The Swedish Girl (10 page)

‘
N
o, I don’t have any wholemeal bread, you’re just gonnae have to have plain white like the rest of us!’ Corinne Kennedy gritted her teeth as she pulled the loaf out of the plastic bread bin, noting for the umpteenth time the yellowing tape that held its broken lid together. Everything in this bloody house was falling to bits, she told herself, shoving the hair out of her eyes. She yanked a couple of slices off the end of the packet, muttering to herself as she pushed them into a toaster that had once been chrome and white but was now stained with scorch marks like the smudges of nicotine on her father’s old fingers.

‘Just you wait, see if I cannae find you a wee place out in the country,’ she hissed quietly. ‘Then we’ll a’ hae a bit of peace.’

Corinne slammed the cutlery drawer shut, listening all the while for the tap tap of the stick that might herald the old man coming through from the living room to stand and girn in her ear. It had been like this for more than a week now, ever since that poor wee Swedish lassie had copped it. At first Corinne had tried to show her elderly father a modicum of kindness; he’d had a bad fright, right enough. But after the first couple of days his whining and demands and that incessant ‘
What?
’ that made her practically shout at him to be heard had got on her nerves. And why should she be nice to him anyway? she thought, fingers closing over the bread knife. He’d been the one to chuck her out when she’d fallen pregnant, hadn’t he?

The toast popped up with a dull ping and Corinne slapped the pieces down on a plate, buttering furiously. He didn’t like her sort of butter, he’d told her; preferred that expensive Danish stuff. Well Derek McCubbin was in
her
home now and he’d just have tae take what he was given, Corinne told herself, scooping up some watery raspberry jam from the bottom of a jar. Maybe she could bring up the subject of rent? He wanted to stay on here, she knew that fine; but maybe she should hold her tongue a wee bit longer till she had worked out just what her father’s future was to be. Then it would be payback time for all the years she’d suffered. She smiled to herself as she sliced the toast into neat triangles. Once the Anniesland house was sold it would be easy enough to work on him.

With a sigh that came from too many years of scraping along on cheap food and cut-price everything else, Corinne Kennedy put the plate onto a melamine tray along with the pot of tea that had stood stewing till it was black enough for the old man’s liking, and strode through to the living room of her third-floor flat. Her father was sitting where she had left him, in the most comfortable chair opposite the television, a rug spread across his knees.

Corinne blinked for a moment. Where had the time gone since she had left home with his words ringing in her ears?
You’ve made your bed now you can lie on it
,
he’d shouted at her, no sympathy for her advanced state of pregnancy or for the hasty marriage that had ensued in the register office. Margaret McCubbin had said nothing, but Corinne could still recall the tears in her mother’s eyes when her only daughter had left Merryfield Avenue for good, the poor soul wringing her hands on the hem of that old flowered apron.

‘Here ye are, Faither,’ Corinne said, placing the tray onto the old man’s lap. ‘Watch an no’ spill the tea, okay?’ She put out a tentative hand to pat his shoulder but withdrew it suddenly as he turned his face to scowl up at her.

‘Where did you learn to speak like that, woman?’ he growled, his gimlet stare pinning her to the spot. ‘After the decent education we gave you! Too many years in this slum of a place, that’s what’s wrong with you,’ he snarled bitterly before turning his attention to the pieces of toast.

Corinne bit her lip and retreated to the kitchen once more. Her hands were shaking as she held onto the lip of the sink. He could still do this to her, make her feel like some inadequate. Well, if it all worked out, she’d be having the last laugh. A place in the country, she told herself, thinking about the neat little bungalows spread out in Carmunnock, not this wee space inside a tenement shaped like a cereal packet in the sprawl of houses that was Castlemilk.

Anyhow, he’d been a right auld misery since his next-door neighbour, Grace Smith, had passed away, Corinne thought, standing up straighter and pulling a dry tea towel off the radiator. Grace’s daughter had sold the flat in Merryfield Avenue last summer and taken bits and pieces of her late mother’s things back to her home in St Andrews. Corinne had dropped plenty of hints that Derek should sell up, leave his sad memories behind and move in with her to somewhere nice but until now he had stubbornly refused to consider such a thing.
Grace was my friend
, he’d told her,
I can remember her best if I stay where I am.
But that was before. Now that poor wee Swedish lassie had been found dead in the same flat that Grace had died in everything was going to change, she thought, wiping the dishes and stacking them back in the cupboard.

Corinne Kennedy swept a disgusted glance over the grey cupboards – ‘catkin’, the brochure had called them, but they were still just a dull indeterminate shade of grey – to the window beyond where a weak sun was trying to emerge from behind the edge of the buildings that blocked her view of the skyline.

Her expression hardened for a moment. Aye, everything would change now and she was going to make damned sure it was a change for the better.

Kirsty Wilson waited behind her bedroom door, listening. Outside there was a low hum from the traffic making its way along Great Western Road and she could hear the swish of wet tyres down below her window. There was no sound from upstairs, but that didn’t mean that the boys were asleep yet. Either of them could be lying in bed with their ears full of music downloads. She heaved a sigh. Well, if she was ever going to find a time to search in Eva’s room it was now. The December darkness had filled the flat since well before the afternoon was over and now it was almost midnight. Kirsty shivered, not from cold but from the anticipation of making that diagonal walk across the hallway and unlocking the door to the dead girl’s room.

A sudden thought of Colin made her straighten up and take those few steps along the corridor. He would be sleeping in a narrow bunk in a cold cell, wouldn’t he? There was nothing in the girl’s experience to give her a visual idea of what that might be like, only ancient TV sitcoms like
Porridge
, but Kirsty reckoned that any kind of incarceration had to be pretty bleak for a sensitive soul like Colin Young.

The keys that Mr Magnusson had left were in her dressing gown pocket and she pulled them out, feeling the cold metal in her fingers, seeing a piece of white fibre that had attached itself to the smallest. She picked it off and held the key up to the light. Aye, that was Eva’s, all right. Her father had shown her the markings on the small Yale key so that she would recognise it again.

The door opened smoothly and Kirsty entered the room for the first time since the Swedish girl had died. Her hand found the light switch and the room glowed warmly under the soft pink light from the overhead lantern. Everything was there, just as Eva had always left it. Even the searches by the police and forensic folk hadn’t disturbed the usual neatness of the girl’s bedroom. The curtains were open to reveal the emptiness of the night sky, a dark rectangle that only reflected her image, a tubby figure lurking uncertainly in the doorway. Kirsty turned the handle to close the door, fearful of hearing the tiniest click, then moved to the space beside Eva’s bed. Where to begin? She turned slowly, considering her options. There was a wall of cream-coloured sliding doors opposite Eva’s bed and Kirsty pulled them slowly aside, holding her breath lest they make any sort of sound and alert the boys upstairs. It was an odd place to start, perhaps, but the girl was curious to see if the police had left her friend’s things the way she’d liked them. She nodded to herself as she saw the colour-coordinated garments hanging in double rails, shoes arranged in boxes below, each turned end-on to show a picture of their contents.

She’d gasped the first time that Eva had pulled aside these doors and now Kirsty recalled the Swedish girl’s uncharacteristic frown as she noticed her flatmate’s reaction. Kirsty had wanted to blurt something out about it, but had held her tongue instead:
It was completely anal
, she’d muttered later in the sanctuary of her own room. But Eva Magnusson had explained sweetly that she had been taught to keep her clothes tidy and it was easier to find something if it was arranged in a colour scheme. Kirsty had tried it for a bit but after a week the jeans and sweatshirts were back to their usual higgledy-piggledy mess, over the back of a chair or lying in a corner of the room.

Reaching out, Kirsty touched the cashmere cardigan that Eva had worn so often. She let the soft garment slip off its hanger then held it to her face, breathing deeply. The inhalation ended in a sigh as she recognised the girl’s favourite perfume, and with it the memory of that first night when they had all sat in the lounge drinking vintage champagne in the candlelight. The air had been redolent with that scent of sweet lime and cedar; it was the smell of new beginnings and autumn leaves. But now the perfume simply reminded Kirsty of death and decay. She shivered again, ready to leave the room undisturbed, to admit to herself that there was nothing she could do to change what had happened. With a sigh she put the cardigan back on to its silk padded hanger and replaced it on the rail next to a chiffon blouse of palest pink scattered with tiny embroidered rosebuds.

This wasn’t what she had come for but it was almost as if the dead girl’s influence still reached out from beyond the grave, her fey beauty beguiling the policeman’s daughter. Eva had fascinated her, an ordinary girl from Glasgow, there was no denying it, Kirsty knew.
You were a good friend to her
, Henrik had claimed, and Kirsty had nodded, but was it true? Had she been a good friend? Or had she merely acted as the house mother, cooking up lots of great food for them all, keeping Eva company whenever she wanted a girl to chat to? Blinking back tears of remorse as she looked around the room, Kirsty wondered for the first time if she had ever really got to know the Swedish girl at all.

Colin had known her, certainly in the biblical sense. Eva was – not was: had been, she told herself crossly – what? A gorgeous girl who might have enjoyed the odd sexual fling with her friends? Had she really fancied poor old Colin? Or had that been just something that had happened at a party? No boy had ever come up to the flat since they’d moved in, Kirsty realised, though God knows Eva could have had her pick of any boy at Strathclyde. Unless…? Who had been in the flat that night after the party? Not Colin; no, not Colin, she told herself, firmly. That was something she had to hold onto, that belief in the lad’s innocence. Had Gary or Rodge seen her with another lad? Surely they’d have said something to Detective Inspector Grant?

As the thoughts swirled around her head, Kirsty moved around the room, patting the lace-edged pillows, picking up and replacing the matching boudoir cushion, checking the bookshelves for something,
anything
that might provide a clue to what had really happened that terrible night. Trouble is, she thought gloomily, I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

‘Kirsty?’

‘Oh my God! You gave me a fright!’ Kirsty put her hand to her throat as she saw Roger standing frowning in the doorway.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, nodding into the room. ‘Thought that was all locked up after the police…?’

‘It’s okay, Rodge, Mr Magnusson said I could come in and sort Eva’s stuff out,’ Kirsty reassured him.

‘Funny kind of time to do it,’ Roger remarked, eyeing her askance.

‘Well, I didn’t want to disturb you or Gary…’ Kirsty began lamely. ‘Hey, seeing we’re both up, d’you fancy a cup of tea?’

Switching off the light and locking the door behind her, Kirsty followed the large figure of her flatmate into the kitchen, slipping the key back into the voluminous pocket of her dressing gown.

He would find it hard to get back to sleep now, Roger Dunbar realised, and it was nothing to do with all that tea swilling around inside his stomach. He closed his eyes but all he could see was the shape of a stretcher between the two undertakers as they carried Eva’s body out to the waiting van. Rodge had never understood that word ‘closure’, feeling it to be just so much American psychobabble, but now he felt an overwhelming need to see Eva just one more time, just to say goodbye to her. Was this what it meant, then: closing a door on images that refused to disappear behind tired eyelids? Seeing the room downstairs, that room flushed pink like a girl’s cheeks after sex… Bloody hell! What was he thinking? And why had that image suddenly come into his head?

Remember the good times
, Kirsty had told him kindly. Though, God! It must be just as hard for her, harder, maybe, since she was adamant that Colin had nothing to do with Eva’s death. Yet he’d seen him with his own eyes, hadn’t he? Slipping out of the door not long after the Swedish girl had upped and left the party. He hadn’t told that police inspector woman, had he? And he’d bottled it tonight as well. Couldn’t bring himself to tell Kirsty that wee Colin had gone out after Eva, following her all the way home. Nobody had said that Roger Dunbar would be called as a witness so he didn’t have to worry about telling any lies, did he? Even if this was, perhaps, a lie by omission.

So why, lying here in his bed under the rooftop, was he feeling such a sense of guilt?

‘
Y
our daughter came to see me the other night,’ Lorimer said, watching the man’s face to gauge his reaction.

‘Oh.’ The word dropped like a stone as the detective sergeant grimaced and looked down at his feet. ‘She’s still on about Young being innocent then? Look, I’m sorry she bothered you…’

‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it,’ Lorimer said, putting a reassuring hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘But I did want you to know. If anything should come up that suggests the presence of a stranger in the Anniesland house then the Fiscal would definitely want to take another look. And I wouldn’t want another team being involved.’

‘Kirsty had no right—’

‘She cares about the lad,’ Lorimer interrupted the older man firmly, ‘and what do we know about the relationships that went on in that flat? Kirsty is far better placed to make judgements of that sort. And besides,’ he broke off thoughtfully, ‘I reckon your girl is pretty sorted. She’s not the dramatic, emotional sort, is she? Struck me as a young lady with her head screwed on. And she has the knack of getting under the skin of the people she meets.’

‘Aye, well, neither Betty nor I go in for any kind of histrionics. And Kirsty was always a sensible lass.’ DS Wilson frowned for a moment. ‘There isn’t anything we can do though, is there? I mean, Jo Grant’s got it all done and dusted, hasn’t she?’

‘No, you’re right.’ Lorimer’s mouth twisted into a rueful smile. ‘Unless something new appears, it looks as though Colin Young will have to face a trial in a few months’ time.’

The prison library was a lot smaller than he had imagined it would be, just a few shelves of books, really, when all was said and done. The librarian wore an ordinary jacket and trousers, a simple lanyard slung around his grey V-neck sweater, unlike the uniformed officers with bunches of keys attached to their belts who attended him throughout the day. The other inmates seemed to know the pack drill so Colin watched as they lined up at the little desk with their returned books. The librarian was perhaps in his late thirties, a thin man whose pallor was not helped by the harsh fluorescent light shining down on him from the ceiling. He reminded him of Mr Armitage, one of his history teachers at school. As the librarian chatted to each of the prisoners, Colin noted the way he swept a hand over his thinning hair from time to time, a nervous gesture that his history teacher had repeated during every lesson. Once all the boys in his Higher class had mimicked this but Armitage had been in full and eager flow about the Battle of Leipzig and hadn’t noticed a thing.

‘You’re new,’ the librarian said as Colin came forward at last.

‘Yes.’

‘What do you like to read?’

Colin shrugged, unsure how to answer this. Didn’t the man know anything about him, then? He’d assumed that all the staff would know every detail about him by now. Like at school where the Guidance teachers had a file on you. But perhaps it didn’t work like that in prison.

‘I’m a student…’ Colin began.

‘Just in on remand,’ the librarian said, meeting Colin’s eyes and nodding. ‘Yes, I think the deputy governor mentioned you. English Lit at Glasgow, isn’t it?’

Colin nodded again, reddening. ‘I shouldn’t really be here,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all a mistake.’

The librarian did not even acknowledge Colin’s remark but instead looked down at once and flicked a couple of papers on his desk.

‘We’re going to get in touch with the university, see if we can keep you going with lecture notes and such.’

Colin’s eyes widened. ‘You can do that?’

‘Oh, yes. You’re a registered student. It would be just the same as getting hold of stuff to read up if you were on a long-term illness. In fact’ – he stopped flicking the papers and held one up for Colin to see – ‘just got instructions this morning.’ He waggled the paper with the prison name at the top. ‘Straight from the boss. Asking me to liaise with the university.’

There had been no difficulty getting hold of a notepad and pen. All the inmates seemed to be in the habit of letter writing but none had access to a computer or laptop so the prison was full of men penning letters the old-fashioned way. Snail mail, Colin thought to himself. And that phrase suited prison life where everything went at a snail’s pace. Day after endless day passed in here, the whole place trembling with the effort of waiting till a term of imprisonment or a period of remand was finished and life in the real world outside could begin again.

He would write to Kirsty, he thought. She was one of the people he had listed as potential visitors, but would she come to see him? He wanted to tell her how he was doing and ask what was happening back at the flat. Would they still be there? He paused for a moment, pen poised over the blank page, wondering. Well, he would send a letter anyway, in the hope that a forwarding address would have been arranged.

Half an hour later Colin Young was still sitting on the edge of his bunk, the notepad’s pages turned over where he had tried to scribble down his thoughts. It was no use, he told himself bitterly. Everything he’d wanted to say had turned out like a whine. And he didn’t want a girl like Kirsty Wilson to think he, prisoner number 201316, was wallowing in self-pity. If only he was back in the flat, sitting tapping on his keyboard. The words would flow easily then, surely?

It was then, in the quiet of the late evening, that the idea took hold. Colin smiled to himself. Taking up the blue biro pen once more, he began to write.

Kirsty wasn’t used to snooping around in other people’s rooms but she had found herself alone in the flat that afternoon and somehow her feet had taken her across the corridor and into Colin’s bedroom. The curtains were still drawn across the window to the back of the house and she automatically walked over to draw them apart, even though dusk was beginning to fall over the city. It was quiet in here, but no doubt a train would rumble past soon enough on its way to Anniesland station. The room was very tidy, Kirsty saw. Had the scene-of-crime officers left it like this? She’d only glimpsed Colin’s room from the corridor, his desk usually piled high with notes around his ancient laptop, a second-hand IBM ThinkPad that he’d been given by an uncle. Now the desk was empty of Colin’s stuff, the laptop having been taken away by the police, and only the green lamp was there. It was just as it had been when Kirsty had first looked around the flat, she recalled.

‘Oh dear,’ she whispered, though there was nobody to hear her. Suddenly, for no particular reason, Kirsty found herself flopping down on the single bed, staring up at the ceiling. How often now had Colin stared up like this, waiting for inspiration for one of his stories or poems?

Kirsty’s fists clenched tightly in a moment of anger. He should still be here, writing these things… if it hadn’t been for Eva! It was all
her
fault, that perfect face, perfect figure, perfect everything!

A whimper escaped her lips and Kirsty screwed her eyes shut, appalled at her thoughts. And, as her breath exhaled in one enormous sigh, the girl’s fingers relaxed until they were limp by her sides once more.

She felt the vibration under her body as the train rattled past. How had Eva and Colin put up with that? She’d never once heard either of them complain so she guessed that it was something they’d become used to pretty quickly. There would be no vibration under his prison bunk, she thought, fists clenching once more by her side. What sort of hell was he going through in that awful place? With a tiny shake of her head, Kirsty swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. These sorts of maudlin thoughts weren’t getting her anywhere and she’d be better having a look next door in Eva’s room while she had the chance.

The dead girl’s room was considerably larger than Colin’s but not as big as Kirsty’s own, the airy, former dining room that looked out over the street. As before, Kirsty was aware of the scent of Jo Malone perfume; a woody, citrus sort of smell that reminded her so forcibly of the dead girl. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes to conjure up Eva’s smiling face once more. When she opened them, it was almost a surprise not to see the Swedish girl standing there, blue eyes looking quizzically at her, wanting to know why Kirsty had intruded in her room.

‘Your dad said I could,’ Kirsty whispered into the air as though something was listening. ‘Oh, Eva, if only you could tell me what really happened,’ she sighed, then bit her lip as she felt the tears well up.

The officers must have taken lots of the dead girl’s possessions, Kirsty realised, after she had spent a fruitless hour looking for things like her mobile phone, address book and the Apple Mac notebook that Eva had carried back and forth to lectures.

Och, it was no use! She ought to give up now and just get back to her own room. There was plenty of course work to do, after all. This was still the first term but already Kirsty had a couple of essays outstanding and loads of background reading to cope with. With a sigh she closed Eva’s door and locked it, returning to her own bedroom across the corridor.

She had begun to flick over her notes when she caught sight of something scribbled in a margin. The sight of the emerald green ink made Kirsty smile. Jackie, her pal at Caledonian, always used these bright gel pens. She’d meant to copy down the girl’s new mobile number into her own phone but had completely forgotten. She’d do it now, before she forgot again.

It was as she was fishing in her handbag for the mobile that Kirsty suddenly stopped and stared into space.

What if…? The thought propelled her out of the seat by the window and before she had time to think Kirsty was turning the key to Eva Magnusson’s room once more.

The Swedish girl had been methodical in all aspects of her life, Kirsty thought, seeing the shelves beside her desk full of ring binders, as if someone had made that shelf specially to fit. And perhaps someone had, she thought. Money had been no object for Eva, after all. She hunkered down and pulled the whole lot from their place by the pale pine desk, letting them fall with a thump onto the carpet.

‘Right, let’s see if there’s anything here,’ she muttered, pulling the first file towards her and opening it.

She sat back on her heels, taking a quick breath, as she saw the girl’s familiar writing. It was so perfect, a neat copperplate hand, sloping prettily over the lines, the phrases copied down and attached to printed notes by a metal paper clip. Business management might have been interesting to the Swedish girl but skimming through the notes, Kirsty wrinkled up her nose: it was definitely not the sort of subject that she would have chosen to study.

She read to the last page and closed the file. Nothing. With a sigh, she picked up the next one, a red ring binder with Eva’s name printed on a label inside.

It seemed to Kirsty as she flicked through the notes that her flatmate had approached her subjects with the same degree of organisation as she took to colour-coordinating her wardrobe.
It makes it easier
, she imagined Eva’s voice telling her and she turned with a guilty start as if the dead girl had actually walked in behind her
.

Don’t be silly, she scolded herself. She can’t hurt you now.

Kirsty frowned at the oddity of the thought. Had Eva ever hurt her? What a silly thing to pop into her head. Eva had been incapable of hurting a fly. And yet she had to rub her arms suddenly, as though a chill had entered the room.

‘Look at the darned files,’ she breathed aloud, turning her attention to the folders once more. As her eyes ran over the perfectly ordered pages, Kirsty sighed. She could just picture Eva sitting in her classes, earnestly taking down notes, concentrating on the lecturer’s every word.

She had almost finished searching through that folder when she stopped and smiled. Gotcha! There it was, a wee bit of writing standing out from the black and white page. Kirsty could see it right at the foot of one of the printed sets of notes where Eva must have added something of her own. The lecturer’s name and email address were there for all his students to see but now there was more: a telephone number written in pale blue ink. And beside it, a hasty scribble that was different from Eva’s own writing. Kirsty took a deep breath as she noted a date and time.

She blinked and read it again then sat back on her heels, mind in a spin. If Eva Magnusson had not been killed on the night of that party then she would have been meeting someone at eight o’clock the very next evening.

Dirk McGregor had not intended to follow his father’s footsteps into the world of academia. No, his path was to have taken quite a different turn, though by the early years of the new millennium, Dirk had to admit that gaining a degree in business studies and the lectureship that followed was a huge relief. A sudden lunge across a wet football pitch by a defender on the opposing team had put him out of the beautiful game for good, cutting short a career that one or two pundits grudgingly agreed might have taken him to international stardom. Or perhaps not. Dirk had been a reasonably skilful footballer, usually making the first team in a club that hovered somewhere in the middle of Scottish First Division football. Sometimes, when he had been a little too long in the staff club of a Friday night, Dirk was wont to become somewhat maudlin, lamenting the freak accident that had destroyed his career, a career that would surely have blossomed given half a chance.

Now he was ensconced in his shoebox of a study, glancing up at the clock: ten more minutes of peace and quiet until the next lot of students turned up for their seminar. His desk was covered in a pile of essays to return, a dirty coffee mug and an open laptop. To one side was a digital photoframe, its screen blank for the moment. Sometimes Dirk liked to watch the slide show, glimpses of his life like visual sound bites: Fran and the girls in the garden, his father and mother – before the Alzheimer’s took hold of the poor old girl – and several of himself in a black and white strip, action photos salvaged from his glory days.

The sound of his mobile ringing made Dirk frown in annoyance: Fran knew fine she shouldn’t call him at work; what the hell did the stupid cow want now?