The Swedish Girl (14 page)

‘Like I said in my letter, Professor Brightman is here to see if we can help you, Col,’ Kirsty said, softly, so that her words might not be overheard.

‘Help me? How?’ Colin Young frowned and in that moment Solly saw a lad ill at ease, more embarrassed at being in the situation he was in than anything else. Seeing Kirsty here was not what he wanted, Solly realised as Colin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She was part of the good times in his life, not part of these bad days spent in Barlinnie. Hadn’t she thought of that? Their relationship might well become tainted through this visit.

‘I’ve been doing a wee bit of poking around,’ Kirsty continued, unaware of the boy’s discomfiture. ‘I don’t believe for a minute that you did what they say you did,’ she went on, then lowered her voice. ‘And Lorimer has asked the Procurator Fiscal to reopen your case as well…’

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer would have liked to come today but it’s not possible.’ Solly shrugged, giving Colin an apologetic smile. ‘He’s known by too many people here and if we are to make any headway in the case then he has to keep a very low profile.’

‘Lorimer? But I thought DI Grant was in charge of the case?’ Colin looked from one to the other, clearly confused.

‘She still is, nominally. There are things coming to light that might be useful to your agent once the case comes to trial,’ Solly continued. ‘Sadly we can’t divulge too much to you here.’ He glanced around as though there might be hidden microphones recording their every word. ‘But Kirsty has, as she says, been looking into aspects of Eva Magnusson’s life and has uncovered some interesting things.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ Colin said. ‘What can you do? Why did you want to come here?’

‘I sometimes work for Strathclyde Police,’ Solly said. ‘But the day job is in the department of psychology at Glasgow University.’

‘Oh.’ Colin’s frown cleared then he nodded, a trace of a smile on his thin lips. ‘Yes, Kirsty told me,’ he went on. ‘Didn’t you write that book about profiling?’

Solly nodded, a shy smile of pleasure flitting across his face. Then he became serious again. ‘As to your other question: why am I here? Well the answer is that I want to find out as much as I can from you about Eva Magnusson.’ He sat back and opened his hands in a frank gesture.

‘I thought it was criminals you profiled,’ Colin said slowly.

‘Amongst others, yes. But if we are to help you in any way, then I need to begin to know the victim first.’

The two men regarded one another for a long moment and Solly could see the doubt in the prisoner’s eyes. Then, as though the psychologist had passed some sort of a test, Colin breathed a long sigh and glanced down at his hands. ‘Don’t know why you should bother…’

‘Because we believe in you,’ Kirsty insisted. ‘Colin, you couldnae hurt a fly, never mind…’ She tailed off, her smile drooping as the words remained unsaid.

‘There isn’t much time.’ Colin glanced around at the clock on the wall. ‘And it’s hard to know how to begin,’ he said.

‘Begin by telling me about your own relationship with the girl,’ Solly said.

‘
My
relationship…?’ Colin bit his lip and looked from one to the other, redness blossoming onto his cheeks.

‘Yes,’ Solly replied. ‘It’s something I need to know if I’m to be of any help to you.’

‘Okay,’ Colin sighed, then licked his lips nervously. ‘Kirsty…’ He broke off, obviously embarrassed. ‘How much did you know about Eva’s…’ – he swallowed hard – ‘
habits
?’

‘How d’you mean?’ Kirsty frowned.

‘Colin’s asking what you knew about Eva’s sex life,’ Solly said, making it sound like something purely academic.

The relief on the boy’s face made Solly realise something else about him: Colin Young was a shy lad, maybe a little inexperienced with the ladies, and Solly suddenly wondered if the boy had been completely out of his depth with a beauty like the Swedish girl.

‘Well, she never really seemed to have any boyfriends—’ she began then broke off at Colin’s snort of derisive laughter.

‘What?’ she asked, turning to look at Solly as though he could provide an answer.

‘Eva didn’t have time for
boyfriends
,’ Colin told her, holding out his hand and touching her fingers gently. ‘She was too busy having one-night stands and breaking hearts.’ His light tone belied the bitterness of the words themselves and Solly could see the strain on the boy’s face, a pain that told him several things. Colin Young had cared for the Magnusson girl all right, but there was part of him that despised her too, and maybe there was a deep-seated jealousy underlying it all. A Counsel for the Prosecution might well make a lot of this to the prisoner’s detriment, he thought to himself, wondering just how Colin might come across in court.

A glance at the detective sergeant’s daughter made him blink suddenly: Kirsty Wilson was staring open-mouthed as though in shock and Solly guessed that the girl was having to swiftly reassess her opinion of her dead flatmate.

‘Sorry, time’s up.’ The prison officers were there suddenly, bunches of keys jangling from their belts as they stood either side of Colin, making him rise from his seat.

‘Kirsty tells me you write,’ Solly said, leaning forward. ‘Send me anything you can about Eva,’ he added. ‘But only the truth, understand?’

‘
You
don’t believe me?’ Colin hissed.

Solly smiled at him. ‘I only believe what I can see to be true,’ he said. ‘Remember that psychology is a science after all,’ he added gently.

‘And what
do
you see?’ Colin whispered.

But there was no time for an answer, the prison officers motioning their charges towards the far door.

‘I’ll come again,’ Kirsty said, a catch in her voice.

Colin only nodded, refusing to meet her eyes, then he turned away, walking between the two guards, not looking back at them.

‘Come on,’ Solly said, taking Kirsty’s arm and tucking it into his. ‘I really think we need to get you out of here.’

‘Awright, my man?’

A small man stared at him as he entered the cell, his narrow, weaselly face full of the sort of sharp angles that told their own particular addict’s tale.

Colin didn’t reply as the door to their cell clanged behind him, throwing himself onto the bunk and turning his face to the wall. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, especially to yet another new prisoner. Seeing Kirsty like that had been a shock. He’d forgotten what she looked like; in the flat he’d seen her stomping around in her old woolly dressing gown, not a trace of make-up on her apple cheeks. Here, clad in that dark coat, her face had seemed thinner, paler, her eyes tired despite the layers of thick black mascara, and there was something else. The old Kirsty, the one who chatted, joked around, even made him feel like he had a big sister in the flat, had disappeared. In her place was this stranger who had protested his innocence and made him feel utterly ashamed.

Then there was the psychologist. Colin could sense his cheeks burning as he thought over what he had said and how he had failed to recognise the celebrated Professor Brightman! How could he have forgotten what the man looked like, a man who had such a high standing within the university and beyond? Okay, he wasn’t studying psychology, but Brightman’s photo was always appearing in the student newspaper, connected to some high-profile case or other. The professor must have thought he was a bit simple, surely? Colin closed his eyes. What did Brightman think about him? Was he able to translate his body language into something spectacular? See beyond the cringing embarrassment to the quivering wreck he had become in here? Or did his analysis give him a different take altogether? Was he even now transforming his impressions into words to sum up a character that was guilty as charged?

‘Hey, wee man, fancy a game?’

The voice beside Colin’s bed had an edge to it and the boy rolled over and sat up, seeing the other prisoner’s face creased into a grin as he shuffled the pack of greasy playing cards.

‘Name’s Joseph, by the way. What’s yours?’

‘Colin. Colin Young.’

‘Awright, well, young Colin, here’s the score. Nae messin’ wi’ ma stuff and ah leave yours alane, get it?’

Colin nodded silently. He could do this: go along with the life in here, marking time until his trial. Then, what? As he accepted his cards and fanned them out, Colin tried to prevent that reckless feeling that sought a way to surge through his heart and mind. He would not, could not let it master his resolution; but it was hard to forget Kirsty’s eager face and the words she had spoken, words that were meant to make him hope.

‘What’s he like?’

Solly looked up from his dinner plate. Abby was still bashing her spoon against her empty dish, having gaily tossed the last bit of her dinner overboard onto the plastic mat below.

‘Troubled,’ he replied, shifting his glance from Abby to Rosie who was leaning across to wipe their little girl’s face. Abby struggled under her mother’s ministrations, turning her head away as Rosie tried to dab the damp muslin onto cheeks and chin.

She looked at him directly, a question in her eyes.
Was he guilty?
her expression seemed to ask. But Solomon Brightman was not yet ready to deliver such a verdict on the young man who languished in Barlinnie prison. Guilt was there, oh, yes, but of what was the prisoner guilty? Having sex with a girl who had been out of his league both socially and… and what? There was something bothering Solly about the Swedish girl. She hadn’t had regular boyfriends but Colin Young had intimated that she enjoyed sexual encounters simply for their pleasure. Promiscuity was not an offence but the boy had made it sound like some sort of sin. Murderers could and had killed women in brutal acts that were meant to expunge all traces of sexuality from their victims. But Eva Magnusson’s body had shown no wounds to her genital areas, or anything that would indicate an impassioned and frenzied attack. Had he dropped her body in a moment of terror? Afraid at what he had done?

Solly tried to imagine the scene as Colin Young sat back on his haunches, looking at the hands that had strangled the Swedish girl. A smile twitched above his dark beard as the image refused to come clearly into focus. He really could not
see
Colin Young as the murderer after all. The impressions he had so far gleaned from the meeting in Barlinnie had served to come to this initial conclusion. No, like the Wilson girl, Solly Brightman did not believe that the boy was capable of such an act. He replayed the interview in his mind, seeing once again the moment when Colin Young had reached out and touched Kirsty’s fingers. He had wanted to make a connection, show his concern for
her
, Solly thought. He wanted to protect Kirsty… from what? The truth about Eva Magnusson, perhaps? And what was that truth?

Kirsty had been brave, stepping out of the safety of doing and saying nothing, even to the point of coming to Barlinnie to speak to him today. Was that why Colin had shown a moment of protectiveness towards her? Or did he have other feelings for the girl, feelings that a man guilty of a capital crime might have been incapable of expressing back there in such a situation? No, he told himself again, if he were a member of Colin Young’s jury at this moment in time, Solomon Brightman would not be able to offer a guilty vote.

So, he sighed, ignoring the wails from his daughter as she was lifted out of her high chair by Rosie, who else might have had a reason to kill Eva Magnusson?

‘
T
here are several things missing,’ Lorimer told the officers assembled in the incident room. ‘Her mobile phone, a Nokia’ – he turned to point at the enlarged picture behind him as it came onto the screen – ‘and this MP3 player,’ he said, indicating the next picture that suddenly came up below it.

‘There was also a green leather wallet containing her bank cards and student ID plus around ten pounds or so, according to her sister.’ Lorimer paused, looking at the attentive faces regarding him. ‘She isn’t sure just how much money Fiona had on her, but didn’t think it was a lot as she had already done all her Christmas shopping and had let on that she was pretty skint.’ The detective superintendent tried to conceal his feelings but his lips twisted in a moue of disgust. A young girl mugged and killed for a mobile phone and a few quid!

‘So what we need is to get out there pronto, scour all the known pubs for druggies trying to make a quick deal, see if anyone has spotted these items. As for the wallet, she’d got it as a gift, apparently. And her sister says it looks something like this.’ He clicked the button so that an artist’s image appeared behind him.

‘Any luck with forensics?’ a voice asked.

Lorimer gave a wintry smile. ‘Well, they got prints off her body, as it happens. No match on our database, unfortunately, but still, something to go on if we get a suspect.’

There was a murmur of approval from the other officers. Christmas was only days away and there might well be someone trying to flog a mobile or an MP3 player round the pubs. Every snout worth his salt would be chased up by the officers from the city centre division in the hope that whoever had murdered Fiona Travers would not be at large to enjoy his Christmas dinner.

‘And there are enough traces to give us a sufficient amount of DNA should we need it,’ Lorimer added. ‘Fingerprints and bodily fluids, including mucus.’

‘So all we need is a druggie with a bad cold,’ Jo Grant murmured.

Lorimer glanced at his DI but said nothing. He could see she was still smarting from the possibility she had got Colin Young’s charge all wrong.

‘Right, you all know what I want from you so let’s get out there and see if someone can shine a light on this.’

Lorimer looked up as his door was knocked on then opened.

‘Jo, what can I do for you?’

His DI came forward and rested her hands on the edge of the table.

‘This thing with Kirsty Wilson. It could make me look really stupid, you know. Sir,’ she added, her cheeks flaming into twin spots of colour.

‘Jo,’ Lorimer said kindly. ‘You did what you felt was right on the basis of what evidence you had. Any good officer does that. But new evidence comes to light all the time. And it won’t help matters if you appear to be intransigent about Colin Young, will it?’

‘No, sir,’ Jo replied stiffly.

‘He has to remain on remand for now, though. And unless any concrete evidence appears he will remain there until the case goes to trial.’

Jo Grant nodded.

‘And good work to all of you on the Travers case. Things are looking more positive there.’

A grudging smile appeared on the woman’s face as she nodded. ‘And, as you said, there appears to be enough DNA to nail the bastard whenever we get him,’ she said grimly.

‘Good.’ Lorimer nodded, fiddling with the pen in his hands. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on. Just keep me informed, will you? We’re not going away over Christmas so I’d be grateful to know what progress you make.’

‘Oh.’ Jo cocked her head to one side. ‘Not going up to Mull for New Year, then?’

‘No, afraid not. Your aunt’s wonderful cottage is fully booked over the season, but not by us, I fear.’

The DI nodded. She had been instrumental in introducing the Lorimers to Aunty Mary’s cottage in Mull several years back and it had become a favourite escape for Lorimer and his schoolteacher wife.

‘Right, sir, I’ll be off, then,’ Jo said, giving the detective superintendent a quick smile.

Lorimer watched her leave then gave a sigh as the door closed behind her. It would be excellent if DI Grant were to make a quick arrest and have the certainty that Fiona Travers’s killer was behind bars. Try as he might, Lorimer could not convince himself now that his officer had got it right with the arrest of Colin Young. But wasn’t he to blame as well? After all, he hadn’t disagreed at first when Jo had decided on the young man’s guilt. However, if the accusation against Colin was to go completely awry, then having a collar for
this
case would go some way to alleviating Jo Grant’s ensuing embarrassment and his own guilty conscience.

The scene-of-crime tape tied to the tree trunk still flapped in the wind as he passed down the lane. The tall man stopped for a moment, looking at the flattened patch of earth where the girl’s body had lain. She had looked out at him from every newspaper in the land these past few days, a smiling blonde girl, younger than the creature he remembered, panting down the beaten track, ears full of that trashy music. His fists clenched as he recalled the moment when he had swung the stick, feeling once again the sickening impact, hearing it anew as he recalled the sound of wooden club on flesh and bone.
 

He stepped to one side, leaning against the tree trunk, a weak feeling melting his insides. He glanced at his bare hands, seeing the dark hairs on the wrists, the protruding knuckles then, in one swift movement, he thrust them deep into his coat pockets as though to banish that other image.
 

The man closed his eyes and a thin whimpering sound escaped from his parted lips. Try as he might, he could not rid himself of that recurring moment when he had gripped her around the neck, squeezing the very life from her.