Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) (13 page)

‘You’re learning,’ Moberg said approvingly. ‘When are you coming back?’

‘Tomorrow. I’ve got to report to Boniface first thing.’

‘Right. We’ll get onto these two “clients”. If they’ve got something to lose – and Isaksson has his reputation for starters – then they’ve got a motive.’

‘One more thing. I think Julia Akerman’s real name was Ebba. But Ebba what, I don’t know.’

Next morning, Hakim had a meeting with Inspector Boniface. For convenience, as Hakim had a plane to catch later in the day, they met at the Prefecture again. This time, he took the Metro up the hill. He explained what he had found out about Julia Akerman.

When Hakim had finished, Boniface said, ‘So, she had no clients here in Switzerland.’

‘Not that I could find.’

‘Good. Nothing for us to investigate. Anyway, her activities would be legal here. But, as a precaution, I had Lacaze bring in her computer to the Sûreté last night. We might find things that we need to keep our eye on.’

As they shook hands outside the Prefecture, the rain began to fall again.

‘At least you return with two possible suspects. Why you have such a ridiculous law on prostitution is beyond me – you prosecute the client, don’t you?’ Boniface gave a Gallic shrug. Hakim wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. Despite his misgivings about the trade, he was proud that Sweden was liberal enough to see the prostitutes as the exploited partners in the exchange and that they should be protected.

The train journey back was miserable. The rain continued, and the lake and the mountains beyond were lost in the mist. He wanted to get back home to Sweden. The case was developing, and he wanted to be at the centre of it.

While he waited in a virtually deserted airport upper departure lounge away from the shops and the eateries, he noticed a sign in the corner:
Espace de recueillement
. He went into the small meditation room and found a curved wall, seats and a bench. On a table were carefully laid a Koran, a bible and a Jewish book, which he thought might be the Torah. Appropriate religious clothing was also available for the traveller’s use. The solitude was slightly marred by the piped music impinging from the departure lounge outside. Nevertheless, he spent fifteen undisturbed minutes in the room and found himself praying. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe this case had disturbed him more than he realized. Maybe it raised issues about his own life that he hadn’t faced before. Maybe he was beginning to feel that his relationship with Allah shouldn’t be the only meaningful one in his life.

The plane back to Kastrup was on time. At the last moment, he made an impulse purchase at an airport shop. It was a silly little cowbell with the Swiss flag painted on it. His mother would like it. As he queued up for the security check, he felt the computer memory stick in his pocket. He was leaving Switzerland with a lot more than a tacky souvenir. What did play on his mind was how Julia/Ebba had found her clients.

The crossing had been fine, and Anita hadn’t felt squeamish or seasick. She wasn’t a good sailor, and had had second thoughts about taking the catamaran from Simrishamn to Allinge on Bornholm. But it was a favourite trip of southern-based Swedes, who enjoyed the charm, beauty and less-expensive beer of the Danish island an hour away in the Baltic. It was somewhere that she felt she must take Kevin, and, if the weather stayed pleasant, it made for a good day out. Kevin was already clicking away with his camera as the catamaran eased into Allinge with its brightly painted buildings and distinctive smokehouse chimneys artistically positioned above its picturesque harbour. As they disembarked, they could see that it was bursting with sailing boats of all sizes, from ocean-going yachts to small craft. A market was in full swing on the quayside, and, with the promise of bargains, Anita automatically gravitated towards it. With the Swedish krona relatively strong against the Danish krone, this was a good time to buy. Kevin soon lost interest in the stalls and wandered off to take some more photographs. They met up for a coffee and Danish pastry at a café above the harbour, where Anita showed off her two purchases – a summery blue dress and a new pair of sandals, which she was wearing.

‘The others were pretty worn,’ she explained as she tucked into a large cream-filled bun.

‘Well, I’ve been to the tourist information,’ Kevin said, producing a batch of leaflets. ‘This is a very interesting island.’

‘And I’ve a horrid feeling you’re going to tell me what you’ve found out,’ she joshed.

Totally unabashed, he went on to tell her about the history of Bornholm and how it had changed hands between Denmark and Sweden over the centuries. ‘Then the Germans took it over in 1940. They used it as a listening station, as it was part of the Eastern Front. At the end of the war, the Russians bombed it because the German commander had been given orders only to surrender to the Western Allies. Then the Soviets landed and held the island for a year before handing it back to the Danish on condition that no NATO troops, particularly the Americans, were stationed here.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘There’s plenty more.’ Kevin couldn’t help noticing Anita’s lack of interest. In fact, she was feeling slightly embarrassed that she knew virtually nothing about a place she had visited many times. ‘But it’ll keep.’

‘Try again after I’ve had a couple of beers,’ she joked. ‘I might be more receptive.’

He laughed. ‘I do go on. But when you’ve got no one in your life to natter to, I have to make the most of a captive audience. And, sadly for you, that’s what you are for the next week.’

‘How do you want to play this?’

Wallen was sitting opposite Moberg in his office. The chief inspector drummed his thick fingers on the desk top. He had been wondering himself ever since Hakim had given him the names of Axel Isaksson and Markus Asplund.

‘What do we know about Asplund?’

Wallen glanced down at her notebook, on which she had scribbled down the results of a few phone calls. ‘He’s a businessman.’

‘What in?’

‘Travel. He runs Malasp Travel. I think I’ve booked through them before. Tenerife. It’s a made-up name; an amalgam of Malmö and Asplund.’

‘I gathered that. They’ve got a few places.’

‘Ten offices. Mainly in southern Sweden. He’s fifty-one. Married with two grown-up kids and lives up in Växjö.’

‘That’s a bit of a trek.’

‘But he’s got an apartment here in Malmö. On Östra Rönneholmsvägen.’

Moberg gave a leer. ‘So, while his wife is safely tucked away in Växjö, he can play away from home here in Malmö. Perfect arrangement,’ he said almost wistfully. ‘But why doesn’t Akerman, or whatever she’s really called, charge him? I suppose we’ll have to ask. Do you know if he’s in town at the moment?’

‘No, he’s not.’ Wallen consulted her notebook again. ‘But he’s due back at the main office tomorrow morning.’

‘That’s your first appointment.’

‘I’ll sort that out. But what about Isaksson?’

Moberg blew out his cheeks. ‘That’s going to be trickier.’

‘Because of what he is?’

‘I know exactly what he is! He’s a shyster politician who’ll jump on any bandwagon that suits his cause. I don’t have to tell you what a hard time he gives us in the police. Any wrong moves and he’s on us like a shot. And each time, it increases his popularity. If we charge in – and I know I can be a bit like that…’ Wallen suppressed a smirk. Everybody who had ever worked with Moberg knew he was exactly like that, but she was surprised by his self-awareness; not a quality she had associated with the chief inspector. ‘We have to be damned sure of our facts before we tackle him. Our beloved commissioner and that harpy of a prosecutor will put every obstacle in our way before we’re allowed near the sod. What background have we got on him?’

Again, Wallen turned to her notebook.

‘Aged fifty-five, married with four children. Brought up in Sjöbo and started his political life there.’

‘God, I might have known he’d come from Sjöbo.’ Sjöbo was a Scanian town known throughout Sweden for being associated with strong opposition to immigration. It had made headlines when the municipality refused to accept refugees in 1987, and the result was the adoption of a combined immigration and integration system in the “Aliens Act” a couple of years later.

‘He may be right wing, but he’s not as far right as the Sweden Democrats. They had a lot of votes from there in the election.’

‘Anyone who shits on the force is a prick in my eyes. What else?’

‘He’s been on the city council for ten years. There have been rumours that he may stand for parliament in the general election later this year. During his time on the council, he has been involved in education. And, more recently, the Real Estate Office.’

‘That opens him up for dodgy dealing.’

‘Not a whisper. He seems whiter than white. Regular churchgoer. And he makes a big thing of the family and how it seems to be breaking down in modern society.’

After splitting from three wives, Moberg wasn’t in a position to cast any stones in Isaksson’s direction. But he did. ‘Can’t stand sanctimonious people like that.’ Then he brightened. ‘But we know he’s been a wicked boy. I wonder what his wife, church and council colleagues will think of him consorting with a prostitute. That’ll wipe the smug look off his face.’

Hakim made his way straight back to the polishus. He wanted to make sure that Moberg was up to date with everything, and find out if they had made any progress with the two names he had supplied from Julia Akerman’s list. The sun in Malmö was hot, and its brightness was in pleasant contrast to the gloom of the Switzerland he had just left. He dumped his cabin case in his room and knocked on Moberg’s door. He found the chief inspector in his shirt sleeves and with beads of sweat on his brow and upper lip; the small fan on his desk wasn’t having the desired effect.

‘Heat’s all right in bloody Spain but has no place in Sweden.’ He waved for Hakim to sit down.

Hakim produced his computer stick and placed it on Moberg’s desk.

‘From Akerman’s computer?’ Hakim nodded confirmation. ‘Well done.’ He wasn’t sure if the chief inspector was praising him for his mission in Switzerland or for taking evidence out of the country without Swiss authorization.

‘Are we any closer to finding out who Julia Akerman really was?’

‘No. We’re going through all the Ebbas of about the same age we can find. But if she wasn’t born in Malmö, as it says on her passport, then she might come from anywhere in the country. Or somewhere else entirely.’

Hakim now took out the photo he’d taken from Akerman’s bedside table.

‘This might help. There’s a good chance that these are her parents, or some relatives. If we have it blown up, we might be able to find the beach, if it’s in Skåne.’

Moberg picked up the photograph and examined it.

‘Then there’s the church connection. She went to the local church in La Sarraz. There was a bible by her bed and a cross above it. She may have been a… anyway, she appears to have been religious.’

Moberg laughed. ‘A frustrated nun!’

‘Maybe she’d considered entering the church and somehow got sidetracked.’

‘You can bloody say that again! But I’m not so sure. I think the nun outfit may have just been one of her kinky getups for some pious punter. Eva Thulin was on the phone half an hour ago and she says they’ve found semen on the habit.’ Moberg went silent for a moment, and then he clicked his fingers in triumph. ‘Now that would be nice! Axel Isaksson’s dead religious. Maybe Akerman was playing out his fantasies.’

‘Any DNA?’

‘They’re working on it. If it comes up as Isaksson’s, then not even the commissioner, the prosecutor or the frigging mayor can stop us talking to him.’

They had a final drink on the quayside while they waited for the catamaran to return. The heat of the day had receded, but the early evening was soothingly warm, and the cold beers were most welcome. As far as Kevin was concerned, they had had a wonderful day mooching around Allinge. They had wandered along the coast and found a fish restaurant for their lunch. Afterwards, they had returned to the harbour area and, at a cluttered shop packed with arty metalwork, Kevin had bought Anita a chunky modern candelabra made of Danish iron, with square, clean-cut lines, which she had taken a shine to. She had been suitably grateful, and he’d been pleased because he’d got a better exchange rate using his British bank card than he would have had using Swedish kronor.

He observed Anita supping her beer as she watched an elegant ocean-going yacht glide into the harbour and its crew jumping off to secure its moorings. She was such a handsome woman. He felt lifted every time she smiled at him – the playful grey-green eyes alight, and the high cheek bones creasing up above the open mouth. She made him feel good. He was wondering if he could spend the rest of his life with her. Yet, deep down, he knew it would never happen. It wasn’t practical. They lived in different worlds. To her, it seemed to him, this was a casual relationship with no strings attached. And he knew that she had been hurt in the past and that there would always be barriers that he would never be allowed to break through. He must count his blessings and take the relationship for what it was.

Anita turned to him and smiled. Even with her sunglasses on, her face lit up. ‘Happy?’

He stared at her for a few seconds before answering. ‘Very.’

‘Well, you’d better drink up. That’s our boat coming in.’

The journey back was as smooth as the one out. When they got back to the house, they opened up one of the bottles they had bought at the supermarket in Allinge – Anita wasn’t going to pass over the opportunity to buy cheaper red wine. They took their drinks out onto the porch and watched the sun retreating into the shadows of the night, the sky aglow with vermilion and gold.

‘Forecast is fine for tomorrow,’ Anita commented.

‘Is the weather in Sweden always this good?’

Anita’s snort was an eloquent reply.

‘What do you want to do tomorrow?’

‘Stay in bed with you.’

Anita gave a coy giggle. ‘I mean after that.’