Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (8 page)

Anita woke up with a hangover. It didn’t happen very often these days and the older she got, the harder it was to take. She lay totally motionless in the comfortable bed in Sandra’s spare room. If she moved she would set her head off again. But the headache was worth it. She had had a good night with Sandra. They had wandered down Storgatan, which was pedestrianized during the summer months, had sat in the warm evening air and had consumed more beers than she should have done. A couple of friends had joined them before they had strolled along the harbour front. She had always loved it down by the water with the gaily coloured fishermen’s cottages, the smell of the seaweed and the cries of the gulls. Fishing these days was handled by industrial-sized vessels. A couple were in. They might be more effective and economical, but they had taken the romance out of the trade. During the summer there were always interesting private boats around, too. It was a popular place for summer seafarers to pop into. There was one very sleek, sophisticated craft, which had come from Monaco. The wealthy owners were lounging on deck and enjoying being the centre of the locals’ curiosity. And, of course, there was the Sarpen, gently undulating in the water. It was a beautiful, two-masted, rigged sailing ship, which was used by naval cadets. Two summers previously Anita and Lasse had been out on her for an afternoon cruise with a number of friends. Lasse had loved it.

Anita had returned with Sandra to her apartment opposite the park and had had a perfect summer meal of cold herring and salads, followed by the local Scanian speciality cake,
spettekak
a, served with ice cream, and all washed down with a couple of bottles of Chardonnay. Though the booze had triggered a whole host of reminiscences and personal confessions, Anita hadn’t brought up the subject of Ewan, or even her problems with Lasse’s girlfriend. There was no more obvious a person to unburden her problems to than Sandra, yet something wouldn’t allow her to venture into either area. Sandra could be forthright, and might have given her a hard time about Ewan. But she would surely have been sympathetic about the Lasse situation. As she felt blindly for her glasses on the bedside table she stopped the self-analysing. It was hurting her brain.

She had never needed a coffee more than this morning. Skånerost. It was her favourite. It took no prisoners, especially when Sandra brewed it. And that would be just the ticket. She wanted to be reasonably alert when she saw Pelle Munk. She had phoned the day before to make sure he was around. She thought he had understood the conversation, though she had had to repeat herself several times and shout down the phone. He was probably drunk. She would call in that afternoon before she headed back to Malmö. She gratefully accepted the mug of coffee shoved in front of her on the kitchen table. Like her, Sandra wasn’t neat. The apartment was reassuringly chaotic, though Sandra’s appearance was not. Her short cropped fair hair and trim figure gave off an air of control. And her senior nursing job in the town’s hospital would be carried out with the utmost efficiency. It was only behind closed doors that she allowed her natural untidiness free rein.

It was some minutes before Anita had the energy to talk.

‘Whatever happened to Karin Munk?’

‘She’s back in Simrishamn.’

‘You’re kidding.’

Anita was surprised to hear that their old school friend was back in town. She had been the most ambitious of the group, and had been keen to follow an artistic career. Simrishamn was too small for Karin. It had to be Stockholm. She had been brought up there and had resented her father decamping to uncivilized Skåne when his artist’s eye had fallen in love with the light. When she first came to the school she had taken a long time to settle, but Anita and Sandra had taken her under their wing, her initial aloofness had melted away and she had been fun when in the right mood. Yet, at other times she had also been cold and uncommunicative, which they had put down to her artistic temperament. She had been by far the best artist in the school and great things had been expected of her. The last time that Anita had met Karin was when Anita was studying at Stockholm’s police academy. They had met up for drinks, but the evening had been awkward. Karin was being incredibly “bohemian” and she found it difficult to reconcile her obligatory anti-establishment views with the fact that Anita was learning how to uphold the law. Anita had joined the ranks of “the oppressors”. Anita couldn’t really work that one out. When some of Karin’s equally gauche friends had arrived, Anita had slipped away quietly and hadn’t been in contact since.

‘No. I think she came back to keep an eye on her dad. Her mum died about five years ago.’

‘Funny. She couldn’t wait to get out of here when she was younger. What’s she doing now?’

‘Something in the arty line. Not quite sure what. She was a bit vague. I ran into her a few weeks ago in the hospital. She brought Pelle in for some sort of check-up. He’s not looking in the best of health. Either too much booze or sniffing too much paint.’

‘Well, he can’t be at death’s door because he’s putting together a new exhibition, so I’m told. That’s why we think his paintings have been pinched, because he’s going to be back in fashion again. If the exhibition is a success, our thief is going to cash in. That’s our theory. It’s the only one we’ve got anyway,’ she mumbled into her coffee.

The drive out to Pelle Munk’s home from Sandra’s apartment only took about ten minutes. She passed the beach at Tobisborg, which was already busy with families enjoying the continuing sunny spell. Out in the serene Baltic, a large container ship shimmered in the distance. The main road was straight and fast, and Anita had to slow down to make sure of coming off at the right turning. Munk’s place was on the opposite side of the road to an apple orchard. The road itself was higher than the house, which was in a dip so that the rooms at the back looked directly at the bank. Anita pulled the car up next to a battered green Citroën parked on a patch of ragged grass under a large sprawling chestnut tree. The house was a classic, single-storied, stone Scanian farmstead. It was built round a quadrangle. Three blocks were whitewashed. Here were the living quarters and garage. The roof was corrugated metal painted a glossy rust red. The fourth side was what had been the wooden barn of the original farmhouse and, from memory, was where Pelle Munk had his studio.

All was quiet. Though the car was here, Munk might be out on a walk or down at the beach at Lilla Vik. What Anita remembered was that Munk constantly played loud classical music while he was painting. Karin Munk said that it had driven her mad as a teenager, but it was what helped her father concentrate. It inspired him. Anita walked across the cobbled courtyard and approached the kitchen door in the right hand corner of the complex. The official front entrance looked as though it hadn’t been used for years. She called out ‘herr Munk’. There was no reply. She tried the door, which wasn’t locked. She popped her head inside and called again. She came back out and headed towards barn studio. Her knock on the huge wooden door produced no response, so she went in.

The studio was a massive space. On the far side Munk had had an impressive floor-length window installed, so that the light could stream in. Around the room easels were strewn – only two of which held half-finished pieces. Canvases and sheets of shiny metal were stacked against the walls. The furniture consisted of a couple of ancient wooden cupboards smeared with years of paint and an equally mucky table on which sat an old ghetto-blaster, an opened packet of cigarettes and a full ashtray. That, too, was streaked with old colour. There were two battered chairs near the table. One had a number of books haphazardly piled on it. There were paint-stained rags lying all over the floor. Anita smiled. If her mother thought she was messy, she should see this! But Anita felt empathy for someone who could live and work in such a cluttered mess. It reminded her of her unfinished bathroom, which she had stupidly decided on a whim to re-tile and re-paint some months ago.

Anita wandered over to one of the half-finished paintings. This was a traditional canvas. The top half was a blur of colour; mainly yellows, oranges and dashes of purple. Could be the beginnings of an abstract sunset, thought Anita. Then again, it could be anything. Anita liked art, but she belonged to the “I-want-to-understand-what-I’m-looking-at” school. Her ex-husband, Björn, had always gently mocked her lack of understanding of the more obscure art forms.

‘Who are you?’ boomed a voice behind her. She swung round to see a tall man with tufts of straggly grey hair sprouting above a pinched red face that didn’t quite fit in with his body. In his heyday, when he had been constantly in the press, he had dominated any photographs because of his imposing physique. Now the man standing before her, though he still had the height and broad-shoulders, had lost weight. His clothes hung badly on him. Anita got quite a shock. Sandra was right – he didn’t look well.

‘You may not remember me, but I was a friend of Karin’s.’

He stared at her. ‘What did you say?’

Anita noticed that he had hearing aid.

‘I am Anita Sundström.’ She spoke slowly and loudly. Her voice echoed round the large space. ‘I used to know your daughter, Karin. We were at school together. I used to be called Ullman. Anita Ullman.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Again he stared at her. She found the examination disconcerting. ‘I remember you. Very pretty girl.’

Anita wasn’t sure if this meant that she was no longer pretty.

‘I now work for the police. In Malmö.’

‘And you’ve come to see Karin? She’s not here.’

‘No. I have come to see you, actually.’

Munk squinted in puzzlement. He hadn’t heard her correctly.

‘It’s about your paintings.’

Munk shuffled over to a table and picked up a packet of cigarettes. As he took one and hunted around for some matches, he waved to her to sit. Anita sat down gingerly on the unoccupied wooden chair, but the splatters of paint appeared dry. Munk gave up his search for a match and tossed the unsmoked cigarette back onto the table. Instead he picked up a scalpel in his left hand and idly tapped it up and down on the table top.

He turned to Anita. He gestured to the unfinished paintings. ‘I am afraid I’m not selling at the moment. I have an exhibition coming up. Maybe you can buy then.’

‘Herr Munk, I’m not here to buy. I’m investigating the theft of your paintings. Particularly the one from the home of Jörgen Lindegren.
Dawn Mood
. Another was stolen from a gallery in Ystad.’

Munk was now standing close to Anita, still clutching the scalpel. His proximity made her feel uncomfortable, but it was probably easier for him to understand what she was saying. Suddenly his face creased into a smile. Then morphed into a throaty laugh.

‘I must be coming back into fashion. I’m flattered that someone thinks they are worth stealing.’

‘Your paintings are still worth quite a lot of money.’ She nodded at the nearest easel. ‘And with a new exhibition coming up, the value of your old works are likely to escalate. So Lindegren told me.’

He flapped his hand in front of his face as though swatting away a fly. ‘The man’s an idiot. The only value art has to someone like that is monetary. He doesn’t feel anything. He doesn’t see anything. He’s not moved by art.’

‘But you went to his house when he unveiled the painting for his friends.’

‘Karin’s idea. Thought it would be a good way to publicize the exhibition. I hated it.’

Anita could see that she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. It had been a long shot anyway. She stood up.

‘It was nice to see you again.’

‘And you.’ Munk grinned. ‘You’re still a pretty girl.’

Anita found herself blushing. To cover her confusion she pointed around the studio. ‘I’d make sure that these are locked up securely. The thief may come after your new works.’

Anita was glad to escape the paint fumes and get into the fresh air. The smell wasn’t helping her hangover. As she feared, the visit had been a complete waste of time. If Munk wasn’t careful, he would have his latest paintings stolen too. She was about to get into her car when a blue Volvo turned off the main road and came to rest beside her vehicle. Out stepped a tall woman with long blonde hair and a short floral summer dress. She may have been twenty years older than when Anita had last seen her in a bar in Stockholm, but there was no mistaking Karin Munk. Not that the recognition was reciprocated.

‘Who are you?’ She had her father’s brusqueness.

‘Karin. It’s me. Anita.’

Karin tilted her head back as though she were appraising a painting. Then her mouth spread into a broad smile.

‘Anita! I don’t believe it. You still look...’

‘You’ve worn well, too.’ They both laughed and hugged each other.

‘So, what are doing here?’ asked Karin as she disengaged herself. ‘This is extraordinary.’

‘Unfortunately, it’s on police business.’

Karin suddenly looked worried. ‘Is Dad—‘

‘No, no, he’s fine. It’s just that we are investigating the thefts of two of his paintings.’

Relief flooded across Karin’s face. ‘I know one went from Ystad. Has another gone?’

‘Yes. In Limhamn. Just the other day.’

‘Which one?’

‘
Dawn Mood
.’

Karin clicked her tongue in disappointment. ‘That’s one of Dad’s favourites. I hadn’t heard anything in the press about it.’

‘The owner didn’t want it publicized. It’s best to keep these things quiet until we’ve had time to ask around.’

‘Getting anywhere?’

Anita shook her head.

‘Were you all right with Dad? He’s quite deaf these days.’

Anita smiled: ‘I made myself understood.’

‘Got a virus a few years back. Virtually knocked out his hearing altogether. Can’t listen to his beloved classical music any more. It was always his inspiration. Something to do with the frequency. It now sounds like a high-pitched whine. Sad.’

‘But he’s still putting together a new exhibition.’

‘Oh, yes. It’s his comeback.’

‘We think the thefts might be connected to that.’