Menace In Malmö Page 6

  ‘Where do you put it all?’ Liv laughed. ‘And you’re still so skinny. It’s just not fair. It just goes straight to my hips.’ It was true, but Hakim was too gallant and too in love to confirm her self-assessment. She was on the chubby side. He didn’t care. And, to him, she was just so pretty with her blonde hair, bright eyes and bubbly laugh.

  ‘Anyway, have you thought where you’d like to fly to?’ he asked as he patted his tummy.

  Liv held her knife and fork in mid-air. ‘Your sister recommended Tenerife. It’ll be hot.’ That was a definite attraction as far as Hakim was concerned. This had been a reasonable summer compared with all the rain they had had last year, but a bit of pre-Christmas sunshine would be ideal.

  ‘You’re getting quite friendly with Jazmin these days.’ The arrangement pleased Hakim, as it diffused the somewhat stressful relationship that he’d had with his sister over the years. They hadn’t got on, and his being in the police had just widened the divide. But now that Jazmin was a mother and living with the son of his detective partner, she had mellowed. And Jazmin had taken to Liv. Who wouldn’t? She was a popular figure at the polishus. He would now go as far as to say that he and Jazmin were on good terms. For this, his parents were relieved and delighted, though he knew their children’s choice of Caucasian partners still caused tension. They would never totally come to terms with the situation.

  ‘Yeah, I like your sister,’ Liv beamed. ‘I like the way she takes the piss out of you.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ he gasped, pretending to be hurt.

  ‘You know she’s asked me to be the non-religious godmother to Leyla at the naming ceremony?’ Heavens! That was quite a step. He knew that Lasse and Jazmin were going to have the ceremony in Pildammsparken to coincide with Anita’s birthday at the end of the month. There was going to be a barbecue in the park afterwards. He knew that Anita and his father would end up paying for it, as Leyla’s parents hadn’t any spare cash. He had offered to help out as well.

  ‘That’s quite an honour. But I suppose you’re virtually family.’

  Liv squinted at him in amusement. ‘Am I?’

  He shifted uneasily in his seat. Not because the thought was appalling; more that it was appealing. He’d been wondering when to ask Liv to marry him. He didn’t want a Jazmin-Lasse situation where they just cohabited. Though he would never say it because the notion would be ridiculed, he didn’t really approve of Jazmin starting a family while still unwed. He was more conventional than he would care to admit. He and Liv didn’t live together, and he didn’t want to until they were at least engaged. And a noisy pizzeria wasn’t the place to pop the question.

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘I don’t think your parents think so.’

  And there was the stumbling block. Before he proposed, he would have to talk them round. ‘I’ll sort things out.’

  Liv couldn’t finish her pizza. ‘I give up.’ She took her glass and supped the beer. Silence followed. Liv filled the gap. ‘Oh, I passed Anita Sundström coming of out the building tonight. Didn’t look very happy.’

  ‘She’s been in a mood since that meeting with the new cold case bunch.’

  ‘She’s not moving there, surely?’

  ‘No chance,’ Hakim grimaced. ‘It’s the head of the new unit. She’s called Alice Zetterberg. They have a “history”.’

  Liv leaned across the table, her face agog with anticipation. ‘Go on, tell all. Like a bit of gossip.’

  Hakim shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t say. All I know is that they were at the Police Academy together.’

  ‘Bet it’s a man.’

  Hakim returned a sceptical glance. ‘Surely not.’

  ‘Trust me; there’ll be a man behind it.’ Hakim held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. When it came to relationships, romantic or otherwise, Liv definitely had the edge on him. ‘You’ve got to find out the full story.’

  ‘How am I going to do that?’

  ‘You’re the detective!’ she giggled.

  Out on the street, they headed towards the bus stop from where Liv could get a direct bus to her apartment. Hand in hand, they wandered along, taking in the evening crowd. The restaurants and bars were filling up. On reaching the stop, they could see from the electronic board that Liv’s bus was due in four minutes.

  ‘I’ve got the weekend off. Do you fancy going to Ystad on Sunday?’ Liv asked expectantly. ‘We can go to the beach at Nybrostrand. Or you could treat me to something special at the spa hotel if you want to push the boat out.’

  ‘I’m free, but the train still might not be running after the accident. It’ll take ages to clear that up.’

  ‘You’re right. Funnily enough, I heard a rumour that there’s something strange about the crash.’

  ‘Sounded straightforward enough. An old van had broken down on the crossing. That’s what it said on the news earlier.’

  ‘It was about the van. Or the bodies inside. They’ve released the name of the driver, but not the passengers.’

  ‘I suspect they’re so mangled that it would be difficult to identify anyone in that wreckage. Wouldn’t like to be working on that job.’

  Liv glanced past him. ‘It’s coming.’ A long, green bus snaked into view.

  ‘Found him?’

  ‘No.’

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  ‘What a fucking mess! Right,’ the voice was emphatic. ‘I want the operation moved. Like now!’ it growled.

  ‘Already underway. They’ll be over the border within forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Good.’ He could hear the relief in the word. ‘Are you still there then?’

  ‘Aye. It’s better that I operate alone.’

  ‘You understand that not a word of it must come out – ever. You get my drift?’

  ‘Aye, message received.’

  ‘Afterwards, get your arse out fucking quick.’ That was a given. ‘One last thing: I was never there!’

  CHAPTER 9

  Danny waited at the edge of the wood. The Volvo hadn’t returned. Maybe the younger woman was an occasional visitor. The horses might be hers and the farmer may live on his own. Yet the trainers had been too small. They had to belong to her. All was quiet except for some equine whinnying. He hadn’t heard the tractor this morning, but he could see the barn door was open. He’d been so hungry that he’d wolfed down all the food he’d stolen the day before. In fact, he’d eaten more than he had on any one day in the last few months. Though the work had been hard and physical, they hadn’t been given sufficient food to give them the energy to do it. He had never been so thin. His dad wouldn’t recognize him now. He realised how skinny he had become when he’d seen his reflection in the window of the van they’d used for their jobs.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d waited before he ran over to the barn. The tractor was standing steadfastly in its place, but there was no sign of the Volkswagen. If the farmhouse door wasn’t locked, he would have the kitchen to himself. It wasn’t, and he let himself in. This time he found a plastic bag, which he proceeded to fill up with food, though making sure he didn’t clean the farmer out. Though tempted, he didn’t take a half-full bottle of whisky that he’d spotted on the dresser. The schnapps he’d pinched the day before had been a godsend, as he’d been able to bathe his swollen left foot in it. It had stung, and he’d taken a swig to counter the pain. The mouthful of liquor had nearly choked him as it burnt his throat. After his plundering, he sat down on a wooden chair and took in his surroundings. The kitchen was basic but homely; the furniture solid and dependable. Few modern appliances as far as he could see, just a small electric cooker and the fridge. The sink was stone with just one tap, and a hot water geyser was balanced precariously on a bracket above it. There was an ancient stove in one corner, which still had some glowing embers in its grate. There was something comforting about the smell of old wood and the aromas of natural produce and recently cooked meals. It reminded him of his school friend who was a farm
er’s son: he used to go to play with him, and they’d end up in the farm kitchen where his mother would always have fresh baking on the go. It was a welcoming place, unlike his own home. After his mother’s premature death, that had been a battleground, with volleys of abuse fired at him by his dad – and returned in good measure. The bitter skirmishes of his teenage years that no one had won had widened the gap between him and his father that no peacekeeper – in this case his older sister – could resolve. The nine months he’d spent in prison hadn’t helped. He sighed at the irony of his last contact with his dad – the brief phone call to say he’d got a good job with prospects of making plenty of money. It had made him feel great – it was his way of shoving all those “get-off-your-arse-and-get-a-proper-fucking-job” jibes down his old man’s throat. But if his father could see him now, he’d be the one laughing. That’s if he even cared.

  Danny had a sudden twinge in his stomach and realized that he needed the toilet. He’d eaten too quickly the day before and his system was unused to so much food. He got up and went in search of the bathroom. The creaking floorboards made him edgy until he reassured himself there was no one in the house. The bathroom emulated the kitchen, with no sign of fripperies. There was a shower in one corner, the grimy plastic head hanging from the wall by a hook; there was no curtain. It was tempting to wash himself properly, but nature was calling urgently.

  It was as he was finishing that he heard the car. He frantically pulled up his trousers and went to the window. There was no fancy frosted glass or blind to shield him. The Volvo was coming along the rough track. He pulled back and sneaked another look. The car pulled up in the yard just beyond the bathroom window and out stepped the woman he’d seen the day before. She struck him as older than he’d first thought, probably in her forties. Again he shied away from the window so he couldn’t be seen. He didn’t dare flush the toilet as any sound would alert her. She disappeared from sight and he heard her coming in the house.

  ‘Papa!’ she called out. ‘Är du hemma?’ He could hear her footsteps ringing out on the stone floor of the kitchen. He tiptoed across to the door and flattened himself behind it. What if she came in here? What would he do? Then it happened: the clomping of boots heading towards his hiding place. ‘Papa!’ He held his breath as the sound came nearer. She stood for a minute without moving and Danny thought his lungs might burst. There was a heavy sigh just the other side of the door and then the footsteps retreated. Soon there was the sound of the back door loudly swinging shut. He gingerly made his way back to the window. He caught sight of her disappearing towards the barn. He waited, still unable to flush the toilet in case she returned.

  He must have been there about fifteen or twenty minutes when he was alerted by the heavy clopping of a horse’s hooves on the cobbled yard. He stood up and saw the farmer’s daughter on the grey. A couple of light kicks to the animal’s flanks, and off it trotted. He flushed the toilet.

  Alice Zetterberg sat staring at the suspect board while she waited for her team to arrive for the prearranged morning meeting. She wasn’t sure what to make of the case. She knew that this was a perfect opportunity to get one over on Anita Sundström. Coming across her two years earlier had been an unpleasant surprise, yet she had been able to manipulate that situation and reactivate a career that she had hoped would achieve so much, yet at the time seemed to have reached an impasse. The upshot was her present role and a solid stepping stone to more senior advancement. “They” owed her that. She knew things about the fate of Albin Rylander that no government would ever want revealed. As long as they looked after her, she was happy. It seemed a lifetime ago that she and Anita had been friends at the Police Academy. Looking through the bitter prism of time, she had to admit that she had never really liked Anita from the outset. If she were honest, she had befriended her because she was one of the most attractive young women on the course and, as such, was popular with the men. Anita gave her a social outlet and through her she had met and fallen in love with Arne. And then the blonde girl with the fancy arse that seemed to obsess all the guys had jumped into bed with him! When she’d confronted Arne, he’d just shrugged, as though sleeping with Anita was a totally natural thing to do – a rite of passage – and it was ridiculous to blame him. Of course, Anita had denied it. The slut and the shit! Despite it all, Alice had married Arne because she couldn’t face living without him. And then a couple of years into their posting in Norrköping, he’d buggered off with Juni, who just happened to be another friend of Anita’s from the Academy. It wouldn’t have surprised her if Anita hadn’t engineered the whole situation. Alice had gone off the rails for a while, had slept around – lashing out at Arne, she reckoned – and her career stalled. Now her new unit’s first case was a chance for further revenge. Prove that Anita and her team had been wrong, and then the inadequacies of the original investigation would be publicly aired in court. The fact that Linus Svärd had been thrown to the wolves of the press would be a further humiliation for Sundström. The only worry was that Linus Svärd could still be guilty, and she might end up exonerating her rival and confirming the findings of Nordlund’s team. That was one bridge she would have to cross if and when she came to it. Whatever the outcome, she was sure there would be some spin she could put on it which would show Anita in a poor light. Another consideration, and one that even Zetterberg had to admit was just as, if not more, important than scoring over Sundström, was that she had been given six months to prove that the unit was worth investing in. Success with this case would lead to the promise of more resources, more manpower and, ultimately, more influence.

  Szabo and Erlandsson came in armed with laptops and took their places. Szabo had thoughtfully brought Alice a coffee as well. He would go far if he played his cards right and did as he was told. Once they had settled, Zetterberg opened proceedings.

  ‘OK. We’ve had a good recce of the murder scene and the village. So you can both picture the location and where the various participants were – or weren’t – according to the first investigation. At the moment, I’ve got an open mind as to the identity of the killer because the evidence we have now creates a slightly different timeline for Linus’s movements. Did he have time to come up from the beach and kill Göran between being seen by Kurt and Kurt hearing the killer leaving the chapel? Now, if we take Linus’s original statement at face value, it’s unlikely that they had a prearranged meeting, so was it just coincidence that Göran just happened to go into the chapel? And Linus being the first of the group to turn up at the murder scene – is that significant? If he was the killer, he would have had to go all the way up to the field to get rid of the murder weapon. So why did he come back so quickly? His prompt arrival on the scene made him appear suspicious because the original team thought he’d come up from the beach, having got rid of the murder weapon there. But now we know that wasn’t the case. With this new scenario, wouldn’t it have made more sense to make himself scarce? Or certainly have a better alibi?’

  ‘Maybe he just didn’t have time,’ suggested Erlandsson. ‘Spur of the moment.’ Zetterberg frowned. She could see that Erlandsson’s previous affiliation with Anita might mean that she would be biased towards proving her colleague had been right.

  ‘Everything is open to question at this stage,’ she said sharply. ‘But it’s no use speculating too much. What we need to do is re-interview the five living members of the group. Have we tracked them all down?’

  ‘We’ve got Ivar Hagblom living up in Uppsala.’ Szabo spoke very deliberately, making the information clear and concise. ‘He’s a university professor now and appears a lot on the TV talking about the Middle East. Needless to say, he’s been on frequently over the last year or so. Whenever Syria’s mentioned, or the immigrant crisis, out he comes. Domestically, he’s been married twice. Two kids by his first wife. They live with their mother, but he sees them regularly.’

  ‘So, he and Larissa Bjerstedt must have split up at some point after the murder,’ interjected Zetterberg.


  ‘I don’t know when exactly. But he first married in 1999. At that point, he’d got his doctorate and was lecturing in Lund. Moved to Uppsala a couple of years later. So, they couldn’t have lasted too much longer after the murder if he was married within four years.’

  ‘We’ll ask Larissa. Where’s she then?’

  Szabo continued: ‘Larissa Bjerstedt. She’s still here in Malmö. As far as we can see, she’s never married. Of course, she may be living with someone. She worked as a researcher for a documentary company here in Malmö for a few years and then in various libraries, including a short spell up in Uppsala which will have coincided with Ivar moving there with his new wife. Right now she’s based at the Malmö University Library. Been there since 2010. No criminal record. Pays taxes on time. Clean driving licence. Sounds pretty dull to me considering her ex-partner is now a high-profile figure.’

  ‘And what about our other well-known personality?’ Zetterberg’s eyes bored into Erlandsson. ‘Your precious crime writer.’

  Erlandsson spoke confidently. She wasn’t going to let her new boss intimidate her. ‘Carina Lindvall lives in Norra Langö, Stockholm County. She’s been a full-time writer for several years with a series of novels about Stockholm detective, Erik Dahlberg, and, according to her website, a TV company is interested in turning them into a new cop show. The books have been translated into twenty-one languages, and she often travels abroad on book tours and to attend crime-writing festivals. She’s not married at the moment, though she’s managed to get through two husbands. No kids. No criminal record as such, but has had a couple of run-ins with paparazzi; she broke a photographer’s camera outside a nightclub in Gothenburg. Owns an apartment on Malta. Often goes there for winter sun and a quiet place to write, apparently.’