Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) (25 page)

‘I could see,’ he said, waving his fork at her. ‘But its history tells us something. After the East-West split, this bombed-out street became Stalinallee, and the buildings were created as a showpiece for the new Republic. They’re not the sort of buildings we associate with Eastern Europe under the communists.’

‘I don’t see the significance,’ said Anita as she scooped up a forkful of rice and pork.

‘If you listen to Kevin, you will be enlightened.’ He swigged the last of his beer. ‘Fancy another one?’

‘Just bloody tell me!’

‘OK. Those posh flats were built for the leading party members. And Manja’s flat used to belong to Hans-Dieter Albrecht, presumably at the height of the GDR.’

‘And?’

‘That makes our Hans-Dieter an important party member.’ The implication began to dawn on Anita. ‘So, why did the right-wing Albin Rylander want a leading communist to verify his mysterious story? I think we may have got Rylander all wrong. Far from having the same views as his father – who felt guilty for saving Lenin’s life – and devoting his career to standing up to the evils of the East; what if his political affiliations were the other way round?’

‘You mean sympathetic to the Soviets?’

‘Or the Stasi.’

‘No, that can’t be right.’ The thought was too preposterous. She herself had heard Rylander being very derogatory about the Russians.

‘We might find out tomorrow.’

Moberg had got up early that morning. It promised to be another warm day, and the forecast didn’t seem to offer any respite in the near future. The drive through town had been easy, and he parked opposite Axel Isaksson’s house at a quarter past seven. He had no idea when the politician would leave for work, but he wasn’t going to go up to the house and knock on the door. That really would be harassment. Isaksson could still make that claim when he was accosted in the street by the chief inspector, but what the hell! As he sat behind the wheel of his car and idly flicked through the pages of
Sydsvenskan,
he was shrewd enough to realize that he was flirting with a potentially dangerous enemy. His career could be seriously damaged by this man, yet he had a strong gut instinct about him. It wasn’t one of Sundström’s daft, girlie-intuition-type feelings – this was years of policing and dealing with liars, manipulators, killers and conmen. Something about Isaksson wasn’t right. It wasn’t the man’s politics he objected to – just the fact that he was a politician. What’s more, a politician that happily used the police as a political punch bag.

Though Asplund must be their number-one suspect, Moberg wasn’t totally convinced that he was the killer, despite the evidence stacking up against him. Having come face to face with Isaksson, he was now certain that he was heavily involved. He knew that he was connected with Ebba Pozorski through her client spreadsheet. Now, he had the DNA to connect him to her directly. He had made love to her the day she died – or the day before if Ebba’s diary entry was correct. Then there was the stain on the habit. That was his. He was a man of supposedly deep religious convictions, but those convictions didn’t seem to preclude him getting a prostitute to dress up as a nun. More significantly, he must have known Ebba when she was a young member of Pastor Kroon’s bizarre church. Then there were his denials about not knowing Markus Asplund. Had they been in contact in the last few days since the murder – or before then? There was no chance of getting the go-ahead to chase up Isaksson’s phone records. But once they’d had a look at Asplund’s mobile; that could be telling. Above all, what put Isaksson ahead of Asplund in Moberg’s mind was the motive. Asplund’s business and marriage might be damaged by the Ebba revelations, but he would survive. Isaksson, on the other hand, had far more to lose. His whole image as trustworthy Christian politician promoting family values would have been shredded forever. There would be no way back.

At ten to eight, Axel Isaksson appeared at his front door, turned to kiss his wife goodbye, and headed down the road towards the bus stop. Moberg got out of his car and lumbered after him.

‘Excuse me, herr Isaksson,’ he called out.

Isaksson swung round. His eyes opened wide in disbelief.

‘I thought I’d seen the last of you. That’s what Commissioner Dahlbeck promised.’

‘Lovely morning,’ Moberg said as he switched on what he assumed was his best smile.

‘I’ve a bus to catch.’

‘I won’t keep you long.’ By now, the chief inspector had reached his quarry.

‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’ And he was about to continue to the distant bus stop when Moberg spoke again.

‘It’s only one question.’ This time Moberg even managed to summon up a pleading expression. Isaksson hesitated. ‘Why was your DNA found inside Ebba Pozorski’s body?’

Isaksson was momentarily paralyzed. It gave Moberg another few seconds to continue his unsubtle attack. ‘And your semen on a nun’s habit she wore?’

Isaksson recovered. ‘This is fucking outrageous.’ Not an expression that Moberg had expected from such a religious man, but one that assured him that he had hit home.

‘And you didn’t tell me about knowing her from your church in Sjöbo. You’ve got history with this girl.’

The politician advanced menacingly towards Moberg, his finger raised. ‘It’s you that’s going to be history after this. I’m going to bury your career.’

‘Is that a “yes” then?’

Isaksson seemed to be about to explode, but found enough self-restraint to turn away and stride past the chief inspector back towards his house. A minute later, the front door was slammed shut so loudly that the sound reverberated down the quiet street.

Moberg waddled back to his car and eased himself into the driving seat. He wondered how long it would be before Commissioner Dahlbeck called to haul him over the coals. He switched on the ignition, and the engine sprang into life. When he had started out this morning, he wasn’t sure what he would be able to achieve, or even what he was trying to accomplish. He hadn’t quite anticipated Isaksson’s dramatic exit. He gunned the engine, and a wry grin enveloped his massive face. He had rattled the bastard.

They emerged from the underground station at Stadtmitte. As they made their way out, they passed an old man playing the
Blue Danube
on an accordion. Anita had allowed Kevin to set the day’s agenda while they waited for Manja Albrecht’s call. She had dragged him to Berlin, so he might as well make the most of it. Checkpoint Charlie was first on his itinerary.

Over breakfast earlier, Kevin had outlined the things he thought they should try and see.

‘I think we should visit places that are relevant to your investigation.’

‘Our investigation.’

‘Sorry, our investigation. Firstly, we know that Rylander was in East Berlin in the 1970s. It was the height of the Cold War. He must have got to know Albrecht then, whom we can be fairly certain was a significant member of the communist party. So, I thought we should get a feel of what it was like at the time. There’s a museum next to Checkpoint Charlie which should give us a good idea.’

‘OK,’ said Anita as she drank the dregs of her coffee. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to spend the day trailing round museums, but it was his holiday.

‘When we’re there, we’ll be near Wilhelmstrasse.’

‘Klas mentioned that.’

‘Yep. According to Klas, Rylander said it all began and finished there. I can see why it started there because of his father’s story about Lenin. Wilhelmstrasse was like Whitehall in London. A lot of the big government departments were located on the street, so it’s from the Foreign Office there that Lenin’s train was financed and organized.’

‘That’s the start, but how does it finish there?’

‘I knew you’d be awkward. I don’t know.’

‘From what I read in Klas’s notes, Rylander worked at the Swedish embassy on Otto-Grotewohl-Strasse. I can’t find it on the map.’

‘Mmm. Never mind. We’ll still visit Wilhelmstrasse, and then head off to the Brandenburg Gate. That’s not relevant; I just want to see it.’

Once back in their room after breakfast, Kevin suddenly emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand and mouth covered in white toothpaste as though he were frothing.

‘Do you know what we’ve overlooked?’ He didn’t wait for Anita to answer. ‘Klas came to Berlin and talked to Hans-Dieter Albrecht and, being a good historian, he would have gathered other information significant to the story, just as we’re trying to do.’

‘And your point?’

‘Where is it all?’

Anita slapped her forehead in annoyance. ‘God, how stupid! I’m an idiot! He would either have had it on him when he was coming out to see us—’

‘Or it was in his house,’ said Kevin, completing her thought.

‘But then, Klas can’t have had it with him when he crashed because the police would have it now.’

‘Doesn’t follow. The murderer or murderers could have taken his stuff away from the crash site before the police arrived.’

‘Or maybe that was what they were looking for at his house?’

‘I suspect,’ Kevin said, wagging his toothbrush at Anita, ‘that they got his Berlin material from the crash site but were still looking for all the stuff he deposited with us. Whoever’s behind this seems to want to obliterate anything to do with Rylander’s secret past.’

‘If they’ve got Klas’s Berlin notes, which presumably covered his chat with Hans-Dieter Albrecht, then they know what he found out.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘But where does that leave us?’

‘Haven’t a clue,’ said Kevin as he retreated to the bathroom and finished his brushing.

They walked down the road from what would have been the GDR side of the famous crossing point in the Berlin Wall and saw a sign: YOU ARE ENTERING THE AMERICAN SECTOR. The replica sentry post was manned by two mock American guards, whose roles were to be photographed by the thousands of tourists who flocked to the scene of the one of the Cold War’s great stand-offs, when Soviet and American tanks faced each other across the physical and ideological divide in October 1961.

The museum proved more satisfying, and they were both fascinated by the ingenious ways in which desperate East Berliners had planned escapes to what they hoped would be a better life in the West. A life that Albin Rylander symbolized, yet Anita was now having doubts about where his loyalties had lain. The museum held surprising interest for her as a Swede because there was a section devoted to Raoul Wallenberg, the Swedish diplomat who saved the lives of thousands of Hungarian Jews during the war before disappearing into Soviet captivity, never to be seen again. Would Rylander’s final chapter remain as tantalizingly elusive as Wallenberg’s?

As they left Checkpoint Charlie and made their way through the crowds onto Wilhelmstrasse, Anita’s mobile went off. She took it out of her pocket and glanced at Kevin expectantly.

‘Hello, Anita Sundström.’

‘This is Manja.’

Anita mouthed ‘it’s her’ to Kevin. ‘Will your grandfather see us?’

‘Yes. But I am not sure he is so happy about it.’

‘What time?’

‘Eight o’clock. And please use the back entrance of the building.’

‘OK. Thank you, Manja.’ Anita was about to end the call… ‘Sorry Manja, just a quick question. I’m trying to find a street called Otto-Grotewohl-Strasse?’ She listened intently to Manja’s reply before finishing with a ‘
Danke
.’ She clicked her phone off and gave Kevin a triumphant look.

‘He’s seeing us tonight at eight.’

‘And Otto-Grotewohl-Strasse?’

‘It doesn’t exist now; it’s changed its name again. But it was the name that the East Germans gave to what was… Wilhelmstrasse.’

Moberg was sitting in the car park of the polishus, wondering if he had just wrecked his career, when his mobile phone started to go off in the pocket of his jacket, which had been flung carelessly over the passenger seat. At first, he was unsure whether to answer it. Had Isaksson been that quick? It made sense that as soon as he had stormed back into his house, he’d been straight on to the commissioner. Moberg reluctantly took out his phone, and was relieved to see that the incoming call was from Eva Thulin. He grunted his name in greeting.

‘I hope you’re having a nice day, too.’ Thulin could be equally as sarcastic as Sundström.

‘Shit start to the day. What have you got for me?’

‘Markus Asplund’s DNA. It matches the anal sample from your victim. You see, even forensics can get to the bottom of things.’

Moberg ignored the joke. He never understood how the forensic technicians could find humour, particularly of the childish variety, in their work. He didn’t even offer a ‘Thanks’ before he quickly cut the call off and dialled Wallen’s office.

‘Wallen, I want you and Mirza to bring Markus Asplund in and grill the bugger. We’ve now got the DNA confirmed. He did screw Ebba Pozorski the day she died. I want him really pressured. Above all, I want you to try and establish a connection with Isaksson. So, go through his mobile phone. If he’s wiped his calls, then check out everything with his provider.’

‘Yes, we will.’

‘And I’ve just had a thought. Once you’ve confirmed that he knows Ebba, and he can’t deny it now, find out what he knows about that old stab wound that Thulin found on her body. It might be his handiwork.’

Wallen paused at the other end of the line. ‘Don’t you want to lead the interview?’

‘No. You’ll do a good job.’ He could almost hear her purr.

‘And if the commissioner rings down for me, say I’m out.’

‘Shall I say what you’re doing?’

‘Just say I’m out!’ he shouted down the phone. He threw his mobile onto his jacket and started up the car. He was going to Sjöbo to see if he could dig up any dirt on Axel Isaksson.

It was an incongruous setting for a friendly fika. But here she was with Kevin having a coffee and cake in the middle of what had been the Gestapo headquarters, the site of some of the most barbaric and evil goings-on that the world has ever witnessed.

They had walked round the gravelled area that surrounded the Topography of Terror museum, before entering it. All the different buildings were described. The SS Headquarters next door; the Reich Main Security Office; and even the editorial office of
Der Angriff,
the main organ of Nazi propaganda set up by Joseph Goebbels. Along the northern perimeter of the site was one of the last vestiges of the Berlin Wall. Beyond, stood Hermann Goering’s vast Ministry of Aviation – a perfect example of Nazi architecture at its most intimidating, which, ironically, survived the aerial Allied bombing that destroyed everything else around it. The largest office block in Europe at the time, it later served the GDR Council of Ministers before becoming the German Ministry of Finance after unification. All this information was lapped up by Kevin.