‘How do you mean?’ the girl asked, head tilted to one side.
‘Well,’ Henrik began, ‘she’s at Caledonian University and is taking a degree course in hospitality management. She was very taken with the kitchen.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I imagine you will not starve with Miss Wilson at Merryfield Avenue.’
Eva frowned, then her brow cleared. Frowning gave one lines was the mantra that her home tutor had dinned into her. ‘Just because she is doing a hospitality course doesn’t mean she will be a good cook,’ she reasoned.
‘She said she loved cooking,’ Henrik replied firmly, taking up one of the tiny pastries from his plate and nibbling on it. ‘The mother’s a professional cook,’ he added, as if to underline his point.
‘And the father?’
‘A policeman.’
Eva nodded, her eyes lowered towards her plate as though she were more interested in the amuse-bouches. ‘She sounds suitable.’
There were no further questions from his daughter and Henrik appreciated that. Eva respected his judgement, after all, and the students that he chose to live in his daughter’s flat would be ones who would bring something positive into her life. Kirsty Wilson was a nice enough girl, a little on the podgy side, but with a cheerful, open manner that had endeared her to the Swede. Eva would like her, he was certain of that. And the young man, Colin, he would add something to the flat too, a steadiness of purpose. He had not missed the gleam in the lad’s eyes as he looked at the pale wooden desk and the antique lamp. He had arranged for the interview to take place between work shifts, too, so he was a grafter, not the kind to laze about taking handouts from the State. Tomorrow Henrik was to interview several other candidates for the vacant rooms at Merryfield Avenue, but tonight he and Eva would spend time together, enjoying the pleasures of fine dining before taking a stroll around the city. Glasgow had many good things to offer, Henrik knew, from his business trips here, and he looked forward to showing them to the girl who sat opposite, a ready smile on her lips as soon as she caught her father’s eyes looking at her.
What Henrik Magnusson did not see, would never see, was the girl’s fingers clasped tightly together, the nails of one hand pressed hard into the palm of the other as though to stop her from screaming.
CHAPTER 4
‘You’d have to see it to believe it,’ Rodge insisted. ‘The place is stuffed full of paintings, and there are these wee spindly chairs, their seat covers all embroidered. You know the kind I mean, dead fragile, not really for sitting on.’
‘In a student flat?’ one of the boys around the table asked, putting down his beer mug and wiping the froth from his lips.
‘Won’t suit you then, Rodge!’ another exclaimed, heralding a peal of laughter from around the table.
‘Aye, not what you’d expect, eh?’ Rodge beamed as though he had won the lottery instead of simply being given the keys to a duplex flat in Anniesland.
‘So no parties at yours this year then?’ the first boy grunted.
Rodge’s grin faded as he took in the blunt statement. Last year had seen loads of the lads from the rugby club descend on one another’s places for nights of steady drinking and revelry that were always followed up by days of clearing rubbish and trying to mend whatever had been broken in the weekend jollities; or explaining things to the landlord.
‘No, I suppose not,’ he murmured, the shine of the moment suddenly taken from him. ‘You should see it though,’ he continued, remembering the upstairs room at the end of the corridor with its skylight window and the view over the rooftops. But the conversation had turned to new signings in the Scottish Premier League and Roger Dunbar sat back, wondering for a moment if the flat at Merryfield Avenue had been such a good idea after all.
He shifted in his chair, feeling his knees pressing against the pub table, a spasm of annoyance creasing his usually good-humoured face. The boys were right, of course. A big lad like him had no place in a flat that contained so many antiques and delicate valuables. He’d probably knock into them just going down that spiral staircase; accident prone his stepmother always said with that wee laugh that made Roger wonder if she was getting at him or not. Why had that Swedish man been so keen to have him as a tenant, then? He was a big lad an’ all, easily Roger’s own height of six five. But there the resemblance ended. Mr Magnusson had the sort of aura that only very wealthy folk had; his suede jacket looked as if it was old but it oozed class, and the plain white cuffs of his shirt had been fastened with what looked like solid gold cufflinks, some fancy monogram engraved on them. Roger’s jeans and rugby shirt were clean enough, but the older man had made him feel a bit scruffy. Still, he had been interesting to talk to and the engineering student had listened as well as given answers to the list of queries the man had ready for him, questions that he guessed were tailored to finding the right folk for the flat.
Roger might look like a great big teddy bear with his shock of red hair and friendly countenance but he wasn’t stupid and could usually see past appearances to the person within. Magnusson had struck him as a bit of a loner. It was obvious that he was dead wealthy, and had he said something to suggest he was a successful businessman? His new tenant thought so but there was something else about him that Roger Dunbar had noticed. How could he describe it? The aloofness that bordered on downright rudeness — all these bloody questions! — had slipped the moment he had mentioned his daughter. The man had simply glowed as if someone had lit a candle inside him. Roger had nodded, a bit embarrassed, but he had stored away the memory, seeing the man’s vulnerable spot and realising he had been chosen not for his academic record or his sporting prowess but for something to do with the Swedish girl whose flat he would be sharing. Had the father seen a big lad who might be handy around the house? Or was it something else?
Roger supped his pint, nodding as the lads roared back and forth in protest at the shenanigans of certain football managers. He had the sense that he was moving on. Yes, there would still be the nights with the lads, yes he’d still be keen to keep his place in the first fifteen but the session ahead seemed to beckon with the promise of a different sort, a time that involved the finer things of life, perhaps.
Had he known it then, sitting on that sunlit evening in a pub in Byres Road, known that his life was soon to change for ever, Roger Dunbar might have taken the signed lease of 24 Merryfield Avenue from his back pocket and torn it into tiny little pieces.
CHAPTER 5
September
The hills swept before him, swathes of green on either side of the road, a distant line of conifers marching across the skyline. He was only an hour away from the city but this landscape, devoid of any habitation, could have been hundreds of miles from anywhere. The journey had taken Gary more than five hours and, although he had stopped only once to refill the petrol tank and gobble down a quick hamburger, it felt as though he had been travelling all day. Already, home seemed not just far away but far behind him in the choices he had made. He was on his own now, independent at last; he could go anywhere and do anything he wanted. The thought gave him a sudden giddy feeling, as though he were standing on the edge of a precipice, waiting to fly off into the unknown.
Gary grinned, taking the bend through the hills a little more carefully. Daft notion! He was simply transferring from one university to another, taking the chance to be away from home for the next few years. Or for good? a little voice asked him, making Gary Calderwood’s grin fade a little. He was the cherished only son of a mother who was on her own now, and in spite of the way she kept telling everyone that Gary must make his way in the world he knew she would miss him badly. Dad’s death last year had given them all a jolt. Gary’s smile faded as he remembered. He had dropped out of university for a year, staying at home to help Moira over the worst of the shock, doing all the things that needed to be done.