The Swedish Girl (2 page)

D
etective Sergeant Alistair Wilson drained his mug of tea and gave a satisfied sigh.

‘Good day?’ Betty asked with a smile.

‘Aye,’ her husband replied, leaning back on the kitchen chair. ‘Just like old times,’ he murmured.

‘Fancy having Lorimer back in the division again,’ Betty remarked. ‘You were all pleased to see the back of Mitchison when he got his transfer, but I bet none of you ever guessed who his replacement would be.’

‘No. Thought Lorimer would be up in Pitt Street for a good while longer when he made detective super. Cutbacks.’ Alistair shrugged as though that single word explained away the myriad changes within the Strathclyde Police. He picked up his empty mug.

‘Another cuppa, love?’ Betty asked.

‘Aye, why not,’ the detective sergeant nodded. ‘Hear anything from our Kirsty today?’ he asked.

Betty Wilson shook her head. ‘She’s awfully busy. All these assignments. Wasn’t like that in my day. We had a lot more practical stuff to do.’ She wiped the table top idly with a flick of her cloth, folded it neatly then laid it across the side of the kitchen sink.

‘Well if she turns out to be half the cook you are, pet, she’ll be doing fine.’ Alistair patted his wife’s ample bottom affectionately as she passed his chair.

‘Don’t know if that’s what our Kirsty wants,’ Betty replied. ‘Think she has her sights set on something more to do with the hotel trade.’ She bit her lip. Kirsty had been glowing with enthusiasm on her last visit home, telling her mum all about the opportunities for graduates that lay overseas. Although it was still only October she had already applied for summer jobs next year in hotels as far apart as Mallorca and the Channel Islands. It was something she hadn’t told Alistair yet. Kirsty was his darling, their only child, and the thought of her spending months away from Scotland would hit him hard, she knew.

‘Well, she works all hours at the weekends in that hotel to pay her rent, doesn’t she?’ Alistair replied. ‘And look at the tips she gets from some of those visitors!’ he added, a note of pride creeping into his voice. ‘Ach, she’ll do well, will Kirsty, wait and see.’

‘Penny for them,’ Maggie Lorimer said, looking at her husband who was gazing into space as they sat on either side of the kitchen table, the remains of their Sunday dinner between them.

‘Just thinking that it was good being back amongst the old crew, actually,’ Lorimer said, stretching his arms behind his head and yawning. ‘You don’t realise how much you’ve missed them till you go back.’

‘And
they
welcomed
you
with open arms,’ Maggie chuckled. It was no secret that her husband was popular with the other officers in the division.

‘I think so,’ he said lightly. ‘Anyway, now that the posting’s been confirmed that’s them stuck with me.’

Maggie Lorimer picked up the newspaper she had been reading, the smile still on her lips. His promotion had been well deserved even if his career path had been somewhat circuitous.

After serving in his divisional HQ as a DCI, William Lorimer had been promoted to detective superintendent and seconded to the Serious Crimes Squad at police headquarters for the first half of the year. However, massive changes to the structure of the force and budgetary constraints had resulted in the decision to mothball the unit, and he had waited for several anxious weeks to find out if he was to be posted back to his old division in place of the outgoing detective superintendent, Mark Mitchison.

I’ll see what I can do
, was all that Assistant Chief Constable Joyce Rogers had told him. But it had been said with a knowing smile and a tap to the side of her nose. Och, it was as good as his, Maggie had insisted, back in the summer when they had taken their annual trip up to Mull for a much needed break. And she had been right.

Now he was back in Stewart Street it was as if he had never left the place.

Maggie thought about the city centre police headquarters for a moment; a squat low-level building huddled amidst tower blocks yet standing out with its bright blue paint and that customary chequered strip. It was close to the motorway on one side and to the top of Hope Street on the other, yet Maggie Lorimer had never once set foot inside A Division, preferring to meet her husband after work in one of the small bistros that were a short walk away.
You don’t want to see what goes on
, Bill had said to her once when a high profile prisoner had been detained there. And he was right: Maggie listened to what her husband told her, accepting that there would always be a lot left out of any story involving serious crime and glad that she saw a different side to the man who dealt with criminals in his working life.

What neither the detective superintendent nor his schoolteacher wife could have guessed at that moment was the effect that one particular crime would have on them both.

T
wenty-four Merryfield Avenue was not considered an especially prestigious address, yet it was still unusual for a student flat to be found within its red sandstone walls. The avenue was too close to the bustling street around the corner to have any real cachet as a leafy residential area, yet once it had been the residence of the well-to-do, many of whom were still there, living out their twilight years, remembering better days. The tall fair man stood with his hand resting gently on his daughter’s shoulder as they gazed up at the top flat. The large bay windows twinkled in the afternoon sunlight, their lower panes still retaining the original yellow- and amber-stained glass that dated from a different century.

Henrik Magnusson took a set of keys from the pocket of his fine suede jacket and held them out for a moment. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s all yours, Eva.’ Then he smiled his slow smile as the girl’s face lit up.

She clasped her father’s arm, her face brushing the soft material. ‘Best dad in the world,’ she murmured, pulling away again and trying not to grin as she looked up at the top storey of the building once more. Then, turning back, Eva took the keys from his outstretched fingers and together they walked across the road and entered the narrow path marked out by hedges on either side. As she stepped up to the front door, the girl’s attention was caught by a pale cream-coloured cat sitting on the window sill of the ground floor flat. It was looking at them intently, its golden eyes curious at the arrival of strangers. Then, as if it had come to a decision about them, the cat slipped noiselessly from its perch and was at the girl’s side, rubbing its soft fur against her leg and purring loudly. Eva smiled and nodded, acknowledging the gesture as though it were a good omen, a welcome from this feline resident.

‘Shall we let him in?’ She turned to her father.

Henrik shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘It obviously lives here.’

As she put the key into the lock, Eva noticed a row of names, some badly faded, printed to one side of the doorway, tiny grilles beneath. She nodded, recognising the security entry system.

‘We’ll need a bigger space for all the names once I get some flatmates,’ she observed, looking at the blank space right at the top of the list. Then, pushing open the heavy wooden door, they entered the close. Eva took off her designer sunglasses and looked around.

Inside was surprisingly light. A short corridor to the rear of the building ended with a glazed door, and the half landing above them had a long window that provided another source of daylight. Henrik Magnusson followed his daughter up the stone stairs, smiling as she exclaimed over the arrangements of carefully tended potted plants on each landing, the shining brasses and etched glass on the front doors on either side, the storm doors painted in cheerful shades of red. It was an old property, but one where the existing residents evidently took a pride in their homes. Henrik had asked the estate agent questions about the people who lived at number twenty-four and the man had been surprisingly knowledgeable about some of them. Several were retired people and others would be out at business during the day; there was a residents’ association and each of the owners had to pay their share of repairs to things like slates falling off the roof or damage to the stone steps. It was a far cry from the modern blocks that Henrik owned in his native Sweden, where factors took care of everything, charging the tenants sweetly for the privilege.

‘Here we are!’ Eva turned to her father with an excited grin as they reached the top storey and turned to the door on the right.

‘Go on then,’ Henrik told her. ‘Open up your new home.’

There were two doors to the flat: a heavy storm door that Henrik hooked back into a latch on the wall and an old-fashioned inner door, framed in dark mahogany with opaque glass set in from waist height. Eva Magnusson turned the set of keys in her hand until she found the one that matched the Yale lock.

The door opened noiselessly and she stepped over the threshold, marvelling at the spacious hall within and the adjacent staircase that wound its way upwards.

Eva grinned over her shoulder. ‘It’s huge!’ she said, then laughed out loud, turning to one room after the other, exclaiming at their particular features.

‘Any place looks big when it’s empty.’ Henrik shrugged, but even he was impressed by the proportions of these apartments now that the previous owner’s furniture had been cleared out.

‘Wow! Look at this!’ Eva had reached the end of the hallway and was standing in the kitchen gazing upwards at a set of false beams, her blue eyes twinkling with delight.

Henrik nodded. So. They had left them after all. The plants cascaded down from their hooks on the wooden beams, making the entire ceiling appear to be a hanging garden. The Swede had haggled and offered a bit extra but he had been given the impression that the owner wanted to take her late mother’s precious plants away. Perhaps, after all, there had been no room for them in her own home? Well, his daughter was happy with them as Henrik had known she would be.

‘We’ll need to find at least one tall young man to reach up and water them for you,’ Henrik joked.

Eva made a face but it turned into a smile again almost immediately. ‘How many should I be sharing this with?’ she asked. ‘Another girl and a boy, maybe?’

Henrik shook his head. ‘There is enough space for five of you,’ he said. ‘Three bedrooms on this floor and two upstairs. And,’ he shrugged again, ‘you can have it all girls if you like but I think a mix would be better.’

Eva did not reply, simply nodding her agreement as she always did.

They turned together as a train rattled past, momentarily shaking the kitchen windows. Eva walked across and looked out over the kitchen sink to where a line of trees marched away beyond the railway line. Looking down she noticed that there was some sort of a yard between the tenement buildings and the railway. Several vans were parked side by side and she could see a heap of used tyres piled untidily into one corner. As she watched, a man in dark blue overalls crossed the yard and opened the door of the van at the end of the row. He was quite unaware of being observed by the girl from the top flat above him, Eva realised. He was simply going about his business. She took a deep breath, savouring the moment. Life was all around her, real life, from the work going on in the yard to the day-to-day business of people on every floor of the building. And now she, Eva Magnusson, was a part of that life.

She wandered back into the hall and immediately entered the main reception room, recognising the bay windows she had admired earlier from the street below. Sunlight poured into this room as the windows were almost ceiling height. Eva’s eyes followed the line of coving: the egg and dart plaster mould was perfectly intact, as was the ornate rose in the centre of the ceiling with its grey coil of electric flex ready and waiting for whatever her father might choose in the way of a light fitting. Before she knew it, her feet had taken her right up to the windows where three tired-looking boxes on the sill outside held a few hopeful pansies. She would plant them up as soon as she could, put in scarlet geraniums instead. Eva looked across the street at the houses opposite and blinked, a sudden memory surfacing. It was a painting she had seen in a gallery. What was it called?
Windows on the West
, that was it, where the artist had captured moments in the lives of folk in a tenement flat, just like this. And for a moment she frowned at the idea of someone staring across at her, seeing into her own life.

‘It’s darker on the other side of the house,’ she remarked, hearing her father’s footsteps come into the room. ‘I think I would like a bedroom with less light. You know I can never sleep when the sun streams in my window.’

The girl kept staring out of the window even when she felt the pressure of Henrik’s fingers close upon her shoulder. She smiled, seeing the reflection of her face in the glass, as she calculated how many weeks it would be before she would be here as a student, free from the constraints that had held her for the past nineteen years of her life.

C
olin Young picked up the dishcloth and wiped around the edges of the industrial-sized sinks. God knows how many times he had cleaned up after the chefs since the start of his shift, but he supposed that was what his job was, kitchen hand. It had been all that Colin could find as far as a summer job was concerned and he needed the money if he was going to get anywhere decent to stay next session. His face brightened suddenly as he remembered the appointment with the Swedish man, Larsson, or something. No, he was confusing him with one of his childhood football heroes, Henrik Larsson.
Magnusson
, that was his name, Henrik Magnusson. It was the Henrik bit that had muddled him up. Colin’s smile broadened as he cast his thoughts back to when he had been a wee lad eagerly following his dad and big brother, Thomas, up the slope to Parkhead football stadium. The boys’ Celtic strips had been worn with the kind of pride that was hard for those outside the game to comprehend. Then there was the singing; thousands of voices raised along with the green, gold and white scarves, a sound to make the hairs on his neck stand on edge even thinking about it so many years later.

Well, perhaps this other Henrik would come up trumps for him. The monthly rental was okay, so the flat was bound to be fairly basic, plus it was out at Anniesland, not exactly on the doorstep of the university and he’d have to factor in the cost of a bus or train on top of everything else. Colin gave the stainless steel sink one final rub then put the used cloth into a plastic tub full of bleach before stripping off the industrial rubber gloves that the boss had insisted he wear.

No fur your benefit, son. It’s in case ye tak us tae a tribunal if ye get dermatitis, ken?
 

Colin had nodded, understanding the man’s aggrieved tone. There had been so much red tape involved at the beginning of this summer job, forms to fill in, things to sign. And he was only a kitchen hand, after all. It was not as if he was handling any of the stuff out of the ovens, like some of the other young lads, or being yelled at by the head chef.

He untied the greasy apron from around his waist, hung it on the peg behind the door and slipped out into the lane that ran behind the restaurant, the sudden daylight making him blink. A couple of the older chefs were lounging at the corner, taking a quick fag break now that the lunchtime rush was over. They barely glanced at Colin as he walked along the cobbled lane and crossed over to the car park that separated Ashton Lane from the university buildings. But that was fine. Nobody usually gave Colin Young a second look.
The sort of guy who would be lost in a crowd
, one of his pals at school had said. The rest of them had laughed, Colin with them, but afterwards, looking in the wardrobe mirror in his bedroom, he had wondered about that remark. There was nothing wrong with his appearance: at seventeen he had reached his full height of five feet eight in his stocking soles, a slim verging on skinny teenager with a pale face that was the result of too much late-night study for end of term exams.

Now, three years on, little had changed. He was still slightly built, his mid-brown hair cut shorter and better styled than it had been in his schooldays but there was nothing unpleasing about Colin’s appearance. Whenever he smiled his eyes would crinkle at the corners and one could almost believe his was an attractive sort of face. It was when he spoke that people turned to give him a second look, this young man with that unusual lilt in his voice that came from being born to a Lewis woman whose own speech had been peppered with Gaelic words and phrases.

The students’ residence office was situated over the hill and along one of the streets that criss-crossed the area between Great Western Road and University Avenue. Colin glanced at his watch and quickened his pace. He’d have to hurry if he was to pick up the details of the other flats he’d been offered before catching a bus out to Anniesland. The afternoon sun beat down on his head as he turned into Great George Street. Well, at least he had a decent break before his evening shift and maybe there was even the chance of lounging about in the park, watching the skateboarders, letting the heat soak into his skin.

The bus stopped with an ear-splitting squeal of brakes and Colin descended onto the pavement, his eyes turning immediately to the street on his left. There was a pub just around the corner from Merryfield Avenue, he noticed, where afternoon drinkers were enjoying their pints outside in the Glasgow sunshine. A couple of blue and yellow parasols that boasted the logo of a well-known brewery made the place almost festive and Colin paused for a moment, wondering if this might become his local, if he were lucky enough to get a room in the flat.

There was the usual line of names by an entryphone buzzer and Colin saw the name Magnusson right at the top. Typical, he thought, raising his eyebrows, every student flat he knew was on the top floor. He pressed the bell and waited. There was a crackle followed by a man’s deep voice: ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Colin Young. I’ve come about the room.’ Colin bent forward, his mouth close to the intercom.

There was a pause then a click. ‘Come up. Top right,’ the voice said and Colin pushed open the green-painted main door, his eyes blinded for a moment by the change from bright sunlight into the comparative gloom of the close. A few blinks dispelled the dullness and, as he made his way up the stone staircase, Colin could see that this was a smart place. Not only were the stairs in good nick, but each landing seemed to have a collection of huge plants, the residents here evidently taking some pride in their property.

‘Up here,’ an echoing and disembodied voice called down and Colin sprinted up the last few stairs to come at last to the doorway of Henrik Magnusson’s house.

His first impression was of the man’s height: six four at least, Colin guessed. He was a handsome man, Colin saw, taking in the tanned face, the shock of pale blond hair and a pair of piercing blue eyes that commanded his attention. But there was something stern about him that made the younger man want to flinch.

‘Come in,’ Magnusson said, holding open the door and stepping aside.

Afterwards, Colin tried to describe number 24 Merryfield Avenue but it was hard to remember every detail of the flat. The smell of new carpet lingered in every room as Colin was given the guided tour of everywhere, except the bedroom next to the kitchen, his eyes feasting on the antique furniture in the hall and lounge and the pictures hanging on the walls.
It was not
, he told his brother later, like any student flat he’d ever been in before. They had ended up standing beside a huge black lacquered table in the spacious kitchen, Magnusson staring at him as he threw one question after another: was he a smoker?
No
. What were his political leanings? A doubtful shrug and
Scot Nat, probably
. Did he make time to see his own family
? Oh aye
, but not that often since he didn’t have a car and it was a bit of a trek out to Armadale in West Lothian; the train took hours to get there. Nothing about his course at uni, no wonderings about his future career at all, but plenty of questions about his likes and dislikes. Football, the occasional drink, no he didn’t do drugs (reddening at the directness of the question), no girlfriend at the moment (nosy beggar, but maybe this was worth it if he could manage to secure a room in this amazing flat).

‘You’ll be sharing the flat with my daughter and three other students,’ Magnusson said at last. Then, the very ghost of a smile as he offered his huge hand in a firm grasp. Ah, his daughter, thought Colin, remembering the room with the closed door.

‘That’s it?’ Colin said, surprised. Then he smiled too, a smile that turned into a grin of genuine delight.

‘You can choose one of three rooms,’ Magnusson told him, leading the way back into the hall. ‘The one next to my daughter’s.’ He waved a hand as they passed the large bedroom next to the communal bathroom. ‘Or one of the two upstairs. The front bedroom has already been taken.’

Colin considered for a moment, entering the square room that looked down over the railway. It was airy enough and had the advantage of being near the front door so he could come and go without being heard, should he manage to keep on the evening shift at the restaurant. Like the other three bedrooms he had already seen it was furnished with a smart modern desk and a decent-sized bed (probably IKEA, but top of their range), as well as a brand new wardrobe and a comfortable-looking Lloyd Loom chair painted in a shade of pastel green to match the duvet and curtains. An empty pinboard hung above the desk and there was a green desk lamp placed to one side. The other rooms upstairs did not have an old-fashioned lamp like this and Colin nodded, imagining himself writing here late into the night, his fingers flying over the keys of his ancient laptop.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll have this room, thanks.’

‘A decent young man, I’d say, and the girl is definitely going to be an asset.’ Henrik Magnusson lifted his wine glass, eyes twinkling over its rim as Eva looked at him enquiringly. They were dining tonight in the Chardon D’Or, a quiet restaurant in the city centre that was handy for Magnusson’s hotel.

‘How do you mean?’ the girl asked, head tilted to one side.

‘Well,’ Henrik began, ‘she’s at Caledonian University and is taking a degree course in hospitality management. She was
very
taken with the kitchen.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I imagine you will not starve with Miss Wilson at Merryfield Avenue.’

Eva frowned, then her brow cleared.
Frowning gave one lines
was the mantra that her home tutor had dinned into her. ‘Just because she is doing a hospitality course doesn’t mean she will be a good cook,’ she reasoned.

‘She said she
loved
cooking,’ Henrik replied firmly, taking up one of the tiny pastries from his plate and nibbling on it. ‘The mother’s a professional cook,’ he added, as if to underline his point.

‘And the father?’

‘A policeman.’

Eva nodded, her eyes lowered towards her plate as though she were more interested in the
amuse-bouches
. ‘She sounds suitable.’

There were no further questions from his daughter and Henrik appreciated that. Eva respected his judgement, after all, and the students that he chose to live in his daughter’s flat would be ones who would bring something positive into her life. Kirsty Wilson was a nice enough girl, a little on the podgy side, but with a cheerful, open manner that had endeared her to the Swede. Eva would like her, he was certain of that. And the young man, Colin, he would add something to the flat too, a steadiness of purpose. He had not missed the gleam in the lad’s eyes as he looked at the pale wooden desk and the antique lamp. He had arranged for the interview to take place between work shifts, too, so he was a grafter, not the kind to laze about taking handouts from the State. Tomorrow Henrik was to interview several other candidates for the vacant rooms at Merryfield Avenue, but tonight he and Eva would spend time together, enjoying the pleasures of fine dining before taking a stroll around the city. Glasgow had many good things to offer, Henrik knew, from his business trips here, and he looked forward to showing them to the girl who sat opposite, a ready smile on her lips as soon as she caught her father’s eyes looking at her.

What Henrik Magnusson did not see, would never see, was the girl’s fingers clasped tightly together, the nails of one hand pressed hard into the palm of the other as though to stop her from screaming.