paintings and...’

‘Killed Serneholt? Yes.’

Anita was shaken by the revelation. She had found it hard enough to admit to herself that Pelle was guilty. It had never occurred to her that Karin could have been involved.

‘I was trying to revive Dad’s career before it was too late. Give him something to live for. An alternative to the booze. But, with his hearing gone, he lost his music, his inspiration. He lost the will to paint. I stole his original paintings, so he could see what great work he had done. I thought it would stir his artistic spirit. I took the one from the gallery in Ystad, but that was a minor work. I needed one of the great pieces.’

‘Lindegren’s
Dawn Mood
.’

Karin nodded. ‘I’d done some restoration work for Lindegren on a couple of his older paintings. He’d given me a door key so I could work on them when he and his wife were away. I still had it. I knew how upset Dad had been after the unveiling party. He had always loved
Dawn Mood
. So, I let myself in and took it back. It was wasted on Lindegren.’

Anita focused on the painting lying on the floor among the busted bits of easel. “Crap”, Pelle had just called it. Now she saw what had happened.

‘And it still didn’t work?’

From the corner of Karin’s eye a tear rolled down her cheek.

‘No. His talent had deserted him.’

‘So, you got someone else to paint them?’

‘Yes. Me. I could never find my own style but I could mimic his.’

‘But why kill Serneholt?’

Karin was still pointing the pistol at Anita’s head.

‘Serneholt was an expert on Pelle Munk. His most fervent collector. I got Stig Gabrielsson to show one of my “Munk” paintings to Serneholt. Stig was up for anything that would make him money. I was using it as a test. If Serneholt needed confirmation that it was real, we could have got Dad to say that it was authentic. But it never got that far. Serneholt spotted that it was a fake and sent Gabrielsson packing. That gave us a problem. Serneholt was bound to come to the exhibition. He would have exposed to the world that Pelle Munk’s new works weren’t painted by him at all.’

‘So you had to get rid of him.’

‘There didn’t seem to be any other option. Serneholt let me in. Delighted that the great Pelle’s daughter had come to see him.’

‘The scalpel. The tool of an art restorer’s trade.’

‘I stole the painting afterwards to make it look like an art theft. Once I knew you were on the case, I thought we would be all right. You wouldn’t suspect us.’

‘But your dad’s car?’

‘I thought it would be less noticeable if it were spotted. People don’t tend to remember old bangers.’