Midnight In Malmö: The Fourth Inspector Anita Sundström Mystery (The Malmö Mysteries Book 4) by Torquil MacLeod Page A
Authors: Torquil MacLeod
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bays bringing in abundant light. He quickened his step; his train was leaving in five minutes.
The train passed through dull suburbs of featureless apartment blocks and yet more industrial units. He was surprised at the amount of graffiti on show. It didn’t fit with his image of an ordered country of green Alpine slopes, contented cows and beautiful wooden chalets. Mind you, Malmö probably didn’t fit with people’s ideas of Sweden. After Bussigny, lush forests dominated the landscape, to be replaced by open fields. La Sarraz station consisted of a small building on one side of the track. As Hakim alighted from the train, the noise of roadworks greeted him, and only one other passenger disembarked at nearly ten o’clock that morning. A stout, pot-bellied, uniformed police officer was hanging around in front of the automatic ticket machine. His expression of disbelief was plain.
‘You cop? You Swedish cop?’ The voice was incredulous. Instead of a tall, blond Swede, he would be chaperoning a tall, dark Arab. What was the world coming to?
‘Yes, I am Detective Hakim Mirza.’
Another Gallic shrug.
‘Follow me.’
Hakim walked behind Lacaze to a waiting car.
‘We go long way. Roadworks,’ he said pointing down a street that bordered onto fields and a distant sports ground.
The car went up a hill into the centre of the village. Not that Hakim thought that “village” was an accurate description. More like a small town. It had a large castle looming above the main street onto which, hugger-mugger, spilled shops and houses of every era and style. Within minutes they had reached the edge of La Sarraz, and now the buildings began to look exclusive. There was a curious mix of old French houses and modern Swiss chalets, but they all looked expensive. Lacaze turned the car off the side road through a gateless gateway and up a tree-lined drive. At the top, surrounded by a swathe of tamed, neat lawns and a polychrome of wild-flower meadows, stood a large, graceful building in the typical style of a French manor house. It had a hipped roof, stuccoed white walls with cream quoin stones, and each window was flanked by open shutters. They drove round to the back of the house and came to a halt next to a couple of top-of-the-range cars on the gravelled parking area. This definitely wasn’t a cheap place to live. At the back, there were two access doors under a portico supporting a balcony.
‘Four apartments. Two from here; two from front,’ Lacaze explained. The left-hand door had a name plaque with J. Akerman on it. Hakim produced the set of keys that they had found at Akerman’s Malmö apartment. The thickest fitted the lock. He felt a prickle of sweat run down his back. He hesitated for a moment. He was going into a dead person’s house. That beautiful woman who had been stabbed in Pildammsparken lived her life here. She’d done all those ordinary, inconsequential things that people do at home. When she’d left here, she had little idea that it would be for the last time. He was aware of Lacaze standing impatiently behind him. He pushed open the door.
There was a large hallway. It was painted a clinical white, but one entire wall was covered with an exotic Indian tapestry of an elephant. Against the opposite wall was a long, mahogany bench, on which was casually draped a blue, all-weather jacket; it must have been raining before she left. Immediately to the left of the front door was the kitchen. Hakim thought he would get his bearings first before he investigated each room individually. Straight ahead was a wall with glass panes from floor to ceiling. In the centre of it was a double door. He opened the door and stepped into the elegant living room. A piano stood in one alcove at the side of the plain wooden fire surround. Logs were piled neatly in a wicker basket next to the hearth. Above the fireplace was a huge gilt mirror, which made an already large room appear even more expansive. In the other alcove
The train passed through dull suburbs of featureless apartment blocks and yet more industrial units. He was surprised at the amount of graffiti on show. It didn’t fit with his image of an ordered country of green Alpine slopes, contented cows and beautiful wooden chalets. Mind you, Malmö probably didn’t fit with people’s ideas of Sweden. After Bussigny, lush forests dominated the landscape, to be replaced by open fields. La Sarraz station consisted of a small building on one side of the track. As Hakim alighted from the train, the noise of roadworks greeted him, and only one other passenger disembarked at nearly ten o’clock that morning. A stout, pot-bellied, uniformed police officer was hanging around in front of the automatic ticket machine. His expression of disbelief was plain.
‘You cop? You Swedish cop?’ The voice was incredulous. Instead of a tall, blond Swede, he would be chaperoning a tall, dark Arab. What was the world coming to?
‘Yes, I am Detective Hakim Mirza.’
Another Gallic shrug.
‘Follow me.’
Hakim walked behind Lacaze to a waiting car.
‘We go long way. Roadworks,’ he said pointing down a street that bordered onto fields and a distant sports ground.
The car went up a hill into the centre of the village. Not that Hakim thought that “village” was an accurate description. More like a small town. It had a large castle looming above the main street onto which, hugger-mugger, spilled shops and houses of every era and style. Within minutes they had reached the edge of La Sarraz, and now the buildings began to look exclusive. There was a curious mix of old French houses and modern Swiss chalets, but they all looked expensive. Lacaze turned the car off the side road through a gateless gateway and up a tree-lined drive. At the top, surrounded by a swathe of tamed, neat lawns and a polychrome of wild-flower meadows, stood a large, graceful building in the typical style of a French manor house. It had a hipped roof, stuccoed white walls with cream quoin stones, and each window was flanked by open shutters. They drove round to the back of the house and came to a halt next to a couple of top-of-the-range cars on the gravelled parking area. This definitely wasn’t a cheap place to live. At the back, there were two access doors under a portico supporting a balcony.
‘Four apartments. Two from here; two from front,’ Lacaze explained. The left-hand door had a name plaque with J. Akerman on it. Hakim produced the set of keys that they had found at Akerman’s Malmö apartment. The thickest fitted the lock. He felt a prickle of sweat run down his back. He hesitated for a moment. He was going into a dead person’s house. That beautiful woman who had been stabbed in Pildammsparken lived her life here. She’d done all those ordinary, inconsequential things that people do at home. When she’d left here, she had little idea that it would be for the last time. He was aware of Lacaze standing impatiently behind him. He pushed open the door.
There was a large hallway. It was painted a clinical white, but one entire wall was covered with an exotic Indian tapestry of an elephant. Against the opposite wall was a long, mahogany bench, on which was casually draped a blue, all-weather jacket; it must have been raining before she left. Immediately to the left of the front door was the kitchen. Hakim thought he would get his bearings first before he investigated each room individually. Straight ahead was a wall with glass panes from floor to ceiling. In the centre of it was a double door. He opened the door and stepped into the elegant living room. A piano stood in one alcove at the side of the plain wooden fire surround. Logs were piled neatly in a wicker basket next to the hearth. Above the fireplace was a huge gilt mirror, which made an already large room appear even more expansive. In the other alcove
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