Menace In Malmö Read online

  ‘The miscreant I’m after doesn’t live there. Could never afford it. Well, certainly not after I got his number.’ His spluttered laugh almost propelled his cigarette out of mouth. His fat lips managed to hang on to it. ‘He works there, stacking shelves at ICA on Linnégatan.’

  As they turned off Lorensborgsgatan onto Rudbecksgatan, with its neat rows of bungalows and their well-tended gardens set back from the street, Moberg asked her how she had got on with Inspector Zetterberg.

  ‘Have you come across her?’ He shook his head, his bull neck quivering slightly. ‘She seems hell bent on proving that Henrik Nordlund and the team were going after the wrong man.’

  ‘Has something changed?’

  Anita gazed out the window, her eye catching a tall, thin flagpole in the garden they were passing. The blue and yellow Swedish flag hung limply in the sunshine. ‘They’ve found the murder weapon. And a witness has come forward. Actually, it was someone who we spoke to at the time. A ten-year-old boy. Now he remembers events differently.’

  Moberg blew a cloud of smoke out of his mouth. Now that she didn’t touch cigarettes, or even snus, Anita was beginning to find the smell intrusive and unpleasant. She feared she was turning into a smoking fascist. ‘Does it make any difference to Henrik’s conclusion?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m concerned. It’s still Linus Svärd. It always was.’

  He glanced across at her. ‘I hope for your sake you’re right. I’ve not met this woman, but I’ve heard things around the polishus. She sounds like a political manoeuvrer who’ll make the most of the situation if she finds Svärd wasn’t responsible; even more so if she discovers who was. Then, knowing him, the commissioner will want to be seen to instigate an enquiry into the first investigation, and Henrik’s name – and yours – will be dragged through the mud.’

  ‘It’s not as though it’ll turn out to be a miscarriage of justice. No one was even arrested for the killing.’

  ‘All the same, be warned!’ He took another puff. ‘And don’t get involved because you’ll only make it personal. And that always clouds your judgement.’

  Cheeky sod! Anita couldn’t believe it. ‘What’s all this with Egon Fuentes then if it’s not personal?’ she protested.

  Without batting an eyelid, he said: ‘That’s different.’

  Adolf Frid was a man in his fifties. He had a greying beard and thinning hair. Anita would have described his eyes and demeanour in general as shifty, but that may have had something to do with the hulking presence of Chief Inspector Moberg. Frid wore a red ICA top and black trousers. Anita hoped that he wasn’t touching unpackaged food, as his hands could have been cleaner. They had wandered through the store before being shown to the back, where Frid was found moving boxes. Anita sensed that Frid’s first instinct on seeing Moberg was to run. But he thought better of it, and they all retired to the car park behind the store and stood in the sunshine near the covered walkway. About half the parking spaces were filled; this wasn’t their busiest time. Moberg offered Frid a cigarette, which was refused. Moberg lit up.

  ‘Inspector Sundström, may I introduce you to my lowlife friend, Adolf Frid?’

  Frid fidgeted nervously. ‘I hope this won’t take long, Chief Inspector. People here don’t know—’

  ‘—that you’re a lying, good-for-nothing loser. But you’re my lying, good-for- nothing loser.’

  ‘You shouldn’t come to my work.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to go to that shithole you call an apartment. Inspector Sundström has got sensibilities. Besides,’ he said, waving an arm up in the air. ‘It’s a beautiful day. You should try and get out more; you look like a ghost.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Frid pressed his hands together.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ Moberg was enjoying Frid’s discomfort. ‘Let me acquaint you with my relationship to Adolf Frid, Inspector Sundström. I came across my friend here nearly thirty years ago. He was one of the first people I nicked. Petty thief. Our paths crossed fairly frequently after that, but he did little to strike fear into the citizens of Malmö until he fell in with one Egon Fuentes. Egon had big plans and even bigger scams, and Adolf here was a willing accomplice. But then Adolf had a sudden epiphany – with the help of a bit of persuasion – and did the dirty on Egon in exchange for a lighter sentence. Since then he has occasionally produced the odd bit of information that has proved useful to the Skåne County Police. That’s about right, isn’t it Adolf?’

  Frid mumbled something unintelligible. He was clearly cowed by Moberg, and Anita could well imagine what sort of “persuasion” Frid had been subjected to all those years ago.

  ‘Actually, the aforesaid Egon Fuentes is the reason I’m here.’

  ‘Haven’t seen him for ages.’ Frid’s answer came too quickly. But Anita assumed that it might be true if Frid had fingered Fuentes. Moberg quickly disillusioned her.

  ‘That seems odd because, you see,’ Moberg said in an aside to Anita, ‘Adolf’s squealing didn’t come out in court. We made sure of that so he would be useful to us in the future. No crook likes a grass, so Adolf has been under my protection.’ He put a far-from-friendly hand on Frid’s shoulder. Frid twitched. ‘I want to know what Egon has been up to.’

  ‘Ask him yourself.’ At least Frid was capable of some resistance.

  Moberg’s resting fingers suddenly squeezed Frid’s shoulder and he gave a little yelp. Anita’s natural inclination was to intervene, but she knew that would only make Moberg more aggressive. The chief inspector withdrew his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Adolf. Old habits. Policing is not so hands-on these days; I can see Inspector Sundström doesn’t approve.’ The comment was laced with sarcasm. He returned to his cigarette before he spoke again. ‘You see, Adolf, I’ve got a problem. I can’t ask Egon directly because he’s dead.’

  ‘He’s dead!’ parroted Frid as though he couldn’t actually believe what he was saying.

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Moberg as he pushed his face close to Frid’s. ‘Why do you assume he was killed? He could have died of a heart attack in the street. Or drowned saving someone’s pet cat. Your reaction says a lot about the company that Egon kept. But he actually died in a traffic accident. The van he was driving was hit by a train.’

  ‘That accident over at Svarte?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Poor bugger.’ Anita could tell he was shocked. And also a trifle relieved?

  ‘But what we want to know is what he was doing in the van in the first place. What was he up to?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Frid’s eyes were cast firmly on the tarmac beneath his feet.

  ‘You know what’s going on, Adolf. That’s how you supplement your wages from this place. And you wouldn’t want me to have a word with the manager and tell him about some of the stuff you’ve been up to over the years, would you?’

  ‘The management know I’ve been inside.’

  Moberg grinned. ‘I’m sure you got a good reference from your probation officer, but I could fill in some of the gaps. I’m sure you’re not above a bit of pilfering in there.’ Moberg inclined his head towards the store.

  ‘OK, OK. I saw Egon a few weeks ago. I just bumped into him, totally out of the blue.’

  ‘I believe you.’ Moberg obviously didn’t.

  ‘Said he was sort of going straight.’

  ‘What the hell does “sort of going straight” mean?’

  ‘It was bordering on illegal, I suppose.’

  ‘Any idea what it was?’

  ‘Not entirely sure, but it was something to do with building.’

  ‘Not another housing scam?’

  Frid shook his head firmly. ‘Not like that. But they were certainly getting stuff from a dodgy building supplier.’ He held up a hand as though he thought Moberg was going to strike him. ‘And before you ask, I don’t know who the supplier was.’

  ‘You said “they”?’

  ‘He
was with some kind of gang.’

  ‘Local?’

  ‘No. No. Abroad.’

  ‘Russian? Croatian? Iraqi?’

  ‘From Britain. Or Ireland. Yes, something to do with Ireland.’

  Moberg flicked away his cigarette. ‘I can’t see Egon getting his hands dirty on a building site. Not his style.’ Frid didn’t have an explanation, or one that he was willing to share.

  ‘And that’s all you know?’ Moberg flashed a sceptical squint.

  ‘Honest, Chief Inspector. That’s all I know. But he was making good money. He paid for my fika.’

  CHAPTER 11

  Alice Zetterberg relaxed in her seat in wagon 4 of the Malmö to Stockholm train. She was relieved to escape the south for a while and a city she no longer had much love for. Its pretence of cosmopolitanism would never match the sophistication of Stockholm. She strove, however, to keep her resentment in check; she reminded herself that the Cold Case Group was a stepping stone to better things. Her goal was a senior position with the National Police based in Stockholm. That was where everything of any consequence took place. Besides, such elevation, if it were ever realized, would cock a snook at her snooty sister. Linnea had always been the high achiever in the family. She was now working as an advisor to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and was involved in high-level decision-making policy. As a mere police inspector, Alice couldn't compete, yet she knew secrets that even officials at her sister's level would never be party to. That was gratifying up to a point. Telling Linnea what she knew would be even more satisfying, though she understood she would never be able to. On the other hand, that knowledge could well propel her to the top, and she would be able to look her sister in the eye as an equal. The truth was that she didn't really like Linnea. She had always been jealous of her younger sibling. Her elder brother, Morgan, had been useless and no competition at all. They had never got on, and she was relieved more than anything else that they hadn't communicated for at least five years. He was wasting his life in some crappy school in Karlstad. Alice was only staying with her sister on this trip because it was convenient, and Linnea lived in a nice house in a good area of the city with her husband, Christer, and their two children, Linda and Louise. Having both the girls’ names beginning with an L was so twee; Linnea’s idea, of course. However, it was Christer who was the real attraction of the weekend. He, too, was a government employee, but was more approachable than Linnea. He had always shown an interest in Alice’s police career and would be impressed that she was playing an integral part in solving a twenty-one-year-old mystery involving some interesting suspects. After her own unsuccessful marriage and a string of broken relationships, Alice had set her sights on Christer. She would love to steal him away from her sister, but she knew he was too fond of the children to put his marriage in jeopardy. That didn't mean that she hadn't stopped trying, and she had come close to seducing him on a couple of drunken occasions. She'd even managed to get her hand down his pants, and it had produced a reaction that she had played over in her mind many times since. He’d tried to laugh it off, but she knew she was getting closer to her objective. It would be another secret that she could keep that would make her feel superior to her sister.

  The train moved quickly beyond Lund and the rich farmland of Skåne. After Hassleholm, it was sucked into the Sweden of endless pine forests, shimmering lakes, orderly towns and impossibly neat villages. It was the Sweden she was comfortable in. This was going to be a good few days. She hoped the train wouldn’t be late; just a couple of months before, the Stockholm to Malmö train had been stuck for six hours. Such delays were becoming more frequent these days – one aspect of modern Sweden even she couldn’t blame Anita, immigrants or her ex-husband for.

  Szabo and Erlandsson approached Larissa Bjerstedt, who was working behind a computer screen in the university library. As Larissa glanced up enquiringly, she took off her large-framed glasses and let them dangle from a cord round her neck. Erlandsson noticed that she had lost a lot of her youthful beauty. Gone was the perfect skin and flowing tresses from the photograph on their board; the hair was now cropped short and there were crow’s feet around the eyes. The features were harder. But the smile was still bright as she asked: ‘Can I help you?’

  Szabo whipped out his warrant card. ‘Inspector Anders Szabo and Inspector Bea Erlandsson,’ nodding in his colleague’s direction.

  ‘Police?’ Larissa said in some alarm.

  ‘Nothing to worry about. We just need to have a little chat.’

  ‘Has there been trouble with the students?’

  ‘No. We’re from the Cold Case Group. It’s about Göran Gösta.’

  The colour seemed to drain from Larissa’s face. ‘My God, not that again. After all these years.’

  ‘Yes.’ Szabo looked around. Though the library was fairly empty at this time of year because of the summer vacation, he decided there might be a more conducive location for such a potentially upsetting conversation.

  Larissa seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Let’s go to the café.’

  Five minutes later, they were settled down in a quiet area with a huge picture window offering unrestricted views over the old quayside and the lighthouse. Away to the right stretched the docks. To the left, high, modern buildings now blocked the view of the Turning Torso. Erlandsson reflected that this part of town was turning into a mini Manhattan. It was Larissa who opened proceedings.

  ‘So, why now? It’s been over twenty years.’

  ‘New evidence has come to light,’ explained Erlandsson.

  ‘What new evidence?’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t reveal that at the moment,’ cut in Szabo, ‘but it’s enough to re-examine the case. That’s why we need to talk to all of you who were staying in the house in Knäbäckshusen in the summer of 1995.’

  ‘All of us?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Larissa shifted in her seat, her hands clasped on her lap. ‘OK.’

  Szabo kicked off with: ‘Can you describe the events of the day of the murder?’

  ‘Well, I won’t forget it in a hurry. It was a nice day, so we agreed to have another barbecue on the beach. They were always fun. Usually we had too much booze, and the food would get burnt, but we didn’t care. We were young. Lars-Gunnar would bring his guitar and sing a bit. We’d join in. Badly, in Linus’s case.’ She grinned to herself at the memory.

  ‘But Linus probably wasn’t singing that day,’ prompted Erlandsson.

  ‘No,’ Larissa replied thoughtfully. ‘Not that day.’

  ‘So, what went wrong at the barbecue?’ asked Szabo with some vehemence. ‘In the original file there were reports from other witnesses on the beach of an argument.’

  ‘Linus and Göran had a falling out big time. Mind you, looking back, it had been a long time coming. Linus was nuts about Göran, but Göran had started to lose interest.’

  ‘We heard that his affections had been transferred to your boyfriend at the time, Ivar Hagblom.’

  Larissa smirked. ‘He couldn’t have picked on a more heterosexual guy. It was never going to go anywhere.’

  ‘Did it cause Ivar any problems?’ asked Erlandsson.

  ‘You’re joking. Obviously you haven’t met Ivar. He takes people worshipping him for granted. They just got on as normal.’

  ‘Back to that day...’ Szabo was showing a hint of impatience.

  ‘Well, the tension that had been brewing between Linus and Göran boiled over. Of course, it was some silly remark someone made that kicked it all off. Can’t remember who said what, but the result was Linus taking a hissy fit and charging off down the beach. I didn’t see him again until the rumpus of finding Göran’s body. Needless to say, the argument killed our party on the beach and we all drifted away. Sorry, no pun intended.’

  ‘Right. Now you said in your original statement that your alibi for the time of the murder was that you and Ivar were together in your bedroom.’ Szabo flicked his mop of hair back. ‘Do you still stick by that?’
r />   ‘You mean were we fucking? I may be getting older and not have as clear a memory as I once had, but you don’t forget being screwed by Ivar.’

  ‘That’s very candid.’ Szabo wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or slightly excited.

  ‘I can’t put it any other way.’

  ‘So, what was the first you knew of the murder?’

  ‘When Carina came into our room. I found out afterwards that it must have been about half an hour after the body was discovered.’

  ‘And had you seen Linus between the time he left the barbecue and the period after the murder?’

  ‘No. He told us that he had gone up the hill at Stenshuvud and sat up there deciding what to do with his life. He then came back to the beach later on. He heard the commotion at the chapel. That young kid had found Göran and alerted his parents. Can’t remember his name.’

  ‘Kurt,’ Erlandsson added helpfully.

  ‘Anyway, Linus said he’d stayed with the body until the cops showed up.’

  ‘And how did Linus react to Göran’s death?’ Szabo watched Larissa intently as he knew it was a vital question.

  Larissa spread her hands. ‘He seemed beside himself with grief. We couldn’t get him to calm down afterwards.’ She seemed to have nothing more to add.

  Szabo peered at the notebook he was holding. ‘Can we go back to when you think things started to go wrong with their relationship?’

  Larissa stared out of the window as though seeking inspiration, or maybe she was just gathering her thoughts together. ‘Probably Malta.’ She nodded confirmation. ‘Malta. We spent a month there earlier that year. There was nothing specific, but I got the feeling that maybe not all was well between them.’

  ‘And the group as a whole?’ This was Erlandsson.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was just wondering... as there was growing tension between Linus and Göran, and Göran’s attentions were turning to your boyfriend, it might have affected the group dynamic.’

  Larissa waved away the suggestion. ‘No. There was nothing like that. We just got on as per usual. It was just that Göran was tetchy with Linus, that’s all. All relationships go through periods like that.’