Lorimer shook his head.
‘Well, it is a fact that the harder you try to stop a young person doing something the more determined they will be to carry out their own desires.’
‘Anders and Eva?’
She nodded. ‘Henrik found them in her bedroom one afternoon.’ Her voice dropped. ‘It was terrible. Old Anders was dismissed, the young man thrown out and Eva and her father had the most terrible quarrel.’
‘So she was forced to leave Sweden? To get away from the boy?’
Marthe nodded. ‘You could see that it broke his heart but I thought maybe it was also a good thing for Eva.’ There was a pause as Marthe picked up her cup and took a drink of the coffee. ‘She needed to get away, you know. Feel a little of the freedom for a while.’
‘Did you know that Anders Andersson had followed Eva to Glasgow?’
Marthe shook her head. ‘No! Oh dear, I wish… I shouldn’t have said…’
‘It’s all right,’ Lorimer reassured her. ‘Someone would have told me this story if you hadn’t, I’m sure.’
‘And is he still there?’
‘I don’t think so. His father told me he had gone away, but he wasn’t very explicit. You don’t happen to have a home address for them, do you?’ It was something he had hesitated to ask the Swedish police earlier, deciding in the end to make his own enquiries.
‘Yes, I can give you that,’ she replied, standing up and walking over to the other end of the kitchen.
Lorimer watched the housekeeper as she searched in a handbag that had been slung over a hook fixed to the inside of a cupboard door. He had seen Marthe Lindgren’s ashen face as she spoke about Eva and now he noticed the way her fingers trembled as she wrote down the address on a piece of paper taken from her bag. Grief, real grief, was etched on the woman’s handsome features and Lorimer wondered if Marthe Lindgren had played the part of a mother for the Swedish girl over the years.
‘Thank you,’ he said as she handed him the paper. ‘Is it far from here?’
‘Anders used to drive a little truck from his place. It’s not that far, maybe about eight kilometres from here?’
‘And you, Marthe? Where is it that you live?’
The housekeeper sat down again to face him, blushing a little. ‘I have a room here that suits me whenever I choose to stay over, Superintendent. Like tonight when the weather is so bad and I have still to cook for Henrik.’ She shrugged. ‘But my own little apartment is in the city, in Norrmalm.’
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.