Mammon in malmo, p.1
Mammon in Malmö, page 1
MAMMON IN
MALMÖ
The eighth Inspector Anita Sundström mystery
by TORQUIL MACLEOD
© 2021 Torquil MacLeod
Torquil MacLeod has asserted his rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Published by Torquil MacLeod Books Ltd.
ISBN: 9781916288904
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the 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 information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.
All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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
Jack Flyford Misadventures (Historical crime)
Sweet Smell of Murder
Dedication
To Susan. Thanks for everything.
MAMMON.
Noun.
Riches or wealth regarded as a source of evil and corruption.
CONTENTS
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
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
Notes
Acknowledgements
About the author
PROLOGUE
1945
The guns thundered in the distance through the urgent whirring of the propellers. The night sky flashed with the explosive light of heavy artillery. The Ivans were getting ever closer. Oberleutnant Bernhard Faber already knew that they had breached the supposedly impregnable Seelow Heights and it was only a matter of days before they surrounded Berlin. He watched impatiently as two of his men heaved the long, thin crate into the bowels of the plane.
‘Get a move on!’
In the dark, he couldn’t register if their expressions wore resentment or resignation. If resentment, he could understand it. He, too, resented spending time on this pointless job. These things didn’t matter anymore. He should be back in Berlin, helping to stem the Soviet tide. Of course, if the Luftwaffe had had any planes left, he’d have been doing what he knew best. But now, he was an airman unable to get into the air and reduced to a dogsbody for the Reichsmarschall, whose priceless plundered possessions were more important to him than his bloody fliers.
His two men went to pick up the last load. They would have to be quick; the plane needed to be airborne soon or it would be too late. It may even be too late now; the skies above what was left of the Reich were thick with enemy aircraft. Faber was unconcerned about the fate of the plane; it could get shot down for all he cared. Again, his thoughts turned to Berlin. His wife and young son were there, taking shelter in one of the giant flak towers near their bombed-out home. He needed to be with them to protect them. Stories of Russian atrocities – killing, looting, rape – were crackling through the air like static, carried by the millions of refugees fleeing the Red Horde. Soon the vengeful victors would battle their way through the streets to where Helga and little Gunther were hiding. He’d rather kill Helga than let her fall into their hands. As for his parents in Magdeburg... he hadn’t heard from them in weeks. He only hoped the Americans would get there before the Russians. And all this because a little Austrian megalomaniac had enchanted a nation with promises he couldn’t keep. Only the most fanatical or the insane believed that his ‘miracle weapons’ would save them now.
On the Führer’s birthday, there had been constant aerial bombardments. The Allies’ timing was no coincidence. Yet despite the enemy at the gate, he’d watched Luftwaffe trucks, laden with looted treasures and escorted by a motorcycle detachment, trundle south, destined for Berchtesgaden. Trucks much needed by stricken troops at the diminishing front. The last he’d seen of Göring was the Reichsmarschall forcing his bulk into his enormous limousine and driving off to Berlin to wish the Führer many happy returns.
Later, Faber had witnessed an almost unbelievable gesture of defiance and desperation. The blowing up of Göring’s beloved Carinhall, named after his much-mourned first wife. He hadn’t wanted his grandiose country residence to fall into the hands of the Ivans. But who would give a shit now? Faber and his men had helped site the eighty aircraft bombs in the cellars for the purpose and, through the cumulating clouds of dust and debris, they had watched the building collapse like a house of cards.
‘Hurry up!’ he shouted above the noise of the aircraft. He knew where the plane was going, though it might as well be Timbuktu. He had no idea why this particular batch hadn’t headed south with the convoy. He was just following orders. As long as the fat bastard was happy. Göring had let them down as badly as the Führer. He’d turned the world’s greatest air force, feared throughout Europe, into an impotent, wingless rabble.
The last crate was in, and the doors slammed shut. The plane manoeuvred away and a couple of minutes later, it was rumbling down the pitted, rubble-strewn runway before easing, not without difficulty, into the air. He watched it until it was nearly out of sight, then, suddenly, the wings flashed in the light from the barrages below.
‘Right, let’s get the hell out of here!’
1951
Per Engdahl held his hand up to shield his eyes from the light. Sunshine in Malmö at this time of year was always welcome. To Engdahl, doubly so. This was a bright day for him, and for a broken Europe which was about to see a rebirth.
A tram rattled along on the other side of Stortorget. Soon people would arrive for the congress. His congress in his town. Not a bombed-out town like so many others that were half-emerging from the rubble of war. A vibrant town not tainted by occupation; a low-key town where his philosophy could take root and spread to create a new way of thinking in a rejuvenated world. He knew he was a persuasive speaker – he’d even learned enough passable Italian for last year’s Rome Congress. That had gone down very well with the hosts. So had his ideas. Now he felt confident that he would have no trouble shaping the thinking of the disparate groups here in Malmö. Representatives from Italy, Belgium, Switzerland, Denmark, Britain and, of course, Germany had been lined up to attend. He’d written to Sweden’s Prime Minister, Tage Erlander, asking that the guests’ visas be fast-tracked, and had been personally assured that this would happen.
He smiled as he thought of the friends he’d be welcoming – Augusto De Marsanich from Italy, Maurice Bardèche from France, and Germany’s Karl-Heinz Priester. His only worry was that Oswald Mosley might have a last-minute change of mind; the Englishman had issues with Priester. To add a touch of glamour to the proceedings, he’d boldly invited Colonel Otto Skorzeny, the man who had daringly rescued Mussolini from his mountain-resort imprisonment.
His only regret was that he couldn’t have his kindred spirit and collaborator Johann von Leers with him. But at least he was safely ensconced in Buenos Aires, where he was doing invaluable work spreading their message.
Behind him was the Kramer Hotel, the venue for the congress. He felt a tingle of anticipation course through his limbs. There was so much to discuss, to agree on, to plan. To protect their culture from contamination in the face of growing Bolshevism, there would be a united front with a common European ideology; an octopus, whose tentacles of concordance and purpose would reach and coil across the continent.
And he, Per Engdahl, would be the mantle; the centre of it all.
2018
The window rattled. He got up from his seat by the stove an d pulled it tightly shut. The wind howled, and he could see from the outside light that the snow was starting to thicken in the yard. The roof of the barn had already turned white. He drew the curtain. As he sat down, it fluttered slightly. There was still a draught coming in. He would have to have a word with Rune Tham about getting it fixed. He couldn’t afford his own place just yet. But soon.
He shoved another log into the old metal stove. It spat and crackled as he closed the door. Winter was setting in. He knew he would have to curtail his plans if the weather continued like this. He wandered into the kitchen and poured himself the last dregs of the coffee from the thermos, which he drank in a couple of gulps. He promised himself something stronger for a nightcap.
On the side of the wooden cupboard in the corner was a rack of pipes. He still had three. Not that he smoked much these days. He never took a pipe on his travels but on a night like this, it felt right. He took his favourite one from the rack, stepped back into the living room and opened the drawer where he kept his tobacco. He sat down and enjoyed the sensation of stuffing and tightly packing the bowl. You hardly saw anyone with a pipe these days, except Rune. Maybe it was old-fashioned. But, he reflected, he lived for the past. He was nothing without it. And the past had suddenly given him a future. He picked up a box of matches from the stone hearth and struck one. After several puffs, the tobacco settled down to a satisfying glow. His contentment was almost total. But he still had one obstacle to surmount – how best to exploit the ‘find’, which he’d wrapped carefully and hidden in his bedroom. He needed a way of selling it without raising suspicion. Carl said he had a contact in Germany. He knew there wouldn’t be any consequences – there was no way they would dare report it missing or even acknowledge its existence. He would just have to be careful. He refocussed his attention on the old map and the photographs on the table. Next spring, he’d make the follow-up trip to Walchensee. The find would do a lot more than finance the next phase of the operation. If he was lucky, it would finance the next few seasons.
Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted. There was a rap on the front door. He hadn’t heard a vehicle approach. Maybe the snow had deadened the sound. Who could it be at this time of night in this weather? He didn’t normally have visitors. Even the neighbours kept their distance. And he was grateful for that. He didn’t need company except of those who shared his passions. And there was only Rune round here who showed any interest. He laid his pipe down on the ashtray next to the map and went to answer the door, muttering to himself.
He squinted into the gloom. Two blurred figures were being buffeted by the blizzard. It took him a few seconds to see that their faces were hidden by masks. He was instantly gripped by a wave of realization and fear – he’d made a big mistake!
CHAPTER 1
‘That’s all, Anita.’
Anita Sundström got out of the optician’s chair. Hugo Carlgren wrote a note in her patient file.
‘Your eyes are slightly worse than they were two years ago, so we’ll tweak your prescription. I’m afraid this happens the older you get.’
‘That’s good to know, Hugo!’ It didn’t make her feel any better about herself, but she knew Carlgren was right; he’d been looking after her eyes for many years.
‘Do you want new frames?’
She did, though she shuddered to think what they might cost. Her old frames were looking worn – a bit like her, she thought.
‘If you’re not in a hurry, I’ll get Hannah to sort you out.’ Anita wasn’t in a hurry.
As she left the consulting room, she passed a younger man whom she didn’t recognize. He looked athletic, with muscular shoulders pressing against his white shirt. He strutted along the corridor and had a cocky air about him that was at odds with the traditional feel of this well-established practice. He must be the new partner the receptionist had been cooing about while Anita was waiting for her eye test.
Sven Haglund slumped down in his seat and sighed. He felt for his coffee cup and took a sip. Yuck! It was stone cold. He twisted his neck to the left then to the right to ease the stiffness. He’d been here for over an hour. He absently fiddled with the camera on the passenger seat. It was primed and ready. He should have cleaned the car window before setting off, though it wouldn’t make that much difference to the photos. That’s if the bugger ever came out.
His quarry was having more fun than he deserved in there. But it wouldn’t last much longer when his wife got wind of it. Of course, he hadn’t actually got a shot of them doing it; he wasn’t going to get himself caught trying to take photographs through a hotel window. However, he did know the room number; he’d checked with the receptionist. The man always booked the same room, in his own name. Talk about hubris! Or stupidity. But the dates, times and places had stacked up over the last few weeks. He wasn’t unsympathetic; she was a good-looking woman. If she offered, he wouldn’t kick her out of bed. But he wasn’t married. Dishonourably divorced. That had left him bitter. Now he was helping to break up other marriages. He knew it was grubby, but it paid the bills. You’d think in these enlightened times, no one would care if their other half played around. Maybe it’s because there’s more money at stake these days.
He was, in actual fact, growing bored with such trivial cases. He had more important things on his mind than marital philandering. The unsolved missing person’s case, which had come to his attention nearly two years ago now, had led to him staring in the mirror and reflecting on who he was. And the more he’d looked into the case, the more he’d come to realize that there was a whole different world bubbling under society’s thin veneer. A world that hadn’t gone away – still festering, still spreading its bile, still warping minds. It had been an awakening for him. It no longer mattered that he would never get paid for all the work he’d done. It had become personal, all-consuming. It tormented his waking hours and seeped into his dreams, turning them into nightmares.
‘Now, how does that feel?’
Anita tried to stay as still as possible. She found the thought of buying new glasses almost as stressful as buying a new car, though the dispensing optician was taking her through the process smoothly and professionally. Hannah Roth had long fingers that were ideal for positioning the glasses, and she had a soft, gentle voice that persuaded Anita to try frames that were far more expensive than she’d budgeted for.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘A little heavier than I’d like.’
Hannah leant forward and carefully slipped off the frames. Still with them in her hands, she said, ‘I thought these might be more resilient. You have an active job and I know they can get damaged.’
‘Oh, I’m not in the police anymore.’
‘Really?’ Hannah said, with obvious amazement. She was plain and dark-haired; her strong facial features softened by her kindly disposition. She was a woman of indeterminate age; Anita plumped for mid-forties, though she could have been older. Anita knew Hannah Roth well, as she’d been coming to Malmö Eye Care every couple of years since she’d settled in the city, but she still didn’t know much about her. The only thing she was fairly certain of was that she was unattached – no wedding ring – though she could have a boyfriend or girlfriend, of course. She had a calm demeanour and was an attentive listener, knowing exactly what to say to relax her clients while she went about fitting them with the perfect glasses. She would have made a great therapist. She took pride in the fact that most of her customers left the premises happy and satisfied, even if somewhat poorer.
‘I left a year ago.’
Hannah picked out some other frames from her tray. ‘I must say I’m surprised. It’s not a career that you expect people to walk away from.’
‘Too much had changed. It’s no longer the police force I joined. And a clash of personalities didn’t help.’
Hannah arched an eyebrow as she attended to the fitting, her fingers making sure that the ends of the arms tucked neatly over Anita’s ears. ‘That can happen.’
Anita got the impression that Hannah was speaking from experience. ‘The junior partner?’
‘You are a good detective. Hugo brought in Preben Agger to modernize the practice not long after you were last in. He’s from Denmark.’
Anita caught a hint of disapproval. ‘You don’t like him?’
