The Swedish Girl (24 page)

S
tockholm.

Lorimer looked out of the window as the plane came into land, marvelling at the water everywhere, tiny clusters of houses dotted on the margins of what appeared to be islets floating down below. The sky was an icy blue, the weak sun making the snow-covered landscape sparkle; an illusion of warmth in a land in the iron grip of winter. It was like an illustration from a fairy tale, he decided as the plane banked for the final descent, these steep-roofed houses clustered together, clad in white. And wasn’t this the land of Hans Christian Andersen? Memories of childhood tales came back: the Snow Queen and the fragment of mirror that had lodged in a child’s heart, freezing it and turning him to darkness and despair.

No, he remembered now, Andersen belonged to Denmark. And it was quite a different Andersson that he would shortly be seeking.

Solly had been right urging him to take his warmest coat, Lorimer thought as the doors opened with a sigh, the clean sharpness taking his breath away.

It was a short taxi ride to the small hotel he had booked online and the driver was mercifully silent. Lorimer gazed out of the window as the city streets became narrower and the traffic slowed, allowing him to admire the pastel-coloured old buildings. He had read somewhere that Stockholm was called ‘The Venice of the North’ and now he could see why as the taxi slipped down a narrow cobbled street emerging into daylight, the water glimmering nearby. It would be a lovely city to visit properly, he told himself. Perhaps one day, with Maggie…

A quick splash in the hotel’s ample wash basin was all that was needed before Lorimer headed out once again into the streets. He had called his counterpart in the Stockholm police to let her know that he had arrived. Should anything unusual happen then he had the back-up of her force, the senior officer had assured him.

Magnusson’s home was in the outskirts of Östermalm, the eastern part of the city, and that was where the detective superintendent was heading first. There were only six hours of daylight at this time of the year and already the afternoon sky had turned grey. Once more Lorimer looked out of a taxi window but this driver was eager to chat, wishing no doubt to impress the visitor with his beautiful city.

‘We go through the Old Town, sir,’ the man told him, his English flawless but overlaid with an American accent. ‘It’s called Gamla Stan,’ he added. ‘I’ll show you our royal palace if you like.’

‘I don’t have time for sight-seeing, I’m afraid.’ Lorimer leaned forward, seeing the disappointment on the man’s face. ‘I’m here on business rather than for pleasure.’

‘Well, you’ll see some of the best architecture in the world anyway,’ the driver boasted. ‘Just keep looking out the window. Best preserved city centre you’ll ever see. Medieval.’ He grimaced as though a bad taste had come into his mouth. ‘Used to be old stuff everywhere when I was a boy. Tore most of it down where I live.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. Place called Klarakvarteren. Ever heard of it?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘Huh! Famous in its own way, y’know. Urban renewal, they called it. Urban disgrace most of us think!’

Lorimer let the driver chatter on, complaining about the way developers had made their fortunes back in the sixties and seventies. Had Magnusson been part of that, he wondered? Had he made his money out of that particular part of the city? He dismissed the thought at once: Henrik Magnusson would also have been a child back then. But perhaps his own empire had been built on the success of such developments?

‘Posh part of town, here,’ the driver snorted, looking up at the massive apartment buildings as they passed by. Lorimer nodded silently, thinking how much they reminded him of the wealthier
arrondissements
of Paris.

Soon they had left the streets and were passing a snow-covered park, heading away from the city. Lorimer bent his head to see the sun; it lingered briefly, a ghostly outline of misty gold against the pale grey skies, before vanishing once again as though afraid to be seen. Daylight was waning now and the white fields and gardens looked bruised beneath the gathering dusk.

The Magnusson house lay somewhere beyond the park, the driver had told him, though it was evident the man had not driven anyone there before today. So it came as a surprise when they turned into what appeared to be a farm road, banks of snow heaped on either side as though the snow ploughs made regular visits to keep this particular route clear. They passed frosted trees, their branches stark against the cold winter sky, then, as the Skoda slowed to take a corner, Lorimer could see the lights from a distant house. The driver muttered to himself as the car slipped and slithered on the icy road until at last they reached a set of large black gates. Beyond lay a solid-looking modern house, its lower windows shuttered against the night, though Lorimer could see light glimmering from the fanlight above the door.

‘Here, sir, this is the place you’re looking for,’ the driver said, turning his head and looking at Lorimer with a quizzical expression. ‘Expecting you, are they? Looks to me like these are locked.’ The taxi driver pointed to the security box fixed against one of the two stone pillars that flanked the metal gates.

Lorimer followed his gaze. Had Solly mentioned this? For a moment he simply couldn’t remember. No, he decided. The psychologist had not told him about this feature, but perhaps it was something he should have anticipated, arriving unannounced at the home of one of Sweden’s wealthiest men.

‘Want me to wait?’

‘Just for a bit,’ Lorimer said. ‘See if anyone’s at home.’

The cold hit him the moment he stepped from the taxi and the detective pulled his scarf closer to his chin as he stepped carefully over the frozen snow.

He pressed a call button and waited. For a long moment there was nothing, not even a crackle of static to show that the device was in working order. He half turned to the driver who shrugged his shoulders. It was all to the good if this fare was returning to the city, his gesture seemed to say.

Then a woman’s voice spoke in Swedish, her tone quizzical.

‘Hello, this is Detective Superintendent Lorimer from Strathclyde Police in Scotland. I’m here to see Henrik Magnusson. May I come in, please?’

There was a hesitation then the voice spoke again, this time in English. ‘Mr Magnusson is not back yet, but you may come in and wait for him.’ There was a loud click and the gates swung open a fraction.

Lorimer stepped back to the driver who was now leaning out of the opened window.

‘How much?’

The driver told him and he thrust the fare and a decent tip into his outstretched hand.

‘Maybe see you later,’ Lorimer advised him.

‘Maybe not.’ The driver grinned ominously then the window rolled up and the car lumbered backwards as he attempted to turn and head back the way they had come. Would any taxi driver come back for him tonight or was he fated to be stranded out here in the depths of the countryside?

Taking a deep breath of the frozen air, Lorimer pushed the gates open. They swung back, closing automatically with a dull clang that made him shiver. Behind him the skies had darkened now, the lights from several eye-level lanterns on either side of the driveway making everything beyond indistinguishable shapes disappearing into shadowy blackness.

Then the door opened and he saw the figure of a woman framed against the light.

‘Hello, I’m Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ he said, holding out his warrant card for the woman to see. ‘I was hoping to see Henrik Magnusson. He isn’t expecting me, I’m afraid.’ Now that he was in the vestibule he could see that she was a tall woman, fair and slender, her hair caught up in an old-fashioned pleat across her head. Her scarlet sweater gave a certain glow to the woman’s creamy skin, making him look at her face, noting the high cheekbones and steady grey eyes. A swift appraisal let the detective see that she had donned a pair of stout leather boots below her calf-length black skirt: had the woman been getting ready to leave the house? And if so, was Magnusson going to return soon?

‘Marthe Lindgren,’ she told him, giving the warrant card only the most cursory of glances. ‘I’m Mr Magnusson’s housekeeper. Please come in, Superintendent. I can let him know of your arrival.’

Lorimer stamped the snow from his shoes before crossing the threshold then stepped into a hallway full of warmth and light.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ Marthe asked, beckoning Lorimer to follow her along a corridor that ended in a white-painted door. ‘The kitchen is warm,’ she explained with a hint of a smile on her thin lips.

‘Thank you, I would like that very much indeed,’ he replied.

‘Have you just arrived from Scotland?’ She threw the question over her shoulder, smiling politely.

Lorimer strode after her, through the white door and along a second corridor that led into a vast square kitchen where a wood-burning stove threw out a welcome blast of heat.

‘Just today,’ he replied.

‘Please, sit here,’ Marthe said, sweeping a dish towel from a comfortable old-fashioned-looking wooden chair next to the stove. ‘And do allow me to take your coat,’ she said, holding out her hands as he fumbled the buttons open.

‘Thank you.’

Marthe merely nodded as she turned away, placing the coat on another chair near the stove. ‘It will be warm for you when you leave,’ she said simply. ‘You are here about Eva, yes?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘It isn’t a surprise that you have to see him, but why come all the way to Stockholm?’ Marthe asked. Her back was to Lorimer as she busied herself with preparing a pot of coffee but he could see from the tilt of her head that the housekeeper was curious.

‘Please, do sit down and join me in a coffee, if you will,’ Lorimer asked gently. ‘Then I can explain.’

When Marthe Lindgren turned to look at him just then, he could see the tears in her eyes, tears that held a genuine sorrow for the dead girl.

‘Thank you.’ She moved her head again, concentrating on pouring coffee into two plain white porcelain beakers.

‘Now,’ Lorimer began as he took the coffee from her. ‘It was necessary to come here to see two people who are resident in Sweden. And I’ll explain why in a moment. But first I would like very much to talk to you about Eva. Would you mind that?’

The woman sighed, cupping the mug between her long thin hands. ‘Poor little Eva,’ she said, looking down at her lap. ‘If only she hadn’t had to leave…’

‘But surely it was her choice to study in Glasgow?’

Marthe’s cheeks flushed into twin spots of colour. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Perhaps I ought not to have said that!’

‘I’m here to help find out what I can about several things that may lie behind Eva’s murder,’ he told her gently.

‘But I don’t understand! Surely the man has been caught?’

‘There is a person in custody, yes,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘But there are some doubts about whether he is in fact the perpetrator.’

‘My God!’ Marthe’s hand flew to her face, some coffee spilling onto her skirt.

Lorimer took the cup from her and placed it on the counter beside him. ‘Marthe, does the name Anders Andersson mean anything to you?’

‘Anders?’ Her eyes widened in horror. ‘You don’t think
he
killed Eva? No, no, that can’t be!’

‘Can you tell me something about him?’

She sighed deeply, her face solemn. ‘Poor, poor Anders, it wasn’t fair, really, he was such a nice little boy…’

‘Yes?’

‘Superintendent, it was because of Anders that Eva had to leave home,’ Marthe explained. ‘When Henrik found them together…’ She broke off. ‘You don’t know anything about that, do you?’ she asked, looking at him gravely. ‘Well, let me tell you what happened. Anders came about the house for years with his father, old Anders, the Magnussons’ gardener. He and Eva played together as children. I suppose old Anders and I both felt a little sorry for the child. You see, Eva was home schooled and, well, children need other children to play with…’ She broke off again, stifling a sudden sob. ‘Forgive me, it is just that when I remember Eva as a little girl…’ She took out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and wiped her nose. ‘Where was I? Yes, Anders.’ She nodded sadly, sniffing back more tears. ‘He was a beautiful little boy and he became a very good-looking young man. Oh, Superintendent, if you could have seen them together! But of course Henrik would never have allowed a relationship, even when Anders went to university and had such big plans for his future.’ She sighed again. ‘You have children, Superintendent?’

Lorimer shook his head.

‘Well, it is a fact that the harder you try to stop a young person doing something the more determined they will be to carry out their own desires.’

‘Anders and Eva?’

She nodded. ‘Henrik found them in her bedroom one afternoon.’ Her voice dropped. ‘It was terrible. Old Anders was dismissed, the young man thrown out and Eva and her father had the most terrible quarrel.’

‘So she was forced to leave Sweden? To get away from the boy?’

Marthe nodded. ‘You could see that it broke his heart but I thought maybe it was also a good thing for Eva.’ There was a pause as Marthe picked up her cup and took a drink of the coffee. ‘She needed to get away, you know. Feel a little of the freedom for a while.’

‘Did you know that Anders Andersson had followed Eva to Glasgow?’

Marthe shook her head. ‘No! Oh dear, I wish… I shouldn’t have said…’

‘It’s all right,’ Lorimer reassured her. ‘Someone would have told me this story if you hadn’t, I’m sure.’

‘And is he still there?’

‘I don’t think so. His father told me he had gone away, but he wasn’t very explicit. You don’t happen to have a home address for them, do you?’ It was something he had hesitated to ask the Swedish police earlier, deciding in the end to make his own enquiries.

‘Yes, I can give you that,’ she replied, standing up and walking over to the other end of the kitchen.

Lorimer watched the housekeeper as she searched in a handbag that had been slung over a hook fixed to the inside of a cupboard door. He had seen Marthe Lindgren’s ashen face as she spoke about Eva and now he noticed the way her fingers trembled as she wrote down the address on a piece of paper taken from her bag. Grief, real grief, was etched on the woman’s handsome features and Lorimer wondered if Marthe Lindgren had played the part of a mother for the Swedish girl over the years.