The Swedish Girl Page 13

  Solly’s bushy eyebrows rose and he smiled at his own reaction, a delighted eagerness to read whatever it was that his friend had deemed important enough to send late on a Friday night.

  It was not, Solly saw, really from Lorimer at all but a forwarded email from a girl who called herself KirsWil3@gmail.com. The appended note from Lorimer was brief and to the point.

  Kirsty Wilson wants to clear Colin Young’s name, Solly, and I’m afraid I encouraged her to look a bit into the Magnusson girl’s background – more in the hope that she would decide to give up, really. But she may actually have found something so I have agreed to forward this on to you for your opinion, and, I trust, sound advice. I will be letting Jo Grant know what has been found, of course.

  Lorimer

  Solly gave a sigh and nodded. It was a rum business, this Swedish girl being murdered in her own flat. And DS Wilson’s daughter mixed up in it, too. He scrolled down and read the forwarded message.

  Dear Professor Brightman,

  I am really sorry to bother you but I’m very concerned that a miscarriage of justice may be about to take place and I wanted to talk to you. You see, I feel very strongly that my flatmate, Eva, was not killed by Colin Young, as the police seem to think. Would it be at all possible for you to spare me time to talk about this?

  Best wishes,

  Kirsty Wilson

  Solly sat still, reading the message over again. The tone was polite, deferential, even, but there was a directness about it that he found appealing. ‘You see’, the girl had written, as though she actually wanted him to see what she saw, to share her viewpoint. But did she want more than that? ‘A miscarriage of justice’ was a phrase that brooked no argument. Also she had used the word ‘very’ twice as if to underline her obvious concern, something that might even hint at passionately held feelings. Did she have any sort of romantic attachment to Young, the chap who had been charged with the Swedish girl’s murder? Solly placed his hands behind his head, amused at the extent to which Kirsty Wilson had already wormed her way into his thoughts. Yes, he decided, he would see her, if only to put her mind at rest that the police had done what they had to do.

  He frowned suddenly. What if…? Jo Grant was a bright woman, but if she had made a blunder in this case, then her career path might come to a dead end.

  ‘Daaa-daaa!’ a familiar little voice called out, making Solly stand up and turn towards the nursery, a grin on his face. It seemed that, after a restless night, Abigail had decided that breakfast time had finally arrived.

  The message from Kirsty Wilson stood out on the screen, waiting for a reply, but for now the psychologist had another young lady demanding his attention, one who simply would not be prepared to wait a moment longer than necessary.

  Across the city another father was sitting down to breakfast, the Saturday edition of the Gazette propped against the cereal packet that separated him from the tousle-haired woman sitting across the table. Upstairs, all was blissfully quiet. Amanda and Catherine were still asleep and, listening to her incessant chatter, Dirk McGregor heartily wished that his wife had decided to stay in bed as well.

  ‘We could take off on the Tuesday and be back in time for the girls’ disco on the Friday. What do you think?’ Fran McGregor tried to push a stray curl away from her forehead but it tumbled back down again across a brow etched with permanent frown marks.

  Dirk gave no reply except to make a grunt, his usual ploy when pretending to listen to his wife.

  ‘Sharon says we can stay over, no problem. The cottage isn’t let out at that time of year so we would have the whole place to ourselves. Dirk? What do you think?’ she repeated, this time with more of an edge to her voice, a sign that Fran McGregor was not prepared to be ignored for very much longer.

  ‘Aye, fine, whatever you say,’ Dirk replied testily, trying to concentrate on the leading article about yet another political career in turmoil.

  ‘We could share the driving,’ Fran persisted, her tone a shade doubtful.

  With a sigh that was deliberately audible, Dirk lowered the newspaper and glared at his wife.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ he said shortly. ‘Just you make sure there’ll be enough grub for, how many days did you say?’

  ‘Three nights,’ Fran replied, beaming now that her plan had been accepted by her irascible husband.

  Dirk grunted again and lifted the paper as though to signal the end of that particular conversation. But somehow the article he had been reading had lost its appeal and the memory of that woman’s voice on the telephone returned to haunt him.

  Eva Magnusson! Beautiful, naughty little Eva. God! What he would give for her to be back in his life again! And yet… Dirk clutched the sides of the newspaper, remembering.

  The pale limbs stretched upwards, the way her back had arched under his heaving body… oh God! How could he have let himself be led into a situation like that? But he had, Dirk thought. And it had been oh so easy for her to seduce him, hadn’t it? The ego of an older, jaded man had been flattered by a little beauty like the Swedish girl. Dirk blinked, realising that his eyes were filling up, thankful to be hiding behind the newspaper.

  It had always been going to end in tears. But he hadn’t wanted it to end like that.

  Fran was talking again, going over all the things they would need for a few days away up at Malcolm and Sharon’s cottage. The girls stopped their private school more than a week before Christmas so there would be no problem in taking off to the Highlands. And maybe it would be good to escape for a while, Dirk thought, biting his lip. Though at that precise moment the lecturer could not honestly say just what it was that he wanted to escape from.

  ‘No, Dad, I’m no’ gonnae put it off another day. We have to see the estate agent an’ get this all settled.’

  Derek McCubbin pushed the spoon around the bowl of cornflakes, watching the thin milk sopping the tan-coloured cereal into a soggy mess. Bloody semi-skimmed! Why could she not buy the full cream that he liked? Derek had always insisted he had the top of the milk at home, the breadwinner’s prerogative, his wife used to remark fondly. Well he was still the man who was providing the wherewithal, wasn’t he?

  ‘You don’t really want to go back to Anniesland, now, do you, Dad?’ Corinne wheedled. ‘Not after everything that’s happened, eh?’

  Derek shook his head, a silent answer that seemed to satisfy his daughter.

  ‘Right, want some toast?’ Her voice softened a little now that she had got her way.

  He nodded without looking up, too afraid to meet her eyes. No, he would not return to Merryfield Avenue or to the memories of those hooligans across the landing. Good riddance to the lot of them! Yet, as his hand lifted the spoon to his mouth, Derek felt a trembling in his fingers and lips so that a gob of cereal fell onto the table.

  ‘Tsk!’ Corinne swooped onto the mess with a cloth, snatching it up, then wiping his lips in one quick movement.

  Her father looked away, ashamed. Was this his fate now? Was he becoming an old helpless man? It was something he had tried to resist for so long. Derek had listened to their whispering, imagining them making cunning plans to take him away from all that he held dear and put him into some kind of home for the elderly. ‘God’s waiting room’, some called it. The old man breathed a sigh of relief. It wouldn’t come to that, now. Corinne would look after him. The flat would be sold and he would live out his twilight years in a modicum of comfort, away from the noise and bustle of the city.

  He pushed the bowl away from him and slumped into his chair, his appetite quite gone. There would be no more jaunts around the corner to the pub on Great Western Road. But then he wouldn’t have to suffer those flights of stone stairs, his leg aching with the effort to climb back up to his beloved home. It was a different sort of ache that Derek McCubbin was experiencing now; an ache in his heart for all the yesterdays he had spent so carelessly and that could never be given back.

  CHAPTER 21

  ‘

  R

&nb
sp; eady?’ Lorimer watched as Maggie bustled about the kitchen, testing the back door to see that it was locked, gathering up her capacious handbag and the plastic bag with Abby’s present.

  ‘Aye, all set. D’you think she’ll like it?’ Maggie asked, lifting the fluffy duck out of the bag and regarding it doubtfully.

  Lorimer grinned. ‘Course she will! She loves the ducks in the park and once she gets the hang of pressing the bit that quacks she’ll drive her parents crackers!’

  ‘Or quackers,’ Maggie quipped, slipping out of the front door while Lorimer held it open for her.

  They had been for a ramble down at the RSPB centre at Lochwinnoch, just after sunrise, to watch the flocks of wading birds on the loch. The soft toy was one of many bird species that made an accurate sound when pressed and Maggie had been unable to resist the duck as a present for her godchild.

  They were both used to early rises even in this dark time of year when the sun was a reluctant visitor; Lorimer was punctilious about being at his desk in Stewart Street by six every morning and Maggie made a point of spending time with her husband at breakfast. The extra time before setting off for Muirpark Secondary School was used for preparation and any last-minute corrections, giving the English teacher a head start to her day. So when the weather forecast showed that Saturday was to be dry and windless, they had decided to pay the waterfowl a visit. Seeing the first burning rays of sun coming up over the hills, spreading golden layers across the water, had been well worth the sacrifice of a lie-in. And now little Abby was to have a new toy, something that the godparents hoped would encourage her growing interest in birds.

  ‘Oh, this is nice,’ Maggie sighed, looking out of the window as they drove across the river. The familiar landmarks of the city stood out sharply against a pale winter sky: the spiked tower of Glasgow University, the white spire of Trinity and the newer, modern buildings that hugged the banks of the Clyde. The river below was a streak of pearly grey, coursing out towards the misty west where it would eventually widen into the Firth and join the Atlantic.

  Lorimer nodded, his eyes on the road ahead, his thoughts not on the sky or the river but on the message he had sent to his friend. Would Solly be willing to take an interest in the case? And if so, was there anything to be found? The senior policeman frowned. Jo Grant had been pretty tight-lipped when he had told her what Kirsty Wilson had discovered. And perhaps his own willingness to see Kirsty Wilson had undermined that loyalty already? The information about McGregor was in the Fiscal’s hands now and they would just have to wait to see if anything changed.

  His thoughts returned to Alistair Wilson’s daughter. There had been something very persuasive in the girl’s manner, casting the tiniest shadow of a doubt in his mind. What if they had got it wrong? There was a celebrated defence lawyer in the city whose mantra was that it was better that ninety-nine guilty men went free than that one innocent man was wrongly convicted. Lorimer, like so many of his police colleagues, didn’t hold with that at all. They would rather every guilty person was convicted and all the innocent set free. Yet he could see the lawyer’s point. What if Colin Young had been wrongly charged? Well, there would be fifteen men and women on a jury at the High Court some time next year to see that justice was done, he told himself. Jo Grant had done what she had to do, given the existing evidence, and they would continue to discuss between them how best to take this forward. His DI was still insistent they had the right man. Yet the frown that had settled between Lorimer’s eyes as they drove along the riverside persisted, despite his efforts to assure himself that they really had apprehended the Swedish girl’s killer.

  Every day here was exactly the same and Colin had to make a real effort to remember what day of the week it was. Christmas was not too far off, a mere matter of days, but Colin wanted the occasion to pass him by as quickly as it could. The other prisoners all seemed to be sports enthusiasts, taking off for the gym at every opportunity in the hope of winning one of the prizes on offer for the festive competitions, but Colin had come into the system too late to enter for anything and he simply didn’t have the energy to be bothered anyway. Dad had been in once, bringing his clothes and other stuff he had asked for, and he knew he would be in again this afternoon.

  He’d told him about Sam, the tall white-haired man who had slipped him a Mars Bar and offered him good advice. Get yer da tae nip ower tae the vending machines tae get ye stuff soon as he comes in tae visit, right? He cannae afford tae wait in thon queue else ye’ll never hae time tae talk thegether, mind an’ tell him, son. Sam had been a decent sort, nice to him and friendly, and Colin had felt a huge relief that someone was looking out for him.

  Colin sat on the side of his bunk, fiddling with his pen. Oh how he missed having his mobile phone! It was like part of him had been taken away, like a limb, leaving him with that phantom pain that amputees talked about. All his pals were the same: a click of a button away from a voice or a text, communication guaranteed. But they were forbidden in here and he could only use the telephone down the corridor occasionally. Still, Dad would update him on things, wouldn’t he? Tell him how Celtic was doing, for instance, though the fate of his father’s favourite football team was of little interest to Colin. What he really wanted to know was how the lawyers were getting on with his case and if anything new had come to light that would allow him to return to the life he so missed. And it was the wee ordinary things that Colin Young missed, things he’d taken for granted; like having a hot shower whenever he wanted it, going out for a walk when the notion took him, making himself a cup of decent coffee…

  He rolled over to face the far wall. He was on his own again, the young ned who’d shared his cell having been taken off somewhere else last night. He hadn’t asked any questions, but the sly grin on the other boy’s face had left him wondering.

  He closed his eyes and thought about Merryfield Avenue. If he tried very hard he could pretend he was back there lying on his own bed, listening to sounds coming from the kitchen… Perhaps Kirsty would be up and about already, cooking French toast with blueberries and cinnamon, one of her Saturday morning favourites. The remembered taste of it made the saliva curl around his tongue. In here… no, he wouldn’t even think of the food in here… basic and nourishing, the pantryman had told him sharply. Remember the good times, he’d told himself over and over, then he wondered what Oscar Wilde would have thought about in Reading gaol whenever he’d had time to pause from the hard labour prisoners were set in those days.

  Fiona Travers jogged along the pavement, dodging bits of Friday night’s litter, the discarded pizza boxes picked clean by crows, and bottles rolling about in the wind. It was daylight now but the leaden grey clouds shifting across the sky threatened rain. Just ahead the girl spotted the opening to a narrow lane. She bit an indecisive lip as it drew closer. It wasn’t a route she liked to take because of all the dog poo underfoot and the gloomy overhanging trees. Still, if she took a wee shortcut down this path and watched her feet maybe it wouldn’t take so long to get back before the heavens opened.

  There were no dog walkers out this morning, just a lone figure walking beneath the line of ancient elms that skirted the footpath. Fiona took a deep breath and increased her pace, determined to reach home before the rain began.

  She did not even glance at the man as she passed him by, eye contact with strangers an unwritten taboo.

  The sound of her trainers thudding on the beaten earth was the only sound and yet some inner instinct made Fiona half turn as though she had heard something behind her. She twisted around, just in time to see the man’s glaring eyes and the upraised arm holding a hefty stick.

  She had to run faster. Had to get away. Had to duck out of his reach…

  The movement made her stumble then slip on a patch of mud, giving him the advantage he needed.

  Fiona opened her mouth to scream as the stick came towards her brow but all that issued from her lips was a small whimper of pain and disbelief. She was on her knees now, one hand h
eld to her bleeding head.

  And so it was that the girl did not see the man bending over her, fingers stretched out towards her throat.

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘

  S

  hame about the weather,’ Maggie remarked. She was standing at the huge bay window that overlooked Kelvingrove Park, watching the rain sweep across the paths. ‘It was so nice first thing as well.’

  ‘Never mind, Abby was up a lot last night so missing a walk to see her beloved ducks won’t give us too much grief.’ Rosie smiled wearily. ‘Anyway, now that she’s settled, let’s have that special hot chocolate I promised you.’

  The two women wandered through the lounge to the spacious kitchen, their husbands ensconced in Solly’s study.

  ‘Kirsty Wilson contacted Solly, did Bill tell you?’ Rosie began as she set out the four Christmas mugs on the counter then reached for the tin of Charbonnel et Walker.

  Maggie shook her head. ‘I knew she’d come by last weekend to see him,’ she said slowly. ‘D’you think she’ll get into trouble?’

  Rosie raised her eyebrows and sighed. ‘Don’t know. She’s entitled to poke around if she’s certain there’s something to find, I suppose. But I have a horrid feeling that Kirsty is only storing up a lot more grief for herself over that boy.’

  ‘She’s sweet on him, then?’

  Rosie shrugged as she spooned the chocolate powder into a big jug of milk and put it into the microwave to heat. ‘Don’t know. But why else would she be so keen to see him exonerated of a crime like this?’