Menace In Malmö Read online

  ‘So, what do you make of the boss?’ he asked casually.

  Erlandsson was immediately on her guard. Was this a trick question? She knew Zetterberg had taken to Szabo, though she’d shown nothing but indifference to her.

  ‘Focussed,’ she offered tentatively.

  Szabo grinned as he swept back his hair with the fingers gripping his cigarette; a dangerous manoeuvre, Erlandsson thought. ‘You could say that. I’d say obsessed.’ She flashed him a look of surprise. ‘She seems intent on finding someone guilty of this murder as long as it’s not Linus Svärd. She’s particularly interested in Lars-Gunnar after her chat with Carina Lindvall this morning. With Göran as his supplier, there might be a new angle there which wasn’t investigated before. Basically, we’re here to prove Inspector Sundström wrong.’

  ‘Seems that way. I thought the boss was very disrespectful,’ Erlandsson ventured.

  ‘You know her, don’t you? You’ve worked with Sundström?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Good. A good cop, though she’s been in a few scrapes over the years from what I’ve heard in the polishus.’

  Szabo took another long puff of his cigarette. Through the exhaled smoke, he said: ‘They must have some sort of history, Zetterberg and Sundström. That behaviour’s not normal, even among warring cops. Can you shed any light on that, Inspector Erlandsson?’ There was a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘I’ll ask around.’

  Szabo’s attention was diverted, and he flicked his half-smoked cigarette away. ‘I think it’s him.’ A yellow postal van drove up, and a man in the distinctive blue postman’s uniform eased himself out of the driver’s seat.

  Szabo sauntered over to the postman. ‘You Lars-Gunnar Lerstorp?’

  The tall, angular man with a bald head crowning a thin, drawn face with sunken eyes surveyed Szabo with suspicion. He nodded.

  ‘I’m Detective Anders Szabo and this is Detective Bea Erlandsson. We want to speak to you about the murder of Göran Gösta.’

  Lars-Gunnar’s glance darted between the two detectives and the sanctuary of the sorting office. ‘That’s ancient history.’

  ‘It’s unsolved ancient history.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me. That was in a different life,’ he mumbled as he made a move back towards the van.

  ‘Hey!’ Szabo shouted. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘We want to talk to you.’

  Szabo and Erlandsson watched in disbelief as Lars-Gunnar slipped quickly back into his van and drove off at speed.

  Moberg had distributed the photos of the three dead men after Thulin had gone. Anita was having second thoughts about the coleslaw she had planned to have at lunchtime. They were hardly recognizable as human beings, more mangled flesh and bone. Once again, she marvelled at how much people like Eva Thulin could deduce from so little.

  ‘Right, I’ve been onto the commissioner this morning, and we’ve got this case because of the Malmö connection.’ Anita could tell that he was relishing the prospect of heading this investigation. It was a long time since she’d seen so much enthusiasm from her boss, who had become decidedly jaded over the years. Egon Fuentes had really bugged him. ‘Egon Fuentes was a long-term conman who had spent time inside. I put him there,’ he added proudly. ‘What we do know is that he was involved with some new gang, possibly English or Irish. We don’t know anything about this outfit other than that it has something to do with the building trade, according to one of my informants. Fuentes was dealing with some bent building supplier. We need to find out who this was; it may give us an idea what he was up to. So I want you, Wallen, to follow that up. Talk to all the suppliers in and around Malmö. Thulin said there were half a dozen paving stones found in the van, so start with people who do that sort of thing. Drives, patios, tarmacking, whatever.’

  Moberg was warming to his subject. ‘Brodd, I want you to find out where the Fiat transit van came from and who bought it. Or if it was rented. It was in a bit of a state even before the crash, so unlikely to have come from a reputable dealer. And I want you,’ he said, turning to Anita, ‘and Mirza to get down to the train crash site.’

  ‘But that wasn’t the crime scene,’ Anita pointed out.

  ‘No. We have no idea where that is at the moment. But Fuentes and his companion were taking the body from point A to point B. A is the most important, but that’s not going to be easy to find. The potential area is huge; it could be anywhere in Skåne north of the railway. Given how close to the sea they got, B can’t be that far from the crash site. Find it and it might give us some clue as to where they came from, or the location might have some connection with the gang that Adolf Frid mentioned.’

  ‘The sea itself?’ Hakim suggested.

  ‘They would need a boat for that to make sure the body didn’t reappear. But that is a possibility. They were heading southward towards Svarte. See what’s around. It doesn’t seem likely that they were just going to bury the body as they could have done that anywhere around that area; plenty of woodland about. They didn’t want this body found. Generally, we need to find out if there were any sightings of the van that day or previously. OK, anything else?’

  Anita pointed to the photo of the mangled mess that was the young man. ‘From what you’ve told me about Egon Fuentes, this doesn’t seem his style.’

  Moberg ran a meaty hand across his jowly jaw. ‘Good point, Anita. Ever since I got the news of the murder from Thulin, that’s been puzzling me. As you say, it’s not Egon’s modus operandi. He’d sell his grandmother to the Arabs without a qualm, but murder?’ He shook his head doubtfully. ‘Makes me think he got in with a ruthless bunch and found himself out of his depth.’

  CHAPTER 16

  After leaving the built-up suburbs and industrial estates of northern Stockholm, the train to Uppsala glided through fertile country. This had once been a seabed, and retreating waters had left a flat and fruitful land that farmers could exploit. It had been many years since Alice Zetterberg had been to the university town with its pink castle perched on a hill, dramatic twin spires of the medieval cathedral, and its famous Linnaeus connections. Not that Zetterberg was overly interested in the passing countryside as she busily surfed on her phone. As she did so, she was interrupted by a call. It was from Szabo. She caused her fellow passengers to look up when she started to lose her temper and blast Szabo for failing to interview Lars-Gunnar Lerstorp.

  ‘Go to his home and sit on his bloody doorstep until midnight if you have to. Get him interviewed. Embarrass him in front of his family – I don’t care what you do. If he doesn’t cooperate, drag him into headquarters. He’s turning into a possible suspect.’ She should have carried out all the interviews herself. Why was she plagued with such useless subordinates?

  It wasn’t until the train had arrived at the new, utilitarian Uppsala station – the attractive old building had been converted into a restaurant – that she had calmed down enough to ring Szabo back. As Göran had been Lars-Gunnar’s supplier, it was this angle that they had to push him hard on. ‘No pussy-footing, even if it upsets your little friend Erlandsson.’

  As she finished the call, she gazed over towards a whole line of fussy, modern apartment blocks and a low, curvaceous Radisson Blu and wondered where on earth they had appeared from. This wasn’t the Uppsala she remembered.

  There was very little evidence of the crash at the level crossing up the slope from Svarte. The clearance operation had been extremely efficient, and the line had been restored. No bits of wreckage or bent overhead cables, and the only clue that four people had met their deaths here a week ago were deep ruts in the adjacent field. The lack of damage showed how quick the reactions of the train driver had been. It had cost him his life, though he’d saved many more. Down the line, in the distance past the rolling fields, was a church spire modestly peeking above the tree line at Svarte; beyond that, the Baltic. The sea was that sparkling azure tha
t Anita knew would have Kevin rushing down to the beach for a swim. She suddenly found herself hoping that this investigation wasn’t going to stop her going on her holiday. The sooner they solved it, the less likely Moberg would want her to stay around. Anyhow, this was his case.

  ‘The van came from that direction,’ said Hakim, pointing inland. A few metres further back was a red-brick house behind a neat hedge. On the other side of the road, a field. ‘But where were they heading?’ In the opposite direction, the road navigated its way between fields until it curved away up a slight incline into some trees and out of sight.

  ‘Moberg didn’t think it was the sea, and I have to agree,’ opined Anita. ‘They’d need a boat, and then they might get spotted. And they must have had plenty of opportunities to bury the body somewhere else.’

  There was no traffic around, and Hakim stood in the middle of the road, his gaze fixed on the westerly aspect. ‘Why were they even moving the body? Presumably either to make sure it was never found or because, if it was, there would be no link to the location it came from.’

  Anita blinked into the sun. She’d set off without her sunspecs. ‘Could be either. But does it matter?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the murderers of our nameless young victim are probably the guys who were killed in the crash. We may never know who the victim was, or who his killers were, other than Egon Fuentes.’

  ‘But as you said to the chief inspector, killing isn’t Fuentes’ style. There might be others involved. That guy you met at the supermarket talked about a gang.’ He smirked at her. ‘You’re mentally on holiday already.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she replied indignantly. But she knew he was right. Her heart wasn’t in it. She could see this being a fruitless case. The only case that she was preoccupied with was the one she wasn’t involved in. She had run into Bea Erlandsson “accidentally” that morning, and the petite inspector had filled her in on what had happened so far: the chat with Larissa, which had yielded nothing significant, and their proposed visit to Lars-Gunnar. Meanwhile, Alice Zetterberg was interviewing Carina that morning before going on to Uppsala to meet Ivar. Erlandsson had promised to, discreetly, keep Anita in the loop.

  Hakim pulled out his smartphone and began fiddling with it. Anita wandered over to her parked car and opened the driver’s side door. She reached in for a bottle of water and took a swig.

  ‘I suppose we’d better trace a possible route – that way,’ Anita called over, pointing to the other side of the level crossing. ‘Not that we’re likely to be able to work out where the van had come from. But we might spot somewhere with CCTV.’

  Hakim was still fiddling with his phone. ‘The lot in Ystad didn’t come up with anything. Obviously, they talked to people in that house back there and others on the route, but found nothing, and there’s no CCTV in the immediate area anyway.’

  ‘Ystad are probably happy to hand this one over to us.’

  Hakim wasn’t listening. He suddenly held up his phone. ‘I think I know where they might have been going.’

  ‘Really?’

  He walked across to her as she lolled back against the warm car, her arms folded.

  ‘Look,’ Hakim said, holding the phone in front of her. She squinted at the Google map on the screen. ‘Turn right just a bit further along there, over that bump,’ he said, nodding in the westerly direction. His long finger traced the road in question on the screen. ‘That runs alongside this.’ He brought the image up and then turned the map into an aerial photograph. ‘A disused quarry. It’s filled with water now. What a good place to get rid of a body – permanently.’

  Zetterberg made her way down to the station underpass, where she had the unpleasant sensation of being hemmed in by concrete with a draft thrown in. She was all for modern, but this was soulless in a town famed for its character. Her faith, however, was quickly restored when she set eyes on the Tripolis building, which was literally five minutes’ walk from the station. It was far larger than its neighbours on Väderkvarnsgatan, yet it was a thing of beauty and delicacy – five storeys of yellow, art nouveau finesse. Built in the run-up to the First World War, it was desirable not so much for the size of the apartments, which didn’t have the state-of-the-art facilities found elsewhere, but more because it was like owning a piece of architectural history. Many an Uppsala resident cast an envious eye on Tripolis. Zetterberg found the entrance with the names of Ivar and Jenny Hagblom among those of the residents listed next to the heavy wooden door. She pressed the buzzer.

  Ivar Hagblom was everything Zetterberg had expected. She knew he was handsome, but she hadn’t expected the animal magnetism that he exuded. It took only moments for her to be captivated as he welcomed her into his apartment: the warm handshake, the hints of manly musk and the clear blue eyes that made her momentarily wobbly as they gazed into her own. He was attentive and polite. Ivar hid the vanity that Carina had alluded to well.

  ‘Lucky you’ve caught me. We only got back from the family summer house on Runmarö this morning. If was good enough for Strindberg, then it’s good enough for us.’ Zetterberg got the reference and the implication that the Hagbloms could afford a place on one of the islands in the Stockholm Archipelago.

  While she waited in the living room, he disappeared into the small kitchen they had passed to make some fresh coffee. The room was dominated by a boudoir grand piano. It wasn’t a huge space to accommodate an instrument of that size, yet because of the high ceiling, it didn’t distort the feeling of relaxed sophistication. The score on the music rack was Scott Joplin, and the few pictures on the walls were abstract and looked original. The furniture was expensive and stylish and, despite being modern, didn’t look out of place; the only item that seemed inapt was a large flat-screen TV affixed to the wall – no doubt an essential piece of equipment for the gorgeous couple to snuggle up in front of to watch the charismatic Ivar on yet another boring news programme. Strangely, the room was devoid of books, except for the one carefully placed in the middle of the coffee table – The Middle East in Meltdown by Professor Ivar Hagblom. It was a thick, daunting volume; no wonder Carina hadn’t waded through it.

  Ivar came back in and introduced Zetterberg to his wife, Jenny; a slim, elegant woman with beautifully manicured hands and a ready smile. She was just the sort of younger eye candy that Ivar was happy to parade at his various functions, both private and public. She apologized that she had her piano teacher coming in to give her a lesson – darling Ivar had forgotten of course, but he was such a scatterbrain – and that she hoped the noise wouldn’t disturb them. Ivar suggested that, as it was warm, they go outside into the courtyard and have their meeting there.

  They sat at a wooden table in an arbour covered in a late-flowering purple clematis, and a rampant kerria japonica. The courtyard ran the full length of the interior of the Tripolis complex. The yellow stuccoed walls towered above them with myriad windows opening onto the garden area, which included further seating alcoves, a children’s sandpit and benches for the residents. At this time in the afternoon, there was only a young couple sitting at one of the other tables; one reading, the other glued to her computer. Ivar laid down a silver tray with coffee cups and a thermos. There was also a plate of thin cinnamon biscuits.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind coming out here, but it’s my wife’s latest passion. We bought the piano a couple of months ago, so the sounds she produces are a bit hit and miss.’ He flashed a confidential wink. ‘She is getting better, though. I’d thought about teaching her myself but busy, busy…’

  Zetterberg had already spoken to Ivar on the phone so he knew exactly what the meeting was about, yet there wasn’t a whiff of concern on either his or his wife’s part. He was totally relaxed, and Zetterberg realized that she would have to fight against being lulled into acquiescence by his easy charm.

  ‘You mentioned on the phone that you have new evidence, Inspector. Sorry, that sounds so formal. What is your first name?’

  ‘Alice,
’ Zetterberg found herself saying.

  ‘Alice, are you in a position to tell me what the evidence is?’

  She had to cough to compose herself. His approach to the interview was disarming. And she didn’t like to let men get the better of her. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that at the moment.’

  He held his hands up, palms facing Zetterberg. ‘Fair enough. Anyway, how can I help? I’ll dredge my memory banks, but to be honest, Alice, it’s a period of my life that I’ve tried hard to forget.’

  ‘We haven’t forgotten it. A murderer wasn’t brought to justice. A murderer who we believe was one of your friends.’

  He ran his hand across the impeccable stubble on his chin as though he had a hard decision to make. ‘I know. Linus. It was quite a shock when the story came out.’

  ‘In one of your father’s newspapers as it happens.’

  ‘Could have been,’ he said absently. ‘But in the cold light of day, one can see where they were coming from. It was particularly difficult for me. Linus was a very good friend. I’d introduced him to Göran, who was a pal as well. It was bad enough them splitting up and the awkwardness that that caused. But murder...’ Ivar let his voice trail off to denote how awful it must have been for him.

  ‘Of course, it must have been terrible. But do you think you could take me through the events of that day?’

  ‘I’m sure my statement at the time will be more accurate than anything I can tell you now.’

  ‘Viewing things in retrospect may throw up things that didn’t occur to you at the time.’

  They could hear the piano faintly through the open kitchen window. There was a sudden discordant thump on the keys followed by a tinkle of embarrassed laughter. Ivar raised an amused eyebrow. ‘The lesson’s going well.’

  He began to tell Zetterberg how things had unfolded on the day of the murder. What he had to say tallied with both what Larissa had said to Szabo and Erlandsson, and her own conversation with Carina. All were sticking to the same stories they’d told twenty-one years previously. However, though nothing was obviously visible from Ivar’s lucid description – he didn’t go into any intimate details of his sexual activities with Larissa on the night in question – she instinctively felt that the slightest of cracks was appearing. She had been furious with Szabo for letting Lars-Gunnar escape. They had to get him to talk.