Menace In Malmö Page 3

  Anita was quiet for a moment. Not because she was trying to recall the event, but because she remembered it only too visibly. ‘Yes. It was the first big homicide case I worked on. With Henrik.’

  ‘Says here that Henrik Nordlund headed up the case.’

  ‘That’s when I first worked for him. He always kept an eye on me from that day on until he...’ There was no need to complete the sentence.

  ‘If Henrik worked on the case, the investigation would have been carried out thoroughly.’ They both missed Nordlund for different reasons.

  ‘But why now? We know who did it. Linus Svärd. He was Göran Gösta’s boyfriend. It’s just that we couldn’t prove it.’

  Moberg arched his eyebrows. ‘And the world knew it, too, as someone on the investigation blabbed to the press.’

  Anita was crestfallen at the reminder. Her first case, and the whole team knew who was guilty, yet the perpetrator was going to walk away free. In a moment of unguarded madness, she had fed the information to a journalist contact, and the next day it was all over the front page. Nordlund had been furious, but had protected her from the flack from above. It wasn’t her most glorious hour. The journalist thought that he had done her a favour, and suggested taking her to bed as a reward. He was to be disappointed.

  ‘Apparently, they’ve unearthed some fresh evidence.’

  ‘That’s great if Svärd can be nailed now.’

  Moberg put the sheet of paper back in the file and closed it. ‘I don’t know what they’ve got. However, they want you at the first briefing. You’re the only serving officer left who was on the original case. Presumably, they want to pick your brains. I can’t see your involvement being much more than that.’

  ‘OK. If it means a result, even twenty-one years on, that’s fine by me. And Henrik would be pleased that justice was done, eventually.’

  ‘The briefing’s at ten. Third floor.’

  ‘Do you know who’s running the cold case?’

  Moberg reopened the file and glanced down. ‘Oh, yes, someone called Zetterberg. Alice Zetterberg.’

  ‘Shit!’

  Danny Foster had spent much of the night curled up and shivering. The exertions of the previous day had left him in a state of complete exhaustion, yet he found it difficult to sleep. He was still hungry, and his lower chest still hurt, but at first light he’d discovered a trickling stream that ran through a small gully in the trees. He started to construct a rudimentary shelter out of fallen branches and twigs. The night before, when the light had at last gone out in the farmhouse, he’d plucked up the courage to sneak across to the barn. There had been enough moonlight to enable him to see his way over, but it had been too dark inside the building to find any possible foodstuff. The only edible substance he laid his hands on was what he assumed to be horse cereal. It tasted like oats but was hardly satisfying. After his “meal”, he’d retreated well back into the forest to try and sleep.

  This morning he’d gone back to the edge of the wood, which was about ten minutes from his camp. He surveyed the landscape but couldn’t see any other buildings. The farmhouse was indeed remote. He had seen the farmer; he looked as though he might be in his seventies. Yet he figured that the old man probably wasn’t the only occupant of the house; horses indicated that someone must be around to ride them. Sure enough, ten minutes later, a younger woman with a hastily scraped-back ponytail appeared with a bucket of feed. Danny had also noticed that there was only one car parked in the yard. And he’d bumped into a tractor in the barn the night before. He waited for an hour in the hope that the farmer and the woman might leave in the car, or go off into the fields beyond, so he could go in search of food without being disturbed. When it was obvious that no one was going anywhere – the man was in the barn, and the woman had re-entered the house – he made his way back to his camp.

  He sat by the stream and washed his foot. He winced at the pain as the water seeped into the deep lacerations. He must try and get hold of some shoes. Or at least a left shoe. He was still bewildered by what had happened, and he started at every unusual sound. He knew McNaught wouldn’t stop looking for him. He hoped that the sadistic bastard would assume that he’d try and get as far away as possible. He gambled on the fact that McNaught wouldn’t suspect that he’d stayed in the forest. He still hadn’t formulated any sort of plan, other than staying put for the moment. Beyond the canopy of leaves above him, he glimpsed grey sky. Rain was on the way. Then suddenly, he heard a noise in the distance. He nervously scanned the perimeter of his small encampment. Nothing. Now the sound was more distinct. A tractor was starting up. The farmer was on the move.

  Anita stormed back into her room and slammed the door. She hadn’t realized that Hakim was still in there.

  ‘Didn’t go well, then?’

  Anita slumped into her seat. She just sat there shaking her head.

  ‘Have we done anything wrong?’ he asked gently.

  ‘No. It’s nothing like that. It’s just that I’ve got to go and see this new cold case lot.’

  Hakim looked at her in alarm. ‘You’re not being transferred, are you?’

  ‘Not a cat in hell’s chance of that.’ Hakim’s relief was obvious. ‘They’re digging up the first murder investigation I was on. With Henrik Nordlund. Over twenty years ago.’

  ‘So, it wasn’t solved?’ Hakim said tentatively. He thought it might have been a sore point with Anita. It usually was with those who worked on cases that didn’t have any conclusion. It was admitting defeat, and that didn’t sit comfortably with any dedicated detective.

  ‘No. It wasn’t. We knew who’d done it, but we couldn’t prove it.’

  ‘Isn’t it good then that it’s being reopened?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I suppose. That’s not the problem. It’s the person who’s leading the investigation that’s pissing me off.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Alice Zetterberg.’ Anita virtually spat out the name. ‘We have history.’ She left it at that, as she wasn’t prepared to give Hakim the back story of how she and Alice had originally been friends at the police academy and had then fallen out over Zetterberg’s husband-to-be, Arne. Zetterberg had been convinced that Anita had slept with him, an impression he did nothing to dispel. Anita had liked him, but they had never gone to bed together. Zetterberg’s dislike of Anita was later compounded by the fact that a couple of years after her wedding (to which Anita was not invited), Arne had gone off with another police officer from their year. As far as Anita was concerned, Zetterberg was a bitter old bitch. And when they’d come across one another two years ago, Zetterberg’s professional behaviour had been nothing short of heinous, yet Anita wasn’t at liberty to say anything to anyone about it. Only Kevin Ash knew, because he had been there at the time. Now the woman was yet again barging her way back into Anita’s life. What made it worse was that Zetterberg’s promotion to head of the Cold Case Group was obviously her payoff for services rendered to the Swedish state – services that had left Anita shaken to the core and questioning her loyalty to the country she served.

  But what worried Anita most was that here was a heaven-sent opportunity for Alice Zetterberg to both humiliate her and smear Henrik Nordlund’s reputation at the same time. And there was no way she could let that happen.

  CHAPTER 5

  There were six photographs on the wall. Anita recognized every one. They were so young. It might have been twenty-odd years since she’d interviewed them, but their faces brought back a whole host of jumbled emotions. She glanced down at the piece of paper they had all been given – the names of the six young people on the board.

  At the time of the murder of Göran Gösta on Thursday, 27th July, 1995,

  St. Nicolai Chapel, Knäbäckshusen:

  Göran Gösta, aged 25, PhD student, Lund University

  Ivar Hagblom, 24, PhD student, Lund University

  Larissa Bjerstedt, 24, freelance researcher

  Linus Svärd, 24, archaeologist

  Lars-Gunna
r Lerstorp, 27, unemployed

  Carina Lindvall, 26, secretary, Malmö Commune

  Alice Zetterberg had made the pretence of welcoming Anita and had introduced her to her small team. She already knew Bea Erlandsson. The slight detective with the pinched face and spiked brunette hair had been attached to Moberg’s team a couple of times when they’d needed extra hands. Her semi-permanent expression of suppressed worry occasionally was wiped away by an impish grin. Anita had liked her and wondered how someone that nice would survive working under a cynical and insensitive shrew like Zetterberg. The other member of the unit was a male officer in his thirties called Anders Szabo. He had swept-back, blond hair with a floppy fringe that he was constantly flipping with his hand. Anita knew that if she spent too long in his company, the habit would really start to irritate her. He looked to be the kind of man who wouldn’t notice other people’s vexation. She suspected that his best friend was a mirror.

  Zetterberg herself hadn’t changed much over the past two years. The slightly manly features of a square jaw, wide mouth, and the round, dark eyes that made her look as though she was staring all the time were the same. The only change, apart from carrying a little extra weight which her large-boned frame could take, was that the ponytail had gone and the hair had been bobbed. Maybe this was an attempt to make herself appear more efficient and professional. From Anita’s jaundiced point of view, the attempt was a failure.

  Zetterberg’s introduction to the case hadn’t endeared her either: ‘Our job is to find the killer of Göran Gösta,’ she said, pointing to the photograph of the young man in the middle of the board. ‘He was murdered on Thursday, the twenty-seventh of July, 1995 at the chapel of St. Nicolai at Knäbäckshusen. The reason that Inspector Anita Sundström is here is that she was on the original investigating team, which was led by Inspector Henrik Nordlund. Our job is to succeed where that team failed.’ Anita felt her blood boil, and she was about to say something when Zetterberg swiftly moved on. ‘Not only do we need to achieve closure for Göran Gösta’s family, we also need to reassure the public of Skåne that we never give up on a case. We never close a file; we are not afraid to admit our past mistakes.’

  This was too much. ‘We didn’t make any mistakes. We knew who’d done it!’

  ‘Sorry, Inspector Sundström, but I don’t see anybody behind bars.’ Anita noticed that Szabo smirked, while she could tell that Erlandsson was embarrassed. ‘Unlike Inspector Sundström, I want you to approach this case with an open mind.’ Anita found it hard not to get up and walk out, but she knew that if she did, Zetterberg would make damned sure she was reprimanded for not cooperating. She was painfully aware that Zetterberg now had friends in high places and wouldn’t hesitate to use them.

  Zetterberg returned to the photographs – two women and four men. ‘First, I’ll give you the background to the case, and I’m sure if I’ve misinterpreted any of the facts, Inspector Sundström will put me right.’

  Anita listened to Zetterberg’s summary with a mixture of annoyance at her superior tone of voice and frustration that the events being described hadn’t provided Nordlund with the result his efforts deserved. Though he had never spoken openly about the Gösta case, she knew that it had plagued him for the rest of his career.

  The people in the photographs were a group of students and ex-students from Lund University who were spending the summer at a cottage in Knäbäckshusen on the Skåne coast between Simrishamn and Kivik. The six were Ivar Hagblom, Larissa Bjerstedt, Linus Svärd, Lars-Gunnar Lerstorp, Carina Lindvall, and the victim, Göran Gösta. Four of them had left the university two years before, while Hagblom and Gösta had stayed on to do their Masters and were now doing PhDs. This was the second summer they had spent together at Knäbäckshusen, and all of them appeared to be genuine friends from their under-graduate days. In fact, at the time of the murder, they were three couples – Ivar Hagblom and Larissa Bjerstedt; Lars-Gunnar Lerstorp and Carina Lindvall; and Linus Svärd and Göran Gösta. But something changed on Thursday, 27th July, 1995.

  On that day, they had had a barbecue on the beach, as they often did. It was holiday time, and a number of people saw them on that particular stretch of sand. There had been a row between the gay couple, Linus and Göran. Linus had stormed off, and the barbecue had carried on, though not in the same jolly vein as before. Then the five that were left gradually drifted away. At around ten that evening, a ten-year-old boy called Kurt Jeppsson went into a small stone chapel above the beach and discovered the body of Göran Gösta lying in front of the altar. He ran for help, and his mother, and father who had just returned from a fishing trip, went down to the chapel. The victim was certainly dead by the time they got there. Gösta had been stabbed with what the pathologist believed to be a kebab skewer, which had been thrust under his xiphisternum – the bottom of the breast bone – and into the left ventricle of the heart. And indeed, the investigating team had discovered that one of the kebab skewers used at the barbecue that afternoon was unaccounted for. It was never found. The missing skewer, one of a set, had a corkscrew shank like that of a gimlet, and a red, turned wooden handle. It was presumed it had been left on the beach. The pathologist had found traces in the fatal wound of the meat, tomato and mushroom that had been barbecued at the party. There were also minute traces of sand, further implicating the missing skewer; the others had all been washed. The team came to the conclusion that the murderer must have found the skewer lying on the beach and picked it up. Once the identity of the murder weapon was established, suspicion immediately turned to the other five friends. The team had ruled out other possible suspects after carrying out extensive interviews with local residents and the few holiday-makers who had used the beach that day.

  When Zetterberg had finished, she turned to Anita and gave her a sickly smile. ‘Is that how it was?’

  ‘Yes,’ Anita had to admit.

  ‘So, why did you suspect Linus Svärd?’

  Anita cleared her throat. Suddenly she felt on trial. Whatever she said now, Zetterberg and her colleagues would be weighing up whether she and the rest of Nordlund’s team had done their job up to the expected standard. And Zetterberg was the judge who would pass sentence. What also unnerved Anita was that Zetterberg hadn’t yet told her what new evidence they had. Anything she said might sound unprofessional in the light of fresh facts.

  ‘Of the five, three didn’t have an alibi. Ivar and Larissa alibied each other; making love, apparently. Carina was writing in her room, while her boyfriend, Lars-Gunnar, was smoking and drinking in the garden, which is where Carina claimed she saw him through the window. Linus said he was out for a walk. This was confirmed by young Kurt, who had spotted him on the beach on his way down to the chapel, which later transpired was shortly after the murder had taken place. We suspected Linus had been on the beach getting rid of the murder weapon. He claimed he was there trying to clear his head, as he was upset by the argument with his lover. It turns out that they had, in fact, broken up rather acrimoniously. To be precise, Göran had finished with him. He’d found someone else. After all our interviews and background searches on the five suspects, Linus was the only one with motive, means and ample opportunity – we know he was close to the scene of the crime. We believed that on his “walk”, he may have been harbouring dangerous thoughts.’

  ‘You thought it was a pre-meditated murder?’

  ‘To an extent. We reckoned he hadn’t formulated a plan as such but, fortuitously, he found the skewer on the beach, spotted Göran going into the chapel, and took his opportunity. Of course, he denied the whole thing; we didn’t have the murder weapon, and we couldn’t prove that he had been in the chapel that night. Footprints and fingerprints were of no use as all six had been in the building over the previous few days, along with a number of other visitors. Prosecutor Renmarker didn’t think we had enough evidence to pin the murder on Linus, and he wouldn’t even let us arrest him, despite pleas from Henrik Nordlund. We never got the chance to put pressure on him and brea
k his story.’ Anita shrugged helplessly. ‘So, the investigation just fizzled out.’ It seemed a rather feeble way to finish.

  Zetterberg addressed her new colleagues: ‘You two will be too young to remember, but despite Nordlund’s lot failing to achieve a conviction, Linus Svärd was found guilty by the press, who received information that only Nordlund’s team knew.’ Zetterberg turned her gaze on Anita. The inference was clear. The two junior detectives appeared appalled. Anita blushed. She couldn’t say anything to defend herself. She’d been stupid, but she’d been starting out on her career as an enthusiastic detective, and she was sickened that the person they knew to be the killer was getting away with the crime. The injustice of it all was too much. It was a hard lesson to learn.

  ‘Which brings me to why this case has been reopened.’ Zetterberg produced a clear polythene bag. Inside was a thin, twisted piece of pockmarked metal with a fragment of rotten wood tenaciously clinging to one end. Despite its ravaged appearance, it was still obvious what the object was – a kebab skewer. She held it up triumphantly: ‘The murder weapon!’

  ‘Where did that turn up?’ Anita asked incredulously.

  ‘In an orchard at the back of the village’

  ‘What orchard?’

  ‘It was an ordinary field twenty years ago. But the farmer turned it into an apple orchard a few years later. It was found when he was having a new irrigation system put in.’

  Anita remembered how they had searched in vain for the skewer. Even local detectorists had been brought in, and divers searching the shallow waters off the beach. But she supposed a skewer would be an easy enough object to quickly shove deep into the yielding earth of the old field.

  ‘This is definitely the murder weapon, as forensics have found Gösta’s blood on it. It’s amazing what they can do these days.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’ Szabo asked.

  ‘Unfortunately, what’s left of the handle has yielded nothing.’