Mission in malmo, p.1
MISSION IN MALMO, page 1
MISSION IN
MALMÖ
The ninth Inspector Anita Sundström mystery
by TORQUIL MACLEOD
Copyright © Torquil MacLeod
2022
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 Ltd.
eBook edition: 2022
ISBN 978-1-9162889-1-1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.torquilmacleodbooks.com
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Also by Torquil MacLeod:
The Malmö Mysteries
(in order)
Meet me in Malmö
Murder in Malmö
Missing in Malmö
Midnight in Malmö
A Malmö Midwinter (novella)
Menace in Malmö
Malice in Malmö
Mourning in Malmö
Mammon in Malmö
Jack Flyford Misadventures (Historical crime)
Sweet Smell of Murder
Dedication
To the late Bill Foster. Much missed.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Part One
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
Part Two
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
Epilogue
Notes
About the author
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE
Six months ago.
‘I want the Swede found!’
Salvatore Baresi gave the Boss a warning look.
Some solemn heads had turned to look at the imposing, silver-haired man in the expensive dark coat and the gleaming handmade shoes. He was standing, straight and taut, next to Baresi, who thought that the dark glasses were an affectation too far; the Boss was scary enough without them. There were nervous glances from the other mourners. The beefy, unsmiling pallbearers slowly lowered the coffin into the ground as the priest muttered the expected religious platitudes on death.
The weak, wintry sun bathed the scene in a ghostly pale light as a woman began to moan loudly. Baresi knew it was the Boss’s daughter, Antonella. It was her fool of a husband who was heading towards the Pearly Gates. If St. Peter had any sense, he wouldn’t open them. Matteo was no great loss, but the Boss had taken his death personally. He was kin; for Italians like him, that counted for a lot. But the strong bond of the familial unit had been stretched to the limit in Matteo’s case; the guy was a handicap.
The widow slumped against a supportive shoulder as her ten-year-old son threw some dirt into the hole. It rattled as it dispersed over the top of the wooden coffin. Then she was steered through the same manoeuvre. This only produced more wailing. Baresi could sense the Boss’s teeth gnashing, and his eyes were glinting. The man might be nearly eighty, but you could see he looked after himself, unlike many of his contemporaries who hadn’t made old bones. He was lean – just like his operation. After cutting his teeth on the blood and brutality of the archetypal Chicago gangland scene, he had adapted to the modern realities of their business. He didn’t suffer fools gladly – unless they married into the family, and even then, they had to work hard to gain his trust. Yet the Swede had won him over. Even Baresi, by his own highly sceptical standards, had been taken in.
And then it had all gone wrong. The Swede had fooled them all. But how had the FBI found out? And why the fuck had he wasted cocky, dumbass Matteo?
The gathering parted as the Boss went to the graveside and added his earthy contribution. He gave his daughter a valedictory nod and returned to Baresi.
‘Enough.’
He began to walk briskly along the wide path through the Mount Carmel Catholic Cemetery, and Baresi followed.
‘Any word?’
‘We’ve had the boys out in Andersonville. Plenty of fucking Swedes, but no sign of ours.’
They were surrounded by two hundred acres of aging tombstones and gaudy family mausolea. Beneath all this petrified ostentation lay generations of holy men and hoodlums – cardinals and archbishops rubbing skeletal shoulders with the likes of Al Capone, the Genna brothers and Sam Giancana. The place was deserted: the only disturbance coming from the traffic sliding down Roosevelt Road. Many of the gravestones sported photographs of the dead. Baresi had always found the practice creepy. When he was a kid, his mother used to take him to his grandfather’s grave every Saturday. He’d always been rather frightened of his grandfather. He’d had a lazy eye that the tombstone photograph only emphasized.
‘I’ve got to get the money back. And my credibility.’
‘We’ll get it back.’
‘It was Matteo that brought him in?’
‘Yeah.’
Baresi knew that the Boss was conflicted about Matteo – furious that one of his own had been gunned down, yet annoyed that he’d had to waste space in the family plot for such a ‘stronzo’.
They stopped by a mawkish marble Madonna, and the Boss fixed Baresi with an icy stare.
‘When you find him, get him to talk. Then stop him talking ever again.’
PART ONE
2006
CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION SQUAD – 2006
Erik Moberg, Chief Inspector
Henrik Nordlund, Inspector
Karl Westermark, Inspector
Anita Sundström, Inspector
Klara Wallen, Inspector
CHAPTER 1
‘Did you see Liverpool on the TV last night?’ Willi Hirdwall groaned as he threw his peaked cap down on the table and took his seat opposite Kasper Jensen. ‘God, I wish The Blues played football like that.’
Måns Wallström laughed as Hirdwall slipped off his jacket and rubbed his hands together. It was bitterly cold outside and it was only the first of his rounds of this nightshift.
‘Kasper doesn’t give a stuff about Malmö. He’s Danish.’
Jensen silently pushed a mug of steaming coffee across the table. Hirdwall nodded and cupped the mug, which sported the logo of Malmö FF, to thaw out his fingers. ‘That’s better,’ he said as he sipped the strong black liquid.
Måns Wallström, a man with the leathery features of someone in his early sixties, glanced at the notice board in the guards’ office and pointed towards the colourful holiday planner. ‘I’m off next week, by the way. But the shipment goes out first thing Monday, so there’ll be extra security lads in. Then you can all relax.’
‘Going anywhere nice?’ asked Hirdwall, swinging his legs onto the table and leaning back in his chair. He was over twenty-five years younger than Wallström. His nut-brown hair was slicked back in the style of an early Elvis Presley quiff. He was the joker in the group of security personnel at the Q Guard cash-handling facility on the edge of a dull, functional industrial estate on the outskirts of Malmö. Unlike Wallström and Jensen, Hirdwall was lean and wiry, but Wallström was sure that if push came to shove, Hirdwall could handle himself. However, that assumption hadn’t yet been tested.
‘Tenerife. The wife has set her sights on retiring there.’
‘Oh, I heard you were taking early retirement.’
‘Yeah. Offer too good to refuse, and what with all these cut-backs, I thought I might as well just go.’
‘How will you cope with all that sunshine?’ Hirdwall laughed. ‘You’ll miss all the wind and the rain and the snow.’
‘I will, but Alice won’t. And I’ve learned that for an easy life, it’s best just to agree.’ Wallström’s attention reverted to the bank of monitors that, via a number of strategically situated cameras, kept a digital eye on various parts of the depot. Nearly every shadowy corner, alcove and doorway of the squat, drab, brick building was covered, as well as the spiked, metal perimeter fence and entrance gates.
Jensen pushed his chair back.
‘I’m off to do my rounds,’ he muttered as he got up to leave the comfortingly stuffy office.
Hirdwall watched his colleague plonk his cap on his head, do up his jacket and pick up his torch which, like everything else in the depot, was emblazoned with the company logo. When he was gone, Hirdwall pursed his lips.
‘What’s up with Kasper?’
On one of the screens, Wallström could see Jensen heading towards the main building from their office by the gate.
‘Been like that for a few days.’
‘He seems quite jumpy,’ Hirdwall observed, his chair dangerously close to tipping over.
‘Maybe something’s up at home.’
‘He’s never been a bundle of laughs, but I’ve always put that down to his being Danish.’
‘I’m sure it’ll pass.’
‘I’ve heard a rumour he’s got money worries,’ said Hirdwall as he languidly raised his legs off the table and righted his chair.
‘Haven’t we all?’
‘Right enough,’ Hirdwall agreed. ‘But he won’t solve them working for this lot. All that money in there,’ he said, tilting his head towards the screens, ‘and how much of it do we see? Bugger all.’
‘Pension’s good, though. I’ll be picking mine up next year.’
Hirdwall raised his mug in a mock toast.
‘Here’s to Tenerife, then.’
The empty wine glass sat disconsolately on the table, asking to be refilled. Anita Sundström thought she’d better oblige.
‘Same again?’
‘Yes please,’ replied a weary Klara Wallen.
Anita took their glasses to the bar and waited to be served. The Lilla Torg hostelry was already full of people kicking off their weekend straight after work. This evening, the place was particularly noisy, possibly because Christmas was only three weeks away. Festive decorations twirled and twinkled around the walls, and a large spruce, dripping with silver stars and golden baubles – and a few cheeky Nordic gnomes – sparkled in one corner, waiting to ambush unsuspecting passing drinkers.
As she waited, Anita’s gaze rested on Wallen, who was delving in her handbag. She felt sorry for the woman; that’s why she’d invited her out. It wasn’t surprising that Wallen looked shell-shocked. Anita got the impression that she’d thought her transfer to the Skåne County Police headquarters in Malmö from the relative anonymity of Kristianstad would improve her career prospects. But after only her first week in the Criminal Investigation Squad under the less-than-benign leadership of Chief Inspector Erik Moberg, it seemed she was beginning to regret the decision. She might need more than this second drink. And it was Friday night after all; neither of them would be working over the weekend.
Anita unceremoniously plonked the glasses on the table, and Wallen attacked her wine with gusto.
‘Thanks,’ she said, coming up for air.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll get used to the team.’
‘How do you put up with him?’ By ‘him’, Anita assumed she was referring to Chief Inspector Moberg.
‘I admit it’s not easy. I’ve been with him a year now and I haven’t been able to figure him out. He’s like a bear with a sore head half the time.’
‘He’s been barking at me all week and he snapped at me for no reason today. And his size doesn’t help: he’s so overbearing,’ Wallen added, grimacing.
‘I know. Wouldn’t surprise me if he has a heart attack one day.’
Anita was starting to regret her choice of wine. She shouldn’t have ordered the cheaper stuff. But money was tight, as her ex-husband, Björn, was once again being slow with the maintenance payments for her sixteen-year-old son, Lasse. She looked at her new colleague and tried to sound encouraging: ‘Moberg is difficult. But he’s not a bad cop. He just doesn’t know how to handle women despite the fact he’s on his third wife. Maybe that’s why he’s on his third wife. He’s highly combustible, which can be intimidating. And he hates incompetence, so any little slip...’ Anita realized too late that she wasn’t helping when Wallen retreated into her drink with a concerned expression. She quickly reeled in her negativity. ‘But I must say I’m really glad to have you here. As the only woman on the team, it’s been like fighting a war without any troops to back you up. That’s the trouble: unless you look like a battleaxe, they don’t take you seriously. Particularly someone like Karl Westermark.’
Wallen brightened at the young detective’s name.
‘He seems nice.’
‘Don’t be fooled. Anything in a skirt is a potential notch on his bedpost.’ Wallen gave her a quizzical look. ‘And, no, I’m not one of them, but it doesn’t stop him trying. Last Christmas, his hand wandered where it shouldn’t. The red mark on his face took a day to disappear.’ She smirked at the memory. ‘It bugs me sometimes; it’s hard to do your job working closely with a guy you know is mentally undressing you all the time. So be warned.’
‘He wouldn’t hit on me, surely?’
‘Don’t bet on it. It’ll happen.’
‘But I’ve got a boyfriend! Rolf.’
Anita looked at her with sympathy. She was pleasant-enough looking in a mousy sort of way, but she didn’t strike Anita as the most confident of people.
‘Is Rolf from Kristianstad?’
‘No. Ystad. But he’s going to move to Malmö soon. I think he’s worried the big city will corrupt me.’ She gave a girlish giggle. ‘He’s been great, though. Just what I needed after my divorce.’
‘Snap. Divorce, I mean. But I haven’t managed to find a “just what I needed” yet.’
‘Someone as attractive as you shouldn’t find it hard.’
Anita was flattered, but she’d realized long ago that her looks could also be a curse, especially in the male-dominated polishus. The fact that she wore spectacles, kept her blonde hair tied back and didn’t overdo the make-up didn’t seem to put off the unwanted attention and stream of inappropriate comments from some of her colleagues.
‘Harder than you think. It’s amazing how often guys lose interest when it comes up in conversation that you’re a cop – except the pervs who are turned on by uniforms!’
Wallen looked uncomfortable.
‘I’m only joking. Well, sort of.’
Anita was clearly straying into an area that made Wallen uneasy, which made her wonder about Rolf’s particular tastes. She swiftly changed the subject.
‘Henrik Nordlund’s lovely.’
‘Haven’t met him yet.’
‘He’s been at a conference in Gothenburg this week. Back tonight. Very experienced. I’ve known him for years. I worked my first murder case with him. I don’t know if you remember that student who was killed at Knäbäckshusen? About ten years ago?’
‘Yeah, I do actually.’
‘Henrik led that investigation. Really frustrating. We knew who’d done it, but we were never able to find enough evidence to arrest the killer. He’s still out there,’ she said wistfully. ‘Anyway, Henrik’s a really genuine guy. He’s the main reason I’ve been able to stick it out with Moberg. And he’s the one person that Moberg defers to. He’s a good, old-fashioned cop. You’ll meet him on Monday.’
An awkward silence followed. Anita had run out of things to say: she’d used up most of her small-talk subjects during the week, and Wallen wasn’t volunteering any more questions. This time, Wallen noticed that Anita’s glass was empty again.
‘Can I buy you one?’
Anita thought about it for a moment before declining. Making conversation with someone she didn’t know that well for another half hour didn’t appeal. She’d done her bit.
‘No, sorry, must away. Lasse is going up to see his father tomorrow. Better make sure he’s got everything ready.’ It was a lie. It was true that Lasse was going to stay with Björn in Lund for a couple of nights, but he was far more organized than Anita could ever be. He would have packed already, and he’d probably have to wake her up in the morning, after giving himself breakfast, to say goodbye.
Anita rose from her seat, slipped into her thick, fur-lined coat and wrapped a bulky woollen scarf round her neck. It was freezing outside, though the snow was stubbornly refusing to fall.
As Wallen made to follow... ‘Have a good weekend. See you Monday,’ she called breezily.
It was just after one in the morning, and Willi Hirdwall was finishing his rounds. It was quiet except for his own footsteps and the sporadic hum of traffic coming from the E65 on nearby Ystadvägen. He’d walked the entire perimeter fence: there were no vehicles on the main drag into the estate and no sign of life on the small, rarely used track which bore off to the right just outside the gates. Now he was starting to feel the bitter, bone-numbing cold. The tarmac gleamed and glittered beneath his feet and he trod carefully so as not to slip. The beam from his powerful torch illuminated the building he was circling. It also picked out a couple of the security cameras. He flashed the light on and off twice at one of the cameras, which was his jokey signal to the watching Måns that he’d be back in a few minutes and that the coffee should be switched on. Facing the road that ran through the estate was a small sign sporting the discreet company logo – a red Q with the word Guard in black letters inside the Q’s circle. With all that money sitting in the depot, the company didn’t exactly want to over-advertise themselves. Willi knew that the stash of crisp krona notes was particularly large this week. With Christmas on the horizon, Skåne’s ATMs would be under siege from shoppers and party goers. He knew there were euros and dollars in the depository, too. Many Swedes liked to get away over Christmas and New Year. He walked past a neat line of armoured security vans that would be wheeling out on Monday morning to restock the banks after the weekend.
