Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (3 page)

Chief Inspector Moberg stared out of his office window over the canal that encircles the old centre of Malmö. The sun glinted on the calm water. It didn’t reflect his disposition at that moment. He was irritated – and he was hungry. The two weren’t mutually exclusive. It took a lot to satisfy his appetite. He knew he ate and drank too much, but it was more out of habit these days. He had long given up on the idea of diets and controlling his weight. He had always been big. Now he was gross. He realized that colleagues must make comments behind his back, though his temper ensured that no one would dare make derogatory remarks to his face.

He hadn’t eaten properly because he had been called out to the Ekman case. It had been bedlam since, and he hadn’t had time for even a sandwich. On returning to the polishus he acquainted Dahlbeck, the commissioner of Skåne County Police, with the facts. Then he had had a first briefing session with the team. They were as non-plussed as he had been. A respectable businessman possibly gassed in his own shower. The commissioner thought Moberg had been winding him up at first. By the time he appreciated the fact that the crime was for rea,l he had made it clear that they were only to state that Ekman had been found dead at his apartment and that the police were looking into the circumstances. He didn’t want the press to have a field day with such a potentially gruesome story until the case was further down the line.

After making brief, initial enquiries, there was certainly no obvious motive for the murder. What was clear was that it was meticulously planned. The shower must have been tampered with somehow. Then there was the gas. He had come across accidental gassing before, usually in workplaces where toxic fumes had escaped. Suicides, too. But in all his years of policing he had never come across a murder like this one. For it must be murder. Otherwise, it was a very strange suicide. It was beyond him. That was why he was waiting for an initial report from Eva Thulin when she got back from the forensic lab at nearby Lund. But before that happened, he hoped the food he had ordered from China Box on the corner of Värnhemstorget would arrive. Then he would be in a more receptive mood to take on board whatever bizarre information Thulin had for him.

Anita slumped down in front of the television. She knew she should be out in the park opposite her ground-floor Roskildevägen apartment, yet she was unsettled. She was wearing her running gear and she rested the TV remote on her bare thigh. It was unseasonally warm outside and the apartment was clammy. So why was she idly flicking through the channels on the TV? She knew that it was worry about tomorrow morning and her reception at the polishus. Her attention was brought back to the telly when she heard an English voice. It was not uncommon on Swedish television, as many of the programmes were British or American imports that had Swedish subtitles. Many younger Swedes were virtually fluent in English through watching non-dubbed telly. Anita’s was even better because she had spent two years in the north east of England as a child when her father was working as a designer at the Electrolux factory at Spennymoor in County Durham. Then, a few years ago, she had been on secondment to the Metropolitan Police in London. What had caught her attention was the accent of the speaker. He was well-spoken, but had a definite trace of a north-eastern accent. Educated Geordie. He was obviously a cleric, judging by his dress. Maybe about sixty, he was tall with wispy grey hair. It was the thin lips that Anita found herself focusing on. Only when she started to listen to what he said did she become incensed.

“Just look at the historical evidence. It certainly suggests that six million Jews weren’t deliberately gassed in the gas chambers. In fact, I think that Fred Leuchter has proved beyond doubt that there were no gas chambers at all in the concentration camps. Extermination was not a deliberate policy by Adolf Hitler, and I doubt whether more than about three hundred and fifty thousand Jews died during that time.”

As he carried on in the same vein Anita shouted at the screen and then violently turned off the television before throwing the remote angrily onto the sofa. She went for a run.

‘All I can say is that it might have been some sort of crystals or pellets that had been placed in the drain. There are no traces of anything in the shower head. My guess is that the hot water started off the process, but what probably did for Ekman was when he turned the water off. The crystals probably reacted with the air to create a lethal gas. Certainly a preliminary look at the body suggests hydrogen cyanide poisoning. The extractor fan would have helped the poisoning process because it speeded up the circulation of the gas. It would have been a quick but agonising death.’

Moberg turned away from Eva Thulin and glanced at Nordlund. ‘If it was that simple I could have got rid of my first two wives without being taken to the cleaners.’

‘So, the murderer just lifted the drain cover and placed these crystals or whatever inside?’

Thulin nodded in answer to Nordlund’s question. ‘The beauty of it all is that the evidence was flushed away by the shower water. I’ve got my people scrabbling around the drains to find traces, but they may be long gone.’

‘The wife was away. No sign of a break-in, yet someone got in,’ mused Moberg. ‘That’s very convenient. She’s got an automatic alibi. She plants the crystals and buggers off to the country while her husband dies horribly. She’s in the clear.’

‘That’s assuming that the wife wasn’t the intended victim.’

Moberg looked at Nordlund. ‘That’s a point. The killer might not have known that she was going away. Do we know exactly when she left for the country?’

‘According to the cleaner it was the morning of the day before,’ said Nordlund.

Moberg looked at Thulin. ‘OK.’ This was a dismissal. She left the room.

Moberg picked up the empty box of noodles on his desk and dropped it unceremoniously into the plastic bin. He eased his massive frame out of his chair and heaved himself over to the window.

‘So, where does this leave us, Henrik?’

Nordlund paused before speaking. Unlike Moberg and the equally bullish Westermark, Henrik Nordlund was a quiet man of few words. But when he spoke he was usually worth listening to. That’s why Moberg showed the older detective the respect he withheld from most of his colleagues. Nordlund was nearing retirement, but still believed in what he did, despite the general sense of disillusionment that surrounded him at work. His grey pallor and permanently sad expression had more to do with becoming a premature widower than the rigours of the job.

‘It was carefully planned. It could be fru Ekman, who was out of town at the time, and she could have set it up before she left. Or it was someone who knew that she was out of town. Or else fru Ekman was the intended victim. But whoever it was seems to have had access to the apartment and presumably knew they wouldn’t be disturbed while setting the whole thing up.’

Moberg stared out of the window. There were a few pedalos on the canal. When the weather was good people took to the water. He couldn’t understand why they did, as it looked too much like hard work.

‘We need to check if there were any visitors to the apartment yesterday. Workmen, delivery people. And I want to speak to the grieving widow. When’s she due back?’

‘Late afternoon.’ Nordlund paused. ‘It’ll be interesting to see what Westermark comes up with after his visit to the advertising agency. Some of his colleagues might have known his movements or those of his wife.’

Moberg pursed his large lips. ‘We need to build up a picture of Tommy Ekman. A cut-throat business like advertising must throw up some tensions, business rivalries, that sort of thing. And what did he get up to out of work? I’ll bet he played around. They always do. If his wife knew, she’d have a motive. If she didn’t, then someone else will have one. Jealous husband. These things usually boil down to sex.’

‘What about the MO?’

Moberg turned around. ‘It’s a good way of murdering someone without having to be there. I think our killer is clever, but I don’t think we need read anything more into it.’ Nordlund shrugged thoughtfully. ‘Come on, Henrik, let’s brief the rest of the team and then we’ll have a word with the widow.’

As they were about to leave the office, Nordlund said. ‘Anita’s back tomorrow.’

Moberg sighed heavily. ‘I know.’

‘She’ll be useful on this case.’

The chief inspector shook his head. ‘I’ve got something else in mind for Inspector Sundström.’

This was the sort of place where Inspector Karl Westermark felt at home. The building in Stortorget might be old but the interior was anything but. The room was almost entirely white, except for the light grey-flecked carpet. It had a large, round, white table in the centre. The table had no legs, but was supported by a circular tube in the middle. Round it were six dark blue, ergonomically-designed swivel office chairs. To one side, there was a tripod floor lamp with a big shade. The walls were artfully adorned with “creative” work; posters, advertisements and a flat screen TV, which was silently spooling the agency’s commercials. Westermark noticed that not all the well-known ads came out of Stockholm. He was a man of modern tastes. And he liked to be around money. The Ekman & Johansson Advertising Agency reeked of it. In an understated way, of course.

It was full of attractive women, too. Westermark already had it in his mind to ask the receptionist out on a date. He had chatted to her while waiting to interview Ekman’s business partner. She was posh but thick - a great combination as far as he was concerned. They always liked a bit of rough. Then there had been the secretary who had brought him a cup of coffee. Long dark hair, short skirt and nice tits. She hadn’t liked it when he had eyed her up and she had scuttled out of the conference room. Silly bitch. Didn’t know what she was missing.

Now, sitting opposite him was the twitchy figure of Daniel Johansson, who was distractedly fiddling with his iPhone. In his late thirties, Johansson was going prematurely bald. He wore red-rimmed spectacles, which looked as though they would slide off the end of his nose as he peered at his phone. His dress was extra-casual. It cost money to dress down as easily as this. Westermark had already established from the chattily indiscreet receptionist that Johnasson was the creative director of the agency – the ideas person. Tommy Ekman was the business brains – the smooth front man, the persuasive presenter of Johansson’s creative work and the amusing friend of clients at meetings and numerous out-of-office social occasions.

Johansson explained that he had only just got back into the office from doing a recce for a TV commercial they were shooting next week. He wondered why Tommy hadn’t been around to answer any questions.

‘Tommy’s usually in first thing, but maybe it’s because last night was a fairly late one.’

‘Working late?’

‘No. We’d just heard that we had picked up a new account. Big one. Geistrand Petfoods. Had a bit of a celebration with the winning team.’

‘Ekman... any enemies?’

That stopped Johansson fiddling with his iPhone. Westermark concluded he was one of those annoying people who couldn’t leave the damn thing alone. A social prop. Johansson gave the policeman a startled look.

‘That’s an odd question.’

‘Just answer it.’

Johansson’s attention strayed back to his toy. ‘We have business rivals. But that’s normal. Advertising is a very competitive industry. Anyway, shouldn’t you ask Tommy that?’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘Right. Look, you haven’t really explained what you’re doing here. Has one of the staff got into trouble?’

‘You could say that. Were you the last person to see Ekman in this building last night?’

Johansson shook his head. ‘He was still here when I left at about nine. There were at least a couple of other people in his office. Elin Marklund was certainly still here. Look, what’s this all about?’

Westermark wrote down Marklund’s name. ‘I’ll have to speak to everyone who was at your “celebration” last night.’

‘Why?’ Westermark was amused to see that he had actually put his phone down. ‘Has something happened to Tommy?’

‘Put it this way, you might think about taking his name off your company letterhead.’

Kristina Ekman fitted Chief Inspector Moberg’s image of what he expected of the spouse of a high-flying businessman with the obvious trappings of wealth. She may have just become a widow, but she was still immaculately turned out. The long blonde hair cascaded down to her shoulders and framed a very pretty face. Her creamy complexion was complemented by only a small amount of artfully applied make-up. She had the air of someone who knew she didn’t have to exaggerate her beauty with cosmetics. Whether by design or accident she wore black. Her clothes were from the sort of stores where it was considered vulgar to put prices in the window. The places that Moberg’s previous wives had always wanted to frequent, though he had made sure that they never had quite enough to buy anything too budget busting. She sat opposite Moberg and Nordlund in the opulent open-plan living room of the apartment in Drottningtorget that she had shared with her husband. Her perfectly formed lips held a cigarette momentarily in place. Was the cigarette being used to keep seething emotions in check or as a smokescreen? What Moberg couldn’t decide, as he watched her, was whether he was talking to a woman who had lost her life’s soul mate or a calculating husband-killer. Or, if she was the intended victim, would the murderer come back? He found her calmness unnerving.

‘I know it’s a difficult time, fru Ekman, but we needed to talk to you as soon as possible. The more we learn now, the quicker we can find your husband’s murderer.’

Kristina Ekman held the cigarette elegantly at an angle, the wrist cocked so that the smoke wafted away from her. ‘You are
sure
that he was murdered?’.

‘Yes. Our forensics people say that it couldn’t have been an accident.’

‘I can’t believe...’ Her voice trailed off. Were her feelings beginning to show? She concentrated on her cigarette again, which seemed to have the effect of snuffing out any signs of emotion.

‘All I have been told was that he died in the shower. If it’s murder, did someone attack him?’

‘No.’

‘So how was he killed?’

‘I’m sorry, fru Ekman, but I can’t reveal anything until we know more.’

She turned her head away and stared out of the window. The brightness outside mocked the gloom that immersed the room.

‘What we need to know,’ continued Moberg, ‘is who knew that he would be alone in the apartment last night?’

She took another delicate puff on her cigarette as she contemplated the question. ‘Myself. The kids. Monica, the cleaner. My father. We were staying the night with him. That’s about it. Unless he mentioned something to people at the agency.’

‘Why were you away last night?’

A mirthless smile played on her lips. ‘He had a new business pitch on yesterday. I always keep out of the way at times like that. If he wins, he usually stays out late celebrating and comes back smelling of drink. If they lose, he gets really down and he’s hell to live with for a day or two.’ She realized that she had been talking in the present tense. ‘He
did
get down.’ she corrected herself before violently stubbing out her cigarette in an expensive cut-glass ashtray.

‘Who else has a key to the apartment? There were no signs of forced entry.’

‘Only the people I have already mentioned.’

Moberg shifted his bulk in the massive sofa, which he managed to make appear small. ‘I’m afraid I have to ask the obvious question, but are there any people who would have a motive to harm your husband? Business rivals?’

‘Tommy was successful, so I’m sure there would be a lot of professional jealousy. There was no-one whom he ever mentioned being a bitter rival. He thought he was above that sort of thing. He thought he was better than everybody else in the ad world.’

‘What about his personal life?’ This was Nordlund’s first contribution.

‘What are you implying by that?’ she snapped.

‘Fru Ekman, all I’m saying is that there may be a more personal angle to this crime.’

‘You mean a love rival!’ she sneered. ‘I can tell you that Tommy was a faithful husband.’

‘I was thinking more about your husband’s social circle. We need to build up a picture of his life, both at work and away from the office.’

She quickly re-gained her composure. ‘He didn’t have much spare time away from work. But he liked to relax with the family when he could. We have a weekend place in Österlen. He liked to sail. Bit of golf. We didn’t socialise much because he spent so much time entertaining clients that he wanted a break from that when he was with us.’

Moberg nodded to Nordlund and they both stood. ‘That’s all for the moment. We’ll have to speak again at some stage. I’m afraid you can’t stay here while your apartment remains a crime scene.’

Kristina Ekman remain seated. ‘I’ll go back to my father’s home at Illstorp to take care of the children. I haven’t told them yet.’

‘Before you return there, you’ll need to officially identify your husband’s body.’

She gave him a startled glance. Moberg didn’t know where to look when Kristina Ekman suddenly burst into tears.