The Swedish Girl (17 page)

‘I heard Eva having a row with someone. At the party.’

‘When was this?’

‘I’m not sure. Couldn’t have been long before she left.’

‘Was it Colin?’

Roger shrugged. ‘That’s what I’m not sure about. You see, I only heard
her
voice on the other side of the bathroom door. There was a lot of noise, you know? Music and that.’

‘So how do you know she was having an argument with someone?’

‘It was what she
said
.’ Roger looked down at his feet, suddenly embarrassed.

‘And…?’

‘She said… she was shouting… other folk must’ve heard her…’

‘Roger?’

‘She said, “I’ll screw anyone I want!”’

There was a moment of silence as Roger closed his eyes, clearly upset at having to recount this incident.

‘Later on… after she… well, I thought it must have been Colin,’ he said miserably. ‘Thought he had found out about Eva… and…’ He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully. ‘And me,’ he finished in a hoarse whisper. ‘I thought that he’d become jealous… Oh God! And I’ve been thinking such awful things about him all this time!’

The boy pushed the shock of red hair back from his face, his eyes finding Lorimer’s once again. ‘But now I don’t know,’ he said. ‘What if Kirsty’s right? What if he
didn’t
do it⁠?’

‘What do you
think
, Roger?’

The boy looked away again, hands clasped thoughtfully under his chin. ‘I don’t know. Honestly, and that’s the truth, I really don’t know. I mean, I liked Colin and he was the last person you could imagine hurting a girl, but…’

Lorimer waited, eyebrows raised in question.

Another sigh followed. ‘Don’t they say it’s always the quiet ones who act out of character?’ Roger said at last.

A sound behind them made the pair turn and then Kirsty was there in the kitchen doorway, unwinding her long scarf.

She had opened her mouth as though to speak then caught his glance.

‘Oh,’ she said, and began to back out of the room.

‘It’s okay,’ the detective reassured her, ‘we were just about finished anyway.’ Then, catching the expression of relief on Roger Dunbar’s face as the student stood up, he put out a hand.

‘Roger,’ he began, standing up so that the tall student had to look at him, ‘Professor Brightman wants to talk to you as well. Will that be a problem?’

Roger hesitated for long enough to let Lorimer see the doubt in the boy’s eyes.

‘Don’t suppose so,’ he shrugged at last, slouching away from Lorimer as he spoke, putting as much distance between them as the long kitchen allowed.

‘Right,’ Kirsty said uncertainly, looking from one to the other. ‘I’ll make some tea then, shall I?’

‘When does Gary come back?’

‘Oh, not for ages. Glasgow Uni’s term begins the third week of January. Why? Do you really need to see him that urgently?’

Lorimer sipped the tea that Kirsty had made him, not answering. Did he need to see Gary Calderwood? Yes, he thought, suddenly, he did. In fact he would call the student this evening to ask him to come back to Glasgow. Anyone who had known the Swedish girl, and the student arrested for her murder, had to tell them everything they knew about the couple. And that thought brought him back to the Strathclyde University lecturer, Dirk McGregor, who had agreed to meet him in town this very afternoon.

Princes Square was, on reflection, a terrible choice of rendezvous, having as its only redeeming feature the fact that it was easy to spot a policeman of six feet four inches standing by the balustrade outside Fifi and Ally’s tea room. Everywhere, shoppers milled around, the blank expressions on so many faces as though it were some sort of tribal duty to scour the shops for a post-Christmas bargain. Maggie had occasionally ventured into town to shop at the sales but declared that the heaving crowds made finding new clothes a thoroughly unpleasant experience. Even the windows of chichi boutiques were plastered with large SALE notices, obscuring the mayhem within. Looking around, Lorimer smiled to see several men, like him, leaning on the polished wooden rail, waiting resignedly for their wives and girlfriends to return. The place was pretty enough, though, he told himself, looking up at the glass roof and the sun streaming in, catching the swirling snowflake decorations that hung suspended by hundreds of nylon threads. Down below, someone was playing the grand piano, the tinkling music wafting upwards, past the giant crystal shape that represented a Christmas tree, mingling with the babble of women’s voices and clinking teacups from the tables behind him.

He had told Jo Grant that he was having this meeting with McGregor.
I think he’ll open up more in a less formal place than Stewart Street
, he had told her when she had raised her eyebrows. The boss was doing things his way, her expression seemed to say, and she wasn’t one hundred per cent happy about that.

‘Lorimer?’

The man stepping off the escalator tapped the detective superintendent on the arm. Lorimer turned to see a man about his own age regarding him suspiciously.

‘Mr McGregor?’

‘Aye, that’s right,’ the man said, his eyes boring into Lorimer’s own. ‘What the hell’s this all about? And did I need to come into Glasgow?’ he protested.

‘You didn’t want police at your home, did you?’ Lorimer growled back. ‘I could always escort you up to Stewart Street, if you’d prefer? I know my DI would just love to meet you.’

The man shook his head and made a face.

Lorimer took him by the crook of his elbow and beckoned him back to the down ramp. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’s impossible to talk in here.’

Dirk McGregor shook the policeman’s hand off as though offended by his touch but followed him nonetheless.

‘Gallery of Modern Art’s maybe going to be a bit quieter than a place like this,’ Lorimer suggested, glancing back at the lecturer who was scowling at him.

‘Thought we might have found a decent pub,’ McGregor countered gloomily.

The policeman raised his eyebrows. ‘Is this you offering me a seasonal tipple by any chance?’

‘Thought you lot weren’t supposed to drink on duty,’ the man shot back.

Lorimer deliberately ignored the barb. ‘GOMA’s just around the corner. And it’s closer than any pub,’ he said, as they came out of the shopping mall. Buchanan Street was heaving with people and Lorimer had to slow his pace to make sure that McGregor did not simply walk away from him.

He glanced at the lecturer from time to time, appraisingly. He was a lean, good-looking man, rakish, with brown hair, thinning slightly on top, and a loping stride that matched Lorimer’s own. His long, brown wool coat was unbuttoned to reveal a faded suede jacket over a mustard-coloured open-necked shirt and a pair of highly polished loafers showed below his cord trousers. If Eva Magnusson had been having an affair with this older man then perhaps it may have been a purely physical attraction.

They were silent as they rounded Royal Exchange Square and crossed towards the gallery’s entrance. Already the light had changed and the darkness of the winter afternoon contrasted with the gauzy golden net of tiny lights suspended above the square. The statue of the Duke of Wellington astride his horse stood looking down on the people hurrying along Queen Street and for once there was no orange and white traffic cone placed by mischief-makers on the heads of either horse or rider.

Lorimer saw with some relief that the gallery was almost empty. ‘Coffee?’ he asked and Dirk McGregor responded with an ungracious grunt that he took for assent.

A few minutes later they were seated at a corner table.

‘What’s all this about?’ Dirk McGregor grumbled once again, shooting Lorimer a look of annoyance.

‘Oh,’ the policeman smiled thinly, ‘I thought I was going to ask that question.’

McGregor frowned. ‘What is it you want?’

‘The truth about your relationship with Eva Magnusson.’

McGregor gave a hollow laugh. ‘Truth? Ha! The truth is I was taken for a mug, that’s what the truth is, Detective Superintendent.’

‘Oh?’ Lorimer cocked his head to one side. ‘Care to elaborate?’

McGregor shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘Look she was just a right little cock teaser, wanted what she could get, that was all, right?’

‘So you never had sex with her?’

McGregor looked down at his coffee mug, sighing. ‘Never said that,’ he began. ‘All right, we did have sex, okay?’ he muttered. He gave a sigh, bit his lip then looked up at Lorimer for a long moment before shaking his head in a gesture of despair. ‘God, she was the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time!’ He violently brushed a hand across his eyes. ‘Who would have wanted to destroy a lovely girl like Eva?’

‘I’m trying to find out that very thing, Mr McGregor,’ Lorimer told him softly.

‘But I thought you’d caught the guy⁠?’

‘Perhaps,’ Lorimer said vaguely. ‘There are lots of enquiries still going on into Eva Magnusson’s life here in Glasgow, however.’

The other man frowned. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, actually I don’t see… isn’t the case closed?’

‘There are lots of background checks to be made,’ Lorimer went on smoothly. ‘Loose ends to tie up.’

‘I won’t have to testify or anything, will I?’ McGregor had shot upright, a look of alarm across his handsome features. ‘My wife doesn’t need to know…?’

‘Perhaps not,’ Lorimer conceded. ‘Now, let me ask you a bit more about Eva. What was your relationship like?’

Dirk McGregor relaxed a little, sitting back and spreading his hands across the table. ‘What was Eva like?’ A smile flickered on his mouth. ‘A real wee firecracker, actually,’ he said, preening himself a little as the memory took hold. ‘But she was the one who started it, Lorimer, not me.’ The smile faded as suddenly as it had appeared, like a rare shaft of sunlight in a Glasgow rainstorm.

‘Go on,’ Lorimer said quietly.

‘You want to know the truth, the real truth, well here it is.’ He leaned forward. ‘
She
seduced
me
, Detective Superintendent. So get rid of any idea that I was the big bad
lecherer
in this story, okay?’

‘You didn’t happen to be at that student party she was attending the night she died, by any chance?’

The lecturer shook his head. ‘No.’

‘So where were you that night?’

McGregor gave a hollow laugh. ‘At home with the wife and kids. Sad but true.’

‘But you had planned to meet up with Eva the day after she was killed?’

McGregor sighed, putting both hands to his head. ‘God, if only we had!’ He looked up and Lorimer could see the misery in his eyes. ‘Do you know how horrible it is thinking you’re going to see someone then knowing you’ll never ever have the chance again?’

The policeman swallowed hard. Didn’t that fate come to everyone at some time or other in their lives?

‘Can I ask you something else?’ he said instead. ‘Did you ever see Eva with anyone else – another man or a boy, perhaps?’

McGregor frowned again, but thoughtfully this time as if Lorimer had struck a hidden chord in his memory.

‘She always had her friends about her, right enough. But you’re wanting someone special? There was a lad who hung about a lot,’ he began. ‘Not sure if he was from their course…’ He chewed his lip. ‘Thin lad, pale face – yes, now I come to think of it he sat along from her in some of the lectures, followed her out sometimes… oh, sorry, cannae mind his name. It’ll be on a database somewhere, though.’

‘This might or might not be important,’ Lorimer said, trying to keep his expression as impassive as possible while pinning the man with his stare. ‘But when you can find this student’s name you will contact me right away?’ He took out his leather wallet, picking out a card and sliding it across the table.

‘Oh, and there’s just one more thing, Mr McGregor,’ he continued. ‘At some point we will need you to come to police headquarters to make a statement, but we’ll let you know.’

Dirk McGregor pocketed the card and sat back. ‘Is that it, then? Am I free to go?’ The ghost of a smile twisted on his face as he spoke.

‘Aye, for now, though I might need to talk to you again soon.’

Lorimer watched as the lecturer walked away from him, brown coat swinging, out of the cafeteria and up to the ground floor of the building. Would Solomon Brightman want to talk to this man? Perhaps not.

Then a sudden memory of the dead girl lying on the carpet at Merryfield Avenue came back to him, blond hair spread across that perfect face. Could the dead still speak across that dark void? And was there anything that a deeper investigation into the Swedish girl’s life might tell him?

Colin felt the sting of tears behind his eyelids as he looked at the pages of his notebook and the scribbled heading,
THE SWEDISH GIRL
.

What had she done to him? And how on earth was he ever going to convince anyone that he was innocent of her murder?

I
t was always the same, Solly thought with a sigh; five days away from home and a list of emails awaited his attention. He scrolled down to see who had been trying to contact him, deleting the spam, taking notes of the details for his forthcoming lecture in Stockholm before pausing at the one bearing Lorimer’s personal email address.

Saw Dirk McGregor
, the detective superintendent had written,
and went up to speak to Roger Dunbar. Think you’ll want to see that lad for yourself, though
, he had added cryptically.

Solly sighed again. The Christmas break had been a blessed respite from any sort of work and he had not once given the police case a thought, content to be with Rosie and Abby, seeing the little girl being thoroughly spoiled by her grandparents, uncles and aunties. But that interlude was over and now he was back in his Glasgow home, pondering just what he had agreed to take on and whether the entire case would come back to haunt him in later years. If Colin Young was brought to trial and found guilty, would there be some mud clinging to his own reputation if it was discovered he had meddled behind the scenes? Once he would never have hesitated to consider a thought like that, Solly told himself, but now he was a husband and a father, responsible not just to himself but to his little family.

A memory came back then of the boy, Colin, as they had shaken hands before he watched him being led away amongst the other prisoners. He had looked back just once, his eyes searching for Kirsty. And what had he seen in that look? Expectation? Hope? Or simply the forlorn expression of a lad who was desperately trying to put a brave face on his situation?

It was no good, the psychologist told himself, pointing the cursor at Reply, he had to do what he could for that young man, even at the risk of his own reputation.

‘Gary’s coming back early,’ Kirsty said. ‘Kept saying he couldn’t leave his mum but looks like he’s changed his mind.’

Or had his mind been changed for him? she wondered, not voicing this sudden thought. She knew that Lorimer had been anxious to speak to him.

‘Soon there’ll be the three of us again,’ she continued, forcing herself to speak brightly. ‘And you’ll be back too, Colin. Wait and see.’

Colin imagined her back at the flat, in the bedroom across from his own. Was her ear pressed hard against the mobile as though that would bring her a little closer to him, imagining her friend on the other end of the line? He hoped so.

‘Good. Maybe he’ll tell them more about Eva,’ Colin said, glancing sideways to see if there was anyone else approaching the two phone booths at the end of the corridor.

‘What can he tell them that we don’t know?’

Colin bit his lip. She didn’t suspect a thing about Eva and Gary’s relationship, did she?

‘Och, you never know,’ he replied vaguely. ‘Gary’s a good-looking bloke. Maybe Eva fancied him?’

Kirsty gave a snort of laughter. ‘I don’t think so,’ she declared. ‘Gary just fancies himself. He’s like that guy in the Shania Twain song, you know? The one who keeps a couple of combs in his pocket just in case. “Oh-oh, you think you’re special”,’ she sang.

Colin laughed. It was great just to hear Kirsty’s voice and she still had the capacity to make him feel better, even in here. Think of nice things to ask her, he told himself.

‘How was your Christmas?’

‘Och, the usual, you know. Granny Wilson had knitted me a sweater that came down to my knees so I’ll probably wear it as a mini dress and shock the poor old soul.’ There was a pause before she asked, ‘How about you?’

‘Not so bad, really. We all got selection boxes at teatime and the meals were good. The staff make an effort, I’ll say that for them.’

‘Good,’ Kirsty agreed, then there was a silence between them as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

‘It’ll be all right, Colin, I just know it will.’

‘Aye, well, we have to wait an’ see, don’t we?’ he whispered. ‘Look, I’ll call you again soon, promise.’

He hung up and wandered over to the end of the corridor to the tall bank of windows, glancing behind him to check if anyone was watching. The windows opened inwards and provided a welcome draught of air, but once he had been sharply reprimanded by another inmate for letting in the cold, though why any of them wouldn’t want to smell the fresh air was beyond him.

Outside, the afternoon light was fading and he could see the orange points of the street lamps against the green arc of a nearby golf course. If he craned his eyes to the left then he could just make out the towering shapes of the infamous Red Road flats, but usually he let his eyes dwell on the Campsie Hills, trying to remember happier days when he had been free to roam around the countryside, unaware of what a gift that freedom really was.

Dusk was falling now, making shadows where none had been before, obscuring the path that lay below him. The trees had begun to stir, as though they were nocturnal creatures roused from sleep by some unseen force. The chill in the air spoke of a frost forming even as he stood amidst the shrubbery, hidden from the sight of any passer-by. Soon enough the leaves would harden, their edges rimed with white, the whole woodland caught in the grip of a cold wind blowing in from the east.
 

He could go home, he told himself, back to the place where a fire might be lit and curtains drawn against the night and all its terrors. But warmth of a different kind was what he anticipated: the warmth of flesh and blood under his hands, the warmth that made him feel such power surging through his veins
…
 

The sound of feet thudding somewhere to his right made him shrink back, his fingers clasping the weapon more tightly, as though to reassure himself it was still there. Then the figure appeared out of the mist, a grey phantom shape, slim-hipped and hooded. His lips parted as he watched her approach. It was a woman, he was certain of that, but was she the right one?
 

His body tensed for the moment when he would hurl himself at his victim, knocking her to the ground.
 

She was almost parallel with his hiding place when her feet faltered and she stopped, turned and looked straight at the quivering bushes as though she could see right through them. For a moment she was still, alert like a startled doe. Then, in one swift movement she cast back her hood, revealing a dark ponytail, and pulled out her earphones, letting them dangle in her gloved hands.
 

He felt his body go rigid as he tried hard not to make a sound, gritting his teeth in disappointment.
 

Then, as though the woman had decided that there was nothing to see and nothing to hear, she picked up her pace, running along the track towards the road where there would be street lights and traffic and human company.
 

The man watched her go, blinking away the wateriness that had formed in his eyes. Then, thrusting the weapon into the inside pocket of his coat, he stepped onto the path and prepared to walk the long way back from where he had come.
 

As Rodge crossed the road to the curve of University Gardens he looked up at the big stained-glass windows of Professor Brightman’s office. He’d walked this path hundreds of times on his way to the Queen Margaret Union but today it felt as though he was taking this route for the first time.

Soon he was standing at the large panelled door, wondering why he should be so tense with nerves. The guy was only one of the staff, after all, not some monster to be feared.

Yet when the door swung open, Rodge found he had jumped back a pace, the sight of the bearded man only adding to his discomfiture.

‘Roger? I’m Professor Brightman.’

He took the proffered hand, feeling its warm clasp, then he was inside a large airy room that might have been a small library its walls were lined with so many books.

‘Come in, come in! Over here to the window,’ the professor said, gesturing around a big table in the middle of the room. ‘There’s a variety of teas and coffees and, hm, maybe a biscuit, though the first years were in just before Christmas, so maybe not…’ he muttered into his beard, picking up a flower-patterned plate that bore nothing but crumbs.

‘It’s okay,’ Rodge began, ‘I’ve had my lunch, anyhow.’

‘No tea?’ The eyes behind that pair of horn-rimmed spectacles lost a little of their twinkle as though the professor was disappointed.

‘Oh, but you go ahead, I mean, if you were going to have tea… look I’ll have a cup if you want…’ Rodge felt his face begin to flush and he cursed the gene pool that had given him such a shock of red hair and the complexion that came with the package.

The professor beamed. ‘What’ll we have? Camomile, mint, rosehip, um, something to make you sleep better…’ He flicked through a pile of tea bags in a small wicker basket.

‘D’you have any ordinary tea?’ Rodge ventured. ‘That’ll do me, honest.’

‘Of course,’ Solly replied, triumphantly lifting out a sachet of English Breakfast as though he had conjured it up. ‘Now let me guess. Milk and two sugars?’

Roger nodded.

‘Right, how much time do we have? You’ll be busy, no doubt.’

‘It’s okay,’ Rodge assured him. ‘I’m not, really.’ Then he bit his lip, wondering if he had missed the chance to fib and leave this interview all the sooner.

The professor caught his eye and smiled and in that moment Roger knew that Brightman was living up to his name: he had sussed him out just like that. So, what did he see? A big lad with nice manners who couldn’t even lie about something as simple as having somewhere else to go?

‘Thanks,’ he said as Solly handed him a mug of tea.

‘No, I must thank
you
,’ Solly said gravely. ‘You didn’t have to come to me today, or any other day for that matter. And I appreciate that you are here.’

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer said you’d want to talk to me about Eva,’ Roger said.

‘Yes,’ the professor replied, then stared past the student as though deep in thought. ‘Yes, that’s right. We have to know a lot more about her if we are to make any progress with this problem.’

‘Problem?’

‘The problem of the wrong person being charged with her murder!’ Solly replied, his bushy eyebrows shooting up as though in mild astonishment that the student had not yet cottoned on to why he was sitting in this room drinking tea. ‘You don’t think Colin Young killed her, do you?’

Roger shrugged. ‘I don’t know any more,’ he admitted.

‘Well, then, we must endeavour to find out who did and to achieve this I think we need to know a lot, lot more about Miss Eva Magnusson!’

The professor gave him a kindly smile and tilted his head to one side as though a question had been asked.

‘What?’ Rodge asked, feeling the telltale flush of crimson reddening his cheeks.

‘Tell me everything about her,’ Solly said gently. ‘And I
mean
everything.’

The deep brown eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles blinked owlishly as the psychologist regarded his notes. It was interesting how writing things down always seemed to clarify one’s thoughts, Solly nodded to himself. And, although his next interview should be with Gary Calderwood, he wondered about speaking to someone different altogether.

The three boys had several things in common: they had been selected to share a flat with Eva Magnusson and had fallen for the girl’s undoubted charms. Colin’s letters hinted at his suspicion that Gary had been in the Swedish student’s bed. And everyone knew now about the ill-fated sexual encounter between Eva and Colin Young. Lorimer had not told his detective sergeant’s daughter about Roger Dunbar, however, and the more he thought about it the more convinced Solly was that the three boys had been chosen deliberately. For, he reasoned, hadn’t they other things in common? Like the fact that each one of them had lost a parent, just like the Swedish girl. A coincidence, perhaps, but somehow Solly doubted that, and his thoughts began to turn to Henrik Magnusson and the reasons behind his choice of tenants for the flat in Merryfield Avenue. Had the dead girl’s father some sort of an agenda in mind as he interviewed Eva’s potential flatmates?

Kirsty was the house mother, of that there could be little doubt; hadn’t she told him herself how the others had loved her home cooking? He pondered on the Swede’s choice of Kirsty as the only other girl. Her father was a detective sergeant with Strathclyde Police, good credentials for any prospective tenant, and the dark-haired girl would never have proved any sort of competition to Eva. She had a nice, kind face, Solly reminded himself, but he would be lying if he didn’t describe her as a bit on the hefty side: there was nothing of the glamour-puss in Kirsty Wilson. Was that the sort of girl Magnusson had wanted? A homebody? Someone who was bright and friendly, who would make his daughter feel cosseted? A motherly type, in other words, for a girl who had never known what it was to have a mother of her own.

Mrs Young had died of cancer when Colin and his brother were little boys, Mrs Dunbar’s death had occurred when Roger was just thirteen. And Gary Calderwood? He did have a mother, that was true enough; it had been the loss of his father that had interested the psychologist. Roger had told him a little about his flatmate, how Magnusson had known the student’s late father through business, how Gary had taken time off his university studies to help his mother over their bereavement.

Four little lost children, Solly mused. All put together by a man who wielded power over thousands of his own employees… Yes, perhaps it was Henrik Magnusson who should be the next person on his visiting list. And maybe his own Rosie could give him an inkling about the Swedish millionaire whose businesses controlled so many lives.

Multiple entries appeared on his screen as soon as Solly googled the man’s name and for the next twenty minutes he amused himself trying to fit a personality around the bits and pieces of information that could be garnered so easily on the internet.

The lecture at Stockholm University was to take the psychologist away from home for a day and a night: could he possibly find the time to seek out Eva’s father before returning to Glasgow? The thought translated itself into action as he searched through the file that Lorimer had given him, pausing at a sheet of paper with Magnusson’s personal details written down. Was this a step too far? Would the Swede be willing to meet him to discuss his daughter’s dreadful death? And could he do it all without alerting the officers of Strathclyde Police who were legitimately handling the case?