The Swedish Girl (21 page)

K
irsty stood on the corner of Cathedral Street and Montrose Street watching as the students took their different routes, some to Caledonian and others to Strathclyde. She had left Eva here loads of time last term before heading to her own classes. If only Colin could be released from jail it would almost feel normal again… but without Eva it was never going to be the same, was it?

Last night she had listened as Lorimer and Professor Brightman had explained what they had found out so far. A secret lover, she mused, thinking of the Strathclyde lecturer whose number she had discovered by chance. And had there been others? God help me, Kirsty thought, Eva had scarcely been in Glasgow four months, yet in that short time the seemingly modest and self-contained girl had managed to hop in and out of so many different beds! Apart from her own drunken scramble with Roger, Kirsty hadn’t had one bit of attention from a lad. And how do I feel about that? she wondered. Glad to be alive, a small voice whispered in her ear. And in a funny way, Kirsty felt relieved. Perhaps being so beautiful was what had killed Eva Magnusson. And nobody was going to notice dumpy Kirsty Wilson in a crowd, were they? she thought as she turned up Montrose Street and headed the way the Swedish girl had always gone.

Lesley Crawford blinked from her hospital bed as the sunlight glared through a gap in the curtains, the brightness of the winter sunlight a contrast with this shaded room. She put one tremulous hand to her forehead, wondering for a moment why her hair felt so odd, so coarse… Then the memory of the hospital corridor and other, harsher, lights returned, green-clad figures that had loomed over her vision until the blackness descended. Letting her fingers trace the bandages, Lesley struggled to remember more. An accident. She must have been in some kind of accident, that was it.

The throbbing on either side of her head made Lesley close her eyes against the light as she listened to the muffled roar of traffic coming from somewhere far below. And, as she lay, slipping gratefully back into the comfort of sleep, the woman in the chair beside her gave a small smile of satisfaction.

‘She’s still on fairly strong medication, Detective Inspector,’ the sister told Jo Grant. ‘It will be at least tomorrow before you can expect any signs of lucidity. And even then,’ she warned in a tone that brooked no disagreement, ‘it will be entirely up to Dr Leckie to decide if his patient is fit to talk to the police.’

‘Thanks,’ Jo replied. ‘But we really do need to talk to her the moment she can speak.’ She paused, looking at the senior nurse, wondering how much dedication to her patients went on inside that intelligent face, trying to decide just how much to reveal.

‘The man who attacked Lesley has to be found,’ she said quietly, staring meaningfully into the other woman’s eyes. ‘You do know what I’m saying, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Sister replied, one eyebrow raised. ‘He might very well try to attack and kill other defenceless women.’ She smiled a trifle wearily. ‘It’s your job to prevent that, Detective Inspector, and it’s mine to care for the health and well-being of my patients.’ The woman nodded and sighed. ‘I’ve got your number. I’ll call you the moment she is able to talk to you, I promise.’

The lecture theatre was full of students jostling along the narrow rows, haversacks slung in the aisles or under desks as Kirsty filed in with the last of the class. She hurried to the nearest vacant seat at the back, darting anxious glances around, but no one seemed to notice a stranger in their midst. What was it one of her own tutors had told her at the beginning of her degree?
If you drop dead nobody’s going to notice
. That had elicited an explosion of laughter but the sentiment behind it was true enough. Was any single student really thinking about Eva Magnusson right now? Probably not. Their eyes were all on the figure walking down the short flight of steps towards the lectern.

Kirsty took a deep breath. Dirk McGregor. She had known it was his class, but somehow seeing him in the flesh made everything so horribly real. The image of Eva’s dead body flashed into her mind, then the idea of the Swedish girl rolling in this man’s embrace…

Kirsty shook her head as if to dismiss the pictures. Concentrate on the here and now, she told herself firmly. Remember why you’re here.

If Dirk McGregor noticed a stranger in their midst then he was keeping it to himself, Kirsty thought as she listened to him giving the lecture. He was good, she had to admit, even giving her a wee inkling about business economics despite the fact that she had expected it to be way above her head. And he could make the class laugh. It was obvious that they enjoyed his lectures. She glanced around her at the eager faces fixed on the figure at the lectern, giving a rueful smile as she watched the girls in particular, eyes shining as they drank in McGregor’s words; it wasn’t difficult to see what the attraction had been for Eva. McGregor was a bit old, right enough, but, looking at his lean body and that charismatic grin, she decided that the lecturer may have been sex on legs in his younger days.

But it wasn’t McGregor Kirsty had come to see today. And, as the buzzer sounded for the end of class, she shivered, wondering if what she had planned might bring her any nearer to helping Colin Young end his time in prison.

‘Trainers? For me?’ Colin looked up at the old man who was smiling back at him.

‘Aye, present from an admirer,’ Sam chuckled. Then, seeing the alarm on the lad’s face he patted his shoulder. ‘Dinna you worry, son, it’s no’ frae ony o’ thae shirt lifters.’ He tapped the side of his nose and nodded. ‘These are frae the big man in E Block.’

Colin was sitting on the bench outside the showers looking doubtfully at the pair of sparkling white trainers in his hands.

‘He wants a wee favour off ye in return,’ Sam explained. ‘Nothing that’ll get ye intae bother. Jist a wee help wi’ passing oan a message fur him.’

Colin frowned. ‘Like on the phone, you mean?’

Sam’s smile turned into a grin, his tombstone teeth showing yellow against his pallid lips. ‘Naw, son. Jist pass on a verbal tae wan o’ the visitors next time ye’re in the place.’

‘How will I know who to speak to?’ Colin looked puzzled. All visits were so closely monitored, prisoners being allocated particular numbered tables where their visitors would await them.

‘Ye’ll be telt nearer the time, okay?’ Sam’s smile had disappeared and the old man stood up, clearly irritated at Colin’s questions.

‘And if I decide not to pass on a message?’ Colin asked, looking up.

Sam shook his head slowly. ‘Naw, son, ye cannae decide onything like that. Wance the big man asks for a favour, ye do it. Simple as that.’ And, looking him straight in the eyes, Sam drew a finger across his throat, turned and walked away, leaving Colin with the accursed trainers on his lap.

He watched as Sam disappeared then closed his eyes. What had he expected; a nice old man looking out for him? This place was full of criminals, Colin reminded himself, men who were adept at gulling the unwary. It wasn’t enough, seemingly, to keep his nose clean for the officers who were present at every corner. Now he had to be wary even of people who were incarcerated in a completely different block from himself.

‘Hello.’ Lesley tried to smile at the woman by her bedside, a nurse of some sort, her white cap edged in lace, her blue uniform different from the nurses who had been in to take her temperature and blood pressure.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Tired,’ Lesley whispered. ‘Sore.’

The sister glanced up at the drip that was attached to the patient’s hand.

‘If it gets too bad, press this,’ she said, indicating a red button a few inches up the plastic tubing. ‘It monitors the painkiller and will give you some relief.’ She paused, looking a little more closely into Lesley Crawford’s face. ‘Do you feel up to talking to the police?’

Lesley frowned then let her brow clear when a jolt of pain creased her temples. ‘Police?’

‘You were attacked, Lesley. The police need to speak to you, ask you questions. Are you up for that, do you think?’

Lesley turned her head away, remembering. Christmas Eve. She sighed and bit her lip, reluctant to let the memories return, to relive again the moment when it had happened.

‘I suppose so,’ she answered dully.

‘Good, I’ll let Detective Inspector Grant know. I think she’ll be in quite soon to see you.’

Lesley watched as the sister left the room. Then, letting her fingers work their way up the plastic tubing, she found the button and pressed it once, praying under her breath that the drug would quickly take effect.

The slim dark-haired woman who entered her room was not Lesley Crawford’s idea of a police officer. Her initial impression was of a young, pretty woman, the sort that Lesley would expect to see in one of the city bars she frequented after office hours. The injured woman’s gaze took in the fashionable skirt suit and the flat-heeled leather boots before travelling upwards where her stare was returned by eyes that held an expression of both warmth and sympathy.

‘Detective Inspector Grant,’ the police officer said, showing Lesley her warrant card before sitting in the grey plastic chair next to the bed. ‘The ward sister said you were told to expect me.’

Lesley stifled a sigh. Those keen eyes regarding her solemnly; what did they see? Another woman, like herself? Or a victim of crime? Suddenly she wanted to be left in peace but the policewoman had folded her hands on her lap as though she were waiting for Lesley to take the initiative.

‘What do you want to know?’ This time there was no masking the sigh that ended in a yawn.

‘Everything that you can tell me,’ DI Grant replied with a faint smile. ‘We need to catch the man who did this to you, Lesley. And we may be able to do that sooner rather than later with your help.’

The woman’s voice was firm but kind and Lesley knew there was no way she was going to be allowed to escape reliving the worst Christmas Eve of her life.

‘Where do I begin?’

‘How about telling me where you had been and what took you to the vicinity of the church car park,’ the detective suggested.

‘I was at a party,’ Lesley began. ‘That’s where it all started.’

The cafeteria seemed to be the best place to begin, Kirsty decided, following a string of students from the lecture theatre and along to a ground-floor snack bar. She took a deep breath and looked across at a table where some of them had congregated, bags and haversacks slung carelessly on the floor.

‘Hi, mind if I join you?’

‘Sure.’ A girl around her own age pulled out a vacant metal chair then shuffled around to make space for her.

Five pairs of eyes regarded her quizzically.

‘Haven’t seen you here before,’ a dark-haired lad with pencil-thin sideburns nodded at Kirsty, a faint smile on his face. ‘New to the course?’

Kirsty drew in a deep breath. Here goes, she thought.

‘My name is Kirsty Wilson. I live in the flat where Eva Magnusson was killed.’

There was a silence around the table as the five students stared at her. Then the girl next to her who had offered her a seat leaned forward and placed her hand on Kirsty’s arm.

‘You poor soul. That must have been awful for you.’

‘God, yes!’ a pretty Asian girl broke in. ‘Poor Eva. That was a terrible thing to have happened. A nice lassie like that, coming over from Sweden…’

‘You knew her, then?’ Kirsty asked.

‘Oh, aye,’ the first girl nodded. ‘Everyone knew her. I mean, you could hardly miss her, could you?’

There was a murmuring around the table and one of the boys coughed, reddening as he caught Kirsty’s glance.

‘Smashing girl. A real head-turner. Pure shame, really.’

‘Aye, a bloody waste of a young life!’ another lad with a Geordie accent exclaimed, thumping his fist onto the edge of the table. ‘Hope the bastard who did it gets life!’

Kirsty jumped a little at the vehemence in his voice.

‘Nobody’s guilty till a jury decides,’ she said slowly.

‘Oh, of
course
, it was a lad in your flat that did it!’ the Asian girl exclaimed.

‘Or maybe not,’ Kirsty said softly so that only the group around the table could hear her.

‘But I thought…?’ the red-faced lad began.

‘See, why I’m here is to try to find out if there was anyone Eva was hanging about with, or anyone who might have, well…’ She broke off, unsure how to continue. ‘Anyone who fancied her.’

‘Only the whole of the university,’ the first girl laughed suddenly. ‘Including the staff.’

‘Come on, she was a pure doll.’ The third boy, who had remained silent until then, broke in. ‘We all thought so the minute she arrived in class. They were queuing up just to speak to her. She could’ve had her pick of any of the men she wanted.’

Kirsty looked at the young man, listening hard. Was that an edge of bitterness in his voice? He was tall and lanky with dark curls that tumbled over his pale brow, a pair of rimless spectacles adding to the overall impression of keen intellect.

‘But who
did
she
pick?’ Kirsty asked, looking at each one of them in turn.

The question was met with a silence, the girls looking faintly embarrassed, the boys turning away from Kirsty’s stare as though she had asked something way too intimate.

‘Look, my friend’s in Barlinnie,’ Kirsty rushed on, ‘and I honestly don’t think he did what the police claim…’ She had raised her hands in a gesture of appeal, making them all look her way once more. ‘See, if anyone else knew what Eva had been doing in the weeks before she was murdered it could help a lot.’

‘So why aren’t the polis here asking these sorts of questions?’ the lanky lad asked, shoving his specs further up his long nose.

‘They’ve arrested someone,’ Kirsty shrugged, mentally crossing her fingers as she spoke. ‘Why would they bother?’

‘Well I never saw her with anyone special, did you?’ the Asian girl asked, sweeping her glance over each of her companions in turn. Heads were shaken and murmurs of assent given.