Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (2 page)

BOOK: Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries)
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The group of young men spilled out into Lilla Torg, Malmö’s trendiest square, and gathered round a couple of the tables. Though it was the end of September, the early evening was pleasant, and the gas heaters would keep them warm. Still no sign of her friend. Greta suddenly became aware of her mobile phone buzzing. She opened her bag and took it out. The name of the caller was illuminated. She tensed and stared at the screen for a few moments as the mobile continued to vibrate in her hand. Then she cut the connection. She left the phone on the wooden table top next to the glass of wine. Maybe Ulrika would ring.

Ten minutes later, there was hardly room to stand, let alone sit. It was getting harder to keep a seat free for her friend. Greta had nearly finished her wine and she glanced yet again at her watch. How much longer would she give her? Another fifteen minutes? She would nurse her drink until then. She had relied on Ulrika to pick up the tab. Her friend would probably put it on expenses. Greta’s mobile buzzed again. This time Ulrika’s name came up.

‘Hi! Where are you?’

‘Greta, I’m so sorry. The bloody meeting has overrun and I’m not going to have time to meet you, or I’ll miss my flight.’

‘Why not stay the night in my apartment and then go back to Stockholm tomorrow morning?’

‘Oh, Greta, I wish I could, but I’ve got something on first thing tomorrow. I really wanted to see you and find out why you suddenly disappeared.’

‘I really can’t explain over the phone.’

Ulrika said she understood and that they’d have to catch up another time. Then she rang off.

Greta felt a sudden surge of disappointment engulf her. Tonight was going to be a release, a safety valve for her pent-up frustrations and disorientated emotions. She had even made the effort to look smart because she knew that Ulrika, now a successful businesswoman, would be immaculately turned out. As it was, it looked like it was going to be another early night. Then she heard a voice.

‘Why don’t I get you another one?’

CHAPTER 2

Fridolfs café. Graeme Todd bit into his cinnamon bun. This was so exciting! This was where Kurt Wallander came to get his pastries and cups of coffee. A place to give him sustenance when faced with yet another baffling – usually gruesome – case. All right, he was a fictional character – Graeme knew that – but Henning Mankell must have come here himself so he could situate his famous detective in real places. From his table, Todd surveyed the overcast, early October scene through the large picture window. This was his first visit to the country, and Ystad was living up to all his expectations of a Swedish town. The first thing he’d done after leaving his train, hurrying along the seemingly endless platform and plunging into the bustling square, was to get a Wallander Trail leaflet from the tourist information office. The tall, blonde girl at the desk had smiled pleasantly, obviously used to the sparkling enthusiasm. He had followed the route religiously, only deviating once to take a quick look at the port, where an impressive, multi-decked ferry was about to leave for Poland. Todd was in heaven. As he made his way to Wallander’s flat in Mariagatan, he soaked up the atmosphere like salt on spilt red wine. The town’s quaint and colourful cottages nestled happily alongside modern structures, the latter not detracting from the pleasing aesthetics. Many of the streets were cobbled with narrow pavements, and in some of the shop doorways candles spluttered, brightening the gloom. Though not much interested in architecture, Todd couldn’t help but admire the Gothic Hansa Sankta Maria Kyrka (where Kurt had married Mona) and the neo-classical theatre with its pale yellow columns and dark maroon panels and pediments. But the highlight of the tour had to be the elegant Hotel Continental, where Wallander had gone when he had an occasion to celebrate. The patient receptionist, used to the constant procession of Wallander addicts wandering into the foyer, had been more than happy to take his photograph, while giving him a potted history of the hotel (apparently one of Sweden’s oldest, opened in 1829). Moreover, she didn’t even show any outward disappointment when he failed to go into the restaurant, leaving after his coffee. She simply inhaled slowly and promised herself yet again that she must get round to reading one of the bloody books.

It was the real, recognizable locations that fascinated Todd about the Wallander stories. He remembered his wife, Jennifer, dragging him off for a holiday in Dorset once to follow Thomas Hardy’s novels. He’d never really liked Hardy.
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
had been enough for him – too much fatalism. Yet visiting the locations which Hardy had used had inspired him to read more. Now he was experiencing Kurt Wallander’s world. Possibly not on the same plane as Hardy’s, he had to admit, but he was comfortable with it.

Todd took a sip of his coffee. He winced slightly. It was strong. The coffee at the hotel, too, had been more robust than he was used to at home. Maybe it was a Swedish thing. The bun was tasty. He wiped away a crumb from his lip. He wasn’t really that hungry, even though this was the first food he had had since an early breakfast that morning. The excitement of going round the Wallander sights had banished the nervousness he now felt. It wouldn’t be long now. He wasn’t sure how it was going to play out. The main reason he was sitting in this little café in a small town in the south of Sweden was the result of his own Wallander-like investigations. He had dug for information just as diligently as any detective. It had produced a cast of characters, involved interviewing many of them and had eventually led to the person he was after. What had pleased him most was that he had succeeded where others, with infinitely superior resources, had failed. He couldn’t help a smug smile.

He toyed with the remains of his bun. He realized he couldn’t finish it. In the next hour he would meet someone who was going to change his life. All the skills he had learned over the years, all the grafting and hours of mind-numbing research, the wasted leads, the paltry successes were now invested in this one moment. Everything that had gone before would mean nothing. This was the “jackpot”. He had better not blow it.

He took another sip of his coffee. It did nothing to quell the tingling thrill of anxious anticipation. He glanced at his watch before pushing his cup away. 13.22. Graeme Todd stood up and left Fridolfs.

CHAPTER 3

Inspector Anita Sundström stared at her computer screen. She had just finished a report on the arrest of an arsonist that she and Hakim had eventually apprehended after two weeks of boring surveillance. They had caught the culprit red-handed as he was in the process of starting a potential conflagration at the site of a factory unit on the outskirts of Malmö. They had enough evidence for a conviction. Whether he would do much time inside was another matter. But that, she thought with a sigh, was the Swedish justice system.

She glanced across the compact office where Hakim was squeezed in behind his desk. Though the office was modern, this one wasn’t designed for two members of staff. The young police trainee didn’t bother to stifle a yawn. They hadn’t had much sleep over the last three nights.

‘Hakim, go home. Get your mamma to make you a nice meal, and then get some sleep.’

Hakim flashed Anita a grateful smile.

‘Don’t bother coming in until lunchtime tomorrow. Enjoy a lie in.’

‘What about the chief inspector?’ Khalid Hakim Mirza knew Chief Inspector Moberg’s notorious temper only too well, having now been attached to the Skåne County Criminal Investigation Squad for over a year. The chief inspector wasn’t the most tolerant or understanding of bosses.

She peered over the top of her spectacles. ‘Don’t worry about him. Now go!’

The tall, thin, swarthy young man with jet black hair quickly extricated himself from behind his desk. He turned his engaging smile on again as he left.

She knew she would miss him dreadfully when he moved on at Christmas. At first she had resented having Hakim dumped on her, but it hadn’t taken her long to become fond of him. It hadn’t been easy for him, coming from a Muslim immigrant background. It was bad enough coping with the in-built prejudices of some of his colleagues without having to deal with the friction his chosen profession caused among many of his peers, who were jobless, angry and resentful at the way modern Sweden regarded and treated them. She also had a special bond with Hakim

he had saved her life, and she his.

Christmas would also see the retirement of Detective Henrik Nordlund. That would be a wrench, too, as Nordlund had been her unofficial mentor over the years. He had been the sane voice in many a mad moment. The one person in the Criminal Investigation Squad she could turn to when things got rough. He was always there to advise her, and he had been the only member of the force to visit her when she had been suspended following the shooting incident on top of Malmö’s tallest building, the Turning Torso. She had become the unofficial scapegoat. Since then, she had rehabilitated both herself and her reputation by helping to clear up a number of murders connected to a right-wing group of businessmen in the Wollstad Case, as well as another homicide linked to a series of art thefts. But even after these successes, it didn’t mean it was all plain sailing. She still had to deal with chauvinist colleagues who found it difficult to come to terms with women working on the same level as them. Near the top of the list was Chief Inspector Erik Moberg.

Moberg was a huge man. That was the politest way to describe a seriously overweight officer whose answer to any crisis seemed to be to eat more. Throw in an explosive temperament and an appalling attitude to the opposite sex, whether they were colleagues or not, and you could understand why he’d had two failed marriages and his third was hanging by a thread. Unsurprisingly, he had no idea how to treat his female inspectors. At forty-four, Anita was still lively and attractive, and that seemed to obscure Moberg’s view of her as a competent detective. But he was no fool

he had never tried to take advantage of his position in any sexual way. That role was taken up by the reptilian Karl Westermark, Anita’s
bête noire
. Though a few years younger, Westermark – handsome in a stereotypically blond, square-jawed way – didn’t know whether his feelings towards Anita were those of loathing or lust. In fact, he experienced both. He saw her as his main rival in the team, and had done everything he could to denigrate her in Moberg’s eyes, yet still he couldn’t help thinking with his balls. To Westermark, any woman under a certain age was fair game, and it rankled that Anita had failed to succumb to what he thought were his obvious charms. Westermark had even resorted to trying to blackmail her into having sex with him. After that strategy had failed, his hold over her loosened dramatically when suspicion fell on him for tipping off the wealthy industrialist, Dag Wollstad, who had managed to evade justice by a matter of hours. Nothing could be proved, but he knew that Anita had suspected him. And that was enough to keep him at bay, a seething resentment never far from the surface. Except when he had drunkenly put his hand up her skirt at last year’s police Christmas party. He wouldn’t do that again.

Anita sighed and shut down her computer. She picked up the paper coffee cup on her desk and dropped it into the bin. Time to go home and open a bottle of red wine. Would Lasse be there when she got in? Would he have something for her to eat, or would she have to cook again tonight? She glanced at her son’s photo next to the computer. He had his father’s smile. But until last summer, he had been the antithesis of Björn. Lasse was only ten when Bjorn left. Anita’s almost overwhelming love for him had intensified when, even at that young age, he had shouldered his responsibilities and tried to take on some of his father’s role. The inevitable split had been caused by Anita’s academic husband’s extracurricular activities with a string of female students. Since the break-up, she and Lasse had created a mutual-support system. They had done everything together, from going to cheer on their beloved Malmö FF to holidays in Spain. Lasse himself had actually organized the last couple of foreign trips. He was meticulous to a fault, which reflected his naturally tidy habits and flair for organisation. Domestically, Anita was chaotic, and her handbag had always been a standing joke between them. He called it her “black hole” as she could never find anything once it had disappeared inside. But the most important aspect of their relationship, as far as Anita was concerned, was that they could always talk. They had no secrets. After a bad day at the office, she would come back to their apartment in Roskildevägen, and he would be a sympathetic ear.

When Lasse had left home for university two years ago, she had been distraught. It was like losing a limb. Then he had found his first serious girlfriend. The awful Rebecka, as Anita came to think of her, was a selfish little piece and seemed to enjoy driving a wedge between mother and son. And, heartbreakingly, Lasse was too smitten to see that they were drifting apart. Young love truly is blind. In her more rational moments, Anita knew perfectly well that it was pure jealousy on her part. Then, at the end of last summer, Lasse was dumped. Anita’s initial jubilation was tempered by the obvious hurt her son was suffering. She knew only too well how difficult it is to cope with rejection. The unfortunate side-effect of this emotional angst was that Lasse refused to go back to university – Rebecka was there. Anita suggested he move somewhere else. He wasn’t interested. In fact, he wasn’t interested in anything at all, and just moped around the apartment doing nothing and getting under Anita’s feet. After a while, her maternalistic understanding began to melt away as his behaviour started to irritate her. He no longer helped with the chores, and left everywhere a mess. This was a boy whose tidiness had often put his mother’s to shame.

Anita stood up. She was tired. It was getting dark outside. Winter wasn’t far away. She gazed out of her office window over the park across the road from the polishus. The large police headquarters building with its functionalist design and myriad windows looked out onto Malmö’s central canal on one side and Rörsjöparken on the other. The park was a good place to sit and relax on a warm summer’s day. Beyond the park she could see lights starting to glow in the buildings on the other side of the wide, tree-lined Kungsgatan. As she stood back, she suddenly glimpsed her reflection in the glass. She stopped and stared at a face she hardly recognized. She felt she had aged in the last two years. Wrinkles were starting to appear around her eyes, noticeable despite the black frame of her glasses. Her blonde hair was short and seemed to accentuate her features. Maybe she should start to grow it again, or was she now too old? Little bulges were now evident above the belt of her jeans. She wondered if the popular 5:2 diet Klara Wallen had recommended would help, but even dieting only two days a week would still probably be too much for her self-discipline. She was conscious that her thighs were a little thicker than they should be. Her arse would be the next to go. That had been like a magnet to Björn’s hands when he had been in love with her. But no one had touched it for ages. Unhappily, she turned away from the window. The beauty she had taken for granted was now starting to desert her. And her self-esteem was eroding. She hadn’t had sex for what seemed like years. It was partly her own fault. She was in love with a man that she couldn’t have any kind of physical relationship with. She had put him in prison. Bloody Ewan Strachan. He was the man she had saved at the top of the Turning Torso when she shot film director, Mick Roslyn. And, as she later discovered, Mick was innocent – it was Ewan who’d murdered Roslyn’s wife. She still went cold whenever she thought back to that scene in the restaurant when Ewan had confessed. But by then she had fallen for him, and it was only her professional pride, stronger than she’d ever suspected, which resulted in Strachan being incarcerated in Malmö’s Kirseberg prison. It was a ludicrous situation. The relationship had no future. It didn’t really have a past. Nothing had happened between them. There hadn’t been time. She had tried to cut the emotional ties, but she had found herself making the occasional prison visit. The pretexts had always been related to the investigation. It was these trips that Westermark had somehow found out about and had tried to blackmail her with in order to get her into his bed. Now that was no longer an issue. She realized she had to make the break and lift her life out this emotional limbo. And soon. This had gone on for a year and a half. Why were things so complicated?

BOOK: Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries)
9.81Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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