Missing in Malmö: The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) Read online

  MISSING IN MALMÖ

  The third Inspector Anita Sundström mystery

  by Torquil MacLeod

  * * *

  Copyright © Torquil MacLeod 2013

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without express written permission of the Publisher.

  Published by Torquil MacLeod Books

  eBook edition: 2013

  eBook conversion by eBookpartnership.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book wouldn’t have been possible without the input of the following Swedes: Paula for all that jazz, Sigyn’s views of living in Britain, Göran for running a Swedish eye over the novel, Eva for taking me to the Moderna Museet, and, of course, Karin for useful titbits on Swedish policing and much besides. Again, liberties taken with police procedure are entirely mine.

  I’d also like to thank Vanessa for medical advice, Fraser for restraining my use of extraneous Swedish information, Nick at The Roundhouse for another great cover design, and Calum and Sarah for their usual support. Last, but not least, I would like to thank Susan for all the toil she’s put in to make the novel work. It is far better now than when I first presented it to her.

  I would also like to thank all those friends and readers who have encouraged me with their positive comments. It makes it all worthwhile.

  DEDICATION

  To Corbyn. Always make sure you enjoy life.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DEDICATION

  MAP OF SKÅNE

  MAP OF MALMÖ

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  MAP OF SKÅNE

  MAP OF MALMÖ

  PROLOGUE

  It was like an explosion in the still night air. The sound reverberated round the unused wharfs and shabby warehouses, which, by 1993, were devoid of the vibrancy which had characterised the river Tyne for centuries. To him, there was no mistaking the noise. The sawn-off shotgun had just pumped its deadly contents into something – or someone – down below on the quayside. Shit! That wasn’t supposed to happen! He got a clear view through his night-vision binoculars. He could make out the horror on the face of the jeweller illuminated by the light above the gangway, but the rest of the scene was obscured by the security van. This couldn’t go wrong. It mustn’t.

  His mind raced back to a brief half hour ago. Then, everything seemed to be working like clockwork. He had taken up his place on a deserted Ballast Hill Road. It gave him a perfect view of Commission Quay below. It was a clear night. The Tyne shimmered in the light of a striking half-moon. On the opposite bank, the lights of South Shields glowed in pockets among swathes of darkness. It was bright enough to make out the hulk of The Sentinel as it lay motionless at its berth. It was the only ship by the North Shields quay that night. The ferry terminal beyond was empty; its last occupant had left for Scandinavia a few hours earlier. In the other direction, he could see a cluster of small fishing boats bobbing on the incoming tide. Looming above them was the whitewashed tower of the Low Lights, which had once guided ships into the mouth of the Tyne.

  He had known when the diamonds were to be taken off the ship – at a time of night long after the other British-bound cargo had been unloaded so as not to arouse any curiosity. The Sentinel had arrived from Holland that October afternoon. The consignment of diamonds was bound for a group of independent North East jewellers who had set up a consortium to buy directly from one of the top houses in Amsterdam. Combining their resources would guarantee a respectable discount on an otherwise inconceivable deal. And what a deal! He wasn’t sure of the amount, but it was supposedly upwards of four million pounds.

  That’s why he had alerted Nicky Pew, one of the region’s more specialist villains. Pew was known to the police, but they had never been able to pin any robberies on him. From his large house in Darras Hall, an upwardly mobile enclave just north of Newcastle, Pew planned robberies with panache. He was careful that his crew carried out jobs well away from their home turf. His rule had always been that they do the job, get away as fast as possible and keep their heads down in the safety of their own back yard, while whoever was investigating the crime would hassle their own felons. But this one had fallen into his lap. It was too good to ignore. And rules were there to be broken.

  Nicky Pew was an interesting character. A smart boy from a small town near Liverpool, he had gone to a minor public school and then university, where he wasted his time playing his crazy shit jazz before dropping out. He could have turned his hand to anything, but crime, which he carried out with aplomb, was his chosen route to riches. Even the cops had a grudging admiration for him. He was charming, sophisticated and utterly ruthless. Not a person to cross. But Pew had never actually killed anyone on a job. That’s why the shot was so alarming.

  He didn’t have an intimate knowledge of Pew’s plan, but he knew the pick-up schedule. Two customs officers had arrived at ten and gone on board. Shortly afterwards, a white Mercedes belonging to the Newcastle jeweller, Quentin Myers, the consortium’s contact, pulled up close to the gangway. This was followed by an Imerson Security Services van with a driver and two guards. The driver stayed in the van while all the others went onto The Sentinel. The police had been informed out of courtesy, but had not been asked to supply any support. This was a private business transaction.

  The handover was to take place on the vessel. He assumed that Pew and his gang wouldn’t carry out the robbery on the ship itself. Narrow corridors and umpteen cabins would make it a lottery. And once the diamonds were in the security van, the task would be even more difficult. The gangway was the weak point. He’d already heard the puttering of an outboard engine, so knew their escape route was across the river. They would then vanish into the wilderness of South Shields, where a getaway car would be waiting for them. By the time the polic
e were alerted, they would be long gone. As he anxiously scanned the area, he had briefly caught sight of the inflatable dinghy, just before it disappeared under the lip of the quay wall, only a few yards from the ship. At the same time, what looked like a Ford Sierra had snaked down the incline and driven slowly past the Mercedes and security van, before turning back towards the parked vehicles. Then he had heard voices and turned his glasses onto the gangway. The two security officers had appeared first, one with a briefcase chained to his wrist. Behind him was Myers, the jeweller, and someone he hadn’t seen before – presumably the representative from the Dutch diamond house. He heard muffled voices and hoarse laughter then three masked men had appeared from the Sierra. One had a shotgun – he knew that would be Pew. He couldn’t see what happened next because of the van. Then came the explosive shot. His mind raced and he steeled himself to stay calm. Then he got the hell out.

  CHAPTER 1

  Greta Jansson looked over to the door of the bar. Ulrika was late. Nothing new there. Greta hadn’t seen Ulrika since she had fled Uppsala, and now she wanted to put her old university friend straight about what had happened. Ulrika was down in Malmö for a meeting, and was fitting in a drink before she took a late flight back up to Stockholm.

  Greta twirled her glass of chardonnay. The light liquid lapped against the side before settling down. This evening was important to her. It would be the first chance she had had to explain what she had done and, more importantly, why she had come south to restart her life. 2012 had been a bad year – the sooner she put it behind her the better. At first the situation she had found herself in had become irritating. Then more alarming. Finally, she had actually felt in danger, and had had to get away. Yet in the two months she had been in Malmö, she hadn’t been able to talk to anyone about it, other than the odd hint to colleagues. A fresh start meant that she was dealing with people who had no idea about her and her past. That was the attraction. They treated her on a blissfully superficial level because they weren’t encumbered with the knowledge of the emotional baggage that she carried around with her every day. Yet the disadvantage was that she had no outlets for the feelings that she couldn’t escape from, however hard she tried. Hence, her delight when Ulrika called and said she was making a flying visit to Malmö, and could they hook up when her meeting was finished? Ulrika knew the background, and the man that was at the epicentre of her problems. She would understand and sympathize. And, hopefully, Ulrika would endorse her decision to escape. The thought made her feel better. She was more relaxed than she had been for some time. She hadn’t even minded being chatted up by the young barman.

  The place was filling up. Young professionals celebrating the end of the working week. A noisy group of men were laughing at one of their number. The joker. Her own life had been laughter-free for quite a while. But she liked her new colleagues at Kungsskolan, one of the city’s secondary schools. The teaching was tough as most of the kids didn’t understand why they had to learn English when many of them were struggling to get to grips with Swedish, the language of their newly adopted country. Not many of them would end up like the executives who were buying their expensive drinks in this Lilla Torg bar. Greta wasn’t sure what a modern Sweden had to offer her students. They were mistrusted. Misunderstood. Certainly they were a challenge, but one that she was starting to enjoy in a rather masochistic way.

  The group of young men spilled out into Lilla Torg, Malmö’s trendiest square, and gathered round a couple of the tables. Though it was the end of September, the early evening was pleasant, and the gas heaters would keep them warm. Still no sign of her friend. Greta suddenly became aware of her mobile phone buzzing. She opened her bag and took it out. The name of the caller was illuminated. She tensed and stared at the screen for a few moments as the mobile continued to vibrate in her hand. Then she cut the connection. She left the phone on the wooden table top next to the glass of wine. Maybe Ulrika would ring.

  Ten minutes later, there was hardly room to stand, let alone sit. It was getting harder to keep a seat free for her friend. Greta had nearly finished her wine and she glanced yet again at her watch. How much longer would she give her? Another fifteen minutes? She would nurse her drink until then. She had relied on Ulrika to pick up the tab. Her friend would probably put it on expenses. Greta’s mobile buzzed again. This time Ulrika’s name came up.

  ‘Hi! Where are you?’

  ‘Greta, I’m so sorry. The bloody meeting has overrun and I’m not going to have time to meet you, or I’ll miss my flight.’

  ‘Why not stay the night in my apartment and then go back to Stockholm tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Oh, Greta, I wish I could, but I’ve got something on first thing tomorrow. I really wanted to see you and find out why you suddenly disappeared.’

  ‘I really can’t explain over the phone.’

  Ulrika said she understood and that they’d have to catch up another time. Then she rang off.

  Greta felt a sudden surge of disappointment engulf her. Tonight was going to be a release, a safety valve for her pent-up frustrations and disorientated emotions. She had even made the effort to look smart because she knew that Ulrika, now a successful businesswoman, would be immaculately turned out. As it was, it looked like it was going to be another early night. Then she heard a voice.

  ‘Why don’t I get you another one?’

  CHAPTER 2

  Fridolfs café. Graeme Todd bit into his cinnamon bun. This was so exciting! This was where Kurt Wallander came to get his pastries and cups of coffee. A place to give him sustenance when faced with yet another baffling – usually gruesome – case. All right, he was a fictional character – Graeme knew that – but Henning Mankell must have come here himself so he could situate his famous detective in real places. From his table, Todd surveyed the overcast, early October scene through the large picture window. This was his first visit to the country, and Ystad was living up to all his expectations of a Swedish town. The first thing he’d done after leaving his train, hurrying along the seemingly endless platform and plunging into the bustling square, was to get a Wallander Trail leaflet from the tourist information office. The tall, blonde girl at the desk had smiled pleasantly, obviously used to the sparkling enthusiasm. He had followed the route religiously, only deviating once to take a quick look at the port, where an impressive, multi-decked ferry was about to leave for Poland. Todd was in heaven. As he made his way to Wallander’s flat in Mariagatan, he soaked up the atmosphere like salt on spilt red wine. The town’s quaint and colourful cottages nestled happily alongside modern structures, the latter not detracting from the pleasing aesthetics. Many of the streets were cobbled with narrow pavements, and in some of the shop doorways candles spluttered, brightening the gloom. Though not much interested in architecture, Todd couldn’t help but admire the Gothic Hansa Sankta Maria Kyrka (where Kurt had married Mona) and the neo-classical theatre with its pale yellow columns and dark maroon panels and pediments. But the highlight of the tour had to be the elegant Hotel Continental, where Wallander had gone when he had an occasion to celebrate. The patient receptionist, used to the constant procession of Wallander addicts wandering into the foyer, had been more than happy to take his photograph, while giving him a potted history of the hotel (apparently one of Sweden’s oldest, opened in 1829). Moreover, she didn’t even show any outward disappointment when he failed to go into the restaurant, leaving after his coffee. She simply inhaled slowly and promised herself yet again that she must get round to reading one of the bloody books.

  It was the real, recognizable locations that fascinated Todd about the Wallander stories. He remembered his wife, Jennifer, dragging him off for a holiday in Dorset once to follow Thomas Hardy’s novels. He’d never really liked Hardy. Tess of the D’Urbervilles had been enough for him – too much fatalism. Yet visiting the locations which Hardy had used had inspired him to read more. Now he was experiencing Kurt Wallander’s world. Possibly not on the same plane as Hardy’s, he had to admit, but he wa
s comfortable with it.

  Todd took a sip of his coffee. He winced slightly. It was strong. The coffee at the hotel, too, had been more robust than he was used to at home. Maybe it was a Swedish thing. The bun was tasty. He wiped away a crumb from his lip. He wasn’t really that hungry, even though this was the first food he had had since an early breakfast that morning. The excitement of going round the Wallander sights had banished the nervousness he now felt. It wouldn’t be long now. He wasn’t sure how it was going to play out. The main reason he was sitting in this little café in a small town in the south of Sweden was the result of his own Wallander-like investigations. He had dug for information just as diligently as any detective. It had produced a cast of characters, involved interviewing many of them and had eventually led to the person he was after. What had pleased him most was that he had succeeded where others, with infinitely superior resources, had failed. He couldn’t help a smug smile.

  He toyed with the remains of his bun. He realized he couldn’t finish it. In the next hour he would meet someone who was going to change his life. All the skills he had learned over the years, all the grafting and hours of mind-numbing research, the wasted leads, the paltry successes were now invested in this one moment. Everything that had gone before would mean nothing. This was the “jackpot”. He had better not blow it.

  He took another sip of his coffee. It did nothing to quell the tingling thrill of anxious anticipation. He glanced at his watch before pushing his cup away. 13.22. Graeme Todd stood up and left Fridolfs.

  CHAPTER 3

  Inspector Anita Sundström stared at her computer screen. She had just finished a report on the arrest of an arsonist that she and Hakim had eventually apprehended after two weeks of boring surveillance. They had caught the culprit red-handed as he was in the process of starting a potential conflagration at the site of a factory unit on the outskirts of Malmö. They had enough evidence for a conviction. Whether he would do much time inside was another matter. But that, she thought with a sigh, was the Swedish justice system.