Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (5 page)

They hadn’t been able to find a spare police car, so she had to take her own vehicle. She had been compelled to apologise to Hakim for the state of the inside of the car, which was full of sweet wrappings, a couple of old newspapers and an empty soft drinks can rolling around somewhere under the seat. She would
definitely
clean it out at the weekend. The young police assistant was sitting in the passenger seat with the file that Moberg had given her on his lap. She navigated her way through the well-to-do suburbs of Limhamn. Though part of the city of Malmö, Limhamn was seen by its residents as a separate entity – and a far more desirable place to live. A Limhamn address was a prized thing indeed, even if the most famous resident had been, briefly, Hermann Göring. Ironically, the area’s most high-profile modern home owner, when not plying his trade in Italy, was the international footballer, Zlatan Ibrahimović, of Bosnian and Croatian stock. Like Hakim, he had been brought up in Rosengård, a district mainly made up of immigrants. With Hakim by her side she became conscious of how few ethnic faces there were on the streets of Limhamn. She suspected that behind the walled residences, the luxury apartments and the few remaining traditional cottages, sympathies were more for Göring than Ibrahimović.

‘What have we got?’

Anita had only glanced at the file in which there was a photo of the stolen painting. To her jaundiced eye, it was a streaky splodge of muted yellows and blues with lines of glinting silver running through the composition. It probably looked far better in real life. And she had also established the address in Strandgatan where the painting’s owners, Michaela and Jörgen Lindegren, lived. Her heart wasn’t in the case. It was humiliating.

‘The painting is called
Dawn Mood
. It was painted back in the 1980s. Pelle Munk.’

Anita squinted sideways at Hakim and then quickly turned her attention back to the road.

‘I know him. Well, his daughter really. Karin. She was at school with me in Simrishamn. Same year. They lived just outside on the Vik road.’

‘Did you meet him?’

‘A few times. I went to stay overnight with Karin once or twice, but her dad only appeared for supper and then disappeared off to his studio again. Not very communicative as I remember.’

‘Is he still alive? The price usually goes up when they’re dead.’

‘I think so. Haven’t seen Karin for a few years.’

They had passed down the main shopping street in Limhamn and were nearing the sea. She halted at the junction at the bottom. On the grass opposite was a statue of the “Limhamn King”, engineer and industrialist R.F. Berg. Away to the right loomed the large cement works, which was totally out of sync with its well-heeled surroundings. Immediately to the left towered the Strand Hotel. She turned the car to the left into Strandgatan.

‘I’ve heard his name, though I don’t know much about him,’ Hakim said.

‘He was really “in” during the seventies and eighties. Abstract concepts are probably the best way to describe them. But instead of canvas he sometimes painted on sheets of metal. He was as likely to use a screwdriver as a conventional brush. It created startling, shiny effects. Not really my thing, but the art establishment loved him and his prices went through the roof.’

‘Does he still live near Simrishamn?’

‘Think so. He came down from Stockholm because of the quality of the light in Österlen. It makes the area a magnet for artists in the summer. One year he didn’t go back to Stockholm. Been down here ever since.’

They drew up outside a large villa beyond a tidily trimmed hedge set back from the road. It was in a good spot. On the opposite side of the road was a line of plane trees between which could be seen the sea and the sleek lines of the Öresund Bridge stretching all the way across to Denmark. A tanker was ploughing its way towards the middle of the bridge, where its twin towers were pegged into place by massive wire guy ropes, like a tent. To the right, a forest of masts idly swayed in the yachting sanctuary of Gästhamn. The house itself was a squat, cream-coloured building with a red, tiled roof. The large windows, each curved at the top, were neatly painted white. Judging by the outside of their home, Michaela and Jörgen Lindegren were fastidious folk. Anita and Hakim walked up the short drive at the side of house and turned right to reach the stout wooden front door. Anita rang the bell.

Jörgen Lindegren let them in. He was a small, fussy man in an expensive business suit. There was a blur of quick hand movements. He used his arms to usher them swiftly into the living room, which was sumptuously decorated. However, Anita had little time to take in the eclectic mix of furnishings, as Lindegren was already pointing animatedly at the space on the wall where Pelle Munk’s
Dawn Mood
had been proudly displayed.

‘It just went during the night. Michaela didn’t hear a thing. How they got in, I have no idea. No obvious signs of a break-in. I just don’t understand it. It could have been resold already. It cost me a fortune. That’s why I got straight onto Commissioner Dahlbeck. I wanted a top person on this; a proper detective. He promised me.’

‘OK, herr Lindegren,’ Anita managed to get in when Lindegren’s flow began to slow. ‘Let’s just go through this methodically. I know that colleagues of mine have been and inspected the premises.’

‘But they didn’t send a detective.’

‘I can assure you that they would have done a thorough job. That’s obvious from their initial report,’ she lied, as she hadn’t actually read it. ‘As there was no sign of a break-in, I have to ask if the house was left unlocked? Or a window open?’

‘Of course not! Michaela always locks up.’ Lindegren sounded horrified at the thought, probably because if the house hadn’t been secured he wouldn’t see a krona in insurance money.

‘So your wife was here alone that night.’

‘I was away on business. It should be in the report.’

Anita caught Hakim’s eye. His hint of a nod confirmed that Lindegren’s absence had been noted. She realized that she was going to have to be more professional than this. Make an effort, even if her mind was straying to what Moberg and the rest of the team were up to. She glanced round the room and took in the other works of art adorning the wall. She wondered whether Lindegren had been drawn to them for their aesthetic qualities or financial worth.

‘As the Munk painting was the only thing stolen, then the thief or thieves must have targeted that particular picture. Is the Munk your most valuable piece?’

‘Possibly.’ Anita assumed that meant it was. ‘I only bought
Dawn Mood
three months ago.’ Lindegren was now talking to the blank wall. ‘From a dealer in Stockholm. It was originally painted in 1985. One of Munk’s best.’

‘I believe he’s not as popular now. Surely that will affect the value.’

Lindegren turned with a hint of smile. ‘Ah, but there’s news that, after a few quiet years, Munk is going to hold an exhibition of some new paintings soon. The art world is waiting with bated breath. The value of his old works will rocket.’ That answered one question.

‘Is Munk’s new work general knowledge in the art world?’

‘Yes. Or so the art dealer told me. And Munk himself.’

Anita looked at Lindegren in surprise. ‘Munk?’

‘Yes. I invited him to a soirée I had when I first got the painting. Friends and business acquaintances. Munk came along and seemed delighted to see the picture again. Though he wasn’t making anything from the sale,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘It was a resale.’

‘In that case it’s not surprising it was targeted. And, if it was a professional job, then it probably won’t reappear until after Munk’s exhibition, if what you say about its value is true. Yet how they got in remains a mystery. While I take a look around will you give my colleague the names and addresses of all those who attended your “soirée”.’ Anita had difficulty keeping the sarcasm out of her voice.

‘You cannot be serious,’ Lindegren almost shouted, throwing his arms in the air. ‘Surely it’s not necessary. Some very important people came that night.’

Anita stared hard at this annoyingly gesticulatory man. ‘Herr Lindegren, if you want your painting back, we have to look at all the possibilities. It was targeted by someone who knew that you owned it – and knew where it was in the house. Now, everyone at your gathering did. They may have innocently passed on the information to a third party, who got word back to our thieves. We have to start somewhere.’

Westermark couldn’t take his eyes off Elin Marklund. She was taller than he had expected. Her short, spiky, black hair was immaculately unkempt. The prominent cheek bones gave her face a sculptured look. The nose was strong without being distracting. The mouth was wide and inviting without being out of proportion. The confident dark eyes were defiant. The combination was striking. The short black skirt and matching jacket were businesslike yet alluring. He put her at about thirty.

They were sitting in the same conference room that he had interviewed Johansson in the day before. Moberg had wanted someone with him to interview the staff, which was why Klara Wallen was seated next to him. Westermark had little time for Wallen and had told her in no uncertain terms that he was conducting the interviews, and she was to take notes. He had brushed aside her ‘I’m not a bloody secretary’ protest.

‘Feeling better?’

‘Yes.’ Marklund didn’t offer an explanation for her absence yesterday.

‘I need you to tell me about two nights ago. I believe that there was a small party going on to celebrate some business success.’

‘We’d won a new client.’

‘And?’

‘We had a few drinks in Tommy’s office.’

Westermark leaned forward with his elbows on the table. ‘You and Ekman were the last to leave, according to Johansson.’

‘I suppose we were,’ she said off-handedly.

‘What time?’ He didn’t know whether to be angry or to flirt.

She squinted up at the screen at the spooling commercials. ‘About half nine. Might have been nearer ten. I wasn’t keeping an eye on the time.’

‘Didn’t you have a husband waiting for you at home?’

‘I have a husband, but he’s away at the moment.’

‘Did you leave at the same time?’ This was Wallen. Westermark gave her a filthy look.

‘I went first. I got a taxi home. I left my car. I don’t believe in drinking and driving.’

‘That’s what we like to hear,’ smirked Westermark. ‘So, when the taxi came, where was Ekman?’

‘Still in the building. I assume he was locking up.’

‘You don’t seem very upset that your boss is dead.’

Marklund fixed him firmly with a stare. ‘Of course I’m upset. But I’m not going to burst into tears for your benefit. Grief is a private thing.’

‘And did anything happen between you and Tommy when you were alone?’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Marklund appeared momentarily to be caught off guard.

‘I only mention it because Tommy had sex with sometime that night. To put it bluntly, was it with you?’

‘I’m married.’

‘That’s no answer.’

‘It’s the only one you’re going to get to such a question.’

Anita parked the car behind the ICA supermarket on Linnégatan. She had promised to buy Hakim lunch in an effort to get to know her young assistant and make up for her less-than-welcoming attitude that morning. They walked past the supermarket and came to the end of the same block. In a window in the wall was a falafel shop. Next to the window were pictures of various celebrities who had patronised the eatery, including Zlatan Ibrahimović. Obviously, when the great man was home from Italy, he wasn’t above slumming it. She ordered two falafels and a couple of cans of coke.

‘And before you say I’m being condescending and buying these because you have a Middle Eastern background, it’s because I like falafels and I’m starving. And they’re cheap.’

Hakim just smiled. ‘I like them, too.’

They stepped into the sunshine and starting biting into their pita breads.

‘So what do you think of the robbery?’

Hakim didn’t answer straightway as his mouth was full.

‘If fru Lindegren didn’t leave a door unlocked or window open then someone must have talked their way in or had a key. According to fru Lindegren only a cleaner, the next door neighbours and the Lindegren kids have keys.’

Anita nodded. ‘You notice that he kept his wife well out of our way, which makes me think that she was inadvertently responsible. What did you make of him?’

‘A man used to getting his own way.’

Anita laughed. ‘We’ve quite a few like that at the polishus.’

‘And he wasn’t very happy about giving me the names of his guests.’

‘Neither will his guests be when we have to question them; especially Commissioner Dahlbeck.’

That thought made her feel better as they munched quietly and enjoyed the warm rays of the midday sun. Anita loved days like this. Swedes loved days like this. It’s what they spent all winter dreaming about.

‘Obvious question, but what made you want to join us lot?’

‘Sometimes I wonder.’ He nodded towards the picture of Zlatan Ibrahimović. ‘When I was growing up in Rosengård I wanted to be a footballer like him. It’s the only way out. It’s that or crime. I was OK; attacking midfielder, but not good enough.’ He took another bite of falafel. ‘My parents left Iraq because the law was distorted by Sadam Hussain and used against them. Despite everything, they instilled in me that you must respect it. It wasn’t an easy belief to stick to when many of my friends were being drawn into petty crime. There’s not much else to do when you think the world’s against you.’

‘I’m afraid you’re going to get a lot of shit from both sides as a cop. Some of our colleagues aren’t going to welcome you with open arms. And your own people—’

‘
My
people!’ There was a flash of anger. ‘I’m Swedish.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean...” Christ, she had fallen into the trap that she so often accused others of stepping into.

‘I suppose you think the two women who were shot the other night were just
my
people.’

‘Look, Hakim, what I meant was that the community you grew up in might not take kindly to you being on this side of the law.’