Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) (3 page)

The car turned off the main road and along a gravelled track. It curled round to the left, and Anita manoeuvred onto the grass next to a Falun red wooden cabin. There was a decked porch to the side with outdoor furniture on it, which was invitingly bathed in sunlight. Kevin was childishly delighted that the house lived up to all his expectations of a typical Swedish dwelling. He noticed that there were two other houses along from Anita’s rented home. The nearest was a solidly built, white-painted Dutch bungalow with a tall, ugly stone chimney breast abutting the gable end. It had a grey-tiled roof, in the centre of which, above the front door, was a wide dormer window. It had probably looked very smart when it was put up in the 1970s; now it looked faded and tired. Beyond that was a stone cottage, the oldest building of the three. As he got out of the car, he noticed that in the gaps between the surrounding trees, he could see the waters of the Baltic stretching away to the horizon.

‘This is fantastic, Anita. Is there a beach near?’

‘Just down there,’ she said, pointing to a path at the side of the house.

‘Glad I brought my cossie.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Swimming trunks.’

‘Well, why don’t you go for a swim while I sort out the meal for tonight?’

At that time in the afternoon, there were several people on the beach, which Kevin could see zigzagged its way along the coastline. Despite the heat, the water was cold, and it took him some minutes before he plunged fully in and headed out to sea. Anita had warned him not to go out too far, as there were strong currents. Once he got used to the temperature, he began to enjoy the freedom. He noticed that no one else was swimming. A few youngsters were playing at the water’s edge, with a grandfather ankle-deep keeping an eye on them. As he paddled on the spot, he took in the view. He could see the three houses amongst the trees on the bluff above the beach. He had immediately taken to Anita’s rented home. It was, he presumed, typically Scandinavian. Sparsely but tastefully furnished. No unwarranted fripperies. It was the casual, informal feel that was so different from anything he was used to in Britain. Anita had given him a brief tour. It had a functional but comfortable living room overlooking the sea, a neat kitchen-diner, a bathroom and two bedrooms. Unsure where he was to be housed, he was about to put his luggage in the second bedroom when Anita pointed to the room she was obviously using.

‘Aren’t you going to stay in here?’ she had said matter-of-factly.

No messing around, no British-style prevarication. He hadn’t needed a second invitation, and any embarrassment had been avoided. Now, as he headed back towards the beach, he couldn’t remember when he had felt so happy. A quiet couple of weeks with a gorgeous woman like Anita would banish, albeit temporarily, the cheerless emptiness in his domestic life and the stresses and strains of a police career that was stagnating.

Chief Inspector Moberg sat thoughtfully at the top of the table in the meeting room. Behind him was a blank whiteboard onto which photos of the victim would be attached, profiles of possible suspects would be added, and theories played out. He wondered if he should have had something to eat before the team meeting started. It had been a couple of hours since he’d demolished a burger brought in from McDonald’s. He found it difficult to think on an empty stomach. And where was he going to dine tonight? His apartment wasn’t an option. The third, unlamented fru Moberg may have departed and taken her bile and ill-will with her, but at least there had been someone at home waiting for him when he returned from work. They may not have spoken, or even slept in the same bed latterly, but, strangely, that was better than having nobody. After the initial month of euphoria following her walk out, when he’d felt free to come and go as he pleased – be answerable to nobody – there was a moment when he realized that that wasn’t a satisfying situation any more. He even began to miss their marital spats and vitriolic jousting, which had shown they had cared enough about something, however inconsequential or stupid. Could he not survive on his own? Did he need to live with someone he could kick against, blame or annoy? Is that why he had dived from one marriage into the next? It certainly wasn’t for the sex.

His thoughts were interrupted when the team started to file in. First came Wallen, whom he knew to be competent but not pushy enough to get things moving; unlike the irritating Anita Sundström. Then Mirza. He liked his enthusiasm, while still being wary of someone of his background. He had never been keen on the influx of Arabs that seemed to have swamped Sweden in recent years. Not that they were any worse than any of the other immigrants. They just seemed to cause more trouble because many didn’t integrate; a matter that had caused fierce disagreements with Sundström. Mirza had undeniably come from that same cultural milieu, and yet was quickly becoming an integral part of the polishus, so Moberg pushed his prejudice into the back of his mind. Then, in came Pontus Brodd. Brodd raised his hand in a tilted drinking gesture. Moberg nodded in reply. He glanced round the team as they took their seats. It was at times like this that he most missed Henrik Nordlund’s unruffled presence and wise counsel.

‘Is Eva Thulin coming?’

‘She’s on her way,’ replied Wallen.

Moberg hoped that Thulin had something positive to report, as he had a horrible feeling this investigation was going to begin with the situation he always dreaded – having no clue as to the identity of the victim.

They were all looking at the whiteboard. Thulin had attached various photos of the victim. The neat stabbing ensured the images weren’t as vivid and upsetting as those of many of the cases they had investigated. Thulin told them that the woman was in her mid-thirties, was healthy and in very good physical condition at the time of her death. The weapon was a knife.

‘As you can see, the fatal wound is halfway down the thoracic spine, just inside the inner border of the scapula – the shoulder blade. The knife blade travelled through part of the left lung, causing a pneumothorax, and lacerated the descending aorta. The blade also pierced the left ventricle of the heart, causing blood to escape into the pericardial sac. Death would have been rapid. The fast drop in blood pressure was followed by cardiac arrest.’

‘What you’re saying is she was stabbed to death.’

‘Yes, Chief Inspector, that’s exactly what I’m saying,’ Thulin sighed. ‘You’re looking for a right-handed person. Could be male or female. The perpetrator was strong enough to stab the victim with some force, and presumably fit enough to run up behind her. As the victim was very fit herself, she was likely to have been jogging at a reasonable pace.’

Moberg frowned. This wasn’t exactly helpful.

‘Anything else?’

‘Hakim asked if she had been sexually assaulted. She hadn’t, and her running clothes hadn’t been disturbed. But,’ and there was a long pause, ‘she had been sexually active not long before.’

‘What do you mean “sexually active”? She had sex,’ snorted the chief inspector.

‘She’d had sex at both ends, as it were. Probably what you’d call “normal” sex,’ Thulin stared at Moberg with the hint of a twinkle in her eye, ‘and anal.’

Moberg pulled a face. ‘Poofs’ sex.’ Brodd smirked like a schoolboy.

‘Woman can enjoy it as well. Anyway, we might be able to get DNA from at least one end with a bit of luck.’

Moberg didn’t want to hear any more. Even after all his years on the force, he still felt uncomfortable when intimate sexual details were discussed as part of a case. ‘So, she was with a man, or men, before she went out running.’

‘Husband?’ Wallen queried.

‘No ring, anyway,’ observed Hakim.

‘And having looked closely at her hands, she certainly hasn’t worn a ring in a long time, if ever,’ added Thulin. ‘But those fingers were beautifully manicured. Care like that doesn’t come cheap.’ She glanced at her own hands and frowned. ‘And another thing, your victim wasn’t a natural blonde. The hair was dyed. Dark brown is probably her natural colouring.’

‘Are we looking at a lover?’ Moberg threw out the question to the room. ‘After a lover’s tiff, he runs after her and stabs her?’

‘After all that sex, he wouldn’t have the energy!’ laughed Brodd.

Brodd was tall and wiry, with a hint of a stoop, yet his slow and lugubrious movements were those of a much heavier man. He was usually unshaven, and had a mop of dark hair that seemed to have a life all of its own. He was often found to be sitting; any walking appeared to be an effort, and was accompanied by a grimace. In short, he was lazy. Hakim had surmised it very quickly; Wallen confirmed the impression through her bitter experience. Why, Hakim wondered, did Moberg put up with a member of the team who offered so little and, more worryingly, was prone to incompetence? ‘Since the Chief’s wife left him,’ Wallen explained, ‘Brodd has become his drinking buddy. Brodd’s his wife substitute.’ Hakim shuddered to think what Anita made of their colleague.

‘I wouldn’t have thought that likely,’ ventured Hakim, ignoring Brodd’s facetious comment. ‘She got changed to go out running. Not the easiest thing to do if you’re in the middle of an argument. You might as well stab her where the argument took place. This seems like a calculated killing to me.’

‘And that’s your opinion after all your years in the police.’ Brodd said mockingly. He hadn’t liked the way Mirza had cut across his joke in front of the boss.

‘I bow to your experience.’

‘Don’t get sarky with me.’

‘Shut it, Pontus,’ ordered Moberg. He gazed across to the whiteboard.

‘One other thing,’ said Thulin, breaking the silence that had followed the altercation. She pointed to a photo of the victim lying on her stomach. ‘If you look carefully, there’s a scar here.’ She indicated a spot just below the right shoulder blade. ‘It’s an old one and has healed over time, but I think it’s a stab wound.’

It took a few moments for this to sink in.

‘So, it’s happened before,’ Wallen remarked. ‘The same person succeeding where they originally failed?’

‘That long apart?’ Moberg weighed in sceptically.

‘Isn’t it striking that it’s also in the back?’ countered Wallen.

‘Right. We’ll bear that in mind. But first, we need to know who the hell she is. Have we had any luck with the trawl through the apartments in the vicinity?’

‘We haven’t turned up anything,’ admitted Wallen. ‘No one of the victim’s description appears to be missing.’

‘What about the pendant?’

‘Old but cheap.’ Thulin held it up to the light in its clear plastic bag. ‘It’s strange for a woman who can afford expensive manicures to be wearing such an inexpensive item round her neck.’

‘Maybe it was a family heirloom,’ Wallen suggested.

‘Could be. It wasn’t made in Sweden,’ continued Thulin as she twirled the bag slowly around in the light. ‘I’m going to have it tested to see where it might come from. Could be up to a hundred years old.’

‘In that case, she could be a religious type,’ opined Moberg. ‘Ask around in the local churches.’ He pointed at the other plastic bag. ‘So, we’ve got a key but no apartment to go with it. Joggers?’

‘No luck there either,’ said Hakim. ‘I’m going back down to the park tonight to ask the ones who go out late. If she was a regular, then they’re the most likely to have seen her or know who she is.’

‘I’ve prepared her description for the papers and the TV stations if that’s what you think we should do. That may turn up something.’ Why did Moberg feel surprised that Wallen had actually taken the initiative for once? Maybe he should let Sundström go on holiday more often.

‘Go ahead with that. And the hospital?’

‘Brodd was looking into that,’ Wallen confirmed.

‘Em… nothing, Boss. So far that is.’ Wallen wondered how much questioning Brodd had actually done. And she found it irritating that he always called Moberg “boss”.

‘So, we’ve got fuck all.’ He really should have eaten before the meeting.

Kevin felt invigorated after his swim. As he towelled himself down, he noticed that the beach was now nearly deserted. He must have been in the water longer than he thought. A fair-haired couple were coming towards him on their way off the beach. Kevin put them in their thirties. She was as tall as her well-built partner, and carried an ethnic woollen bag; and he, iPod earphones clamped to the sides of his head, had a windbreak tucked under his arm.

‘Lovely day,’ Kevin said as they passed, and flashed them his best grin. He was in the mood to be friendly with the locals.

The man’s hooded eyes didn’t even flicker, and he offered no acknowledgement, but the woman smiled back in surprise.

‘
Hej
.’ Then she paused. ‘Are you American?’

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘I’m English.’

Her square-jawed, sour-faced partner seemed anxious to move off. She ignored him.

‘Are you on holiday?’

‘Yes. I’m staying with a Swedish friend at that house up there.’ He pointed to Anita’s rented cabin.

‘We are staying here, too.’ Her English was good, if somewhat stilted. ‘We are in the house at the end.’

‘It’s so fantastic here,’ Kevin said with genuine enthusiasm.

‘It is. Are you walking up?’

He nodded.

Without saying a word, the woman’s partner wandered on ahead, making absolutely no effort to join in the conversation.

‘Sadly, we have only one day left of our holiday. We have rented the house, but we have to go back to Stockholm on Friday.’

They started to climb the bank.

‘Benno and I will be back in our offices on Monday.’

Kevin now couldn’t think of anything to say, so, to break the silence, he asked what they did for a living.

‘My husband, Benno, does IT. I am in marketing.’

‘Sounds exciting.’

‘Not really.’

By this time they had reached the top of the bank.

‘I am Fanny.’ Kevin managed to cut off a silly smirk before it spread across his face. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘I’m Kevin.’

She smiled once more and then hurried after her silent husband. Kevin wondered why a nice girl like Fanny was married to a miserable sod like Benno.