Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  MIDNIGHT IN MALMÖ

  The fourth Inspector Anita Sundström mystery

  by

  TORQUIL MACLEOD

  Copyright © Torquil MacLeod

  2015

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without express written permission of the Publisher.

  Published by Torquil MacLeod Books Ltd

  eBook edition: 2015

  ISBN 978-0-9575190-4-6

  www.torquilmacleodbooks.com

  eBook conversion by www.eBookpartnership.com

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgements

  I owe thanks to the following people: Susan for her patient and sympathetic editing; Nick of The Roundhouse for the latest cover design and enjoyable lunches; Göran for running a Swedish eye over the manuscript and not getting me into trouble with a handball star; Doctors Bill & Justine Foster for medical advice; Alastair, Lesley, Charlotte and Isla for being generous hosts and giving me some useful insights into Switzerland; Fraser and Paula for putting up with me during research trips and taking me to the Kallbadhus; and, finally, to Karin for her usual input, even if I’ve played fast and loose with Swedish policing yet again.

  And I would like to thank Calum, Sarah and other family and friends for their support, and all those kind readers who have been in contact over the last year – your correspondence is much appreciated.

  Dedication

  To the BWs

  PROLOGUE

  Were all Russians so greedy? I’d never seen anything like it. Certainly not in my time at the Savoy Hotel. It was as though they hadn’t eaten for weeks. I had to admit that many of them didn’t look well fed. They were certainly making short work of the beautifully prepared smorgasbord that we’d laid out on the long table a short while before their arrival. They called it zakuski. They were a motley collection of individuals – men, women, and a couple of young boys. Maybe it was the fault of the war. I’d read awful things in the newspapers. Germans fighting the English and French. Russians fighting Austrians and Germans. Terrible death and destruction, so the local newspapers had reported over the last three years. Not that we’d been immune to the effects of the war. Our trade had been seriously harmed, and national rationing was introduced later that year after a poor harvest. Yet the patrons of our hotel wouldn’t have known that supplies were short when they sat down to dine. Money always has a way of overcoming such difficulties. By then, our guests were mainly Swedes, as foreign visitors had rarely appeared since the outbreak of the war.

  Despite the ravenous wolves devouring all that was put in front of them, one of their number remained aloof. He didn’t touch a morsel. He was in deep conversation with herr Fürstenberg, the Polish gentleman who’d organized the meal. The kitchen staff had been on high alert for three days. But during that time, there had been no sign of them. All we knew was that a special party of Russians was coming by ferryboat into Trelleborg. Augustsson, our head waiter, had told us that they were coming from Sassnitz. I couldn’t believe this at the time, as we all knew that Russia and Germany were at each other’s throats.

  But this man who talked so earnestly with herr Fürstenberg was different from the others. Where herr Fürstenberg was elegantly dressed with a flower in his buttonhole, this fellow was unprepossessing at first glance, yet I found it difficult to keep my eyes off him as I served the other guests. Short, wiry and stooped, his clothes were baggy and crumpled. A thin strip of red hair encircled his bald crown. His beard was short and pointed, and he had penetratingly dark eyes. His features were almost Asiatic. I heard someone refer to him as herr Ulyanov. I’d no inkling who he was, or what he was doing in Malmö. We’d read that Russia was in turmoil and that the Tsar was no longer ruling. Such a thing seemed impossible, yet the world beyond our borders had gone mad. All I knew was that herr Ulyanov and his party were not staying at the hotel, but were leaving by the midnight train to Stockholm from the Central Station opposite, on the other side of the canal. I was pleased that they were going, as I didn’t relish the prospect of serving these boorish people again over breakfast.

  As I swiftly moved down the corridor outside, my hands full of dirty plates, I heard a loud thudding on the wooden floor behind me. I turned round. Herr Ulyanov was there. The source of the noise was his studded mountain boots, which seemed strange footwear for a train journey. He raised a hand to catch my attention and said something. I thought it was in French. He saw that I didn’t understand. So, he spoke in English; a language I’d learned to use when dealing with our American and British guests before the war. ‘I am trying to find a bathroom,’ he said. His eyes engaged mine as he spoke. I remembered how hypnotic they were as they narrowed in amusement.

  I was about to direct him when another figure appeared at the end of the corridor and, after a moment’s hesitation, made his way towards us. The man was short with a heavy coat, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat which virtually covered his eyes.

  ‘Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov?’ he asked.

  Herr Ulyanov nodded.

  The man in the hat reached inside his coat. I suddenly realized that he was pulling out a pistol.

  CHAPTER 1

  Rivulets of sweat were now trickling down her face from the bunched blonde hair under her baseball cap. She was really pushing herself, pumping those legs. Those much-admired legs. It was important that she was in good physical shape; hence her pacey jogging. Yet she wasn’t exactly sure why she was driving herself so hard round Pildammsparken this late on a summer’s evening. Was it to expunge the last few hours? Was it self-loathing? That was silly.

  She rounded the lake. The lights from the hospital buildings on the other side twinkled and danced in the half-dark. Though it still wasn’t dusk, the heavy cloud cover was taking its
toll on the available light. She strode on. There were few people about at this time. She virtually had the park to herself. She liked that. She liked being anonymous. That was the beauty of cities, yet she could never live in one now. Maybe it was her upbringing in a small, rural town. She remembered how her father used to bring her to Malmö as a youngster. It had seemed magical then, especially around Christmas when the shops were lit up and the electric holiday candles gleamed from every office and apartment window. He had brought her here to the park, taken her to the cinema, and usually rounded off their day with a meal at a nice restaurant in somewhere like Lilla Torg. Later, Malmö had lost its charm, but that wasn’t the fault of the city. And her poor father? The thought spurred her on. That and the horrid shock she had had earlier in the day. She had seen him. It had upset her badly. It had brought back all the old fear, dread and revulsion.

  She sprinted down the bank, over the road that cut through Pildammsparken, and across into the trees. She would finish with a circuit of the “Plate” before heading back to the apartment. Now she was alone in the tall trees, the moon flitting through the branches as it dodged one cloud before being swallowed up by another. It would soon disappear altogether, as the forecast had predicted heavy overnight rain. She would get back to the apartment before that started.

  With the end of her run in sight, her practical mind took over, and she slowed her pace. She would make final arrangements after she had showered. There would be an early start in the morning for her next appointment. But at the weekend, she would have that well-deserved break she had promised herself. A bit of “me” time.

  As she ran on, she became aware of someone close behind her. Another jogger. How annoying! She was enjoying the park’s emptiness. Someone was invading her privacy. She upped her tempo so she could pull away from this unwanted presence. Yet the other jogger seemed to be gaining on her. She slowed down so that he or she could pass, and then she could return to her own pace.

  She didn’t turn round, but she could hear the controlled, rhythmic breathing of the runner, now almost next to her. It was an unpleasant feeling; her space being occupied. She had reduced her speed to a trot when she felt a sharp pain in her back, like a gigantic pinprick. Then she stumbled. Something had been stuck into her. The momentum propelled her forward, making it impossible to turn round to see her assailant. She tried to twist so that she could reach behind her with her hand, but she lost her balance and collapsed to her knees. Her jogging top felt sodden. She realized that it must be blood. Then the object was forcibly removed and, a second later, driven back in. And now the searing pain. Her attempted scream of terror came out as a grunt as myriad images swirled around her brain then sank into an abyss. Her last coherent thought was why was this happening?

  CHAPTER 2

  Anita Sundström hoped she wasn’t making a ghastly mistake. A decision made in haste to be repented at leisure. Well, over the next two weeks. She stood nervously on the single platform of the small station in Simrishamn. The end of the line from Malmö. The day had turned out bright and warm after the previous night’s heavy rain, though she found herself shivering slightly as she looked down the deserted track while she waited for his train. She knew he was on it as he had texted ahead. She glanced across to the red-brick police station. Windows were open to let in much-needed air. Police life would be going on as usual. It reminded her that it was good to be on holiday. Her month-long summer leave had begun three days ago. When the weather was like this, it was good to get out of the city and escape to the countryside and coast of her beloved Österlen.

  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.

  CHAPTER 3

  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 severel
y 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?’