Alex Gray - The Swedish Girl

None of Jo Grant’s team had asked the question of where Eva’s father had been on the night of her murder, assuming Magnusson to have been in Stockholm . Never make assumptions , he remembered Lorimer telling his team on more than one occasion when he had sat amongst the officers. But they had, and who could have blamed them for that? The fact remained that the Swede had been in Glasgow on the night of his daughter’s murder. And now Solly Brightman had been asked by Strathclyde’s finest to regard the man as a potential suspect.

Stockholm.

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.