by Alex Gray
Then, turning away before the policeman could see the tears starting in her eyes, she pretended to bury her face in the coffee mug.
Oh, Colin, Kirsty thought, what will you have to tell me?
CHAPTER 24
‘
I
’ve called everyone,’ Kim wailed. ‘Even the A&E departments of the local hospitals!’
Andy Harrison sat opposite his flatmate, holding her hands between his own. Her fingers were so cold. Poor circulation, the scientist in him thought, then he chided himself immediately. The girl was distraught, panicking even. It was hours now since Fiona had left the flat for her daily run. And although Kim could be a bit of a drama queen at times, Andy felt that she was genuinely upset as though she instinctively knew something was wrong.
‘What about the police?’ he said quietly.
Kim choked back a sob. ‘I couldn’t…’
‘D’you want me to ring them?’
The red-haired girl nodded, fishing a crumpled hanky from her cardigan pocket.
‘Okay. Sorry, Andy, I’m probably being silly, but…’
‘No, it’s all right,’ the young man replied. But, as he left the kitchen to make the telephone call, the science student had to admit to an irrational sense of foreboding in his heart.
The woman on the line was pleasant but firm, directing his call through to the local police station where an officer took Fiona’s name and other details, promising to call back if there was any news and assuring Andy that there was probably no need to worry. People went missing all the time and usually turned up again safe and sound within twenty-four hours.
‘Fiona Travers. Lives in a flat up near Jordanhill station with her sister and another fellow. Left the house early for her usual run. Description: long blond hair, blue eyes, approximate height five feet five, slim build, aged twenty. Think she’s the one?’
The detective sergeant looked up from his clipboard at the uniformed officer who had relayed Andrew Harrison’s call.
‘Could be. Timing’s right. So’s the location. Better ask the sister if she can come down to the mortuary.’
The uniformed cop nodded. This was one aspect of the job that they all hated. Giving bad news to relatives was such a crap thing to have to do. Still, there was a young bloke in that flat, too, so maybe he’d accompany her?
Kim clung on to Andy’s sleeve as they entered the front door of Glasgow City Mortuary. The rain had stopped but the Glasgow streets were still awash with water gurgling into the gutters. She felt Andy’s hand on her back as he guided her into the place, hardly heard the lady pathologist’s words as she was led towards the viewing room. It was, Kim thought, like a bad dream where all sense of time and place was blurred at the edges and you knew that you would wake up at any moment, shaking off all the horrid images.
She was to look at a television screen, not at a real body, after all. It was okay, she told herself over and over again. It wouldn’t be Fiona, but some other poor soul lying in this cold place. Fiona would be fine, she’d be okay… sitting having coffee with someone she’d forgotten to ring, or having sex with a boyfriend she’d kept secret…
Only it was Fiona there on the white bed; Fiona with her hair spilling around her sweet face as though she had simply fallen asleep.
And it was Kim’s own wail that she heard echoing through the corridors of Glasgow City Mortuary.
‘Tired?’
Rosie nodded, her head sunk into the soft cushions of the sofa. A broken night’s sleep followed by a day on call had left her feeling completely drained. A huge sigh escaped the pathologist as she sipped the mug of mulled wine that Solly had warmed for her.
‘It’s such a shitty thing to happen. Poor girl caught by some sick bastard. God! You should have seen the state her sister was in!’
Solly stroked his wife’s hair, listening as Rosie told him about the post-mortem, wincing a little when the details became a little too grisly for his delicate stomach. It wasn’t like her to react so emotionally, he thought to himself. She had become far more sensitive about the victims of capital crime since Abby’s birth and the psychologist suspected that there was a proper hormonal explanation for this. Though, to be fair, lack of sleep probably had a lot to do with her state of mind.
Solly remained silent as Rosie’s conversation tailed off and he heard her breathing become deeper. He’d let her sleep a while beside him before insisting they both set off for bed. But for now Solly was content to mull over the events of the day. Maggie Lorimer had left for home by the time the young girl had telephoned. Kirsty was to come in to his office tomorrow afternoon and he wondered just what she would tell him. There had been only that insistent note in her voice that Colin Young was innocent of the Swedish girl’s murder. And of course she was hoping that this latest tragedy would exonerate her friend. The psychologist sighed. In his opinion it was unlikely to be the same man. A jogger in the woods suggested a random attack by an opportunist, whereas Eva Magnusson had probably known her killer. Lorimer wouldn’t like it when the psychologist spelled it out in his next report but he would have to see that the patterns weren’t the same.
The rain had stopped now and the wind that had battered against the bay windows earlier was spent. Solly gazed up at the winter sky; it was like a black canvas against the pale window frames. Somewhere there would be stars sparking in the night, looking down on a humanity that included the good, the bad and those damaged by life’s vagaries. And somewhere there might be a tortured soul seeking consolation for the terrible deed that he had committed. Or maybe not. If Fiona Travers’s killer was a person with a psychopathic personality then there would be no question of remorse, rather the possibility of a renewed urge to kill again.
Colin could hear the boy weeping silently in the bunk above his own. There was little that separated them, little that allowed for privacy and he had kept quiet, hoping to give the lad a bit of space. Colin still hadn’t found out why his previous cellmate had been transferred out from A Block. He’d overheard one of the other inmates talking about it, the name Brogan being uttered then a shifty glance was thrown his way causing a silence that had excluded him from their conversation. The chance to breathe the air on his own had been short-lived, however, before the door had swung open again. Darren had given him such a look when he’d been admitted to the cell; a look that was meant to be all big-man bravado to conceal the fear in his eyes. At first sight he didn’t think Darren was any more than eighteen, a thin wee runt of a lad with a weaselly countenance and eyes that darted here and there, suggesting that he might be under the influence of some substance or other. So it had come as a surprise when he’d told him he was twenty-six.
‘Ye either get auld in here or it keeps ye lookin’ young,’ Darren had told Colin, a defiant chin in the air. He had form, he’d boasted, knew the place inside out.
‘Jist a matter o’ time till ah’m sentenced an’ back oan the workshoap. Makin’ furniture fur thae garden centres, like,’ he’d told Colin. But now, under cover of the inky darkness that permeated the cell, Colin could hear the real agony in the other prisoner’s soul.
‘You have to leave your mobile phones behind,’ Lorimer told them, looking in turn from Solly to Kirsty as they sat in the psychologist’s office at the university. ‘It’s like going into another country,’ he said, a half smile on his lips. ‘Just remember to take your passports or some other form of visual ID for the duty officer at the reception desk, okay?’
‘How long do we get with Colin?’ Kirsty asked.
‘Fifty minutes, max. Less if there are as many as three folk visiting. They don’t allow more than three at any one time,’ he explained.
‘Did you think to call his father?’ Solly asked the girl.
Kirsty shook her head, an anxious expression on her face. ‘Should I have…?’
‘Don’t worry. It’s a working day today so I would doubt if Colin’s father is able to make the trip over from West Lothian anyway.’
&nb
sp; ‘What do I say to him?’ Kirsty bit her lip, looking more troubled than ever.
‘The truth,’ Lorimer said simply. ‘But I wouldn’t go trying to raise any false hopes either, d’you understand me, Kirsty? Just because another girl’s been strangled doesn’t mean that Colin is innocent of his charge.’
Kirsty nodded, tearing her eyes away from the tall policeman’s stern blue gaze. He was right, of course. There was always the chance that she was making too much of what she believed about Colin. And what if he had changed? What if the person she was about to see was a different young man from the one she thought she had known so well in Merryfield Avenue?
Fridays had always been favourite days of his on the outside, the week ending with the promise of good things ahead. But here, as a prisoner on remand, there was little for Colin Young to look forward to, weekends marking extra visits from families and the collective atmosphere of despair that followed them. It was hard to remember he had been here less than a month yet already Colin had become used to the daily routine and its occasional high spots. The next library visit was not until Thursday and then only for a limited time. He’d already browsed the bookshelves, finding a preponderance of crime fiction novels. Was that homework for the lags? Or did they simply like to read a novelist’s made-up version of reality and laugh derisively?
He’d be able to go over to the gym later on, Colin thought, once he’d been allowed the hour’s exercise out in the yard. A scatter of thin hailstones flung against the barred window made him look up towards the grey wall of E block opposite his cell. He stood up on a chair and looked out over the exercise yard of ‘The Wendy’, a special unit where disruptive prisoners spent time in solitary, to the huge wall beyond, seeing the white-painted numbers of cells from 43 to 39. Sometimes voices shouted across the space and he could hear answering laughter.
Today marked the winter solstice, the turning point of the year. The daylight was so limited anyway and dark rain clouds would scowl down on these figures marching around, beating their arms to keep warm. Yet being out and shivering in the open was better than being cooped up all day.
Darren was away to court this morning, leaving Colin guiltily appreciative of having the cell to himself once again for a while. It gave him time to think, though that in itself was a two-edged sword. How he would present himself to a jury when the time came was something his dad had tried to talk to him about last weekend and Colin knew that this ought to be at the forefront of his mind. Only it wasn’t. The thoughts of what was happening outside kept returning to him over and over again. The restaurant where he’d worked would be extra busy now with festive bookings every night. Colin could imagine the place, lit up with rows of starry lights swung between the buildings along Ashton Lane, customers laughing as they made their way into the warmth of the place. He closed his eyes, conjuring up the sights and smells of the kitchen: the fragrant aroma of good coffee wafting in as the door to the dining area opened and closed, the delicate scent of honeyed almonds from the dish that was made up daily and – Colin’s favourite – the roasted meats turning slowly on that great spit over the charcoal-burning fire. He breathed in deeply, as though to savour the memories.
The noise of the cell door clanging open made him look up suddenly, the illusion vanishing in an instant.
‘Time for you to see your visitors,’ the prison officer told him, opening the door wider. ‘Mr Popular, aren’t you?’ the man added with a grin.
Colin looked towards him to see if he was making fun or being sarcastic but the officer’s eyes had slid away from his as though it had been instilled into them that making any human contact was a bad idea. Colin didn’t even know the man’s name, hadn’t bothered to ask even though it was the same person who came regularly to lock and unlock his cell. Somehow it seemed safer not to indulge in small talk. After the first time, when his attempt to find a little sympathy had been rebuffed, Colin had sworn to keep his emotions to himself. Still, he felt a surge of expectation to see the man Kirsty was bringing with her to Barlinnie.
The large windowless room where visitors came was cheerfully painted in bright apple green, furnished with sets of numbered tables and chairs. There were two people at the far end sitting in the blue visitors’ chairs and Colin’s face lit up with pleasure when he recognised Kirsty. It was funny how this girl was already like an old and trusted friend, yet he had only known her since September. His gaze shifted momentarily to the other figure, a dark, bearded man with a long multi-striped scarf that was wound around his neck. Was this the professor he had heard so much about? Colin’s step faltered as he approached the single green chair opposite them.
Professor Solomon Brightman had watched the young man from the moment the door at the back of the hall had opened and Kirsty had whispered, That’s him! His first thought was that the slightly built figure coming towards them looked nothing like the stereotypical image of a killer. But then, as he knew all too well, superficial appearances could deceive. He was only a little taller than Kirsty Wilson herself, pale faced and with mid-brown hair that looked as though it could do with a wash.
‘Colin!’ Solly watched as Kirsty gave her friend a hug then stepped back, looking into his face, unaware of the prison officer who was staring at them almost rudely. Lorimer had told him about how prisoners could get drugs from their womenfolk: a quick kiss, transfer the wad, a swallow and it was done. Colin had already taken his seat opposite, obviously used now to the regimen required for visits. Was he pleased to see her? Solly wondered, looking at the boy’s hands clasped tightly together, his eyes devouring the girl’s face.
‘This is Professor Brightman,’ Kirsty said, and Solly offered his hand across the table. The hand he clasped for a brief moment was damp with sweat and clammy-cold. Nervousness could manifest itself in many ways and for many reasons, Solly knew, guilt being only one of them.
‘Hello, Colin,’ Solly said firmly, holding the boy’s gaze with his eyes. ‘We haven’t met before,’ he added.
‘Like I said in my letter, Professor Brightman is here to see if we can help you, Col,’ Kirsty said, softly, so that her words might not be overheard.
‘Help me? How?’ Colin Young frowned and in that moment Solly saw a lad ill at ease, more embarrassed at being in the situation he was in than anything else. Seeing Kirsty here was not what he wanted, Solly realised as Colin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She was part of the good times in his life, not part of these bad days spent in Barlinnie. Hadn’t she thought of that? Their relationship might well become tainted through this visit.
‘I’ve been doing a wee bit of poking around,’ Kirsty continued, unaware of the boy’s discomfiture. ‘I don’t believe for a minute that you did what they say you did,’ she went on, then lowered her voice. ‘And Lorimer has asked the Procurator Fiscal to reopen your case as well…’
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer would have liked to come today but it’s not possible.’ Solly shrugged, giving Colin an apologetic smile. ‘He’s known by too many people here and if we are to make any headway in the case then he has to keep a very low profile.’
‘Lorimer? But I thought DI Grant was in charge of the case?’ Colin looked from one to the other, clearly confused.
‘She still is, nominally. There are things coming to light that might be useful to your agent once the case comes to trial,’ Solly continued. ‘Sadly we can’t divulge too much to you here.’ He glanced around as though there might be hidden microphones recording their every word. ‘But Kirsty has, as she says, been looking into aspects of Eva Magnusson’s life and has uncovered some interesting things.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ Colin said. ‘What can you do? Why did you want to come here?’
‘I sometimes work for Strathclyde Police,’ Solly said. ‘But the day job is in the department of psychology at Glasgow University.’
‘Oh.’ Colin’s frown cleared then he nodded, a trace of a smile on his thin lips. ‘Yes, Kirsty told me,’ he went on. ‘Didn’t y
ou write that book about profiling?’
Solly nodded, a shy smile of pleasure flitting across his face. Then he became serious again. ‘As to your other question: why am I here? Well the answer is that I want to find out as much as I can from you about Eva Magnusson.’ He sat back and opened his hands in a frank gesture.
‘I thought it was criminals you profiled,’ Colin said slowly.
‘Amongst others, yes. But if we are to help you in any way, then I need to begin to know the victim first.’
The two men regarded one another for a long moment and Solly could see the doubt in the prisoner’s eyes. Then, as though the psychologist had passed some sort of a test, Colin breathed a long sigh and glanced down at his hands. ‘Don’t know why you should bother…’
‘Because we believe in you,’ Kirsty insisted. ‘Colin, you couldnae hurt a fly, never mind…’ She tailed off, her smile drooping as the words remained unsaid.
‘There isn’t much time.’ Colin glanced around at the clock on the wall. ‘And it’s hard to know how to begin,’ he said.
‘Begin by telling me about your own relationship with the girl,’ Solly said.
‘My relationship…?’ Colin bit his lip and looked from one to the other, redness blossoming onto his cheeks.
‘Yes,’ Solly replied. ‘It’s something I need to know if I’m to be of any help to you.’
‘Okay,’ Colin sighed, then licked his lips nervously. ‘Kirsty…’ He broke off, obviously embarrassed. ‘How much did you know about Eva’s…’ – he swallowed hard – ‘habits?’
‘How d’you mean?’ Kirsty frowned.
‘Colin’s asking what you knew about Eva’s sex life,’ Solly said, making it sound like something purely academic.
The relief on the boy’s face made Solly realise something else about him: Colin Young was a shy lad, maybe a little inexperienced with the ladies, and Solly suddenly wondered if the boy had been completely out of his depth with a beauty like the Swedish girl.
