The Swedish Girl (25 page)

‘Thank you,’ he said as she handed him the paper. ‘Is it far from here?’

‘Anders used to drive a little truck from his place. It’s not that far, maybe about eight kilometres from here?’

‘And you, Marthe? Where is it that you live?’

The housekeeper sat down again to face him, blushing a little. ‘I have a room here that suits me whenever I choose to stay over, Superintendent. Like tonight when the weather is so bad and I have still to cook for Henrik.’ She shrugged. ‘But my own little apartment is in the city, in Norrmalm.’

Lorimer tried not to stare at her flushed cheeks. Was Marthe Lindgren more than a mere housekeeper to Henrik Magnusson, then?

‘I am sure Henrik will ask you to stay too, Superintendent. The roads out here become very icy once the darkness has fallen.’

As if to give credence to her words the sound of a car crunching over the snowy drive could be heard.

‘That’s Henrik now! Oh, and I meant to call him to tell him of your arrival!’ Marthe exclaimed, springing up and striding towards the kitchen door. ‘Come, Superintendent Lorimer. The lounge is warm. I’m sure he will want to meet you there.’

Before he could reply, Lorimer found himself being bustled out of the kitchen, along a different corridor with large double doors that the housekeeper swept open to reveal a huge lounge with pale furnishings.

‘Do sit,’ she urged, flapping a hand at the enormous white leather sofas. ‘I will tell Henrik that you are here.’

Lorimer glanced at her as she closed the doors behind her. There was something nervous in the woman’s manner now as if she was slightly afraid of her master. But perhaps she was only fearful of his reaction upon hearing that a policeman from Scotland had arrived unannounced? He stood by the fireplace, feeling the warmth and wondering just what sort of reception he would receive from Henrik Magnusson. There were voices coming from the hall but he could not make out either words or tone of voice before the doors burst open again.

‘Lorimer!’

The tall Swede was suddenly striding towards him, one hand outstretched. There was a smile on the big man’s face that did not quite reach his keen blue eyes.

‘Forgive my unexpected visit, Mr Magnusson,’ Lorimer said politely, feeling the man’s strong grasp as he shook his hand. ‘One or two matters necessitated my presence here in Stockholm,’ he added vaguely.

‘It is a surprise, yes.’ Magnusson frowned. ‘But you will stay for dinner? Or have you plans to return to the city tonight?’

‘No plans, and, thanks, I’d be happy to join you for a meal.’

Magnusson smiled. ‘Marthe is a superb cook,’ he said. ‘And I am sure you will enjoy her Swedish recipes. Please, sit down and let me get you a drink. What will you have?’

‘Whisky, thanks.’

Magnusson nodded, and Lorimer sensed a certain confidence in his manner as he walked across the room to a console table that held several decanters; the sort of confidence that Lorimer had seen in other men of wealth and power.

‘Ice?’

‘No, just a wee splash of water, thanks,’ Lorimer replied. As his host poured the drinks he had time to look around at the room and remember some of the things that Solly had told him
. It had the look of a room where one entertained visitors
, the psychologist had said.
Not the sort of place where one would choose to relax
. And it was true. After all, hadn’t Marthe Lindgren led him straight into the kitchen, a place that was so often the true heart of a home?

‘Your good health,’ Magnusson murmured, raising his glass and looking keenly at the Scottish detective.

‘
Slainte
,’ Lorimer replied then lowered his glass. ‘You must be wondering why I’m here?’

Magnusson nodded. ‘Curious,’ he agreed.

‘Well I’m sorry I gave you no forewarning of my arrival but I wanted to see both yourself and a young man by the name of Anders Andersson.’

Magnusson’s face tightened. ‘I see,’ he replied stiffly.

‘You shouldn’t have lied to me,’ Lorimer told him quietly.

Magnusson looked shamefaced.

‘I know about his romance with Eva,’ Lorimer went on, sitting back in the corner of the squashy sofa and crossing one leg over the other. ‘I guess it wasn’t completely over, though.’

‘What do you mean?’ Magnusson sat forward, his fist clutching the crystal whisky glass.

‘You didn’t know he had followed her to Glasgow?’

The Swede gave a sigh and shook his head. ‘No, not at first. I thought they’d finished with all that nonsense.’

‘And when did you find out?’

Magnusson looked away from him, biting his lip as though unsure what to reply.

‘I do know that you were in Glasgow the night your daughter died, Henrik,’ Lorimer said softly, then sipped the whisky, watching the man’s reaction.

Magnusson’s mouth opened but no words came out.

‘What happened? Something pretty bad, I imagine, to make you keep that sort of information from the Scottish police.’

The big man shook his blond head. ‘It wasn’t what you’re thinking,’ he said at last, then gave a huge sigh. Lorimer watched him taking a slug of his drink, the air of smooth confidence gone now, the broad shoulders tensed in anxiety.

‘Oh, God!’ Magnusson sighed, setting down his glass on the carpet and putting both hands to his head. ‘Oh, dear God!’

Lorimer waited, quietly sipping the whisky. It was the moment when a man either lied his way out of a difficult situation or decided to tell the truth. He watched Eva’s father closely to see just which way he would go.

‘So you know about my little aircraft?’ Magnusson took his hands from his face, glancing at the tall man opposite.

Lorimer nodded.

‘It was horrible,’ Magnusson whispered, looking away to his feet. ‘I had called her but she was at some party or other, said she’d be back at the flat by midnight. So I waited for her there.’

Lorimer gave the merest trace of a nod but did not interrupt.

‘We quarrelled,’ Magnusson sighed. ‘About Anders. I’d found out that he was also in Glasgow.’ He looked at Lorimer again, eyes pleading as if to compel the detective to understand what he had felt that night.

‘I was furious with her. Said some things that I… now regret,’ he said, his voice failing for a moment in a sob.

Lorimer watched him take a large handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his eyes.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just, well, we parted on such bad terms.’ He looked at Lorimer with an expression of anguish in his eyes. ‘And I never saw her alive again.’

‘Was Eva alone in the flat when you left?’

Magnusson nodded. ‘There was no one else there. I remember the last I ever heard her voice. She was shouting at me from the landing outside the front door,’ he whispered, biting his lip, trying hard not to break down in tears.

Lorimer watched the man as he picked up his glass from the floor and emptied the whisky in one gulp.

Was that the truth? He wanted to believe that it was, but, looking at Magnusson’s hands clasped around the crystal glass, the detective superintendent wondered if they had in fact encircled his own daughter’s throat in a moment of fury.

A
self-obsessed man who needed to control his daughter at all costs
. Solly looked at the words he had written. And, if that was true, had Henrik Magnusson attacked the very thing he loved most in a vicious need to bring her back into his command? It was possible. He was a powerful man in the world of business; did that power extend to ruling every aspect of his world? There could be a reason for that, Solly thought. His wife’s untimely death was something that had been outside his ability to control. So had that left him determined to fashion Eva’s life the way he had wanted? Perhaps he would speak to Rosie about her own impressions of the man. After all, his pathologist wife had been the first person to see the grieving father after Eva’s murder.

He frowned, reading the words a second time. If he had needed to control her to such an extent, why allow her to come to Glasgow in the first place? Sure, he wanted to split her up from the gardener’s son, but had Eva herself insisted on a break from her homeland? The psychologist stroked his beard as he pondered the difficult question of just who Eva Magnusson had been. That was the problem with appearance and reality, he told himself. Outwardly she had appeared to be a demure girl – yes, those were the words that Colin Young had used in his letter. And she had apparently charmed everyone she met. But Solly Brightman was beginning to create a different impression of the Swedish girl: someone who had been a passionate and sexual young woman, adept at hiding her true nature from everyone, especially from her father.

Or, he thought, leaning back in his office chair, was that absolutely the case? Magnusson had known about Anders. And Solly was pretty sure that the Swede had deliberately picked three young men as more than mere flatmates for his daughter. Were Colin, Gary and Roger simply potential boyfriends or had they been chosen to satisfy Eva’s sexual lusts? In selecting these three young men Magnusson had sought to maintain some sort of control over his daughter for one reason or another. It was a plausible theory, Solly decided. But was it one that could ever be proved? Perhaps when Lorimer met young Anders Andersson today he might find an answer to that question.

Stockholm on this January morning was wreathed in a low-lying mist but already Lorimer could see the glint of sunlight attempting to force its way through from the heavens.

After an uncomfortable dinner where Marthe Lindgren had taken pains to engage him in polite conversation, Lorimer had been only too glad to call a taxi to take him back to his hotel. There had not been an offer of a bed for the night and he was sure that Henrik Magnusson was relieved to see his uninvited guest depart shortly after the meal. It was good to walk on the well-gritted pavements, to breathe in the chilly air. The big house in Östermalm had felt suffocating despite the grand proportions of the rooms. They had eaten in a formal dining room with French windows. Lorimer guessed that they overlooked the gardens but any such view was shut off by thick curtains drawn firmly against the night.

Marthe had suggested that the detective superintendent would find Anders senior at home: after all, there was little call for a gardener at this time of year and she’d heard that the old man’s arthritis had worsened lately. Lorimer had glanced at Magnusson as Marthe offered this nugget of information but the Swede’s face had remained closed and impassive, as if his housekeeper’s contact with the Andersson family was of no interest whatsoever.

Lorimer crossed the street and stood looking out at the water. Already the mist was beginning to lift and the dappled surface had changed from steely grey to a silvery blue. For a moment he thought about his own city with the River Clyde running through its heart, severing north from south, then he recalled all of the murky things he had seen, things that had lingered in its depths. As the morning sun pierced the last shreds of vapour coating the surface of the water in a hazy brightness, Lorimer swept his gaze over the picture-postcard prettiness of the scene. It should have filled him with a sense of wonder, surely? Yet that image of Glasgow and the knowledge of so many cases in his past made the detective feel only a pang of despair. Was he always destined to look for the brutal things below the surface? And in that search had he lost the joy that came from seeing a morning sunrise?

The apartment where Andersson lived was a featureless block surrounded by glass and concrete, a savage contrast to the old medieval buildings in Gamla Stan. Standing at the security entrance, Lorimer tapped in the flat number that Marthe Lindgren had given him the previous evening. There was a crackle then a voice spoke in Swedish.

‘Mr Andersson? This is Detective Superintendent Lorimer from Strathclyde Police in Scotland. May I come up, please?’

There was a momentary pause before the same voice broke through. ‘Fifth floor.’

A single buzzing note accompanied the click as the door was unlocked and Lorimer stepped into the foyer.

As the lift opened Lorimer could see a short man wearing a fisherman’s jersey over worn jeans waiting for him at his door.

‘Mr Andersson?’

The man stared at him and nodded. ‘Better come in,’ he said gruffly.

The flat was warm enough, Lorimer thought as he was led along a short corridor and into a room that appeared to serve as a kitchen cum sitting room. His eyes flicked around the place, noting a table with breakfast dishes still in place: two empty mugs and a couple of cereal bowls pushed to one side.

‘My son is not here. I told you that on the telephone,’ Anders began. ‘So why you come all the way here?’

‘I need to see him,’ Lorimer said simply. ‘And I want you to tell me where he is.’

‘Why don’t you listen to me? I say he is not here!’

Lorimer turned to look pointedly at the breakfast table. ‘But he
was
here, wasn’t he, Mr Andersson?’

The old man followed his gaze then his mouth took on a mulish expression.

‘Okay, so he stays the night sometimes,’ he admitted grudgingly.

‘And where is he now?’

The old man’s shoulders heaved up and down in a sigh. ‘At the market. He works there most mornings.’

‘Market?’

‘The big one. Östermalms Saluhall.’ Andersson frowned. ‘Surely you’ve heard of it?’

‘This is my first visit to Stockholm,’ Lorimer said. ‘I’m still finding my way around.’

‘One of the best markets in the world,’ the old man said, his head tilting with pride. ‘You’ll find my Anders there.’ He paused for a moment, looking more keenly at Lorimer. ‘He’s done nothing wrong, you know.’

‘Thanks, Mr Andersson.’ Lorimer nodded and turned to leave.

He was at the lift when Andersson called after him.

‘Look for number fourteen, okay?’

‘What?’ Lorimer spun around but the door to the apartment was closed and he was left with the impression that the old man had been laughing at him.

Östermalms Saluhall dominated the corner of the street, an imposing red-stone building topped with a double cupola with the word SALUHALL picked out in gold.

Lorimer made to push open the slate blue doors but as he approached they opened with a squeak, revealing a second set of doors that admitted him into a cavernous hall full of noise and smells. He blinked for a moment, wondering which way to go. Hearing the Swedish voices all around him gave him the sense of being isolated, a foreigner, yet everywhere he looked there were men and women who could have been taken for Scots. So similar were they in dress and appearance that the detective superintendent was reminded of something he had learned over the years: that all humanity was the same when you came down to it.

For a moment he was transported back in time to his early childhood when his mother would take him into Glasgow to a well-known delicatessen grocer; the smell of cooked hams hanging from the ceiling and the whiff of freshly ground coffee brought it back so clearly he could almost feel his small boy’s hand in hers. A smile played about his lips as he remembered, then he gave a sigh, returning to the here and now of one of the world’s largest indoor food halls. Where on earth would he begin to find the boy in a place like this?

Standing still and taking a good look around to get some bearings paid off immediately as he saw numbers and names above each market stall. Number fourteen, Andersson had told him. Okay, then he would walk around this place until he found it.

Lorimer walked slowly past walls of chilled cabinets. Some were full of cheeses, whole ones piled high, others cut and oozing softly from their wrappings; a butcher’s stall contained tiny pictures of reindeer below cuts of meat. He walked on, catching sight of rows of luscious cakes including chocolate circles decorated with fresh fruit and his favourite, Danish pastries, swirled into mouth-watering shapes.
Maggie, you would love this
, he told his wife silently, vowing that if he ever had the chance he would bring her back here for a visit.

Number fourteen proved to be a vegetable stall with rows of fresh produce heaped enticingly up to the counter level, strings of garlic suspended above it. There was only one person behind the counter, a blond lad in a short-sleeved white polo shirt crouching over boxes of leeks that had been piled to one side.

‘Hello,’ Lorimer called out. ‘Are you Anders?’

The lad stood up, rubbing his hands down his jeans. Lorimer caught the tumble of blond curls and the frank open expression as the boy turned to look at him.

‘Yes, I’m Anders, who are you?’

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer. Strathclyde Police. Can we talk?’

Anders Andersson looked him in the eye and nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But I need to get someone to cover for me. I can’t leave the place unattended.’

He took a swift look around then beckoned to a girl at the cheese counter opposite. Although he had called out to her in Swedish, Lorimer could understand the gist of the request from their body language.
Come over and let me get away for a bit, can you?

‘This is a friend from Scotland,’ Anders lied, smiling jauntily at the girl who was already behind the counter. ‘We won’t be long, Brigitte.’ And, giving her a wave, he led Lorimer away from the stall and into the mêlée of the marketplace.

‘A coffee?’ Anders asked, nodding towards one of the many seated areas that were dotted amongst the wooden-fronted shops.

‘My treat,’ Lorimer grinned. ‘Seeing as I’m an “old friend”,’ he added wryly.

Anders shrugged. ‘What did you expect me to tell her? That the cops are after me?’ The boy laughed, showing white even teeth.

They sat down at a table for two and immediately a waitress was at their side and Anders was speaking to her in his native tongue. He looked at Lorimer questioningly.

‘Want anything to eat with your coffee?’

He was about to make a polite refusal when he noticed the tempting array of cakes behind the clear plastic display counter.

‘A Danish pastry, please,’ he murmured to Anders. The waitress smiled and nodded, then disappeared to deliver their order.

‘Well, Detective Superintendent Lorimer, here I am, you found me.’ Anders gave a resigned smile.

Lorimer raised his eyebrows. ‘I was beginning to think you didn’t want to be found,’ he replied mildly.

The young man’s smile faded as he cast his eyes down. ‘Know what it’s like,’ he said. ‘You lose someone special and it’s hard to want to talk about it.’

‘Yes, but the manner of losing Eva
was
and still
is
a police matter, Anders. It would have been helpful if you hadn’t tried to avoid talking to me.’

‘But I thought you’d got someone for her murder? That boy in her flat?’

‘There are ongoing enquiries,’ Lorimer said vaguely. ‘Things we still need to determine. Especially about Eva. And that’s why I’m here: to talk to you about your relationship with her.’

Anders made a face. ‘Didn’t have a relationship,’ he mumbled.

‘Don’t give me that, son, I know all about how Magnusson threw you out of the house and gave your dad the sack.’

Anders blushed, lowering his head. ‘That was ages ago,’ he mumbled. ‘Eva and I stopped being an item shortly after that.’

‘Really? So why follow her to Glasgow if you weren’t seeing her?’

Anders shrugged. ‘Suppose I was hoping for another chance,’ he said. ‘But Eva wanted different things.’

‘Wasn’t it awkward being around her at the university?’

The boy looked him in the eye again. ‘We were just friends by then. Hung around together a bit. But no romance.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Eva was having far too much fun with her new friends,’ he continued. ‘That lecturer for one, and then the lads in her flat. She told me all about them. Used to call me up late at night,’ he added, continuing to hold Lorimer’s gaze in a way that told the detective he was being told the truth.

‘And you weren’t jealous?’

Anders laughed again. ‘This is Eva Magnusson we’re talking about, right? The girl who could have anything she wanted?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look, she was spoiled rotten all her life. Daddy gave her everything she could ask for.’

‘But he didn’t let her have
you
, did he, Anders?’

The boy shook his head and sighed. ‘You can’t blame Eva. She was enjoying her first taste of freedom from that man. What beautiful girl wouldn’t have wanted to play around a bit? And that’s all it was, really. Eva wasn’t in love with me, Superintendent. In fact, I doubt if she had ever felt what it was like to really love another soul,’ he said, his voice dropping to a murmur.

‘You make her sound cold-hearted.’

‘No! She was never that! She was a lovely girl and one day she would have found someone she could feel strongly about, I’m sure of that,’ Anders said vehemently, sudden tears springing to his large eyes.

‘And if you’d waited long enough that might have been you?’

Anders shook his head sadly. ‘I’ll never know now, will I?’

‘Tell me,’ Lorimer asked, ‘why did she keep you a secret from the rest of her flatmates?’

‘Oh, that’s easy enough,’ Anders told him. ‘There was no way she wanted Daddy finding out I was in Scotland. Besides’ – he gave a nonchalant shrug – ‘she wanted to screw these boys one after the other and having me around would’ve messed that up for her.’ He looked up at a clock behind the counter. ‘Look, I really have to get back, Brigitte isn’t going to be able to stay much longer.’ He stood up. ‘You’ve got my number, haven’t you?’