The Swedish Girl Read online

  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.

  CHAPTER 10

  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.

  CHAPTER 11

  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 s
marter 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.