The Swedish Girl (5 page)

T
he Sunday papers were full of it, headlines proclaiming about the Swedish millionaire’s daughter who had been found dead in her Glasgow flat. The city had come in for plenty of stick, Lorimer thought grimly, as he read the column inches about knife crime and drunkenness, with statistics to back them all up. With a sigh he pushed the papers from him and looked down at his breakfast, still untouched.

Maggie had already finished her grapefruit and toast and was bending over the dishwasher, stacking plates away. He bit his lip; she made such an effort to make these Sunday mornings a special time for them both.

He began to scoop out the pale pink flesh from his grapefruit, eating and swallowing but tasting little as his eyes fell once more on the page he had been reading.

Eva Magnusson was a student at the University of Strathclyde, studying for a degree in business and economics
, Lorimer read.
The only child of property tycoon, Henrik Magnusson, Eva had been expected to take an active part in her father’s business.

Well, the poor man would be quite alone in the world now, Lorimer thought, reading the details of the man’s life. Maggie had shaken her head in sympathy when he had read out the bit about the wife having died giving birth to their only daughter.
What a tragedy
, she’d said sadly,
to lose both the people in the world that you love the most.
And she’d put a protective hand upon his shoulder for a moment, as if to intimate what she and Lorimer were to one another.

‘That coffee’ll be getting cold,’ Maggie said wryly. ‘Shall I make us another pot?’

Lorimer looked up from the paper, a sheepish smile on his face.

‘Thanks, love. That would be great.’

Yet, even as he nibbled the buttered toast, forgetting for once to spread it liberally with the last of Maggie’s home-made marmalade, Lorimer’s thoughts turned once more to his detective sergeant and the shocking murder that had taken place in Kirsty Wilson’s Anniesland flat. Betty and Alistair had taken the girl home to West Kilbride that night and he had heard nothing from them since. It wasn’t his shout, Lorimer told himself; his current responsibilities didn’t include being SIO in a case like this and he had decided to let DI Jo Grant take this one on. He had to leave his DI space to get on with it. She knew where he was if she needed him and he knew that she would keep him informed at every stage of the investigation: she was a bright cookie and had experienced a variety of roles within the force, including work as an undercover officer.

Still, he couldn’t help but be intrigued by the Swedish girl’s murder. The lad, Colin, had gone with both of the other students from the flat; one a tall, ginger-headed boy, the other a good-looking lad with a Brummy accent. Lorimer had been leaving just as they had arrived, noting the expressions of dismay on both their faces as they had been held back at the cordon. Then uniformed officers had taken them into the van outside to talk to them and what little chance Lorimer had had to see their reaction to the terrible news about Eva Magnusson confirmed that they seemed equally shocked as Colin Young.

So, what on earth had happened? Had the girl brought someone back to her flat as some of the Sunday papers had speculated? Someone who had been aggressive enough to choke the poor lass to death
? A moment of fury and a lifetime of regret
, was the way Lorimer remembered one judge expressing it as he had handed down a sentence in a previous case.

Rosie would have done the post-mortem by now but Maggie had not brought back any information after babysitting at the pathologist’s home yesterday other than to confirm that the Swedish girl had indeed been strangled. It wasn’t his case, Lorimer told himself again, biting his lip, but still he wanted to know what else Rosie might have found. The Brightmans would be spending today as quietly as baby Abigail allowed them, Rosie’s mobile switched on in case she was called out again. Weekends tended to be fairly busy, given the level of drunkenness and violence that marred the city – the papers weren’t wrong about that, he thought sadly – and there was a real chance that the pathologist would be back at another scene of crime somewhere in Glasgow before long.

So, when the phone rang, Lorimer was a little surprised to hear Rosie’s voice.

‘Hi, thought you’d want to know the results so far, in case Jo or Alistair discuss this with you,’ she began.

‘Yes, thanks. I appreciate that,’ Lorimer told her.

‘Well.’ Rosie took a deep breath before continuing. ‘We were right about the manual strangulation. But there are no fingerprints or sweat traces from the neck area so whoever did it wore gloves.’

‘Hm.’ Lorimer nodded, still listening intently. Not a moment of fury, then, but possibly a premeditated killing.

‘In all probability she was attacked from behind with something like a club. We’ve got photographs of the contusions but it’s hard to tell what might have made that mark. We’re working on it, though. And the other main thing to say is that she’d had sex some time in the evening. We’ve got good samples so our friends up at Pitt Street will be rejoicing about that.’

‘Any signs of bruising in that area?’

‘Nope. I’d say it’s been consensual sex. Her knickers were still on, remember, and there was absolutely nothing to suggest that she had been hurt in any way.’

‘Other than being choked to death.’

‘Other than that, yes,’ Rosie agreed drily.

There was a moment’s silence while Lorimer digested the facts. Had it been his case, he would have wanted to know all about the girl’s movements earlier that night but he trusted Jo Grant to have handed out actions that would result in answers to such questions. He would have to be careful not to interfere in another officer’s case, especially at this crucial stage in an investigation.

‘Well, thanks for that,’ he said at last. ‘You will let me know straight away if there are any developments, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘What about the girl’s family?’

‘Oh, the father’s coming in to see me tomorrow. Couldn’t get a flight from Stockholm any earlier. Not looking forward to that,’ Rosie sighed.

‘Okay, good luck,’ Lorimer said. ‘Want to speak to Maggie?’

He handed over the telephone to his wife who had been listening to the exchange, her Sunday supplement discarded on the table in front of her.

While the two women chatted, Lorimer sat back and thought about the case, and for a moment he wished for the days when he was a detective inspector, experiencing the familiar adrenalin rush that a new murder case always brought.

J
o Grant ran her slim fingers through her dark hair, feeling the short gelled ends and wondering for the hundredth time why she had given that hair stylist such leeway. But it was a damn sight easier to wash and dry every morning and there would be no grubby little ned to grab a handful of her long hair as he was going out of the interview room. She could still remember the drug addict’s breath in her face as he’d lunged at her before being carted back to the cells.

Great job, being a polis
, her pal Heather had said as they’d met for drinks.
Good pay and early retirement
. Aye, right, Jo had been tempted to reply. You don’t know the half of it. And you wouldn’t want to.

It had been one hell of a weekend, from the call-out in the wee small hours of Saturday morning to the post-mortem she’d attended later that same day, and now she was back at Stewart Street at her desk, rummaging to find the files she had begun on the four students from Anniesland. They’d given statements on the night, of course, but some of these were a bit incoherent. Kirsty Wilson had been stunned into silence and at least two of the boys had seemed too drunk to focus properly.

Only Colin Young’s statement had been clear and to the point. Eva had been at the same party over in Kelvinbridge but she had left before the rest of them. He had been in the bathroom at the precise time she had left and had remembered looking for her, only to be told that she had gone home. Someone had made the usual joke about her turning into a pumpkin so he knew it must have been around midnight. When asked how she had gone home he had replied that Eva usually took a taxi back whenever they were out late.

The time she had left the party fitted nicely, Jo realised. If the girl had left just after midnight then she could easily have been back in the flat ten minutes later. And it was after one a.m. when Kirsty had found her lying in the lounge. Plenty time enough for someone to attack and kill a slip of a girl like that.

After giving what statements they could, the boys had all agreed to stay at a hotel in the city centre and come in with Kirsty Wilson this afternoon ‘to have another talk’ as the scene-of-crime manager had undoubtedly phrased it. ‘Helping the police with their enquiries’ was way too official and off-putting for four youngsters who had seemed deep in shock at the murder of their flatmate. Well, she’d really been their landlady, Jo mused, flicking through the thin pile of papers she had been given. Though the father had probably bought the place for his daughter, Eva Magnusson’s name was definitely on the title deeds. They’d uncovered those, and other papers, in a large bureau in the main lounge.

What else did she know about the deceased? White female, about a hundred and five pounds, five feet three and a half inches, blond hair and – Jo bit her lip, remembering the girl’s body before the post-mortem had begun – she’d had a face like an angel’s.

‘Stick to the facts,’ she growled under her breath as she read her notes. Born in Stockholm to Maryka and Henrik Magnusson, mother dying shortly after the birth. How unusual in this day and age, Jo frowned. No siblings. So Daddy hadn’t remarried, then? Not quite twenty years old. She put the first sheet aside and looked at the details of the girl’s education. Home tutored, apparently, then summer courses at Jönköping International Business School before applying to study at the University of Strathclyde for a degree in business and economics.

Jo shook her head, wondering. Poor kid had hardly been out in the real world until she’d left home to come to Glasgow. She sighed. Eva Magnusson hadn’t had much of a chance to spread her wings. Had her sheltered upbringing made her a vulnerable sort of creature, then? Prey to some of the more dangerous elements in this city? Well, she’d soon be finding out answers to these, and other questions, once the Swedish girl’s flatmates came in to see her.

Kirsty Wilson stood in her old bedroom, a heap of clothes scattered on the floor at her feet. What the hell did you wear to a police station to discuss your friend’s murder? A manic laugh threatened to escape as she realised the absurdity of her thought. All of yesterday Kirsty had veered between weeping and an awful numbness that had developed into a band of tension across her forehead. Mum had given her a couple of paracetamol at bedtime and she had been astonished to find that she had slept soundly until almost ten this morning.

Most of her clothes were still at the flat since Mum had practically bundled her out with only her jacket and bag lifted from the bed where she’d left them. Kirsty felt a surge of gratitude as she caught sight of the thick black tights and clean knickers placed over the back of the bedroom chair. Ever practical, Mum had washed them out for her, but somehow Kirsty could not face putting on the same clothes she had worn when she’d found Eva’s body. There were her old black Levi’s that were too tight for her now, but maybe she could yank the zip halfway up, hiding her stomach under a baggy jumper? She sighed. Mum and Dad would expect her to be a bit smarter than that, though, wouldn’t they? Well, she could just keep her jacket on. Anyhow, who was going to bother about what she looked like? She bit her lip again. Did it really matter what sort of impression she would make for that detective inspector?

Colin had texted her earlier to ask when she was going to Stewart Street and she’d called him back to say that her dad was willing to pick them all up if they wanted. He’d sounded strange on the phone, bone weary, his voice heavy as though he had been doped up with something. And maybe he had, Kirsty thought, wondering how the three boys had coped together yesterday. Saturdays at the flat were normally great. Sometimes she would do a great big fry-up for them all, even Eva who would tuck into her French toast or scrambled eggs. Then one of them would race downstairs to the newsagent’s for a paper and they’d spend ages deciding whether to see a film or stay in to watch
The X Factor
. It had all been so
normal
, Kirsty thought. So how could it have gone so wrong?

Kirsty and the three boys got out of Alistair Wilson’s car and made their way to the main entrance of A Division, a three-storey building surrounded by modern blocks of flats. The blue building was dwarfed by the high-rise tenements on several sides but it still managed to make an impression, the thistle badge sitting proudly over the front door.

Colin Young lagged behind the others, his hand sliding on the steel rail, his feet reluctant to follow his flatmates into the building. Yet, even once inside the foyer where there was nothing that ought to have intimidated him, Colin told himself, why did he have this peculiar sensation of dread?
You know fine
, a little voice whispered in his ear.
You’re feart in case the other lads tell the police what happened at the party
.
The glass doors and that blue mat were welcoming enough and Pete the Penguin with its jaunty police cap should have made him smile the way it had for Gary and Rodge who were pointing at the poster as they waited for someone to come for them. Colin’s eyes were on other things, however: the bit of pale blue material that looked like a discarded curtain and those two polystyrene cups, one inside the other
sitting at an angle as if waiting to be taken away
. Colin composed the words in his head. Was there a story to tell from these objects? Even as his mind skirted their possibilities a woman in a blue overall emerged from behind the sliding doors and lifted them off, flicking a weary duster over the wooden seats.

It was comfortable enough sitting with his back against the dark wood, curved to make waiting less of a drag, he supposed. Some clever engineer of ergonomics had no doubt won a prize for that design. But the chairs curved around the wall were fixed firmly by bollard-like tubes, making Colin wonder about the need to secure the fixtures and fittings against vandalism. His musings were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching from the adjacent corridor.

‘Miss Wilson?’ A pleasant-faced constable had appeared through the wooden doors and then Kirsty was being ushered out, leaving the three boys alone in the reception area.

‘I just don’t understand it,’ she whispered, her hands clasped around the glass of water that DI Grant had given her. The policewoman had been kind but efficient, asking questions slowly and writing down the answers as though everything that Kirsty said really mattered. But it didn’t, of course. Nothing that she said would ever bring Eva back again.

‘Did Eva have a boyfriend, do you know?’ the DI asked.

Kirsty shook her head. ‘Och, she could’ve had her pick. Boys were always falling over themselves for her, but there was no one special,’ she replied. ‘Not that I know of anyway.’

There was a silence during which she sensed a disquiet from the police officer. She frowned. ‘What is it?’

Jo Grant gave a sigh. ‘Eva’s post-mortem examination shows that she had had sexual intercourse some time before she was killed,’ she said at last.

‘Dad never told me!’ Kirsty exclaimed.

‘He can’t discuss the case with you, Kirsty. You are one of our main witnesses and so anything you say about it should be to us. You know that, don’t you?’

Kirsty nodded silently.

‘So, given that she was supposed to be at a party, can you think of anyone with whom Eva may have had sex?’

Kirsty shook her head. ‘Better ask the boys,’ she said shortly. ‘I wasn’t there. I was working, like I told you.’

‘I will,’ Jo said gently, holding out her hand. ‘And I’m sorry to have to ask you things that are so upsetting, Kirsty. But sometimes girls confide things in one another, know what I mean?’

Kirsty nodded, feeling the tears begin to smart under her eyelids again. Had Eva ever confided in her? They’d talked, all right, for hours sometimes, but even in the months since she had met her, Kirsty had only gleaned little bits and pieces about the Swedish girl. And now even these were about to be laid bare in this bleak interview room.

‘Roger MacDonald Dunbar,’ the tall red-haired young man said, his fingers clasped nervously on the desk between them.

‘And your date of birth, Roger?’

‘Eighth of July, nineteen ninety-three.’

Jo Grant glanced up at the boy who was visibly sweating although the room was not particularly warm. He was a big lad, looked a bit like a farmer’s boy in that waxed jacket, but the green eyes that met hers held a keen intelligence that warned Jo not to underestimate him. She tried not to give a second glance to the huge fists: they might easily have strangled a small girl like Eva Magnusson with not a great deal of effort. But why? Why would one of her friends kill her then go on back to continue partying the night away? Besides, Lorimer had hinted that each one of the boys had seemed genuinely shocked at their flatmate’s death when he had seen them.

‘Right, Roger, I’m DI Grant and I am the senior investigating officer in charge of the case,’ Jo told him briskly.

‘But I thought Kirsty’s dad’s boss…’ Roger trailed off, his face colouring pink in confusion.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer, you mean?’

Roger nodded, clearly uncomfortable at having made a gaffe right away.

‘We are all under his authority,’ Jo conceded, ‘but it’s quite normal for a detective inspector to carry out enquiries in a case like this.’

She could see the lad swallow and guessed that he was coming to terms not only with Eva’s death but with the whole police procedure.

‘Now, Roger, I need to ask you a few questions about Eva Magnusson and the night on which she was killed,’ Jo continued in a no-nonsense sort of tone that she saw had an immediate effect on the lad. Roger Dunbar straightened up and the fidgeting fingers became still. He looked at her gravely, watching her face as she asked questions about the location of the party, who had been there, whether he had seen Eva slipping off with anyone.

Jo Grant felt her pulse quicken.

The young man had taken his time to consider most of her questions, thinking hard as if to visualise the scene. But when she asked that last question she could see him immediately stiffen.

‘Eva left the party with someone?’ Jo asked.

The boy licked his lips and swallowed again. As he began to reply, Jo could see the faint impression of marks on his lower lip where he had bitten off an immediate reply.

A shrug was all the reply he gave but Jo was not to be put off so easily.

‘Come on, Roger, you can do better than that. Surely you remember a pretty girl like Eva getting off with someone, eh?’

The boy’s hands were under the desk now and his shoulders were raised in twin peaks of tension.

‘No.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, I didn’t see anyone with her. I would probably have been drinking in the kitchen with my mates,’ he continued, a glint of bravado appearing in his eyes as he shrugged again. ‘I was pretty out of it later on anyway,’ he mumbled, looking down to avoid the DI’s steady gaze.

Jo tried not to make a face. It was true that the lad had been drunk as a skunk. He’d thrown up in the street, narrowly missing the floor of the police van, one of the officers had told her. And yet… he was no fool and even a night’s hard drinking hadn’t made him forget everything that had happened at that party. His reaction to her questions had told her that at least. And now there was a stubborn cast to his mouth that the DI recognised as a decision on the student’s part to clam up.

This wasn’t going anywhere. She was certain from his body language that Roger Dunbar was lying to her and she was pretty sure that she knew why. Whoever had left the party that night with Eva Magnusson might well have been the last person to see her alive.

Rodge breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped out into the cold air. Someone had escorted him out of a different door from the way they had come in and, as he walked past the cars parked tightly together under a canopy, he realised that his initial impression of the place had disappeared. He and Gary had looked at all the posters on the walls of the reception area – anything to take their minds off why they were really there – laughing at the daft penguin, impressed by the well burnished plaque that mentioned a fallen comrade. It had given him a sense that the people working in this place shared a sense of pride in what they were doing. Was DI Grant proud of her methods? She hadn’t believed him when he’d told her that he couldn’t remember much. Why hadn’t she just left it at that? Roger Dunbar scowled to himself as he walked up past the Piping Centre and waited for the lights to change. He’d given her his version of the events as he wanted to recall them and as far as he was concerned he was sticking to them.