Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (30 page)

‘Are your parents OK?’

‘Yes. They’re grateful that you took Jazmin in.’

‘And you told them about Lasse?’

Hakim hesitated. ‘Not exactly.’

‘I had half a mind to bring her over this morning, but she was still asleep when I left.’

‘She wasn’t in Lasse’s room?’ Hakim sounded aghast.

‘Yes, but Lasse was in the living room.’

Hakim’s sigh of relief was eloquent.

‘First, we’ll go and find Carol Pew, then we – and I mean
we
– will sort out the Lasse-Jazmin problem.’

Westermark drove his Porsche into the police car park. On a Saturday morning there weren’t many other vehicles around. He had no intention of going into work. He was going to treat himself to a shopping spree. The main shops were an easy walk along the canal. Life was looking good again. The case was tied up, with the delicious irony that he had been able to put Anita’s nose out of joint by establishing that her ex-husband was a murderer. And Strachan killing himself was just the cherry on the cake. To add to Anita’s discomfort, the word around the water cooler was that she was struggling with her heir hunter investigation. That’s what Wallen had reported anyway.

He tossed his car keys up in the air and caught them with an exaggerated flourish. Just as he was reaching the gateway, he noticed Nordlund’s car. What was he doing in the building? The last thing he wanted was the old fucker buggering up his carefully constructed case. The sooner he retired, the better, then he could take his long face and ancient ideas on policing with him to some obscure backwater in rural Skåne. As far as Westermark was concerned, Nordlund should have been pensioned off years ago. Just beyond the gateway, he stopped. Curiosity got the better of him; the shopping would have to wait.

Westermark didn’t even acknowledge Wallen in the corridor. He found Nordlund in the meeting room which was being used as the command centre for the team’s two ongoing investigations. The walls were still covered in faces and gory photographs, maps and whiteboard scribblings. Nordlund was bent over the table going through a file.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Westermark asked with obvious irritation. ‘Shouldn’t you be enjoying a weekend off? There’s nothing we can do until Blom attends court on Monday.’

The older policeman eyed Westermark up and down.

‘There are just a couple of things I want to get my head around. A loose end or two.’

Westermark exploded. ‘There are no fucking loose ends! It’s an open-and-shut case. What the hell are you looking for? Is this bloody Sundström stirring things up, trying to save her precious professor? I know she was round at your place last night.’

Nordlund appeared unmoved by the younger man’s unprovoked outburst.

‘Karl, you’ve nothing to worry about. It’s nothing to do with Anita. And I’m not trying to take any of the glory away from you. You’ve done a very good job.’

This seemed to placate Westermark. ‘I’m sorry, Henrik. It’s just an important case for me. It’ll help make my mark with the powers that be.’

‘I won’t be long. You go off and enjoy your Saturday.’

Westermark nodded and retreated. Once he was outside, he wasn’t in the mood for shopping any more. He got into his car and drove back to Limhamn.

The day was verging on bright. The dark clouds that had greeted Anita when she emerged from a troubled sleep had been swept away, and a watery sun was doing its best to pretend it was still summer, even though they were now in the second half of October. Christmas was only two months away. That meant a visit to her mother and aunt in Kristianstad. She never spent Christmas itself with her mother if she could help it, but usually a weekend in the middle of December, when they swapped inappropriate presents, got on each other’s nerves and spent the next few months thankful that they wouldn’t have to see each other again until the summer. Her mother would criticize her clothes, her appearance, the way she was bringing up Lasse, and anything else she could think of which her daughter had disappointed her in over the years. Anita thought she would take Lasse with her this time. If they were still together, she could drag Jazmin along as well. That would upset Mamma and give her racist aunt apoplexy. No, she couldn’t do it. It would be unfair on the youngsters.

They reached Ystad at quarter past ten. After they had parked the car, they made their way to the café, which was up a pedestrianized side street off the main Stora Östergatan. Hos Morten was housed in an old brick and timbered building dating back to the late 1700s. The cosy interior was enhanced by hundreds of books lining the walls. The door to the outside courtyard was closed at this time of year. Only a few tables were occupied, with people having an early Saturday coffee.

A young woman came across and asked if she could serve them.

‘Hi, I’m Anita Sundström and this is Hakim Mirza from the Skåne County Police.’ When Anita saw the worry flicker across the woman’s plump face, she quickly added, ‘It’s OK, we’re just trying to find someone. Hakim?’

Hakim passed over a copy of the photo from the
Ystads Allehanda
to the relieved waitress. He pointed to Carol Pew. She squinted at the picture and then she nodded.

‘I know her. She comes in from time to time. English lady. Johansson. I think her first name is Carol. She likes it here because she says the garden outside reminds her of England. She’s a good tipper.’

‘Do you know where she lives?’

‘I think it’s somewhere out near Löderup. But I couldn’t say exactly where.’

‘You’ve been very helpful.’

The waitress beamed back. ‘Would you like something while you’re here?’

‘Why not? Hakim, I’ll let you order. I’ll have some cake. I’m just going to ring in. Wallen’s on this weekend.’

Five minutes later, Anita came in, clutching her mobile phone. Hakim was sat at a table with two coffees and two slices of carrot cake, one of Anita’s favourite indulgences.

‘Klara’s getting onto the
Skatteverket
website. Now we’ve got a name, we should be able to get the address, though I believe Johansson is Sweden’s most common name; but Carol’s more unusual, of course.’

‘That’s if she’s paid any tax,’ Hakim noted wryly.

‘Interesting that she hasn’t changed her first name. And she’s done nothing to hide her Englishness either.’

‘Maybe she’s got nothing to hide.’

‘With any luck, we’ll be able to ask her soon.’

Anita turned off the Simrishamn road and headed down Östra Kustvägen, which hugged the coast. The road bisected the flat patchwork of fields in this arable area, which was dotted with houses in a variety of styles. Most had been farmsteads, now converted into domestic dwellings. They passed the turning to Kåseberga, the coastal village next to the prehistoric site of Ales Stenar, which had been featured on the postcard that Carol had sent to Vanessa Ridley. They hit a long, straight stretch.

‘It must be around here,’ said Hakim, studying the local map they had picked up in Ystad. Anita once again swore to herself that she would buy a sat nav.

‘I think this is it.’

Anita slowed the car and manoeuvred it onto an unmetalled track. The tyres crunched over the surface of gravel and mud. The house in front of them was a low, modest building, with a detached barn set back in a clump of trees. However, on closer scrutiny it was clear to see that anybody was unlikely to be at home, as the windows were shuttered. Anita was glad to send Hakim into the biting wind coming off the sea.

‘You’d better go and knock on the door, just in case someone’s about. It would be typical if they’re away.’ Not only had Wallen found Carol Johansson on the tax register, she had also found she had acquired another husband called Peter Johansson.

Hakim got out and knocked on the front door, which was at the top of three steps. He glanced over to Anita and shook his head before heading off round the other side of the building. He soon emerged and got back into the car.

‘No one there.’

Anita could see the track continued on round the rear of the property and on to further houses in the distance. ‘We’ll try the next one.’

On the next bend the road split. There was a house straight in front of them, and another way up to the left, partly obscured by the usual clump of pine and birch. They tried the nearest house but, like the other, it was boarded up for the winter. ‘Another holiday home,’ was Hakim’s verdict as he shuffled back into the passenger seat.

Taking the left-hand fork, they could see that the third house was bigger than the other two. In the nearest field, two bay horses were grazing contentedly. This was a more traditional farmhouse, with single-storey buildings forming three sides of a square, in the middle of which was a central courtyard. The property was in good condition, recently whitewashed, the window frames neatly painted. Where the sun poked through the protective cover of the trees, the walls dazzled. There was no car parked in the courtyard and Anita’s hopes sank. They would probably have to come back on Monday.

This time she got out and left Hakim in the car. There was no reply when she rang the doorbell, nor when she knocked on the thick wooden door. Nothing stirred inside. As they’d driven in, she’d seen a large barn behind the right-hand wing of the house. Returning to the car, she noticed the barn door was open, an electric light blazing inside. Anita headed towards it, then suddenly stopped, her heart pounding. A large German Shepherd dog was bounding towards her. Never comfortable with dogs at the best of times, she immediately shied away as the animal began to bark loudly.

‘Jingo!’ commanded a strident voice from somewhere just out of sight. The dog instantly ceased barking, but hovered menacingly just a foot in front of Anita.

‘Who are you?’ demanded a voice in Swedish. Anita tore her eyes from the drooling jaw of the German Shepherd and saw Carol Pew standing there. She was dressed in working clothes – a scruffy pair of jeans, a thick fleece jacket and wellington boots. Even with dirty hands and dishevelled hair, she still managed to look elegant. She didn’t seem to have aged; her face was unlined and her features still well-defined. She was wearing a little too much eye make-up, but there was no disguising the sharpness in her gaze. ‘What are you doing here?’ The language was still Swedish, but the accent was unmistakably English.

‘I’m Inspector Anita Sundström from Malmö. I need to speak to you.’

‘What about?’ she asked suspiciously, the voice gravelly.

‘It’s about a murder investigation.’ Anita realized that she had lapsed into English. ‘An Englishman called Graeme Todd. Does the name mean anything to you?’

Carol Pew didn’t show a flicker of surprise. ‘Yes.’

CHAPTER 42

They sat outside on a wooden picnic bench away from the house in a sheltered corner of the garden on the edge of the trees. The vista before them was of a flat terrain, only broken by the odd copse. A couple of tractors were working in a field in the distance. The wind had dropped a little, the sun was still shining and Hakim was trying so soak up its pathetic rays while Carol went indoors to make them a drink. She came back with a tray on which was a teapot and three cups. There was a plate of biscuits too. British habits die hard, thought Anita.

‘I’ll be mum,’ Carol said in English with a smile. There was no hint of Cumbrian left in the deep tones of her smoky voice. Using a tea-strainer, she poured out the tea. Only she took milk.

‘Sorry Peter’s not here. Kåseberga. Out on his boat. Mad fisherman. But I suppose it’s me that you want to see.’

She sat down on the bench opposite Anita and Hakim. She offered them the plate of biscuits. Anita declined, while Hakim tucked in.

They had established that the conversation would be in English. Carol apologized that her Swedish wasn’t brilliant – ‘You all speak English so well over here that I don’t have to use it much’. Anita and Hakim were quite happy with the arrangement. Once they’d all settled down, Anita began.

‘As I said, we’re investigating the murder of Graeme Todd, who was a probate researcher.’

‘I can’t really believe it. Where was he killed?’

‘He was washed up in Limhamn. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.’

‘We don’t tend to watch much Swedish television.’ She pointed back to the house and the satellite dish on the roof. I tune into the good old BBC and Peter likes Sky. He’s fanatical about the All Blacks and Sky shows the rugby.’

‘You said you knew the name... Graeme Todd’s. Did he contact you?’

‘Yes. He wrote to me about a month ago. Maybe a bit longer actually.’

‘Did he say what it was about?’

‘Something about inheriting some money. He didn’t go into details. Then he got on to me about three weeks ago and suddenly announced that he was coming over to Sweden and that we should meet up.’

‘Did you know who you were inheriting from?’

‘Well, at first I thought it was a bit strange as he said it was an aunt of mine. When I left England, I had three. Doris and Belle on Mother’s side and an auntie by marriage called Louise on my dad’s – she’s my cousin John’s mum. He married a friend of mine, Vanessa White.’

‘I know; I met her. In Worcester.’

‘Did you really?’ Carol asked in surprised delight. ‘How is the old bat? Is she still putting up with boring old John?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Oh. I doubt if she’s over-fussed. She was bit of a girl, our Vanessa.’

‘She said the same about you.’

‘The saucy cow!’ she exclaimed with a rasping cackle.

‘Anyway, Graeme Todd?’

‘Right. As it turned out, it was Auntie Doris. Sweet old thing; she’d already given me some money. When my ex-husband disappeared out of my life, leaving me destitute, it was Doris who gave me the money to start again in New Zealand.’

‘So that’s where her house money went.’

Carol glanced at Anita quizzically. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Equity release. She sold her house to raise the money.’

‘Oh no! God, that makes me feel awful. She never mentioned it at the time. I was just grateful for the help.’

‘Back to Graeme Todd,’ Anita prompted.

‘To be honest, I thought it might be a scam. But then he phoned again saying he was in Malmö and could we meet up? He hadn’t any transport, so I arranged to meet him in Ystad. I was to pick him up and bring him here. He wanted me to sign something so he could put in a claim on my behalf to the Treasury.’ She picked up her cup of tea and sipped it thoughtfully.