Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) (4 page)

‘It must be good. I mean having Lasse around.’

She sighed and pulled her snus tin out of her bag. ‘He’s driving me mad at the moment. I don’t know what to do with him.’ She went on to explain why he was causing her so much angst. Ewan listened, as he always did.

‘He’ll come good,’ he said when she had finished. ‘Give him time. Space.’

They fell silent.

‘You know, Anita. You’re the only visitor I’ve had in a year and a half. Except for the suited half-wit who calls himself the British Consul. He came a couple months ago to make sure I was being treated properly – probably thinks he’s upholding the Geneva Convention, or something. I don’t think he can wait for me to drop dead or be transferred.’

‘Do you want to go to a British prison? Maybe near your brother?’

Ewan raised a laugh. ‘You’re kidding. He’s a respectable lawyer. He only deals with genteel crime. Fraudsters, insider traders... not with your common-or-garden murderers. He’s washed his hands of me.’ He paused. ‘Besides, you’re here.’

An awkward stillness pervaded the dismal room. Their eyes engaged. She wanted to say so much to him, but the words stuck in her throat. She was afraid.

‘I love you.’

Anita was exhilarated and embarrassed at the same time. It wasn’t the first time that he had said it to her. She had never told Ewan that she loved him, even though she yearned to. It was a psychological barrier she couldn’t overcome. It seemed like an eternity before she said, ‘I know.’

Now it was her turn to change the subject. ‘I can see that something’s troubling you. Tell me.’

Thoughtfully, he ran his hand over the top of his shaven head.

‘Nothing really.’ Then he sat up in his chair. Was he going to tell her?

She didn’t find out because her mobile suddenly started ringing. She pulled an apologetic face as she took out her phone and saw who it was. ‘Lasse,’ she mouthed.

‘Hi. What’s up?’

‘Mamma. You’d better come home.’

‘Is it important?’

‘It’s Dad. He’s here!’

CHAPTER 6

As soon as she let herself into the apartment, the tall figure of Lasse was there to greet her.

‘What is it?’ she said with concern. As Lasse hadn’t been forthcoming over the phone, she had dreamt up all sorts of awful scenarios on the drive back from the prison. ‘What’s he done now?’ It was an instinctive reaction. What on earth had brought Bjorn down from Uppsala?

Lasse nodded his blond head in the direction of the kitchen.

‘He’s in there.’ Then he raised a disapproving eyebrow. ‘He’s pissed.’

Anita was not at all happy to have been dragged away from Ewan just to have to cope with her wretched ex-husband. And a drunken ex-husband at that. Lasse’s call had put her into a panic and she had left Ewan hurriedly. Not even a proper goodbye, just a hurried ‘see you sometime’. Her last image of Ewan was of resigned disappointment on his face.

Björn Sundström was slumped on one of the two chairs in the small kitchen. He had obviously brought a bottle of red wine as a peace offering. It stood in front of him half-empty, a thimbleful left in the bottom of his glass. That didn’t improve her mood. He looked up at her. He must have been drinking all day. His eyes were glassy, trying to focus on her. It was a strange sight. Despite the fact that Björn had always been a party animal – they had first met when she arrested him after a rowdy gathering – he had usually been able to hold his drink. He liked to be in control. He had put a bit of weight on since she had last seen him three years previously when she had gone to his mother’s funeral in Örebro. She had always got on with her mother-in-law, even after the divorce, and had kept in touch for Lasse’s sake. Björn’s handsome face, that had so captivated her when young, had become jowly. The blond mane that used to be just long enough for him to casually flick over his ears for effect was now cut shorter. It didn’t suit him, as it accentuated how thin his hair was becoming. There was a pin-cushion of fair stubble, like a newly harvested corn field, around his chin. Again, this wasn’t like the old Björn, who had always been clean-shaven. He still wore his regulation black attire – trousers, t-shirt and jacket – though it seemed he hadn’t changed them recently, judging by their crumpled state. An impish Irish acquaintance had once described Björn, with his mop of blond hair and all-black clothing, as looking like a pint of Guinness. It had amused Anita – Björn had taken offence. He hadn’t taken himself so seriously when they were first married, but as he climbed academe’s greasy pole he had become more vainglorious and egocentric. Björn had been able to make her laugh in the early years of their marriage. Later, he had been better at making her cry.

‘I know I should have waited for you,’ Björn said with a wave of his hand in the direction of the bottle.

She walked over to a cupboard, took out a glass and put it on the table. She poured herself some wine. She didn’t offer to top up his.

‘I don’t usually have a drink at four in the afternoon,’ she said, ‘but this is Friday.’

He took the bottle and poured himself a glass before thumping it back down on the table. It was empty.

‘Have you come to spend some quality time with your son?’

For a moment, Björn gazed at her blankly before he took in what she had said.

‘Ah, sarcasm. I blame the years you spent in England for that. They love their fucking sarcasm and irony.’

‘You should know. You’ve taught their literature for long enough.’

‘So I have. And brilliantly, I may say.’

He took a slurp of wine before running his jacket cuff across his mouth.

‘So, if you’re not here to see your son, why have I the dubious pleasure of your company?’

Björn straightened up. He held out his hands in an expansive gesture.

‘To see my beautiful ex-wife.’

‘Very ex-wife.’

‘But you are beautiful. Still,’ he added as an unnecessary caveat.

‘Crap. What do you want?’

Björn picked up his glass and clutched it in both hands, as if it may try to escape him. Then he spoke in English.

‘
All love at first, like generous wine,

Ferments and frets until ’tis fine;

But when ’tis settled on the lee,

And from th’ impurer matter free,

Becomes the richer still the older,

And proves the pleasanter the colder
.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re on about,’ Anita said in exasperation.

He cocked his head and looked at her with a squint. ‘I think Samuel Butler got that wrong. When love goes cold, there’s nothing more unpleasant. But he got one thing right...
The souls of women are so small, that some believe they’ve none at all
.’

Anita couldn’t suppress the annoyed sigh. ‘A bloody woman. It’s always a bloody woman!’

‘But she’s special.’

‘Aren’t they always until you betray them? Remember, I’ve been there.’

He put his glass down on the table, spilling some wine in the process. ‘She’s disappeared.’

Anita suddenly burst out laughing.

‘She’s dumped you! At last, a sensible woman!’

‘You don’t understand. Greta’s vanished.’

‘So, what’s that to do with me?’

He slid his right hand across the table and earnestly grabbed Anita’s wrist.

‘I want you to find her.’ She pulled her hand free. ‘Anita, I’m begging you.’ And then he began to weep.

He had parked his car near the bridge at the bottom of the hill. The night was windy. It whipped the clouds across the sky, allowing the moon to appear only fleetingly. But it was enough to light his way. At least it wasn’t raining. And it usually rained in Cumbria in his experience. He crossed the bridge and climbed up the steep incline that led into the village. He knew where the house was that he was going to break into. The instructions had been very specific. He had no choice in the matter. The threat had been specific, too. It would have been easier to park in the village, but he didn’t want the risk of someone waking in the middle of night and spotting his car. The bank up from the bridge was almost vertical, and he was soon out of breath. Not getting any younger, he thought. It was madness to be here in the first place, but the consequences would be dire if he didn’t go through with it.

As he passed the first houses, he was relieved that there was no sign of life in any of them. At three o’clock on a Saturday morning, he reckoned that late-night revellers would have gone to bed and it would be too early for farmers to be out and about.

At the top of the bank, the village opened out, with a green running up the middle, on either side of which ancient cottages clutched each other, as if trying to keep warm in the chill air. At the other end of the green, he could just make out a vast tree, imperious in its solitude. Even from this distance, he could hear the leaves rustling eerily in the wind. Some were being prematurely ripped off their branches by the gusts. In a month they would all be gone. To his right was the chapel, and on the left, the village pub. He had clocked the landmarks on his drive through yesterday afternoon. He had needed to get his bearings. The house he had been sent to was behind him. Like many of the buildings in the village, it was 18th-century. It was large and sturdy and may well have been a farmhouse in a previous life. An owl hooted; it was so close that it made him start. There was no sign of life at the front of the house. He knew the only occupant slept on this side. His goal was the office at the back, overlooking the garden. He quietly retraced his steps. Right on cue, the moon made another brief appearance. It was out long enough for him to make out the gleam of the wrought-iron garden gate. He had been given very precise information about where to get in. How he got in was up to him. Once inside, he knew where to go. Through the small hallway and the kitchen, along the corridor, and the office was at the end. He wouldn’t have to waste precious time trying to find what he had been sent to get. He had been told exactly where it was located.

He carefully stepped along the stone path through the garden. Only when he reached the back door, did he dare turn on his torch. The door was half-glazed with six clear panes. He knew it would be. This was the risky bit – breaking the glass. It might disturb the occupant, or possibly some light sleeper in the house next door. He nudged the pane closest to the handle. To no effect. He was being too pussy-footed. This time he gave it a juddering blow with his elbow. It smashed, and the cacophony made his heart leap painfully. It seemed as if the shattered glass was hitting the stone-flagged floor inside the house in slow motion. Fortunately, he was just calm enough to realise that the wind would muffle the sound. He waited for a few moments to hear if he had disturbed anyone. Nothing. He took a deep breath and gingerly poked his hand through the broken pane and flicked the latch. He was in.

CHAPTER 7

Anita let Björn lie in. She had managed to steer him onto the opened-out day bed in the living room the night before. He had made a cursory effort to seduce her by cupping a breast in his hand. She had easily evaded any other attempt. With Björn it didn’t actually mean anything – it was just a reflex action. There was one wistful moment when she saw him curled up on the sofa and remembered how wonderful their sex lives had been. Even when things had started to go wrong, the sex had been good right up to the end. Anita left him to go out for a run round Pildammsparken. It was her way of letting off steam or giving herself time to think.

She ran through the trees that lined the path and into the park. At the end was the area called “The Plate”, a large, circular, grassy space surrounded by tall beeches, clipped to form an imposing boundary. It was one of the city’s most popular destinations. At midsummer it was full of picnickers listening to live entertainment. Anita’s normal routine was to run three circuits of “The Plate”, but this time she veered off and headed to the lake on the other side of the park. She skipped up the bank and stopped at the top. She surveyed the calm water, which was glinting in the weak sun. A middle-aged woman was feeding the geese, who were noisily gobbling up the bread thrown in their direction. Anita suddenly felt tired and looked for an empty bench. She found one with a view of the old water tower, its conical roof looking like a wizard’s hat, on the other side of the lake.

She hadn’t slept much. Björn’s reappearance in her life had been unsettling. Her ex-husband had been the only man she had fallen in love with – until Ewan. But she knew that with Ewan her relationship was totally abnormal. With Björn she had always thought that it was a meeting of kindred spirits, though, if she was being honest, she had also been rather in awe of him. He was eight years older than her and, after her father had died in the
Estonia
ferry tragedy, Björn had helped to fill the void. Of course, Björn was super-intelligent and was already starting to make an impact in academic circles. Maybe the real attraction – other than the lashings of lust which were imaginatively served up – was that he was so different from the people she knew and mixed with. He was exciting, and his cerebral world of ideas had been a good counterpoint to her own practical one of facts. Björn had enjoyed her being a policewoman. It shocked his friends that the great liberal was married to a figure representing the conservative establishment. Had their relationship simply been his way of being provocative? Certainly, she was often made to feel uncomfortable in the presence of the academic set. Despite all this, Björn had loved her and cared for her. He was thrilled with the arrival of Lasse, and for a few years she had never been happier.

Then it slowly began to dawn on her that if she wanted Björn, she was going to have to share him. He had always had a roving eye. She had had her suspicions, but the instincts she was developing in her career as a cop helped her to consolidate them. Then the lies became more frequent. His weakness for younger versions of herself became too obvious to ignore. Eventually, she asked him to leave. It wasn’t a decision taken lightly, as Lasse had worshipped Björn. Till yesterday. Her son had disappeared first thing that morning, and she could understand why. He couldn’t bear to see his father in such an emotional state. He had come into the kitchen just as Björn had broken down in tears. The look of horrified distain on Lasse’s face would remain with Anita the rest of her life. The fall of a hero. In many ways, her reaction had been the same. She had never seen Björn so out of control. So powerless. And all because of some stupid girl. But this was different. The great stud, who had simply moved on to the next conquest when he got bored, had made the mistake of falling in love. It had turned him into a pitiful old man. That was what Anita was finding so hard to come to terms with as she levered herself up from the bench and started to jog back in the direction of her apartment.