Murder in Malmö: The second Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (6 page)

Hakim didn’t answer but finished his falafel in moody silence. Anita was mentally kicking herself. Though it was Hakim who should be officially trying to make an impression on his senior officer, it was she who was feeling like an idiot, for the second time that day.

They put their empty falafel wrappings in the bin and wandered back to the car.

‘One thing that struck me as being odd. At the house today.’

Anita glanced sideways at the young man. He was talking as though they hadn’t had an altercation minutes before.

‘What?’

‘The Munk painting is worth a lot of money but, whatever Lindegren said, there were at least a couple of other paintings in there that were probably even more valuable.’

‘Know much about painting?’

‘A bit. My father ran a gallery in Baghdad before...’

‘So, why just the Munk?’

‘Exactly.’

Anita smiled to herself as she unlocked the car door. This boy might not be such a burden after all.

It was well over an hour’s drive, even at the speed that Chief Inspector Moberg liked to do. The car raced through typical Scanian countryside. Neat, long, low farmhouses dotted among wide, hedgeless fields. One farm seemed to run into the next. The landscape was broken up by clumps of mature trees and lazily twirling wind turbines. The countryside started to become more undulating as they got further away from the coast and headed over towards the eastern side of Skåne.

Moberg was glad that Nordlund was with him. He didn’t feel comfortable with the likes of the region’s powerful and wealthy, nor did he have much time for them, which might explain why he hadn’t climbed higher up in the force. He didn’t posses the social skills and contacts that Commissioner Dahlbeck had so carefully cultivated to reach the top of the tree. Moberg was more interested in being a policeman rather than pandering to politicians and the press. Nordlund was steady, reliable and tactful. He wouldn’t upset the servants or startle the horses at the Wollstad estate near Illstorp. Everybody in southern Sweden knew about Wollstad Industries. The corporation was a big employer. What Moberg hadn’t known much about was the company’s figurehead, Dag Wollstad, until Nordlund had done a bit of background research before they set off. As well as being a man who kept out of the public eye, Wollstad was very successful, immensely rich, impeccably connected and, more relevantly, the father of Kristina Ekman and, father-in-law of their murder victim.

Moberg swung the car off the main road and onto a country lane. This would meander for kilometres before they reached Wollstad’s home, which he assumed would be large and ostentatious. He also knew that the chat with Wollstad would not be an easy affair. The reason given over the phone – and the one that had persuaded Wollstad to meet them – was to find out more about Tommy Ekman. His father-in-law might know more about his business dealings in a way that Ekman’s colleagues might not. If Moberg was a betting man – and he was – then the odds were pretty short on Ekman having exploited the Wollstad contacts to get on. What was trickier was the growing suspicion that Kristina was a possible suspect in the murder of her husband. She could quite easily have planted the poisonous crystals before she left. She would know his washing habits and be aware that Tommy would probably use the en suite shower instead of the apartment’s main bathroom. It would certainly be safe to assume that no one else would use that shower. Where she had got the deadly crystals from was another matter, but her father was a player in the Scandinavian pharmaceutical market. Nordlund had spotted that on the list of business interests that came under the Wollstad Industries’ umbrella. So she had means and opportunity.

But what about motive? If Tommy had been playing away from home, then Kristina would have reason to get rid of her husband. He might have been a serial philanderer. That had yet to be established. Kristina struck Moberg as a proud woman; a woman of privilege who probably wouldn’t countenance the potential shame and embarrassment that a wayward husband would cause in her social circle. Not that he had the faintest idea what her social circle was like, but he could imagine.

They came to a curve in the road and to their left was a pair of gates. Spread out on both sides of the road was parkland. They started to negotiate the drive and slowly moved round the edge of a large man-made lake. It was only after the lake did the house appear. House was probably the wrong word. Château would be a better description. It had two elegant wings flanking the main part of the building, which was set slightly back. Rows of dark, perfectly-aligned windows over three floors gazed out of the stippled ochre walls. Like watchful eyes they stared straight down the neat driveway, inspecting visitors bold or foolhardy enough to approach. Dag Wollstad’s home was too grand to be inviting.

Wollstad himself was an impressive figure. He was tall and in very good physical shape. A good head of fine, white hair made him look distinguished. The blue eyes were sharp and observant. Despite his seventy years, his face had few lines. This was a man who took care of himself. He was casually dressed in cream trousers and an open-necked checked shirt. Despite the relaxed clothing, this was a man who took his authority for granted. He didn’t seem in the least intimidated, as many people were, by Moberg’s aggressive demeanour. Moberg got the immediate impression that few would dare to cross Dag Wollstad. If they did, they wouldn’t do it a second time.

Wollstad had kept Moberg and Nordlund waiting twenty minutes before appearing in what was one of many reception rooms. Moberg suspected that this was where he met his less important visitors. It was still tastefully decorated, though the elegantly curved Louis XV chairs were rather uncomfortable. Appearance was more important.

‘This is a terrible time for our family, as you can imagine. My daughter is devastated. She is comforting my grandchildren. I assume you will not have to talk to her again.’ This sounded more like an order than a request.

‘Herr Wollstad, we need to find out as much as we can about your son-in-law. Your daughter has already told us about his personal life, but we need to dig a bit deeper into his business life. This maybe is where he’s made an enemy or two?’

‘Business can stir up emotions, though I hardly think that advertising is important enough to merit murder. That’s why I find it hard to believe that a rival would go to such lengths as poisoning Tommy in his shower.’

Moberg and Nordlund exchanged surprised looks.

‘How do you know that? Nothing official has been said, not even to your daughter.’

Wollstad waved away Moberg’s angry objection. ‘I know people.’

Probably the bloody commissioner, or someone in his office. God, he hated all this “friends in high places” bollocks. Wollstad probably had half the government on his payroll.

‘Did you have much to do with your son-inlaw’s advertising business?’ This was Nordlund coming to the rescue, as he could see that his boss was having a problem controlling his temper.

‘I had contacts that were useful to Tommy when he started up his own agency. He handled the marketing accounts of some of my companies. But not exclusively. I like to keep my options open. Not that Tommy really needed much help. He was a natural salesman. Very charming. That’s how he won over my daughter. And it’s Kristina who needs protecting right now. I expect you’re using every means available to catch his killer.’

‘We are already doing our best.’ Moberg managed to inject some servility into his voice. ‘If you think that a business angle can’t provide a motive for murder then it might be a personal vendetta. I know he was married to your daughter, but do you know if he was as faithful a husband as your daughter believes.’

‘Chief Inspector, he would have had to answer to me if he wasn’t.’

Moberg wasn’t sure how to phrase the next question, but it had to be asked. ‘Our problem with this case is that no one appears to have broken into the apartment. We know who has keys. The cleaner, the children, yourself and...’

‘And Kristina? If you are trying to imply that my daughter had anything to do with this appalling crime then you won’t be working on this case much longer.’

Moberg was having serious difficulty curbing his tongue. In other circumstances he would let rip. Again, Nordlund was on hand to help defuse the situation.

‘There’s one other thing we have to consider, herr Wollstad. Maybe your son-in-law wasn’t the intended victim. Your daughter would be the only other person who would use that particular shower.’

For the first time Wollstad appeared vulnerable. The thought had obviously never crossed his mind. He quickly regained his composure.

‘I very much doubt it. But I’ll make sure that she’s safe. She will remain here.’

Moberg stood up. Despite having size on his side, it was still Wollstad who commanded the room. ‘Thank you. If you can think of anything that would help us, please let me know.’

‘My advice is to look beyond the business community. Nor should you be trying to find some lurid sexual motive.’

Moberg didn’t even bother to acknowledge the suggestion, and turned towards the door.

 ‘Is that Gustav the Second?’ asked Nordlund as he glanced towards a portrait of a pale-faced man with a swish of reddish hair, a blond goatee beard and swirly moustache, which was hanging above the fireplace. Beneath the flamboyant, lace ruff collar was a gleaming armour breastplate. While they had been waiting, Moberg had assumed that it was some ancient ancestor of Wollstad’s.

‘Indeed. Gustav Adolf. Arguably our greatest king. Are you a student of history, Inspector?’

‘I take an interest.’

‘Sweden was a great country then. Respected. Feared. Now we have to make our impact through more passive means, making our presence felt in the world through the likes of Ericsson, Tetra Pak, IKEA and Volvo.’

‘And Wollstad Industries?’

Wollstad stared hard at Nordlund at for a moment and then a smile played on his lips. ‘I like to think so.’

Anita put down the phone. She stared towards the window. It was still pleasantly sunny outside. She was deep in thought. She knew she had to go through with it. But she knew she shouldn’t. What was the point? What would it achieve? What would be the reaction? Would it enable her to move on? Or would it unleash further demons? She shelved the unanswered questions the moment the door opened and Hakim came in with a couple of plastic cups.

‘Thanks,’ Anita said as she took the proffered coffee. ‘I’ve just had an interesting conversation with a gallery owner in Ystad.’

Hakim took his seat behind his desk and looked at her keenly. Had she been that enthusiastic when she began years ago? Probably.

‘She says that she had a Pelle Munk painting stolen from the gallery a few months ago. It was on permanent show. Stolen during the day. Someone must have just marched in and walked out with it.’

‘I’m surprised they noticed,’ smirked Hakim. He was making reference to the theft the year before of three important paintings from Malmö Art Museum. The works by Gustav Rydberg, Pär Siegård and
Two Friends
by Edvard Munch hadn’t been spotted missing for nearly a fortnight.

‘She didn’t admit that their security was lax, but she has insurance to think about.’

‘So someone must definitely be targeting his paintings. Someone who knows that they will increase in price when his new exhibition takes place?’

‘It seems that way. Which brings us back to the Lindegren party and their guests.’

Hakim pulled out of his jacket pocket the piece of paper on which he had written down the names that Jörgan Lindegren had given him. It was now heavily creased. He smoothed it out with the palm of his hand.

‘I was looking at the list when I was at the coffee machine. Apart from the commissioner, there’s one name that I recognised.’

‘Who?’

‘The man whose death Chief Inspector Moberg is investigating. Tommy Ekman.’

Moberg was still fuming twenty minutes later when they hit the main road and headed back to Malmö. He rammed his foot down on the accelerator. Nordlund knew his colleague well enough not to say anything when he was in one of these moods.

‘I can’t stand bastards like that!’

‘Well, you did virtually accuse his daughter.’

Suddenly Moberg laughed. A deep roar. ‘You certainly put the wind up him with the suggestion that she might have been the intended victim.’

‘It’s true.’

They travelled swiftly through the sun-drenched countryside. Nordlund would have enjoyed taking in the scenery if they hadn’t been going so fast. He loved the landscapes around here. He had been brought up on a farm in Skåne. Sometimes he wished he had stayed put and taken over from his father, but there was little money in it. And he wouldn’t have met his beloved wife, who had been a fellow police officer. He had missed her dreadfully since her premature death from cancer a few years ago. He steered his mind back to the case in hand.

‘Something struck me about Wollstad.’

‘And what was that, Henrik?’ Moberg asked. He was now was in better spirits. He reduced his speed.

‘If he had found out that his son-in-law had been two-timing his daughter, as we suspect Tommy Ekman was, then he doesn’t seem like a man who would stand by and let her be humiliated. And, by association, humiliate him.’

‘That thought had occurred to me, too. Not that he would have done it himself, but I suspect he would be able to find someone who could do a neat job for him.’

‘That could explain why there’s no evidence of a break-in.’

‘And he has at least a couple of pharmaceutical companies in the Wollstad Industries’ portfolio.’

Moberg gave a heavy sigh. ‘Imagine the shit we’ll get into if we try and prove that old man Wollstad was responsible for the murder.’

Moberg put his foot down again.

It was the last interview of the day. Westermark was fed up talking to advertising people. The women were fine as most were attractive. There were a couple of stunners he would seriously consider contacting later. He thought the men were either too smooth or too arty or too arrogant, like the Danish senior copywriter, Jesper Poulsen. He couldn’t get over the confidence of some of the younger members of the firm. And most of the employees were under thirty. So, he was surprised when Bo Nilsson entered the conference room. Nilsson was far from what he had expected to see in such a thrusting organization. Westermark put him at nearly sixty. His bald head seemed to elongate an already thin face. He had deep-sunken eyes that gave little away. The rest of him was thin too, though he was only about one and half metres tall. Despite the heat, he was neatly dressed in a smart suit, which was in sharp contrast to the array of casual clothing worn by the other members of staff that he and Wallen had interviewed during a long day.

Nilsson sat down opposite them and smoothed down his trouser legs. His movements were precise. This was a pernickety man. Maybe that was a prerequisite of a company accountant. He then patted his bald pate and brushed away some non-existent hair at the back of his head and then gave a rueful smile. He was ready.

‘I believe that you are in charge of the company finances?’ Westermark asked wearily. He wanted to head back to the polishus.

‘I am the financial director.’ Nilsson’s voice was rather high-pitched. Westermark found himself trying not to laugh.

‘I have asked this question of all the staff. Is there anybody you would suspect who would want to harm Tommy Ekman?’

‘Harm him?’ Nilsson sounded surprised. ‘I thought it was an accident?’

‘What made you think that?’

‘That’s what people have been saying round the office.’

Westermark had been finding it difficult to tow the official line, which was not to give too much away. Certainly not admit that Ekman had been murdered. With the bizarre nature of the killing they didn’t want word getting out and media speculation making things worse. Moberg wanted to make damned sure of their facts before the story broke.

‘We’re keeping an open mind. We need to explore all possibilities while we await forensic reports.’

Nilsson raised his eyebrows; almost the only hair visible on his head. ‘Tommy was an ambitious man. He wanted this company to be the best in Sweden. That may have upset a few people along the way. He was charming, but he could be brusque.’

‘Did he upset anyone in particular?’

He removed a speck of cotton from his trousers.

‘No one that I could put a name to. Just generally. Things might flare up then be swiftly forgotten. I’m sure nothing went as far as anybody wanting to cause Tommy any actual injury.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying, you seem a little old to be involved in this business.’ Westermark gestured round the room at the work on the walls. ‘Advertising.’

A thin smile was returned. ‘My colleagues may be younger, but Tommy wanted a mature hand on the financial tiller. The young people bring a fantastic energy to the company. That doesn’t mean that they’re good with money. One of my roles is to make sure budgets are kept within certain parameters. The creative mind can conjure up ideas that are expensive to execute, particularly when it comes to TV commercials. For example, if the creatives spend too much on filming a commercial then we can make less on the project. I know it annoys Daniel Johansson, but, at the end of the day, we are here to make a healthy profit.’

 ‘So, how did you end up working here?’

 ‘I worked for one of Tommy’s father-in-law’s companies for many years. I believe it was Dag Wollstad who recommended me to Tommy.’

Westermark had had enough. ‘OK. That’s all.’

‘Is the company doing well financially?’

Westermark sighed heavily at Wallen. Couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut?

‘Yes, fine. Why do you ask?’ Nilsson sounded offended by the question.

‘It was just to establish whether Ekman had any financial worries.’

‘I don’t know about his personal finances, but he had nothing to worry about here, I can assure you.’

The room was totally devoid of character. One table. Three chairs. A barred window. It smelt of stale hopelessness. It wasn’t designed to uplift spirits. It was a place for hard truths. Anita felt nervous. This was ridiculous. Why was she putting herself through this? She opened her snus tin, distractedly took out the little packet of tobacco, shoved it inelegantly under her top lip and felt it safely nestle next to her gum. It made her feel a bit better.

All the way up Lundavägen she had been on the point of turning round. It was still warm, yet she was forcing herself to go into the cold, impersonal world of Malmö Kirseberg prison. Some of the inmates were in there because of her efforts, though not the man who would be coming through that door any moment. He had put himself in there
because
of her. How would he react to seeing her? The door opened. She was about to find out.

She was shocked at his appearance. Ewan Strachan looked thin. In just a few months he had lost the chubbiness that he had had on his arrival in Malmö in February. The slightly greying red hair had been shaved off, which only accentuated his pallid features. Even the blue eyes that had so caught her attention had lost their mischievous sparkle, partly because his right one was marred by a heavy bruise. He shuffled in and blinked at her as though he had just come out of a dark place. His surprise was replaced by the hint of a smile. Anita nodded at the prison officer who was accompanying Strachan. He hesitated.

‘It’s all right. Official police business.’

He accepted her lie and left the room. The door clanged and silence sat between them. She noticed the grazes on his knuckles. He had been in a fight. But he was an obvious target. He caught her gaze. Her heart gave a little leap. This was what she had been dreading. The whole point of this meeting was so that she could move on. Bury their past. Not that their “past” had amounted to much. Not even a kiss. Apart from their official dealings, there had only been four social meetings, and the last one was ruined when she realized that he was Malin Lovgren’s killer and he had confessed to the murder. Two murders, actually. And therein lay another moral dilemma that was deeply rooted in her mind and impossible to dig out. Why, at his official charging, hadn’t she mentioned the death of the Durham University student? Debbie Usher had been the love of Ewan’s life before she had been stolen away from him by his best friend, Mick Roslyn. After Roslyn had casually cast Debbie aside, she had committed suicide – the official verdict - by throwing herself off the top of Durham cathedral. But Ewan had confessed to her over their one romantic dinner that he had pushed her. So, why hadn’t she added this crime to the charges against Ewan Strachan? She had told herself it was nothing to do with Skåne County Police. The Lovgren murder was what they had been investigating. The one question she had never attempted to answer - was it to keep him in Sweden?

‘Hello.’

She didn’t know what to say.

‘I hoped I would see you at my trial.’

She stared at the table. She didn’t look at him when she answered.

‘They didn’t want me anywhere near the courtroom. I was the one who got it wrong.’

Ewan smiled at the memory. ‘I noticed that your fat chief inspector took all the credit.’

‘How’s...?’

‘Not a bowl of cherries. As you can imagine I’m not very popular in here. Half my fellow inmates have photos of Malin Lovgren stuck to their walls.’ There was no bitterness in his voice. Just the usual self-mockery that she had enjoyed.

So she didn’t have to engage him in eye contact, Anita started to root around in her bag. She produced a packet of cigarettes and pushed them across the table. Now she looked at him. This time Ewan laughed.

‘I’ve given up.’ But he still took the packet and pocketed it. ‘They might be useful.’

Anita stood up. ‘I shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake.’

‘I’m glad you came.’

She stood awkwardly, not sure whether to go to the door and walk away forever. His eyes were pleading with her to stay.

‘How’s Lasse?’

This took her off guard. Lasse had never met Ewan, but she had been interested enough in their developing relationship to imagine introducing him to her son. Lasse had been her life, particularly after her divorce from Björn ten years before. They had done everything together. They were a mutual support system. Now he had left home to go to university and had a girlfriend, Rebecka. For the first time the awful truth had dawned on Anita that she needed Lasse far more than he needed her. Rebecka had created a hint of daylight between them. The distance wasn’t wide as yet, but Anita could see the signs that would stretch the divide. Rebecka was young and self-absorbed and demanded Lasse’s full attention. She hadn’t lifted a finger to help all week on her first and, so far, only visit to Anita’s apartment. Anita had tried to tread carefully and hide her annoyance. And when that had proved too difficult and she had said anything even slightly critical, Lasse was immediately on the defensive. The week had become tense. She was already having to cope with the fall-out from the Lovgren case. Her career was in a mess. The one thing she thought she could cling to was Lasse, and he was no longer there for her. Having counted the minutes before their arrival, she had been relieved when they left. Though it hadn’t stopped her from crying for hours after the front door had shut behind them. Had she been weeping for the loss of the one secure relationship in her life?

‘He’s in love.’

‘Ah.’ As though he was reading her mind he said, ‘The girlfriend?’

Anita nodded. This was a chance to tell someone. Get it off her chest. Not let it fester. She knew that Ewan would listen sympathetically. The thing that had attracted her to him in the first place had been the ease that she had felt in his company. It certainly hadn’t been his looks. Yet how could she even think about confiding in a killer?

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Will you come and see me again?’

Anita shrugged non-committedly. She took the few paces to the door and knocked on it to be let out.

‘By the way, I never got the chance to tell you, Anita.’ She looked at him as she heard the door being opened behind her. ‘I love you.’