Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) (12 page)

On the computer there was no attempt to hide what Akerman did for a living. Hakim wasn’t sure what the official position on prostitution was in Switzerland. But from what he could see, she didn’t work locally. She was very business-like, with a database for her euphemistically titled company,
The Swedish International Friendship Service
. There were financial spreadsheets which showed that she was earning a huge amount of money from a limited number of clients. They had to be rich to afford her. Each one was listed; and the cost of each session. The only anomalies were the two Malmö clients. One paid very little, while the other paid nothing at all. Despite her huge income, the details of her travel arrangements showed she didn’t go first or business class as Hakim had expected. He had heard that Geneva was an Easyjet hub. Either she was frugal, or it was her way of keeping a low profile. With London, Paris, Barcelona, Naples, Rome, Lisbon and Malmö (Copenhagen) as her regular destinations, Switzerland was the ideal base. Being an hour from Geneva airport meant that Akerman could fly to her clients with the minimum of fuss. A quick check on the Easyjet website showed him that all her destinations could be reached by the low-cost air company through Geneva.

Most importantly, the letters in the diary
were
initials – they corresponded to the names of her clients. She appeared to have twelve regulars who were serviced every two months, or in three cases, every month; though she seemed to go to Barcelona twice a month to visit a specific client there. But it was the names of the two Malmö men who really interested Hakim. One he recognized – a well-known local politician. That was a real surprise. The other was the one who got his kicks for free. She had even made a list of each one’s sexual preferences and foibles. The man from Barcelona was the most demanding; one of the ones in Paris was the most imaginative, and her two London clients had the shortest lists. Did that sum up their national characteristics? wondered Hakim as his horror grew at the calculated, yet graphic, nature of the descriptions. She had also made notes about the men and their families. Names of their wives and children, their birthdays, what they liked doing in their spare time, where they went on holiday. She was meticulous.

Hakim did a quick internet search of prostitution in the countries that Akerman regularly visited to check their legal approaches to the world’s oldest profession. He was the first to admit that he was no expert on the subject, except in regard to Sweden. They varied from legal to tolerated to prosecuted. But none had the same attitude as his home country, where prostitution wasn’t illegal, but what was against the law was paying for sex, so it was the clients who were the criminals and not the prostitutes. That might put the two Swedish men in a difficult position if it emerged they were using the services of an international call girl. That could give them both a motive for murder. This could be the breakthrough they were looking for.

Lacaze returned. ‘You get in?’ he remarked, pointing at the computer.

‘Yes,’ said Hakim. ‘You were right. Any information from the neighbours?’

‘
Non
. They see her little. She go away a lot. Keep by herself.’ Then he laughed. ‘So do everybody here!’

‘What did they think she did when she was away?’

‘Business. They do not know what business. One say she like to run.’

‘Jog?’

‘
Oui
. And on the bicycle. She go many kilometres. Very fit. Bicycle in hut in
jardin
.’

Hakim returned to the computer. He had made notes, but he wanted to download the relevant files he’d found. But Lacaze continued to hover.

‘Shall we have a coffee?’ Hakim suggested.

‘
Bonne idée
. I smoke as well.’

‘Can you go to the kitchen and see if there is some?’ Lacaze nodded. ‘I will come along in a minute.’

As soon as he heard Lacaze clomp along the wooden-floored corridor, Hakim whipped out a computer USB memory stick he always carried with him and furtively downloaded the relevant files. He had been warned by Boniface not to take the computer back with him, and he wasn’t sure if the Swiss detective would be too happy about him taking vital files out of the country. He thought it was better not to enquire.

When Hakim reached the kitchen, Lacaze was sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar smoking a pungent Gauloise. He had found some coffee and that was percolating, its aroma unable to prevail over that of the cigarette.

Lacaze smiled. ‘Finish the download?’

Hakim flinched. How did he know?

‘
Pas de problème!
I not tell. Sûreté are shits. They are…’ and Lacaze made a gesture by flicking his finger a couple of times against the end of his nose, accompanied by a soft snort.

Hakim couldn’t think of the word in English either. ‘Look down on you?’

‘
Précisément!
And the photo also OK,’ he added with a wink. He might appear a bumbling local policeman, but he didn’t miss a thing, thought Hakim ruefully.

In a halo of smoke, Lacaze poured out two cups of black coffee. It was much needed. Hakim had been surprisingly shaken by what he had found out since entering Julia Akerman’s home. He still needed to do a thorough search of the apartment. Now that he knew what she did and what she was doing in Malmö, he still wasn’t sure who she really was. They already knew she wasn’t Julia Akerman. Everything was false about her, including the colour of her hair. He wanted to discover more. The neighbours didn’t seem to know anything useful other than to confirm her movements, which he’d already established. But what was she like? There was one thing that had struck him as odd. For a woman who had made her living out of prostitution – albeit high-class – why had she worn a cross and have one above her bed?

‘Did you see the cross in the bedroom?’

‘Yes. I not think that Swedish are religious people.’ Lacaze gave Hakim a look. ‘I mean Christian, not Muslim.’

‘There are still Christians who worship. But I believe the numbers are falling.’

Lacaze suddenly smacked his head. ‘I remember. Upstairs,’ he said pointing to the ceiling, ‘she say she think Akerman go to church. Church in village.’

‘Roman Catholic?’

‘
Non
. We speak French, but this is region, what you say…
Protestant
.’

‘Same word in English. In Sweden the church is Lutheran. Similar, I assume.’

‘You speak to
pasteur
?’

Hakim nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘That’s a good idea.
Bonne idée
.’ He was beginning to like Lacaze.

Hakim spent another hour searching through all the rooms in the apartment. There was nothing to indicate who Akerman may have been in her former life. Besides the two Malmö paintings, the photo was the only connection with her past. It was also difficult to assess her character. Her home was fashionable, neat and cold. Add her computer files to the mix, and she was obviously an efficient, well-ordered woman. She was wealthy, yet nothing about her surroundings was overtly ostentatious. She didn’t mix with her neighbours. Did she have any friends out here? Her emails were virtually non-existent; mainly practical ones to do with travel, insurances and bills. She had no social media contacts. Julia Akerman kept the lowest of profiles.

The apartment had few books. Most were romantic fiction in English, probably picked up at airports to fill in time on her regular journeys. They were similar to the types of book she had on the Kindle they’d found at the Malmö apartment. They seemed a world away from the life she lived. There seemed no romance here that he could detect. There were no books about Switzerland or guidebooks on the Vaud, so she hadn’t taken much interest in her chosen country, despite being here for five years. Was it purely a place to hide away from the world?

Finally, he sat down on her bed. He had already been through the drawer of the bedside table on which he’d found the photo. Nothing unusual there. Now he looked through the other drawer. It had one item in it. A bible. It was well-thumbed. He flicked to the front. There was an inscription –
Till Ebba, med kärlek från mamma. Juli 1990
.

So, the murder victim in the park was called Ebba. That was a start.

Lacaze and Hakim walked into the centre of the village. Near the far end of the main street stood the church, perched above the road below. Steps ran up from the pavement to the concourse in front of the building. Four pollarded plane trees with tufts of leaves guarded the entrance. The 19th-century church had a bell tower moulded to the main structure of the building in the neo-Grecian style. Below the belfry was a clock, and below that, a pedimented doorway. The faded yellow sandstone softened any potential air of austerity. When the bells suddenly tolled three, they gave Hakim a fright. They were thunderous. He couldn’t imagine living close to a sound that loud springing into life every quarter of the hour. After the third strike, and with the noise fading away into the now warm afternoon, a figure appeared at the entrance. Hakim had expected the pastor to be in a full black cassock. This fair-haired man of about forty was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt.

‘
Pasteur
,’ said Lacaze to Hakim. ‘His English, better than my English.’

‘Hello,’ said the pastor, and he held out his hand for Hakim to shake.

‘Hello.’

‘Come in,’ the pastor said, waving his hand towards the door.

Hakim found himself hesitating. He had never entered a church before. There had been no reason to. The occasional visits to mosques with his father were his only experience of religious buildings. No case had ever required him to step inside a church or a synagogue. The pastor noticed his reticence.

‘It is OK. All faiths are welcome in our church.’

Hakim felt obliged to follow him inside. He could justify it to himself as it was important to the case in hand, yet, irrationally, it was a strange, uncomfortable moment. Once inside, he relaxed. It wasn’t what he expected. Two blocks of modern beechwood pews were slightly unaligned, causing the aisle to taper to a central cross at the end where the chancel would normally be. Plain round pillars, painted a strident peach, supported a gallery on three sides, and an enormous organ filled the side above the door with its impressive array of pipes. It was more like a concert venue than a church. Hakim and the pastor sat down in one of the pews while Lacaze wandered around.

‘It is about Julia Akerman.’

‘The gendarme explained. It is so shocking. We will say prayers for her. This world can be so wicked.’

Hakim felt he had to nod in agreement. ‘I know. And we intend to catch the person who killed her. But we know so little about her. This has been her home for the last few years?’

‘Yes. I have been here three years, and she came here on a number of occasions. Not regular. She was away on business a lot.’

Hakim didn’t think it was appropriate to elaborate. ‘What kind of person was Julia? I am trying to build a picture of her.’

‘Beautiful, of course. Swedish people often are.’ Then he looked rather embarrassed as he realized he was addressing a Swede who had none of the physical characteristics associated with the country. ‘Julia was always friendly,’ said the pastor, hurrying on. ‘She even came to one or two of our social evenings. They can be fun,’ he added in response to Hakim’s sceptical expression.

‘Have you ever been to her home?’

The pastor shot back a puzzled expression. ‘No, now I think about it. I am not sure if any of the other members of the congregation have either.’

‘Did she seem worried about anything lately?’

‘I do not think so. She was here two Sundays ago. She was as she always is. Very polite. Her French was improving. She was pleased about that.’

‘You don’t know if she had a boyfriend… or girlfriend?’

‘Not that we knew. It did seem strange that someone so pretty did not have a husband or partner. Maybe she was too busy with her career.’

‘Maybe.’

‘But I think Julia liked to come here. She liked the peace. And the company of the congregation. Her escape from her busy life.’

Hakim called Chief Inspector Moberg. After his meeting with the pastor, he had bid farewell to Lacaze. The station was just round the corner and down the slope from the church, and the hourly train back to Lausanne would be departing in forty minutes. Hakim had gone up the bank at the back of the church and was standing in front of the castle. The twin towers of the medieval fortress plunged skywards, their red pyramidal roofs resembling rocket heads. It was now a museum.

‘A whore!’ was Moberg’s exclamation on hearing Hakim’s discoveries.

‘Clients throughout Europe. She flew in and out once or twice a month in most cases. Certainly to Malmö.’

‘And have you got names for these clients?’

‘Yes. She had two in Malmö. One is called Markus Asplund.’

‘The name means nothing.’

‘The other one will. Axel Isaksson.’

‘Axel Isaksson!’ Moberg was incredulous. ‘The politician?’

‘Yes, it’s him; Akerman’s got a wealth of information on all her clients.’

‘Brilliant! He’s the bastard that’s always giving the police a hard time if we get the slightest thing wrong. He had a field day with the Westermark business. Axel Isaksson,’ he repeated. Then Hakim heard a bark of laughter. ‘And the wanker is always banging on about family values and how people give up on marriage too easily. He didn’t have to live with my wives! I’ll enjoy hauling him in.’ Moberg chuckled again. ‘That’s good work, Hakim.’

Hakim felt ridiculously pleased. The chief inspector had never used his first name before.

‘Have the Swiss police been cooperative?’

‘Reasonably. But Inspector Boniface in Lausanne doesn’t want me to take any computer material out of the country. They like to keep tabs on their residents. Everything’s a bit secretive here. You know they don’t have freedom of information in Switzerland?’ Hakim couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice.

‘We could do with that here. Too bloody open for our own good. Anyhow, I’ll ring this Boni-thingy fellow.’

‘It’s OK. I’ve downloaded all we need.’