The Swedish Girl (23 page)

‘Nothing on it according to the records. It’s one of the first things that’s checked,’ Lorimer replied.

Maggie chuckled.

‘What?’

‘You have to think like a teenage girl sometimes to get inside their heads,’ she said. ‘I wonder if Eva had the same scheme going as Daisy Taylor?’

‘Who?’

‘One of my third years,’ Maggie explained. ‘Inventive wee besom when it comes down to breaking the rules, is our Daisy. Thought she had cracked the no-mobile-phones-on-school- premises policy till I found her sim card taped inside her Macbeth folder. Wee rascal had her phone going red hot at lunchtimes till then. Charged her classmates sweetly to use it, as well!’

Lorimer stroked his chin thoughtfully. Just how thorough had the scene of crime officers been in scouring Eva’s room? And was this just the sort of tiny thing he had wanted Kirsty to find? A spare sim card to keep in contact with Anders Andersson while avoiding her father’s eagle eye might answer a lot of questions.

‘Here you are, Sir.’ The cheery-faced lady handed Lorimer the plastic bag containing Eva Magnusson’s phone.

‘Just sign here, please,’ she continued, handing him a clipboard with a sheet of paper attached. There were already several names and signatures appended for this particular production: it was an essential procedure that every person examining an object taken from a crime scene had to sign his name and give the date on which the object was removed from the store. Failure to do this could have disastrous results. One careless omission from the chain might bring the weight of a defence lawyer crashing down on an unsuspecting officer, the accusation of tampering with evidence throwing an entire trial into disarray.

It took just a few minutes to find what he was looking for. No Anders Andersson. He scrolled up and down, looking to see if there were any other names that might give a clue about the girl’s activities, noting any that did not tally against the list of friends from the Hastie boy’s party. And texts? What messages might she have kept stored in this phone? Lorimer’s gloved fingers moved across the tiny screen, seeking something that could give him a clue. He pursed his lips as he stared at the message boxes. They were empty. Had she been a fastidious girl, clearing every message that had been read? Or, he thought, had she been afraid to keep any messages lest her secrets be discovered? And was there a missing sim card somewhere in the Anniesland flat?

One way or another, Lorimer had the feeling that they needed to find this young man, wherever he was. And, as he re-signed the paper on the clipboard, another name came to mind – one that might just offer some explanations about both Brian Hastie and Anders Andersson.

Strathclyde University was situated to the east of George Square, a conglomeration of buildings that stretched from the old red sandstone of Royal College almost as far as the Royal Infirmary. Livingstone Tower was a rude finger of concrete and glass pointing skywards and, as he craned his neck to watch the clouds scudding past, Lorimer had the momentary sensation that the entire block was shifting sideways through space. He looked down at his watch, blinking to stop the whirling feeling in his head. It was just after ten o’clock, a perfect time to catch the lecturer before he set off for his next class at eleven.

Dirk McGregor’s office was near the top of the building. Lorimer squeezed into the lift beside a gaggle of girls who were all clutching laptop bags and chattering away, quite ignoring the tall stranger by their side. Had Eva ever stood here, joining in the gossip? Of course, she must have used this lift countless times, but somehow Lorimer imagined Eva Magnusson keeping a little aloof from the other students, watching them as if from the outside. Once again that face flashed into his mind, the dead girl like a sleeping angel. She had seemed perfect in death but now he was beginning to know the flawed reality so much better, this other Eva whose life had been full of secrets.

The lift doors pinged open and he followed the crowd out into the landing. A sign with room numbers was fixed to the wall and he made his way along a corridor, losing the noisy girls as they turned into a lecture theatre.

‘Come in,’ a voice called and Lorimer opened the door.

Dirk McGregor stood up suddenly. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Nice to see you too, Mr McGregor,’ Lorimer replied smoothly. ‘Mind if I sit down? Your office said that I might find you here between classes.’

McGregor’s face paled. ‘You told my office…?’

‘That I needed to speak to you concerning some of your students,’ Lorimer said, taking a seat opposite the lecturer who had sunk back into his own chair as though winded.

‘What…?’

‘Two students on the same course as Eva Magnusson,’ Lorimer continued, ignoring the man’s discomfiture. ‘Brian Hastie and Anders Andersson. Neither one of them seems to have come back this term. Thought you might know why.’

‘Is that all?’ McGregor leaned back, hands behind his head. ‘Come in all this way just for that? No wonder our tax bill’s so bloody high when a senior officer spends time on such trivial details,’ he declared, his handsome face twisted into a sneer.

Lorimer’s own expression remained completely impassive, the years of practice interviewing cocksure thugs paying off at times like this. ‘The two students,’ he said again. ‘Can you tell me why they have not returned to the university?’

McGregor was now swinging nonchalantly in his chair. ‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘Hastie’s on long-term sick leave with glandular fever. Might even have to repeat the year. And the Swedish lad was an exchange student. Probably not on the main lists you plods looked at,’ he added gleefully. ‘Only here till Christmas.’ He shrugged. ‘That all you wanted to know?’

‘Their home addresses and any other contact details would be useful,’ Lorimer replied mildly.

‘Ask the office.’ McGregor stood up once more. ‘Looks like you’re good at doing that,’ he snapped.

McGregor was only guilty of churlish behaviour, Lorimer told himself as he walked back across the city. Yet the fear in the lecturer’s eyes had been unmistakable. What had he expected from the policeman’s unheralded visit? And was the presence of a senior police officer in that office some sort of a threat to his safe little world? He had been anxious that his wife knew nothing of his affair with Eva Magnusson, something Lorimer had managed to contain so far but without any promise that such knowledge would not come out in the future. He gritted his teeth: someone would get the sharp end of his tongue for this. Failing to search all of the student databases was just sheer carelessness.

Kirsty would be disappointed: there were two reasonable explanations for the missing students. Yet there was still an unanswered question about Andersson: why had Eva Magnusson kept him a secret from her flatmates and, presumably, from her father?

Colin slipped back into his cell, used now to its confines, sometimes even welcoming the peace and quiet when his cell mate, or ‘co-pilot’ as they called them in here, was away on a work detail.

He had dreamed about Eva last night, a dream from which he had awoken with tears on his cheeks. It had felt so real, hearing her voice, as if she were really there again. He slumped onto his back on the bunk and felt under the mattress for his notebook. He had written
The Swedish Girl
on the front and in idle moments had decorated the title with lines and curls, the sort of thing that reminded him of doodling on his school jotters.

Pulling the pen from the spiral binding, Colin began to write.

It is her voice I miss as much as her very presence
,
he began.
How can I begin to describe that voice?
He paused, hearing the dream in his head once again.
She sounded like a lady
,
he continued.
Refined, but not in an English Home Counties sort of way, that was one of the beauties of it. Eva spoke like an actress, as if she had learned to wipe out any trace of an accent
.
He smiled to himself, remembering how they had all laughed one morning when the girl had come out with a really Glaswegian expression. What had it been? He shook his head, her exact words failing to return, only the memory of how funny it had sounded coming from her lips.

Hers was a soft voice, melodious, the sort of voice that a singer might have had, though we never heard her sing, not even when there was music playing in the flat
.
He stopped, pen poised, remembering another time, his cheeks flushing as the images flooded back, unbidden.
A
nd that husky tone
, he wrote, hand shaking slightly,
when she had me in bed, urging me on
.

Colin stopped writing. He couldn’t go back there, no matter how much the professor wanted him to describe Eva. He simply could not relive any of that night. Yet the girl’s voice was in his head right at this moment in time, like a ghost visiting his brain.

Did the dead hover somewhere up there? Was Eva’s spirit still able to make him feel that anguish and pain? And, he thought, putting both hands over his ears, did he really deserve to suffer like this?

‘
A
sim card?’ Kirsty’s head turned towards the door of Eva’s room. ‘I could try,’ she said. ‘Okay. I’ll call you back if I find anything.’

Kirsty’s eyes gleamed as she put the phone down on the polished hall table. Now at least there was something positive to look for. Taking a deep breath she turned the key in Eva’s door and stepped in once again.

If I wanted to hide a wee thing like a sim card, where would I put it? she wondered. Somewhere nobody would find it but a place that would be handy if I used it regularly. Late at night. When I was in my bed…

The dead girl’s bed had an ornate white carved headboard that matched the little table to one side. Kneeling down, Kirsty saw the pair of electrical sockets just above the skirting board. The bedside lamp was plugged into one, its wire snaking behind the table. The other, hidden by the sweep of pink silken counterpane, held one of those plastic safety covers that her Aunty Joyce used when her kids were wee.

Kirsty blinked, noticing that one side of the plastic cover protruded just the tiniest bit away from the socket. Would the scene of crime officers have pulled that out to have a look?

She held her breath as her fingernails eased it out.

‘Bingo!’ Kirsty’s smile broadened as she turned the cover over to see the tiny sim card taped carefully to the inside of the socket cover.

‘This is Detective Superintendent Lorimer, Strathclyde Police. Am I speaking to Anders Andersson?’

There was a short pause before a thickly accented voice replied. ‘This is Anders. What do you want?’

‘Mr Andersson, I wanted to ask you some questions about your stay in Glasgow.’

‘You got wrong fellow,’ the man interrupted. ‘This is Anders senior.’

‘It’s your son who was a student at the University of Strathclyde?’

‘That’s right. Young Anders did a… what is it… an exchange, yes?’

‘Yes. Can I speak to him, please? Is he there?’

‘This about the Magnusson girl?’

‘That’s correct, Mr Andersson. We are still investigating the circumstances around her death.’

There was a longer pause before the deep voice proclaimed, ‘Anders is not here any more. Sorry. Can’t help you,’ before the click that let the policeman know the call had been terminated.

Cursing under his breath, Lorimer redialled the number but it was already engaged.

He imagined the father calling his son at that very moment, telling him that the Scottish police were looking for him. Biting his lip, Lorimer had a growing feeling that the elusive Anders might really have something to hide. Well, perhaps there was more than one way to find out. Dialling the mobile number he had copied from Eva’s extra sim card, he wondered if the father was speaking the truth or if he simply didn’t want to become involved.

As the engaged signal rang out from the student’s mobile, Lorimer nodded to himself. He would bet a month’s salary that he was right and at this very moment father and son were discussing what to do about this call from the Scottish police.

‘The initial call to Mr Magnusson was made to his mobile,’ DS Wilson told Lorimer.

‘And the call was logged at what time, exactly?’

Wilson glanced at his notes. ‘It was just after ten a.m. on the Saturday morning, sir. Fiscal had to be informed first.’

Lorimer nodded. ‘I’ve checked out a few things. Magnusson told Dr Fergusson he had to get a domestic flight to Glasgow, but I honestly can’t see why he didn’t simply use his own aircraft.’

‘He has his own plane?’ Alistair Wilson’s eyes widened.

‘Aye,’ Lorimer said. ‘Your Kirsty told us that. And thank God she did. There’s something funny going on and once I’ve spoken to the good people at Glasgow airport we may just find out what that is.’

‘You’re going where?’

‘Stockholm,’ Lorimer told her. ‘Pity it’s not anywhere near half term or you could have come with me. You deserve it after coming up with that idea about Eva’s sim card.’

Maggie Lorimer shook her head. ‘What do the rest of the team think of this?’

‘I haven’t told them all yet,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Anyway, they’re all answerable to me at the moment.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s some consolation being the boss.’

‘And Solly?’

He grinned. ‘Wondered if you’d ask me that. It depends on what cover he can get for his classes. He’ll come with me if he can. He’s still working on the profile though. Reckons it’s no coincidence that these blonde women are so alike.’ He made a face. ‘But he still sticks to his opinion that Eva was killed by someone else.’

Maggie laid down her wine glass and looked at her husband. ‘Seriously, what do you think you’re going to achieve by flying all the way to Stockholm?’

‘Hopefully we will be able to speak to the Andersson boy and his father, but they’re not the only ones we need to talk to.’

‘Oh?’

‘No.’ His face clouded for a moment. ‘It was a remark that Kirsty made, actually. We followed it up. Seems like Mr Magnusson has his own private jet.’

Maggie’s eyebrows rose. ‘Impressive,’ she remarked.

‘Well, we all know he’s a multi-millionaire,’ Lorimer replied. ‘But’ – he paused, looking his wife in the eye – ‘what we didn’t know until today is that Henrik Magnusson was in Glasgow the night his daughter was murdered. And that his jet took off from Glasgow airport shortly after two a.m. on the Saturday.’

‘This changes everything.’ Jo Grant ran her hand through her newly gelled hair.

‘Yes,’ Lorimer replied. ‘As far as we knew, Magnusson was in Stockholm that night. Even told Dr Fergusson that he couldn’t get a flight out straight away. Something’s not right.’

‘No.’ The DI’s sigh seemed to come all the way from her thick-soled boots. ‘How long will you be gone?’

Lorimer shrugged. ‘As long as it takes. Might have to hook up with some of the local police in Stockholm, we’ll see. Depends on what I find.’

‘And Colin Young?’

Lorimer caught sight of her face, eyes flicking away from his own. She was feeling it now, all right, a sense of unease that she had arrested the wrong man after all.

‘Up to the Fiscal. But I doubt there’s anything like enough evidence to release him yet. And, Jo?’

‘Yes?’ She met his keen blue gaze now.

‘Despite what Kirsty Wilson thinks, you might still be right.’

Professor Solomon Brightman sat back and looked at the words he had typed onto the screen. He blinked, thinking about the profiles he was creating. One was of a shadowy figure that leapt out at blonde women from his hiding places in the woods. And his chosen victims were so alike. That was significant, he thought. Why a person should suddenly take it into their head to attack and try to kill suggested some sort of trigger. Something to do with a woman who resembled his victims, perhaps? Had the killer undergone a recent trauma? Or were the attacks drug-related in some psychotic way? He would think more about that later but now he wanted to concentrate on a different man.

Solly scrolled back to read the pages that related to a previous profile: Henrik Magnusson. So far he had built up a picture of a domineering father who was trying to mould his only daughter into the sort of woman he wanted her to be. Someone in the image of her dead mother, perhaps? He stroked his beard. It was a possibility. He had asked Lorimer to find out what he could about the late Mrs Magnusson. Had she been a virginal bride? Or had he elevated her to a position of perfection as memory had faded? It happened sometimes. It was easier to forget the petty, human things that made a couple irritated with one another and only remember the good times.

And if his theory was correct then he had to ask one important question: had Eva been a disappointment to him in some way? Solly stared at the screen. He was seeing not the words now but picturing in his mind’s eye the photograph of a girl laughing into the camera on the ski slopes, laughing for her father. Or, he wondered, had she been laughing
at
him? A teenage girl who had slept around as easily as Eva had in the months she had been in Glasgow was surely adept in her sexual adventures long before her arrival in the city.

None of Jo Grant’s team had asked the question of where Eva’s father had been on the night of her murder, assuming Magnusson to have been in Stockholm
. Never make assumptions
, he remembered Lorimer telling his team on more than one occasion when he had sat amongst the officers. But they had, and who could have blamed them for that? The fact remained that the Swede had been in Glasgow on the night of his daughter’s murder. And now Solly Brightman had been asked by Strathclyde’s finest to regard the man as a potential suspect.