It was typical of Carina Lindvall to live so far out of Stockholm. Norra Lagnö was a picturesque peninsula in the Värmdö Municipality, at least a couple of Swedish miles east of the city centre. It meant that Alice Zetterberg had had to make an early start from her sister’s place in Spånga, which was situated in the opposite direction. Alighting from the early commuter train, she took a taxi from the Central Station. She knew it would cost 400 kronor one way. That irked her, and she would make sure she got it back on expenses. As it was such a fine morning, she had flirted with the idea of taking the ferry, but that took nearly two hours, and she wanted to catch Carina off guard. The taxi ride took about half an hour through the suburbs of Nacka and Boo. On reaching Norra Lagnö, Zetterberg could see the attraction. It was very leafy and surrounded by water, through which the regular Baltic ferries sailed on their way to Mariehamn on Åland, Riga and St. Petersburg.
The taxi drew up in front of a large wooden house painted a subtle shade of willow green. As the driver was obviously from some Balkan backwater, she only gave him a meagre tip. Unsurprisingly, a glum expression was all the thanks she got. She wasn’t going to pay him to hang around until she’d finished with Carina. She would make other arrangements.
The house was on a small bank and looked to have been built in the latter part of the 19th century. With its red roof, dormer windows framed in white and air of permanence, it presided over this particularly pretty corner of the peninsula. Zetterberg strode up the gravel driveway and up a short flight of steps bordered by a white balustrade. Carina wasn’t looking so glamorous when she opened the door. She was wearing a white T-shirt and grey jogging bottoms, and her hair hadn’t yet been brushed. She blinked at Zetterberg, who was feeling almost as bad as Carina looked. Her one drink back in Stockholm had turned into several, and her mouth was still dry, despite getting through a bottle of water on the journey.
‘God, what time is it?’ Carina groaned.
‘Five past nine.’
‘I don’t receive visitors before twelve.’ But she reluctantly let Zetterberg in. Carina led the way into the living room, whose décor was in sharp contrast to the exterior of the house. Two sink-into sofas with high armrests and enormous cushions sat on opposite sides of an expensive cream shag pile rug, upon which stood a sturdy, oblong, light-oak coffee table. A modern cylindrical cast-iron stove graced one corner of the room, and other small items of contemporary furniture with the typically unostentatious contours of Scandinavian design filled alcoves and niches. A large flat-screen television dominated the main wall and a couple of what looked like genuine Carl Larssons paid deference to it. The space was light, and the sun was streaming through the high, elegant windows. Carina opened a silver box and took out a cigarette, which she proceeded to light. ‘Can’t even think without one,’ she drawled, before shooing an overweight ginger cat off a chair and plonking herself down. The protesting cat scuttled off into the next room. Carina didn’t offer Zetterberg a seat, but she sat down all the same.
‘Your visit isn’t entirely unexpected. Ivar was on the phone last night. He was worried that he might have dropped me in it.’ Wonderful! That will have given her time to dream up a logical explanation for the argument with Göran. Zetterberg had hoped to catch the writer on the hop.
‘Well?’ Zetterberg asked pointedly.
‘You want to know about the disagreement I had with that fink, Göran?’ She took a drag of her cigarette and then let a whoosh of smoke out of her wide mouth. This was not the image that her adoring public saw. ‘As I said before, Göran was encouraging Lars-Gunnar’s habit. It was pissing me off and I had it out with him a couple of days before the murder.’
‘How did he react?’
Carina looked around for an ashtray. She leant over to a coffee table and retrieved a small one made of cut glass, which she then balanced on her lap.
‘He couldn’t give a toss. He had the nerve to tell me that it was Lars-Gunnar’s business. I told him it was mine, too, as I was footing the bloody bill. He said more fool me. I slapped him on the face and told him no one wanted him around.’ She returned to her cigarette.
‘And how did he respond to you hitting him?’
‘Laughed, actually. I didn’t hit him hard enough, unfortunately.’
‘And to the fact that no one wanted him around?’
Carina stubbed the half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray, which she removed from her lap and put back on the coffee table. ‘That was a bit odd. At first he ranted about what supercilious shits we all were and that we’d always looked down on him and that sort of thing. Then he said that our precious Ivar would suffer the most.’ She held up a hand with yet-to-be-painted fingernails. ‘And before you ask, I haven’t the foggiest idea what he was on about. And I never found out because he was dead before he carried out his mysterious threat.’ Even though Zetterberg was still feeling slightly hung over, she could see that this was a potentially interesting new avenue.
‘Of course, you realize that you had a motive? You could have killed Göran to protect your boyfriend.’
‘Oh, please! I may bump off tons of people in my books, but I’d be useless at doing it in reality. My readers love all the gratuitous mutilations and graphic serial slayings, but I can’t stand the sight of blood. Lars-Gunnar was a lovely guy who I was very fond of for a while, but to kill someone on his behalf...’ She shook her tousled hair in disbelief.
Zetterberg wasn’t so sure. She pressed on with her next question. ‘We’ve heard that Ivar and Göran were very competitive.’
‘Did you hear that from Ivar?’ Carina queried.
‘No.’
‘Yes, they were. You wouldn’t think Ivar was like that when you first met him. I’m sure you found him delightful.’ Zetterberg shifted in her seat. ‘I can tell you did. Charm the pants off any woman. And he often did, literally.’
‘Did he charm the pants off you?’
‘That’s a bit personal,’ Carina barked sharply before giving way to a husky laugh. ‘I’m not going to confirm or deny the accusation. Anyway, I thought you wanted to know about the boys’ battles.’
‘I do.’
‘It was funny at first, until it started to seep into their university work. It was like, who was going to be the most lionized? Academics are nightmares when it comes to one-upmanship.’ She put on a childish voice: ‘I get more articles and books published than you. Bloody juvenile behaviour, if you ask me. And most of what these people write about is a total waste of time, and the money could be better spent on proper research. Saving people from hideous diseases, not “how many children did Lady MacBeth have?”. Honestly! Anyhow, Ivar and Göran were getting on each others’ nerves. Göran was always criticizing anything Ivar said. It became unpleasant. Spoiled the family atmosphere.’
‘Ivar said they got on well. Said he found Göran “stimulating”. That they shared the same passion for the Middle East.’
‘They did. Until Malta. Something changed there.’
‘Göran tried to get off with Ivar. Well, that’s Ivar’s version of events.’
Again the deep chuckle. ‘That might have had a bit to do with it. I don’t know what it was, but Ivar left Malta on a high. He was cock-a-hoop about something.’
‘Personal thing?’
‘Don’t think so. Nothing changed from that angle afterwards. He was still with Larissa.’
‘My team got the impression that Larissa didn’t like you.’ Zetterberg couldn’t help herself. In fact, she rather enjoyed bringing it up.
Carina arched an eyebrow. ‘Envy, darling. We were friends back in our Malmö days. And Lund, of course. I find one tends to grow out of one’s old friends. And I’m sure she’s jealous of all this.’ Carina indicated the elegant surroundings. ‘She’s probably stuck in a hole somewhere. A beautiful-looking girl who didn’t make the most of her assets. She couldn’t cling onto Ivar for starters, and look where he is now.’ Zetterberg really did think that Carina Lindvall was unpleasant. ‘Anyway, getting back to Malta. Whatever had got Ivar all excited can’t have had anything to do with Göran’s death. But shouldn’t you ask him?’
‘I will.’
Danny had slept late. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up in a proper bed. He lay still as he heard the voices of people passing in the street below. He’d had to open the window during the night as it had been warm and humid. After the last few nights, it felt odd to be sleeping within four walls.
He turned over and wondered what the time was. He would have to buy a cheap watch. But he knew this was a Tuesday; two days after Leif’s body would have been discovered. Through bleary eyes, he surveyed his Spartan accommodation. It was functional, and that was all he needed. It had taken him some time to find the hostel, which was near a big theatre with a glass frontage.
After dumping Leif’s car, he’d had a huge helping of burgers and chips, which had almost made him sick, as his stomach wasn’t used to having so much food shoved into it. He knew that the shopping centre he was in was called Mobilia, but he had no idea where it was in relation to the centre of the city. He’d tried to catch a bus. To his surprise, he’d been turned away because he hadn’t got something called a Jo Jo card; the driver pronounced it Yo Yo. Did people in Sweden not use money any more? He had no option but to walk into the centre. After one false start which landed him on the edge of a big park, he’d doubled back and managed to follow a wide street which passed a large square with a colourful market. Further on, he found himself on a long, pedestrianized thoroughfare full of shops, most of whose names meant nothing to him. He crossed a wide canal and then found himself wandering through an older part of the town, which was even more crowded. Eventually, he reached another canal – or was it the same one? – and what appeared to be the main railway station. Here he had found out about trains out of the country – and been sent to the tourist information office across the road. On the Malmö city map they gave him, the helpful staff there had shown him where the hostel was located. They had offered to ring ahead and book him in. He hastily declined the offer, as he didn’t want to give his name. He’d found the hostel on the corner of a side street. He’d booked in for four nights, though he had no intention of staying that long. It had been a good move, as he hadn’t been able to produce a passport when asked – he explained that he must have left it at the tourist information office and would collect it later. As he was staying for a while, the receptionist said to pop it in whenever.
He eased himself onto the edge of the bed and stretched. He leant over and took a handful of crisps from a large packet he’d bought yesterday. There was a small supermarket below, and he’d stocked up. He didn’t intend to go out except for essential trips. The first of these was to buy some new clothes and a watch. It would help him get his bearings. Then he would discover the best way to get out of Sweden. It still preyed on his mind that he hadn’t got a passport.
He also knew that time wasn’t on his side. The police would soon match up his fingerprints with his criminal record back in England and come up with his identity. They might find the car at any moment, which would place him in Malmö. And then there was McNaught. Despite the warmth of the room, he shivered at the thought. He knew it was that bastard who had killed poor old Leif. A brutal action like that showed that he’d stop at nothing to find him and silence him for ever.
Ivar Hagblom was mounting the steps outside the university library when his phone started buzzing. He nearly didn’t answer it, as he was late for a meeting with a couple of his PhD students. He liked to be punctual. And he certainly liked his students to be punctual, as his time was precious, especially with the new term only a fortnight away. But it might be a TV station wanting him to make an appearance, or a newspaper eager for a quote. When he took his phone out, the incoming number didn’t ring any bells.
‘Ivar Hagblom.’ He put on a cheery voice because the caller might be important – or useful. The pleasant smile he’d combined with the voice disappeared when Detective Alice Zetterberg announced her name. He had hoped that he’d seen the last of this rather unattractive and unappealing woman. ‘How can I help, Alice?’
‘You weren’t exactly straight with me, Professor.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He glanced up and acknowledged a colleague who was coming out of the building. He threw in an exasperated expression, to which the colleague grimaced sympathetically.
‘It turns out that you and Göran were becoming quite bitter rivals. By the sound of things, he was poisoning the group and was getting very argumentative with you in particular.’
‘Honestly, Alice, it was just the usual academic thing. Each one of us wanted to do better than the other. After all, our PhDs could open up amazing possibilities, and we were operating in the same field, so to speak. It was only natural that there was rivalry. It was nothing personal.’ He protests too much, thought Zetterberg.
‘OK. I get the picture.’
‘Look, Alice, sorry to rush you but I’m late for an appointment.’
‘Just one thing, Professor,’ Zetterberg put in quickly. ‘When you were all on Malta, Carina Lindvall says that you were “cock-a-hoop” about something. What were you so happy about?’
‘Goodness me, Alice; it was over twenty years ago!’
‘It made an impression on Carina – she still remembers it.’
He glanced distractedly at his watch. ‘It was probably something to do with the Great Siege. I was interested in the changing balance of East and West. I learned so much on that trip.’ Why did Zetterberg feel he was being evasive? ‘I can’t remember anything specific. It was just a wonderful experience.’ Almost with irritation creeping into his voice: ‘Is it really important what I was feeling?’ Then he added with a harder edge: ‘Or are you just fishing, Inspector?’