A Malmö Midwinter: An Inspector Anita Sundström Novella (The Malmö Mysteries) Read online

  A MALMÖ

  MIDWINTER

  An Inspector Anita Sundström novella

  by TORQUIL MACLEOD

  Copyright © Torquil MacLeod

  2015

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without express written permission of the Publisher.

  Published by Torquil MacLeod Books Ltd

  eBook edition: 2015

  ISBN 978-0-9575190-5-3

  www.torquilmacleodbooks.com

  eBook conversion by www.eBookpartnership.com

  Contents

  About the author

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  About the author

  Torquil MacLeod was born in Edinburgh. After working in advertising agencies in Birmingham, Glasgow and Newcastle, he’s now settled in Cumbria with his wife, Susan, and her hens. The idea for a Scandinavian crime series came from his frequent trips to Malmö and southern Sweden to visit his elder son. He now has four grandchildren, two of whom are Swedish.

  Also by Torquil MacLeod:

  The Malmö Mysteries

  Meet me in Malmö

  Murder in Malmö

  Missing in Malmö

  Midnight in Malmö

  Jack Flyford Misadventures (Historical crime)

  Sweet Smell of Murder

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank Fraser & Paula for a pleasant research base and Christmas TV information; Karin for her wide-ranging help, accompanied by the usual red wine; Bill & Justine for saving my bacon and a possible court appearance; Matt, Diana, Heather and the team at eBookpartnership for their fantastic service; Linda for her unstinting support and her tireless promotion of The Malmö Mysteries; also not forgetting Nick Pugh at The Roundhouse for another excellent cover design. And to Susan for her rigorous editing - and for not allowing me to get away with inconsistencies.

  I would also like to thank all those family, friends and readers who have contacted me and given me the encouragement to continue with the series.

  Dedication

  To Ylva; a special Swedish granddaughter.

  CHAPTER 1

  There was nothing. Literally nothing. He was too shocked to react at first. His brain couldn’t register what his eyes could see. He had sauntered happily up to his trendily modern apartment block in the shadow of the Turning Torso. He’d had a couple of long days in Stockholm and an afternoon back at the office, and now he was looking forward to unwinding with a few friends at a nearby restaurant. But first, he had promised himself a refreshing shower and a change of clothes. Though he loved his work at the law firm, it was a relief to escape his colleagues, with their constant internal politics and jockeying for position. Stockholm had been a bit of an analgesic. But the job paid handsomely, and its fruits had bought him his stylish home with its panoramic views of the Sound across to Copenhagen, where he could spend his money in the smart restaurants, chic bars and cool boutiques. The apartment, with its designer decor, collectors’ items and up-to-the-minute technology, was the most tangible reward for his success at a young age. Life was good. Until the moment he had opened the front door.

  The click of his expensive leather-soled shoes on the polished beechwood floor echoed eerily round the empty living room. He had enjoyed furnishing the place – everything several notches above the IKEA trappings he’d grown up with. He’d been so proud of the horrendously pricey Nanna Ditzel easy chair; and his sentimental attachment to the Skagerak mirror his parents had bought him as a house-warming present always brought a smile to his lips. Now there wasn’t a stick to be seen. No mounted photographs or investment paintings on the walls, no Chinese rugs on the floor, no objets d’art, no wide-screen TV – oh, shit! – the awesome Bang & Olufsen sound system he’d paid a small fortune for had gone, too. He felt bile rising to his throat and he forced it back down before he was physically sick.

  The kitchen was the same. All the built-in appliances like the cooker, dishwasher and fridge were still in place, but the microwave was gone, as was his fancy coffee-making machine. The cupboards and drawers had been ignored and the food had been left, but as he rarely ate in, that wasn’t much of a consolation. But the wine! The empty racks! He’d spent the whole of his last bonus on starting his collection of bottles from vintages recommended by one of the senior partners. He hardly dared go into the bedroom. The bed was still there, but on opening the walk-in wardrobe, he swore as he saw that his beautiful collection of expensive suits and shirts was missing. Oh, no! – even the Christmas presents he’d spent so long choosing for the family were no longer there. He went to the window, looked out, and saw the bright electric candle Christmas lights in the adjacent apartments poking fun at him. He turned round, leant back against the wall and slowly slid down it until he was sitting on the bare floorboards. He let the tears of frustration and disbelief run freely down his face. How could this have happened?

  He wiped his eyes and his lawyer’s head took over. He had to marshal the facts. Review the evidence. He had used his own key to get into the apartment. Nothing had been forced. Whoever had removed his belongings hadn’t broken in – the burglars must have just waltzed through the front door with a key of their own. No one else had one, except his mother, who lived up the coast in Helsingborg. They didn’t always see eye to eye, but she wouldn’t have carried any arguments this far. So, who?

  He cast his mind back over the last few days. They must have known that he was away in Stockholm and that they wouldn’t be disturbed. Half the office was aware of his movements, or they could easily have found out. But who on earth at work could or would have had anything to do with this? And why? He got on with most of his colleagues. OK, he may have rubbed one or two of them up the wrong way. But this? No. There must be a rational explanation. Who else had he told that he would be away? A couple of friends knew, but he quickly dismissed them.

  Then it struck him with horrible clarity. The club. The girls.

  CHAPTER 2

  Murder tends to spoil Christmas. And it wasn’t what Inspector Hakim Mirza of the Malmö Criminal Investigation Team was expecting when he had happily agreed to cover for his non-religious colleagues while they enjoyed taking time off work to celebrate the birth of Christ.

  It was Christmas Eve; Swedish Yuletide. He had their section of the polishus virtually to himself. Chief Inspector Moberg had found himself a new woman, who had dragged him off reluctantly to the sun in Tenerife. He knew that Moberg hated the heat, but was obviously at the stage in the association where he was making an effort. With three divorces behind him, Hakim wasn’t hopeful that this would be a long-lasting relationship – if it made it beyond New Year, he would be surprised. Co-incidentally, his sis
ter Jazmin had probably gone out to Tenerife on the same flight. She and Inspector Anita Sundström’s son, Lasse, were spending Christmas out there – a present from Anita, who felt they deserved it after the frightening events of last summer. Anita herself had been unable to avoid spending the festive season – well, three days of it – with her mother, who lived with her unmarried sister in Kristianstad on the other side of Skåne. Hakim smiled at the thought of Anita desperately trying to come up with an excuse not to go, but feeling duty-bound to put up with her mother’s constant carping and her aunt’s unappetizing cooking. Klara Wallen had gone off somewhere north with her partner, and Pontus Brodd was supposedly “on call” if anything serious happened. Hakim fervently hoped that nothing would come in, as he had little faith in his lethargic colleague’s abilities.

  As he was sitting at his desk, he opened the file on the case that he and Wallen were currently working on. Three men had had their apartments cleared out. All were young and successful. And all had fallen foul of the same scam, as the interview with Greger Sahlén three days before Christmas had revealed.

  Sahlén had become quite reticent when Hakim and Wallen had spoken to him in his virtually empty apartment; a scene that they were starting to get used to. Was this caginess due to the realization that his insurance company might not pay up if the burglars had simply let themselves in? Sahlén couldn’t think of anyone who might have committed the crime – or he wasn’t keen to tell.

  Wallen had let Hakim take the lead. ‘You didn’t happen to bring two young women back to your apartment a few days before the burglary?’

  The startled expression on the lawyer’s face confirmed it. Slowly, he nodded.

  ‘OK, what happened?’

  Sahlén looked at the bare wall. The faint impression of where a picture had once hung stared back. ‘I went to a club. Celebrating. We’d had a good win in court, and I’d had a few drinks at the office before heading out.’ His foot found something invisible to scuff. ‘A couple of girls came up and started chatting.’

  ‘One long-haired redhead and one bobbed brunette? The redhead of medium height and the other slightly taller?’ asked Wallen without expecting an answer. She held up a sheet of paper with two identikits.

  ‘Can’t tell from those. They were young. Well, perhaps early twenties; the brunette might have been younger.’ He glanced around the living room. It wasn’t going to bring his furniture back, however hard he tried to imagine the pieces in their carefully chosen settings.

  ‘And?’ Hakim prompted.

  ‘I bought them drinks. A few drinks, actually.’

  ‘Showing off,’ commented Wallen unnecessarily.

  ‘We danced. I thought it would be nice to get off with the redhead. The older one. I fancied her. But I couldn’t split them. They seemed to come as a pair. Then when the redhead was in the toilet, the dark girl – I can’t remember their names – asked if I was up for a threesome.’

  ‘And, presumably, you weren’t going to turn that down,’ Wallen said with disdain.

  ‘What guy would? Two lovely girls.’

  ‘Then you came back here?’ Hakim knew the scenario, but he needed it to be confirmed.

  ‘Yes. One of them had a bottle of vodka.’ Sahlén’s face creased up as he was trying to force out the memories. ‘And then I don’t remember much after that.’

  ‘Did you have sex?’

  ‘I can’t fucking remember!’ He sounded genuinely exasperated. ‘I woke up next morning feeling like death. It was so annoying. I could have had a great experience, but I couldn’t recall a thing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. You can take it from me that they won’t have slept with you.’ Wallen was almost triumphant. Why were men like this? she wondered. If Sahlén could have remembered the sex – and be able to boast about it – then he could probably have lived with the subsequent stripping of his apartment; it would have made it all worthwhile.

  ‘Did you mention your Stockholm trip to them?’ asked Hakim.

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly.’

  ‘Well, you’re not the first. In fact, you’re the third that we know about. Men being chatted up by a young brunette and an older redhead.’ The descriptions of the girls – other than the hair – had been equivocal to say the least. Not surprisingly, the computer representations hadn’t produced any positive leads. The CCTV footage from the clubs had shown them leaving with their two previous victims, but the pictures were obscure and enigmatic; they could have been anybody. ‘They go back to the apartment, produce a bottle of vodka, which is spiked, probably with something like Rohypnol; the man flakes out, and the girls take impressions of his house keys. But they’ve also wheedled information out of their mark about his movements, so they know when the coast will be clear and the gang can move in. In your case, I expect you told them about your Stockholm trip.’

  ‘Oh, God! I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been!’

  For a fleeting second, even Wallen felt sorry for him.

  Hakim looked over the extensive inventory that Sahlén had provided of his stolen items. They had little to go on. The facial descriptions of the girls provided by all three victims had been equally unhelpful. But what the police did have on this occasion was a sighting of a green transit van near Sahlén’s apartment block the day that his possessions were moved out. Two young men had been spotted. Again, the report was vague and from a single source, as the burglary had been carried out in the middle of the day when few people were around – and those that were weren’t very forthcoming; Swedes like to mind their own business. Hakim closed the file and glanced over to the window. It was snowing. He got up and went over to look. The snowflakes were large and falling fast. The grassed area opposite, illuminated by the street lamps along Kungsgatan, was almost white already. The first serious fall this winter. He was disturbed by the phone ringing. He instinctively looked at his watch. It was a quarter past five. Jultomten would have arrived in millions of Swedish homes at around four – after the end of Donald Duck and Friends; a Disney compilation which was on TV every year to distract the kids until the magic hour – and would have handed out presents. The little, mischievous sprite of legend had, over time, morphed into the modern adult wearing a Santa Claus suit, crying out: ‘Are there any good children here?’ A time of excitement, wonder and joy. He picked up the receiver. The last thing he wanted was to be called out to an incident in this weather. His brow furrowed as he listened.

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  He put down the phone. It sounded like there was now one less tomten.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hakim wasn’t the most confident of drivers as he didn’t own a vehicle, nor had he cause to drive a pool car that often. He usually went out with Anita or Wallen, and they both preferred to be behind the wheel. Given that the snow was sudden and that many of the commune workers were on holiday, the roads were becoming difficult to navigate. The windscreen wipers fought bravely against the bombarding flakes. Everything around him disappeared in a niveous haze as he left the urban fringes of Malmö. He latched on to a large Saab in front and followed its red tail lights. He had wondered whether he should have rung Brodd before he left headquarters, but had quickly dismissed the notion. Brodd would be more of a hindrance. He would assess the situation first before calling for extra help. He knew that there would be a couple of local constables on the spot when he got there. It was probably a simple domestic, and the culprit would be obvious; a family row leading to someone going too far, with fatal consequences.

  Fortunately, much to his relief, as he approached his destination, the snow began to ease. He could see a female constable waiting for him at the end of a track. He manoeuvred the car off the main road. When he reached the constable, he let down the window and could see the tyre tracks of her squad car running up a narrow cul-de-sac. The lights ahead indicated a couple of dwellings.

  The constable looked at his car doubtfully. ‘I’d leave your car here, Inspector. Might get
stuck up there. I’m Liv Fogelström. My partner Reuben Persson’s up in the house with the family.’ Hakim pressed the control and the window hissed back up. He got out. The snow had totally stopped.

  ‘What have we got?’

  They started crunching their way up the track. Hakim’s suede shoes weren’t exactly adequate footwear for the conditions, but he hadn’t seen any forecasts for snow that morning. Surely in this day and age, the weather people could get something like that right!

  ‘It’s the father of the family. Tord Sundin. He’s at the back of the house near the barn door, dressed in his Santa suit.’

  The building immediately in front of Hakim – a typical, single-storey Scanian former farmhouse – was ablaze with lights. The road then curved round to the other dwelling, which was in semi-darkness. This appeared to be a more modern, two-storey building. Beyond, loomed the shadow of a coniferous wood.

  ‘We’ll see the victim first,’ said Hakim, pulling his coat closer round him.

  Hakim towered above Fogelström. He followed the constable, her pistol holster clamped to her side, past the front door and round the end of the first house. The building was L-shaped, with a large, detached barn some distance away and at right angles to the shorter leg of the L. The old farmyard was in the middle of the complex. Under the overhanging eaves of the house, where the snow hadn’t fallen, Hakim could see it was now paved; and a few empty planters were dotted about. The outside lights at the back of the house were on, and near the threshold of the barn, Hakim could make out a red shape lying on the ground, half covered in snow. The body lay just in front of the structure’s double doors, one of which was open; the prone figure preventing its closure. Hakim unconsciously held his breath, loath to break the eerie silence which follows a fresh snowfall. There were numerous footprints leading from the house and surrounding the victim. Fogelström read his mind.