Alex Gray - The Swedish Girl

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.