Menace In Malmö Read online

  Zetterberg pointed to the photo of Lars-Gunnar Lerstorp. ‘What about Carina’s ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘He’s more interesting,’ continued Erlandsson, ‘because he does have a criminal record. He was into drugs in a big way, particularly after the murder. Really went into freefall. Went from user to supplier and was arrested three times for theft in between. Had a period in prison 1997/1998. Then he seems to have got himself sorted out on a rehabilitation programme and is now married with two children and lives in Veberöd. He’s a postman working out of Ystad. Hasn’t been in any trouble since. Seems to have turned into a model citizen and even goes to groups to try and help other addicts.’

  Zetterberg mustered a half-grin. ‘Presumably he was into drugs at the time of the murder, so maybe he was high that night. I expect they all indulged. Those types do,’ she added disapprovingly. ‘He’s got no alibi. Off his head – does something drastic. Interesting that he went downhill after the murder. Ah well, that gives us something to go on.’ Zetterberg planted a finger on the photo of Linus Svärd with some force. ‘And the chief suspect?’

  Szabo came in this time. ‘Drawn a blank as to his whereabouts. Inspector Sundström was correct about his being in Malmö and then Kiruna before going off to Syria. We’ve tracked him to various university excavations round the Mediterranean, and he turned up in Egypt at one stage and then in Sicily. But nothing since 2010.’

  ‘Keep digging in the digs.’ Szabo realized this was his boss’s idea of wit, so smirked appreciatively. ‘Maybe when we talk to the others, one of them may know where he is.’

  ‘What if Linus is already dead?’ Szabo asked.

  ‘It won’t stop us finding out the truth,’ Zetterberg said fiercely. There was no way she was going to let her first case with her new team turn into a non-event. ‘We can still prove he did it or didn’t do it, as the case may be. It’ll just be harder. But hopefully, he’s alive and we find him. And anyway, it’s better to speak to the others first and eliminate them before we tackle Linus.’ She stood in front of them and put her fists resolutely on her hips as though looking for an argument. ‘What we need to establish is whether any of these five gained by Göran’s death. Maybe something that wasn’t obvious at the time has become apparent since. I don’t know... something like Göran had the original idea for Carina’s crime novels. That’s not a good example, but you know what I mean. Maybe the motive is not emotional, sexual... whatever. What I propose is that we divide up the initial interviews. You two can take Larissa and Lars-Gunnar down here, and I’ll head up to Stockholm and Uppsala and speak to Carina and Ivar. Can you arrange that, Szabo?’

  Szabo nodded. ‘No problem.’ Erlandsson’s immediate suspicion was that Zetterberg wanted to meet the more glamorous suspects while they got the less interesting ones. She had been hoping to meet Carina Lindvall herself.

  ‘Right,’ Zetterberg said brusquely, ‘let’s find our murderer.’

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘I knew he’d come to a bad end!’

  Moberg’s delight was obvious. He had bounced into Anita’s office in the middle of her showing Hakim the latest photos of Leyla on her phone. Hakim wasn’t disappointed at the interruption and wondered if he would ever end up cooing over kids. He was sure that Liv would.

  ‘Who?’ asked Anita, who was slightly annoyed, as she hadn’t reached the photo that she was particularly keen to show off.

  ‘Egon Fuentes!’ Anita and Hakim glanced at each other uncomprehendingly. It was clear that neither had the faintest idea who the chief inspector was referring to. ‘He’s a bastard with a past. And luckily, no future.’

  ‘Fuentes isn’t a very Swedish name,’ observed Anita.

  ‘Grandfather was a Spanish sailor who berthed in Malmö and never left. More’s the pity.’

  ‘I gather he’s dead.’

  ‘You bet. He was one of the three guys who were hit by the train the other night. He’s the only one that they’ve managed to name so far because he was the only one with identification on him.’ Moberg had his hands shoved in his trouser pockets and was rocking back and forth on his feet. He was like a swaying mountain. Anita felt she would be safer if he sat down, but he seemed too excited to do that.

  ‘I assume he has a record?’

  ‘Oh, yes. As long as the fucking Öresund Bridge.’

  ‘And what was he doing at the level crossing?’ asked Hakim, who felt that the chief inspector wanted some prompting.

  ‘Good question, Mirza. What was he doing? Up to no fucking good, that’s what he was doing.’

  ‘Specifically?’ questioned Anita.

  ‘I have no idea. Yet.’

  ‘So, what’s Fuentes’ background?’

  The gleam in Moberg’s eyes flitted away. ‘He’s a conman. Was a conman. He could talk anybody into buying anything. Especially the vulnerable. The old in particular. He started in petty crime. Thieving mainly. Did a couple of short stretches before moving onto bigger stuff. He used his charm. He got into lots of scams. Fake time-share holiday homes in Spain, an internet dating site for mature people, flogging dud gems, investing in sustainable forests in Costa Rica – you name it, Fuentes has done it. Where I came across him was insurance fraud. His big mistake was swindling my old mamma out of her life savings.’

  ‘Personal,’ observed Anita dryly.

  ‘Damn right. I hunted the shit down. The money was gone, but he did time. Not enough for the harm and distress he caused to so many innocent folk. He must have kept a low profile since getting out, as his path hasn’t crossed mine until this morning.’

  ‘Maybe he was going straight.’

  Moberg’s bark of laughter dismissed Anita’s suggestion.

  ‘People like Egon Fuentes don’t know how to go straight. It’s not in their DNA. I want to know what the fucker was up to. So, Anita, would you like to accompany me to visit his widow and pay our last respects?’

  Danny Foster was sitting by the stream washing his face. He’d taken his top off and was splashing the cold water under his armpits and round the back of his neck. He hadn’t had a shower or bath for months and was contemplating sneaking back into the farmhouse to have a proper wash. Though that in itself might be dangerous. After his two foraging visits, the farmer must be aware that his food was disappearing. Mind you, he looked old, so his memory might not be brilliant.

  The water was bracing as he rubbed it over his now-wiry frame. He had been chunkier before he had started all the graft laying drives and patios for people who probably didn’t want them. They weren’t going to quibble when McNaught was around. The thought of the Scot made him shiver, even though it was warm that morning. Where was the bastard? Then he heard the crack of a twig behind him and swung round. Was it him?

  Standing next to the tree nearest him was a man brandishing a shotgun. Danny was paralyzed by fear. He couldn’t move from his crouched position. It was the farmer. The rough-hewn face was of a man who spent his life in the elements. We wore an old baseball cap which shielded his eyes, so Danny couldn’t register his reactions. Over the last few months he had got used to studying eyes; the fear and confusion in those of the people he had worked with – and the hardness and cruelty in those of whom they had worked for. The farmer had a day’s growth of grey stubble around his chin. He was dressed for work in a faded, light-blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a pair of brown trousers equally well worn. The boots were newer. Danny reckoned he’d been right on his first sighting; he was probably in his seventies.

  ‘Vad gör du här?’ he asked in Swedish. Danny didn’t comprehend.

  When no answer came, the farmer waved the shotgun at him. ‘Vem är du? Vad gör du på min mark?’

  Danny raised his arms as though in surrender to show that he had no aggressive intent. He twigged that the farmer wanted to know what he was doing in his wood. ‘I’m Danny. My name is Danny.’ He spoke slowly so that the farmer could understand him. ‘I am English.’

  ‘English?’ the farmer repeated. He did
n’t move, as though weighing up this young intruder on his land. He crooked the shotgun under his right arm and peered forward, revealing his bushy eyebrows. He could see the red wheals across the flesh and purple patterns of multiple bruises all over the young man’s torso. With his free hand he waved for Danny to follow him.

  Danny picked up his T-shirt and, cautiously, followed the farmer, who had lowered his shotgun. For a split second he thought he should run for it. Would the farmer turn him in to the police? With no passport or form of identification, he could be in serious trouble. Would they dig up his previous police record in England? And what would he tell them? What he had seen? They wouldn’t believe him. Worse still, he might even be returned to the camp if that weaselly Swede with the silver tongue managed to talk them into handing him over. Then his life would be finished. McNaught and the others knew what he had seen. But the gun banished all thoughts of escape. The farmer looked like someone who knew how to use it. And Danny was tired and frightened.

  The farmer didn’t say another word until they’d reached his back door. Danny was already familiar with what was inside.

  ‘Come,’ said the farmer, indicating that he should go in.

  Once in the kitchen, he indicated that Danny should sit down at the table. He left him there for a few moments before returning without the shotgun.

  ‘Coffee?’ the farmer said in English.

  So no police. Not yet anyway. ‘Yes. Yes, please.’

  The farmer busied himself with getting the coffee out and soon had it bubbling away.

  ‘Me, Leif,’ he said pointing to himself. ‘You Danny?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m Danny.’ It wasn’t much, but it was a long time since someone had talked to him in an unthreatening way. No more was said until the coffee was poured and a steaming mug was placed in front of Danny. It was black, but Danny thought it would seem ungrateful if he asked for some milk. Besides, he’d already drunk most of that.

  The farmer sat down opposite and cast an eye over the nervous young man who was cradling his mug of coffee. He could sense the fear and desperation. He knew it must have been this fellow who had taken food from the fridge. And his shoes. He was wearing them. He hadn’t told his daughter about the missing items, as she would think that he was just imagining things. She was already darkly muttering words like “dementia” and “Alzheimer’s”, and that maybe it was time to give up the farm. Where would her horses be stabled? She would find somewhere. What he would do without the farm and its reassuring seasonal routines, he had no idea. She certainly hadn’t offered to let him move in with her and her husband in Malmö. That would be far too inconvenient. It would interfere with their hectic social lives. Her only suggestion was an old folk’s home in Hörby. Well, bugger that! They would have to carry him off the farm, boots first. So, what was he to do with this Englishman who had been badly mistreated? Shouldn’t the police know?

  ‘Polis?’

  There was instant alarm in Danny’s croaked ‘No!’ He put down his coffee. ‘Please. No police.’ Danny’s pleading unnerved Leif. What awful things had happened here in Sweden that had had such an effect on this poor youngster?

  ‘OK.’ Leif waggled his index finger at Danny. ‘Your body. Who did?’

  Danny grimaced. ‘Bad men. They beat me. And the others. They make us work so hard.’ Leif couldn’t figure out who these people could be. He had heard of gangs from Russia and Eastern Europe operating in Sweden. But why was an English boy here in such a state? This didn’t fit into his idea of Britain: so cultured, so civilized, so important in this world with such a famous royal family. This Danny needed help.

  ‘Food?’ Leif suggested. Danny nodded gratefully. ‘We eat. Eating is good, no?’

  Helga Fuentes’ apartment block was at the top of a grassy bank above Hyllievångsvägen. She lived on the fifth floor with a yapping dog. Not that Anita and Moberg saw the dog because they never got beyond the threshold. Helga was about fifty, but looked older. She might have been quite attractive before she let herself go. But now, seemingly oblivious to how undignified she looked, she was wearing a tight, red top and skirt that only highlighted the bulges. Her lipstick matched her clothes; it was badly applied and there was far too much of it. Her blue eye-shadow was equally gaudy and had the effect of making her look like a bad drag artist. Moberg had explained to Anita in the car that Helga Fuentes was German and Egon had picked her up in Spain during his time-share days. Whatever he had promised to get her to move to Sweden and marry him had not matched the brochure, and now she was trapped in a country she quite obviously disliked.

  ‘You’ve got a fucking nerve coming round here.’ Her German accent was already fighting with the Swedish vowels, and now had the slurs generated by her morning tipple to contend with. ‘You put him away, and I was left in the shit in this arsehole of a place.’ Anita was surprised that Moberg let her continue her rant – which was punctuated with the occasional backward glance and yelling at the dog to shut up – without getting annoyed or shouting back. When she had finished, he spoke:

  ‘Do you know what Egon’s been up to lately?’

  ‘Of course I fucking don’t.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I kicked that good-for-nothing shyster out of here two years ago. What could he offer me other than even more grief?’

  ‘You lived very nicely off his endless scams.’

  ‘And it was you who put an end to that!’ she said fiercely. ‘So you can piss off with your tart here and if you see that wanker of a husband of mine, tell him to go screw himself.’

  As they made their way back to the car, Anita said. ‘Shouldn’t you have told her that her husband’s dead?’

  ‘She’ll find out soon enough when it gets into the papers. Loathing Egon is probably the only thing that keeps her going. I didn’t want to spoil it for her.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll quickly replace loathing him with loathing you and the rest of Sweden.’

  ‘True.’

  Danny let the water cascade over his weary body. It was a wonderful sensation even if it wasn’t the hottest or strongest of showers. In fact, it was very basic. Yet as he rubbed the soap suds over his chest, he wasn’t totally at ease. He wasn’t sure if he could trust Leif. He had seemed sympathetic. But he had mentioned the police, and Danny didn’t want to stay in the shower too long in case the old farmer was ringing for help while he was in the bathroom. Despite Leif’s limited English, they had been able to communicate. And the old man had been thoughtful and cooked him the best meal he had had in months – and he’d given him a beer from his larder. Could have been colder, but Danny could hardly complain. As he’d tucked into his chicken, he had been overcome with guilt that he had been robbing this man who was showing such kindness toward him.

  He gathered from Leif that his daughter came up a couple of times a week to ride her horses. Other than that, he had few visitors. That was reassuring from Danny’s point of view. He still had no idea what his next move was to be. He couldn’t stay here forever. And he certainly wasn’t going to stay in the farmhouse, as Leif had suggested. It was too much like waiting in a trap, to be sprung at any moment by McNaught or the police. He would remain in his makeshift camp. There he could hear any approach, though he chided himself that he hadn’t heard Leif with his shotgun; that was sloppy. But he wouldn’t be caught off his guard again. He had reached the point of distrusting everyone – and that included Leif. He knew he would have to make a decision on his next move before Sunday because Leif’s daughter would be back to see to her horses. How would she react to some stranger hanging around her dad’s isolated farm? She would definitely be on to the authorities.

  He turned off the shower and swept the water from his hair, which was getting quite long. He took the towel that Leif had produced. It must have survived years of washing. It felt coarse against his back and thighs. What would he give for a fluffy towel and soft sheets to sleep in? In between the hard physical graft and the constant fear, it ha
d been thoughts of home comforts that he had taken for granted when he was younger that he yearned for. What a silly shite he’d been!

  ‘Well, Helga was a waste of time. I’d heard she’d chucked him out, but Egon’s the type to go crawling back if he’s in a spot of bother.’ Moberg’s head was almost touching the car roof, and he had to hunch slightly over the wheel in order to see through the windscreen. ‘Which means that he was up to something if he hadn’t gone back.’

  ‘She could have been lying,’ Anita suggested. She would have felt happier if she had been doing the driving, as Moberg tended to try and talk at her instead of keeping his eye on the road.

  ‘I had plenty of dealings with Helga in the past. She was careful not to get too involved with Egon’s activities, so when we came calling, we had nothing on her, though she knew exactly what had been going on. I don’t think she’d let herself get involved with him again.’

  ‘You know we shouldn’t be doing any of this. It isn’t our case. Presumably Ystad are looking into it.’

  ‘It’ll come our way. The vehicle is Malmö registered, and the only identifiable victim is from here. And if I can find out what he was up to, they’ll have to give us the investigation. If necessary, I’ll bully the commissioner.’ This really was personal. Not that Anita had time to dwell on the fact, as Moberg then tried to light a cigarette while negotiating the traffic. After a couple of curses, he succeeded, but not before he was honked at by an irate driver who had had to take quick, evasive action. Moberg yelled back, totally unjustifiably in Anita’s eyes. She hadn’t been this nervous in a car since she’d taken Lasse out for a spin when he was learning to drive. It had only happened once. A bottle of red wine had been opened early that night.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked anxiously as she realized that the chief inspector was not heading back to headquarters.

  ‘Limhamn.’

  ‘Bit posh for this sort of investigation,’ Anita observed dryly.