Menace In Malmö Page 4

  ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Anita knew the murder weapon might not make a huge difference at this stage. They still wouldn’t be able to place Linus at the scene of the crime, though if he were out and about that night, he would certainly have had time to bury the skewer, albeit not on the beach as they originally thought.

  ‘No. We have new information, too.’ Zetterberg picked up a photograph of a man of around thirty with light ginger hair and a serious expression. Anita thought there was something vaguely familiar about him, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. ‘This man was near the chapel on the night of the murder. His name is Kurt Jeppsson.’

  Now Anita recognized him; the young boy who’d found Gösta. Obviously, after twenty-one years he looked different – the freckles had gone – but there were still traces of the boy she had talked to several times at the time of the murder. Nordlund had made her Kurt’s contact; he reckoned that as she was the youngest member of the team and a woman and mother, she’d get more out of him than any of the others. They had become quite friendly.

  ‘Kurt didn’t reveal much – he had little to tell,’ observed Anita, who could sense that that was about to change, and that Zetterberg would enjoy telling her what had been discovered.

  ‘He’s had second thoughts. He knew more than he let on at the time.’

  ‘But why now?’

  ‘Because he heard from his mother, who still lives in Knäbäckshusen, that the murder weapon had been unearthed and that the case was likely to be reopened.’

  ‘So what’s new?’

  ‘Kurt was in the trees close to the chapel when the murder must have taken place because he heard someone coming out of the chapel and hurrying off to the village.’

  ‘He never mentioned it at the time. Did he see the person?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. However, that is not the most significant thing.’ Zetterberg paused for effect. ‘Gösta wasn’t dead when Kurt entered the building.’

  ‘He said that there was no movement.’ Anita’s mind swiftly went back to the days after the crime. They had been sure from the boy’s description that Gösta had been dead when he’d found him.

  ‘Well, now he wants to come clean. Gösta wasn’t quite dead. In fact, he mumbled some last words. Kurt didn’t catch what Gösta said first, and we can only speculate that that may have been the name of the killer. But what Kurt did hear, he’s been carrying around in his head all these years and never told anyone about.’

  ‘What last words?’

  Zetterberg took a marker pen and wrote on the board in big red letters: BURNT IT.

  Anita stared at the words. What did they mean? Nothing was immediately apparent.

  ‘Can you shed any light on these words, Inspector?’ Zetterberg asked.

  Anita shook her head. ‘But why didn’t he tell us all this at the time?’

  Zetterberg answered as though she were talking to a slow-witted child. ‘You have to remember that Kurt Jeppsson had only just turned ten at the time of the murder. He was scared by all the attention. The reason he was there in the first place was that he had stolen a cigarette from one of his dad’s secret supply – his mother strongly disapproved of smoking. The experiment was a disaster, but there was still the cigarette he’d tried to smoke lying in the small woodland above the beach. He was frightened he would get into serious trouble if it was found, so he didn’t admit to being anywhere near the trees. He said he’d just walked down to the chapel. He couldn’t mention the fact that, while trying his illicit experiment, he’d heard someone leaving the chapel, as he would have met that person on the path if the story he told you was true. And as for Gösta’s last words – as I said, some of them he couldn’t make out, and the ones he could he didn’t think were worth mentioning as he thought no one would believe him. His mother was always accusing him of making things up – a kid with an “overactive imagination” is how she described him. Fortunately for us, he’s now decided to come forward with the truth.’

  Anita sank back in her seat. If only they’d had access to that information back then, they might have had a better chance of pinning down their murderer.

  ‘So, there we are,’ Zetterberg said, still waving the red marker about in her hand like an accusatory finger. ‘We’ve now got the murder weapon. And if we can decipher the meaning of those words, this time we might find the killer.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Danny Foster was still gasping for breath. He’d got safely back to his camp, but it had been a close thing. After hearing the tractor starting up, he had made his way to the edge of the forest. By the time he’d reached the trees, he could see the tractor disappearing towards some far fields. A couple of minutes later, the woman appeared from the house, got into the Volvo parked in the yard and headed off down the track. Danny had no idea where the track led to. A country road perhaps, then on to a village or town? This wasn’t the time to speculate. He was too hungry for that. He would break into the house and steal some food.

  Despite the coast being clear, it took Danny a great deal of nerve to actually start moving across the field. First he went into the barn. At the back, he saw an aging Volkswagen. So there were two cars. No food, of course, except for the horse oats. He fretfully made his way towards the farmhouse. There might still be somebody else inside that he hadn’t accounted for. He stopped and took stock. Now he could get a better idea of the layout of the place. The house was tucked in behind and a few metres away from the barn. The barn itself was an ugly, dilapidated, corrugated iron building, but the house was in an even sadder state of repair. It was obviously old, and with some careful renovation could be beautiful. “Full of character”, an estate agent would say. There were certainly plenty of original features. The low house was half-timbered, with a thatched roof pinned with wooden pegs along the ridge. But the window frames looked rotten, the once-whitewashed plaster was peeling and grey, the roof was now covered in moss, and huge clumps of nettles and brambles fought for space along the base of the walls, which looked damp and smelled of mould. If Danny hadn’t seen the human and equine activity with his own eyes, he would have believed the place to be derelict. The strong breeze was drying up the rain that had fallen earlier. He reached the back door. To his surprise, it opened when he turned the handle. Why had it been left unlocked? Were people so trusting in Sweden? Maybe there was another person inside.

  Abutting the wall on the other side of the door was a rack of shoes. Everything from boots and wellingtons to soft leather shoes, slippers, and a pair of trainers. Most were well worn. He picked up the trainers and tried the left one on. Too small. Must be the woman’s. He chose a pair of light tan shoes. They weren’t quite the right size, or ideal for skulking in the woods, but they didn’t rub too abrasively against his swollen foot. Above the shoe rack was a line of coats hanging from pegs. He tried a few on. He decided on a grubby blue waterproof. The other jackets were too thick for this time of year, and he didn’t want anything too cumbersome in case he was chased again. And he also thought the waterproof would blend in better. Still no sign of anyone else in the house; he began to breathe more easily.

  The kitchen was off to the left. It was basic and rather a mess, with dirty dishes still in the sink. The only thing Danny was interested in was the fridge, out of which, from the bottom shelf, he yanked a carton of milk which he slurped back greedily. There was a left-over, yellowy rice concoction in a bowl, which he scooped out with his fingers. It was spicy. He returned to the milk for another gulp. He didn’t want to hang around for too long, so he started filling his pockets with food – a lump of cheese, a packet of ham, and what looked like a sausage of salami. His frenetic attack on the fridge halted abruptly. Was that the sound of the tractor returning? He slammed the fridge door shut. On the work surface next to the fridge, he noticed a bread crock. Inside were a couple of stale buns. They would do. That was definitely the tractor. As he made for the door, he passed a large, earthenware fruit bowl on the rough wooden table in the middle of the k
itchen. He grabbed a couple of apples and a blackening banana and added them to the foodstuffs already bulging in his coat pockets. One last thing caught his eye. A half bottle of some kind of schnapps. That went too as he dashed out of the room.

  At the back door, he waited. The tractor was getting nearer. He slipped out into the yard. He could hear the tractor was now behind the barn. Would the farmer bring it round the corner or take it back into the barn? If it was the former, he would be in trouble. If the latter, he would have time to dash across the field and make the safety of the forest. He fought back a burp – he’d eaten and drunk too quickly. The tractor sounded more muted now; he felt a surge of relief. This was his moment, and he hobbled as fast as he could past one of the grazing horses. It lifted its head in surprise before lolloping over to pick up an apple that had fallen out of Danny’s pocket.

  ‘Right, let’s get a bit of background on the victim and the suspects.’ Zetterberg had had a short break while Bea Erlandsson was sent out to get some coffees. An embarrassed silence had followed. Szabo was engrossed with the laptop he had brought into the meeting. Zetterberg spent her time shuffling notes on the table in front of her, and both pointedly left Anita twiddling her thumbs. It had been a relief when Erlandsson returned. ‘And this might be where Inspector Sundström could possibly prove useful, as we need to understand the dynamic of the group.’

  Zetterberg took a sip of coffee before pointing towards the photo of Göran Gösta. The unsmiling face was pale; long dark locks drooped down to the shoulders. The eyes were determined and defiant as though throwing out a challenge to the photographer. ‘He came from Umeå, up north. Humble background compared to the other five, who hailed from more affluent families. At Lund, he read Middle Eastern Studies with Ivar Hagblom. After the others left, he and Ivar stayed on to do a Masters and were into their PhDs at the time of the murder. There were high hopes that Göran would go on to a high-flying career, either in the academic world or maybe the diplomatic service in the Middle East. He was twenty-five when he died. The most pertinent point – certainly according to the original investigation – is that he was gay, and that Linus Svärd was his lover. Which brings us to Linus Svärd...’

  This photo showed a smiling Linus on the beach at Knäbäckshusen. “Pretty boy” had been Nordlund’s description of him. He was right. The cherubic features, the smooth, high cheekbones, the wide lips and wavy blond hair made him look like something out of a Rubens painting. It was a face that Anita had quickly grown to hate, and one she hadn’t been able to totally erase from her mind over the years.

  ‘Twenty-four at the time, Linus Svärd was a local boy from Lund. Bright and articulate, he studied archaeology. He joined the party late that summer, as he had been on a dig in Gotland. He and Göran had become lovers two years before. Apparently, he had been quite promiscuous prior to that but afterwards remained faithful. Hence his being so upset at Göran giving him the elbow.’

  ‘Inspector Sundström, you mentioned that Göran had found someone else.’ Szabo turned in his seat to face Anita. ‘Do we know who this was?’

  Anita nodded at the photo of Ivar Hagblom. Today the face would be described as televisual; which was appropriate because on the screen is where Anita had last seen it. Ivar had that slightly dishevelled appearance which takes hours of careful grooming to create: the permanent, unshaven stubble which never gets any thicker; the tousled ash-blond hair; and the slightly amused crease of the mouth, as though he was remembering some private joke that he was just about to let you in on. Undoubtedly handsome – and he knew it. There were unmistakable echoes of her ex, Björn. At the time, she had found that attractive. On seeing Ivar again, she realized that they were probably cut from the same arrogant academic cloth.

  ‘But I thought he was hooked up with Larissa Bjerstedt?’ asked Szabo in some disbelief. ‘Did he swing both ways?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. Göran’s love for Ivar was unrequited.’

  ‘Ivar Hagblom,’ Zetterberg went on in that guttural drone that was perfect for delivering bad news, moaning, and finding the worst in any situation. ‘Also twenty-four. Read Middle Eastern Studies with Göran. From a wealthy Stockholm family, so you can draw your own conclusions about him.’ There was obedient laughter from Szabo. ‘Made their fortune in newspapers and magazines – Hagblom Media – until they sold out about five years ago when Ivar’s old man died. It was the Hagblom holiday home that the group were staying in that summer. It was the second summer they had all spent together. From the notes on the group left by Nordlund’s team, it is clear that Ivar was the unofficial leader.’ Zetterberg glanced over to Anita. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘He certainly dominated the group. I think the others were in awe of him.’ Anita didn’t elaborate; she could see that Zetterberg just wanted to get onto the next person on the board.

  ‘Ivar’s girlfriend was Larissa Bjerstedt. Again, twenty-four; born and brought up in Malmö. Local girl who had done History at university.’ Anita gazed at the classic Swedish blonde with long flowing hair and a glowing complexion, the result of a healthy outdoor summer on the beach. Anita remembered being aware of Larissa enjoying her role as the other half of someone like Ivar. They made the ideal young Scandinavian couple, stereotypical of hundreds of Swedish advertisements during the 1990s. ‘They had been an item for over three years,’ Zetterberg went on inexorably. ‘As Inspector Sundström has mentioned, these two gave each other alibis. But alibis are there to be broken.’ Zetterberg was starting to sound like Moberg.

  ‘The last two are Lars-Gunnar Lerstorp and Carina Lindvall.’ Anita remembered Lars-Gunnar as being tall and slender, and his photograph showed a face that was verging on the gaunt. Even then his wispy hair was starting to thin. She was sure he’d be bald by now. Carina had raven hair, with thick black lashes above penetrating eyes. To Anita, she was striking rather than pretty, but she had certainly turned a few heads. And she still did.

  ‘Is that the Carina Lindvall?’ exclaimed Erlandsson with some excitement.

  ‘Yes. The crime writer,’ Zetterberg added sniffily. ‘Don’t know her work; I spend enough time trying to solve real crimes without wasting energy on reading made-up twaddle.’ Erlandsson was immediately quelled. ‘Anyhow, Lars-Gunnar and Carina were an item at the time. He was the oldest of the group at twenty-seven, and his girlfriend was twenty-six. He did History with Larissa, and Carina was on an English course. Lars-Gunnar was from over in Borrby, while Carina was from here.’ Zetterberg sat down and took another drink of her coffee. ‘That is our cast of characters. I think we can safely assume that the murderer is one of those five. But which one?’

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘What we need to know, Inspector Sundström, is how the six individuals in the group related to each other. We know their actual relationships, but what was the mix like? What was the pecking order, and where was Göran Gösta’s place within the set-up?’

  Anita was taken back to that summer. She had been a similar age to the six and had felt a rapport with them. She was still living with Björn in Lund at the time, so knew the environment where the suspects had met and grown close. Carina had actually been one of Björn’s English students. That had made Anita sympathetic to her. Björn had spoken highly of her at the time of the case; a student with a lively mind. Lasse was four, and they were starting to have fewer sleepless nights. Life seemed good. Handsome husband; a child she worshipped; and a job she loved and was really getting her teeth into, working on her first big murder case. Henrik Nordlund had kept an eye on her and guided her through the complexities of an investigation that was far from straightforward. But over time they had begun to home in on their chief suspect, only for him to wriggle off the hook because of vital evidence: they couldn’t actually place him in the chapel. In his original statement, Kurt Jeppsson had told them that he’d seen Linus on the beach; he’d certainly been the nearest to the chapel and the first of the group to turn up after Kurt’s parents had found the body, but he said he’d
heard the commotion and had gone up to see what was going on. It seemed Kurt’s new information shifted the timeline, putting Linus on the beach before the murder and not after. But did it make any difference?

  ‘There were various connections before the six joined up,’ Anita started tentatively, trying to marshal the information. She wished Moberg had told her about this meeting last night so she could have gone over her old case notes. She needed to reacquaint herself with the details; some of which she’d inevitably forgotten over time, squeezed out of her memory by the overriding conviction that Linus Svärd was guilty. ‘Larissa and Carina both went to the same school here in Malmö. Though there was a two-year age difference, their parents knew each other, and it was only natural that they should hook up at university. Carina had taken time out and had travelled to “find herself”. She ended up coming back at the same time Larissa started uni. Lars-Gunnar was a late starter and met Carina through Larissa, as they did History together. Ivar and Linus had met in their first year at Lund. On the face of it, they didn’t have much in common, but got on really well. They’d spent their first summer vacation out in Egypt, where Linus was on a archaeological dig, and Ivar, who had private means, swanned around Cairo nightspots and environs soaking up the atmosphere, picking up girls and honing his Arabic. In his second year, he met Larissa at some party and they starting going out; then he met her friends and in turn they got to know Linus.’

  ‘So, Göran wasn’t one of the original set?’ observed Erlandsson. Zetterberg snorted her annoyance at the interruption.

  ‘Quite right, Bea.’ Anita gave the young detective an encouraging nod. ‘He was an outsider in more ways than one. He came from way up north and apparently was rather looked down upon by many of his fellow students. He was also a bit of a loner. And being gay may have cut down his social outlets. But for some reason, Ivar took him under his wing. They were on the same course, Middle Eastern Studies, so they had that in common. And through Ivar, Göran met Linus, and the three couples were formed into one harmonious whole.’