Menace In Malmö Read online

  MENACE IN MALMÖ

  The fifth Inspector Anita Sundström mystery

  by TORQUIL MACLEOD

  Copyright © Torquil MacLeod

  2017

  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: 2017

  ISBN 978-0-9575190-6-0

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.torquilmacleodbooks.com

  eBook conversion by www.eBookpartnership.com

  Contents

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  NOTES

  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

  A Malmö Midwinter (novella)

  Jack Flyford Misadventures (Historical crime)

  Sweet Smell of Murder

  Acknowledgements

  I need to start by thanking Nick Pugh of The Roundhouse for yet another striking cover design, and introducing me to the world’s smallest pork pies. On the medical front, the doctors from Gloucester, Bill and Justine, provided helpful advice; as did Carol, who is doubly helpful because she’s an ex-nurse and ex-policewoman. On the Swedish side, thanks go to Eva and Göran for finding the location that set off this story. And to Karin W G and Klas for showing us round Uppsala and doing extra research on Jacob Björnstahl. With the latter in mind, I’m indebted to staff at the National Library of Malta. Of course, Karin G provided her usual wide-ranging help on police and other matters over the odd bottle; it’s not her fault that I may have strayed way beyond accepted Swedish police procedural practices. I must also mention Fraser and Paula for accommodation and tips on Swedish life. Thanks to Matt, Diana, Heather and the team at eBookpartnership for their usual excellent service; and to Linda for her support from the beginning and her promotion of The Malmö Mysteries. Last but certainly not least, thanks to Susan for her editing and painfully frank opinions that have helped improve the novel.

  I would also like to thank family, friends and readers for their continued encouragement.

  Dedication

  To Mum and Dad, who never knew about my writing adventures, but who kindled my imagination at an early age. Forever grateful.

  PROLOGUE

  If he hadn’t gone out that night, he wouldn’t have seen what he did. And he wouldn’t be having the nightmares that a ten-year-old should never have.

  Kurt felt an illicit thrill as he twirled the cigarette in his young fingers. He thought it looked like a miniature magic wand. It was the first time he’d ever touched a cigarette. He knew they weren’t allowed in the house. Mamma and his big sister wouldn’t countenance them, yet he knew his dad sometimes sneaked outside and lit up at the end of the garden. Mamma must turn a blind eye to the garden visits, as it never came up in conversation, certainly not while he was around anyway. So to Kurt, cigarettes were the forbidden fruit which had to be tasted. He knew where Dad kept his secret stash – at the back of the drawer in the garden shed. There was a cheap plastic lighter there too. He would have time to put the lighter back before his dad returned from his fishing trip with his friends; he always had a drink in Simrishamn before coming home.

  He knew he should be in bed at this hour, but Mamma was more lax during the school summer holidays. The beach, a local haunt, had been quite busy during the day, as it always was when the weather was sunny. Now it was a fine, warm evening; dusk beginning to hug the landscape. The beach was deserted except for a solitary man staring out to sea. Kurt recognised Linus, one of that rowdy group of young people that had spent most of the summer in the village. This was the second summer they’d come to Knäbäckshusen. Mamma wasn’t keen on them. They made too much noise at unsocial hours – they stayed up too late and often didn’t emerge until after midday. His mother couldn’t abide the waste of summer days when, as she was always ready to point out, the winter would be on them soon enough. Mamma had a way at looking at the gloomy side of life. Dad called them “bohemians”, though Kurt had no idea what that meant. But Kurt liked them. They were fun. And they would talk to him occasionally, which is more than his snooty sister did – she thought he was too young to be of any interest. And now she had a boyfriend in Hammenhög, she hadn’t been around much these holidays. At least Kurt had been left more to his own devices during the long, hazy days. He’d played with his pals and got up to the usual mischief that boys do, but even he wouldn’t tell his friends about the cigarette until he had tried it. If it worked, he would boast about it; if not, he would keep quiet. Anyway, he didn’t trust John not to blab. The consequences of his mother finding out were too dreadful to contemplate.

  Now he was safely in the cover of the trees above the beach. He couldn’t be seen, even by someone taking a late stroll. He could hear the sea caressing the sand below. He was about to take the final exhilarating step and light the cigarette, clamped awkwardly between his trembling lips, when he noticed a light from the chapel’s tiny window. The chapel was a converted fisherman’s hut; a small stone building with a timber frontage and a thatched roof. Built into a high bank of sand, it perched snugly above the beach, next to a similar but smaller hut. It was only used for special occasions and visited by the odd tourist or seeker of a few moments’ peace. Kurt checked himself. If he flicked on the lighter, anyone coming out of the chapel might see the flame. It was strange for anybody to be there at this hour. He retreated further bac
k into the trees. He lit his cigarette and sucked for all he was worth. For a moment, there was a tingle as something tickled the back of his throat. Then he started to splutter, and he found himself coughing violently. As he tried to suppress the noises he was making, his head began to swim. He felt nauseous. This was horrible. He flung the cigarette away and it hit a tree and fell to the ground, the end glowing leeringly at him from the shadows. He quickly realized that he must extinguish the ember, and he scuffed it with his sandal. All he wanted to do now was put his dad’s lighter back in its drawer and forget about smoking forever.

  As he made his way back to the edge of the trees, he heard the creak of the chapel’s wooden door, followed by someone padding quickly up the steep sandy path which led, past the bell tower at the top of the bank, to the village. Kurt gazed down at the chapel. It was then that he noticed a thin slit of quivering candlelight coming through the door, which had been left ajar. He didn’t have the courage to investigate who was still inside. They would probably be praying or meditating. But the path past the chapel was the quickest and easiest way home, and now he wanted to get back as quickly as possible. He crept up to the door; he couldn’t hear anything from inside. He scrambled up the path. At the top, where the building almost disappeared into the hillside, there was the small window he’d glimpsed before, which in the daytime illuminated a narrow brick altar. Kurt’s curiosity got the better of him. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the light as the candles flickered through the grimy pane. At first, he couldn’t see much. The rough wooden benches against the side walls appeared unoccupied. He expected to see someone kneeling before the altar. Then, as he strained his eyes, he realized that a crumpled figure was lying on the floor. This was a funny way to pray. The person wasn’t moving. He knew the chapel attracted all sorts of peculiar people, yet some sense was telling him that this wasn’t right. Then he recognized the man. It was one of the “bohemians”. By the long dark hair, he knew it to be the unfriendly one: Göran. Was he drunk? With his heart thumping against his chest, Kurt made his way back down the path and stood in front of the door. It wasn’t like a church door at all – it was panelled like the one on his grandfather’s barn. He peered through the slit. His mouth was dry. The door opened further with a loud creak as he swung it gently outwards. Göran was still there. He was curled up and was clutching his chest. Kurt tentatively took a couple of steps closer. He thought he detected a slight moan. This goaded him into action, and he approached the prone figure.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  There was no reply. Kurt now felt frightened. What was happening? He plucked up the nerve to go right up to Göran and he knelt down on one knee beside him. He saw the man’s lips twitching. Was he attempting to say something? Kurt leant over as close as he dared and strained his ear. Then there came a muffled whisper. He wasn’t sure if he heard the words correctly. It was at that moment that he noticed Göran’s hands were all red, blood dripping through his fingers onto the brick floor.

  Kurt staggered back. He thought he was going to be sick. He had to escape. He jumped to his feet and ran out of the chapel as fast as he could.

  CHAPTER 1

  He tried frantically to hold his breath. Though the wind was gusting through the wood and rustling the leaves loudly, his fear of detection was so great that he imagined the slightest sound he made would give him away. As he pressed his shaking body against the trunk of the tree, he tried to pick out signs of his pursuers. The pain in his ribs was compounded by the gut-wrenching running, and his left foot was sore and bleeding; his trainer had come off in the initial chase during his mad break for freedom. He wished Jack was with him, but he wasn’t going anywhere now. Everything had changed that morning when the Boss had arrived out of the blue. Some innate instinct for survival had driven him to flee. He had done it alone and felt even more frightened. Now the battering his body had taken over the previous months was taking its toll, and he was wondering how much further he could go. He had no idea where he was. All he knew was that he had to get as far away from the camp as possible. He didn’t even know where the camp was situated other than it was somewhere in this huge forest where he was now lost. Worse; he was in a strange country, and he didn’t know the language, though he had heard some English spoken.

  He edged round the tree to see if there was any sign of them. A twig cracked beneath his bloodied foot, and he started with fright. He was no longer sure he had the mental strength to go on. But he knew the consequences of giving himself up. That was enough to push him forward at a limping run. Soon he stumbled onto a rough pathway. It was tempting to follow it, for it must lead somewhere, but that would be what they would expect. Then he heard a shout. Then another. They were not far away. Swiftly looking in both directions and seeing that it was clear, he managed to dart across the pathway into a gap in the trees on the other side. Here, the undergrowth was thicker and the forest even denser. The shouts were getting nearer. He looked desperately about as he wiped the greasy sweat from his eyes. He must keep going.

  He was about to launch himself away from the fringes of the path when he saw McNaught heading towards the section he had just crossed. There was no sign of sweat on him, despite all the running he had been doing. He was fit. And muscular. From his hiding place, he could see the Scottish bastard’s rippling biceps almost erupting out of his tight, white T-shirt. He had been on the receiving end of many an assault from those arms. The combat trousers exacerbated the thuggish image, as did the bald bullet head and brutish face. The scar running down his left cheek was a mark of the toughness of which McNaught was ferociously proud. Camp rumours suggested he had either been in the paratroopers or the SAS. He stopped in the middle of the path and scoped his surroundings. The small, slightly squint, coal-black eyes took in everything. The eyes of a hunter; the eyes that had given him nightmares and brought fear to every waking hour; the eyes that had never left him, or Jack, or the others.

  McNaught’s gaze was interrupted by the arrival of the other two. They were out of breath.

  ‘The little shit’s not far from here. I can smell his fear.’

  He almost stood up to reveal himself, such was the hold that McNaught exerted over him. But he fought the idiotic urge and tried to control his shaking limbs.

  ‘Come on!’ McNaught barked. ‘He can’t be far. Don’t catch him, and you’ll answer to the Boss.’

  The threat galvanized the new arrivals and they sped off. It seemed like minutes before they were out of sight, though it must only have been seconds. He couldn’t afford to wait a moment longer. His foot was in agony, and his body was racked with pain, but blind panic forced him to move from his temporary refuge. With a muted sigh, he pulled his weary frame up and without a backward glance he headed deeper into the forest.

  CHAPTER 2

  The train glided into Skurup station. Bengt Svefors was looking forward to the end of his shift. There were two more stops before Ystad – Rydsgård and Svarte. Though the 22.08 Skånetrafiken train was scheduled to go right through to Simrishamn, he would swap with the next driver in Ystad and then get a lift back on the 23.00 return to Malmö Central. That would arrive at 23.44, and he would get back home by 00.15. After a lifetime on the railways, Bengt Svefors was a man ruled by his working timetable, which inevitably spilled over into his domestic life. This obsessive timekeeping had proved too much for his wife of twenty years, and he had been single for the last ten. Now he and his ex-wife got on far better because they didn’t have to live with each other but, of course, they still kept in close touch for the sake of the grandchildren.

  A few people spilled onto the platform, and a couple climbed into the last carriage. At that time of night on a Monday, the train wasn’t very busy. A few stragglers from Malmö making their way home from work or a shopping trip. With the new school year starting, there weren’t the groups of kids he’d had last week. However, in early August, there were still holidaymakers using the line that ran from Sweden’s third city across rural
Skåne to the country’s southern tip at Ystad and then on to the small fishing town of Simrishamn on the eastern coast. It was a pleasant journey at this time of year, before the leaves began to fall and the harvest golds and lush greens of the summer countryside transmogrified into the dreary, harsh browns and greys of autumn and winter. Now the sky was striated with orange streaks and pink candyfloss, and the last of the day was fading into dusk. Lights were appearing in the windows of the buildings close to the track. A couple of cars waiting at a level crossing had their headlights full on. Bengt Svefors effortlessly moved the train over the crossing and headed through the tangle of overhead power lines at the side of the track that would propel him and his passengers to Ystad.

  He was already planning what he would do tomorrow. He’d worked the weekend, and he was due the next two days off. In a year’s time he would be retiring, and then he would have some serious planning to do. He knew he would have to keep himself busy or he’d become bored. The job was his life, so once that had reached its terminus, he would have to work to a different timetable. That’s why tomorrow, after breakfasting at 09.00 (this indulgence due to his late shift), he was going to his Spanish class at 11.00. One of the first things he’d promised himself when he hung up his driver’s uniform was to go to Spain and travel on their Alta Velocidad Española (AVE), the high-speed train that some of his colleagues had spoken of with such awe. And he could combine the trip with some sun. What more could a northern European train buff ask for?

  Then after lunch, he would pick up seven-year-old Lennart from school at 14.30. He’d take him to Folkets Park for a play on the swings and treat him to an ice cream. His daughter wasn’t keen on the boy having too much sugar – the subsequent rush made him too boisterous, apparently. This modern dietary nonsense was beyond Bengt. Why couldn’t the young fellow enjoy an ice cream? Anyway, it would be their secret. That in itself was fun. He just had to make sure that all the evidence was wiped away before Lennart was delivered home in time for his daughter’s return from work at 16.00. He would stay for supper as per usual and be home for a spot of relaxation in front of the television by 19.00. The English detective series Midsomer Murders was on tomorrow night. A treat.