Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) (2 page)

She instinctively felt for her snus tin in her bag. Of course, it wasn’t there. She had given up for nearly a month now. She knew it was a filthy habit, but it had kept her cravings for a cigarette at bay for a few years. Now, giving up the snus was the next step. She knew she had done it with him in mind; snus was a thing that the British couldn’t get their heads around. She had also spent more time than usual getting herself ready before she set off for the station. This afternoon, she had stood in front of the mirror longer than she’d done in the whole of the last month. She decided she didn’t look too hideous for someone coming up to forty-six. Mind you, she had increased her jogging over the last couple of months to try and lose the bit of extra weight that had crept up on her, particularly round the tummy. But her exercise regime had done the trick, and she could now wear clothes that hadn’t fitted her at Christmas. Today, she had forsaken her usual jeans or trousers and decided to give her legs an unaccustomed airing. The floral dress she wore was short, and she began to worry that her legs weren’t as brown as she would have liked. If this weather continued, then a few days on the beach would remedy that. Another concern was whether he’d like her hair. After having it short for many years, she had grown it out over the last few months, and now it reached her shoulders. She wasn’t sure it suited her, though Wallen had been complimentary at work. So had Lasse and Jazmin. At least
they
were less of a worry now that they had moved into an apartment together. However, the Mirzas still didn’t approve of their daughter living with her son, and Anita had been forced to play the role of peacemaker on a couple of occasions.

And now Jazmin’s brother, Hakim, was back to help. It was great to have him at the polishus again. After a year and a half up in Gothenburg, he had returned last month, when an opening had become available in the Criminal Investigation Squad. Now he was a fully-fledged detective. Even the miserable Chief Inspector Moberg seemed vaguely pleased that he was around. In fact, Moberg’s moods had been more equitable of late since his third wife’s patience had snapped and she had walked out on him. The only change in his lifestyle, as far as the team could see, was that, now his domestic cook had downed utensils and left, he ate out even more than before.

It had been a strange year and a half while Hakim had been away. She had been given a long compassionate leave after the Westermark incident, in which her detective colleague had blown his brains out in front of her. The therapy sessions had been more useful than last time, though the image of Karl Westermark’s final moments still plagued her, and often she screamed in the night. She wasn’t sure if she did it any more. Since Lasse had moved out, there was no one to tell her. The disturbing dreams persisted, though. The team hadn’t been the same again on her return to work. Too many scars that would never heal. The loss of her mentor, Henrik Nordlund – murdered by Westermark – had been particularly hard on her. As a group, they were still professional, but it often felt as though they were just going through the motions. Maybe Hakim’s return would help.

Anita eyed the police station across the road again. Maybe she had had enough of Malmö, and she should spend the last years of her career in a quieter backwater like Simrishamn. She still had school friends living in the area. And she didn’t see much of Lasse these days, so the ties with the city were loosening. It was something to ponder during her month off. She was pleased that she had managed to secure the same holiday home overlooking the sea that she had taken in the early months of last year when she was mentally sorting herself out after Westermark’s bloody exit.

She became aware of the people around her stirring and staring up the line. She followed their gaze and could see the sun glinting off the outline of the train. Once again, she hoped that this wasn’t going to be a disaster.

The rain pitter-pattered on the roof of the crime-scene tent as Hakim Mirza zipped up his white plastic suit and pushed his way through the canvas opening. It had been raining all night, which wasn’t going to help Eva Thulin and her forensics team. Eva looked up from the body she was examining and gave the tall, young detective a wan smile.

‘Ah, Anita’s prodigal son has returned. Welcome back. Where is she?’

‘On holiday,’ he replied as he cast an eye around the scene. Klara Wallen was already there, but there was no sign of Pontus Brodd.

‘Where’s Brodd?’ he asked Wallen. The short, slightly muscular detective, with dark hair severely scraped back into a ponytail, replied with a resigned shrug. ‘The chief inspector’s on his way,’ Hakim added as a warning. The prospect didn’t improve her mood. With Anita away, Chief Inspector Moberg might ask her to front the investigation. She wasn’t sure whether she was up to it.

‘What have we got?’ asked Hakim.

‘Female jogger, probably in her mid-thirties,’ Wallen answered. ‘As she was out running, we don’t have any identification. Only had a key on her. And a pendant in the shape of a cross.’ With that, she left the tent.

Hakim could see the blonde hair behind Thulin’s arched body. A baseball cap lay on the ground close to the victim’s head.

‘How did she die?’

‘Stabbed twice in the back. The second incision killed her. It looks as though her assailant came up behind her.’

‘Was she running away from her attacker?’

‘I can’t be sure, but the cleanness of the first stab indicates that she may not have known that someone was about to harm her. The second one isn’t as precise, as she was probably beginning to fall forward from the impact of the first blow. But the second thrust did the damage.’

‘Which side did the attacker approach?’

‘Judging by the angle of the initial wound, her assailant was coming up behind on the woman’s left shoulder.’

‘So was probably right-handed?’

‘Yes.’

As Hakim tiptoed round Thulin, he could see that the woman lying lifeless on the ground had attractive, long legs. Thulin caught his glance. ‘Beautiful girl.’ Thulin lifted up the victim’s right hand. ‘Immaculate fingernails. She certainly looked after herself.’

‘Was she sexually assaulted?’

‘Doesn’t appear so. We’ll need to get her back to the lab to make sure. But her running shorts don’t appear to have been disturbed. Pity, as that would have given us some DNA.’

‘Time of death?’

‘Last night between ten and midnight. Again, I’ll know more later.’

‘Is this the spot where she was killed?’

‘Probably. There’s no indication that she was moved.’

Hakim observed the interwoven mishmash of muddy footprints close to the body.

‘Who found her?’

‘Unfortunately, it was a group of elderly runners first thing this morning.’ She nodded at the footprints. ‘Trampled everywhere. After the rain last night, you can see the mess they’ve made. We’ll never find the perpetrator’s footprints under that lot.’

‘So, if they were the first to see the body, it’s fairly safe to assume that this happened when no one else was around.’

‘Possibly. But when did the rain start last night?’

‘I’ll check that out,’ said Hakim, making a note.

‘The rain may have kept people away until this morning.’

Just then, the vast figure of Chief Inspector Erik Moberg waddled into the tent. He was bursting out of his plastic suit. Wallen trailed in his wake. Hakim let Wallen update him, with Thulin throwing in the odd comment as she continued to examine the body.

When they had finished filling him in, Moberg sighed. ‘I don’t think the world will miss another fucking jogger. Bloody waste of time.’

Hakim realised that working for Moberg was going to be exactly as it had been in his trainee days. The man was all heart.

‘Well, those geriatric runners may have buggered up the ground here, but I still want a thorough forensic search of the area.’

‘Don’t we always do that?’ Thulin muttered from her squatting position.

Moberg chose to ignore her comment. ‘If she’s a jogger, I assume she hasn’t come too far.’

Thulin passed Moberg two small, clear plastic evidence bags. ‘A key. Only thing on her. Presumably it’s for her apartment. The pendant was round her neck. Looks quite old to me.’

‘So, we’ll have to start going from apartment to apartment round the perimeter of the park.’

Did Moberg realize how many apartment blocks were round Pildammsparken? Wallen thought wearily.

‘And that includes the medical staff over there,’ Moberg airily waved a hand in the direction of Malmö’s Skåne University Hospital. ‘Wallen, you and Brodd can organize the apartment visits. Where is Brodd?’

‘Haven’t seen him this morning,’ Wallen admitted.

Instead of being annoyed, Moberg grinned. ‘The poor sod can’t take his drink. We had a few last night on the way home. Better give him a call, though. Tell him to get his arse down here. And we’ll also need to speak to regular joggers; Mirza, that’s yours. They may know who she is, so we’ll need an artist’s impression done pronto. Can’t show ghoulish photos to the public, or we’ll get into trouble.’

‘Do you want me to get in touch with Anita?’ Hakim couldn’t believe that Wallen had made such a suggestion. She would be furious being dragged in from her holiday. ‘She lives just opposite the park and jogs round here, I believe.’

‘No!’ Moberg snapped. ‘You think we’re incapable of solving this without bloody Anita Sundström?’ Wallen shook her head in submission. ‘We can’t have the woman thinking we can’t operate without her.’

He noticed her blonde hair and glasses as he peered out of the window of the train as it approached the platform. He gathered his luggage together. His heart missed a beat. He’d been waiting for this moment for so long. He couldn’t believe his luck when Anita had phoned him several months after they had worked together on the heir hunter’s case. He had hoped that she would, but, after time passed, he had despaired of any contact. He realized that their brief, fumbled lovemaking during her time in England had been because she had lost someone close to her – it was in a moment of vulnerability. He still didn’t know who the person was and had not pried further. Her call out of the blue was followed by the occasional email. She gave little away. And then he had mentioned in one that they should meet up. To his amazement, she had agreed, and they had got together for a weekend in London. It hadn’t been an outstanding success, but it hadn’t been the debacle it could have been either. They had got on fairly well, even if it was a case of him doing most of the talking. Having booked separate rooms at the hotel, they had ended up in the same bed on the last night. Both had performed a lot better than on the previous occasion. Less tense, more relaxed.

The problem was that when the weekend ended, he still had no idea where he stood with her. Were they a potential couple? Or was it a fleeting friendship? The emails continued – more regular on his side. The tone of his messages became increasingly flirty. The ones she returned were newsy but emotionally deadpan. She gave nothing away, which was increasingly frustrating, as he was becoming more preoccupied with thoughts of her. He found himself waking up with Anita’s face being the first image that popped into his bleary head. He suspected that while she was always his first thought, he was but an afterthought to her. She grew more attractive in his mind as the months passed. And then, she had suddenly suggested that he visit Sweden. And not just for a weekend; a fortnight in the summer. That was back in February. He had booked his SAS flight from Newcastle to Copenhagen immediately, before she could change her mind. And then he had counted the weeks and days. His colleagues at the Cumbria Constabulary headquarters in Penrith were both intrigued and envious to hear of his trip. To the British, Sweden is a bit of an enigma. Though they think they know it, with its dark nights, bouncy pop music and fictional serial killers, it’s not usually on their “to visit” list. Most of his fellow police workers tended to fly south to Spain and Portugal for the sun. When you live in one of the rainier parts of Britain, heading north is considered rather strange. But then, they were never quite sure what to make of Detective Sergeant Kevin Ash. He wasn’t local; worse, he was a southerner from Essex. And he was far too chatty for a community that was friendly but naturally reserved. Now that he was heading off to Scandinavia for a fortnight, the office would be a lot quieter.

Anita had actually made the effort to clean her second-hand Peugeot before picking Kevin up. It still wasn’t spotless, but it was passable. The greeting had been awkward. The half-embrace had turned into a formal handshake. But the smiles were genuine on both sides, and Anita found herself relaxing as they passed through the resplendent green countryside of a vibrant early-June day. They had already dispensed with the details of Kevin’s journey that day, which had involved both car and plane before coming to a juddering halt at Copenhagen’s Kastrup Airport. The train service that usually whipped freshly arrived passengers across the Öresund Bridge into Malmö was subject to an all-out strike. Such an action had surprised the Danes and Swedes as much as it had Kevin. Though striking was once a traditional British pastime, he had assumed that such a thing was beyond the efficient Scandinavians. As both employer and union seemed incapable of sitting down together, Kevin joked that the British could teach them a thing or two about the games that surround negotiations. It was the one thing that Britain still led the world in. As a result of the strike, he had to wait for a coach in the middle of what seemed like a rugby scrum – ‘You lot don’t know how to queue either.’ – until he and his fellow travellers were transported over the bridge by road.

After the previous night’s downpour, it was welcomingly hot. The sea shimmered on their right, and the trees and fields on their left were burgeoning with the verdure of the beginning of summer. As the spring had come unseasonably early this year, Anita explained that what they called the “white period” of hawthorn and apple blossom had already been and gone. When the conversation lulled, Kevin seemed quite content to drink in the sights of this new land. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but this beautiful, tranquil countryside was a million miles away from the bleak landscapes of common British perception.