Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) (17 page)

‘Didn’t seem interested.’

‘And no follow-up questions?’

‘No. I thought there might be some comeback, but no.’

‘One last thing. The couple who were staying next door. From Stockholm. Were they still around when you arrived?’

‘I saw them most mornings. Seemed nice. Well, she did. He looked moody. I can’t remember seeing their car. I know she said that they were due to leave that Friday morning. Probably made an early start. It’s a long drive.’

Anita got up. She leant over and made an effort to stroke the dog. The terrier immediately ducked out of the way.

‘Thank you for talking to me.’

Hellquist stood up. Anita realized that she was glad to get rid of her uninvited guest. They walked to the door together.

‘So sad about Klas, too. A lovely man.’

‘He was, wasn’t he?’

Hellquist held the door open.

‘Just one more thing, Moa. Was Zetterberg by herself?’

‘No, there was another detective with her. Well, I assume he was a detective as he wasn’t wearing a uniform.’

‘Local?’

‘Might be, but I’ve never seen him before. I know most of the people at the station by sight through my work at the hospital. This man was a large fellow in his fifties. He was entirely bald. Didn’t speak in my presence.’

As Hellquist closed the door behind her, Anita stood thoughtfully at the top of the small flight of steps. Now, who was this other detective?

Axel Isaksson’s detached house was modest. It wasn’t too big or too small. It was just sufficient for the image of an incorruptible man you could trust and had the courage to articulate what you were thinking. A home like this, among lots of similar detached houses with their regular-sized gardens, showed that Isaksson was no better, or no worse, than the average Swede. He fitted in. He was one of us. Except Chief Inspector Erik Moberg knew that he would take an instant dislike to the man, though he had never actually met him in the flesh. Moberg tended to take instant dislikes to people – it saved time. It was well known that Isaksson was quick to criticize the police. They were an easy target, and it was a simple way to garner cheap popularity among an increasingly sceptical public. Ironically, if Moberg hadn’t been a cop, he might have voted for Isaksson’s right-leaning brand of politics. Isaksson never went as far as the Sweden Democrats when it came to the hot topic of immigration, but disapproval was often implied. His line was: where had the all old Swedish virtues gone? Hence his championing of family values. To some, it struck a chord. To others, it seemed hopelessly out of tune with modern life and living in a country with a divorce rate that had reached a forty-year high the previous year with over 25,000 couples separating. As Moberg himself had done his bit to inflate the figures, he felt even more antipathy towards the man he was about to meet. Yet this model family man with strong Christian beliefs appeared to be paying a prostitute for sex that he presumably wasn’t getting at home. Moberg could smell a hypocrite a mile off.

The sun was warm again as Moberg eased his substantial frame out of the driving seat of his car. He prayed that the weather would break soon as he slipped on his jacket. It covered his already sweat-stained shirt. His approach would be very informal, which was why no one else was with him. He needed to rein back; not mention anything inflammatory like the nun’s habit. He knew he was taking a risk. Commissioner Dahlbeck would haul him over the coals if this interview went wrong and someone as high profile as Isaksson complained of police harassment. Moberg waddled up the garden path.

It was Isaksson’s wife who answered the door. She showed him through the house and into the back garden, where Axel Isaksson, cup of coffee in hand, was sitting at a wooden garden table covered in paperwork.

‘And this is meant to be a paperless society,’ said Isaksson as he rose from his chair.

‘It’s much the same with the police.’ Moberg was on his best behaviour. He even managed a kind of lopsided smile.

Isaksson wasn’t as tall as he looked on the television. He had short, greying, ginger hair that was receding at the temples. The nose was long – a feature relished by cartoonists to give their subject a distinctive look – and was accentuated by the thin-rimmed spectacles. The eyes behind the glasses were hard and uncompromising. The intense stare was even unnerving for someone like Moberg, who had met the gazes of murderers, rapists, arsonists and abusers. Despite the pleasant greeting, this man wouldn’t pass up a chance to promote himself at someone else’s expense. Moberg would have to tread carefully, as he realized that he had taken the inevitable aversion to the politician. It was as Isaksson offered his hand to shake that Moberg tried to gauge whether this man could have run up behind Julia Akerman and knifed her in the back. He wasn’t overweight, and the handshake was firm. Yes he could, concluded Moberg as he tried to balance on the flimsy garden chair where Isaksson indicated he should sit.

‘Chief Inspector Moberg. I know your name, but from where…’ Isaksson made great play of thinking about where he had come across it before.

‘The death of Inspector Karl Westermark.’

‘Ah, yes!’ Moberg knew that Isaksson had the answer all along. ‘The detective who shot himself in front of a fellow officer while you listened in from another room.’

‘The same.’

‘I recall it was Inspector Anita Sundström who was the one who witnessed it all. I hope she has been able to return to duty after such an experience.’

‘She’s serving again.’ Moberg was trying hard not to rise to the taunt. Isaksson had described the whole incident as a “shambles”. How could they let a murdering policeman get away with suicide instead of bringing him to justice? The implication was that they had given him a way out.

‘Anyhow, how can I help you today, Chief Inspector?’ said Isaksson as he picked up a packet of cigarettes from the table. ‘I haven’t got long. There’s a council meeting in an hour.’ He took out a cigarette and popped it into his mouth. He flicked a plastic lighter with his right hand, the implication of which was not lost on Moberg. ‘Not a nice habit. My only vice. My wife won’t let me smoke inside. Good for her.’

‘I expect you’ve read about the murder in Pildammsparken of a woman in her thirties?’

Isaksson blew out a plume of smoke. ‘Of course.’

‘The woman in question was called Julia Akerman. Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘Should it?’ This was accompanied by another exhalation of smoke.

‘Julia Akerman had a Swedish passport, but she lived in Switzerland.’

‘I can tell you now, Moberg, that I have never been to Switzerland.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t. Akerman was a frequent visitor to Malmö. In fact, she rented an apartment on Kronborgsvägen.’ None of this information seemed to be having any effect on Isaksson, who sat impassively smoking opposite him. ‘We believe that her real name was Ebba. But it was her profession that is of particular interest.’

‘And?’ Isaksson was beginning to lose patience.

‘She was a prostitute.’

‘The newspapers didn’t indicate that.’

‘We haven’t released that information… yet.’

‘Look, I know you have a difficult case on your hands, but I have a meeting to go to soon. Can you come to the point? Why are you here?’

‘It’s delicate. I didn’t want to approach you anywhere official.’ This was the bit that Moberg was going to enjoy. ‘We’ve been to Switzerland, and we’ve discovered Akerman’s client list. There are two Swedes with Malmö connections on it. Do you know a Markus Asplund?’

‘Should I?’

‘He runs Malasp Travel. Appears on telly adverts.’

‘Now you mention it, I have heard of the company.’

‘And the man himself? Have you come across him?’

Isaksson shook his head and took another drag on his cigarette.

Moberg paused, savouring the moment. ‘The other name on the list… it’s yours.’

For a moment, Isaksson just stared at him.

‘Is this what the police have been reduced to?’ he barked angrily, throwing his cigarette on the ground. ‘Because I hold you publicly accountable, you have to stoop this low to get back at me. Try and besmirch my name, make me look—’

‘I’m not making you look anything,’ Moberg interrupted angrily. ‘I’m just saying your name’s on a high-class call girl’s client list, and we have to carry out our duty and ask you why. It’s my job.’

‘This is absolute rubbish. I’ve never heard of this woman. And I find the suggestion that I would consort with such a person totally offensive.’

‘You’re religious, aren’t you?’ Moberg knew he was losing it, but couldn’t stop himself.

Isaksson was momentarily taken off guard. ‘Of course.’

‘Do you like women dressing up as nuns?’ The moment it came out, he knew he’d gone too far.

Isaksson exploded. ‘You’ve made a huge mistake crossing me, Moberg. You won’t know what’s hit you when I’ve finished with you.’

Isaksson turned his back on him.

‘I’ll see myself out then. But I’ll be back.’

Moberg sat in his car and hit the steering wheel in frustration. Yet again, he had let someone get under his skin. He had blurted out the one piece of information he was intending to keep quiet about – the nun’s habit. It was something he could have used against Isaksson at a later date. Now he had blown the advantage and given the politician time to cover his tracks and throw up official obstacles. But at least he hadn’t left empty-handed. He fished out the unfinished cigarette that Isaksson had tossed away, and carefully wrapped it in his handkerchief. It wouldn’t be admissible in court, but at least they could check if the DNA from the butt matched that from the semen stain. He was hoping that it would.

Hakim had been on the phone all morning. The picture emerging of Markus Asplund fitted in with what they already knew. He was certainly affluent. The travel business
was
lucrative, especially if there was a sizeable number of corporate clients. Several of Sweden’s top firms used Malasp Travel. Asplund had travelled to America three times this year alone, and he had been to Geneva once. His background wasn’t remarkable. Born in Ystad, his father worked on the ferries and his mother was a medical receptionist. He hadn’t gone to university but had worked in the building trade for a few years. When he was twenty-one, he had taken himself off round the world doing odd building jobs to pay his way. That must have kindled his love of globe-trotting because on his return, he joined a travel firm in Malmö. Within five years, he had set up his own office. By this time, he was married and had his first child. Hakim had found a connection of sorts.

He popped his head round Wallen’s door. ‘Do you know where the chief inspector is?’

‘Called in to say he was dropping something off in Lund. Would be back after lunch. Have you got anything?’

‘Well, not between Akerman and Asplund as such. But Asplund set up his first travel business from his home. It wasn’t Malasp Travel then because he wasn’t in Malmö. It was called Adventure Travel. It was aimed at young people who wanted to hitchhike round the world. When that took off, he set up an office in Lund to be near students. Then he graduated to Malmö, and more sophisticated clients and holidays.’

‘What’s the relevance?’

‘Asplund’s wife, Ella, comes from Sjöbo. That’s where they lived for a couple of years when they were first married, and that’s where he set up his first office.’

‘And Isaksson’s from Sjöbo.’

‘Exactly. Both clients of a woman who happens to have one number in her mobile phone – a nursing home just outside Sjöbo. Is Sjöbo the connection we’re looking for?’

They stood inside
meditationplatsen
. In the distance, beyond the undulating grassy slope and the scattered clumps of trees, the sea looked serene. Anita had suggested this trip to the summer home of Dag Hammarskjöld because she thought Kevin would be interested. In reality, it was to give her somewhere to sort out the unsettling thoughts which had been running away with her over the last twenty-four hours. The Meditation Place was what Anita needed right now.

It was composed of a low ring of stones with a large boulder in the middle inscribed with the word
PAX
. It was a relatively recent addition to Dag Hammarskjöld’s thirty-hectare estate at Backåkra, round the coast from Ystad. She had explained to an interested Kevin that he had been the second Secretary-General of the United Nations in the 1950s. He had bought the farm as a summer residence in 1957. The half-timbered farmhouse up the hill had been turned into a museum after his death, but there was no sign of life in it when they had peered through the windows. Anita took a photo of Kevin standing next to a large bronze of the great man’s head and giving a cheeky peace sign with his fingers.

‘People come to this ring for weddings and baptisms. And in a week’s time, at Midsummer, thousands will gather here. Pity you’re going to miss that. It’s the biggest day of our year.’

‘So what happened to Dag thingy?’

‘Hammarskjöld’s plane crashed over Africa. Everybody on board was killed. He was flying from Leopoldville to a place in Northern Rhodesia… I can’t remember the name. He was trying to negotiate a ceasefire between various rival factions in the Congo. Many believe he was the best Secretary-General ever. John F. Kennedy called him “the greatest statesman of our century”.’

Kevin took off his sunglasses and looked quizzically at Anita. ‘How come you know so much about him?’

‘I did a project on him at school,’ she admitted bashfully.

‘Now you mention it, it does ring a few bells. How did the plane crash?’

They moved out of the circle as the peace was shattered by a group of talkative middle-aged women brandishing walking poles.

‘Surrounded in mystery. Many believe it was deliberately shot down. The first investigation put the crash down to pilot error, but since then, there’s been talk of a second plane sighted nearby. Some say that some of the crash victims had bullets in them. There appeared to be lots of inconsistencies.’

‘And reasons for shooting his plane down?’