Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (10 page)

Martin Olofsson had left his journey as late as possible. By working in the cottage that day instead of in the office he had managed to stretch the weekend to three days. He had left his wife Carolina at their holiday home on the coast at Vik and was heading back to their house on the edge of Limhamn. During the summer months Carolina liked to be away from the city, so she could indulge her love of walking and cycling along the beautiful southern coastline of Skåne. He was often tempted to stay with her, but the needs of the bank wouldn’t allow him to be away for too long. Another couple of years and they would sell up in Malmö and move to Vik permanently when he retired. The children had left home years before and now they had three young grandchildren. He wanted more time with the little ones. And more time for golf and his other interests, particularly his latest passion, which had dominated his thoughts in recent months. Not even Carolina knew about that.

Of course, they might buy a small apartment, so that they had a city crash-pad. It would be useful for Carolina’s shopping trips, visits to the theatre or taking in a concert. And he would still have the occasional meeting or social function to attend. He wasn’t going to give up work entirely. A consultancy role would serve him nicely.

He manoeuvred the Mercedes off the motorway and into the sprawl of the urban outskirts of Malmö. It was getting dark, though the sky was clear. Another pleasant evening. He had eaten before he left, though he would pour himself a whisky when he got home and settle down to a spot of television before going through those papers he needed to discuss at the 9.30 meeting he had arranged with Kurt. He hoped the outcome wouldn’t lead to a trip up to Stockholm later in the week. He wanted to avoid that. He was tired of travelling and staying at hotels.

He had now reached Vikingagatan and its reassuring avenue of verdant trees, with branches gently swaying above the pavements – a plump green canopy in summer, a mass of bony fingers in winter. The street was deserted except for what looked like a late-night jogger. He slowed down as the car came abreast of the familiar white wall that fronted onto the street. The large house loomed in the gathering darkness. He had reluctantly had to admit to Carolina that it was getting far too big for them. They rattled around inside it. Yet he was proud that he had risen in the world and been able to afford such a property with its grand, colonnaded, semi-circular balcony overlooking Vikingagatan. He enjoyed the envious and admiring glances of the passers-by when sitting out there. He turned the car left into the side street where the black wrought-iron gates guarded the entrance to his home. They opened automatically and he pulled the car up in front of the double garage. He had had that built five years earlier – this, too, opened at the press of a button and the Mercedes slid inside. He switched off the lights and for a moment he was in darkness. He felt for the briefcase on the passenger seat next to him with his left hand while at the same time he began to open the car door with his right. He was startled by the sound of the back passenger door opening up behind him. He half turned to see who was there but it was too dim. Then something heavy hit his head and he swiftly descended into total blackness.

Anita held two cups of coffee. She glanced at Moberg’s closed door and wished that she was inside. She knew that Moberg was having a morning meeting to discuss the latest developments in the Ekman murder. She should be in there. The case sounded intriguing, from what she had managed to wheedle out of Nordlund. She knew that he was keen for her to be part of the investigation, yet there was no moving Moberg. What annoyed her even more was Klara Wallen’s involvement in the investigation. Wallen was a useful cop, but she’d be eaten alive by Moberg and Westermark. Anita was convinced that she wouldn’t fight her corner.

She headed along the corridor and pushed her way into her office. Hakim was on the telephone as she entered. She put the coffee down on his desk as he was finishing off his call.

‘Thank you. That’s been most helpful.’

Anita sat down and looked across expectantly.

‘That was the insurance people. Yes, the Munk was well insured. But so are his other works of art, so it’s unlikely to be an insurance scam. He would make more selling it on the open market.’

‘What about his financial situation?’

‘I’m going round to his bank later today.’

‘Of course, he could do both.’

‘Both?’

‘Steal the painting himself. Claim the insurance
and
sell the painting privately.’

Hakim gave her a sceptical shrug.

‘OK, it’s a long shot. I would still love it to be him.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, while you’re at the bank I’m seeing someone Stockholm have put me onto. An art dealer over on Fersens Väg. Apparently he can fill me in on the legitimate art scene – and the not-so-legitimate.’

‘She’s frightened to death her husband will find out. She broke down. Full of remorse.’ Wallen was reporting her conversation with Elin Marklund to Moberg, Westermark and Nordlund.

‘Well, if you will shag the boss. Silly cow.’ This seemed rich coming from Westermark.

‘So, you don’t think she’s in the frame?’ Moberg asked.

‘I think the only thing she’s guilty of is adultery. It’s unlikely that you make love to someone and then kill them the same night.’ Wallen glanced at Westermark. ‘If you’re a woman, that is,’ she added.

‘I agree,’ said Moberg. ‘What about those who had access to Ekman’s office on at least two separate occasions that day?’

Westermark flicked through his notes. ‘According to his PA, Viktoria Carlsson, no one went in other than those who attended the early meeting before their presentation and then, when the team came back from Geistrand Petfoods, Ekman was in the office by himself most of the time during the afternoon. Carlsson didn’t go out for her lunch until Ekman returned and then another secretary covered while Ekman was having sandwiches with the presentation team in the conference room. This other girl swore that no one entered Ekman’s office – and then Carlsson took over again. Carlsson did say that Bo Nilsson, the financial guy, popped in briefly during the morning to drop off some spreadsheets when Ekman was at the presentation. So he was in there alone. When challenged he just came out with the same story.’

‘Did Nilsson leave the building afterwards?’

‘Went for lunch and a wander round in the sunshine,’ Westermark confirmed.

‘So, he had the opportunity. Check him out. He’s connected to Wollstad so that’s worth looking into. Anyone else?’

Wallen coughed nervously. ‘Daniel Johansson didn’t come back from the Geistrand Petfoods presentation with the others. He borrowed Elin Marklund’s car. She didn’t know where he was going or what he was up to.’

‘How long was he out for?’

‘She reckoned about forty minutes. Then they had a de-briefing meeting in the conference room.’

‘He didn’t mention that to me,’ said Westermark. ‘He implied that he came back with the others.’

‘Right, find out what he got up to in that missing time. Were both Johansson and Nilsson at the celebratory drinks in Ekman’s office that evening?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, both could have returned the keys. Basically, anybody who was having drinks in Ekman’s office could have put the keys back, if they’d already been in there during the day. That might narrow the field down a bit.’

‘In theory.’

‘That’ll do for starters.’ Moberg turned his attention to the thin file on his desk. ‘You’ve all read Eva Thulin’s latest forensic findings.’

‘Unbelievable.’ Westermark shook his head from side to side to confirm his disbelief. ‘Jelly!’ Another shake of the head.

‘Could it actually be Zyklon B?’ Moberg mused.

Nordlund held up a sheet of paper. ‘I printed this off the Internet. This is what the tin looked like. Could be cat food if the contents weren’t so deadly. These little greyish white pellets did the damage when mixed with air. There may be a few tins kicking around. Probably with demented collectors.’

‘That’s a bit bloody morbid.’

‘Nazi memorabilia comes in all weird shapes and sizes,’ Nordlund answered. ‘For many, it’s an obsession.’

‘But the chances of it being the real thing are unlikely.’ Moberg frowned. ‘My bet is we’re dealing with a modern equivalent. And that means pharmaceutical companies. We need to establish who would have connections with these sorts of companies at the advertising agency. We know Wollstad does. But let’s eliminate the Ekman advertising people first before we return to him. Right, let’s get moving.’

As the three detectives filed out, the office phone sprang into life. Moberg leant over and the receiver disappeared into his giant fist. He held it to his ear. ‘Yes!’ he barked.

He listened for a few moments. ‘Suicide. Don’t you think we’ve got enough on our plate at the moment?’ He listened some more. ‘All right, I’ll put someone onto it.’

Anita had walked down to the Gabrielsson Gallery from the polishus. It was another pleasant morning as she strolled along the canal side. On the opposite bank the sun bathed the apartment blocks on Södra Promenarden in a gentle light before it promised to become too warm for comfort later in the day. A noisy mother duck marshalled her young on the still waters of the canal. Anita’s initial annoyance at being excluded from Moberg’s team had abated. She had decided that instead of feeling sorry for herself she would do her best to solve the Munk case as quickly as possible so that Moberg would have to involve her in the Ekman murder or, at least, give her a more interesting case.

She turned into Fersens Väg. The wide, tree-lined street stretched all the way down to the glass-fronted Malmö Opera. The Gabrielsson Gallery was in an old grey building on the right hand side. On the pavement immediately in front of the doorway was a round advertising display stand with a conical roof. The building was several stories high and the main entrance was up three steps, under an elegant arch and through a large wooden door with glass panels. The gallery was on the ground floor. Once Anita had shut the door and stepped inside, the noise of the street dulled and she entered a hushed world of artworks. The building was traditional but the display was modern. Expances of bald, white space between the paintings. It was where potential buyers could contemplate the creations on show without distraction, where they could reflect on influence, implication, inspiration or even beauty. To Anita, however, the most creative things on show were the prices.

‘Can I help you?’

An immaculately dressed young woman gave Anita a snooty look. She could tell by the way Anita was dressed, in blue jeans, red t-shirt and a creased beige jacket that she wasn’t a potential purchaser. The jacket had been the only thing Anita could find when she had rushed out of the apartment a couple of hours before.

‘I’m here to see Stig Gabrielsson. He’s expecting me.’

‘Really?’ The woman stretched the word out as far as it was possible to go, which gave her time to inject a huge dose of incredulity.

‘Police. Tell him Inspector Sundström is here.’

The woman turned on her high heels and disappeared into a back office. She reappeared with Gabrielsson. He was more casually dressed than his assistant. His light-coloured, crushed linen trousers and jacket, crowned with swept-back dark hair and goatee beard, fitted the artistic image. His movements were mannered and slightly effeminate as he limply shook Anita’s hand and waved long fingers towards two chairs in the corner of the gallery. The assistant retreated behind her desk and glared. Anita was obviously lowering the tone.

‘How can I help?’

‘I’m looking into the theft of a Pelle Munk painting. Two, in fact.’

‘
Dawn Mood
and
Shadows
.’

‘You are very well informed, herr Gabrielsson.’

He held up a hand. ‘Stig, please. And word gets round quickly in the art world. I’m surprised a senior detective is chasing after Lindegren’s painting.’

Anita smiled. ‘He has connections.’

‘Of course he has.’ He too was grinning.

‘Is he one of your clients? I notice that you weren’t at his Munk unveiling.’

‘That’s not surprising. We don’t like each other. He fancies himself as a collector. Really he is a peasant. He thinks that people will see him in a sophisticated light. He bought a painting off me once. Never again. Tried to knock me down on the price. When that didn’t work he approached the artist directly for another piece, assuming that he wouldn’t have to pay my commission. Fortunately, the artist in question told him where to shove a paint brush and he came back to me and bought the original painting at the gallery price. The point is that he wanted to own a painting by a well-known artist and not possess it because he thought it was good or actually liked it.’

‘Hence the Munk.’

‘Absolutely. He initially approached me about buying a Munk. I didn’t have one, but I did put him onto a gallery in Stockholm. That’s where he picked up
Dawn Mood
. Wish I hadn’t bothered now.’

‘Why do you think the Munk paintings have been stolen, and where do you think they may have ended up?’

Gabrielsson stroked his beard for a moment then glanced around the gallery before he spoke. ‘The timing is interesting. You know Pelle has a new exhibition coming up soon?’

‘I had heard.’

‘It’ll be quite an event in the Swedish art world. We haven’t seen an original Munk for nearly ten years. If these new paintings are as good as his previous work they will sell for huge amounts of money. If that’s the case, then the value of the old ones will increase enormously. Not that they’re cheap now. Still worth millions of kronor. A Munk is still eagerly sought after. So, either they’ve been stolen with the new exhibition in mind or they’ve been stolen to order with a collector in mind.’

‘In Sweden?’

‘Not necessarily. He’s very popular in Germany. And a number of galleries in America have his work. If they’ve been stolen to order then they may well be out of the country by now.’

‘If they’ve been stolen to resell here, who would the thieves approach?’

Gabrielsson offered her a bashful grin. ‘Sometimes gallery owners. People with contacts. No questions asked.’

‘Like yourself?’

‘Ah, it has been known. I see myself as a facilitator.’

‘Yes, Stockholm told me that you occasionally “facilitated” art in the direction of very private collections.’

With a hint of self-mockery, ‘In my defence, I only do so if I think the collector really appreciates his art. I have no time for the Lindegrens of this world. Anyway, I supply Stockholm with enough information to keep everybody happy.’

‘And no one has approached you to “facilitate” the Munk paintings?’

‘Not a whisper. Which is why I think they may have departed these shores. However, it might be worth your while speaking to Ingvar Serneholt.’

‘Serneholt? Like the singer?’

‘No relation. He’s a big Munk collector. Has at least half a dozen that I’m aware of. Never know, he might have gone direct.’

Anita’s mobile sprang into life. As she tried to retrieve it from her black hole of a bag, ‘Can you give me an address?’

‘Certainly.’ Gabrielsson stood up and wandered over to his assistant, who had been trying hard to overhear their conversation.

‘Anita Sundström.’

She listened to the voice at the other end.

‘A suicide? Where?’ She listened. ‘OK. I’ll get down there now.’ She snapped her phone shut as Gabrielsson came back with a piece of gallery headed notepaper.

‘Serneholt’s address.’

Anita took it and stuffed it into her bag. The chances of her remembering where exactly she’d put it when she got round to looking for it weren’t high. Usually the whole contents of her bag would have to be disgorged.

‘Thank you. Must go.’

The glint in Gabrielsson’s eye was back. ‘Suicide? Hope it’s not one of my clients. Worse still, it might be one of my artists. They do such things. Look at van Gogh.’

‘I’ll see if he has an ear missing.’

There were already a number of cars parked in the street when Anita arrived. She recognized Eva Thulin’s. That was good. She liked working with Eva. Not that a suicide was an exciting new case. She knew that she was being sent along because Moberg couldn’t be bothered to get involved, which was fair enough given the difficult investigation he and the rest of the team were working on. But she didn’t want to spend the next few years sweeping up all the stuff that he didn’t want to know about. And she didn’t like suicides. The emotional hurt and rejection of those left behind was often difficult to deal with. Sometimes Anita found it hard not to get involved. Suicides were also unsatisfactory because you weren’t looking for a guilty party. It was a criminal cul-de-sac.

The house was impressive. Whoever lived here had money. As Anita walked through the open wrought-iron gates all the activity was surrounding the double garage block to the side of the house. Eva Thulin emerged from the right hand garage in her usual plastic bodysuit, and smiled in recognition when she saw Anita.

‘Haven’t seen you for a long time. Good to have someone sensible for a change.’

Anita grinned and then nodded towards the garage.

‘Yes,’ said Thulin. ‘Interesting.’

‘Do we know who he is?’

‘A Martin Olofsson.’

Anita entered the garage and saw the tell-tale pipe leading from the exhaust through the window of the expensive, midnight blue Mercedes. The garage was spacious despite the big car sitting in the middle. The figure of a well-built man was slumped in the driving seat. All colour had drained from his face, which contrasted markedly with his dyed hair. Despite his efforts to appear younger, Anita immediately put him in his sixties. She turned to Thulin.

‘I didn’t think this type of suicide was very common these days. Isn’t it difficult with modern cars having catalytic converters? I’m sure I read somewhere that the converters take out nearly all the carbon monoxide of the fumes produced by the exhaust.’

‘You are a clever girl.’ Thulin leant on the open car door. ‘It was made to look like a suicide. Rather badly, as it happens. Anyhow, it certainly wasn’t carbon monoxide that killed Martin Olofsson. It’s the trauma to the back of his head. He was severely bashed more than once. Something solid. Metal implement? Not sure what was used just yet. He was dead before this mock suicide charade took place. I have no idea why the killer would want to make it look like suicide when it’s obvious that we would easily spot the real cause of death.’

‘Any idea of the time of death?’

‘Probably before midnight. I might have a better idea when we get the body back to the medical examiner.’

They walked back into the sunlight. Thulin wiped her forehead. It was hot in her bodysuit.

‘There’s a wall all round the property, except for the gates, so no one is likely to have seen anything. Do you know who alerted us?’

‘A neighbour. Heard the car running continuously this morning. Came round to check and saw the garage door closed. Rang in.’

‘Thanks, Eva. I’ll let you get on. Presumably your team are going to blitz everything in the area?’

Thulin spread her arms expressively. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

Anita scanned the surroundings. Either the killer had scaled the wall or slipped in before the automatic gates closed. She saw an officer coming round the side of the house. It was Carl Svanberg.

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ Anita joked.

Svanberg didn’t return the smile. ‘No sign of a break-in.’

‘Well, that means that Olofsson was targeted deliberately. Do we know anything about him?’

‘According to the neighbour who found him, he was a banker.’

‘That probably doesn’t put him very high in the popularity stakes.’ Still no reaction from Svanberg. ‘Family?’

‘Wife over at their weekend place at Vik. My partner Lennart has tried to contact her, so far without success. But he’s been on to Simrishamn and they’re sending someone round to the house.’

‘Good. Right, now we know it was murder, this is a crime scene. We need it sealed off.’ She could feel a rush of adrenaline. ‘Then I’d better break the news to Chief Inspector Moberg.’