You could hardly call it a meeting. Zetterberg showed her displeasure in having to travel to Malta with Anita in no uncertain terms.
‘You’re coming with me under sufferance because I’ve got no choice. I don’t want you there. So, the way it’s going to work is that you turn up, you talk to the local police, and you keep your trap shut when I’m interviewing the potential suspect. You don’t interfere, you don’t make observations, and you don’t make any suggestions. Then we fly back. End of story. End of your involvement. You made a mess last time, now I’m doing what you should have done then.’
Anita bit her lip. She managed to control herself, though she would have quite happily lashed out at this overbearing, malicious and manipulative woman.
‘And who is it that you are interviewing?’
A hint of a smile seeped across Zetterberg’s face. ‘Linus Svärd.’
So, they had tracked him down to Malta. Anita was intrigued as to what he was doing there.
‘Be at Kastrup at half seven.’
There was nothing left to say, and Anita left. Maybe Kevin had been right. This was a chance to prove at last that Linus Svärd was the killer and vindicate Henrik Nordlund and the team.
In the corridor, she came across Bea Erlandsson.
‘I hear you’re accompanying my boss to Malta. Lucky you.’ The face that Erlandsson pulled showed that Anita had the young detective’s sympathy.
‘It’s not a happy prospect, though I’m impressed that you’ve managed to find Linus Svärd. I lost track of him.’
‘Turns out he’s living in Carina Lindvall’s holiday home on the island.’
That was interesting, too. ‘The trouble is that your boss won’t give me any information on how the case is going. I don’t know what you’ve dug up.’
Erlandsson eyes flitted along the corridor in case someone emerged from behind the door with Cold Case Grupp emblazoned on it. ‘I can fill you in, but not here.’
Anita understood. ‘Tell you what, Bea. Why don’t I treat you to a drink after work? I’ll meet you in the Pickwick. It’s not the sort of bar that Inspector Zetterberg is likely to frequent.’
Bea nodded conspiratorially and scuttled off along the corridor.
Danny hadn’t ventured out of his room since he’d fled back from the station the day before. The sight of McNaught in Malmö had totally rattled him. McNaught was slowly tracking him down. And Danny knew he had a gun – he might not even bother taking him to some quiet spot to finish him off; he might just shoot him the street. He had to get away. But how? Having no passport was a huge stumbling block.
It was anxious hunger that drove him out of his room at midday and down to the supermarket below. He grabbed a few things off the shelves without really taking in what he was buying. He just wanted to get back to the safety of his room. He hurriedly paid for his items and didn’t even wait for his change.
Five minutes later there was a knock on his door. Oh, God! Had McNaught found him already? At first he was just frozen to his bed. Beads of sweat ran down his tingling spine. Was this it? The final moment?
The knock came again. ‘Hey, buddy, are you in there?’ The voice was unmistakably American.
Danny got up slowly and carefully opened the door a slit. The man standing in the corridor was young and black-haired and had a thick beard. He wore a collarless white shirt, baggy khaki shorts and flip-flops. He held a plastic bag of groceries in his left hand.
‘Christ, are you OK?’
‘Fine,’ mumbled Danny
The American held out his right hand; there were some coins in the palm. ‘These are yours. You didn’t pick up your change in the supermarket. I was behind you in the line. Seen you around the hostel. English, right?’
Danny reached out and took the money. ‘Thanks.’
‘Is anything the matter?’
Danny wanted to shut the door, yet he found it difficult. Here was a friendly face.
‘If you want a drink later, just let me know. I’m two doors down.’
Danny nodded. ‘Maybe.’
The American gave him a wide, gleaming, white-toothed smile. ‘I’m Brad, by the way.’
Brad retreated towards his room.
‘Brad?’
He turned. The beaming smile again. ‘Yeah?’
‘Do you know anything about passports?’
Brad ambled back up the corridor. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I had mine nicked. Getting it sorted out, but I wanted to visit Denmark while I’m here.’
Brad scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘Well, you’ve no problem going out. There’s no check on the train to Copenhagen. In fact, you can go back to England without having your passport checked. Until you hit your British Channel.’
‘English,’ Danny couldn’t help correcting.
‘Whatever. Coming back, though... with all the immigrant stuff, they’re checking passports at Kastrup.’ Danny looked blankly at him. ‘That’s the airport for Copenhagen. And they also check everybody at Hyllie. That’s the first stop on the train in Sweden.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
Once the door was closed, Danny’s face creased into relief. He could escape Sweden without a passport, and there was no way on God’s earth that he was going to come back in! He could get to a Channel port then try and catch a ferry. That might be problematic, but he’d find a way. By then he would be safely away from Sweden and, more importantly, McNaught.
Klara Wallen was pleased that Moberg was pleased. She had made a breakthrough of sorts. She had found the building supply merchant that Egon Fuentes had been dealing with. It had been a lucky fluke as it turned out, but successful investigations often turned on such moments. She had been to a company run by a Bo Joneberg a couple of kilometres outside Husie. Joneberg was an unpleasant bull of a man who had been aggressively unhelpful. He denied knowing Fuentes or dealing with any British or Irish customers. It was on leaving the yard that Wallen had engaged in conversation with a young man who was smoking outside the gates. He was having a break. On the off chance, Wallen had produced Egon Fuentes’ photo. He immediately recognized him.
‘Yeah, he comes in a few times.’
‘By himself?’ Wallen asked.
‘No. One or two quite rough types. There was one guy who was completely bald. Scar on his face. The boss is frightening enough, but that guy! Wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night.’
‘Did they speak English?’
‘Yeah, they did actually.’
‘And what were they taking away?’
He flicked his cigarette onto the dusty track outside the gates. ‘Paving materials mostly, for patios, drives... paving slabs and bricks, aggregates, stones, that sort of thing. Tons of cement, of course. To be honest, it was all bottom range. Cheap. I was amazed that the boss managed to palm off some of the stuff he was selling them because a lot of it was virtually unusable. But when I helped load it, they seemed quite happy with it.’
Moberg sat at his desk thoughtfully. ‘Good work, Klara. Good work.’ She wasn’t sure which delighted her most: his congratulations or the fact he’d used her first name – both were so rare.
‘So, it’s beginning to look as though Egon was the middle man. He’s the local who deals with the supplier. This gang are buying inferior materials for their jobs. As a consummate bullshitter, he probably persuaded people to have their patios and drives redone from scratch.’
‘So where’s the con?’ From Wallen’s point of view it could be a legitimate business; just that they were using poor quality materials.
‘I’ve heard of this sort of thing before. Not just here, but around Europe, particularly in Norway. You get these gangs turning up, offering to improve your drive, say. Increase the value of your property and all that. They take money up front, usually way above the real market price, and then do a bad job using shite materials, and disappear before the punters have time to complain. Or sometimes the householders are too intimidated to object. Many of these gangs are nothing more than thugs. And Egon would have been the front man; the man with the Swedish. And knowing his record, he’ll have picked out the most vulnerable targets. I bet most of them are old. He’ll have promised them that it would be a good investment. And when the whole thing turns out to be a mess, they would be too frightened to do anything about it.’
Moberg roused himself from his seat like a whale emerging from the ocean. ‘Get Hakim to go through our records, or those of the commune building inspectors, and see if there’ve been any reported cases of complaints about shoddy work in the last few months. Might throw up a lead as to who the other two were in the van. From the description of the bald hard man, he obviously wasn’t one of them, as they both had full heads of hair. We need to speak to someone who’s come across this lot. And I want you to go back and see this Joneberg fella and get him to spill the beans on Egon.’ He saw the doubt in her eyes. She had described him as intimidating. ‘Take Brodd with you. If Joneberg’s being uncooperative, drop into the conversation that he might be an accessory to murder. That should concentrate his mind.’
Moberg shrugged on his jacket. It could have made a useful-sized tent. ‘Give yourself a pat on the back, Klara. Now, I’m going to enjoy a well-deserved lunch.’
Anita was relieved that there wasn’t a large early-evening crowd in the Pickwick. The British-style pub had become a favourite haunt in the last couple of years. It reminded her of Kevin, imagining him in similar surroundings over in Cumbria. Besides, she liked most things British. She ordered a pint of Bombardier for herself and a glass of white wine for Bea Erlandsson. The girl behind the bar gave her a friendly nod of recognition. Anita didn’t regard herself as one of the regulars as she didn’t patronize the place enough for that, but it was a comforting spot to come to escape work and domestic problems. Faces were becoming familiar, and she no longer felt awkward if she came in on her own. Lasse even thought it was cool his mamma had a “local”.
She returned to the table by the window, under the hanging model of a spitfire and close to the fireplace. No one was near enough to overhear them. ‘Here’s to Malta!’ said Anita, raising her glass. ‘I may never come back after I’ve murdered Alice Zetterberg. But it’ll be worth going to prison for.’
Erlandsson appeared slightly horrified, not knowing how serious or jokey Anita was being.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll make it look like an accident. I’ve got a lovely granddaughter to come back to. Not even Zetterberg’s going to get in the way of that.’
Erlandsson took a sip of her wine. She was beginning to wonder if this was a good idea. Should she really be telling someone else about the case when she knew her boss would go berserk if she ever found out? Anita read her mind.
‘Look, Bea, I know this isn’t correct procedure as such, but I’ve been asked by Commissioner Dahlbeck to go with Zetterberg to Malta to interview Linus Svärd. Zetterberg is deliberately keeping me out of the picture, yet I’m a serving detective who should at least be apprised of the facts even if I can’t act on them. After all, it was she who asked for my input at the beginning of your investigation.’
Erlandsson put her glass down decisively. ‘You’re right. You should know.’ And she proceeded to fill Anita in on what they had discovered about Lars-Gunnar and his drug connection, Carina’s argument with Göran before the killing, and the general attitude of the group towards the murder victim. She told Anita about the conflicting versions of the Larissa/Ivar break-up, and the “something” that Ivar was so excited about during their month on Malta.
‘So, Lars-Gunnar and Carina have motives,’ Anita mused.
‘And less-than-solid alibis,’ added Erlandsson.
‘None of this emerged in the original investigation,’ Anita said bitterly. ‘Were we that shoddy?’
‘I think time has played its part. Back then, they all stuck together; told the same story. It was difficult for your team to break that down. The cracks have only shown up now.’
Anita knew Erlandsson was trying to be kind. ‘All the same, were we thorough enough?’ She stared at her virtually untouched pint. ‘Who do you think was the killer?’
Erlandsson didn’t answer straight away, as though weighing up exactly what she was going to say. ‘Despite the new findings, there’s nothing to suggest that Linus Svärd didn’t do it. All of the others think he committed the murder – except Carina.’
‘And now she’s provided him with a refuge.’ She raised her glass again. ‘Maybe it will all become clear on Malta.’ And then she took a deep, unladylike swig of beer.