Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) (6 page)

‘It’s basically a folding pocketknife. It has two handles with the blade hidden within their grooves. It’s opened by the handles counter-rotating and revealing the blade.’ Thulin demonstrated the motion with her hands. ‘It’s possible to open and close it with one hand. It’s also very light and easy to conceal until the last moment, therefore making it an ideal weapon when you’re running up behind your intended victim.’

‘Sounds lethal.’

‘Oh, they can be. It was traditionally made in the Philippines and used as a pocketknife, with the added benefit that it could be used in self-defence. Because of the way they open, they’re also known as fan knives.’

‘And they’re illegal in Sweden,’ pointed out Moberg, whose interest had been piqued.

‘Exactly. They’re banned in many parts of the world. One place where there was a boom in butterfly knives in the 1980s was in America. There have been legal clampdowns in certain states since, but they’re still easy enough to get hold of. Ten dollars would probably be enough to buy one.’

‘Can we check these things out?’

‘Not really. If it came from Sweden, it’s illegal, so you can’t trace who sold it because there won’t be any records. And as we haven’t actually got the knife, we can’t identify a manufacturer. If I were a betting person, I might put my money on it coming from America, though it could be from the Far East. Then again, to cause the damage it inflicted on that poor woman, it was a well-made blade, and the likelihood is that it was made in the States, where a lot of the better ones come from.’

Moberg looked thoughtful, and his fingers started drumming on his desk.

‘So, have we got to factor the United States into this killing?’

‘All I’m saying is that it could have come from there. Doesn’t mean it’s an American – possibly a Swede or someone else who got hold of it over there.’ Moberg pursed his lips. ‘Oh, by the way, the cross pendant is probably Eastern European. Polish possibly, so I’m told by someone who knows about these things. But it’s not worth anything.’

‘It meant something to that woman,’ observed Moberg. ‘God, this case isn’t getting any bloody easier.’

It was about midday when Anita and Kevin got back to the house. They had left their breakfast spot when the gunfire started from the Ravlund army firing range further up the coast, which coincided with the arrival of a boisterous group of teenagers on an end-of-term school trip. They stopped off at the ICA supermarket in Kivik and bought some cinnamon buns, berry muffins and Danish pastry twists for the afternoon fika with Albin Rylander. Anita would be the first to admit that she had bought what she liked and not what she thought her guests might.

As they rounded onto the edge of the grass, they saw Klas Lennartsson’s bike. Anita was surprised because he was usually gone by now. Maybe Albin was feeling stronger today. When they reached the porch, they found Lennartsson hunched up on one of their garden chairs. His face was drained and his eyes had a haunted look.

‘Klas, is something wrong?’ she asked in English.

He seemed unable to speak. Then, very quietly, it came out: ‘
Han är död
.
Han är död
,’ he repeated.

‘Albin’s dead?’

He nodded dolefully.

‘So, what happened?’ Anita asked, using English for Kevin’s benefit.

They had taken the shaken Klas Lennartsson inside and rustled up some besk that Anita’s friend Sandra had left after a boozy night when she first rented the house. Lennartsson downed the drink in one go.

‘Albin killed himself.’

‘What?’ Anita was appalled.

‘Suicide.’

‘Did he leave a note?’ It was the typical response of a cop.

‘None has been found.’

Anita exchanged glances with Kevin. They both knew that suicides tended to leave some form of communication.

‘Why now?’ Lennartsson said while shaking his head in disbelief. ‘The book was going so well.’

‘Maybe he woke up this morning and the pain was too much for him,’ Kevin suggested.

‘It was last night, according to Moa. It was poor Moa who found him this morning shortly before I arrived. She called the doctor. The police have been here too. There was an inspector called Zetterberg.’

‘Alice Zetterberg? Inspector Alice Zetterberg?’ Kevin noticed how surprised Anita sounded.

‘Yes,’ replied Lennartsson, still in a daze.

‘Know her?’ Kevin asked.

The frowning nod Anita gave warned him not to probe any further.

‘I know he didn’t have long. But he was so positive about telling his story. I just don’t understand it.’

‘Do you know how he killed himself?’ Anita asked.

‘He… em… he seems to have taken some pills. Drank whisky to help him swallow them.’

‘Not uncommon.’

‘It’s just… not right.’

Hakim was surprised to see Moberg in the meeting room that was doubling as their murder incident centre. Not that there was much to see other than the original crime-scene shots, various body photographs courtesy of Eva Thulin, and now a few pictures taken off the internet of examples of butterfly knives.

‘Not much to go on,’ Moberg said grumpily. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything for me?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Have you seen Wallen?’

Just then, she came in. She wore a broad grin, which wasn’t her usual facial expression.

‘We’ve got something!’

‘What?’

‘A response from someone who saw the picture of the victim in
Sydsvenskan
. It’s the owner of an apartment on Kronborgsvägen, which is close to the park. The woman rents, sorry rented, the apartment from him. She’s called Akerman. Julia Akerman.’

The sparkle in Moberg’s eye told them that this was the breakthrough they had been waiting for. At last, some concrete information.

‘The owner is called Mankad. He said he’d meet us down at the apartment in half an hour and let us in.’

‘Well done, Klara.’ Wallen beamed with delight. ‘Take young Mirza with you, and I’ll get people here to track down any information we can find on Julia Akerman. What are you waiting for?’

Kronborgsvägen is a wide street that runs parallel to Pildammsparken and ends up at a major crossroads opposite the city’s theatrical hub, the Malmö Opera. The block was about halfway down Kronborgsvägen, and was a good example of pragmatic sixties architecture. Jutting out from the flat face of the five-storey, red-brick, red-roofed building, above the front entrance, was a V-shaped, windowed column that ran the height of the structure to give it some perspective. It was hardly worth the effort. In front of the wooden doors hovered Mankad. He was a young man of no more than thirty, with thick black hair swept back, and casually dressed in a white shirt and cream trousers. On seeing Hakim, he flashed a smile which said “fellow immigrant”.

‘Herr Mankad,’ Wallen greeted him formally.

‘Please call me Vinoo.’ His Swedish was almost immaculate.

‘Inspector Klara Wallen. We spoke on the phone. This is my colleague, Inspector Hakim Mirza.’

Mankad insisted on shaking hands with them both.

‘OK, you want to see the apartment?’

Wallen nodded. Mankad clicked in a combination on the keypad and pushed the front door open. There was no lift, so they had to take the stairs to reach the fourth floor.

‘Did you know Julia Akerman well?’ Hakim asked as he took up the rear of the procession.

‘Mankad stopped at the first landing. ‘I met her only once. When I handed over the keys. She wanted a furnished apartment, and this was the only one we had.’

‘When was that?’

‘Over four years ago.’

They carried on up.

‘Is that usual? I mean to only meet a tenant once over such a long time?’

‘We usually see them more regularly. They ring up with maintenance problems, or they have difficulty with the rent one month, or they want to move. My family owns a large number of properties in Malmö, Helsingborg and Landskrona. But Akerman was different. She paid her rent on time, and we never had any complaints.’

‘No leaky taps or bunged up sinks?’ Wallen said with some feeling. Her own kitchen sink had flooded twice recently, and it had taken ages to get hold of a plumber to fix it.

‘No.’

‘Don’t you regularly inspect the properties?’ asked Hakim. ‘Make sure that the tenants are keeping them in a reasonable condition?’

‘We do. But according to our records, Akerman was never around when we called. Busy lady.’

‘A very dead lady,’ said Wallen severely.

‘Yes, it’s horrible.’

They reached the fourth floor in silence. Mankad produced a key at the same time as Wallen took out the key they had found on the body.

‘I’ll try this one,’ said Wallen. ‘To make sure this is the right apartment.’

The key fitted and turned in the lock.

Mankad was about to follow them in when Wallen held up a warning hand.

‘We need to do this on our own without anybody getting in the way. But wait for us, as we might have some questions.’

The chirpy Mankad shrugged his shoulders at her rebuff. ‘I’ve got calls to make,’ he replied, and whipped out his smartphone.

Wallen and Hakim took out plastic gloves and slipped them on.

The apartment was unspectacular. Two bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen and living room – just like thousands of other apartments all over Malmö. What made this one slightly different was the balcony beyond the living room; as the apartment was at the back of the building, it had a view. Two blocks on, Roskildevägen ran at right angles to it – and beyond was the park. At this time of year, the trees were proudly manifesting their fresh new apparel, and nothing else was visible until the eye rested on the conical roof of the water tower by the park’s lake. This was exactly the sort of apartment in the right sort of area that Hakim would like to move into once he had saved enough to escape his parents’ home.

What struck both Hakim and Wallen was that there was nothing personal about the apartment. No photos or pictures or ornaments or books or DVDs or CDs – just a place to lay one’s head. The kitchen cupboards were virtually empty of foodstuffs. In the fridge was a half-drunk bottle of water, a carton of goat’s milk and a pot of strawberry yoghurt. The main bedroom was the only place that contained anything of interest. The bed was made. A plain white T-shirt and a pair of Rag & Bone jeans had been thrown on top; presumably what Akerman had changed out of to go for her run. The chair in the corner had an Isabel Marant cream cardigan draped over it. On a table next to the wall mirror was a black cross-body bag.

‘Jimmy Choo,’ said Wallen admiringly. Hakim was none the wiser.

Inside the bag, they found her passport; a mobile phone; a make-up bag; a compact mirror; a pack of tissues; a purse with a Credit Suisse credit card, 214 kronor and 107 Swiss francs; and a set of keys which included a car key. Wallen unfolded an A4 piece of paper.

‘It’s a printed-out Easyjet boarding pass.’

‘Where to?’

‘Geneva. For Wednesday, the fourth. So, she was travelling out the morning after her stabbing. There’s also one for her inward journey to Kastrup, dated Monday, the second.’

On the bedside table was a Kindle.

‘She certainly believed in travelling light,’ remarked Hakim as he surveyed the cabin case on the floor. It was already half-packed.

The built-in wardrobe was more revealing still. Though there were only three dresses, one was a very elegant blue evening gown. Again, Wallen seemed to appreciate the label. What was also hanging up was a nun’s habit.

‘Bloody hell!’ Wallen exclaimed. ‘I knew she had a cross, but this is ridiculous!’

‘Doesn’t sit with her other clothes,’ Hakim said, pointing to the drawer he had just opened. It was full of exotic underwear – skimpy knickers and g-strings, low-cut bras, black stockings and suspender belts.

‘Sexy games?’ Wallen ventured. ‘Maybe that was her lover’s “thing”’.

Hakim felt embarrassed at the thought.

‘I’ll have a look in the bathroom. You go and ask our friend outside how he was paid,’ ordered Wallen. She was actually starting to enjoy being in charge. ‘It might give us an idea where she was based. It’s obviously not here.’

Mankad quickly finished off his conversation when he saw Hakim. He had been speaking in English to someone.

‘You said Akerman always paid on time. Do you know where the money came through from?’

‘Yes. A bank in Switzerland.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I double-checked this morning. Thought you might ask. She’s paid up until the end of this month.’

‘OK. That fits in.’

Mankad offered an apologetic grin. ‘Em… when will you be finished here?’

‘Soon.’

‘I mean for good. It’s just that we don’t want the property lying empty. It would be better for business to get a new tenant fixed up for July.’

Hakim stared hard at him. They had a dead woman lying on a cold slab in Lund, yet the wheels of commerce would grind on regardless. ‘We’ll let you know, herr Mankad.’

‘Why don’t we trace her route?’ Hakim suggested as they stood outside the apartment block and watched Mankad depart in an open-topped Porsche.

At the west corner of the block, there was a flooring store. Between that and a florist, there was a tarmaced path leading towards the park. Hakim noted down its name – Tuborgsgången. Past an electricity station with vibrant graffiti, the path ran straight to Roskildevägen between two blocks of apartments. The gardens of the one on the left were well tended with copious bushes, small trees and freshly mown grass, while the block on the right was verged by a low hedge between the entrances to the building.

They made their way onto Roskildevägen. Akerman’s most likely route was either down Margaretavägen, which was a road you could drive along to the centre of Pildammsparken and park near the lake, or she had gone further along Roskildevägen and headed straight towards the Plate, where her body was found.

‘The trouble is that we don’t know what stage she’d reached on her run.’ Wallen’s gaze was drawn down the tall avenue of trees to the murder site. ‘Was she starting, or was she near the end? A circuit round the Plate before she finished?’