Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (2 page)

Michaela Lindegren yawned. She didn’t know why because she had slept soundly all night. Normally, when Jörgen was away on business she would fret the night away even though she knew he would be fine. Maybe it was insecurity. Now that the children had flown the nest she had the house to herself, and that never felt quite right. During the day she enjoyed the freedom. At night it was different. Jörgen was always considerate and phoned from wherever he was to make sure that she was all right. She always locked up carefully, but perhaps it was the size of the house that made her nervous. Lots of empty rooms. That’s why she would have the radio on when she went to bed when Jörgen wasn’t there. Noise was reassuring. Often she went to sleep with it still playing and would wake up in a fright because she could hear voices. Come daylight and all the fears would disappear, like the early morning mist outside their seaside home. It was going to be another lovely day. And Jörgen would be back tonight. His flight into Kastrup Airport was due in the late afternoon.

Michaela wandered into the kitchen and fixed herself a coffee. Nice and strong. The perfect lift for the day. She missed having to make breakfast for the children. She had enjoyed the routine of fussing over them and making sure they had everything they needed for school that day. It gave her a role within the family. She was the organizer. Now there was very little to organize. Meals for Jörgen. Accompanying him to the theatre or one of his business functions. She had become a trophy wife without the requisite glamour. Home was her province. The other wives in their circle were far more sophisticated. They were up with the latest fashions, knew the names of the trendiest interior designers and chefs, and could drop into any conversation the expensively exotic locations where they had been on holiday without the slightest hint of humility. Jörgen could afford to take her to anywhere she wanted, but she was a home bird and he travelled so widely in his work that she was content to stay in Sweden. So, they usually went to the island of Öland or even closer to home in Österlen, which wasn’t much more than an hour’s drive from Limhamn.

After another coffee and a light breakfast – she wanted to save herself for the special meal she was cooking to welcome Jörgen back – Michaela wandered down the corridor to the front door where she picked up the morning newspaper. She would have a quick read of it before heading off to the shops to buy the evening’s ingredients. She walked into the living room. The curtains were drawn. As she opened them a weak sun was trying to penetrate the sea mist. Soon it would burn it off and it would be a lovely day. Then the wonderful, sleek lines of the Öresund Bridge, the link between Sweden and Denmark, would emerge.

It was as she turned from the window that she instantly knew something was wrong. For a moment she couldn’t put her finger on it as she stared at the opposite wall. She suddenly found herself gasping for air. It couldn’t be. She steadied herself against the table. She looked again. There was no denying it. What was Jörgen going to say? She was now feeling faint. However hard she stared it wasn’t going to bring it back. It had definitely been there when she went to bed last night.

This morning it was gone.

‘I shot the wrong man. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t put it as brutally as that,’ he said quietly.

Inspector Anita Sundström absently patted down her short blonde hair before adjusting her glasses slightly as she stared hard at the young psychologist with the goatee beard and long wavy black hair. Why did everyone look so young these days? After recent events Anita was feeling every one of her forty-two years. Was she weighted down with self-reproach over her actions, or was she feeling guilty because she needed therapy? Certainly her employers, the Skåne County Police, thought she required help. Or was it just that it would make them look better after the fiasco over the case of murdered film star, Malin Lovgren? She had got their man, but only after she had shot the star’s innocent husband, Mick Roslyn, on the top of Malmö’s iconic Turning Torso tower.

‘Take me through the events again, Anita.’

Anita sighed and glanced towards the window. It was sunny out there. Swedes should be outdoors when the weather was like this, not stuck in a featureless hospital office telling some child with a psychology degree the same story for the umpteenth time. Like most of her fellow countrymen she accepted therapy as a necessary adjunct to modern-day life. She had had some sessions when trying to come to terms with her father’s tragic death some years before. That had been her decision. This time it was different. It was beyond her control. She was being forced into it. She felt that she was coping well enough with the consequences of her recent actions, in her own way. Maybe the problem was that she knew she would have to touch upon matters that were too sensitive to discuss, even in the cosy confessional of a psychologist’s consulting room.

‘I became convinced that Malin Lovgren’s husband had killed her. I had established that he was having an affair and he seemed to be pinning the blame on someone else.’ Anita realized that she was looking at her hands twisting on her lap. She knew she was avoiding eye contact.

‘And this someone else?’ Doctor Axelsson gently prodded.

‘He was an old university friend of Roslyn’s from England. Well, they had been friends until they fell out over a young female student. It was only this year that they had met up again. The friend was a journalist and he came over to Malmö to interview Roslyn because he had become a famous film director over here. Roslyn tried to throw him off the top of the Turning Torso. The only way I could stop him…’ Her thoughts flashed back to that moment on a bitterly cold February day when she had rushed to the top of Scandinavia’s tallest building and found the two men fighting, Roslyn just about to heave his one-time friend over the edge to plunge to a certain death. She had been too far away to physically break them up. She had called out, but Roslyn had ignored her. She had had to make a split-second decision. Her pistol was the only way she could save… She had never shot anyone before. The thought still made her tremble.

‘I only realized later that Roslyn had worked out that his friend had murdered his wife.’

‘Why do you not refer to the journalist by name?’

Why? Because she didn’t want to “go there”. This was the part that she still had difficulty getting her head around. She had accepted the problems her actions had caused when the truth came out. One minute lauded as the cop who had solved Sweden’s most recent high-profile murder, the next bringing in the real killer shortly after all the public plaudits had been dished out. The department had looked so stupid. “Incompetent” had been one of the lesser accusations tossed about in the press. “Gun-happy cop shoots star’s innocent husband” had caused the Skåne County Police particular angst. As always they had pretended to close ranks in public, but behind the scenes the blame game had kicked-off almost at once. She had been suspended immediately, and as part of her rehabilitation she was now sitting in Doctor Axelsson’s office. All the details had been “leaked” to the press, although her name had been withheld. The papers had quickly put two and two together and had realized it must be her. It was important that the public knew that there was a scapegoat. The fact that she had brought in the real killer was now totally overlooked – as was her intervention at the top of the tower, which had stopped Roslyn committing murder himself.

‘Ewan,’ she said quietly. ‘Ewan Strachan. That was his name.’

Axelsson tapped his pencil thoughtfully against his pursed lips. It was a habit that was beginning to irritate Anita.

‘Was?’

‘Is. That
is
his name.’

Axelsson smiled to himself.

‘So, how did you discover that Ewan was the real murderer?’

It sounded just as ridiculous as it did when she told her story to her immediate boss, Chief Inspector Moberg. He couldn’t believe it any more than she could when Strachan had confessed.

‘He just told me.’

‘Just told you?’ Axelsson asked quizzically.

‘Yes.’ Ewan had admitted it as he sat opposite her in a restaurant. He had let slip a piece of information that had made her suddenly realize that he was the guilty party. When she had challenged him he had admitted, without a murmur of protest, to carrying out the crime. And, furthermore, he had also put his hand up to the killing of the girl in Durham who had come between himself and Roslyn twenty-five years earlier. Anita wasn’t sure why she hadn’t mentioned that part of his confession to Moberg. The next few hours had been like a dream. Ewan had meekly allowed her to take him to the polishus, where she had officially charged him with the murder of Malin Lovgren. She was still wearing her one decent evening dress. That had become a running joke among many of her colleagues. As a result, she felt some relief that she had not been allowed to spend much time at police headquarters in the last few months.

‘So why do you think he was so compliant?’

The question gave Anita a jolt. It was one that fortunately Moberg, or in fact, anybody else connected to the case, hadn’t bothered to ask. She didn’t want to reply, but Axelsson’s eyes were fixed steadily upon her. He wanted an answer and he would know if she was lying.

‘He… he was in love with me.’

‘And what about you?’

‘What do you mean?’ she said defensively.

‘What did you feel about him?’

She glanced towards the window. The sun still shone, but there was no help in that direction. Since that night she hadn’t even admitted to herself her feelings for Ewan.

‘I was falling in love with him. I suppose I…’

Axelsson made a note on his pad.

‘Do you still love him?’

‘He’s in prison.’

‘That’s not an answer, Anita.’

No it wasn’t. She didn’t want to confront her feelings. Not in front of this young man. All she wanted to do was get out of his room and run back to Simrishamn and walk along her favourite beach by herself and forget about the police, psychologists and the people who complicated her life.

‘Do you still love him?’ he repeated gently.

Very slowly Anita nodded.

Axelsson snapped his notebook shut. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

The light from the bedroom was momentarily blotted out. Chief Inspector Erik Moberg’s giant frame filled the doorway. He wasn’t much shy of two metres tall, and carried an unhealthy amount of bulk around with him. It was many a year since he’d been able to slip into size 54 trousers. The most disconcerting aspect of his appearance was the strange colour of his dyed hair, which could best be described as nicotine-yellow. Beneath it, all the features of his face were exaggerated by their mass, from the heavy jowls to the increasingly slitting eyes, caused by the collision of drooping eyebrows and puffed-up cheeks. He moved forward into the bathroom and towered above the body. With Moberg inside, the room seemed a lot smaller than it had before. Quite a crowd now, with senior forensic technician, Eva Thulin, bending over the corpse; Inspector Henrik Nordlund examining the shower cubicle, and Inspector Karl Westermark, with a wooden toothpick sticking out of the side of his mouth as a substitute cigarette, leaning casually against the basin. All three had on plastic suits.

‘Well?’ Moberg boomed. ‘What the hell happened here?’

Westermark took the toothpick out of his mouth. ‘He’s called Tommy Ekman. Runs an advertising agency in town. Cleaning lady found him.’

‘How did he die?’ This time Moberg addressed Thulin.

Eva glanced up. ‘Somehow he seems to have been gassed. Or certainly the physical signs point in that direction.’

Moberg snorted. ‘How do you gas someone in a shower?’

‘I have no idea yet,’ said Thulin rising from her haunches.

‘OK. Is there a fru Ekman or is he a gay bachelor?’

‘There is. And a couple of kids, too.’ Westermark twirled the toothpick round his fingers. His cropped blond hair, piercing blue eyes and lantern-jawed ruggedness gave him the good looks that he assumed no woman could resist. Not many had. ‘They’re in the country at the moment.’

‘And the cleaning lady?’

‘She’s in the kitchen with a constable,’ explained Nordlund. ‘In a state of shock. Swedish isn’t that good. Bosnian, I think.’

‘Bloody typical,’ snarled Westermark.

Moberg ignored Westermark and shook his head. ‘But gassing?’

‘I might be able to tell you once I’ve examined the whole scene,’ said Thulin in some exasperation. ‘So, if you gentlemen would like to leave. Until then, your gas is as good mine.’

Even Moberg managed to raise a faint smile.

Anita drove out of the hospital car park. Were the Axelsson sessions doing any good? Only time would tell. What was inescapable was the fact that she would be returning to work tomorrow. It made her feel nervous. How would she be received by her colleagues? Sympathetically? Resentfully? Mockingly?

Anita turned the car into the stream of traffic. Chief Inspector Erik Moberg would probably treat her with his usual suspicion. He was uncomfortable with a female detective on his team. He didn’t like anyone standing up to him, particularly a woman. And just when she thought she had won him over with her discovery that Mick Roslyn had murdered his wife, it was all blown away by the revelation that Ewan Strachan had been the killer all along. Henrik Nordlund, the oldest member of the team and her unofficial mentor, would provide the sympathy and a shoulder to cry on if necessary. A widower nearing retirement, Nordlund had already taken the time to come round to her apartment in Roskildevägen and talk to her. But her real worry was Karl Westermark. In his late thirties, this coldly handsome man was a danger. She knew that he both loathed her and lusted after her. He had made both emotions perfectly plain. He was ruthless, and she knew he would have exploited her fall from grace whilst she was on leave of absence from the polishus. Westermark had believed Strachan to be guilty all along and felt that she had been protecting the British journalist because he could see – even when she hadn’t initially – that she was falling for him. This had infuriated Westermark because she was one of the few women he had failed to add to his impressive list of conquests. Her pointed rejections of his obvious advances had only increased his hatred of her whilst heightening the sexual tension and desire. It was a volatile combination that would only strain the atmosphere within the team on her return.

Anita now found herself at a standstill. The traffic was going nowhere. It was unusual to have a jam at this time of day. This was annoying. She only lived across the park, but had taken the car as she wanted to do some shopping at Mobilia after her hospital appointment. Now that she was stuck she just wanted to get back home, put on her running clothes and jog away her worries in Pildammsparken. Living in Malmö meant she hadn’t a quiet space to run or walk along. In the summer too many people came out to enjoy the sun on the city beaches. She had managed to escape during her suspension to Simrishamn, staying with her old school friend Sandra. There she had been able to wander by herself up towards Baskemölla and onto her favourite beach, Lilla Vik. It was her mental sanctuary. Out of season there would be just her on her own, the sand and the Baltic stretching away to the horizon.

Anita looked around to see if there was another way out. The car was trapped. She smacked the steering wheel in frustration. The sun was now beating down and her old Volkswagen was getting decidedly stuffy, despite the open window. Like some of the other drivers, she got out so see what was holding them up. Further along the street she could see a large group of bystanders. She also spotted a couple of uniformed policemen. She slammed the car door shut and walked towards the crowd. On reaching the group she recognised one of the officers, Carl Svanberg. Her attempts to attract his attention were drowned out by the blaring of an ambulance siren. The ambulance wove its way through the traffic until it stopped in the middle of the street.

‘Carl.’

The officer turned and looked at Anita in some surprise. Once he recognized her, was that a smirk he was trying to hide? Or am I being paranoid? thought Anita. ‘What’s up?’

Svanberg pointed through the throng. ‘Someone’s been knocked over. Probably wasn’t looking when crossing the street.’

‘Can I help?’

For a moment she could see the confusion on his face. Like everyone based at the polishus, he would know her situation and be aware of its aftermath. ‘I thought you—’

‘I start tomorrow. Any development on the Rosengård shootings?’ The press had lost interest when it became clear that both immigrant women would survive. She hoped the police attitude hadn’t been the same.

‘No.’

Fortunately, Svanberg was saved by his colleague calling to him. The paramedics were dealing with what Anita could now see was a man lying on the ground. He was soon lost to view and, as she walked back to her car, the ambulance siren started up again.