The Swedish Girl (4 page)

T
he train station at Anniesland was very close by, handy for Kirsty and Eva to get into the city centre and their respective classes. The boys usually took the bus or, if it fitted in with his own timetable, cadged a lift with Gary in his Mini Cooper.

‘Phew! Glad we got these seats!’ Kirsty exclaimed, flopping down opposite the Swedish girl. Already she felt hot and uncomfortable after running up the steps to the platform to catch the train but, looking across at her flatmate, she saw that Eva didn’t even seem to have a hair out of place. Sure, there was a faint rosy glow to her cheeks but maybe that was simply the reflection from the pink cashmere scarf that was draped around her neck. The girl sat back against the seat, hands folded on her lap, smiling her usual smile. Kirsty grinned back but for a fleeting moment she experienced a twitch of envy as she regarded her friend. How did she manage to look like a supermodel in that plain grey coat and cream lacy tights? Was it the classy leather boots in that ox-blood colour that matched her satchel? Kirsty let out an involuntary sigh as the train pulled away from the platform. She would never, in a hundred years, manage to look as well groomed as Eva Magnusson. Maybe it was something about being Swedish, she thought, glancing at her reflection in the window. Weren’t they all gorgeous and blonde?

As the ticket inspector came to check their tickets, Kirsty caught him pausing to smile down at the girl opposite, though he barely gave
her
travel pass a glance. It was as though Eva could cast a spell over anyone she met, Kirsty Wilson thought to herself. Then she gave a mental shrug and pulled out one of her textbooks and rested it on the edge of the table top that separated them both. But try as she might, the words were a blur as her thoughts turned to the students who lived in the Anniesland flat.

Last night Betty Wilson had phoned and Kirsty had enthused about the flat, trying to show how much fun she’d been having. Since the beginning of the new term they had established a sort of routine, she’d explained to her mother. Didn’t Kirsty mind her role as the flat’s Mummy? Betty had asked, a slightly resentful note in her voice as though these students had been taking advantage of her daughter’s good nature. Oh, no, Kirsty had replied. She enjoyed preparing and cooking for them most nights, and there was always someone to chat to, standing by her side peeling and chopping to her instructions. More often than not it was Colin, whose classes finished early in the day, but she hadn’t mentioned this to her mother for some reason.

Kirsty had found herself more and more in Colin’s company and at first she had suspected that the lad had only sought her out for the goodies she produced from that wonderful oven, but gradually it had become a habit to sit and chat over endless mugs of coffee, putting the world to rights. There was something relaxing about spending time with Colin: yes, he’d be good boyfriend material but Kirsty preferred his friendship. Perhaps it was the way they always managed to open up to one another, as if they’d been friends for years rather than weeks?

Funny how they had all got into a routine so quickly, Kirsty mused. It was flattering how the others wanted to come home in time to share whatever she had decided to cook each night, and then they would spend most of their evenings together. After the lads had stacked the dishwasher – strangely it was never Eva who did this – they’d often go round to the pub, strolling back home by ten o’clock to watch the evening news on the television.

‘Kirsty, we have arrived at Queen Street,’ Eva said, breaking into her reverie and making her stuff the book hastily back into her bag and join the queue waiting to get off the train.

The platform was jammed with commuters disembarking, at this time of day mostly students heading for one of the city’s universities. A quick ride in the underground from Buchanan Street would take the Glasgow Uni students to Hillhead or Kelvin Bridge but it was a short walk for both Eva and Kirsty from Queen Street station to their morning classes at Strathclyde and Caledonian universities.

Kirsty followed her friend to the automatic barrier then slipped her ticket in the slot, watching it being swallowed up. Then they made their way out of the press of people and headed uphill towards Cathedral Street and the spot where their paths diverged.

‘Hey, d’you want to meet up for lunch?’ Kirsty suggested. ‘I’ve got a space between twelve and one.’

Eva’s smile was still in place as she shook her head, Kirsty noted, but there was something different about the girl today; she had hardly said a word since they had left the flat and there was a faraway look in those blue eyes as if she were harbouring a secret that she wanted to hug to herself.

‘Okay. See you tonight, then!’ she called out cheerfully and Eva gave her a desultory wave before disappearing among a stream of students heading up Montrose Street.

The Swedish girl glanced at the familiar figure of a tall young man who loped past her, his eyes raking her face for any signs of recognition, but she looked straight ahead again as though completely unaware of his interest, her smile drooping a little lest he think she wanted to engage in conversation. He reminded her a little of Colin, that longing look in his eyes like a spaniel waiting for a titbit from its master. She was used to it now, this attention from young men in her orbit. After the first few weeks of the term it had become tedious though she was always careful not to show it, smiling and talking politely, giving them the brush-off so nicely that they didn’t even realise what was happening.

At least she could tell her secret friend about it all, giggling sometimes as they chatted together on the telephone late into the night.

Eva breathed out a long sigh as she came to the crest of the hill. It was evident that Kirsty had no idea just what she had been up to these past few nights. Her smile broadened as she thought what the other girl’s reaction might have been. Shock? Maybe. Envy? Well, she wasn’t so sure about that: Kirsty was a fairly contented soul who seemed happy enough just to remain friends with everyone she met. But that was not enough for Eva Magnusson, she told herself. She had always wanted more and it was a delicious discovery to find just how easy it was to have it all, especially when it was spiced with the thrill of being hidden in the darkness.

G
ary crept back up the spiral staircase, his bare feet brushing each tread of carpet as he listened. There was no sound, however, only the thickness of his breath as he left the lower floor of the flat and headed to his own room again.
A
sudden flurry of rain pattered against the skylight window as he reached the top of the staircase, making the young man pause, one hand on the curve of the banister rail. Winter storms had been forecast for the remainder of this week and so Moira had called to postpone her visit to Glasgow till nearer Christmas. That was fine with him, Gary thought, a grin creasing his handsome features. His nights were taken with so much fun that he would be hard put to stay awake in class let alone trail his mother around the sights of the city.

The white-painted door gave a creak as he pushed it wide then he was inside and closing it carefully behind him. He rubbed his groin gently, groaning a little as he felt the raw and tender flesh. God! It was true what they said about Swedish girls after all! Gary slipped into bed, relishing the cool sheets against his warm body. He would find it difficult to get to sleep, visions of their antics still hot and hard in his brain. And she was probably asleep already, little minx! Anybody seeing her at breakfast morning after morning would never guess what sort of sexual gymnastics she’d been putting him through, leaving him yawning over his cornflakes. Kirsty had asked him only yesterday if he was coming down with a cold. Gary snickered to himself. He’d managed to keep a straight face, only glancing once at Eva, but the girl had been intent on mixing some of her home-made muesli and had not even acknowledged his presence in the kitchen.

The grin on his face turned to a frown as he began to wonder why the Swedish girl had been so insistent that they keep their affair a secret from the others. Then, as though the thought was too much for his sleepy brain, he closed his eyes and visualised that creamy white body stretching upwards in an arc as he knelt before her.

K
irsty turned the key in the door and closed it behind her with a sigh. The hall was in darkness and there was no sound coming from the living room. Her shoulders moved up and down in a shrug of resignation; she was alone in the flat again. Then she remembered. Wasn’t there some party that Eva had mentioned? They’d all be there, wouldn’t they? Pulling off her thin raincoat and hanging it on the old-fashioned wooden coat stand, Kirsty sauntered into the bedroom next to the front door, unbuttoning her jacket. It was fair handy having this big room to herself, especially when she was working late shift at the hotel. Nobody would be disturbed by
her
comings and goings. She took off her shoes and tossed her jacket, bag and mobile phone onto the bed. Oh, it was good to be home. A wee cup of hot chocolate and some of her own gingerbread would go down well, she thought, already imagining her teeth sinking into a thick slab of treacly cake.

She stopped for a moment, listening. There was a swish then a click as the front door opened and closed again. Then, nothing.

‘Colin? Is that you back already?’ Kirsty wandered out into the hall, her bare feet sinking into the pile of the hall carpet, still thick and soft despite all their winter boots tramping back and forth. Eva’s father had spared no expense in doing up this flat for his daughter and Kirsty Wilson was grateful for those small luxuries that were absent from most of her friends’ student flats.

‘Colin?’ She stopped again, hovering outside Colin’s bedroom door, listening. It was firmly shut and there was no sound from within. Where was the boy? He was the only one likely to return home early from a party. She turned to look at the front door but it was shut fast. Had she not closed it properly? And had the wind blown it shut?

Frowning slightly, Kirsty padded down the unlit corridor, one hand out ready to flick on the light switch as she reached the kitchen. But something made her turn left into the living room instead, just to see if anyone was at home after all.

At first she imagined the girl had fallen asleep, sprawled out in front of the television.

‘Eva?’

Kirsty moved forward and bent down, expecting the girl to sit up and yawn. One hand reached out to touch the back of her head but then she drew back as though guided by some inner instinct.

She stood up again and stepped around the recumbent figure, unaware that she was holding her breath.

Then, as Kirsty saw the expression in the dead girl’s eyes, the thin wail escaping from her open mouth turned into a scream of terror.

Detective Superintendent Lorimer crouched over the body, aware of the sounds of voices coming from the hall. The dead girl was lying on her back, one arm flung out, the fist curled tightly in the moment of death. Her head was bent to one side, blond hair partly obscuring her features, but Lorimer could see enough to make him wonder about the cause of death.

‘Manual strangulation?’ he asked, glancing up at the consultant pathologist who was kneeling on the other side of the girl’s body. The on-duty pathologist tonight was his friend, Dr Rosie Fergusson. He glanced at her with his usual admiration for her calm efficiency, knowing how different she could be at home as a doting mother and as the wife of Professor Brightman, an eminent psychologist and sometime criminal profiler who had worked with Lorimer in the past.

‘Looks like it,’ Rosie murmured, her gloved hands smoothing the hair from the victim’s face, letting Lorimer see for the first time what Kirsty Wilson had found earlier that night.

Eva Magnusson still had that ethereal quality in death that had captivated those who had gazed upon her: Lorimer saw the perfect oval face with flawless skin and bow-shaped lips that were slightly parted as though she had been taken by surprise. He watched as Rosie reached out to close the dead girl’s eyelids, seeing for the final time those pale blue Scandinavian eyes staring out at a world that had proved less than kind.

‘It’s not her only injury, though,’ Rosie went on, turning the girl’s head to one side. ‘Someone’s whacked her skull with a hefty object. Feel that,’ she offered, showing Lorimer a contusion towards the back of the victim’s skull.

The detective superintendent stroked the lump under the swathe of pale blond hair, nodding his agreement, trying to visualise just what had taken place in this room. Had someone broken in? Had it been a burglary gone wrong? There was still plenty to examine in this crime scene before a post-mortem even took place, providing them with more answers.

‘Is
she
okay?’ Rosie jerked her head towards the lounge door, listening to the renewed sound of sobbing.

Lorimer looked at her and sighed. ‘I doubt it. Being a cop’s daughter hasn’t given her any immunity from this sort of horror.’

‘Alistair still here then?’

Lorimer nodded. He had taken his detective sergeant’s call less than two hours ago, minutes after Kirsty Wilson’s hysterical phone call to her father. Like any crime scene, 24 Merryfield Avenue was now cordoned off at street level and the SOCOs had been quick to respond. Several white-suited figures had already come and gone from the lounge area, photographing the body and its immediate surroundings; now they awaited others who would come to take samples that would be sent to the labs at Pitt Street for forensic analysis.

Strictly speaking this was not a case that would usually be handled by an officer of his own rank but Alistair Wilson was more than just a colleague. The night shift DS from A Division who usually acted as scene-of-crime manager hadn’t demurred when he’d arrived to find Detective Superintendent Lorimer and Detective Sergeant Wilson already in the Anniesland flat. DI Jo Grant was already on her way at Lorimer’s request: she would take over as SIO once she arrived and caught up with everything.

‘When do you think you’ll…’

‘Do the post-mortem? Well, I expect it’ll be later on today. I’m on call all this weekend, as you know.’ Rosie made a face and then grinned. ‘Just as well your Maggie takes her godmotherly duties seriously, eh?’

Lorimer smiled back. He and Maggie had tried and failed at the parenting game but since Abigail Margaret Brightman’s arrival last year, that gap seemed to have been filled to everyone’s satisfaction. The baby was a one-year-old bundle of fun as far as Maggie Lorimer was concerned, and with no sleepless nights to spoil the image of her beloved goddaughter, Maggie had taken to her role with relish. Abby’s father, Professor Solomon Brightman, would be attending a conference at the University of Newcastle later today so Maggie was needed to look after Abby until one of her parents returned home again.

Lorimer straightened up as the officers came into the room carrying the body bag. Soon they would carefully transfer the corpse into the black container, zipping it up so that it became one more anonymous cadaver on a stretcher. The sigh that escaped him held an involuntary tremor, as though something deep inside wanted to cry out in protest at the sheer waste of a young life.

Then a real cry of ‘
No!
’ made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as a young man burst into the room. A uniformed officer struggled to hold him back, but not before Lorimer had time to see the sheer horror on the newcomer’s face.

‘Eva?’ he whispered, his mouth open as he looked at the shapeless form lying on the floor. Then the boy slumped sideways against the door jamb as though his legs had suddenly decided they were too weak to support him and the officer had little difficulty in bundling him back out into the hallway and into the kitchen.

‘Who’s that?’ Lorimer asked.

Rosie shrugged. ‘Must be one of the students who live with Kirsty and our little friend here,’ she nodded, her voice tinged with regret. Dr Rosie Fergusson might be well used to examining the dead, young and old alike, but she had never become so hardened with practice that she could not understand the pain that surrounded a sudden death like this. ‘Poor boy,’ she sighed. ‘At least he was spared seeing her close up…’

Lorimer gave her a pat on the shoulder before leaving the room and following the officer into what was a large, square kitchen. He looked up at the array of plants cascading down from a set of false beams, ducking instinctively lest his six-foot-four frame knocked against them.

Kirsty Wilson was sitting at a big black table, her arms around the young man’s heaving shoulders, and Lorimer hesitated for a moment, reluctant to disturb the pair. He watched as Kirsty sought to calm her flatmate, her voice murmuring something in a soft gentle tone, and the policeman was struck by the girl’s evident maturity: she, who only a short time ago had been stricken with shock, was now capable of administering some tenderness towards another rather than seeking a shoulder to cry on for herself.

‘It’s okay, Colin,’ she was telling him, ‘it’s okay.’

Lorimer pursed his lips into a grim line. It was anything but
okay
, but what words could you use to console a young man in such hellish circumstances?

The boy looked up then, his pale face streaked with tears, eyes already bloodshot.

‘Who’re you?’ he said, straightening up as he looked at Lorimer.

‘’S okay, Colin. This is Mr Lorimer,’ Kirsty told him, stroking his sleeve as though he were a small child.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ Lorimer said, coming forward and putting out his hand.

Colin Young took it and as he gave it a perfunctory shake Lorimer could feel the trembling and sweat on the boy’s palm.

‘This is my flatmate, Colin,’ Kirsty continued, looking up at Lorimer. ‘Colin, he’s my dad’s boss, the one I told you about.’ She turned back to the boy and grasped his shoulders a little more tightly.

‘Oh,’ Colin said, still staring at the tall policeman standing above them. Then he swallowed and Lorimer could see his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. ‘I didn’t know…’

But what it was that Colin Young did not know was never uttered, for at that same moment Betty Wilson swept into the kitchen, arms outstretched.

‘Oh, Kirsty!’ she cried, and in a moment the girl was enveloped into Betty’s embrace, leaving Colin Young looking suddenly bereft.

Lorimer slipped behind the table and sank into the chair beside the boy.

‘Is there anyone you should be calling?’ he asked.

Colin tore his gaze away from the mother and daughter for a moment and looked at Lorimer in a dazed fashion.

‘Do you want us to contact anyone in your family? Arrange for them to take you home for tonight?’

‘Why?’

As Colin shook his head Lorimer could see that he was utterly bewildered, still deeply in shock.

‘There will be scene-of-crime officers all over the flat for hours to come,’ he explained gently. ‘You won’t be allowed to stay here tonight.’

‘What about the others?’

‘Others?’

‘Gary and Rodge. They’re still at the party…’ Colin’s voice quavered and stopped and he looked down at his hands as though to prevent a fresh outburst of weeping.

‘I can have officers here to take all three of you to your family homes later on, if that’s what you’d like,’ Lorimer continued.

‘Gary’s home’s miles away. Down in England,’ Colin gulped.

‘We’ll be taking statements from you all before you are allowed to go,’ Lorimer said. ‘But we’ll want to know where you are. Is there a friend or a relative who could put you all up, perhaps?’

Colin shrugged, clearly overwhelmed.

‘DS MacPherson is the scene-of-crime manager from Stewart Street police station who is in charge of everything right now. He’ll explain what will happen over the next few days.’

Colin Young frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘You can’t stay here, Colin,’ Lorimer said again. ‘You’ll be allowed to take some of your things once the officers in charge have obtained all available evidence but it’ll probably be a few days before you’re allowed back here again.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘Forensics takes ages, you know? You’ve probably seen it all on
CSI
, eh?’

‘I can’t believe that she’s dead,’ the boy whispered, looking towards the hall through the glass door. Lorimer followed his gaze to see the Swedish girl’s body being carried out. He saw Kirsty clutch at her mother’s hand as they watched the two undertakers, suited and masked like all the other officers, carry her friend out of 24 Merryfield Avenue for the very last time.

It had been as a friend as well as his senior officer that Lorimer had arrived so quickly on the scene, Alistair Wilson’s plea for help rousing him out of sleep. Whether he could be of any more help remained to be seen but, as Lorimer sat in that kitchen, watching Eva Magnusson being taken away, he vowed to spend some time with Kirsty, if only to soothe her with words of reassurance that the Swedish girl’s killer would surely be caught.