Alex Gray - The Swedish Girl

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.