Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (5 page)

Moberg scratched his huge stomach. ‘Henrik, I want you to go down with as many people as you need and blitz the area. Talk to the neighbours in the block. Did they hear anything? Did they see anyone or notice anything suspicious. In fact, talk to everyone down there. Drunks included. Maybe someone saw him go in.

‘Are we sure it’s a man?’ interrupted Klara Wallen. Anita had once been on holiday with her, but it hadn’t worked out. They discovered that what they only really had in common was a taste for red wine, which was what had united them in the first place on a few girls’ nights out and department booze-buying runs to Germany. They still spoke but were never as friendly again.

‘I think strangulation rules that out,’ Moberg said dismissively. ‘She would have to have been a professional shot-putter to have done that.’

‘Why don’t we just keep an open mind on it until we hear back from the pathologist?’ Anita suggested.

‘All right,’ Moberg conceded grumpily. Wallen flashed Anita a grateful glance. ‘I’m doing a press conference in half an hour and I’ll do an appeal for witnesses. That might bring someone out of the woodwork.’ Moberg licked his thick lips in an unappealing way. ‘So, let’s find ourselves a killer.’

A buzz of excitement broke out in the room. A big case often got the communal adrenaline flowing. This one had glamour attached.

‘One last thing,’ called out Anita above the sudden din. Moberg wasn’t happy. He didn’t like to think he might have missed something. ‘When Malin Lovgren appeared on the TV last night she was wearing the same clothes she died in. She also was wearing a glass pendant, in the shape of a starfish. Colour blue. She wasn’t wearing it when we found the body. So far, there is no sign of it. It’s not among her jewellery. It hasn’t turned up at the apartment yet. It may have come off in the struggle. If so, where is it? Find that starfish and we’ll probably find our murderer.’

Ewan stared at the phone for at least a minute. He nearly picked it up but decided he needed to visit the bathroom again. It was the third time since he had returned to the hotel room. He had had two beers, which were guaranteed to set his bladder off, but he knew he was just putting off the inevitable. Then there was the whisky. That hadn’t helped him either. He wasn’t sure what had shocked him the most – the events since his arrival in Sweden or the price of the Scotch. As he stood over the toilet bowl trying to coax out some pee he glanced at his watch. It showed 4.10pm. That would be make it ten past three back in Newcastle. Brian would probably have staggered in from a large lunch, lubricated with a couple of pints of
Black Sheep
. That was the best time to catch him.

It was Mary who answered. A friendly voice. Just at this moment he didn’t want to have to battle through the unhelpful Val to get to Brian.

‘Hello, jet-setter! How are all those gorgeous Swedish girlies?

‘Gorgeous. You’d like the men, too.’

‘Bring one back for me and then I can boot out that dull old hubby of mine. How was the interview?’

‘There wasn’t one.’

There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end. ‘Ooohhh, dear.’

‘Extenuating circumstances.’

‘They’d better be good or Brian is going to twist your balls off.’

‘They are very good but I had better tell him first. Is he in?’

‘Yes. I’ll put you through. Good luck.’

Ewan waited for a moment as Mary put him through. An upbeat sounding Brian came on the phone.

‘Was it great? I’ve already got some smashing photos off the Internet of that Malin babe.’

‘Well, you can still use them.’

Brain’s tone changed. ‘What happened?’

‘She did. I didn’t get the interview.’

‘You fucking what!’ exploded Brian at the other end. ‘I send you all the way to fucking Scandinavia and you have the bottle to tell me you didn’t get the fucking interview.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘You told me you fucking could!’

‘I couldn’t get the interview because Malin Lovgren is dead.’ There was silence at the other end of the line. ‘She has just been murdered.’

Brian came back to life. ‘Murdered?’

‘Yes. Last night. Erm…I found the body this morning.’

There was a bark of laughter. ‘You’re making this up.’

‘Brian, it’s the truth. I turned up this morning to interview Roslyn and there’s Malin Lovgren lying on the floor, dead as a doornail. I’ve been interviewed by the police. That’s where the problem lies – or one of them.’

‘They don’t think you’ve done it?’

‘I bloody hope not. No, they’ve said I’ve got to stay on. I don’t know for how long. But I’ll be back as quick as I can. I’ll do that travel piece, though.’

‘Did this character Roslyn do it? It’s usually the husband in these things.’

‘Doubt it.’

‘Who do the police think it is?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’

There was a pause. Ewan could hear Brian’s breathing, which was just loud enough to cover the sound of the cogs turning in Brian’s head.

‘Don’t worry, it’s ok.’

Ewan was genuinely surprised. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked guardedly.

‘No. I want you to follow up this story. The murder of a glamorous film star is always good news.’

‘No one in Newcastle will have heard of her.’

‘Not the point. Not the point. Famous Geordie director’s beautiful actress wife is murdered.’

‘No one has heard of him either.’

‘No matter. We’ll big him up…say he’s the Swedish Hitchcock or something. And you are at the heart of it. You found the body. This is fantastic! You can get an interview with your mate, but now the angle is the grieving director. All that shit.’

‘Brian, I just want to get out of here as fast as I can. I don’t want to get mixed up in all this beyond giving the police a statement or whatever they want from me. Then I want to piss off home.’

‘Forget that, sunshine. We can really make something out of this.’ It was “we” now. ‘This will put those tosspot editors’ noses out of joint and will impress upstairs.’ Ewan didn’t have to see Brian to know that he was already envisaging himself taking up the reins of one the group’s flagship publications.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said doubtfully.

‘Look, you’re always moaning on that you wanted to be a crime reporter. Well, here’s a crime so fucking report it! But I want everything to come through me. All the inside info. One or two of the nationals might report it, but I want you to delve deep. Dig up the dirt.’ The excitement was rising in his voice. ‘Glamour, beautiful couple, films, Sweden, sex – if you can find some of that it would be helpful.’

Ewan couldn’t believe he was having to listen to all this. Brian was talking like some hot-shot newspaperman in the movies, not a half-baked editor of a crappy little provincial magazine.

‘Brian, the
Novo
isn’t that sort of publication.’

‘Leave that to me. Might have to push it through one of the other papers, but it’s our scoop.’ After the newly energized Brain had rung off and disappeared into his fantasy world, Ewan was left to reflect on what lay ahead. It made him nervous.

Bengt Valquist always wore a worried expression. Mick had always assumed it came with the territory. A film’s producer had a lot on his plate. He was in charge of every practical detail from raising the finance to trying to ensure a film’s shoot passed with as little hassle as possible. He had to think on his feet. React to each new disaster, each unreasonable demand. Organizing the location caterers one minute, soothing a temperamental star’s ego the next. He was good at these things, which was why Mick had taken the bright, enthusiastic, young graduate from Lund University, keen to make his name in the movie business, under his wing. Valquist had quickly proved himself and worked his way up in Roslyn’s production company, R&L Films. He had produced Roslyn’s last three films and was as much part of the team as Mick and Malin. He was good at spotting talent, too. It was he who had unearthed Tilda Tegner at some small theatre group in Stockholm. They were an item now. Valquist’s face was riddled with concern as he watched Mick pace round the bedroom of his apartment.

‘Come and stay with me in Lund?’ He spoke in Swedish.

Mick stopped and gazed out of the window. He had returned to the apartment to await Valquist’s arrival, but he knew he couldn’t remain as this was now an official murder scene.

‘Tonight, if that’s ok.’

‘Of course.’

Mick absent-mindedly ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Why? What had Malin done to anyone?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing, I’m sure’

Valquist got out his mobile phone. Mick turned round and saw him.

‘Tilda. I’ve been trying to get hold of her. Hasn’t been answering. Probably shopping. You know what she’s like.’

Mick didn’t answer. He was battling to keep his emotions in check.

‘The police? Any ideas?’

Mick shook his head. Valquist took off his spectacles and twiddled them nervously in his hands.

‘As I was driving over here all sorts of thoughts kept turning over in my mind. And there was one that I couldn’t get rid of. The project.’

‘What do you mean?’ Valquist had caught Mick’s attention.

‘You know. We’ve been treading on dangerous ground.’

‘No. No, there can’t be a connection.’

‘We’re getting in pretty deep. There are people out there who might want to make sure that it never comes out.’

‘After all this time?’

‘It may have happened over twenty years ago, but the guy who pulled the trigger may still be out there.’ Valquist put his spectacles back on and blinked. ‘Getting to Malin is a good way of…’

‘Shutting me up?’

Anita had taken a moment to call Sandra on her mobile to tell her that she wouldn’t be able to come over the next day either as all leave was cancelled. Sandra had seen Moberg on the TV calling for witnesses. Despite saying how dreadful it all was Anita could tell that Sandra sounded almost excited. Anita was always amazed at the public’s morbid delight in murder – they never had to see the bodies.

After she’d finished Olander informed her that Rolsyn had arrived with a bloke called Valquist. Anita said she’d be down in a minute, but popped into the ladies toilet to compose herself. As she washed her hands she had a good look in the mirror. She didn’t like these situations; not that they had happened too often. But talking to the husband, wife, son or daughter of someone who had just died wasn’t easy. They were trying to come to terms with their loss and yet questions had to be asked. It seemed like an unwanted intrusion into their grief, making them put their mourning on hold. And sometimes things emerged which only made the situation more awkward. This interview – or chat, really, as it wasn’t an interrogation – might throw up some very personal questions for Roslyn to answer. She was going to have to go into Malin Lovgren’s background, ferret around to see if there were any skeletons that could give them a lead. Admirers, rivals, enemies.

Anita dried her hands. She realized that she didn’t know much about Roslyn. She wasn’t a great one for watching films. She got bored too easily. It drove Lasse mad whenever he persuaded her to try out a new film that he thought she might like. Within minutes she would make her mind up whether she was going to enjoy or hate it. Often she didn’t get much beyond the credits. She had seen Roslyn’s picture in the papers often enough without taking a particular interest. As Anita made for the door, Klara Wallen came in.

‘Thanks, Anita. For before.’

Anita smiled. ‘Moberg speaks before he thinks.’

‘He’s a big fat bastard, I hate him…’ Klara said in a rush and promptly burst into tears. Anita didn’t have time for this, but she took a sobbing Klara in her arms and gave her a reassuring hug.

‘It’s ok. I’m sure he didn’t mean it.’ But Anita knew that he did.

The sobs started to recede and Anita was able to let Klara go. She fished out a paper tissue. ‘Come on, Klara, get yourself cleaned up.’

Klara took the tissue and wiped her eyes. ‘Did you see him on the TV? He’s so full of himself.’

‘Yes, but he usually knows what he’s doing. He gets results, whatever it costs the rest of us.’

Klara sniffled into the tissue. ‘How do you put up with that slob?’

‘Just try to ignore him.’

If only Anita found it as easy to take her own advice as to give it.

Mick Roslyn seemed calm, but Anita had no idea what awful thoughts were ricocheting around in his mind. He was handsome in a flashy sort of way that would have impressed and attracted her a few years ago. Experience had taught her that those who spent so long cultivating their looks had little time for cultivating meaningful relationships, except with themselves. She had explained in English that she understood that this conversation might be difficult, but they couldn’t afford to put it off as they had to act as quickly as possible to catch the killer. This was part of the information-gathering process and he was vital to that. He might be able to point them in the right direction. As she spoke, Mick Roslyn stared at his manicured hands, which were placed palm down on the table, as they sat in the middle of a soulless interrogation room. Sitting opposite him next to Anita was Olander, who appeared to be in awe of the director. He was an avid movie buff and was well acquainted with Roslyn’s work.

‘What I need to ask you first is to confirm your movements prior to going to the apartment at Östra Förstadsgatan.’

He started to drum his fingers. ‘I spent last night in Stockholm. I had a meeting; then I wanted to go through some follow-up research material for my next project.’ Anita could see out of the corner of her eye that Olander was champing at the bit to ask what it was, but he had the sense not to interrupt. ‘I didn’t go to bed late because I had to be up for a very early start. I got the flight down to Sturup, then came into town by taxi.’

‘You were meant to meet Mr Strachan at eleven, but you didn’t reach the apartment until half past. Why were you late?’

‘Plane was delayed.’ He shrugged.

‘So you arrived at half past.’

For the first time he looked up and stared at Anita. ‘The photographer was just arriving downstairs so I let him in. We entered the flat together and when we went into the lounge there was Strachan bending over my wife, who was on the floor.’ A tremor came into his voice and his splayed hands curled into fists, ‘I just flipped.’

Anita gave him a second to compose himself.

‘Your wife. Had she been worried lately? Anything unsettling her? Had anybody being pestering her? You know, ardent fans.’

Mick Roslyn paused, as though weighing up the question in his mind.

‘She had a stalker. It’ll be in police records somewhere.’

‘In Malmö?’

‘No, in Stockholm. Couple of years ago. We had to take it to court. He was called Jörgen Crabo.’

‘And has he been a nuisance since?’

‘I saw him in the crowd at a premiere of
En Gäss
last year in Stockholm. Fortunately, Malin didn’t spot him. Or she certainly didn’t let on if she had. But after what we had been though you are always on the lookout. Apart from that, he’s kept to the court order as far as I’m aware.’

‘We’ll check his whereabouts. He didn’t threaten her life at any stage?’

‘No.’

‘Has anybody? Or is there anybody you would have regarded as a threat to her safety?’

Mick took a sip from his coffee, which by now was probably cold but he didn’t make any comment.

‘Have you any snus?

Anita took out her tin and pushed it over the table. He thoughtfully unscrewed the top and slowly reached in for a sachet. ‘She had these letters.’

Anita and Olander sat up a little straighter.

‘What sort of letters?’ Anita asked.

He put the snus in his mouth.

‘It was some fan. Said he was in love with Malin.’

‘I would have thought she would get many such letters,’ put in Olander.

‘Of course. But these were different. When she didn’t reply, they became more explicit, more threatening. Not that she could reply because he didn’t include an address after the first one.’

‘So there was an address on the original letter?’

‘I believe so, but it didn’t get past Agnes at our production office. Her job is to sift out that sort of thing so that Malin isn’t…wasn’t bothered with all the correspondence. When the other letters came to light we looked into it. Agnes thought the first one might have come from abroad.’

‘Where abroad?’

‘India, Pakistan, somewhere out there. But as the others came from Sweden, we thought that Agnes must have been mistaken. Mixed it up with another fan letter.’

‘So how did your wife react?’

‘At first Malin laughed them off. But then they started to unnerve her.’

‘Have you still got them?’

‘No. Malin wouldn’t have them in the house. She burnt them. She wouldn’t even show me the last couple.’

‘Were they signed?’

‘He only put H.’

‘Where were they posted from?’

‘Here in Malmö. Initially they were sent to our production company address in Stockholm. But the last few were delivered by hand. Shoved through the letterbox.’

‘So he had discovered where she lived.’

‘Yes. Made it seem even creepier.’

Anita made a note on the pad in front of her.

‘Is this H another Crabo situation?’

Mick shook his head. ‘No. Crabo kept turning up wherever Malin went. H is very different. We’ve never seen him.’

Anita scribbled something else.

‘Did your wife spend much time down here? In Malmö?

‘When she could. She comes from here. This is where her family are. Her mother Britta still lives in Rostorp opposite the park. Where Anita Eckberg came from,’ he added unnecessarily. 'Malin never did like Stockholm much. And the Crabo situation didn’t help.’

‘Were you apart a lot?’

‘What are you implying?’ he said with a hint of anger.

‘I’m not implying anything. All I’m trying to establish is whether your wife spent time by herself in Malmö. That would give your H, or anybody else, a chance to find her alone. Someone knew you weren’t there. Presumably, that’s why they turned up last night.’

The anger disappeared and his eyes began to water, though she could see he was fighting back the tears. ‘I should have been there,’ he gulped. ‘Yes, we were apart quite a lot. She wasn’t into the business side of film-making. I had all that. And the Stockholm creative scene – she loathed it.’

Anita continued to make notes as Mick wiped an eye with his index finger as though he had some grit in it.

‘Any other people who might be a potential danger?’

Mick looked up, almost startled. Anita thought he was about to say something, but he merely shook his head.

‘Any personal relationships that could have tipped over into violence? I hate to ask this but did she have any other…’ she couldn’t phrase it any other way...‘men?’

‘Of course not!’ That smouldering anger resurfaced with a vengeance. ‘Just because she was an actress it doesn’t mean she fucked around!’

Anita held up her hands in gesture of placation. ‘I’m not saying she did but we have to explore every avenue.’

‘We were happily married. End of story.’ It turned out to be the end of the interview. Mick Roslyn got up and walked out.

‘He what?’ Moberg couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘He just got up and walked out. We weren’t holding him so there was nothing I could do,’ Anita explained.

‘And why?’

Anita shifted uneasily in front of Moberg. She knew she was giving him more ammunition. ‘I asked, in as polite a way as possible, if she had anybody on the side.’

‘Brilliant! We’re going to get fuck all co-operation from him from now on.’ She let him rant on until he ran out of steam. Maybe it was time for the transfer she had promised herself. Ystad would be ok – Simrishamn better.

‘What I did get out of him were a couple of potential suspects.’ This changed Moberg’s mood when she told him about Jörgen Crabo and the anonymous H.

Moberg turned to Westermark. ‘Give Stockholm a ring.’

‘Won’t get much out of them at this time of night.’

Moberg’s finger started to wag in Westermark’s direction. ‘I don’t care what bloody time it is. Get them off their arses and get someone to track this Crabo down and find out if he was in Stockholm last night and not peeping through windows on our patch.’

A chastened Westermark slunk off to make his call.

‘Henrik, any luck with the neighbours?’

‘So far, a blank. No one heard or saw anything suspicious. But we have tapes from a couple of CCTV cameras – one from the bus station and the other for the
Systembolag
. Unfortunately, there’s nothing covering the entrance to the apartment block, but at least we’ve got something from either side of the road so our killer may be on there somewhere.’

‘That’s something.’ Moberg hitched up his trousers, which were constantly under pressure from his overhanging stomach. ‘That leaves this H character. Might just be a love-sick loon but we have to try and identify him.’

‘Unless H is the same person as Crabo,’ suggested Olander.

‘That’s a point. Tell Westermark to get Stockholm to send down a photo of Crabo. He may have come down here but kept out of sight.’

Olander went off after Westermark. Moberg watched him leave the room. ‘Smart boy, that one. Better watch your arse, Anita.’

‘I thought that’s what you did.’

Moberg was temporarily taken off guard by Anita’s retort. Nordlund smirked. Before Moberg could come back with a sarcastic remark, Anita said, ‘If H was dropping off his letters at the apartment then he may have been hanging around the area for some time. It’s probably worth looking at CCTV footage going back a few weeks.’

Nordlund sighed heavily. ‘Thanks.’

‘No, fru Sundström’s right.’ He emphasized the ‘Mrs’, making her sound like a hundred and three. ‘I want someone looking through that stuff tonight. This H is the only real suspect we’ve got so far – so let’s find him!’

Ewan was restless. He couldn’t get Malin Lovgren out of his head. He kept seeing the blue of her jumper. Not the face, just this blur of blue. He found himself shaking and he automatically teased out a cigarette from a packet he wasn’t really aware he was holding. He was about to light it, when he stopped. He’d got away with lighting a cigarette the day before in the bathroom, but decided he wouldn’t push his luck. He didn’t want the Swedish health police battering down the door the moment his first puff set off some hidden smoke alarm. He left the cigarette unlit in his mouth. At least it felt comforting in there.

He pulled back the curtain and gazed into a cold Scandinavian night, the lights of Malmö spread out in front of him. He hadn’t had the heart to go out and socialize with Alex and David as promised. He’d rung David to say he couldn’t make it. ‘God, what a shitter,’ David had sympathized on hearing the reason. But they’d arranged to meet next day for David to show him around.

He had had one drink in the hotel bar but hadn’t been able to finish it. And he certainly couldn’t eat anything. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it down. He tugged at the curtains roughly and shut out the Swedish city. It was no good; he couldn’t banish thoughts of Malin Lovgren’s dead body.

He looked up at the apartment. The fourth floor was in darkness. There would be no one there tonight. Malin Lovgren would never return. What was he going to do now? The bitter wind off the sea was bringing flurries of snow with it. He stamped his feet in an attempt to warm them up but nothing could stop him shivering at the chill and the thought of what had happened up there in that room. What he knew.

He pulled his coat collar tight to the neck and turned away for the last time. His cold vigil was at an end.

Anita stared at the contents of her fridge – two eggs, a half-eaten pack of Danish salami, a nearly squeezed-out tube of caviar, a tub of Turkish yogurt and a small lump of Kloster cheese. Nothing looked that appetizing. She had expected to be in Simrishamn, so hadn’t stocked up. She half-heartedly took out the cheese and dumped it on the small kitchen table. The opened bottle of red wine had already taken centre stage. She was on her second glass. She glanced around for the knäckebröd. She knew she had put it somewhere yesterday. She wasn’t actually that hungry, despite not eating since a late, leisurely breakfast. It was well after midnight and she was tired.

They were no closer to any new leads by the time Moberg called it a night. It would be an early start. She would talk to the journalist again on the way into the polishus. Then Malin Lovgren’s mother. She wasn’t sure whether Roslyn had been completely honest with her. Just a feeling, nothing more. Strachan might throw more light on the charismatic director. He was certainly that, which meant he was capable of manipulation. Strachan might offer a few clues as to Roslyn’s character. Yet all it would amount to was background. It was Malin Lovgren’s background that really needed looking into. Anita hoped that her mother would paint a broader picture than the one they got through the usual media coverage and cinematic hype: the real person behind the public persona.

Anita sipped her wine. Was this really the life she wanted for herself? She had had such expectations, both personal and professional. It was sad to reflect that her professional male relationships had been more successful than her personal ones. Except Lasse. He was the one joy to have come out of her increasingly joyless marriage. He dutifully phoned every week. She wasn’t sure what she would do if she hadn’t got him.

And why had Malin Lovgren not had children? Would a family have interfered with her career? On first acquaintance, Roslyn hadn’t struck her as being a family man. Was it even relevant to the inquiry? Yet she couldn’t get out of her mind his final outburst: ‘We were happily married. End of story.’ The protest was too strong. What was he hiding?