by Alex Gray
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?’
‘Yes,’ Lorimer told him, looking up at his earnest young face. ‘And you will answer if I call you, won’t you?’
Anders had the grace to blush and nod before standing up and turning to walk away.
Lorimer looked down at the table. His black coffee was cold and the pastry lay untouched on his plate. He sighed, wondering if his journey had yielded anything of importance that would help to free Colin Young or if what he had learned about Eva might simply reinforce his DI’s suspicions.
CHAPTER 39
‘
T
he table next to the vending machine,’ Sam had told him. ‘That’s where they’ll be sitting. Just go up and say “Billy says next Tuesday”.’
Colin stood with the other prisoners waiting in the cold corridor between the main prison and the annexe that held the visiting room. It was deliberately designed to disorientate the men, he had decided; a maze of narrow corridors twisting this way and that between lots of locked doors. And the visiting room itself was windowless, not allowing anyone to get their bearings at all. Despite the chill in the air he could feel sweat trickling through his hair and down the side of his face. He glanced behind him but the prison officer wasn’t looking his way so he gave the offending wetness a swipe with his sleeve.
Then the doors were opened and the men trooped into the large colourful room. Colin ignored the smile from his father who was half out of his own chair as soon as he spotted his son and headed instead as if to make a purchase from the machine that held all sorts of crisps and chocolate bars.
‘Billy says next Tuesday.’ He bent forward suddenly, whispering the words to the man and woman sitting by the machine, then, patting his pockets as though to find them empty, he turned back and strode across to his father, heart pounding, afraid to glance up at any of the officers who might have been watching his little performance.
‘Colin, how are you, son? Here, I got you some sandwiches for later.’ Alec Young pushed the packet across the table. He must have been here early, Colin thought, rushed to the front of the vending queue and back to wait for his son.
‘Well done, Dad, you’re learning.’ Colin tried to grin at his father, though he was finding it hard not to look across at the other table.
‘Well, maybe we won’t have to go through all this for much longer, son,’ Alec Young said. ‘Here, I’ve been thinking. Soon as you’re out of this place why don’t you and me and Thomas go for a wee holiday? Somewhere you can get a bit of sun about you.’
Colin saw the look of anxiety cloud his father’s face.
‘You’re that peely-wally from being in here,’ Alec added. ‘Maybe we could get a wee break to Mallorca. Or Tenerife?’
‘Aye, Dad.’ Colin smiled at him, determined not to spoil the older man’s hopes. ‘Surely won’t be too long till I’m out of here, eh?’
I had always imagined us on a sunny beach, somewhere like you see in these fancy travel brochures; lying under a thatched beach umbrella, miles of endless sand and blue ocean and skies as far as you can see. Just me and Eva…
Colin’s pen hovered above the notebook. Pipe dreams, he should add. Just a lad’s fantasy of being with a beautiful girl. Eva had been everywhere, of course. She’d told him about the holidays in the Seychelles, the luxury yacht. Maybe that was why he’d had such a vision of them together, cast away on their very own desert island.
And what would Eva have made of his plight now? He imagined her face – with the smooth skin that glowed in a certain light – distorted into anguish as she looked down from wherever she was. The image vanished in an instant. At this moment Colin didn’t believe in any sort of afterlife. It was
here today and into a nothingness tomorrow. That was what he believed now despite the years of goodly priests feeding him their dogma along with the wine and the wafers.
If there was a God, why had he allowed this to happen? Colin thought, a sudden fury coursing through his veins. And now he was in thrall to one of the invisible men over in E Block, Billy Brogan, wheeler and dealer extraordinaire. If the passing on of that message should get back to the prison officers… Colin shuddered. Perhaps there was no easy way out of here at all, just an endless series of events that could conspire to keep him here for years.
He looked back at what he had written, then, face twisting into rage, he ripped out the page and crushed it into his fist.
The January day was fading into darkness as the hooded man stepped out from the bushes in the park. Jogging towards him, the blonde woman ran to one side of the path, never changing her stride.
The slap slap of her trainers on the hard tarmac was the only sound as he approached. His fingers curled over the club hidden inside the heavy overcoat, his eyes fixed on the pale golden hair bobbing up and down on her shoulders as she came nearer and nearer.
The woman’s scream as the heavy stick felled her made a blackbird fly upwards. Its warning cry echoed in the frosty air.
Then it was all over, just the single white cloud of breath issuing from his open mouth as he stood over her, panting, stick in hand. He turned his face up to the heavens, and, as he gazed at the first stars wheeling overhead, the world tilted suddenly into a thousand fragments, a dizzying glimpse of something like eternity.
He stopped, frozen, as other footsteps sounded around the bend on the path. Glancing to his right and left, the hooded figure slipped back into the shrubbery and forced his way back into the depths of the woodland beyond.
