The Swedish Girl Read online

  Kirsty was barely awake when she heard the door opening with a click. For one wild moment she sat up in bed, supposing it to be Colin, then the memories of what had happened came flooding back. Had it been the wind that night? Or had she been only feet away from the person who had killed her friend? Kirsty shivered, snuggling deeper below the duvet. She’d imagined it, right? That was what the senior investigating officer had implied anyway.

  And right now it was probably Rodge or Gary coming back, and she wasn’t up to talking to either of them just yet.

  ‘Hello?’

  The voice made Kirsty slide out of bed and grab her fleecy dressing gown from the peg on her door.

  ‘Mr Magnusson!’ Kirsty gasped as she padded into the darkened hallway. Then she stepped forward, seeing the big man slouched on one of the antique chairs. ‘Are you all right?’

  She touched his coat sleeve, feeling the cold wrinkles of the sheepskin as she bent to look at him more closely. The handsome face was pale and gaunt, his brow beaded with sweat.

  ‘My God!’ she said. ‘You’re not well! C’mere. Let me help you. I’ll make you something hot to drink.’ She tucked her hand under his elbow as if to assist him up from the spindly chair.

  ‘Kirsty,’ he whispered, turning his face up to hers, and she could see the tears in his eyes as Eva’s father swallowed hard, unable to speak. But there was no need for words as the girl bent to hug the stricken man, feeling how cold his cheek was as she put her face to his.

  Oh you poor, poor man! Kirsty wanted to say but she only sniffed back her own tears, determined not to upset him any further.

  ‘Come on through to the lounge,’ she told him. ‘I’ll light the fire and you can sit and get warm while I find you something to make you feel better. Okay?’

  She watched intently as the big man heaved himself out of the chair and leaned against her.

  ‘C’mon, now, take it easy,’ she whispered, helping him along the hallway and into the big airy lounge at the far end.

  ‘Here,’ she said, ushering him into the wing chair nearest to the fire. Henrik sank into it heavily, his eyes refusing to meet her own. Was he embarrassed to be suffering this moment of weakness in front of a girl who was only his tenant? Perhaps it was her nightclothes, Kirsty thought, pulling the sash tighter around her body. What on earth must he be thinking, seeing her in those flannelette pyjamas decorated with cartoon cats and the white fleecy dressing gown that made her look like a big fat snowman?

  She knelt down and lit the gas fire, turning the flame up to its highest before turning to check that he was all right. He sat as before, slumped into the chair, his face white and drawn, staring into the fire that had begun to burn quietly in the hearth.

  It was almost a relief to be in the familiar kitchen, filling the kettle, rummaging in the cupboards for some paracetamol and looking in the fridge to see if there was anything she could give him for breakfast. There were sausages – past their sell-by date – and bacon and probably some eggs still in the crock over by the window. Kirsty stood still for a moment, her tongue protruding from one side of her mouth as she considered. Scrambled eggs, she decided, then set to work.

  Henrik stared into the fire, afraid to look up and see the rest of this room. It had been such a short time ago that the place had been full of workmen, painting and decorating to his commands, then fitting the rich, ruby-red carpet and setting his choice of furniture wherever he directed. And it was here, he knew, that Eva’s life had been taken. Didn’t the girl realise that, he wondered in a sudden spurt of anger, but the feeling passed in a flash as he acknowledged that Kirsty Wilson was simply doing what any woman would do, seeing to the needs of someone in distress. She reminded him of Marthe, he thought. Not that this dumpling of a girl resembled the tall, slender woman in any physical way, but there had been that same quality of warmth and care in her voice that recalled his housekeeper to mind.

  At last the man raised his eyes and looked around the room. Little had changed, he thought, seeing the fine furniture against the walls: an antique cabinet that was full of books, the table by the window covered in trailing plants – his choice from that big garden centre, he remembered – and the low coffee table beside him with a few large glossy books pushed to one side. He drew his finger across the surface of the topmost book, seeing the trail left on its dusty surface, and gave a sigh. Why would he have imagined that the students might have any interest in such volumes as these? It was obvious from their pristine condition that the books on history and aviation had been of no interest to the young people in this flat. He sighed, the sound becoming a groan as his eyes refused to look down on the carpet.

  ‘Here you are,’ Kirsty said and Henrik looked up as though surprised to find the girl standing in front of him. She set down a tray on his lap and Henrik took it carefully, noting the steaming cup of coffee and scrambled eggs beside a glass of water.

  He looked at her and shook his head. ‘I don’t think I could eat anything,’ he said.

  Kirsty bit her lip and shrugged. ‘Och, don’t worry. See what you can manage. I think you should have these anyway.’ She handed him two white capsules. ‘You look terrible, by the way,’ she blurted.

  Henrik managed a rueful smile. ‘Thank you, Kirsty,’ he said. ‘I’ll try not to look in any of the mirrors then.’

  ‘Okay, well, um… I think I better go and get dressed,’ Kirsty said, dithering by his chair then, much to Henrik’s relief, she was gone again, leaving him to swallow the pills and contemplate the breakfast before him.

  As she came out of her bedroom, dressed hastily in jeans and a warm sweater, Kirsty stopped to turn up the central heating on the wall next to the front door. She was the only one of them to have returned to Merryfield Avenue so far but Rodge had texted her to say that both he and Gary would be back some time today. The boys had been put up by Roger’s pals for several nights now and Kirsty wondered just what the future was going to hold for them all here in the Anniesland flat. Well, she told herself, pulling back her shoulders and preparing to stride through the hall, the very man who could tell her that was here right now.

  ‘Oh, you managed…’ Kirsty smiled as she saw the tray lying on the coffee table, the plate empty and the knife and fork laid neatly across the middle. ‘Can I get you anything else?’ she asked, bending down to lift the tray away. But a movement from the man made her pause.

  ‘Kirsty, leave that just now, will you?’ he asked quietly. ‘I would like to talk to you, if I may.’

  This was it, then, she thought sadly. He was going to ask them all to find somewhere else to live. Couldn’t blame him, though, she told herself. How could he keep this place on now?

  She shrugged then tried to smile but failed. ‘Well, I guess you won’t want us hanging about here after all that’s happened,’ she began.

  Henrik frowned. ‘You think I am going to evict you, Kirsty? Why on earth would I do that? I am perfectly happy that you remain here, if you want to, that is. You have all signed a lease for the year and I would not dream of asking anyone to leave!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, I thought…’ She bit her lip and looked at him again. ‘Well, I do want to stay here, Mr Magnusson. It was lovely till…’ She broke off then breathed in sharply, trying to compose herself for what she wanted to say. ‘And I think Rodge and Gary will too. And Colin, when he comes back, of course,’ she added in a rush.

  The big man sat back, his eyebrows raised in a moment of total astonishment.

  ‘You expect that he will come back here?’ His voice rose in a credulous note.

  Kirsty nodded silently.

  ‘But he has been put in prison for killing my daughter!’ Henrik protested. ‘How can you say such things! My Eva, who was so perfect until…’ He stopped, one hand across his eyes as though he were trying to blot out some terrible memory.

  Kirsty shivered, a sudden chill coursing down her back. What did he mean? Was he talking about Eva’s death? She frowned, biting her lip.


  ‘Mr Magnusson,’ she began, trembling slightly under the man’s stern gaze, ‘I really don’t think it was Colin who killed her. Honestly I don’t.’

  ‘But the police have evidence that he was the last one with her—’

  ‘They have evidence that he and Eva had sex,’ Kirsty told him bluntly. ‘That shouldn’t be the same as thinking he killed her as well. Making love isn’t a crime,’ she went on, then stopped, remembering for a fleeting moment her own rough and tumble upstairs with Roger Dunbar.

  ‘See, I really got to know Colin quite well since we all came here,’ she told him earnestly, leaning forward and hugging her arms around her chest. ‘Colin’s a nice lad, a bit bookish, perhaps, but a gentle soul. He would never have hurt Eva,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He was so very fond of her, you know.’ She sighed.

  ‘And she liked him too, did she?’ Henrik asked, shaking his head in puzzlement as though it had only just occurred to him that there might have been something he did not know about his daughter.

  ‘I think so,’ Kirsty said, mentally crossing her fingers. Why had they been together that night? Oh, Eva, if only you were here to tell me!

  ‘You think the police have got it wrong?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘I can’t speak to my dad about it but I did see Detective Superintendent Lorimer yesterday.’

  Henrik nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  ‘Well, the police can’t do anything more for Colin unless some new evidence comes up to show that he was innocent.’

  ‘And? How is that going to happen?’

  He was frowning again and, Kirsty thought, a bit annoyed at her. But she wasn’t going to achieve anything unless she was brave enough to plunge ahead.

  ‘Could I have your permission to go through all of Eva’s things? There’s still stuff that the police have left in her room,’ she explained.

  ‘Kirsty.’ Henrik reached out and took her hands in his. When he spoke again his voice was husky. ‘I can see you have been a friend to my girl and you are obviously a friend to this young man.’ He heaved a huge sigh that threatened to bring tears to his eyes and Kirsty looked away, too afraid to see this big handsome man break down in front of her.

  ‘You have my permission to look around, yes. I trust you to do this,’ he told her. ‘But only you, Kirsty. Take the key to Eva’s room, my dear, and keep it safe, will you? Then,’ he paused for a moment, ‘when you are sure that you have done all that you can, I will come back and we will pack up all her things together, yes?’

  Kirsty nodded again, then on an impulse she rose from the chair beside Henrik’s to give him a hug. She could hear a sigh as she held him for a moment. Then, as she pulled away, she could see through her own blurred eyes the streams of tears that were coursing down this stricken father’s cheeks.

  CHAPTER 17

  ‘

  N

  o, I don’t have any wholemeal bread, you’re just gonnae have to have plain white like the rest of us!’ Corinne Kennedy gritted her teeth as she pulled the loaf out of the plastic bread bin, noting for the umpteenth time the yellowing tape that held its broken lid together. Everything in this bloody house was falling to bits, she told herself, shoving the hair out of her eyes. She yanked a couple of slices off the end of the packet, muttering to herself as she pushed them into a toaster that had once been chrome and white but was now stained with scorch marks like the smudges of nicotine on her father’s old fingers.

  ‘Just you wait, see if I cannae find you a wee place out in the country,’ she hissed quietly. ‘Then we’ll a’ hae a bit of peace.’

  Corinne slammed the cutlery drawer shut, listening all the while for the tap tap of the stick that might herald the old man coming through from the living room to stand and girn in her ear. It had been like this for more than a week now, ever since that poor wee Swedish lassie had copped it. At first Corinne had tried to show her elderly father a modicum of kindness; he’d had a bad fright, right enough. But after the first couple of days his whining and demands and that incessant ‘What?’ that made her practically shout at him to be heard had got on her nerves. And why should she be nice to him anyway? she thought, fingers closing over the bread knife. He’d been the one to chuck her out when she’d fallen pregnant, hadn’t he?

  The toast popped up with a dull ping and Corinne slapped the pieces down on a plate, buttering furiously. He didn’t like her sort of butter, he’d told her; preferred that expensive Danish stuff. Well Derek McCubbin was in her home now and he’d just have tae take what he was given, Corinne told herself, scooping up some watery raspberry jam from the bottom of a jar. Maybe she could bring up the subject of rent? He wanted to stay on here, she knew that fine; but maybe she should hold her tongue a wee bit longer till she had worked out just what her father’s future was to be. Then it would be payback time for all the years she’d suffered. She smiled to herself as she sliced the toast into neat triangles. Once the Anniesland house was sold it would be easy enough to work on him.

  With a sigh that came from too many years of scraping along on cheap food and cut-price everything else, Corinne Kennedy put the plate onto a melamine tray along with the pot of tea that had stood stewing till it was black enough for the old man’s liking, and strode through to the living room of her third-floor flat. Her father was sitting where she had left him, in the most comfortable chair opposite the television, a rug spread across his knees.

  Corinne blinked for a moment. Where had the time gone since she had left home with his words ringing in her ears? You’ve made your bed now you can lie on it, he’d shouted at her, no sympathy for her advanced state of pregnancy or for the hasty marriage that had ensued in the register office. Margaret McCubbin had said nothing, but Corinne could still recall the tears in her mother’s eyes when her only daughter had left Merryfield Avenue for good, the poor soul wringing her hands on the hem of that old flowered apron.

  ‘Here ye are, Faither,’ Corinne said, placing the tray onto the old man’s lap. ‘Watch an no’ spill the tea, okay?’ She put out a tentative hand to pat his shoulder but withdrew it suddenly as he turned his face to scowl up at her.

  ‘Where did you learn to speak like that, woman?’ he growled, his gimlet stare pinning her to the spot. ‘After the decent education we gave you! Too many years in this slum of a place, that’s what’s wrong with you,’ he snarled bitterly before turning his attention to the pieces of toast.

  Corinne bit her lip and retreated to the kitchen once more. Her hands were shaking as she held onto the lip of the sink. He could still do this to her, make her feel like some inadequate. Well, if it all worked out, she’d be having the last laugh. A place in the country, she told herself, thinking about the neat little bungalows spread out in Carmunnock, not this wee space inside a tenement shaped like a cereal packet in the sprawl of houses that was Castlemilk.

  Anyhow, he’d been a right auld misery since his next-door neighbour, Grace Smith, had passed away, Corinne thought, standing up straighter and pulling a dry tea towel off the radiator. Grace’s daughter had sold the flat in Merryfield Avenue last summer and taken bits and pieces of her late mother’s things back to her home in St Andrews. Corinne had dropped plenty of hints that Derek should sell up, leave his sad memories behind and move in with her to somewhere nice but until now he had stubbornly refused to consider such a thing. Grace was my friend, he’d told her, I can remember her best if I stay where I am. But that was before. Now that poor wee Swedish lassie had been found dead in the same flat that Grace had died in everything was going to change, she thought, wiping the dishes and stacking them back in the cupboard.

  Corinne Kennedy swept a disgusted glance over the grey cupboards – ‘catkin’, the brochure had called them, but they were still just a dull indeterminate shade of grey – to the window beyond where a weak sun was trying to emerge from behind the edge of the buildings that blocked her view of the skyline.

  Her expression hardened for a moment. Aye, everything would cha
nge now and she was going to make damned sure it was a change for the better.

  Kirsty Wilson waited behind her bedroom door, listening. Outside there was a low hum from the traffic making its way along Great Western Road and she could hear the swish of wet tyres down below her window. There was no sound from upstairs, but that didn’t mean that the boys were asleep yet. Either of them could be lying in bed with their ears full of music downloads. She heaved a sigh. Well, if she was ever going to find a time to search in Eva’s room it was now. The December darkness had filled the flat since well before the afternoon was over and now it was almost midnight. Kirsty shivered, not from cold but from the anticipation of making that diagonal walk across the hallway and unlocking the door to the dead girl’s room.

  A sudden thought of Colin made her straighten up and take those few steps along the corridor. He would be sleeping in a narrow bunk in a cold cell, wouldn’t he? There was nothing in the girl’s experience to give her a visual idea of what that might be like, only ancient TV sitcoms like Porridge, but Kirsty reckoned that any kind of incarceration had to be pretty bleak for a sensitive soul like Colin Young.

  The keys that Mr Magnusson had left were in her dressing gown pocket and she pulled them out, feeling the cold metal in her fingers, seeing a piece of white fibre that had attached itself to the smallest. She picked it off and held the key up to the light. Aye, that was Eva’s, all right. Her father had shown her the markings on the small Yale key so that she would recognise it again.