The Swedish Girl (22 page)

‘Sorry,’ the girl said brightly. ‘But I think you’re wasting your time here. Nobody is going to tell you about a secret romance that never happened, are they?’

Kirsty was breathing heavily as she reached the brow of the hill on Montrose Street, her cheeks still burning with embarrassment. Stupid idiot! What did you think you were trying to achieve back there? She cursed softly under her breath, relieved to be heading back along to Caledonian University and her own comfort zone.

The sound of footsteps drumming behind her made Kirsty step aside for a moment, then she gave a cry as someone grasped hold of her arm.

‘Kirsty?’

The girl jerked free, spinning around to see the Geordie lad who had been in the cafeteria.

‘Look, sorry about that, didn’t mean to give you a fright.’ The lad glanced about as if to check that nobody was following him. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he asked, turning back to look intently at Kirsty. ‘You see,’ he explained, coming closer to her and letting his voice drop into a whisper, ‘we weren’t telling you the whole truth back there.’

‘Okay,’ Kirsty said slowly. ‘So why did you want to follow me? And what’s your connection with Eva?’

The lad shot her a disarming grin. ‘Wish I’d had a connection! Lovely lass never gave me a second glance.’ He looked intently at Kirsty as though he were trying to gauge her reaction, then nodded and put out his hand.

‘James Spencer,’ he said.

Kirsty grasped it, feeling the warmth and strength in the young man’s grasp. And there was something more, the way his brown eyes held a sort of sympathy for her as though he understood why she had come, that made Kirsty feel that she could trust this young man with the soft Newcastle brogue.

‘Thanks,’ she said, then dropped his hand, aware that she might have held it a little too long. ‘How about walking me across to Caley? That’s where I’m heading.’

‘You’re a student there?’

‘Aye. Hospitality management,’ Kirsty replied as they fell into step. ‘Eva used to devour my chocolate fudge cakes.’

‘She didn’t look the sort to munch cakes,’ James said in surprise. ‘That gorgeous figure…’

‘Know what you mean,’ Kirsty mumbled, suddenly aware of her own girth hidden under layers of jersey and duffel coat.

‘She was quite different from all of the other girls,’ James said quietly. ‘Seemed older – well, maybe not older, more mature, not as daft as a lot of the lasses. Eva was, well, dignified. You could imagine her giving tea parties in one o’ these stately homes, know what I mean?’

Kirsty nodded. She knew exactly what he meant.

‘She had plenty of friends, everyone seemed to take a right shine to that lass. Anyway, she did have an admirer,’ James told her as they waited on Cathedral Street for the lights to change to green. ‘There was a lad used to haunt her wherever she went. Weedy little chap, he was. Or, should I say,
is
. One of the girls back there used to refer to him as Eva’s puppy.’

Kirsty nodded encouragingly, willing James to tell her more.

‘Brian something his name is. Always sat right behind her in economics class. And I think they were in the same group for McGregor’s seminar.’

‘Have you seen him since… since it happened?’

James Spencer frowned. ‘Funny you should ask that, Kirsty, but I don’t think he’s been around since the new term began.’

‘Thanks,’ Kirsty replied, then she drew in a breath of surprise as James caught her by the hand and led her across the road.

‘There,’ he said as they reached the opposite pavement. ‘Safely delivered, Miss…?’

‘Wilson. Kirsty Wilson,’ she told him, laughing despite herself as the lad gave a mock salute.

‘And does Miss Kirsty Wilson have a phone number?’ James asked, a light of mischief in his eyes that Kirsty suddenly decided she found very appealing indeed.

Kirsty walked smartly along the road, wondering if he was standing there at the corner watching and willing herself to be cool; not to look back and see.

They had exchanged mobile numbers. So? She smiled to herself. It meant nothing. He was just trying to be helpful, wasn’t he? And, if he could find out more about the mysterious Brian, then that might just lead her a little further along her quest to find out more about Eva Magnusson and who she had been seeing in the days before her death.

As Lesley Crawford closed her eyes, Jo could see tears falling between the girl’s lashes. She reached out and squeezed the girl’s hand gently.

‘It’s all right, Lesley,’ the detective was telling her. ‘We’ll get him, I promise.’

Jo stood up and looked at the woman lying in the bed. Her head was swathed in bandages and it was hard to visualise this as the same woman whose photograph lay between the pages of her files back in Stewart Street. Her long blond hair had been shorn pre-surgery and her face was thinner, the cheekbones prominent, reminding Jo of some of the junked-up women she’d seen in parts of the city.

We’ll get him
. Her words echoed in DI Grant’s brain as she headed towards the lifts, her thoughts already back at headquarters and the next stage in uncovering the man who had beaten this woman almost to her death.

‘
H
ello?’ Kirsty was standing on the landing below the flat, mobile phone pressed to her ear, wondering at the unfamiliar number on the tiny screen.

‘Hello, Kirsty Wilson. It’s me, James, your new best friend.’

Her mouth arced in a smile as she listened to the Geordie accent. My new best friend, she thought gleefully.

‘Hi, James, how’s things?’ she replied, affecting a coolness that belied the sudden dryness in her mouth.

‘Oh, well, you know…’ The lad tailed off for a moment, leaving Kirsty wondering why he had rung her so quickly. ‘Completely forgot to tell you about Anders,’ he said at last.

‘Anders?’

‘Aye.’ There was a pause. ‘He hasn’t come back to uni either.’

‘Sorry, James, you’ve lost me. Who’s this Anders?’

‘Did you never meet him? That’s odd.’ James Spencer’s voice expressed surprise. ‘He was a pal of Eva’s from Stockholm. Hung about with her a lot, but they were just pals, everyone could see that. Are you sure she never had him up to the flat?’

‘James, I’ve never
heard
of an Anders,’ Kirsty replied firmly. ‘And there were never any Swedish boys up here.
Worse luck
,’ she added in a whisper.

‘I heard that, Kirsty Wilson,’ James said reprovingly. ‘Anyhow, do you not think that’s really strange? I mean, why would she keep a friend from back home a secret from you all?’

There was silence between them as Kirsty slowly climbed the final flight of stairs to reach the front door of the flat.

Who the hell was this Anders? And why had Eva never mentioned him?

‘Does this mystery man have a second name?’ she asked.

‘Oh, aye, Anders Andersson. Dead easy one to remember, eh? Oh and the other guy, the weedy chap? His name’s Brian Hastie.’

‘Right, thanks, James,’ Kirsty said slowly, fumbling with her free hand to find the key in her coat pocket.

‘Not a problem, Kirsty Wilson.’ There was a pause as Kirsty listened, waiting for him to say more, hoping that he would.

‘Any chance of meeting up some time?’ he asked, and Kirsty grinned, liking the wee hesitation in his voice.

‘Aye, sure, just not at weekends though, cos I work. But I’m usually free on Thursdays,’ she said.

‘Great. Can I come up for you then? Take you out for a drink somewhere?’

‘Yes. Thanks. That would be great,’ she said. ‘I’ll text you the address, okay? Got to go now, bye.’

Kirsty pulled the door open, trying not to let out a whoop of excitement. A date with a nice-looking fellow! She pulled off her duffel coat and hung it on the back of her bedroom door, heart thudding unreasonably.

‘But what the heck is all this about a mysterious Swede?’ she said aloud.

And, biting her lip, Kirsty knew the first person she needed to speak to about this was Detective Superintendent Lorimer.

Lorimer stood at the front of the muster room, leaning his tall frame against a table. It was the end of the day and the officers gathered for the meeting were all looking towards DI Grant who was fixing a new photograph onto the wall behind her. He would listen to her report first, before sharing what Kirsty had told him.

‘There,’ she said, turning with a glint of triumph in her eyes. ‘Lesley Crawford as she is now.’

‘Jesus!’ someone said as they all regarded the blown-up photograph of the injured woman.

‘Aye, grim,’ someone else remarked.

‘Well she’s lucky to be alive,’ Jo said, standing to one side to let them all compare the two images of the young woman; the smiling blonde on the left and, next to it, the puffy face full of bruises and stitches, head swathed in white gauze bandages, no sign of the blond tresses that had been clipped off for emergency surgery.

‘I’m just back from the hospital,’ Jo told them. ‘She remembers her assailant quite well, as it happens. Even though she was guttered and it was dark. She can’t give us much about his height, only that he seemed taller than she was. But he was white, about twenty-five to thirty, probably dark haired, though he was wearing a hoodie.’

‘Narrows it down a bit,’ someone offered, getting a general guffaw from the room.

‘She says she can remember what his face was like,’ Jo went on, glaring at the offending officer. ‘So we’ve got our artist going up to see her tomorrow morning. Soonest we could manage,’ she said, looking at Lorimer. ‘And the hospital insisted she had to have a rest tonight.

‘So, lads and lasses, you can expect every front page in the country to carry it as soon as the artist and our victim come up with a decent image.

‘Meantime, we need to ask questions of the different hospitals and clinics to see if any of their patients have been signing themselves out in the past few weeks.’

‘Why’s that, ma’am?’ a voice asked.

‘Professor Brightman reckons that the profile of this man fits someone who has come off medication suddenly.’

‘Schizophrenic?’

‘Could be. “A sudden cessation of medication can result in dramatic behavioural changes”,’ said Jo, reading from a paper she held in her hand.

Lorimer hid a smile behind his hand. He could imagine the psychologist’s serious tone as he spoke to the detective inspector.

‘Ordinarily, patient files are completely off limits,’ Jo went on, ‘but information about someone who has been taking medication or having treatment then disappearing into the night can be given to us by the medics.’

‘And Brightman reckons it’s a nutter?’ one of the officers asked.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Jo asked sarcastically. ‘Two separate attacks on defenceless women with the same MO?’

‘Or three if you count Eva Magnusson,’ someone whispered behind their hand out of Jo Grant’s hearing. Lorimer had shared his suspicions with them that the Swedish girl’s death was part of this pattern. Rumour had it that he was angling for her murder to be investigated again in the light of the current cases and that DI Grant was less than happy about her case being stripped apart.

‘But maybe it’s just a druggie mugging them for what he can get?’ another voice piped up.

‘Fiona Travers had her wallet taken, and her iPod,’ Jo agreed, ‘but nothing of Lesley Crawford’s was missing. So we can’t assume that was the motive.’

‘Maybe the thug heard the church officer and scarpered?’

‘Perhaps,’ Jo said, and Lorimer could hear the first signs of exasperation in her voice.

‘Thanks for that, Detective Inspector Grant. And I’m sure we’re all relieved that this young woman is not only fit enough to give us information about her attacker but that she appears to be heading for a full recovery, even though that photograph might suggest otherwise,’ Lorimer said, stepping forward to stand beside Jo.

‘May I have a word?’ he added quietly.

‘Sure,’ she nodded, scooping up the papers on the table before addressing the men and women in the room once again.

‘There’s a man out there targeting a particular type of young woman. And we want to get him before he does any more damage,’ she said, trying to force herself to sound enthusiastic when she knew they were all as bone weary as herself. ‘So, let’s concentrate on finding him, okay? See you all tomorrow,’

Lorimer held the door open, watching his detective inspector as she headed towards him. Jo pushed one hand through her short dark hair and he could see that the woman was trying to stifle a yawn. She had been working for fourteen hours straight, Lorimer knew, and was at that stage of tiredness when most of her inner resources had been used up. Would his news pile even more fatigue onto those sagging shoulders? Or had his detective inspector now come to terms with the possibility that someone other than Colin Young was guilty of Eva Magnusson’s death? As Jo walked through the open doorway, he looked back at the before and after photographs of Lesley Crawford, a reminder to them all of just why they did this job. Sometimes it was a thankless task and the long winter days seemed to sap what little energy they had, but a result in this case would renew their strength, giving them the impetus that every police officer needed to deal with whatever fate threw at them.

‘Brian Hastie and Anders Andersson. Names mean anything to you?’

Lorimer could see the frown between the woman’s eyebrows. But she hadn’t shaken her head.

‘Hastie, yes,’ Jo replied at last. ‘The party the Magnusson girl was at.’ Her expression cleared suddenly. ‘It was at his flat. At least, the flat he shared with another two boys. Why?’

Lorimer told her.

‘And what was it they called him?’

‘“Her puppy”,’ Lorimer said.

‘Some kind of stalker?’

Lorimer shrugged. ‘Could be. On the other hand, perhaps he was simply a lad with a crush on an exceptionally pretty girl.’

‘We took statements from all the students at that party,’ Jo told him. ‘Hastie’s will be among that file.’

‘And what about the Swedish boy?’

‘Never heard of him. Didn’t appear anywhere on our radar.’ She frowned.

‘You didn’t check the student database? According to this Strathclyde student he was a friend of Eva’s from home.’

Jo shook her head, eyebrows raised. ‘That name didn’t come up on the list Strathclyde gave us. Sorry, he’s as much a mystery to us as he seems to have been to her flatmates. Did you speak to the boys or is this just Kirsty’s version of things?’ she asked, not disguising the acerbic tone in her voice.

Lorimer nodded. ‘None of the flatmates has heard of this Swedish boy. And I’m guessing that Dirk McGregor just wants to keep his head down and hope this all goes away.’

Jo Grant raised her eyebrows. Lorimer had already told her how the Strathclyde lecturer had been adamant that he didn’t want his wife knowing about his affair with the Swedish girl.

‘Someone must have known about this Andersson lad,’ Lorimer went on. ‘And I think I might just make a call to Mr Magnusson, see if he can throw any light on it. And there’s something else, Jo, something that Kirsty let slip.’

Jo looked at him sharply, hearing the intensity of his tone.

‘It was when we were discussing how often Eva’s father visited Glasgow. She made this throwaway remark about how Henrik Magnusson could afford to come back as often as he liked seeing he had his own private jet.’

‘We didn’t know that, did we?’ Jo said slowly. ‘There was never any mention about that, was there?’

‘No.’ Lorimer’s jaw tightened. ‘Look, I know this whole case has given you a real headache but is there any chance the team can look into Magnusson’s movements around the time of his daughter’s death? Check the logs at Glasgow airport, for instance? Okay?’

The DI sighed volubly. ‘Right, sir. Anything else?’

‘No. You go home and get a decent night’s kip, Jo. You’ll need it before you face the press tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, sir, goodnight.’ Jo stood up and he watched her as she left his room, a woman on the edge of exhaustion. How many times had he been there himself? Too many, a little voice replied. Maggie would be waiting for him, something good cooked for his evening meal, he thought. What was Jo Grant going home to? A microwaved dinner or a takeaway?

He glanced at the clock to see that it was now approaching seven-thirty. Magnusson could have left his own office by now. One telephone call, that was all, Lorimer told himself, then he too would step out into the winter night and head for home.

‘Mr Magnusson, Detective Superintendent Lorimer, Strathclyde Police.’

‘Y-es?’ A single word, but the voice on the other end of the line sounded anxious.

‘Sorry to trouble you, sir, but it has come to our attention that a Swedish student called Anders Andersson was at the University of Strathclyde and we’d like to contact him.’

There was no disguising the intake of breath from Magnusson. ‘Who did you say?’ he muttered at last.

‘Anders Andersson.’

The pause that followed was just a shade too long for Lorimer’s liking before the Swedish man replied. ‘Sorry, don’t know him. Should I?’ Then, before Lorimer could reply, Magnusson added, ‘Line’s breaking up, sorry, can you hear me?’ Then there was a click and the continuous loud hum of a disconnected call.

Lorimer put down the phone, staring at the instrument as if it could tell him something. There had been no trace of static or anything else, he thought. The man had deliberately made that up and cut the connection. For a moment he wondered about redialling the number but decided against it. Still staring at the phone, Lorimer shook his head. He was experienced enough to know when someone was lying. And he was sure that Henrik Magnusson had lied about not knowing the mysterious Anders Andersson.

‘But why would he do that?’ Maggie asked, settling herself into the seat opposite her husband.

‘Don’t know,’ Lorimer replied, spooning the second helping of chicken broth into his mouth. He paused, spoon in mid-air. ‘If Eva was trying to keep the lad a secret from her father then she wouldn’t have told her flatmates about him either, would she?’

‘She didn’t want Daddy knowing her boyfriend had followed her to Scotland.’

‘Something like that, maybe.’

‘You think this Swedish boy’s the real murderer?’

Lorimer laughed. ‘Whoa! You’ve been watching too many crime dramas on the television!’

‘Well, that’s the sort of thing that makes you think, isn’t it?’ Maggie persisted. ‘Stranger in town, secret lover…’

‘Yet he wasn’t a stranger to the other students at Strathclyde, was he?’ Lorimer mused, tilting his plate and scooping up the last of Maggie’s delicious soup. ‘And according to that Geordie lad Kirsty’s been speaking to they were merely pals, not lovers at all.’

‘And he wasn’t at the student party?’

Lorimer shook his head. ‘No. There were some of Eva’s class there, and other pals of Hastie’s flatmates. Plus the three lads from Merryfield Avenue. But no Anders Andersson. We’ve got a full list of names, addresses and the particular courses the students were on.’

‘You know what, though,’ Maggie said thoughtfully. ‘If this lad was an old friend from back home, Eva would have had his mobile number, wouldn’t she?’