Menace In Malmö Page 2

  Rydsgård. 22.43. Exactly on time. Now another six minutes to Svarte, and then another seven minutes to Ystad and the end of his shift. Bengt Svefors gave a satisfied sigh. He worried when timings were out. He prided himself on getting his train to each station with punctuality. Of course, matters were often out of his control. The weather and the overhead power lines were par for the course, and, recently, the passport checks for illegal immigrants at Hyllie had proved an irritating disruption. All of these caused inconvenience for the passengers, but at least their anger was always directed at the guard and not at him, safely cocooned in his cab.

  Now he was guiding the train towards Svarte. He liked this bit of the line as it began to run along the coast. It always gladdened his heart to see the Baltic suddenly expand before him, even when it was at its most leaden. But the last few runs had seen the water an aquamarine blue, a reflection of the good few days they had had. The forecast for tomorrow was a change in the weather. Typical. He suddenly realized how tired he felt. He blinked at the semi-darkness ahead. Maybe it was the right time to call it a day and spend more time with his grandchildren. He suppressed a yawn as the train approached a familiar bend in the line. After slipping round the corner and over the crossing, it was a straight run down the slope towards Svarte. He slowed the train down slightly, as he always did at this point, before starting to accelerate for the last stretch.

  But something was wrong! As the train came out of the bend, Bengt could just make out a large object on the line at the crossing. It wasn’t moving! Oh, my God! He braked desperately. But it was too late.

  CHAPTER 3

  She didn’t stir. Anita Sundström leant over the edge of the cot and covered Leyla’s legs. Anita half hoped that the little girl might wake and she would have the excuse to pick her up. She had arrived for babysitting duties after work, but Leyla was already down. Disappointingly, she might not be able to see her awake at all tonight. She gazed down at her granddaughter with a mixture of love and pride; the thick mop of dark hair and the slightly olive skin made her resemble her mother, Jazmin. That’s what everybody said, but Anita liked to think that the chin and mouth came from her father, Lasse. Maybe it was wishful thinking, as though she was determined to find some family likeness. And she was a Leyla. When she had first been told the name, an hour after the baby was born, she immediately thought it was from the Eric Clapton song, Layla. But Lasse had explained the different spelling and that it was an Iraqi name meaning dark-haired beauty. Which is exactly what she was to Anita. Now she could hardly remember her granddaughter not being around. She had added something wonderful to her life. Someone had once told her that you love your children, but you adore your grandchildren. At the time, she had thought it was a silly remark, as she couldn’t see past Lasse. But not now.

  She returned quietly to the living room. The coffee she had made earlier was still by her chair. She had heard Leyla give off a little moan and had rushed next door to check her. The coffee was now cold, and she went into the poky kitchen to make herself a fresh cup. She hoped that Jazmin and Lasse were enjoying the cinema. They had hardly been out since the baby was born a year ago. They hadn’t got the money. Anita had slipped two hundred-krona notes into Lasse’s hand as they had left the apartment. It was so they could buy themselves something better to eat than the street falafel her son had planned for their post-film dining. It wasn’t just a philanthropic gesture; it also meant that they would be out longer, and she would have more time with Leyla. On the first occasion Jazmin had been persuaded to go out without her daughter, she had phoned in three times. Each time, Anita had reassured her that all was under control. Tonight she had only rung once. Things were improving. She had put her mobile phone on vibrate mode so that it wouldn’t wake the child.

  While she waited for the kettle to boil, she put on the radio so that it was just audible. She stared out of the kitchen window. It was hardly worth the effort, as the all the blocks of apartments looked the same. A number of kids were playing in the street, even this late. There wasn’t a white face among them. Malmö had changed a lot since she’d joined the Skåne County Police as a very inexperienced detective just over twenty years before. She was quite accepting of the influx of immigrants that now made up a significant percentage of the city’s population. After all, her son was living with one and her granddaughter was half-Iraqi in terms of origin. Jazmin and her brother, Anita’s police colleague Hakim Mirza, had both been born in Malmö and saw themselves as Swedish. Many of her fellow officers weren’t so keen on the changing balance in their society and blamed the incomers for much of the city’s crime.

  The plastic kettle reached boiling point and subsided in a blast of steam. She spooned into a mug a couple of teaspoons of instant coffee. She reminded herself for the hundredth time that she must buy them some proper coffee for when she came round. Instant wasn’t civilized – or strong enough. As she cupped her hands round her mug, she couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Kevin Ash’s experiences with Sweden’s most essential beverage. Whenever he visited, she had to weaken the brew. And when she had visited him in Penrith last summer, she had taken her own coffee and made it herself. Her thoughts strayed further: she and Kevin seemed to have worked out their long-distance relationship fairly well. She was happy with it anyhow. They met up a few times and had fun, without thoughts of marriage or living together getting in the way. On the cusp of forty-eight, she had been single long enough not to want someone else sharing her life full-time. She suspected that Kevin wanted something more but was prepared to put up with the arrangement. For that she was grateful. She didn’t want to live in England, and she knew that Sweden and its obsession with rules would drive him to distraction. And they both had police careers, though he got less satisfaction from his than she did from hers. Anyhow, now she had an extra reason to stay where she was. Leyla. When she had Skyped Kevin to show him her new grandchild, he had joked that she should go in for a Glamorous Granny competition. She remembered such things from the couple of years she had spent in Britain as a child. Even then she had thought the concept was odd. But so many things were odd about Britain. Maybe that’s why she liked it so much and enjoyed her visits now. She also liked the self-deprecating British sense of humour; another thing that attracted her to Kevin. Even when they made love, he made her smile. Somehow it made the sex more joyous. Anyway, she was looking forward to seeing him in a fortnight’s time when she was taking a week off to visit him; he’d promised to show her more of the Lake District and the Scottish borders.

  The news came on the radio. There was something about a train crash, but she didn’t catch it as she had heard a small cry coming from the bedroom.

  The darkness of night may have given him cover, but it did little to quell his fear of being caught. He now knew what that would entail. During the hour or so he’d been tightly crouched in the hollow beneath a large tree, he’d had time to order his terrified thoughts. It began to dawn on him that what he’d seen couldn’t be allowed to become public knowledge. He was a witness. Even if he promised the Boss and McNaught that he would never tell anyone, he knew he was a risk not worth them taking. There was too much for them to lose.

  He was standing at the edge of the wood. He had been drawn to a distant light. He was sore all over, his foot throbbed constantly and he was very hungry. He could make out the shape of what he took to be a farmhouse and the outline of a barn. Yet he dared not approach. Being the nearest dwelling to the forest, it was an obvious place for McNaught to reconnoitre. Maybe he, or one of his men, was already sitting inside waiting for him to come. McNaught would have talked his way into the house somehow. If rough charm hadn’t worked, he would have resorted to his default setting of intimidation. There was a field between the wood and the farmhouse. A gentle neighing alerted him to two horses grazing quietly. He didn’t want to disturb them, for any noise might bring the farmer out. For one ludicrous second he even thought of trying to jump on the back of one and ride off. But he had nev
er been on a horse in his life. And where would he ride to?

  In weighing up his options, he wasn’t sure if handing himself in to the police would be the answer either. He had no identification. Nothing to prove he was Danny Foster. He hardly knew who Danny Foster was any more. He had no idea how long he’d been in Sweden, as the days, weeks and months had melded into one another. He was now so fearful of what might happen to him that it might be best to avoid contact with anyone. For all he knew, everybody in this area might be in cahoots with McNaught. He realized he couldn’t trust a single person. Except Jack. And look what had happened to him.

  But he must eat. And drink. He was exceedingly thirsty. Then he noticed a bucket beside the field gate. He crept over towards it. He could just make out the shimmer of water half way down. He slumped to his knees, leant through the wire fencing, scooped up the horses’ water from the bucket and lapped it up from his dirty fingers. It was no worse than the water at the camp. After a few handfuls, he retreated into the shelter of the forest verge. He would make a move towards the farm in search of food when the light in the house went out. Until then, he had time to contemplate how on earth he had got into this dangerous mess in the first place.

  Anita reached her apartment in Roskildevägen just before midnight. Lasse and Jazmin had had a good night and were busy debating the film when she left – after one last peek at Leyla. Her son and his girlfriend had their ups and downs but, she thought, had enough in common to make their relationship work. They were equals. She and Björn had never been. He was always top dog. Maybe that’s why he’d got bored and started to wander. And, of course, he was a man, and most of them thought with their dicks. But Lasse and Jazmin were part of the new multicultural Sweden. As was Jazmin’s brother, her colleague Hakim, who was now dating Liv Fogelström, a constable on the force whom he’d met during the tomten murder investigation. Anita knew that Jazmin and Hakim’s parents, though westernised before they fled Iraq, found the social transition difficult. She knew Jazmin faced pressure to marry, which she stubbornly resisted. And they were obviously disappointed with Hakim’s choice. Anita wasn’t sure how Uday and Amira explained their children’s partners to the Iraqi community.

  She was brushing her teeth when her mobile phone went off in the bedroom. With the toothbrush still in her mouth, she walked through and saw that it was Chief Inspector Moberg. What on earth did he want at this hour of the night? She picked up the mobile, her mouth still full of toothpaste.

  ‘Anita, is that you?’ Moberg sounded the worse for wear. She could tell he’d been drinking again. Now that he and his latest woman had separated – fortuitously, he hadn’t married this one, unlike the previous three – he was back to boozing after work with Inspector Pontus Brodd. Brodd, who brought little to the work table in terms of effort, insight or intelligence, at least performed an expedient role in the local bar. And if it meant that other members of the team didn’t have to escort Moberg on his binges, then Brodd was worth putting up with.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I forgot to tell you before you left.’ He paused. Annoyingly, it sounded as though he was implying that she had left the polishus early. She hadn’t. ‘I need to see you first thing.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Make it nine. My office.’

  ‘What about?’ she asked more forcefully, managing to spray the mobile with bubbly toothpaste. But Chief Inspector Moberg had already hung up.

  CHAPTER 4

  As Anita drank her coffee and tucked into her Turkish yogurt at the kitchen table, the local news was full of the train crash outside Svarte. She knew the line well, and since her schooldays had often taken the train to and from Simrishamn. The accident sounded awful; the initial reports indicated that the Ystad-bound train had hit a van that had broken down on a crossing. The sixty-four-year-old driver had done his best to stop the train. His prompt action had saved the passengers in the first carriage, but the driver himself had died. A number of people had been taken to hospital in Ystad, but none had life-threatening injuries. As for the van, the three occupants, yet to be identified, were all dead. The line would be closed until further notice. It was a dreadful thing to happen, and Anita really felt sorry for the emergency services who would have had to sort out the mess. She also knew that it would throw Klara Wallen’s commuting plans into chaos. Wallen, the other female member of Moberg’s Criminal Investigation Squad, had moved with her partner to Ystad. They had become sick of the city, and she complained that she never seemed able to escape the job. Anita suspected that it was Wallen’s partner, Rolf, who was behind the move because Ystad was where he came from. As Anita had never liked Rolf – he was too full of bullshit as far as she was concerned – she was glad that the chances of running into him were now minimal. On the other hand, she had got closer to Wallen over the last year or so. They had more frequent chats in the ladies’ toilets than in the past. Wallen had become more willing to discuss things with her – both professional and private. And she had emerged from her shell and was now more confident as a police officer. She no longer seemed cowed by Moberg and wasn’t afraid to show her contempt for Brodd, whom she was often landed with as a working partner. Occasionally, Anita and Klara had a coffee or a glass of wine after work for a mutual bitch, often about Moberg or Brodd, though their cattiest remarks were usually reserved for Prosecutor Sonja Blom. Blom made all their lives difficult and was often loath to back them up unless a case was totally watertight. She was always covering her immaculately attired arse.

  Anita reached her office just after eight. She made herself another strong coffee to try and stem the tiredness. The babysitting had made her bedtime a lot later than normal, and then she had started to worry about why Moberg wanted to see her. A summons like that usually spelt trouble. What had she done to warrant being hauled over the coals yet again? She’d managed to get on the wrong side of the chief inspector more than she would have liked during the course of their working relationship, but she’d been palpably towing the line over the last year or so. At the moment, she and Hakim were working on a fight that had taken place outside one of Malmö’s popular clubs, but there was nothing to do with that that merited a visit to Moberg’s office; they had made two arrests and were waiting for Blom to do her business in court. Anita took her glasses off and vigorously cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief – a sure sign that she was anxious. Hakim interrupted her fretting. There was a broad grin on his young face. He’d obviously been out the night before with Liv Fogelström. Whenever Anita saw them together, she couldn’t help but be amused. Hakim was tall, thin and dark; Fogelström was squat, plump and blonde. They didn’t seem to notice the incongruity, which was rather endearing.

  ‘Morning. What have we got on today?’

  ‘Not sure. Moberg wants to see me at nine. That’s if he remembers. Called me after midnight.’

  Hakim cocked his wrist and made a drinking motion with his hand. ‘With Brodd again?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Brodd won’t be of use to anyone today then. Just seen him slumped over his desk. Hangover, probably.’

  They spent the rest of the time before her meeting discussing the train crash. It would dominate the local news for the next few days.

  ‘Come’, Moberg grunted.

  Anita entered. Moberg was tucking into what looked suspiciously like a burger in a bun. It seemed a bit early for such a delicacy. Maybe it was helping to soak up last night’s beer.

  ‘What do you want?’ he snapped. There had been times in the last year when Anita thought the chief inspector had mellowed, and that their fractious relationship was becoming less spiky; he called her ‘Anita’ now and again, and he was more prone to give her some leeway in investigations and occasionally seek her opinion. He didn’t have Henrik Nordlund to turn to any more, and Anita was now the most senior detective in the team. There was even the odd occasion when there was banter between them. But this wasn’t one of them.

  ‘I thought you wanted to see me.
You rang last night.’

  Moberg shifted his huge frame uneasily in a chair that was inadequate for his size. His lifestyle made an already-big man bigger. Wallen had even opened the betting on when Moberg would have his first heart attack. ‘Ah, I did.’ The last of the burger bun disappeared before he started. Then he indicated that Anita should sit.

  ‘You may have heard that they’ve set up this Cold Case Group.’

  ‘I heard a rumour. It makes us look as though we can’t solve our cases. The papers are still raking over the Catrine da Costa business, and that took place in eighty-four.’

  ‘I know,’ Moberg agreed as he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘But it’s something Stockholm is keen on. Techniques are always improving, and evidence can be examined in a way that couldn’t be done before.’ Anita thought it would be a waste of time and only unearth old controversies. Hadn’t the overstretched police enough to do without digging into the past? She decided not to vouchsafe her views to Moberg.

  ‘Anyway, they’re going to poke into some of our old cases. I think it’s just an excuse to give some arse-licker a cushy number. But that’s another matter.’

  ‘But what’s it to do with me?’

  Moberg flipped open a thin blue file. ‘I wasn’t here at the time, but you were.’ He took out a sheet of typed paper. ‘1995. A guy called Göran Gösta was murdered in the chapel at Knäbäckshusen. Do you remember it?’