The Swedish Girl (11 page)

Thrusting his fingers into the right-hand pocket of the cord jacket slung behind his chair, Dirk pulled out the phone and snapped it open.

‘Yes?’ His tone, even to him, sounded irritable. But the small silence that followed, then the unfamiliar voice asking that terrible question, made the lecturer suddenly ashamed.

‘Who is this?’ he demanded.

Dirk listened to the continuing silence then the question was repeated.

‘Yes, this is Mr McGregor. What are you doing calling this number?’

His hand shook as he waited for an answer, but again, the woman simply reiterated her first question. ‘Are you Dirk McGregor, the man who was seeing Eva Magnusson?’

Dirk let the silence continue for a moment then, as the door to his study opened to admit his first student, he closed the phone and switched it off, dropping it back into the pocket as though it were a burning coal.

Kirsty sat on the floor of her room, trembling. She’d had all night to think about this, after all. It wasn’t as though she’d called him on the spur of the moment. What the heck had she done? The man had sounded really, really alarmed. Frightened, even. Well, maybe he had good reason to be frightened if he had been seeing a girl who was one of his students, a girl who had ended up dead in her own flat.

Kirsty blew out her breath in a huge sigh. She really ought to report this to somebody. DI Grant? She made a face. No. That one had Colin tried and convicted already, hadn’t she? Her dad? Kirsty thought about it for just a heartbeat then shook her head. Not Dad either. Lorimer? He hadn’t seemed to mind her turning up before, had he? Even suggested that she poke around a little. Well, she had, and now there
was
something to report, wasn’t there? Kirsty leaned forward and pulled her handbag off the edge of the bed. She’d put it somewhere, inside her uni diary, most probably. Aye, here it was; a card with another number that she ought to have listed in her phone.

The girl sat back against the radiator, trying to decide. Was it too soon to bother him? Or would he welcome the call? It was Detective
Superintendent
Lorimer now, she remembered. He had been promoted a while ago but had been away in Pitt Street before coming back into her dad’s divisional HQ.
He’s a very busy man
, Alistair Wilson had warned her when he had called to talk last night.

What were her options? To go over to Strathclyde and seek out this man, Dirk what’s-his-face? Or to ask for Lorimer’s advice?

Eva had never said a word about meeting this man, McGregor. Well, maybe it was all completely innocent. But a Saturday night at eight o’clock? Hm, Kirsty huffed aloud. No way. She’d been up to something, hadn’t she? Arranging to meet one of her lecturers – a married man, perhaps? – the day after a party where she had been having it off with poor wee Colin.

Kirsty Wilson blinked hard as though trying to clear the fog that was misting up her brain. There was a lot she had not known about Eva Magnusson. And for the first time, she began to wonder just what other secrets the Swedish girl had kept from her friends.

‘Hello, Lorimer speaking. Oh, Kirsty, it’s you. How are you?’

The tall man leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

‘No, it’s fine. I’m on my own right at this moment but I will be going to a meeting in about quarter of an hour. What can I do for you?’

Lorimer listened, not interrupting once as Kirsty recounted what she had found in Eva’s notes and how she had acted upon that, calling up the business studies lecturer.

‘He hung up on you?’ Lorimer nodded, wondering, as the girl continued.

‘What if…?’ Kirsty began but then broke off, not really knowing what she wanted to say.

‘What if this man had been having an affair with Eva? Is that what you’ve been thinking?’

‘Yes. Look, I know this sounds horrible, but Colin just wasn’t Eva’s type. She was a sophisticated girl, you know? She’d travelled, mixed with all sorts of important people – famous, some of them. It just didn’t make
sense
for her to have a relationship with an ordinary bloke like him.’

Lorimer sighed before he spoke. ‘I have a colleague who would say that this simply endorses the suspicion that Colin Young killed your friend,’ he said at last. ‘If he wasn’t Eva’s type then perhaps he had been rebuffed by her before raping and strangling her.’

There was a silence between them and Lorimer suddenly felt an immense pity for the girl. She was doing her best and he had given her a little encouragement, after all.

‘Was it rape?’ she asked quietly.

‘Ah, now that is a good question,’ Lorimer said, wondering just how he could begin to answer this without compromising the case in any way.

‘There was no sign of rape, was there?’ Kirsty insisted.

‘No,’ Lorimer admitted. ‘But that doesn’t mean it was consensual either. Eva may have been forced into something she didn’t really want but had decided not to resist.’

‘Well, what about this man, this Dirk McGregor? Shouldn’t we be doing something about him?’

Lorimer smiled to himself. The girl was so eager to clear Young’s name that she obviously felt that she had entered into some sort of liaison with the senior police officer. Perhaps she had. And it would do no harm if he made a discreet call to see the lecturer. Just to chat about Eva?

‘Kirsty,’ he said, making up his mind even as he spoke, ‘leave it with me. It might be nothing at all, something completely innocent. Okay?’

‘Okay, Mr Lorimer,’ she mumbled, clearly disappointed that she was not being asked to join him in an investigation.

‘Oh, and Kirsty…’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘Keep looking in Eva’s room.’

‘What am I supposed to be looking for?’

‘Who knows? But you’ll know when you find it.’

‘
S
ir?’

Jo Grant stood uncertainly in the doorway of Lorimer’s room, her lips parted as though she had wanted to say more.

‘Sit down, Jo.’ Lorimer gestured to the chair opposite his own.

‘Sir,’ she replied dully, folding her arms over her chest in a gesture that the detective superintendent recognised as protective.

She’s assuming that I am about to reprimand her for something, he thought guiltily.

‘Jo,’ he began again, ‘I have something to tell you that you aren’t going to like.’

‘You’re taking me off the case?’

The detective inspector dropped her arms and looked at him in astonishment.

Lorimer shook his head. ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ he assured her. ‘Actually, I have a huge apology to make to you, Jo,’ he said slowly.

The woman frowned and tilted her head, clearly puzzled.

‘It’s about Colin Young.’

‘What about him?’ Her face cleared and there was a trace of a smile as she asked, ‘Don’t tell me he’s confessed? Oh, boy, no flaming court case, after all—’

‘No, he hasn’t,’ Lorimer broke in. ‘It’s nothing like that at all. In fact,’ he said, ‘he might even be released if things develop the way I think they could.’

‘Oh?’

Lorimer heaved a long sigh then bit by bit recounted the whole story of Kirsty Wilson coming to see him and the strength of her conviction about the man who was in Barlinnie.

‘I knew this would come as a blow,’ he went on. ‘You imagine you’ve got the right man then fresh evidence appears to make you wonder.’

‘But why didn’t anyone tell me right from the start?’ Jo blurted out, her face tight with suppressed anger.

‘When Kirsty Wilson came to me I couldn’t be sure she was doing more than wanting to express her feelings. And I didn’t want to offend you.’

‘And you’re telling me now that you think I messed up?’ The woman had turned white with fury and Lorimer held up a placating hand.

‘I’m not saying that at all. Maybe I should have told you as soon as the girl came to see me but, if I had, would you honestly have been prepared to reconsider your initial stance?’

Jo did not reply, pursing her lips in a discontented moue instead.

‘So, what now?’ she said gruffly.

‘I want your cooperation on this,’ Lorimer told her gently. ‘The last thing I want is for us to fall out as colleagues. But’ – he raised an admonitory finger – ‘I don’t think you want to see an innocent man go down for something he didn’t do any more than I do.’

‘And the grounds for reopening this case…?’ The arms were folded again as she looked him in the eye.

‘It’s entirely up to the Fiscal, of course,’ Lorimer told her. ‘But let’s just say that, thanks to Kirsty Wilson, we are beginning to find out a bit more about Eva Magnusson and the people around her.’

‘But you still haven’t persuaded me that Colin Young couldn’t have killed her,’ she protested. ‘This lecturer guy, she might just have been going to see him about her studies.’

‘On a Saturday night?’ Lorimer’s twisted smile was sceptical.

‘I still think it was Young,’ Jo insisted.

‘But why?’ Lorimer leaned forward, staring right at his DI. ‘Can you honestly say what motivated an otherwise mild-mannered young man to commit such an act?’

Jo still had her arms folded across her chest and was staring straight at him, her mouth closed tight.

‘Okay.’ Lorimer raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘I can see you’re not happy and you think I’m taking up precious time right now, but I really felt I had to tell you what we’ve been doing.’

‘And Alistair Wilson doesn’t know a thing about it?’

Lorimer smiled thinly. ‘You had to be told first. I think he’ll have Kirsty’s guts for garters when I tell him. You know we have to wait for approval from the Fiscal and then if anything else comes up that provides a new lead in the Magnusson case we will keep him informed.’

‘And meantime you want me to do what, exactly?’

Lorimer stared back at her, wondering if she would have the grace to add ‘sir’.

‘Your job,’ he said stiffly.

Jo Grant clenched and unclenched her fists as she marched back to her own desk. It was beyond belief! Why the hell would a detective superintendent risk so much just on the off chance that the wrong man had been arrested for murder? What kind of evidence did he think he had? She had been with Young, watched him break down, hadn’t she? Besides, his DNA profile was right there for anyone to see, so why go off on a tangent with something as unreliable as a tenuous date in the victim’s social diary?

Okay, so maybe she had got the wrong man, she fumed to herself. It had happened before and the norm was for police to close ranks, protect their own, wasn’t it? What a court and a jury of fifteen men and women did thereafter was up to them.

She sat down at her desk with a thump, staring angrily at the computer screen. Then a small voice of doubt crept into Jo Grant’s thoughts. What if she
had
been wrong? What if Colin Young was innocent after all? It meant two things, didn’t it? First, a guiltless student was being held in Barlinnie prison, undergoing who knew what sort of deprivations, and second – a thought that sent chills shivering up her spine – Eva Magnusson’s killer was still out there.

Lorimer held up a list of the names of those interviewed in the aftermath of Eva Magnusson’s murder. He was grateful for Jo’s cooperation, however grudgingly she had given it, and now he was looking once again at the entire procedure of the case. If Jo had got it all wrong there was a chance that the powers on high might well put in a review team to examine the case, officers from a different division crawling all over their own patch who might make Jo Grant feel small and inadequate. Whereas, he reasoned, this way he could repair some of the damage without her losing too much face.

The names and addresses of neighbours were near the top of the list and Lorimer frowned as he read them. Kirsty had mentioned the neighbour across the landing, a deaf, grumpy old man, she’d told him. Why hadn’t his name been there? Surely, he thought, Mr McCubbin would have been questioned by the police.

He dialled his DI’s extension and waited until she picked up.

‘Jo? Lorimer here. Just a wee question. Derek McCubbin, the next-door neighbour. No sign of a statement from him. Wondered why.’

‘He was away that night,’ Jo replied sharply. ‘At his daughter’s in Castlemilk. He’s selling up anyhow,’ she added.

‘Okay. Thanks.’

An old deaf man would probably not have heard anything anyway, Lorimer reasoned, even if he had been in his flat that particular night. And who could blame a protective daughter for wanting her father to leave the place after what had happened?

Still, perhaps he would pay the old man a visit some time, just to see what he could glean about the comings and goings at 24 Merryfield Avenue in the days before someone took the life of his lovely young neighbour.

F
or a December day that was creeping towards the winter solstice, the morning appeared with a freshness that made Professor Solomon Brightman smile. The first faint flush of rose spread across the horizon, the sky above palest lemon, a brightness that dazzled his eyes even as the sun struggled to pierce the early mists. Life, he thought to himself, was very good indeed: his life, at any rate, with so many blessings for which to give thanks. There was Rosie, of course, and baby Abigail; not quite such a baby now, her first birthday behind her and developing at such amazing speed that Solly was almost afraid to leave the house each morning lest he miss something vital. Abby had taken her first steps two months earlier and had begun to utter discernible words even before that. Both he and Rosie were looking forward to the Christmas holidays and seeing their little girl’s face on Christmas morning.

Abigail Margaret Brightman was a determined little lady, not at all bashful at asserting herself if there was something she wanted. Like the shiny red bauble that he had placed just out of her reach. Solly smiled, remembering the previous night when Abby had systematically stripped the tree of the painted wooden baubles, gathering them all to her tiny chest like so much treasure. His heart ached to give her everything she wanted but his wiser self knew that his little daughter had to learn what was safe to touch and what might harm her, like a glass sphere that could shatter into deadly shards or an electric socket that was left without its safety plug.

They were both still asleep; Abigail back in her cot and Rosie in the warmth of the big sleigh bed that he had slipped from only minutes before. The temptation to crawl back in beside her was strong: there had been yet another night of broken sleep, Abby leaving both her parents feeling shattered. But it was Saturday morning, there were no classes demanding his presence and Rosie was not on call, thankfully, this particular weekend. Morag, the wonderful nanny who had been an answer to all their prayers, would not be in until Monday morning so he had two whole days to spend indulging his little family.

Standing back from the window in his study, Solly’s gaze was drawn to his laptop. There would be emails to deal with, but somehow he could not bring himself to spoil this moment of quietness, the stillness within the flat as yet unbroken by a child’s demanding cry. Yet, as if the very thought itself had broken a spell, the psychologist found himself seated at his desk, tapping in his password. There were eighteen emails in his inbox, several of which he recognised as coming from his colleagues and postgraduate students. He deleted the junk mail as he scrolled down, eyeing the list with increasing indifference. Then his hand paused, hovering over the cordless mouse as he read the familiar name.
Lorimer
.

Solly’s bushy eyebrows rose and he smiled at his own reaction, a delighted eagerness to read whatever it was that his friend had deemed important enough to send late on a Friday night.

It was not, Solly saw, really from Lorimer at all but a forwarded email from a girl who called herself
[email protected]
. The appended note from Lorimer was brief and to the point.

Solly gave a sigh and nodded. It was a rum business, this Swedish girl being murdered in her own flat. And DS Wilson’s daughter mixed up in it, too. He scrolled down and read the forwarded message.

Solly sat still, reading the message over again. The tone was polite, deferential, even, but there was a directness about it that he found appealing
.
‘You see’, the girl had written, as though she actually wanted him to see what she saw, to share her viewpoint. But did she want more than that? ‘A miscarriage of justice’ was a phrase that brooked no argument. Also she had used the word ‘very’ twice as if to underline her obvious concern, something that might even hint at passionately held feelings. Did she have any sort of romantic attachment to Young, the chap who had been charged with the Swedish girl’s murder? Solly placed his hands behind his head, amused at the extent to which Kirsty Wilson had already wormed her way into his thoughts. Yes, he decided, he would see her, if only to put her mind at rest that the police had done what they had to do.

He frowned suddenly. What if…? Jo Grant was a bright woman, but if she
had
made a blunder in this case, then her career path might come to a dead end.

‘Daaa-daaa!’ a familiar little voice called out, making Solly stand up and turn towards the nursery, a grin on his face. It seemed that, after a restless night, Abigail had decided that breakfast time had finally arrived.

The message from Kirsty Wilson stood out on the screen, waiting for a reply, but for now the psychologist had another young lady demanding his attention, one who simply would not be prepared to wait a moment longer than necessary.

Across the city another father was sitting down to breakfast, the Saturday edition of the
Gazette
propped against the cereal packet that separated him from the tousle-haired woman sitting across the table. Upstairs, all was blissfully quiet. Amanda and Catherine were still asleep and, listening to her incessant chatter, Dirk McGregor heartily wished that his wife had decided to stay in bed as well.

‘We could take off on the Tuesday and be back in time for the girls’ disco on the Friday. What do you think?’ Fran McGregor tried to push a stray curl away from her forehead but it tumbled back down again across a brow etched with permanent frown marks.

Dirk gave no reply except to make a grunt, his usual ploy when pretending to listen to his wife.

‘Sharon says we can stay over, no problem. The cottage isn’t let out at that time of year so we would have the whole place to ourselves. Dirk? What do you think?’ she repeated, this time with more of an edge to her voice, a sign that Fran McGregor was not prepared to be ignored for very much longer.

‘Aye, fine, whatever you say,’ Dirk replied testily, trying to concentrate on the leading article about yet another political career in turmoil.

‘We could share the driving,’ Fran persisted, her tone a shade doubtful.

With a sigh that was deliberately audible, Dirk lowered the newspaper and glared at his wife.

‘I’ll drive,’ he said shortly. ‘Just you make sure there’ll be enough grub for, how many days did you say?’

‘Three nights,’ Fran replied, beaming now that her plan had been accepted by her irascible husband.

Dirk grunted again and lifted the paper as though to signal the end of that particular conversation. But somehow the article he had been reading had lost its appeal and the memory of that woman’s voice on the telephone returned to haunt him.

Eva Magnusson! Beautiful, naughty little Eva. God! What he would give for her to be back in his life again! And yet… Dirk clutched the sides of the newspaper, remembering.

The pale limbs stretched upwards, the way her back had arched under his heaving body… oh God! How could he have let himself be led into a situation like that? But he had, Dirk thought. And it had been oh so easy for her to seduce him, hadn’t it? The ego of an older, jaded man had been flattered by a little beauty like the Swedish girl. Dirk blinked, realising that his eyes were filling up, thankful to be hiding behind the newspaper.

It had always been going to end in tears. But he hadn’t wanted it to end like
that
.

Fran was talking again, going over all the things they would need for a few days away up at Malcolm and Sharon’s cottage. The girls stopped their private school more than a week before Christmas so there would be no problem in taking off to the Highlands. And maybe it would be good to escape for a while, Dirk thought, biting his lip. Though at that precise moment the lecturer could not honestly say just what it was that he wanted to escape from.

‘No, Dad, I’m no’ gonnae put it off another day. We have to see the estate agent an’ get this all settled.’

Derek McCubbin pushed the spoon around the bowl of cornflakes, watching the thin milk sopping the tan-coloured cereal into a soggy mess. Bloody semi-skimmed! Why could she not buy the full cream that he liked? Derek had always insisted he had the top of the milk at home,
the breadwinner’s prerogative
, his wife used to remark fondly. Well he was still the man who was providing the wherewithal, wasn’t he?

‘You don’t really want to go back to Anniesland, now, do you, Dad?’ Corinne wheedled. ‘Not after everything that’s happened, eh?’

Derek shook his head, a silent answer that seemed to satisfy his daughter.

‘Right, want some toast?’ Her voice softened a little now that she had got her way.

He nodded without looking up, too afraid to meet her eyes. No, he would not return to Merryfield Avenue or to the memories of those hooligans across the landing. Good riddance to the lot of them! Yet, as his hand lifted the spoon to his mouth, Derek felt a trembling in his fingers and lips so that a gob of cereal fell onto the table.

‘Tsk!’ Corinne swooped onto the mess with a cloth, snatching it up, then wiping his lips in one quick movement.

Her father looked away, ashamed. Was this his fate now? Was he becoming an old helpless man? It was something he had tried to resist for so long. Derek had listened to their whispering, imagining them making cunning plans to take him away from all that he held dear and put him into some kind of home for the elderly. ‘God’s waiting room’, some called it. The old man breathed a sigh of relief. It wouldn’t come to that, now. Corinne would look after him. The flat would be sold and he would live out his twilight years in a modicum of comfort, away from the noise and bustle of the city.

He pushed the bowl away from him and slumped into his chair, his appetite quite gone. There would be no more jaunts around the corner to the pub on Great Western Road. But then he wouldn’t have to suffer those flights of stone stairs, his leg aching with the effort to climb back up to his beloved home. It was a different sort of ache that Derek McCubbin was experiencing now; an ache in his heart for all the yesterdays he had spent so carelessly and that could never be given back.