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

  ‘Last night between ten and midnight. Again, I’ll know more later.’

  ‘Is this the spot where she was killed?’

  ‘Probably. There’s no indication that she was moved.’

  Hakim observed the interwoven mishmash of muddy footprints close to the body.

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘Unfortunately, it was a group of elderly runners first thing this morning.’ She nodded at the footprints. ‘Trampled everywhere. After the rain last night, you can see the mess they’ve made. We’ll never find the perpetrator’s footprints under that lot.’

  ‘So, if they were the first to see the body, it’s fairly safe to assume that this happened when no one else was around.’

  ‘Possibly. But when did the rain start last night?’

  ‘I’ll check that out,’ said Hakim, making a note.

  ‘The rain may have kept people away until this morning.’

  Just then, the vast figure of Chief Inspector Erik Moberg waddled into the tent. He was bursting out of his plastic suit. Wallen trailed in his wake. Hakim let Wallen update him, with Thulin throwing in the odd comment as she continued to examine the body.

  When they had finished filling him in, Moberg sighed. ‘I don’t think the world will miss another fucking jogger. Bloody waste of time.’

  Hakim realised that working for Moberg was going to be exactly as it had been in his trainee days. The man was all heart.

  ‘Well, those geriatric runners may have buggered up the ground here, but I still want a thorough forensic search of the area.’

  ‘Don’t we always do that?’ Thulin muttered from her squatting position.

  Moberg chose to ignore her comment. ‘If she’s a jogger, I assume she hasn’t come too far.’

  Thulin passed Moberg two small, clear plastic evidence bags. ‘A key. Only thing on her. Presumably it’s for her apartment. The pendant was round her neck. Looks quite old to me.’

  ‘So, we’ll have to start going from apartment to apartment round the perimeter of the park.’

  Did Moberg realize how many apartment blocks were round Pildammsparken? Wallen thought wearily.

  ‘And that includes the medical staff over there,’ Moberg airily waved a hand in the direction of Malmö’s Skåne University Hospital. ‘Wallen, you and Brodd can organize the apartment visits. Where is Brodd?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him this morning,’ Wallen admitted.

  Instead of being annoyed, Moberg grinned. ‘The poor sod can’t take his drink. We had a few last night on the way home. Better give him a call, though. Tell him to get his arse down here. And we’ll also need to speak to regular joggers; Mirza, that’s yours. They may know who she is, so we’ll need an artist’s impression done pronto. Can’t show ghoulish photos to the public, or we’ll get into trouble.’

  ‘Do you want me to get in touch with Anita?’ Hakim couldn’t believe that Wallen had made such a suggestion. She would be furious being dragged in from her holiday. ‘She lives just opposite the park and jogs round here, I believe.’

  ‘No!’ Moberg snapped. ‘You think we’re incapable of solving this without bloody Anita Sundström?’ Wallen shook her head in submission. ‘We can’t have the woman thinking we can’t operate without her.’

  CHAPTER 4

  He noticed her blonde hair and glasses as he peered out of the window of the train as it approached the platform. He gathered his luggage together. His heart missed a beat. He’d been waiting for this moment for so long. He couldn’t believe his luck when Anita had phoned him several months after they had worked together on the heir hunter’s case. He had hoped that she would, but, after time passed, he had despaired of any contact. He realized that their brief, fumbled lovemaking during her time in England had been because she had lost someone close to her – it was in a moment of vulnerability. He still didn’t know who the person was and had not pried further. Her call out of the blue was followed by the occasional email. She gave little away. And then he had mentioned in one that they should meet up. To his amazement, she had agreed, and they had got together for a weekend in London. It hadn’t been an outstanding success, but it hadn’t been the debacle it could have been either. They had got on fairly well, even if it was a case of him doing most of the talking. Having booked separate rooms at the hotel, they had ended up in the same bed on the last night. Both had performed a lot better than on the previous occasion. Less tense, more relaxed.

  The problem was that when the weekend ended, he still had no idea where he stood with her. Were they a potential couple? Or was it a fleeting friendship? The emails continued – more regular on his side. The tone of his messages became increasingly flirty. The ones she returned were newsy but emotionally deadpan. She gave nothing away, which was increasingly frustrating, as he was becoming more preoccupied with thoughts of her. He found himself waking up with Anita’s face being the first image that popped into his bleary head. He suspected that while she was always his first thought, he was but an afterthought to her. She grew more attractive in his mind as the months passed. And then, she had suddenly suggested that he visit Sweden. And not just for a weekend; a fortnight in the summer. That was back in February. He had booked his SAS flight from Newcastle to Copenhagen immediately, before she could change her mind. And then he had counted the weeks and days. His colleagues at the Cumbria Constabulary headquarters in Penrith were both intrigued and envious to hear of his trip. To the British, Sweden is a bit of an enigma. Though they think they know it, with its dark nights, bouncy pop music and fictional serial killers, it’s not usually on their “to visit” list. Most of his fellow police workers tended to fly south to Spain and Portugal for the sun. When you live in one of the rainier parts of Britain, heading north is considered rather strange. But then, they were never quite sure what to make of Detective Sergeant Kevin Ash. He wasn’t local; worse, he was a southerner from Essex. And he was far too chatty for a community that was friendly but naturally reserved. Now that he was heading off to Scandinavia for a fortnight, the office would be a lot quieter.

  Anita had actually made the effort to clean her second-hand Peugeot before picking Kevin up. It still wasn’t spotless, but it was passable. The greeting had been awkward. The half-embrace had turned into a formal handshake. But the smiles were genuine on both sides, and Anita found herself relaxing as they passed through the resplendent green countryside of a vibrant early-June day. They had already dispensed with the details of Kevin’s journey that day, which had involved both car and plane before coming to a juddering halt at Copenhagen’s Kastrup Airport. The train service that usually whipped freshly arrived passengers across the Öresund Bridge into Malmö was subject to an all-out strike. Such an action had surprised the Danes and Swedes as much as it had Kevin. Though striking was once a traditional British pastime, he had assumed that such a thing was beyond the efficient Scandinavians. As both employer and union seemed incapable of sitting down together, Kevin joked that the British could teach them a thing or two about the games that surround negotiations. It was the one thing that Britain still led the world in. As a result of the strike, he had to wait for a coach in the middle of what seemed like a rugby scrum – ‘You lot don’t know how to queue either.’ – until he and his fellow travellers were transported over the bridge by road.

  After the previous night’s downpour, it was welcomingly hot. The sea shimmered on their right, and the trees and fields on their left were burgeoning with the verdure of the beginning of summer. As the spring had come unseasonably early this year, Anita explained that what they called the “white period” of hawthorn and apple blossom had already been and gone. When the conversation lulled, Kevin seemed quite content to drink in the sights of this new land. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but this beautiful, tranquil countryside was a million miles away from the bleak landscapes of common British perception.

  The car turned off the main road and along a gravelled track. It curled round to the left, and Anita manoeuvred onto the gr
ass next to a Falun red wooden cabin. There was a decked porch to the side with outdoor furniture on it, which was invitingly bathed in sunlight. Kevin was childishly delighted that the house lived up to all his expectations of a typical Swedish dwelling. He noticed that there were two other houses along from Anita’s rented home. The nearest was a solidly built, white-painted Dutch bungalow with a tall, ugly stone chimney breast abutting the gable end. It had a grey-tiled roof, in the centre of which, above the front door, was a wide dormer window. It had probably looked very smart when it was put up in the 1970s; now it looked faded and tired. Beyond that was a stone cottage, the oldest building of the three. As he got out of the car, he noticed that in the gaps between the surrounding trees, he could see the waters of the Baltic stretching away to the horizon.

  ‘This is fantastic, Anita. Is there a beach near?’

  ‘Just down there,’ she said, pointing to a path at the side of the house.

  ‘Glad I brought my cossie.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Swimming trunks.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you go for a swim while I sort out the meal for tonight?’

  At that time in the afternoon, there were several people on the beach, which Kevin could see zigzagged its way along the coastline. Despite the heat, the water was cold, and it took him some minutes before he plunged fully in and headed out to sea. Anita had warned him not to go out too far, as there were strong currents. Once he got used to the temperature, he began to enjoy the freedom. He noticed that no one else was swimming. A few youngsters were playing at the water’s edge, with a grandfather ankle-deep keeping an eye on them. As he paddled on the spot, he took in the view. He could see the three houses amongst the trees on the bluff above the beach. He had immediately taken to Anita’s rented home. It was, he presumed, typically Scandinavian. Sparsely but tastefully furnished. No unwarranted fripperies. It was the casual, informal feel that was so different from anything he was used to in Britain. Anita had given him a brief tour. It had a functional but comfortable living room overlooking the sea, a neat kitchen-diner, a bathroom and two bedrooms. Unsure where he was to be housed, he was about to put his luggage in the second bedroom when Anita pointed to the room she was obviously using.

  ‘Aren’t you going to stay in here?’ she had said matter-of-factly.

  No messing around, no British-style prevarication. He hadn’t needed a second invitation, and any embarrassment had been avoided. Now, as he headed back towards the beach, he couldn’t remember when he had felt so happy. A quiet couple of weeks with a gorgeous woman like Anita would banish, albeit temporarily, the cheerless emptiness in his domestic life and the stresses and strains of a police career that was stagnating.

  CHAPTER 5

  Chief Inspector Moberg sat thoughtfully at the top of the table in the meeting room. Behind him was a blank whiteboard onto which photos of the victim would be attached, profiles of possible suspects would be added, and theories played out. He wondered if he should have had something to eat before the team meeting started. It had been a couple of hours since he’d demolished a burger brought in from McDonald’s. He found it difficult to think on an empty stomach. And where was he going to dine tonight? His apartment wasn’t an option. The third, unlamented fru Moberg may have departed and taken her bile and ill-will with her, but at least there had been someone at home waiting for him when he returned from work. They may not have spoken, or even slept in the same bed latterly, but, strangely, that was better than having nobody. After the initial month of euphoria following her walk out, when he’d felt free to come and go as he pleased – be answerable to nobody – there was a moment when he realized that that wasn’t a satisfying situation any more. He even began to miss their marital spats and vitriolic jousting, which had shown they had cared enough about something, however inconsequential or stupid. Could he not survive on his own? Did he need to live with someone he could kick against, blame or annoy? Is that why he had dived from one marriage into the next? It certainly wasn’t for the sex.

  His thoughts were interrupted when the team started to file in. First came Wallen, whom he knew to be competent but not pushy enough to get things moving; unlike the irritating Anita Sundström. Then Mirza. He liked his enthusiasm, while still being wary of someone of his background. He had never been keen on the influx of Arabs that seemed to have swamped Sweden in recent years. Not that they were any worse than any of the other immigrants. They just seemed to cause more trouble because many didn’t integrate; a matter that had caused fierce disagreements with Sundström. Mirza had undeniably come from that same cultural milieu, and yet was quickly becoming an integral part of the polishus, so Moberg pushed his prejudice into the back of his mind. Then, in came Pontus Brodd. Brodd raised his hand in a tilted drinking gesture. Moberg nodded in reply. He glanced round the team as they took their seats. It was at times like this that he most missed Henrik Nordlund’s unruffled presence and wise counsel.

  ‘Is Eva Thulin coming?’

  ‘She’s on her way,’ replied Wallen.

  Moberg hoped that Thulin had something positive to report, as he had a horrible feeling this investigation was going to begin with the situation he always dreaded – having no clue as to the identity of the victim.

  They were all looking at the whiteboard. Thulin had attached various photos of the victim. The neat stabbing ensured the images weren’t as vivid and upsetting as those of many of the cases they had investigated. Thulin told them that the woman was in her mid-thirties, was healthy and in very good physical condition at the time of her death. The weapon was a knife.

  ‘As you can see, the fatal wound is halfway down the thoracic spine, just inside the inner border of the scapula – the shoulder blade. The knife blade travelled through part of the left lung, causing a pneumothorax, and lacerated the descending aorta. The blade also pierced the left ventricle of the heart, causing blood to escape into the pericardial sac. Death would have been rapid. The fast drop in blood pressure was followed by cardiac arrest.’

  ‘What you’re saying is she was stabbed to death.’

  ‘Yes, Chief Inspector, that’s exactly what I’m saying,’ Thulin sighed. ‘You’re looking for a right-handed person. Could be male or female. The perpetrator was strong enough to stab the victim with some force, and presumably fit enough to run up behind her. As the victim was very fit herself, she was likely to have been jogging at a reasonable pace.’

  Moberg frowned. This wasn’t exactly helpful.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Hakim asked if she had been sexually assaulted. She hadn’t, and her running clothes hadn’t been disturbed. But,’ and there was a long pause, ‘she had been sexually active not long before.’

  ‘What do you mean “sexually active”? She had sex,’ snorted the chief inspector.

  ‘She’d had sex at both ends, as it were. Probably what you’d call “normal” sex,’ Thulin stared at Moberg with the hint of a twinkle in her eye, ‘and anal.’

  Moberg pulled a face. ‘Poofs’ sex.’ Brodd smirked like a schoolboy.

  ‘Woman can enjoy it as well. Anyway, we might be able to get DNA from at least one end with a bit of luck.’

  Moberg didn’t want to hear any more. Even after all his years on the force, he still felt uncomfortable when intimate sexual details were discussed as part of a case. ‘So, she was with a man, or men, before she went out running.’

  ‘Husband?’ Wallen queried.

  ‘No ring, anyway,’ observed Hakim.

  ‘And having looked closely at her hands, she certainly hasn’t worn a ring in a long time, if ever,’ added Thulin. ‘But those fingers were beautifully manicured. Care like that doesn’t come cheap.’ She glanced at her own hands and frowned. ‘And another thing, your victim wasn’t a natural blonde. The hair was dyed. Dark brown is probably her natural colouring.’

  ‘Are we looking at a lover?’ Moberg threw out the question to the room. ‘After a lover’s tiff, he runs after her and stabs her?�
�

  ‘After all that sex, he wouldn’t have the energy!’ laughed Brodd.

  Brodd was tall and wiry, with a hint of a stoop, yet his slow and lugubrious movements were those of a much heavier man. He was usually unshaven, and had a mop of dark hair that seemed to have a life all of its own. He was often found to be sitting; any walking appeared to be an effort, and was accompanied by a grimace. In short, he was lazy. Hakim had surmised it very quickly; Wallen confirmed the impression through her bitter experience. Why, Hakim wondered, did Moberg put up with a member of the team who offered so little and, more worryingly, was prone to incompetence? ‘Since the Chief’s wife left him,’ Wallen explained, ‘Brodd has become his drinking buddy. Brodd’s his wife substitute.’ Hakim shuddered to think what Anita made of their colleague.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought that likely,’ ventured Hakim, ignoring Brodd’s facetious comment. ‘She got changed to go out running. Not the easiest thing to do if you’re in the middle of an argument. You might as well stab her where the argument took place. This seems like a calculated killing to me.’

  ‘And that’s your opinion after all your years in the police.’ Brodd said mockingly. He hadn’t liked the way Mirza had cut across his joke in front of the boss.

  ‘I bow to your experience.’

  ‘Don’t get sarky with me.’

  ‘Shut it, Pontus,’ ordered Moberg. He gazed across to the whiteboard.

  ‘One other thing,’ said Thulin, breaking the silence that had followed the altercation. She pointed to a photo of the victim lying on her stomach. ‘If you look carefully, there’s a scar here.’ She indicated a spot just below the right shoulder blade. ‘It’s an old one and has healed over time, but I think it’s a stab wound.’

  It took a few moments for this to sink in.

  ‘So, it’s happened before,’ Wallen remarked. ‘The same person succeeding where they originally failed?’