Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) (24 page)

‘What are you watching that for? You don’t understand German.’

‘No, it’s funny. This is
Midsomer Murders
. There’s Inspector Barnaby talking German. It’s nothing like his real voice.’

‘Of course it isn’t. You’re like a child.’

Kevin smirked as he turned off the TV and put the remote on the table. He wandered over to the window. ‘You realize that the elevated railway is just over the road? We’re not going to get much sleep.’ Just then, a train screeched its way towards the Alexanderplatz station.

‘We’re not here to sleep.’

‘That sounds promising,’ he said suggestively.

‘And we’re not here for that either. I think we should go and try to find Hans-Dieter Albrecht’s apartment now.’

‘You’re joking! Can’t we do it tomorrow? I’m starving. Let’s find a nice restaurant, have a few beers, and then come back here and discuss a plan of action, preferably in that bed.’

Ten minutes later, they were back on the street with Anita consulting a map she had bought at Kastrup Airport.

‘It’s not too far from here.’

They crossed Alexanderplatz – a big, anonymous thoroughfare surrounded by concrete GDR tower blocks.

‘Alexanderplatz was named in honour of Russian Tsar Alexander I in 1805.’ Kevin had used the last twenty-four hours to mug up on Berlin’s history via Anita’s computer. The flight time hadn’t been wasted either, as he’d bought a pocket guide to the city before they set off. ‘Do you know the Peaceful Revolution started here in 1989 with the largest demonstration in the history of East Germany?’

Anita let Kevin chunter on as they made their way, under a canopy of lime trees, along the pavement. On their left they passed the Kino International cinema with a huge painting on the front wall of some actress she didn’t recognize. She was thinking about what might await them. Was this a fool’s errand? Why had she got involved in all this in the first place? The events that had taken place were unfortunate. She could have ignored them and still be enjoying a relaxing holiday with Kevin, who was proving to be good company, despite drivelling on about history she wasn’t particularly interested in. She was growing fond of him. Whether she could ever love him was another matter, but she was pleased that he had happily gone along with her impulsive notions. And what if they did find out Rylander’s secret? What then? Would it be of the magnitude that made someone willing to go to extraordinary lengths to make sure it never came out? Or would it prove to be just another interesting tale, like his father saving Lenin’s life, that would fascinate people for five minutes before they moved on to something more attention grabbing? And even if it were the former, what could she actually do to bring someone to justice? There would never be anything official – Zetterberg would see to that; her mind was stubbornly closed to any shady possibilities surrounding the deaths. The point was, without an official investigation being opened, there was no chance of finding evidence – particularly forensic – and proving guilt. She had no proof. All her evidence was circumstantial. And as for finding someone responsible; where to start? The holiday couple? Suspicious, yes. But they had left on the Friday and weren’t around when Klas came back from Germany. All these negative thoughts were beginning to sow the seed of self-doubt: maybe Rylander wasn’t murdered, and Klas’s death had been a genuine accident, after all.

‘Blimey, Rylander was dead right what he said on that CD.’ Anita’s jumbled thoughts were abruptly interrupted. They had reached the Strausberger-Platz roundabout with its fountains jetting high above their circular splash pools. In front of them, Karl-Marx-Allee really opened out with dramatic eight-storey blocks of apartments on either side of a road which seemed to stretch into infinity. They were built in the wedding-cake Stalinist style. Covered in architectural ceramics, they still retained the harsh beauty that made them a worthy flagship project for the fledgling German Democratic Republic. The boulevard was wide enough to accommodate three lanes of traffic on each side of the road and a grass-covered area in the middle.

‘Constructed between 1952 and 1960,’ she heard her unasked-for guide explain. ‘And it’s here on the building sites that the first workers’ uprising took place in 1953. Led to a hundred and twenty-five deaths.’

‘Thank you. Now, can you use your vast local knowledge to find number 64?’

‘Well, I reckon it’s this side of the street,’ he said as the green light beckoned them across the road.

‘And how do you work that out?’

When they reached the other side, there was a bust of Karl Marx staring at them.

‘The numbers on the other side of the street are odd. So, I’d hazard a guess that this side will be even.’

‘Very good. You should be a detective.’

They walked along the road, looking for number 64. The ground floors of the complexes were made up of shops, offices and eating places. Across the road was a sports bar and a tanning centre. Anita assumed that neither would have been around even in a workers’ paradise. They found the portico of number 64 just beyond the entrance to the Strausberger-Platz underground station, which emerged from underneath the block itself. They found around thirty names listed next to their respective buzzers. On the fifth floor, they saw the name “Albrecht”. There didn’t seem to be any first names.

‘That must be him,’ Kevin observed. ‘I thought you couldn’t find a phone number under that name.’

‘I couldn’t.’

He saw Anita hesitate. ‘Aren’t you going to buzz him?’

She still didn’t move. ‘Are we doing the right thing?’

Kevin looked aghast. ‘Bloody hell, girl! You’ve dragged me all the way to Germany to meet this bloke. You can’t back out now.’ Before she could say anything, he reached across her and pressed the buzzer. ‘Too late now!’

A young woman’s voice answered in German.

Anita leant up to the intercom and said slowly in English. ‘Is that the home of Hans-Dieter Albrecht?’

There was silence at the other end, and then the voice responded in German-accented English. ‘No, he does not live here.’

Anita’s face dropped. All this way. What a waste of time!

‘We were given Hans-Dieter Albrecht’s name – and this address – by a Swedish man called Klas Lennartsson. Did he come here at the beginning of last week?’

Another lengthy pause. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Anita Sundström. I am a friend of Klas Lennartsson’s. And we both knew a Swedish gentleman called Albin Rylander, who was a friend of Hans-Dieter Albrecht’s.’

After what seemed like an eternity, the voice spoke again. ‘You’d better come up.’ This was followed by a buzzing sound, and they were able to push the door open. They went through a further glass door, and the hallway opened out. The tiled floor was cool after the warmth outside. There was a staircase rising to their right. ‘Fuck that for a lark,’ muttered Kevin. Then he spotted a lift tucked away in an alcove on the left. They came out onto a small landing, and a door at the end was open. A young woman stood waiting. She was in her mid-twenties, and had long, black hair flopping over half her face, while the other side of her head was shaved. The ear in view featured an arc of glittering rings, and her sleeveless white top highlighted an arm that was completely tattooed from shoulder to knuckles.

‘I did not expect two of you,’ she said suspiciously.

‘Hello. I am Anita, and this is my friend Kevin, from England. He is also a friend of Klas Lennartsson’s.’

The young woman reluctantly let them over the threshold. The apartment had a spacious hallway with one wall covered in a half-finished mural, the message of which wasn’t yet apparent in the flurry of paint. They got no further. Anita could smell something tempting coming through the half-open kitchen door.

‘I am sorry to interrupt you. You must be about to eat.’

‘Why do you want to see Hans-Dieter Albrecht?’ the young woman asked; her gaze intense. The cooking might be giving off pleasant aromas, but Anita still caught a whiff of the spliff that she must have just smoked.

‘Our friend, Klas Lennartsson, came to see Hans-Dieter last week. I believe they met.’ There was no response from the woman. ‘Unfortunately, Klas is now dead. An accident.’ Suddenly, her eyes widened in alarm. ‘Your reaction confirms to me that they did meet.’

‘Come,’ the young woman said, indicating the living room. This was chaotically arranged with a couple of aging sofas in the middle of the floor and a television in front of them. In one corner were two easels on which were unfinished canvasses portraying something Anita didn’t recognise. Hakim would possibly appreciate them, she thought. Paints and clothes were strewn around, as well as papers, books and magazines. The table by the window was laid out for a meal for one. Anita recognized both the table and standard lamp next to it as being from IKEA. Peering beyond the disorganization, she could see that, once upon a time, this had been an elegant apartment, even if it had been built for the comrades. She and Kevin gingerly found places to sit, while the young woman disappeared into the kitchen. When she came back in: ‘I turn off the cooker,’ she explained.

‘I’m afraid we thought this must be Hans-Dieter’s apartment. It had the name Albrecht by the door downstairs.’

‘That is me.’ Again a wave of disappointment hit Anita. Kevin just raised his eyebrows. ‘I am Manja Albrecht. Hans-Dieter is my grandfather.’ Relief flooded onto Anita’s face. ‘This used to be his home.’

‘I did try to find your phone number before we came. To fix up an appointment.’

‘I only have mobile.’

‘That explains it. We were wondering if it was possible to meet your grandfather.’

‘And why?’

‘Klas Lennartsson was writing the life story of a man called Albin Rylander, a well-known diplomat in Sweden. Sadly, Rylander died before the book was completed, but he had given Klas Herr Albrecht’s name. Your grandfather had some important information about Rylander’s life, and Klas came to Berlin last Monday to meet him. Tragically, that information has been lost because Klas died in a motorbike accident before he could tell anyone.’

Manja sat on the floor and curled up like a cat.

‘I still do not understand why you two are here.’

Kevin was interested to know how much information Anita was willing to give away. He certainly wasn’t expecting what came next.

‘The publisher is still keen for the book to be finished. I am a writer, and they have brought me in to complete it.’ Kevin had to turn his head away to avoid being seen to smile.

‘And the Englishman?’

Without batting an eyelid, Anita continued: ‘Kevin here is working for the publisher of the English language rights. They have already paid out money, so they are trying to protect their investment.’

‘That’s correct,’ Kevin confirmed. ‘I work for… Rooney and Bale.’

Now it was Anita’s turn to stifle a grin as Kevin produced the names of Britain’s two most famous footballers. She reflected that in their job, which required them to be able to spot lies, it helped to be an accomplished liar oneself.

Manja eyed them both up before speaking: ‘Your Swedish friend came here Tuesday and met my grandfather. They had long talk. I do not know what about.’

‘Do you think he will talk to us?’

Manja shrugged. ‘I do not know.’

‘Can you get in touch with him? It is important.’

She nodded in reply. ‘I will ask, but I cannot promise he will come. He is not happy with strangers. He does not trust people.’

‘That’s fine.’ It wasn’t, but Anita wasn’t going to press the young woman too hard.

‘How long are you in Berlin?’ Manja asked.

‘Two nights. If we could see him tomorrow, it would be fantastic.’

‘I will speak to my grandfather. Then it is up to him. I cannot do more. Give me your number, and I will ring you.’

Once they were out in the street, Kevin burst out laughing.

‘What’s with all the publisher stuff?’

‘What about Rooney and Bale?’ she countered, beaming at him.

‘To back up your daft story.’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to frighten her off with stories of people being murdered and that we were cops investigating their deaths. We’d have got nothing out of her, and then we wouldn’t have had a hope in hell of talking to Albrecht.’

Even at eight on a Sunday evening, the traffic flow along Karl-Marx-Allee was steady.

‘I need a drink,’ said Kevin, who had spotted the sports bar on the other side of the road.’

‘So do I, but I could do with some food with it.’

They crossed the road, but on closer scrutiny of the sports bar, there was no chance of anything substantial to eat there. A small café on the corner was closed. They wandered down a side street and found a Vietnamese restaurant-cum-carry-out. The smiling lady who served them couldn’t speak English, but they could point to the photos of the dishes available on the wall. They ordered two Berliner Kindl beers, which they thirstily drank at a table on the street. Anita was having second thoughts about the food, but was surprised to find that they were given huge portions, and it tasted delicious. And it was incredibly cheap.

‘I can’t believe this,’ said Kevin, gazing at his plate of lemon chicken. ‘It’s just over four quid if my maths is correct. And the beer was bugger all. Why haven’t I come to Germany before?’

There was a steady stream of customers coming to order or collect their meals. There were only a couple of other tables occupied by diners.

‘Enjoy it; cheap prices might be the only thing we’ll get out of this trip,’ Anita observed pessimistically.

‘Manja said she would ring tomorrow. There’s no reason why he won’t see us.’ Kevin tried to sound encouraging, though he knew they might well leave Berlin disappointed.

‘I hope so. Otherwise, we’ll have discovered nothing.’

Kevin finished chewing a particularly succulent piece of chicken.

‘Not so. We’ve found out something really interesting.’

Anita appeared baffled. ‘What?’

‘Those flats.’

‘What about them?’

‘I know you weren’t listening to me jabbering on while we walked down Karl-Marx-Allee.’

‘I had other things on my mind.’