Meet me in Malmö: The first Inspector Anita Sundström mystery (Inspector Anita Sundström mysteries) by Torquil MacLeod Page A

Where had he been standing? His palms began to sweat. But he was positive that there wasn’t a camera at the front of the apartment block. He went over the other events of the night and thought whether there were other things he should worry about – other details that the police could pick up on. Then they might come on his trail. If they did, he would have to rely on his training. He knew how to look after himself. Though he was better with his hands than with a weapon, he always had the gun. And he knew how to use it.

     
    Anita stopped at the traffic lights at the interchange. When the lights flicked to green she turned the car into Lundavägen, the wide thoroughfare that she used to travel on regularly when she had been married to Björn. Then they had had a nice apartment in Lund. Björn was making a name for himself in academic circles and at first life had been lively in the university community. She used to drive in every working day along this road, in the other direction, when she had been Björn’s “pretty little cop”. It had taken her a long time to realize that her job was an amusing curiosity to him. Unlike his colleagues, whose partners tended to be teachers or in some way connected to the university, Björn could turn up with a member of the police force at parties and functions. These occasions had often been fun, but Anita had never been able to escape the feeling that she was an outsider. She was never really accepted, because academics, by their very nature, were fighting the system. In their eyes, however pleasing to the eye she might be, she was still there to uphold it.
    After Lasse was born and her shifts at work became more erratic, the “pretty little cop” novelty had begun to wear off. Björn found comfort in the arms of some of his more attractive students – and Anita had found out. She still had his name. She had never been bothered to change it back to Ullman.
    The car slipped along in the stream of traffic under the railway bridge. Familiar landmarks passed before she turned right into Östra Fäladsgatan. The road was wide with an avenue of trees running down the middle. She decided to park here and walk round to fru Lovgren’s. Next to the 1940s apartments on her right was Rostorp, a group of streets made up of neat rows of pleasant dwellings. All were similar shapes with steep pitched roofs, and each had a reasonably sized garden plot. In the summer the trees in full leaf broke up the military precision of the houses along the straight roads – in winter their regimentation was exposed.
    Anita sat in her car. She knew she was reluctant to get out. She hated having to talk to the family of the recently deceased, especially in tragic circumstances. Breaking the news of a death was particularly difficult. In this case, fru Lovgren already knew. The whole of Sweden did. To lose a son and daughter must be the hardest thing for a mother to bear. Think of all the love you’ve invested in the little person that you’ve brought into the world. And then the worry never stops, however old they grow or independent they become. How would she cope if anything happened to Lasse? He was her life. There was no one else who could command her utter devotion. After Björn, she’d made sure that she never got close to any man emotionally, even if she had physically. Bitter experience had taught her to separate the two.
    She had taken the precaution of calling ahead first to make sure Lovgren’s mother was in. Would there be photographers camped outside the house? Anita hoped for her sake that she would be left to grieve in peace, though her own visit wouldn’t help. Fru Lovgren’s house was on Beijersparkgatan. It was orderly and well cared for – and there were no photographers.
    Anita rang the doorbell and waited. The lady who opened the door was in her late sixties. Her dyed blond hair was scraped back in a bun. Like her daughter she was small and had the same high cheekbones. She still