The Swedish Girl

by Alex Gray

  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 ther
e?’

  ‘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.

  ‘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 supe
rintendent wondered if they had in fact encircled his own daughter’s throat in a moment of fury.

  CHAPTER 38

  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.