The Swedish Girl Page 6

  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.

  Gary Calderwood was a nice-looking young man, smartly dressed in a polar fleece that looked like it had come straight off its clothes rail in the shop and jeans so new that they almost creaked when he moved. Plenty of money, DI Jo Grant decided, taking in the young man’s appearance at a glance. He’d evidently gone out yesterday and bought himself some new clothes. Was he trying to make a good impression for his visit to this divisional headquarters? Or had he wanted to cast off any memory of Friday night? Maybe he was just a tad vain, Jo thought, watching as Gary smoothed a cowlick from his forehead. As the student entered the interview room Jo had caught a strong whiff of expensive aftershave. Eau Sauvage, she decided, remembering the brand her dad had used all his life. Now, leaning back in his chair, arms folded, she was aware of him watching her as she wrote down the date and time on her report sheet.

  ‘Right, Mr Calderwood
, thanks for coming in. I’m Detective Inspector Grant, the senior investigating officer in this case. You may remember me from Friday night, though we were all pretty similar, weren’t we?’ she joked. It may have been a frightening sight for the students, seeing all those figures, suited and masked, their gloved hands holding clipboards or bags for forensic equipment. Plus, the boys had been given the news about Eva Magnusson in a fairly brutal manner, arriving in their street to see the close mouth cordoned off and several police vehicles with blue lights flashing.

  ‘No, sorry, I don’t,’ Gary said, then, leaning forward, he surprised Jo by sticking out his hand.

  ‘How do you do, Inspector,’ he added gravely.

  Jo took the lad’s hand, noticing his firm grip. This one was not a bit afraid of coming into a police station. A cool customer, then, and possibly more able to cope with Eva’s death than the others.

  ‘I know you gave a statement to DS MacPherson on Friday night, but there was a lot going on and I wanted to have the chance to chat to you,’ Jo told him in as casual a manner as she could adopt.

  ‘We were all a bit wrecked,’ Gary replied ruefully, his expression apologetic.

  ‘Yes,’ Jo agreed then flicked through the file in front of her as if to find something important. In truth, she knew exactly where Gary Calderwood’s statement was, but it helped to give an air of gravitas to the proceedings, especially as the DI was conscious of the young man’s eyes boring into her.

  ‘I’ve got most of your details here, Mr Calderwood. You are a student at the University of Glasgow studying economics, is that right?’

  Gary Calderwood nodded and Jo noticed him sitting back again in a relaxed fashion, his arms folded across his chest.

  ‘The main point of bringing you all in to see me today is to find out what we can about Eva’s movements on the night she died,’ Jo continued, jumping into the interview with less of a preamble than she had intended.

  A slight lift of his dark eyebrows was the only reaction displayed by the young man so Jo ploughed on.

  ‘Can you tell me just what you remember about the party from the time you all left the flat until the time you arrived back again?’ she asked, swinging her pen idly in her fingers as though she might or might not take notes from what Gary told her.

  He sniffed then let his eyes wander above him as though thinking through an answer.

  ‘Hm,’ he said at last. ‘Well,’ he began slowly, still considering a spot high up on the opposite wall, ‘we left the flat about ten o’clock and went round to the pub for a carry-out then caught a taxi to Kelvinbridge.’

  Jo nodded encouragingly.

  ‘Well, I don’t recall much about what actually happened at the party. Lots of loud music, some of it pretty dreadful if you want to know the truth.’ He smiled suddenly, showing a set of perfect white teeth.

  ‘Was Eva with anyone in particular?’

  Gary frowned. ‘You mean one of us?’ he said sharply. ‘Not really. I mean she hung about with us a bit, saw her dancing with Colin at one point. If you could call it dancing.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, that boy has no sense of rhythm at all,’ he said with a smile.

  Jo glanced up at him and saw the lips curve in an almost sneer that transformed his face for an instant. Then it was gone and the handsome young man was back again, his expression wholly respectful.

  ‘When did Eva leave the party?’

  Gary shook his head. ‘Sorry, I don’t know. Wasn’t wearing my watch as it happens,’ he added, tapping his wrist. Jo looked at the chunky Rolex, her eyes widening. That, she thought, must have cost someone an arm and a leg.

  ‘It was my dad’s,’ Gary said softly, staring at her as though he had read her thoughts. ‘I was given it after he collapsed and died last year.’

  You’re no stranger to sudden death, then, Jo thought. She had wondered at his calm exterior: now perhaps it could be explained. This one was maybe more mature than the others, having already experienced the death of someone close.

  ‘Good idea not to wear it to a rowdy party, then,’ Jo agreed. ‘You picked it up from the flat that night?’

  Gary nodded. ‘They let us go up to take some of our things… eventually,’ he said. As he tailed off, Jo could hear the beginnings of strain in his voice. Friday night must have been all sorts of hell for these students and this chap was making a good show of holding his emotions in check.

  ‘Any idea who was with Eva when she left, then?’ she asked.

  The young man sat back in his chair and let his eyes wander across the ceiling once more, but this time Jo detected a shift in his manner. This, she thought, was a delaying tactic as she watched his eyes flick back and forth as though searching for the right lie to tell.

  ‘Didn’t she go home on her own?’ he asked eventually, shrugging as though he had no answer to give.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Jo told him sharply.

  ‘Maybe the taxi driver would know,’ he said.

  Jo gave him a wintry smile. ‘We’re already investigating all of the taxi firms in the area,’ she told him. ‘What makes you so certain that she took a cab anyway?’

  Gary Calderwood’s eyebrows took another lift upwards. ‘Because that’s what she always did,’ he said simply.

  CHAPTER 12

  I

  t was warm in the office where they had asked him to wait, but Colin simply could not stop himself from shivering. The hotel bedroom had been small and stuffy, too hot for sleeping, he’d thought, though he must have dozed off at some point because when he had woken up this morning daylight was streaming in through the window. He’d forgotten to flick shut the blinds last night, preferring to sit at the window and watch the lights from the traffic below, anything to keep out the memory of the past two days and nights.

  It seemed like hours since Mr Wilson had arrived to whisk them off to the police station. A Division, Kirsty had told him, as though that might mean something to him. He had been waiting in that reception area for ages, watching the shadows of officers behind the frosted glass screens, looking up every time a figure emerged from the wooden doors, following them with his eyes when they went out into the streets, wondering if they were police officers or not. Plain clothes? Undercover? Some of them looked so ordinary he simply couldn’t decide.

  Kirsty had been first to go, then Rodge and then Gary, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

  Colin stood up and wandered across to the square window of the office that looked out onto the street. A thin drizzle still fell, the grey pavements slick with rain that had been falling all morning. He could see a couple hurrying along under a huge golf umbrella, their faces hidden by the way one of them held it, slantwise against the driving drops. For a moment he let his mind wander, making up a story about them, giving them a history, a shared past that had brought them to this moment on a Glasgow street. If he had been at home, his laptop open on the desk, then perhaps these strangers might have come alive under his imaginative fingers. Then the thought of home, the flat in Merryfield Avenue, brought Colin back to why he was here, waiting in this room inside the vastness of a Strathclyde divisional headquarters.

  The jittering began in his face as though his cheeks had become icy cold.

  Putting his hands out against the window sill, Colin tried to remember what Kirsty had told him about breathing against these rising panic attacks that she had witnessed back at the flat. He gulped air into his lungs, held it there for a count of four then exhaled as slowly as he could, feeling the shivers gradually subside. A numb sensation crept over his nose and mouth and Colin turned to grasp the back of the chair. Breathe, breathe, he told himself, but with every gulp of air he took, he could see Eva’s lifeless face, all her breath snuffed out for good.

  ‘Mr Young?’

  Colin looked up sharply as the woman came into the room, the sudden motion making him feel light-headed and nauseous.

  ‘Detective Inspector Grant,’ the woman said. ‘Would you like to f
ollow me, please?’

  Colin stood up, forcing his feet to walk across the floor and out into a corridor. The ringing in his ears subsided as he tried to match the dark-haired woman’s stride, the sound of their footsteps unnaturally loud. They passed several doors, one marked VIPER, another FORENSIC DRYING CABINETS, before the woman stopped and turned towards him.

  ‘In here, please.’ DI Grant was smiling at him encouragingly, her hand raised to indicate that Colin should enter the door marked INTERVIEW ROOM 3.

  Taking another deep breath, Colin walked into the room. His first thought was of all the real criminals who had been here, quizzed about their terrible misdeeds. A throbbing began in his temple. Was that tension headache returning, or was it that the very air shimmered with the lies that had been spun like spiders’ webs over the years?

  ‘Mr Young? Are you all right?’ DI Grant was taking Colin by the arm now, sitting him down in that blue padded chair by the table. ‘Would you like a drink of water?’

  Colin nodded then licked his lips and swallowed. ‘Please,’ he whispered.

  She was gone and back in less than a minute, returning with a bottle of mineral water and a plastic beaker. Not glass, Colin realised, imagining a mad thug smashing a tumbler and hefting it across the woman’s face. He winced, the image was so real, then took the bottle and poured it into the beaker, watching his hand shaking all the time. She must see that too, Colin realised, grasping the beaker and taking deep gulps of the water.