Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (7 page)

He had noticed the bus stop before when he had been getting to know Malmö. Part of his reconnaissance. It was on Ystadvägen, the main road out of town to Sweden’s most southern point. Even at this time of night the road was quite busy, but life on the street was quiet. He had also clocked an empty restaurant below the block of apartments. Ethnic of course. How could people eat such muck? No wonder it closed. Maybe the owners had gone home. More likely they were still here scrounging off the state system.

Where he stood, on the other side of the street, was neatly grassed. There was a large white building to his right. It was some sort of school and totally deserted at this time of night. There were enough trees to give him cover and he had already worked out a simple escape route. It was just a case of waiting for the right type of victim to come along to get on or off a late-night bus. The lights from the buildings would enable him to pick the right target. As he waited, he could feel the same thrill of anticipation that he got from what he loved doing most. He had always been good with guns. He had been brought up with them. They were second nature. You started with animals. Then it was only natural to move on. Anyway, they were no better than animals that he was shooting at. Terrorising. That was the only way they were going to listen. That was what his voice had told him and he was happy to obey.

A young couple wandered up to the bus stop. They held hands. The man was tall and blond. His partner was darker but he was sure that they were Swedish. Suddenly he tensed. A bus was approaching from the Ystad direction. A yellow regional Skånetrafiken bus. It stopped. He couldn’t see if anyone was getting off. The couple disappeared inside. The bus pulled out into the road and left behind it a man. The man’s back was to him. His clothes suggested that he was an immigrant, but you couldn’t tell these days. Even Swedes didn’t dress distinctively any more. The man turned. He was middle aged. He had a cigarette in his mouth and a box of matches in his hand. He struck the match and in that instant he could see that the man was a
foreigner. No doubt about it. He aimed. A car went past between him and his target and the man began to move. He smiled to himself. A moving target was more fun, more of a challenge. He gently squeezed the trigger.

Moberg was seething. He slammed his office door so hard that it nearly came off its hinges. Everybody in the vicinity knew whose door it was, even without seeing the chief inspector. Knowing looks were exchanged. It was a common occurrence, though this was louder and more violent than usual.

Henrik Nordlund was the first to venture in for the meeting that had been arranged to review the progress of the Ekman investigation. It was in Moberg’s office, which was a bigger version of all the other featureless offices on the corridor. It had one desk with a computer on it. As a technophobe, Moberg hated it and tried to use as little as possible. In one corner of the room was a separate plastic-topped table with half a dozen chairs round it for meetings. There was a large whiteboard on the wall for attaching information to or for writing names on during investigations. There was also a holiday wallchart on which there was a thick, black felt-tipped line running through the months that Anita Sundtröm had been absent. Moberg was sitting behind his desk eating a chocolate bar. Judging by the crushed wrapper which had missed his waste-paper basket, it wasn’t his first of the morning. Before Nordlund could speak, Moberg swore. Then he swore again and took a bite out of the bar.

‘I take it that your meeting with the commissioner didn’t go well.’

‘Not just him. That bitch Blom was there too.’ Moberg was referring to the public prosecutor, Sonja Blom. ‘That bastard Wollstad had been straight onto the commissioner. Upset by our suggestion that his daughter may have been involved. Wollstad hadn’t liked my attitude or my “insinuations”. Jesus, I can’t believe how weak-kneed Dahlbeck is being. Wollstad barks and lapdog Dahlbeck jumps to attention. But I did get one dig in. I asked our wonderful commissioner how Wollstad knew details of the investigation that hadn’t been made public or even revealed to his daughter. That had the wanker spluttering into his cappuccino.’

There was a knock on the door and Westermark and Wallen came in. Wallen appeared particularly nervous. Like many in the polishus, she was frightened of Moberg. She wished Anita was here for moral support.

‘OK,’ Moberg grunted. ‘Before we start, just to let you know that Kristina Ekman and Dag Wollstad are officially off limits. For the moment. If we go down that route we have to tread very carefully. The evidence has to be so strong that even Blom will have to get off her snotty little arse and do some prosecuting.’

‘But we have to consider that Kristina Ekman was a possible victim.’

Moberg nodded in agreement with Nordlund. ‘Yes, we can look into that, whatever Wollstad says. My money is on Wollstad having something to do with this business. He certainly had commercial connections with Ekman. Gave him a foot up. Ekman’s agency does the advertising for some of his companies. It probably enabled him to keep an eye on him.’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Westermark. ‘Ekman & Johnasson’s financial director was brought in from one of Wollstad’s other companies. Bo Nilsson. Older guy who doesn’t seem to fit into the trendy advertising scene.’

‘Probably put in there by Wollstad to protect his investment,’ Nordlund suggested.

‘And keep an eye on young Tommy.’ Westermark smirked. ‘If he was being a naughty boy, then Wollstad would find out pretty quickly.’

‘You can’t escape Wollstad,’ sighed Moberg. ‘But we’ve got to look at other alternatives. Anyone in the frame at the agency?’

‘We spoke to Elin Marklund. She didn’t seem too distraught by her boss’s death. Very composed. She wasn’t letting on if she was the one who Ekman had sex with. But she’s got a husband, so she’s not likely to.’

‘Has she got an alibi?’

Westermark glanced at Wallen. She gulped before she spoke, her voice hoarse. ‘Marklund left the office after their drinks party at 9.57. She took a taxi home. She lives down in Skanör.’

‘How can you be so sure when she left?’ Moberg asked.

‘I checked with the taxi firm.’

‘So, either Ekman had sex with her in the office or he found someone else on the way to his apartment. Or even someone in the apartment. We need to establish his last movements. Did he go somewhere on the way home?’

‘We know that Ekman must have been the last to leave the office. Could he have met someone there after Marklund left?’ They took a moment to absorb Nordlund’s suggestion.

‘Westermark, what about anybody else at the agency who might have a motive?’

‘Marklund may have shagged Ekman, but she doesn’t have an obvious motive. Unless he was a crap lover.’ Only Moberg smiled. ‘As for opportunity? Hard to tell, because we don’t know when the poisonous crystals were put in the shower. Johansson might have a motive. In theory he has the most to gain. He ends up with the company. But that might not mean much if Wollstad has the biggest financial stake in the agency.’

‘Check that out with the company’s money man... what’s his name?’

‘Nilsson. On the face of it no one seems to have an axe to grind. They all seem to like him. Or so they say.’

Wallen gave a little cough. It attracted Moberg’s attention. ‘Well?’

‘I was wondering if someone at the agency could have taken Ekman’s keys. Then let themselves into the apartment before replacing the keys later the same day.’

‘Why didn’t you think of that Westermark?’ As Westermark was about to speak, Moberg waved away his unheard objection. ‘Right, Klara, talk to Ekman’s PA or whoever, and find out if that is a remote possibility.’

Moberg pushed himself away from his desk. Not a simple task. ‘Well, we need to work out how and when the crystals were planted. And then figure out who could possibly have access without breaking in. Klara might provide a possible answer to that one. At least we’ve got a bit of breathing space. The commissioner’s getting agitated by last night’s shooting. If he’s not careful, that’ll become a political hot potato.’

‘Is the immigrant dead?’ asked Westermark.

‘No. He’ll live. Either this gunman is a lousy shot or he’s just trying to scare people. But that’s Larsson’s problem. We’ve got our own headaches.’

It was good to get out of Malmö. The day was bright again, and the hour-and-a-half-long drive to Simrishamn along Sweden’s southern coast would be pleasant. A night with Sandra usually cheered her up. This was a last minute decision because Lasse had emailed to say that he and Rebecka couldn’t come down for the weekend. Rebecka wasn’t feeling well. Anita assumed it was a diplomatic illness. She didn’t want to see Anita. Anita was disappointed, though not surprised. If only she could spend some quality time with Lasse alone. But there was little chance of that happening these days.

Another reason to escape Malmö was because she felt useless and unwanted. Moberg and the team were heavily involved in the Ekman murder, and the rest of her colleagues seemed to be running around trying to catch a gunman with a grudge against immigrants. All she was doing was trying to find some art thief who had a thing about Pelle Munk paintings. Not a very satisfying state of affairs.

The dual carriageway out of Malmö towards the coast wasn’t too busy on a Saturday morning. The countryside of Skåne always looked at its best at this time of year. The trees were out, the earth responding to the early summer sun and the bright yellow of the oil seed rape gave a rich and colourful texture to the landscape that was so missed during the winter months. It was the openness that Anita enjoyed. As a youngster, during the family’s two years in Durham in the 1970s, she had always felt constrained by the hedges and walls that divided the fields in the British countryside. She hadn’t seen them as defining boundaries, but more as barriers. The Scanian landscape was all about freedom – it’s only obstruction was the sea. And that was where the tamed and untamed met. To Anita it was a glorious union. The only thing she would have imported from England was the Lake District fells. They would add the grandeur that her beloved Skåne lacked.

And the final reason to slip away from Malmö? Ewan Strachan. In hindsight the visit to the prison had been a mistake. She had thought that by seeing him she would be able to start afresh. That her feelings for him were nothing more than a passing fancy. That she had merely been flattered by his attention. That she had temporarily fallen for someone who hadn’t been after “one thing”. Someone who had made her laugh when life hadn’t seemed very funny. The experience had also rekindled memories of the happiest time in her childhood when her family had been a family. If they had stayed in Durham, her parents might not have divorced. Maybe that was fanciful. She had been too young, or too busy making new friends, to notice the cracks that must have been there. Yet it was in Durham that Ewan and Mick Roslyn had become friends, where enmities had started that would lead to three deaths - and her meeting the man she was now trying to convince herself that she never really loved. Far from being able to dismiss him from her mind, she found herself worrying about him. She had found out that he had been placed in solitary confinement for his own protection. She could see the evidence of the fight he had been in. Next to being a paedophile, killing a national icon – and a sexy one at that – was guaranteed to make him the target for every macho maniac in the prison. And she knew that he suffered from claustrophobia. Solitary would be playing havoc with his mind. She couldn’t begin to image the mental torture he was going through. But he was a killer. And that fact was killing her too - inside.

As she neared Ystad she wrenched her mind back to the weekend. But it wasn’t going to be all play and no work. She would call into the gallery in Ystad to check out their Munk theft. In fact, she had decided that she would have a word with Pelle Munk himself. It was a long shot, but he might have an angle on the robberies.

Moberg was glad that he had brought Wallen along. She was the only one who could figure out how to operate the Ekmans’ coffee maker. She also had worked out in which cupboard the coffee was stored. The kitchen was straight out of a style magazine. Spacious, gleaming, ultra-modern, with every appliance and gadget known to woman. Not Moberg’s sort of thing. But just the kind of fitted kitchen that all three of his wives had nagged him about getting installed. All had been disappointed. He couldn’t justify the money to himself. As long as there was enough room to prepare his meals, then that was all that counted.

He had brought together the nucleus of the investigating team to Ekman’s apartment. He wanted Nordlund, Westermark and Wallen to get a feel for the place – to understand the environment in which their victim lived. To maybe discover a little more about Tommy Ekman himself. The truth was that they were going nowhere. Official pressure was starting to build. The news was in the papers this morning that Tommy Ekman had died in “suspicious” circumstances. They weren’t revealing any more at this stage. The ease with which the murder had been carried out was not the sort of information that they wanted the general public to absorb. There were enough nutters out there who might want to have a go themselves if details were released. Fortunately,
Sydsvenskan
were more interested in speculating about the identity of the gunman behind the latest immigrant shooting to make a big splash about the death of some advertising executive. All three victims had survived, but ballistics had confirmed that the same gun had been used in both attacks.

All four officers sat round the large kitchen table with their coffees. Westermark had even found some Gille cinnamon biscuits, which Moberg was already ploughing his way through. Kristina Ekman could afford to replace them.

‘Right, have we anything new?’ Moberg’s question was more in hope than expectation.

‘I managed to get hold of Ekman’s PA.’

‘Well?’ Moberg had tried not to bark but Wallen had been startled by his tone.

‘Viktoria Carlsson. That’s her name.’ Difficult cases, especially ones that didn’t have a proper focus, didn’t improve Moberg’s mood. Yet he managed to restrict himself to a heavy sigh and not a “fucking get on with it”, which was on the tip of his tongue.

‘Right...em... she said that Tommy Ekman kept a spare set of apartment keys in his office.’

‘Oh, bloody fantastic,’ groaned Westermark.

‘Apparently Ekman had lost his keys once when his wife was away and couldn’t get into the apartment. So, from then on he kept a spare set at the office. If he couldn’t get in he could pop back to the office and get the other keys. A precaution.’

‘And who knew about these keys?’ Moberg asked.

‘Viktoria didn’t know, but she assumed it was reasonably common knowledge. It was a joke around the office, about the occasion he was locked out. He didn’t like to appear foolish, so he wasn’t happy when the story came out.’

‘Where were the keys kept?’ Moberg asked.

‘In his desk drawer.’

‘Locked?’

‘Usually, but sometimes not. He didn’t always remember to lock it.’

‘And the day of the presentation?’

‘Viktoria wasn’t sure. But they were there the night before because she saw Ekman put them back in the drawer just as she was leaving work. She assumes he didn’t lock it, as it was unlocked the next morning.’

Moberg blew out his ample cheeks. ‘So, anybody at the agency could have walked into his apartment if they’d got into Ekman’s office on the day of the presentation. We’ll have to check everybody’s movements that day. From Stortorget to here and back? It would take about half an hour if they were quick. Christ, what a ball-ache.’

They had already been back upstairs to the en suite bathroom and thought about how the murder had been committed. There hadn’t been any great insights, as the crime still looked as horribly simple as it had when they had first come across the slumped, naked body of Tommy Ekman.

‘Still no sightings of Ekman between the office and here?’

Nordlund shook his head. ‘But we do know that he phoned his wife up at Illstorp at ten to eleven. He rang from here. That’s been confirmed. So, if Elin Marklund left around ten, there’s only about fifty minutes unaccounted for – and he would need fifteen of those to walk back to the apartment.’

‘Probably not long enough for a tryst in the office, but it doesn’t mean he couldn’t have shagged someone when he got home. After the call.’

‘Unlikely.’ Nordlund held his cup midway between the table and his mouth. ‘Eva Thulin and her people have been over all the bedrooms with a fine toothcomb. She says there’s no evidence of another woman - only his wife. He certainly didn’t make love in a bed.’

‘Down here then?’

‘Thulin didn’t find any tell-tale signs.’

‘My bet,’ said Westermark, ‘is that the randy bugger had it away in the office. That means Elin Marklund. I’ll speak to her again.’

Moberg took another biscuit. It was so thin that it disappeared into his paw before vanishing into his mouth. The biscuit didn’t stop him speaking.

‘That may prove who* he was screwing that night, but it doesn’t get us any further with anybody at the agency.’

‘No,’ said Nordlund. ‘However, it does give Kristina Ekman a motive. It could have been going on for some time. She finds out.’

‘Or Wollstad. We’re back to the bloody family again.’ Moberg began to drum his thick fingers on the table top. ‘Are we sure that no one else came in after Kristina left with the kids the morning before?’

Westermark answered. ‘According to the cleaner, there were no deliveries expected or workmen due. The post was delivered and the usual newspaper through the door. The cleaner was still around when the post arrived. She left at ten to go onto another house.’

‘Did she clean in the en suite that morning?’

‘No. She did the downstairs. The bedroom and en suite were to be done the next day. That’s how she found the body.’

‘I suppose what we really need to ask...’ They all turned to Nordlund. ‘Who would have access to the crystals? It’s not something you can just pick up at your neighbourhood Netto.’

‘You’re right there, Henrik. In theory, that probably rules out the agency crowd. Unless it’s something that you can get over the Internet. Of course, our friend Dag Wollstad has pharmaceutical companies. I’m sure they could rustle up something to do the job. Which brings us back to father and daughter.’

‘It doesn’t necessarily rule out the advertising agency people.’ Moberg was quite shocked that Wallen was advancing an opinion. ‘They do the advertising for some of Wollstad’s companies. One of them might be a pharmaceutical firm. At least that’s easy to check.’