The Swedish Girl (12 page)

‘
R
eady?’ Lorimer watched as Maggie bustled about the kitchen, testing the back door to see that it was locked, gathering up her capacious handbag and the plastic bag with Abby’s present.

‘Aye, all set. D’you think she’ll like it?’ Maggie asked, lifting the fluffy duck out of the bag and regarding it doubtfully.

Lorimer grinned. ‘Course she will! She loves the ducks in the park and once she gets the hang of pressing the bit that quacks she’ll drive her parents crackers!’

‘Or quackers,’ Maggie quipped, slipping out of the front door while Lorimer held it open for her.

They had been for a ramble down at the RSPB centre at Lochwinnoch, just after sunrise, to watch the flocks of wading birds on the loch. The soft toy was one of many bird species that made an accurate sound when pressed and Maggie had been unable to resist the duck as a present for her godchild.

They were both used to early rises even in this dark time of year when the sun was a reluctant visitor; Lorimer was punctilious about being at his desk in Stewart Street by six every morning and Maggie made a point of spending time with her husband at breakfast. The extra time before setting off for Muirpark Secondary School was used for preparation and any last-minute corrections, giving the English teacher a head start to her day. So when the weather forecast showed that Saturday was to be dry and windless, they had decided to pay the waterfowl a visit. Seeing the first burning rays of sun coming up over the hills, spreading golden layers across the water, had been well worth the sacrifice of a lie-in. And now little Abby was to have a new toy, something that the godparents hoped would encourage her growing interest in birds.

‘Oh, this is nice,’ Maggie sighed, looking out of the window as they drove across the river. The familiar landmarks of the city stood out sharply against a pale winter sky: the spiked tower of Glasgow University, the white spire of Trinity and the newer, modern buildings that hugged the banks of the Clyde. The river below was a streak of pearly grey, coursing out towards the misty west where it would eventually widen into the Firth and join the Atlantic.

Lorimer nodded, his eyes on the road ahead, his thoughts not on the sky or the river but on the message he had sent to his friend. Would Solly be willing to take an interest in the case? And if so, was there anything to be found? The senior policeman frowned. Jo Grant had been pretty tight-lipped when he had told her what Kirsty Wilson had discovered. And perhaps his own willingness to see Kirsty Wilson had undermined that loyalty already? The information about McGregor was in the Fiscal’s hands now and they would just have to wait to see if anything changed.

His thoughts returned to Alistair Wilson’s daughter. There had been something very persuasive in the girl’s manner, casting the tiniest shadow of a doubt in his mind. What if they had got it wrong? There was a celebrated defence lawyer in the city whose mantra was that it was better that ninety-nine guilty men went free than that one innocent man was wrongly convicted. Lorimer, like so many of his police colleagues, didn’t hold with that at all. They would rather every guilty person was convicted and all the innocent set free. Yet he could see the lawyer’s point. What if Colin Young had been wrongly charged? Well, there would be fifteen men and women on a jury at the High Court some time next year to see that justice was done, he told himself. Jo Grant had done what she had to do, given the existing evidence, and they would continue to discuss between them how best to take this forward. His DI was still insistent they had the right man. Yet the frown that had settled between Lorimer’s eyes as they drove along the riverside persisted, despite his efforts to assure himself that they really had apprehended the Swedish girl’s killer.

Every day here was exactly the same and Colin had to make a real effort to remember what day of the week it was. Christmas was not too far off, a mere matter of days, but Colin wanted the occasion to pass him by as quickly as it could. The other prisoners all seemed to be sports enthusiasts, taking off for the gym at every opportunity in the hope of winning one of the prizes on offer for the festive competitions, but Colin had come into the system too late to enter for anything and he simply didn’t have the energy to be bothered anyway. Dad had been in once, bringing his clothes and other stuff he had asked for, and he knew he would be in again this afternoon.

He’d told him about Sam, the tall white-haired man who had slipped him a Mars Bar and offered him good advice.
Get yer da tae nip ower tae the vending machines tae get ye stuff soon as he comes in tae visit, right? He cannae afford tae wait in thon queue else ye’ll never hae time tae talk thegether, mind an’ tell him, son.
Sam had been a decent sort, nice to him and friendly, and Colin had felt a huge relief that someone was looking out for him.

Colin sat on the side of his bunk, fiddling with his pen. Oh how he missed having his mobile phone! It was like part of him had been taken away, like a limb, leaving him with that phantom pain that amputees talked about. All his pals were the same: a click of a button away from a voice or a text, communication guaranteed. But they were forbidden in here and he could only use the telephone down the corridor occasionally. Still, Dad would update him on things, wouldn’t he? Tell him how Celtic was doing, for instance, though the fate of his father’s favourite football team was of little interest to Colin. What he really wanted to know was how the lawyers were getting on with his case and if anything new had come to light that would allow him to return to the life he so missed. And it was the wee ordinary things that Colin Young missed, things he’d taken for granted; like having a hot shower whenever he wanted it, going out for a walk when the notion took him, making himself a cup of decent coffee…

He rolled over to face the far wall. He was on his own again, the young ned who’d shared his cell having been taken off somewhere else last night. He hadn’t asked any questions, but the sly grin on the other boy’s face had left him wondering.

He closed his eyes and thought about Merryfield Avenue. If he tried very hard he could pretend he was back there lying on his own bed, listening to sounds coming from the kitchen… Perhaps Kirsty would be up and about already, cooking French toast with blueberries and cinnamon, one of her Saturday morning favourites. The remembered taste of it made the saliva curl around his tongue. In here… no, he wouldn’t even think of the food in here…
basic and nourishing
, the pantryman had told him sharply. Remember the good times, he’d told himself over and over, then he wondered what Oscar Wilde would have thought about in Reading gaol whenever he’d had time to pause from the hard labour prisoners were set in those days.

Fiona Travers jogged along the pavement, dodging bits of Friday night’s litter, the discarded pizza boxes picked clean by crows, and bottles rolling about in the wind. It was daylight now but the leaden grey clouds shifting across the sky threatened rain. Just ahead the girl spotted the opening to a narrow lane. She bit an indecisive lip as it drew closer. It wasn’t a route she liked to take because of all the dog poo underfoot and the gloomy overhanging trees. Still, if she took a wee shortcut down this path and watched her feet maybe it wouldn’t take so long to get back before the heavens opened.

There were no dog walkers out this morning, just a lone figure walking beneath the line of ancient elms that skirted the footpath. Fiona took a deep breath and increased her pace, determined to reach home before the rain began.

She did not even glance at the man as she passed him by, eye contact with strangers an unwritten taboo.

The sound of her trainers thudding on the beaten earth was the only sound and yet some inner instinct made Fiona half turn as though she had heard something behind her. She twisted around, just in time to see the man’s glaring eyes and the upraised arm holding a hefty stick.

She had to run faster. Had to get away. Had to duck out of his reach…

The movement made her stumble then slip on a patch of mud, giving him the advantage he needed.

Fiona opened her mouth to scream as the stick came towards her brow but all that issued from her lips was a small whimper of pain and disbelief. She was on her knees now, one hand held to her bleeding head.

And so it was that the girl did not see the man bending over her, fingers stretched out towards her throat.

‘
S
hame about the weather,’ Maggie remarked. She was standing at the huge bay window that overlooked Kelvingrove Park, watching the rain sweep across the paths. ‘It was so nice first thing as well.’

‘Never mind, Abby was up a lot last night so missing a walk to see her beloved ducks won’t give us too much grief.’ Rosie smiled wearily. ‘Anyway, now that she’s settled, let’s have that special hot chocolate I promised you.’

The two women wandered through the lounge to the spacious kitchen, their husbands ensconced in Solly’s study.

‘Kirsty Wilson contacted Solly, did Bill tell you?’ Rosie began as she set out the four Christmas mugs on the counter then reached for the tin of Charbonnel et Walker.

Maggie shook her head. ‘I knew she’d come by last weekend to see him,’ she said slowly. ‘D’you think she’ll get into trouble?’

Rosie raised her eyebrows and sighed. ‘Don’t know. She’s entitled to poke around if she’s certain there’s something to find, I suppose. But I have a horrid feeling that Kirsty is only storing up a lot more grief for herself over that boy.’

‘She’s sweet on him, then?’

Rosie shrugged as she spooned the chocolate powder into a big jug of milk and put it into the microwave to heat. ‘Don’t know. But why else would she be so keen to see him exonerated of a crime like this?’

‘Maybe because she knows him well enough to believe he couldn’t have done it,’ Maggie said slowly, remembering. Hadn’t she once championed a friend accused of something dreadful? So why jump to the conclusion that Kirsty was romantically attached to Colin Young?

‘I don’t know,’ she continued. ‘Remember what happened at Muirpark with Eric?’

‘Yes,’ Rosie said, ‘hard to forget that case. I suppose you must think of it a lot, working there every day.’

‘No, just sometimes,’ Maggie replied. ‘Usually I’m far too busy to think of anything but the next lesson or the continuing assessments.’ She said ruefully.

‘Oh, guess who smelled the chocolate,’ Rosie laughed, seeing her husband and Lorimer appear at the kitchen door. ‘D’you want—’ She broke off as Lorimer’s BlackBerry rang and the policeman retreated into the lounge.

‘Okay, we’ll just have it here, shall we?’ Rosie shrugged, spooning mini marshmallows onto the surface of each drink.

Maggie’s eyes were on the empty doorway, however. Could this be a call that would leave her here alone with the Brightmans? She looked up as Lorimer entered the room again, resignation settling onto her features as she saw his expression. Something had come up.

‘It’s serious, I’m afraid,’ Lorimer told them. ‘The body of a young woman has been found over near Jordanhill. Uniforms just called it in.’ He turned to Maggie. ‘Can you…?’

‘It’s fine, I’ll get the underground into town and a train home, don’t worry,’ Maggie said firmly.

‘Who’s on call this weekend from your lot?’ Lorimer asked, turning to Rosie.

‘Dr Dan,’ Rosie told him.

Maggie’s eyes had been fixed on her husband’s face as he spoke, searching for some sign that he was about to impart information to them. But the tall policeman simply nodded and pocketed his BlackBerry. They would find out the details soon enough, she supposed. Detective Superintendent Lorimer was required at a scene of crime and there was no time to waste on needless explanations.

The icy rain was driving against his face as Lorimer fought against the wind, making his way down the path that was now cordoned off at one end at the main road. Already water had formed large puddles across the path and he could see the silver metal treads spaced out between them, leading to the locus. The sides of the tent were being whipped by violent gusts, making the whole thing look as if it could take off at any moment, exposing the body within. The on-duty scene-of-crime manager, clad, like Lorimer, in a white protective suit, waved him through.

‘Pathologist here yet?’ Lorimer asked him, wiping the rain from his brow.

‘No, sir. Dr Dan was supposed to be on call but he’s called in sick so we’re waiting for Dr Fergusson.’

Lorimer suppressed a grin. Maggie might well be staying on at the Kelvingrove flat to keep Solly company and help with little Abigail. And it was no hardship to learn that Rosie and he were to work together on this case.

‘What do we know so far?’ he asked the detective sergeant, as both men stepped carefully inside the tent.

‘A dog walker called 999 on his mobile, uniforms got here and we set up the necessary as soon as we could, sir. The victim has no ID on her, I’m afraid,’ he added as they looked down at the body lying spreadeagled on the wet ground.

‘Not even a mobile phone?’ Lorimer’s brows lifted in surprise under his white hood. ‘Thought youngsters never went anywhere without them,’ he murmured.

‘We found a wee set of earphones in one trouser pocket,’ the DS told him. ‘But no MP3 player.’

‘You saying she was mugged?’

The DS regarded Lorimer carefully. ‘No conclusions as to that, sir. Better to wait for the doc to come before we can ascertain the likely cause of death.’

Lorimer hid a smile once again. It was well known in the force that the detective super was a stickler for insisting that no officer ought to jump to conclusions. As an illustration there was a favourite story he liked to tell during lectures at Tulliallan about the death of a drunk man outside a Glasgow pub. The on-duty doctor had pronounced the dead man’s demise as heart failure but after he had left the locus the cops had turned over the body only to discover a huge knife sticking out of the man’s chest.

His smile faded when he looked down at this body, however. The young girl was lying on her front, her head bent to one side, long blond hair escaping from a black hair-tie. How old was she? Eighteen, twenty, maybe? A student, perhaps, out for a jog, he reckoned, looking at the mud-covered trainers. Her arms had been flung out as though to break her fall and so Lorimer could see that there were no rings on any of her fingers. Taking a pen out of his pocket, he drew back her left sleeve. A slim gold watch encircled the wrist.

Lorimer glanced up at the DS. ‘If it was a robbery, the mugger missed this little beauty,’ he remarked, peering closely at the watch face to identify the brand. ‘And hopefully that might help identify her, if someone doesn’t call her in as a missing person.’

The girl’s face was still, in death; calm, almost peaceful, as though she had simply dropped off to sleep on this damp patch of ground, except for the fact that her eyes were wide open, vacant and unseeing.

‘Blue eyes,’ Lorimer murmured to himself. Then, as he bent down to see her more clearly, he was suddenly struck by the memory of another victim. Perhaps this girl was merely pretty, whereas the other had been a real beauty. But there was no escaping the similarity between this young woman and the Swedish girl.

Something made him stand up and look towards the door of the tent. It couldn’t be more than five minutes’ walk to Anniesland Cross from here. And Merryfield Avenue was practically around the corner. Lorimer blinked hard as though the thought that had taken hold was forcing him to peer through a fog of indecision. Could Kirsty Wilson be right, after all? And was Eva Magnusson’s killer still out there while Colin Young languished in prison for a crime he did not commit?

‘Lorimer, we really must stop meeting like this,’ Rosie grinned as she ducked into the tent. ‘Right, give me a bit of room, you two. Let’s see what we have here.’

There were other footsteps out on the path and Lorimer pulled a flap aside to see the scene-of-crime officers assembling by the side of the path, some already in their protective suits. But soon he was back inside the tent, watching as Rosie Fergusson began to examine the corpse, her expression softening as she regarded the young girl.

‘Not been dead long,’ Rosie remarked, after a body temperature had been taken. ‘Less than a couple of hours, I’d say.’

Lorimer waited as she turned the girl over onto her side, gloved hands gently probing the victim’s head and neck.

‘Bit of blood on her scalp.’ She pointed to a contusion that had so far been hidden from their sight. There was a momentary silence as they watched the pathologist examining the victim’s neck and throat. ‘Aye,’ she nodded to herself. ‘I thought so. She’s been strangled, poor lass. See?’ She sat back on her hunkers, letting the officers look down on the girl’s neck. Sure enough, red welts sat up on either side, the shadowy marks of a pair of strong hands.

‘Let’s just hope we get prints,’ the DS growled.

‘What’s up with Dan?’ Lorimer asked, bending lower so that Rosie could hear him above the sound of the wind whining against the thin canvas walls.

‘Bad oysters by the sound of it,’ Rosie muttered. ‘Kind of disrupted my weekend, eh?’ She twisted around and wrinkled her nose at Lorimer. Yet there was not a trace of annoyance on that pixie face, rather an eagerness to resolve the problem that lay there before them.

‘Well someone sure as hell disrupted hers,’ Lorimer sighed, nodding towards the corpse. ‘If only it had started raining earlier she might not have decided to come out for her run,’ he added quietly, almost to himself. Then, standing back to allow the SOCOs entry to the tent, he looked again at the dead girl. A student, perhaps, he had surmised. Same age as Eva Magnusson? The ideas were coming thick and fast and with them so many possibilities.

Afterwards, as he sat in the Lexus, Lorimer knew he had some decisions to make. If the MO was the same then perhaps they had charged the wrong man for Eva Magnusson’s murder. But where could he begin to tackle this? They were still waiting for the Fiscal’s decision on whether more investigation was required. Lorimer guessed that Iain MacIntosh would tell them to dig deeper: if nothing was done and it came out during a future trial, there would be mayhem.

There was no question that Lorimer knew what he should do
. Each case demands teamwork
,
he’d always drummed in to new recruits to the force
. Don’t try to be a hero by flying solo
, he’d insisted. And it was true. Kirsty Wilson might have been encouraged to go looking into Eva’s things – and he was glad he had done that, no matter how irregular that might have been – but now it was up to the team at A Division to take control. Was this poor girl’s murder related to Eva Magnusson’s? This was a question that needed to be asked at the next meeting back at HQ. He needed Jo Grant on his side, not working against him, especially if he was to help Colin Young.