Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (29 page)

Anita stared at the pistol. How was this going to play out? It certainly explained why Gabrielsson had run away. He must have known who had killed Serneholt, and wondered if he would be next. He had been party to the fake and was the only other person to know about Karin’s great deception.

‘What now?’

‘I’m sorry, Anita. But by stumbling in here you’ve left me no choice.’

‘Pelle,’ Anita called across to the painter. ‘Stop her!’ He didn’t move, still hunched in the chair. Either he hadn’t heard or didn’t want to hear.

‘Come on,’ Karin commanded.

‘Don’t do this, Karin. You’ll never get away with it.’

Karin waved the pistol at Anita and motioned towards the door at the back of the studio.

There was now a tinge of hysteria in her voice. ‘Maybe not, but I’ll not have you, Anita Ullman, of all people, showing up my father! Ridiculed by the art world! Never! His reputation will stay intact with you dead. I’ll admit to the murder, but no-one will ever find out about the paintings. No-one! Even your young sidekick doesn’t know why you suspected my dad.’

Karin shoved Anita in the back and she stumbled forward.

‘Open the door.’

Anita turned the handle, and they were out of the back door of the studio and in the garden. The pine trees around the boundary shielded them from prying eyes. They were standing on the coloured paving Anita remembered as a child. Where she had played as a youngster with a lonely big city girl, whom she had made the effort to befriend. Now that friend was about to put a bullet in her head. This was where it was all going to end. This was to be her place of execution.

‘It’s not too late,’ Anita pleaded.

As she turned to face her death, she saw in Karin’s eyes that there was no reasoning with someone who had such demented devotion to her father that she was prepared to kill for him. Anita suddenly yearned for one last hug from Lasse. One last chance to say how much she loved him.

Karin held the pistol and lined it up. This was no childhood game.

The shot was sudden. Karin stared at Anita without moving. Blood appeared at the side of her mouth. It trickled down her chin. In slow motion Karin sank to her knees and then keeled over. The pistol dropped from her grasp and her blood slithered across the weathered concrete slabs and began to run into the mossy fissures between them. The image was hauntingly similar to a Pelle Munk creation.

Anita watched her in disbelief. Behind her was Hakim. Next to him was a uniformed officer.

Hakim lowered his pistol.

‘The paintings. They weren’t his. And she had left the gallery.’ It came out in a breathless rush.

Anita felt a surge of affection for the tall young man with the swarthy complexion who stood awkwardly in front of her.

‘Thank you,’ she managed to mouth. Then she began to shake uncontrollably.

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It was like an explosion in the night air. The sound reverberated round the warehouses and wharfs, which, by 1993, were devoid of the vibrancy which had characterised the river Tyne for centuries. To him, there was no mistaking that noise. A sawn-off shotgun had just pumped its deadly contents into someone down below on the quayside. It meant that something had gone badly wrong. Shit! Why had it happened? He got a clear view through his night vision goggles, which he had been given by an army friend returning from last year’s Gulf War. Even at that time of night he could make out the horror on the face of the jeweller illuminated by the light above the gangway, but the rest of the scene was obscured by the security van. This couldn’t go wrong. It mustn’t.

His mind raced back to a brief half hour ago. Then everything seemed to be working like clockwork. He had taken up his place on a deserted Ballast Hill Road. It gave him a perfect view of Commission Quay below. It was a clear night. The river Tyne shimmered in the light of a striking half moon. On the opposite side, the lights of South Shields glowed in pockets among swathes of blackness along the bank. It was bright enough to make out the hulk of The Sentinel as it lay motionless moored to its berth. It was the only ship by the North Shields quay that night. The Scandinavian ferry terminal beyond was empty. The DFDS boat to Norway and Sweden had left at six. In the other direction, he could see the small craft huddled together at the North Shields fishing quay. Looming above them was the tower of the Low Lights, which, with its white-washed companion on the hill above the river, had
guided ships into the mouth of the Tyne before the harbour walls were built. These stretched out into the lapping North Sea, with the constantly flashing light on the Tynemouth side acting as a welcoming siren to incoming vessels.

He had known when the diamonds were to be taken off the ship - at a time of night long after the other British-bound cargo had been unloaded - so as not to arouse any curiosity. The Sentinel had arrived from Amsterdam that October afternoon. It was due to set off for Gothenburg at six tomorrow morning. The consignment of diamonds was bound for a group of independent North East jewellers who had set up a consortium to buy direct from one of the top houses in Amsterdam. Combining their resources would guarantee a respectable discount on an otherwise inconceivable deal. And what a deal! He wasn’t sure of the amount, but it was supposedly upwards of three million pounds.

That’s why he had alerted Nicky Pew, one of the region’s more specialist villains. Pew was known to the police, but they had never been able to pin any robberies on him. From his large house in Darras Hall, an enclave just north of Newcastle for rich businessmen, over-paid footballers and the very upwardly mobile, Pew planned robberies with panache. He was always careful that his crew carried out jobs well away from their home turf. His rule had always been that they do the job, get away as fast as possible and keep their heads down in the safety of their own back yard, while whichever constabulary was investigating the crime would hassle their own villains. But this one had fallen into his lap. It was too good to ignore. And rules were there to be broken.

Nicky Pew was an interesting character. Originally from a small town near Liverpool, he had attended a minor public school before going to, and then dropping out of, art college. He was bright enough to have been a successful businessman, lawyer or, ironically, policeman. But crime, which he carried out with aplomb, was his chosen route to riches. Even the cops who couldn’t catch him had a grudging admiration for him. He was charming, sophisticated and utterly ruthless. Not a person to cross. But Pew had never actually killed anyone on a job. That’s why the shot was so alarming.

He hadn’t an intimate knowledge of Pew’s plan, but he knew the schedule of the pick-up. Two customs officers had arrived at ten and gone on
board. Shortly after, a white Mercedes belonging to the Newcastle jeweller, Quentin Myers, pulled up close to the gangway. He was the consortium’s contact. This was followed by an Imerson Security Services van. There was a driver and two guards. The driver stayed in the van while all the others went onto The Sentinel. There was no other security. The police had been informed out of courtesy, but had not been asked to supply any support. This was a private business transaction.

The handover was to take place on the vessel. He assumed that Pew and his gang wouldn’t carry out the robbery on the ship itself. Narrow corridors and umpteen cabins would make it a lottery. And once the diamonds were in the security van, their task would be even more difficult. The gangway was the weak point. He’d already heard the puttering of an outboard engine so knew their escape route was across the river. They would then vanish into the wilderness of South Shields where a getaway car would be waiting for them. By the time the police were alerted they would be long gone. As he anxiously scanned the area, he had briefly caught sight of the inflatable dinghy just before it disappeared under the lip of the quay wall, only a few yards along from the ship. At the same time, what looked like a Ford Sierra had snaked down the incline onto Commission Quay. It drove past the Mercedes and security van and along to the far end, before turning. Then it had slowly begun to return towards the parked vehicles.

Suddenly, he had heard voices and turned his goggles onto the gangway. The two security officers had appeared first, one with a briefcase chained to his wrist. Behind him was Myers the jeweller, and someone he hadn’t seen before – presumably the representative from the Dutch diamond house. The sound of hoarse laughter filtered the night air. Then three masked men had appeared from the Sierra. One had a shotgun – he knew that would be Pew. He couldn’t see what happened next, as the security van was in the way. Then came the explosive shot. He didn’t dare hang around for a moment longer.

Anna Jansson looked over to the door of the bar. Ulrika was late. Nothing new there. Anna hadn’t seen Ulrika since she had fled Stockholm and now she wanted to put her old university friend straight about what had happened. Ulrika was down in Malmö for a meeting and was fitting in a drink before she took a late flight back up north.

Anna twirled round her glass of chardonnay. The light liquid lapped against the side before settling down. This evening was important to her. It would be the first chance she had to explain what she had done and, more importantly, why she had come south to restart her life. 2012 had been a bad year – the sooner she put it behind her the better. At first the situation she had found herself in had become irritating. Then more alarming. Finally, she actually felt in danger and she had to get away. She had had no choice. Yet in the two months that she had been in Malmö she hadn’t been able to talk to anyone about it. A fresh start meant that she was dealing with people who had no idea about her and her past. That was the attraction. They treated her on a blissfully superficial level because they weren’t encumbered with the knowledge of the emotional baggage that she carried around with her every day. Yet the disadvantage was that she had no outlets for the feelings that she couldn’t escape from, however hard she tried. Hence her delight when Ulrika called and said she was making a flying visit to Malmö and could they hook up when her meeting was finished. Ulrika knew the background, and the man that was at epicentre of her problems. She would understand and sympathize. And, hopefully, Ulrika would endorse her decision to escape.

The bar was filling up. Young professionals celebrating the end of the working week. A noisy group of men were laughing at one of their number. The joker. Her own life had been laughter-free for quite a while. But she liked her new colleagues at the Jörgen Kocks Gymnasium, one of the city’s many high schools. The teaching was tough as most of the kids didn’t understand why they had to learn English when many of them were struggling to get to grips with Swedish, the language of their newly adopted country. Not many of them would end up like the executives who were buying their expensive drinks in this Lilla Torg bar. Anna wasn’t sure what a modern Sweden had to offer her students. They were mistrusted. Misunderstood. Certainly they were a challenge, but one that she was starting to enjoy in a rather masochistic way.

The group of young men spilled out into the square and gathered round a couple of the tables. Though it was the end of September the early evening was pleasant and the gas heaters would keep them warm. Still no sign of her friend. Anna suddenly became aware that her mobile phone was buzzing. She opened her bag and took it out. The name of the caller was illuminated. She tensed and stared at the screen for a few moments as the mobile continued to vibrate in her hand. Then she cut off the connection. She left the phone on the wooden table top next to the glass of wine. Maybe Ulrika would ring.

Ten minutes later the bar was really starting to get busy and it would be harder to keep a seat free for her friend. Anna had nearly finished her wine and she glanced yet again at her watch. How much longer would she give her? Another fifteen minutes? She would nurse her drink until then. She had relied on Ulrika to pick up the tab. She would probably put it on expenses. Anna’s mobile buzzed again. This time Ulrika’s name came up. Anna grabbed the machine.

‘Hi, Ulrika. Where are you?’

‘Anna, I’m so sorry. The bloody meeting has overrun and I’m not going to have time to meet you or I’ll miss my flight.’

‘Why not stay the night in my apartment? Then go back to Stockholm tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh, Anna, I wish I could, but I’ve got something on first thing tomorrow. I really wanted to see you and find out why you suddenly disappeared.’

‘I really can’t explain over the phone,’ said Anna. Ulrika understood and said they’d have to catch up another time. Then she rang off.

Anna felt a sudden surge of disappointment engulf her. Tonight was going to be a release, a safety valve for her pent up frustrations and disorientated emotions. She had even made the effort to look smart because she knew that Ulrika, successful business woman, would be immaculate.

‘You don’t look happy.’

Anna glanced up. He was good-looking.

He pointed at the glass. ‘Why don’t I buy you another one?’

Anna was about to refuse when she thought, “sod it”. I’ve got all dolled up and nothing to show for the effort. Why waste the evening? Why not let a presentable man buy me a drink? Maybe it’s what I need right now.

‘Yes, please.’