Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (15 page)

They drove out of Penrith northwards, before veering west and heading over the motorway and onto the road to Wigton. Initially, it was a straight, picturesque, tree-lined route, before the cover broke and the fells appeared on their left. The roadside fields were full of grazing sheep, oblivious to the rain. About fifteen minutes later, after a big dip in the road, Ash turned the car off sharply to the left. The signpost read
Fellbeck, 2 miles
. After mounting the first incline, a pleasant valley was revealed in the lee of two mountains, which were now starting to emerge from the wreaths of cloud that had enveloped their upper slopes. The winding road passed through a small hamlet with a humpback bridge, before making its way past a number of farms. When they reached the old Victorian school house, they were at the edge of Fellbeck village.

Throughout the brief journey, Ash had hardly stopped talking. Anita didn’t know the man, yet she had got his life story. Why were the British so open? This would never have happened with a total stranger in Sweden. In similar circumstances, few words would have been exchanged, but here was someone who was coming out with intimate details of his life that would only emerge after a much deeper and longer acquaintance in her native country.

Ash was from Essex, and, as his words bubbled out, she had to listen carefully to catch everything he said as she attuned herself to his strong, elongated southern tones. What she gathered was that he had joined Northumbria Police after marrying a Geordie girl and had worked his way up the ranks until his divorce. Then he’d got a transfer to Cumbria to get away from the North East, yet be close enough to see his two daughters. He had been based in Penrith for five years and was at last getting used to the countryside and rural crime, though he did miss the city streets. ‘A more interesting sort of crook over there. We get sheep rustlers over here.’ Anita thought he was joking until Ash assured her that it was a real problem. One farmer near Fellbeck had lost over thirty animals last autumn. ‘And there’s a hell of lot of sheep to steal round these parts, as you can see.’ Anita could tell he was quite excited about the Todd case. ‘We don’t get many murders on our patch. Except when that lunatic Derrick Bird flipped and went on his shooting rampage back in 2010.’ Anita remembered seeing the coverage on Swedish TV. Bird had travelled round the county picking off innocent people. She had been really taken aback, as Britain hadn’t got a gun culture like America, or Sweden for that matter.

On their left, they passed some cows grazing on common ground, before they reached the main part of Fellbeck. Anita loved English villages, and this one was just right. No thatch, not too picturesque, but a traditional working village with colourful houses, an inviting pub, a busy shop and a pretty green. Nothing was out of place, and the whole vista, with the fells supplying the backdrop, was so pleasing to the eye it made her smile. Ash turned the car to the right and parked in front of a large, old, white-painted house.

‘Here we are, Inspector. Hopefully, this is where we’ll find out why Graeme Todd was killed.’

Nordlund watched the forensics team at work. Prints would show who had been in the apartment. Westermark had been sent off to try and find Fraser, who hadn’t been at The Pickwick the night before. He’d been at a party in Trelleborg and wasn’t expected back until later this morning. They had tracked down where he lived and Westermark was going to pick him up and take him to Lund to identify the body. Nordlund was glad that he had the field to himself. Westermark was unusually moody at the moment. Something was bothering him and he wasn’t being very co-operative. He probably resents having to work under me, thought Nordlund. Well, he’d have to live with it.

Nordlund had already been next door to speak to the neighbour. The only visitors she had been aware of in the last fortnight were Jansson’s “father” and a female police detective. All had been quiet since. The last physical sighting of Jansson was when she had left the school after work on the Friday. They would have to piece together her movements after that. Again, he knew from Anita that she was due to meet an old university friend somewhere in Lilla Torg. The information had come from Anita’s husband. That needed checking out, too. But from what the neighbour had said, the “father” had been trying to find Jansson. Was she already dead by then? Hopefully, fingerprints would shed light on this mysterious figure. One thing they were sure of was that Jansson was alive late on the Friday night, as the neighbour had heard voices. She was fairly sure that one of the voices was male. Quite deep. Were they arguing? The neighbour thought they were. Once she had fed the baby and put her back in her cot, she had gone back to her bedroom, which wasn’t next to Jansson’s apartment wall, so she hadn’t heard any other sounds.

Nordlund stood in the middle of the living room. Jansson and her male visitor must have been in here for the neighbour to hear them. Was the argument the preamble to the rape and murder, or the cause? Nordlund went into the bedroom. Did they come in here to finish off the evening and something went wrong? The sheets on the bed hadn’t been slept in. Was she raped in the apartment or somewhere else?

In the kitchen Nordlund looked in the fridge. Anita had been right about the contents – it didn’t appear that Jansson had been planning to go anywhere, though Anita had told him someone had taken her bag, mobile, iPad, toothbrush and toothpaste to make it look like she had gone away. That someone was smart enough to try and cover their tracks. Nordlund’s mobile rang.

‘Nordlund here.’

‘Westermark. I’m with Fraser. That’s him puking up in the background. He’s just identified what’s left of the body. He’s as sure as he can be that it’s Greta Jansson. There’s a little telltale scar near her left temple which the fish hadn’t had a go at.’

At least they weren’t going to have to waste valuable time trying to discover who the victim was. That gave them a head start.

‘Take him home. But on the way ask him what he knows about Greta Jansson. Who was she friendly with at the school? Did she socialize with her colleagues? Try and get as much background as you can. But Karl... be gentle with him.’

Jennifer Todd brought in a tray with a teapot, three mugs, and a plate of shortbread biscuits. They were in her living room. A fire was spluttering in the grate. The sofa and armchairs might have been chic twenty years ago, but now looked dated. Uncomfortable too, thought Anita, as she moved her bottom once again to try and find a softer spot. The blue and red flowery curtains would probably have got away with their gaudiness in a retro Stockholm apartment, but here in the old, white-washed farmhouse, they looked cheap and incongruous. The plain magnolia walls looked dingy and needed more than two dull watercolour paintings to liven them up. Jennifer Todd put the tray down on the glass-topped coffee table, leant over the log basket and put some more wood on the fire. It immediately hissed.

‘We’ve had such a bad summer. Nothing but rain,’ she said by way of explanation.

‘You can certainly say that, Mrs Todd,’ Ash said in doleful agreement.

No one spoke until Jennifer Todd had gone through the ritual of pouring out the tea. Ash helped himself to some milk and four spoonfuls of sugar. Anita had hers neat.

‘Jennifer, we need your help in reconstructing Graeme’s file on Doris Little.’ Anita watched the woman opposite tightly clutching her mug. She knew it would be a painful process for her. Jennifer Todd nodded.

‘Well, I’ll get the ball rolling, ladies,’ said Ash as he opened a thin file he’d brought with him from the car. Such a patronizing endearment from a male Swedish cop wouldn’t have gone down well. From Ash it sounded entirely natural. ‘On Friday, I went to the Register Office of Births, Marriages and Deaths in Carlisle.’ He fished out a couple of official pieces of paper and laid them down on the coffee table. He pointed to the first one. ‘This is a copy of Doris Little’s birth certificate. Doris Alma Little was born in Carlisle on March 5th, 1929. As you can see, her parents were James and Florence Little.’ Ash shoved the first certificate to the side so that they could see the other document. ‘Death certificate. Died on August 17th, 2009. So she was eighty. There was no marriage certificate, so we can assume there were no children.’

‘Is this where Graeme would have started?’ Anita asked Jennifer.

‘Yes. His next step would be to look at Doris’s parents. That would throw up uncles and aunts and potential cousins. And we’ll have to discover if Doris had any brothers or sisters. Nephews and nieces would be entitled to the estate.’

‘So, exactly who is entitled?’ asked Ash, his mouth still half-full of a shortbread biscuit.

‘Basically, it’s the deceased’s spouse or civil partner – there isn’t one in this case – or children. Again, this doesn’t seem to be relevant. That leaves blood relatives. That can be siblings and their offspring, or blood relatives descended from any grandparent of the deceased.’

‘So people marrying into a family don’t qualify,’ remarked Ash who had now finished his biscuit. ‘Sisters-in-law and that sort of thing? Or ex-wives?’ he added with a wry grin.

‘No. They have to be blood relatives.’

‘I still don’t really understand the process of heir hunting.’

‘It’s really a case of people like Graeme finding relatives of deceased people who didn’t make wills. Over three hundred thousand people die intestate every year. The estate automatically goes to the Treasury unless genuine heirs can be found to claim their inheritance. Every Thursday, the Treasury releases a Bona Vacantia list of unclaimed estates. There are about twelve thousand of these cases a year, so it can be a profitable business. The Treasury used to give them a value, but now that’s all changed. But each estate is worth at least five thousand pounds.’

‘Hence Doris’s,’ put in Ash helpfully. ‘Hers was worth just over five grand.’

‘Probate research companies,’ Jennifer continued, ‘then go after the ones they think will be the most lucrative. It can get very competitive because they only make their money if they can find heirs to make a successful claim.’

‘But without a property to sell, Doris Little’s estate probably wasn’t worth chasing?’

‘That seems to be the case, Inspector. A London firm worked on it initially, but gave up. As you say, probably not worth their while financially. But, according to Graeme, they also drew a blank.’

‘No blood relatives?’

Jennifer Todd shook her head.

‘But he must have found something?’

‘Yes. But I don’t know what.’

‘So, can you help us, Jennifer?’ Anita asked with a certain amount of impatience. She didn’t want to waste time. The longer they took, the harder it was going to be to find Todd’s murderer or murderers.

‘I’m on compassionate leave. And I need to keep busy, so I’m all yours.’

Jennifer scrutinized the two certificates. ‘The parents are the only people we have to go on, so we need to find out more about them. They should show up on the 1911 census. Or certainly James Little will. That should throw up any siblings. I doubt they were married before that date, so Florence will be under her maiden name, which we haven’t got.’ She looked across at Ash, who was about to bite into another biscuit. ‘If you go into Carlisle tomorrow, you could find their marriage certificate. That’s assuming they were married in the area. That would give us Florence’s maiden name. Then we can start to piece together a family tree.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Anita said decisively. This was a start.

CHAPTER 25

The day was clearing by the time Anita and Ash emerged from Jennifer Todd’s house. A hint of blue sky could be seen to the west. Ash immediately took out a packet of cigarettes. He’d lit one automatically before realizing that he should offer one to Anita.

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Good for you. Filthy habit.’ The smoke was playing havoc with Anita’s senses. There was no way she could buy any snus round here; she knew it was banned in Britain. She was sorely tempted to succumb to a cigarette, but fought the urge. Instead she pulled out her mobile phone. She still hadn’t heard anything from Nordlund about the identification of Greta Jansson.

Ash smiled at her. ‘You won’t get a signal up here. Too wild and woolly. You’ll have to wait until we head back to Penrith.’

Anita registered her frustration with a heavy sigh.

Ash let out a cloud of smoke. ‘By the way, I’m visiting the Cumberland Building Society tomorrow. That’s where Todd kept his business account. Try and find out where he disappeared to in August.’

‘Weren’t there any bank statements in the house?’

‘Apparently, Todd would check them when they came in and then shred them. Was scared of identity theft. Didn’t bank online.’

Ash took another deep drag of his cigarette. He flicked off the precariously-balanced stack of ash he had created. ‘When I’ve finished this, why don’t we pop over there for a pint? It’s a cracking pub.’

Across from where they were leaning against the wall of Jennifer Todd’s front garden was The Queen’s Head. ‘Brew their own beer behind the pub.’

‘All right.’ It might ward off her tobacco cravings.

Nordlund put away his mobile phone.

‘Still no answer.’

‘She’s probably run off with another British murderer,’ Westermark said sarcastically.’ Nordlund ignored the remark.

‘Where are we up to then?’ asked Moberg as he barged through the door of the meeting room. He had quite happily called Nordlund and Westermark into headquarters on a Sunday afternoon. It avoided another excruciating day with his wife. They barely spoke these days. When they did, it was to argue about something petty. It was the same pattern as his last two marriages. The only reason he hadn’t let this one wind down to the inevitable divorce was a purely financial one. His present wife wouldn’t be as reasonable as the last two. She would want her pound of flesh and he wasn’t inclined to give it to her. There was a kind of masochistic pleasure in denying her access to his hard-earned cash.

‘The victim is Greta Jansson. That’s been confirmed by one of her teaching colleagues this morning.’ Nordlund glanced across the table at Westermark who nodded in confirmation. ‘She was twenty-three and had only been in Malmö since August, when she took up a teaching post at Kungsskolan across the park.’ Nordlund gestured with his head in the direction of the window. ‘No parents alive, so we don’t know who the next of kin is. She was last seen Friday, September 28th leaving the school. She was due to meet an old university friend in Lilla Torg for a drink. The friend, Ulrika Lindén, couldn’t make it, as her business meeting overran and she had to fly back to Stockholm that night. One thing she did confirm was that Jansson had left Uppsala in a hurry. The job at the school down here was a last-minute appointment. Lindén was under the impression that Jansson was going to tell her the reason she had left Uppsala so quickly.’