Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (3 page)

The chatter in the bar was loud and lively. It was extraordinary to be in Sweden: the bar could have been in any town in Britain. Which probably explained why The Pickwick had a large ex-patriot clientele. He struck up a conversation with two of the regulars. Alex and David were both British, both lured to the country by Swedish women and both were now separated from their sirens. But they had stayed. Alex now had another woman in tow, David was between girlfriends. Ewan had found the bar by accident and had almost beaten an immediate retreat when he had seen the British décor and ye olde traditional bric-à-brac and wooden-framed pictures that cluttered the walls and windowsills. There were photos of the Queen and Prince Philip and a model of a Spitfire hanging from the ceiling. And then the final British touch - a dartboard, which was in noisy use. The only concession to Swedishness was the tealights on every table. It was the
Bombardier
pump that had persuaded Ewan to give it a go. He was pleased he had stayed because the atmosphere was congenial, the company interesting. As they sat on a low-slung, thick leather sofa opposite the bar he was also picking up pointers as to what to see during his limited time in Malmö.

Alex seemed to be a perpetual student, having gone back to university as the only way of being able to find a job in Sweden, while David was running his own export business. Both were members of the Malmöhus cricket club. It had never occurred to Ewan that they would play cricket in Sweden. Eventually, Ewan managed to steer the conversation round to the subject of Mick Roslyn. Mick certainly didn’t mix with the ex-pat set and they assumed he spent most of his time in Stockholm. Many of his films were set there. ‘He’s big over here,’ said Alex in a strong Glaswegian accent.

‘The Swedes reckon Roslyn understands them. The way they think,’ put in David, who certainly hadn’t lost his estuary twang despite having spent twenty years in Scandinavia.

‘The Swedes seem very normal. Like us really.’ Ewan’s assessment was based on exchanges in the restaurant round the corner where he had an evening meal, the barman in Lilla Torg earlier and the hotel receptionist.

Alex and David exchanged smiles. ‘They may seem the same on the surface but they are very different, believe you me,’ said David.

‘But you reckon Roslyn has got under the cultural skin of the nation?’

‘So they say,’ Alex nodded. ‘But I still don’t understand a lot of his films. Sometimes he tries to out-Bergman Bergman.’

‘But with more tits,’ David smirked.

‘Yes, he’s not afraid of exposing a lot of flesh.’ Ewan was all for a bit of gratuitous nudity, but it helped if it seemed to fit in vaguely with the plot. With Mick’s films, much of it seemed to be there for shock value.

‘Are you meeting Malin Lovgren? She’s a bit tasty,’ Alex pronounced and David nodded agreement.

‘Maybe. If I’m lucky.’ Ewan’s accompanying leery grin won him some laughter and another pint.

His vigil continued. She had gone out earlier in the evening. It was the first time he had glimpsed her for twenty-four hours. He knew she was at the TV station, but there had been no point in following her there. She had returned at about half nine. Now she was in the same corner room. What was she doing? And where was the man? Why did he leave her so often?

At this time of night it was bitterly cold but he didn’t feel it. Not tonight. He was well wrapped up and his baseball cap kept his head warm. Excitement was starting to mount. Adrenaline, he supposed. This was the night. He had decided to make his move. He took one last drag of his cigarette then flicked it away. It landed next to the hardly touched kebab he’d regretted buying twenty minutes before. He didn’t know what the outcome would be, but he had to stop all the tension that was building up inexorably inside him. He would explode if he didn’t do something positive. The only thing that troubled him was that the man might have returned while he had been buying his kebab. But the chances of that were slim. He’d only taken ten minutes.

He glanced around to make sure no one would see him. A couple of taxis passed and a local green bus came into the station opposite and waited under the neon-lit Skånetrafiken sign. Once the bus pulled out there were only the two drunks left. They seemed too caught up in a world of their own to notice him. He glanced at the turning clock face on its tall pedestal at the end of the bus station – 12.03. Then he saw a couple coming out of the Broderstugan bar just down the road. They wandered hand-in-hand towards the apartment block entrance. He cursed and slipped out of sight into the shop doorway. They stopped to kiss, before the cold drove them off. No one else. This was it. He kept in the shadows for as long as possible until he crossed over the road to the main door of the apartments. He knew the combination so he would have no trouble getting in.

Ewan woke early. He eased himself out of bed and went over to the window. Parting the curtains revealed another dull, grey day. Before he could gather his thoughts the workmen on the underground began in earnest. He felt a bit queasy. It was nothing to do with anything he had eaten or drunk the night before but more a nervous tension as to how the morning would play out. He needed a cigarette. Like a naughty teenager he sat in the en-suite bathroom to have a smoke as though no one was going to be able to smell it in there. After flushing the offending cigarette stub down the toilet he showered and shaved. Even after his best efforts the bathroom mirror didn’t offer much encouragement. The boyish looks, which had given him a certain cheeky charm, had disappeared into his more swollen middle-age. Only the eyes showed there was still some life left in the carcass. He put on his black shirt in an effort to disguise the weight he was becoming increasingly conscious of but lacked the willpower to do anything about.

He decided to skip breakfast. Cheese and cold meats weren’t his idea of starting the day the proper way. Computer bag slung over his shoulder, he walked past the station out of which were emerging the day’s first commuters, wearing the blank, zombie-like expressions fellow office workers anywhere in the world would recognize. He still felt sick so he was quite happy to walk the tension off. About fifteen minutes later he reached Triangeln, a large modern glass and white-pillared temple to shopping, pinned into place by a skyscraping Hilton Hotel.

Though it was too early for shoppers, he was able to buy himself a coffee on the first floor. The café court was situated in the middle of the complex on a podium that floated between the shopping floors, which swooped up on either side. Ewan sat down on a chair with a ridiculously high back, turned on his laptop, and took a gulp of coffee as he waited for the computer to spring into life. He spluttered and the coffee nearly came back up. After it had stripped his stomach lining it would threaten to shred his intestines once it got that far. None of the guidebooks had warned him about the dangers of Swedish coffee.

Ewan tapped idly at the keys in an attempt to get started on his travelogue article, but he didn’t feel inspired. To take away the taste of the coffee he bought himself an ice cream. Full fat. What would Mick be like? Ewan’s thoughts drifted back to Durham. Through the prism of time he couldn’t even recognize himself, physically at least. That was another person. Yet the man he had become was shaped in Durham. Distorted, more like. But the Mick of all those years ago was sharply defined in his mind. Mick was someone a timid first-year student like himself happily latched onto. As his friend you could take shelter within Mick’s aura of confidence. Mick was always at the centre of things, which meant that Ewan was always there too. The tolerated guest even if he hadn’t been invited. Often Mick hadn’t been invited, either, but he still turned up to be welcomed with open arms.

And yet Ewan couldn’t help feeling slightly uneasy at Mick’s magnanimous summons to Malmö. He hadn’t expected it. And he knew the nagging in the back of his mind was a natural consequence of past experiences. There had always been a reason behind everything that Mick did; a sub-text that couldn’t be read at the time. The ulterior motives would only be comprehended later. Maybe success might have negated the need to be duplicitous. A great career, ravishing wife and enviable lifestyle. And yet?

Ewan made sure he turned up on time. He was surprised that the apartments weren’t more prestigious, on the outside at least. He had seen plenty of elegant blocks on the way from the hotel. The
Systembolag
opposite had some seedy-looking customers at that time in the morning. Värnhem didn’t strike Ewan as the city’s most salubrious area.

The apartment stood at the end of the busy Östra Förstadsgatan, where it opened out in to yet another square, Värnhemstorget, which had a small interchange bus station. The block curved pleasingly round at right angles into the next street, which was the beginning of the wide-avenued Kungsgatan. Number thirty-five B must have been a very smart building when it was on the edge of Malmö, but time hadn’t been kind to it. Light beige in colour, the rendered concrete was surprisingly appealing. Mick and Malin lived on the fourth floor. A mesh metal grille covered the entrance with what looked like a cage door in the middle of it, barring his way to the formal wooden and glass-panelled front door. He looked at the list of occupants on the wall and pressed the buzzer for the flat marked
M Lovgren
. There was no answer. He tried again. No response. !t would be typical of Mick to drag him all the way over to Sweden and then not turn up. Maybe his flight was delayed.

The wind whipped up. Ewan shivered. A third press of the buzzer was as fruitless as the first two. Then he saw someone coming out of the main double door and approaching the grille onto the street. The door opened and a woman in her twenties opened the cage door on her way out. Ewan smiled at her, but got no response. However, he managed to step inside before the door clanged shut. Once through the swing doors he was at the bottom of the block’s stairwell. The staircase was wide and had once been elegant. Now it needed a lick of paint. The lift was to Ewan’s right and the door was open. He was tempted to save the climb but his fear of enclosed spaces got the better of him – and this lift was particularly narrow.

Ewan was panting heavily by the time he reached the top floor. The Roslyn apartment was straight in front of him. As he regained his breath he looked at his watch: 11.08. He didn’t like being late himself – he hated it even more in others. And it appeared that if Mick was going to turn up he would be fashionably late. He pressed the doorbell. He could hear it ringing inside. If someone didn’t come to the door soon he was going to lose his nerve. A second attempt didn’t stir any occupants. Mick should be here, must be here. Ewan tried the door handle. It opened. Now he was left with a dilemma. Should he go in or should he wait outside? Do nothing and he could be standing here for ever. No interview and he would have to face the wrath of Brian brandishing his P45. He half-opened the door and knocked on it loudly. Silence. ‘Mick?’ he called out. Then he tried ‘Miss Lovgren?’

Ewan stepped into a narrow lobby. Some coats hung from a line of hooks. To his left there was a toilet. Ahead of him the door was open. Through it was a reception room with only a small table and two chairs of the very minimalist Scandinavian style. A large unused fireplace took up one corner. The high ceiling was impressive. These apartments had been built for the wealthy citizens of Malmö, possibly in the 1920s, Ewan concluded. The wooden floor was beautifully polished – there wasn’t a carpet or rug in sight. Ewan began to panic. He didn’t want to be caught here. He thought of turning tail, but found himself rooted to the spot. Ahead of him was a door leading into a further hall with what looked like a bathroom beyond. To his right, elegant wooden double doors were slightly ajar, through which shone a finger of artificial light.

Three slowly taken paces got Ewan to the door. Opposite must be two very large picture windows if the still-drawn curtains were anything to go by. The light came from two ultra-modern, squat table lamps flanking a buff-brown leather sofa. It looked expensive. This wasn’t IKEA territory. Where the hell was Mick? It was at that moment that he saw the slumped figure on the floor next to the sofa. In that strange light he wasn’t even sure it was a figure at first until he made out the thick blond strands of hair that covered her face. She was wearing a long black skirt, which had ridden up her legs. Her jumper was a deep blue. Ewan just stared. Was this a drunken repose? He took a step nearer. He couldn’t hear her breathing. As he peered closer he noticed how stiff the body appeared.

Ewan began to tremble. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t meant to happen. He must phone for help. But he had better make sure. Carefully, he got down on his haunches so that he was hovering just over her body. With a quivering hand he gently brushed back her hair. Then, without knowing why he did it, he slipped a hand under her rigid body and cradled her. He found he was stroking her hair. Malin Lovgren was a truly gorgeous woman. She was beautiful in life, now beautiful in death, despite the blueish-purple hue of her face, which gave her a ghostly look. His hand was still on her hair when he heard someone cry out, ‘What the fuck are you…!’

Then there was a flash of blinding light.

She looked hurriedly around. Where the hell had she put her bag? It had the car keys in it. She was going to be late again. She knew she shouldn’t have gone for that run in Pildammsparken. But it had cleared her head, which she needed now that she had two days off work. She couldn’t see the bag in the kitchen. Where was it? The leisurely shower had taken longer than she had planned, too. And the pampering afterwards. That happened once in a blue moon. Even she admitted she didn’t look that bad when she wasn’t hassled, which she was most of the time these days. At such moments she could even imagine she appeared far younger than the forty-two she now was and usually felt.

She glanced at her watch – just past 12. She would never make Simrishamn by lunch. Should she ring Sandra now and tell her she would be a bit late? The overnight stay with her old friend would do her good. She needed to get out of Malmö. The place was suffocating her. Back home in Simrishamn she would blow the cobwebs away. Clear the brain. And a few drinks tonight with Sandra would be a laugh. Maybe some of the other girls would come round. And tomorrow morning, a walk along the lovely beach at Lilla Vik would dispel the inevitable hangover.

She moved into her bedroom. The bag wasn’t there either. The room was in a mess – so was the rest of the apartment but she wasn’t going to waste her precious two days off tidying up and cleaning. She would do that one night later in the week. Well, maybe. Though she knew she couldn’t possibly have left the bag in Lasse’s room, she went in anyway. Of course it wasn’t there. Then a pang of guilt. Her son’s room was tidy, everything neatly in its place - even his posters of a goal-scoring Zlatan Ibrahimovic and a sexily-clad Izabella Scorupco were perfectly aligned on the wall above his bed. How could Lasse be so organized? Just like his father. But Lasse was a student for God’s sake. Students were meant to be the messy ones, not their mums. She quickly shut the door. She missed Lasse, but he would be home for a few days in a fortnight’s time. They would do a few things together. That’s if there wasn’t anything too pressing at work. The cinema? Take in a concert? Usually they went to support Malmö FF at their stadium on the other side of the park but the Swedish season didn’t kick off until April. The Sky Blues hadn’t done much in recent years but Lasse was doggedly loyal. Yes, he was a loyal kid. Now that
was
different from his father.

The bag was in the bathroom, under the towel she had flung on the floor. Typical of it to hide there! She did a quick check of everything she needed. No, the keys weren’t in her bag. She cursed. Then she spotted them on the side of the basin with her mobile phone. Yes, she had been organized after all. She had simply put them there while she had applied some eye-shadow. One last look in the mirror. At least she had her new spectacles on, which had gone missing on several occasions. Lasse had called them trendy. Anita had called them expensive.

A minute later she was out of the apartment and across the road to where her car was waiting patiently on the park side of Roskildevägen. The ranks of trees guarding the edge of Pildammsparken were bare. She longed for the summer, but that seemed a long way off. They hadn’t had their share of snow yet this winter. She was about to open the car door when her mobile rang. Would she answer it or pretend she hadn’t heard it? It might be Sandra. Or Lasse. She took out her mobile. When she saw the number she sighed heavily. It was from work.

‘Anita Sundström.’

‘Anita, Paula here.’

‘Hi, Paula. Hope it’s nothing important as I’m just off to Simrishamn. It’s my day off,’ she added with exaggerated emphasis.

‘Sorry, Anita, not any more. There’s been a murder at Östra Förstadsgatan. Moberg wants you over there right now.’

Anita’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. ‘Some winos got into a scrap outside the
Systembolag
?’

‘No. This is a big one. It’s Malin Lovgren.’

‘But I just saw her on TV last night.’

‘Well, she’ll be on again tonight.’

As Anita edged her way through the door of the fourth-floor flat there were people everywhere. She recognized most of them. She had already had to push her way through a crowd on the street outside. They had been attracted by the sudden police activity. She was curious that Malin Lovgren should live here –
had
lived here. There were plenty of smarter places round town she could have taken with the money she must have made. If she’d had Lovgren’s money Anita would have chosen somewhere along Limhamnsvägen overlooking the sea. By the looks of it most of the polishus were here – the police headquarters was only five minutes’ walk away. And there was Chief Inspector Erik Moberg directing operations. A bear of a man, Moberg was hard to miss in a crowd. The general consensus at the polishus was that he was far too fat for his own good. He would have a heart attack soon if he didn’t cut down on his huge intake of food and drink. And the sooner the better, Anita thought unkindly. The badly dyed, nicotine-brown hair didn’t help his aesthetic appeal either. He was a good cop in a bad body.

Moberg turned and saw Anita. ‘Ah, Inspector Sundström, you’ve kindly decided to turn up.’ Anita bit her tongue. When he wasn’t trying to belittle her, he was undressing her with his eyes. ‘Nice of you to dress up.’

‘I hear it’s Malin Lovgren.’

‘Yes, we’ve got ourselves a proper celebrity this time.’ Anita knew Moberg would be loving this situation. This would get him on TV and in the national newspapers.

‘How?’

‘Strangled. Doctor’s been and gone. Body’s in there,’ he said nodding in the direction of the open double doors. As she turned to go into the room Moberg warned, ‘This is an important one, Anita. We need to pull out all the stops. The whole of Sweden will be watching us. We need a quick result.’

Inside the living room a police photographer was busy taking his ghoulish snapshots. Anita wondered what his family album was like. Eva Thulin, in a plastic bodysuit, was standing back examining the spot where the body lay. The experienced forensic technician was a friendly face. She smiled grimly at Anita. ‘I saw her on the TV last night.’

‘Same here.’

‘Wearing the same clothes.’ The photographer had finished and left the room. ‘Lovely woman,’ Thulin said as she bent down for a closer look.

‘When did it happen?’

‘Early days but I would guess between eleven and one this morning.’

‘The Chief Inspector said she was strangled.’

‘The colour of the face and the swollen tongue certainly indicate strangulation. And neatly done.’

Moberg came in. ‘Two lovely ladies together. It’s my lucky day.’

‘Did her husband find her?’

‘No,’ said Moberg. ‘It was a journalist. From England. That’s why I need you here. My English is crap. Yours is good, as we all know.’ Again the sarcasm. ‘Her husband is here, too. And a photographer. We need to talk to all three now and piece together what’s happened here.’

‘Where are they?’

‘I’ve got Mick Roslyn and the photographer in one of the bedrooms. I’ve only had a brief word. Got more sense out of the snapper – Mjallby, I think he called himself. Roslyn is very upset.’

‘Only natural, I would think.’

‘I never know with these arty types. Never seem real.’

‘And the guy who found her?’

‘Through there.’ Moberg gestured towards another set of double doors at the end of the room. ‘He’s shaken up, too. But don’t go easy on him. Never trust a fucking journalist. Certainly not him. Don’t like the look of him. And you’d better take young Olander in with you. Don’t want him complaining about police harassment in a foreign newspaper. One on one can be dangerous. Bastards like him can twist the truth unless you have a witness.’

‘I’ll go and find Mats. But first I’ll have a good look around.’

Moberg didn’t bother hiding his impatience. ‘I’ll do the looking, you do the talking.’ As usual, Anita tried her best to ignore him. She found Mats Olander in the kitchen on the opposite side of the internal hall.

‘I thought it was your day off,’ Olander said brightly.

‘So did I!’

It was a beautiful kitchen. Every modern gadget you could think of, every appliance a top brand, every surface spotlessly clean. They must have a cleaner, Anita thought tetchily. It was more a creation of a style magazine than somewhere that was actually lived in. They probably ate out on their trips to Malmö and never actually cooked at home.

‘Anything of interest in here?’ Anita asked, knowing that Olander had an observant eye.

‘Yes. Those two mugs on the side.’

They were black and white striped with a badge on the front.

‘Football?’

‘Newcastle United. Newcastle’s where Mick Roslyn comes from.’

‘Yeah, my Lasse likes them. Alan Shearer, right?’

‘Used to play for them.’

‘And this kettle looks half full.’

A kettle was an unusual sight in a Swedish household. Olander must have read her mind. ‘Again, must be Roslyn. It’s actually British made, or bought there. There’s an adapter.’

‘Have you a spare pair of gloves? As you can see I didn’t come ready for such a situation.’

Olander fished out a pair of plastic gloves and Anita slipped them on. She inspected the mugs. Next to them was a box of teabags. Lipton’s English Breakfast Tea. Roslyn might live in Sweden but it seemed he liked reminders of home. ‘And no one has been in here since last night?’

‘Not sure. The photographer phoned us because Roslyn was too upset. Poured Roslyn a whisky. There’s a drinks cabinet in the living room.’

‘So she was about to make someone a cup of tea. What stopped her? What made her go back through there?’

‘Do you want forensics to go over all this?’

‘The whole apartment. But we had better let the Chief Inspector give that instruction.’

‘What instruction?’ Moberg had lumbered in.

‘I was saying to Mats that you would be ensuring that the whole apartment is gone over by forensics. Particularly in here.’ Anita nodded towards the two mugs.

 ‘Ah, a welcomed guest as opposed to an unwanted intruder.’

Thulin appeared at the door. ‘Lovgren wasn’t killed in the living room. Marks on the floor. The body was moved or dragged through there.’

‘What are you waiting for?’ Moberg shouted at Olander, ‘Get forensics to take this fucking place apart.’

Ewan wondered what was happening. He could hear lots of activity next door, but no one was coming to see him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone other than the huge policeman with the angry attitude. The uniformed policeman left in the room with him hadn’t said a word and didn’t seem likely to break his Trappist silence. Ewan still felt sick. Not so much from what he had seen and was caught up in, but from the punch that Mick had thrown at him. That was before the photographer pulled him off. First appearances hadn’t looked good, so Mick’s reaction had been understandable. This was all so weird. He had stepped into a Swedish surreal world; like one of Mick’s bloody films.

Ewan had spent time gazing out of the window watching the growing crowd. He had noticed the woman with the glasses come in. Was she police? Quite attractive. When he was interviewed, as he realized he must be, he hoped it was her and not that man mountain who liked to shout. One thing Ewan had noticed when watching all these Swedish films of late was that when the actors raised their voices there was no change in inflection, no subtle shifts of emphasis. It was as though someone had just turned up the sound to ‘yell level’. It sounded bizarre.

At least the room was interesting because this was Malin Lovgren’s studio. A number of watercolours were propped up against the walls, mainly seascapes. They were fresh and vibrant. Did they reflect her character? She certainly had some ability. He had been to too many gallery openings not to be able to spot the difference between the talented and the talentless. Two paintings were on easels. One was nearly finished. It was of a coastal scene. A fishing village with gaily painted cottages, a few boats and a low harbour wall. The other had hardly been started but there was the vague outline of a church. Would her paintings be worth more now that she was dead?

The door opened. It was the woman. And a young officer. She nodded to the uniformed policeman, who left the room. She was a vision of blue under her beige jacket. A blue jersey, rather tight-fitting striped blue-and-white pants and an elegantly sweeping scarf wound casually round her neck, with the two ends draped down over her breasts. Did she always turn up to murder scenes dressed like that? Ewan wondered. Her hair was short and blond with a centre parting that was no longer exact as the wind outside had tousled the effect she had tried to create. The wisps of flopping hair made her more natural, more earthy. Her eyebrows were so blond that they were scarcely visible, which drew one’s gaze hypnotically towards her clear grey-green eyes. The glasses acted as a perfect showcase for them. To Ewan, they formed a rather sexy combination.

‘Inspector Sundström,’ she said introducing herself. ‘Police Assistant Olander,’ gesturing to her colleague who looked too young to be a policeman. Her eyes scanned the paintings before she spoke again.

‘And you are Mr Ewan Strachan?’ She hardly had an accent, but she couldn’t quite get her tongue round his name, so it came out as
Straak-en
.

‘Strachan. Ewan Strachan.’

‘It was you who found the body of Miss Lovgren?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you move her?’

‘Er…no. I came in and found her lying there. Slumped on the floor. I think I was holding her when Mick came in. To see if she was ok. See if she was dead.’ Ewan realized he was starting to ramble so he stopped.

‘That’s when Mr Roslyn came in?’

‘That’s right. He went mad. Punched me on the side of the head.’ Ewan’s hand automatically went to the tender spot. ‘Before that there was this flash. It was the photographer. Instinctive reaction I suppose. Fortunately, he was quick-witted enough to get Mick off me.’

She moved over to the large curving window and took a peek at the throng below. ‘Then what?’