The Swedish Girl

by Alex Gray

  ‘We’ve got a name for her,’ Jo told them. ‘Lesley Crawford. Aged thirty-four, works for the Royal Bank of Scotland. Lives in Bearsden but was at a party in Jordanhill not long before the attack took place.’ Jo looked up at the faces regarding her. ‘Christmas Eve party. Too much to drink and yet the silly cow tried to drive herself home.’

  ‘How did she come to be at that church, though?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Seemed she had stopped the car and fled into the bushes to throw up. The uniforms who called it in had a recce and found where she’d vomited. They reckon the attack must have happened just as she tried to walk back to where she’d parked the car.’ Jo stretched her back as though she had been at the desk for hours. ‘That’s how we found out her details. Handbag was still on the passenger seat so whoever mugged her wasn’t after her stuff.’

  ‘Was there anything missing, ma’am?’ one of the detective constables wanted to know.

  Jo shrugged. ‘Don’t know till we talk to her. She lived on her tod, apparently. But since she’s still on the critical list there isn’t a lot more we can find out from her. Still,’ she went on, ‘one of you is going to park their bahookie at Gartnavel Royal Hospital until she does wake up. Okay? Any volunteers?’

  As five hands shot up, Jo laughed. Hospital on Christmas Day was a pretty good option for a police officer, even hanging about in the high-dependency unit. They would be treated to endless cups of tea and cakes as visitors and staff brought their boxes of goodies into the wards.

  Later, once she had the room to herself again, Jo drew out the file on Fiona Travers. Despite their best endeavours the team investigating the young woman’s murder had drawn a complete blank. Jo’s lips narrowed into a thin line as she slid the student’s photo onto her desk. Such a bloody waste. A young life so full of promise with hopes and dreams ahead of her. Bloody good-looking too, the DI thought, letting her eyes flick over the smiling face.

  Then she frowned. Hadn’t she seen that girl before? And quite recently? For a moment Jo sat still, thinking hard. What had she been looking at this morning, other than the productions that had been taken from Lesley Crawford’s handbag? She straightened up with a sudden jolt. That was it, of course. There were copies of the injured woman’s documents lying in a manila envelope right under her nose, including her driver’s licence and an ID card for a swanky gym.

  Jo opened the envelope and the thin photocopies spilled out.

  ‘Good God in Govan!’ she exclaimed as she took a closer look at the woman’s photograph. Long blond hair curling over her bare shoulders and a twinkling smile that showed a set of perfect teeth. Laying the two images side by side, Jo Grant felt an involuntary shiver like cold water trickling down her spine.

  They could have been sisters, the Travers girl and this Crawford woman. And there was surely no denying their similarity to the beautiful Eva Magnusson. She looked up and out of the window where daylight had begun to show as streaks of salmon pink across a slate blue sky. Lorimer was so fond of telling them that he didn’t believe in coincidences, wasn’t he? She heaved a sigh, wondering just what the detective superintendent would make of this one.

  Christmas would never be the same, Henrik told himself, slipping out of the bed he had shared last night with one of his oldest girlfriends. Helena reminded him of his late wife whenever he thought about her, but between the sheets she was a completely different woman. She had left not long after midnight, kissing him on the cheek, whispering ‘Merry Christmas’ as he drowsed in the aftermath of their lovemaking. There was a husband for Helena to return to, a financier who was not entirely blind to his wife’s occasional infidelities but who pretended to himself that they simply did not matter. Henrik slouched on the cream satin bedsheets, staring into space. Outside, the world was still robed in white; even the fir trees were completely covered in snow so that they looked like strange triangular growths emerging from the snowdrifts.

  He had cancelled the ski trip, too sick at heart to contemplate the usual crowd and face their questioning eyes. Instead Eva’s father had ordered in enough supplies to last him well into January and beyond. He had ordered the housekeeper to take her break, telling her that of course he would manage on his own, didn’t he always? He had been unnecessarily sharp with Marthe, then felt so bad about it that he had signed a large cheque and stuck it in her Christmas card, hoping that would assuage his guilt. It hadn’t, of course, and now Henrik Magnusson was alone on Christmas morning feeling as though everyone he had ever loved had deserted him, leaving him with only memories and photographs for consolation.

  The portrait on the walnut bureau smiled out at him: Eva, hair tousled, laughing as he had clicked the shutter. The picture always brought back the moment before when he had whisked off her ski hat and demanded that she smile please for Daddy.

  And of course, she had. Now that smile was his for ever, a reminder of her youth and beauty. And innocence? He had thought so at the time, but now, looking at the portrait, Henrik wondered just how much he had known about his daughter. He had never hidden his lovers from her, but somehow Eva had hidden some secrets from him, like the boy who was now imprisoned for her murder. Had they been sweethearts? Or merely lovers? And, most important of all, had the Scottish police really found the man who had snuffed out the lovely face that looked out from the frame, its smile wavering as the tears spilled over from his eyes?

  If he had to write about the best thing that had happened to him since coming into prison, it would have to be this, Colin thought, marching behind the men dressed in red and blue fleece jackets. He gazed up at the dark wooden ceiling then his eyes misted with sudden tears at the Christmas tree lights blazing from the front of the huge chapel. Somewhere music was playing soft, familiar carols that made him wipe his hand across his eyes. The moment was so utterly full of memories: going to morning service with Mum, Dad and Thomas on Christmas mornings, dressed in his best clothes, carrying one of the toys that Santa had left for him…

  He was ushered to the front of the chapel and Sam passed along the row, handing out hymn sheets decorated with rows of green fir trees and little yellow bells.

  ‘Ye awright, Colin?’ Sam asked him and Colin nodded back, glad to see a friendly smile on the old man’s face.

  Christmas Day here in Barlinnie was turning out to be a lot different from his expectations, Colin realised. First there had been an extra special breakfast with the promise of a really good feast at lunchtime. Joseph had been in prison at this time of year before and had enthused about the great grub, and now his cell mate was sitting next to him, hands and feet moving rapidly up and down as usual. He tried to ignore his twitching as they stood to chant the first hymn, male voices rising in one accord, the acoustics making the sound rise right to the top of the barrel-vaulted roof.

  He breathed in, almost expecting the whiff of incense to hit his nostrils, but there was only the clean fresh smell of open space and an understanding of it for the first time in his life as he sang the phrase ‘joy unconfined’.

  CHAPTER 28

  L

  orimer glanced back at the house as he drove off. The candle branch lights twinkled from the upstairs window and he envisaged Maggie sitting in her rocking chair, Chancer on her lap, as she continued with her favourite Christmas reading. A new Alexander McCall Smith had been one he knew she would like; something to take her away from the workaday world of home or school. With McCall Smith’s characters to keep her company, Lorimer felt a little less guilty in deserting Maggie to pursue the Swedish girl’s case.

  Jo Grant’s latest bit of news had arrived as an email just this morning. Despite the holidays, forensics had been hard at work and there was no mistaking the excitement in his detective inspector’s tone as she wrote.

  Good news. We have a match between the traces on Fiona Travers’s clothes and those of Lesley Crawford. Have a look at the jpgs attached and let me know what you think. Team going all out to see what we can find re perp.

  The likeness betw
een the two women was all the more marked when seen side by side, Lorimer realised. He thought of the image of Eva Magnusson that he would soon place next to these others. It was uncanny how closely they resembled one another. He had watched Jo Grant’s face last night as he voiced the opinion that the three murders might be linked, and seen her expression of relief when he had admitted that there had to be more evidence, something concrete to tie them all together.

  There was no request to have him cut short his holiday and come in. No, Jo was too wise an officer for that. This was her case and although she needed to keep her boss informed, she could handle it. Lesley Crawford’s photograph had been splashed across the daily newspapers – THE TRAGEDY OF CHRISTMAS EVE, one headline had read, as though the poor woman was dead already. But she remained in intensive care and under police supervision; when – if – she awoke, perhaps she could throw some light on the identity of her attacker. Lorimer pursed his lips as he drove across the city. Knowing that his victim was still alive might only serve to drive her attacker underground. He sighed, wondering if one of his theories was dead in the water: there had been no mention whatsoever that traces found on the two women matched anything of Eva Magnusson’s. Had they even looked? Lorimer wondered. And if not, could he sneak into the labs for a quick word with one of his forensic pals?

  As ever, Lorimer felt a sense of pride as he crossed the Kingston Bridge, glancing to his left where the skyline boasted familiar landmarks like the syringe-like spike beside the science centre, the white arcs of the newer bridges crossing the Clyde, and that dark outline of the university tower. This was his city and with all its faults and battered dreams, it still gave his spirits a lift to see it etched against the cold blue winter sky. Minutes later he had parked beside his old office in Pitt Street and was looking up at the red-brick building with a pang of nostalgia. This could have been such a good unit, he thought, had it not been for the budgetary restraints that had forced him to renew his acquaintance with A Division. Still, he mused, giving the receptionist a nod as he passed the front desk, he wouldn’t have been able to do much to help Kirsty Wilson if he had still been commanding the Serious Crimes Squad, would he?

  ‘Calum, how are you? Drawn the short straw, have you?’ Lorimer stood in the doorway of the lab as a white-coated man turned around and smiled back at him and shrugged. Someone had to man the place during the Christmas break, his expression seemed to say. ‘Mind if I come in?’ he asked.

  ‘Course not, grab a coat, there’s a clean one on that hanger.’ Calum Uprichard pointed at the lab coat and nodded for Lorimer to join him at his lab bench where he resumed peering into a scanning electron microscope. Lorimer pulled on the white coat and buttoned it up. Donning a lab coat before entering a working area was all part of the scrupulous routine: a stray hair or piece of fluff from an overcoat could contaminate a production, laying waste to weeks of work.

  ‘What brings you here, Detective Superintendent?’ Calum asked, not taking his eyes off whatever was proving to be so absorbing to his eagle eye.

  ‘Hm, on a bit of a quest, really. Wondered if I could have you look into something in a couple of unrelated cases,’ he admitted.

  ‘Oh? That sounds interesting.’

  ‘I think so, but this has to be kept strictly between you and me.’

  ‘Not doing anything naughty, I hope?’ Calum’s grin was infectious and Lorimer gave a laugh.

  ‘No, the Fiscal will likely approve it anyway. Just wanted to test a theory, really.’

  ‘Hm, maybe the less you tell me the better, eh?’ Calum sat back, sliding his chair to the left side of the desk to type something onto his open laptop.

  ‘It’s the Magnusson girl’s murder,’ Lorimer told him. ‘I wanted to see if there was anyone who could do a check on the productions from the crime scene.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Jo Grant’s told me that there’s a match between the Travers victim and the assault on Lesley Crawford, the woman who was attacked on Christmas Eve…?’

  ‘Aye, we read about that. Horrible thing to happen. How is she?’

  Lorimer shook his head and made a face.

  ‘Bad as that, eh?’ Calum sighed. ‘Well I can look up the databases right now and tell you,’ he said, glancing around the empty lab. He lowered his voice. ‘Just as well you came in when it was quiet or there might have been some explaining to do.’

  Lorimer waited patiently as Calum opened up file after file, watching the scientist’s eyes darting up and down the data on his screen.

  At last the scientist turned and shook his head. ‘Sorry. Not a sausage. Was there a reason for thinking that the guy they got for the Swedish girl’s murder wasn’t right after all? Or,’ he added, seeing the grim look on the detective superintendent’s face, ‘shouldn’t I ask?’

  Kirsty had told him that the English lad would be back down south for the duration of the Christmas holidays so Lorimer was mildly surprised to hear that the other student, Roger Dunbar, was already back in the Anniesland flat and had agreed to meet the detective superintendent.

  Merryfield Avenue looked different from his previous visit when crime-scene tape had cordoned off the entrance to the flat and white-suited officers were everywhere. On this late December morning the place was rather pretty, Lorimer thought, looking at the Christmas trees that lit up so many bay windows in the flats. Dark red sandstone provided a warm contrast to the grey streets below and the leaden sky above that now threatened snow.

  A large FOR SALE sign dominated the path to the front door. Old Mr McCubbin, their next-door neighbour, was selling up, Kirsty had told him. Looking around at the quiet street, Lorimer wondered how many viewers had already been to see the duplex flat in this desirable part of Glasgow: quite a few, he suspected. If he had to live in the city, this wouldn’t be a bad place to call home. Yet the news of a murdered girl might make many reluctant to live in this particular close.

  He pressed the buzzer and waited, hoping that the student hadn’t got cold feet and decided not to be in when the police officer arrived. But then a crackle came, followed by an unfamiliar voice.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Lorimer here,’ he told the intercom.

  ‘Come on up.’

  Lorimer pushed in then stood in the hallway, watching as the heavy door swung shut, hardly making a sound. He tested it, just to see that the door was in fact locked, and it was. And surely Jo and her team had done exactly the same thing, checked to see that the main entry had been secure on the night that the girl had been murdered? Lorimer gave himself a shake: this sort of thought was not worthy of him. He trusted Jo Grant to do a proper job. Still, his policeman’s instincts made him work along this line of thought. Someone would have had to gain entry along with a resident, or have been allowed up via the intercom system, just as he had.

  In a matter of minutes he had loped up the flights of stairs and arrived at the flat.

  The big red-haired lad was waiting for him, standing just inside the doorway, and he stood aside politely as Lorimer came forward.

  ‘Sorry to intrude on your holiday time,’ he began as the door shut after them and he walked beside Roger Dunbar along the hallway.

  ‘You don’t mind if we go into the kitchen? Only we don’t go into the lounge much now,’ Rodge said, pausing as they stood at the angle between the room where Eva had died and the door to the kitchen.

  ‘Fine with me,’ Lorimer replied.

  The big lad seemed nervous, Lorimer thought, as he saw that Roger was keeping his distance from the policeman. Or was he simply a bit embarrassed at this unofficial visit?

  ‘I take it you know why I’m here?’

  ‘Yeah, Kirsty told me what was going on,’ Roger muttered at last, looking down towards the ground as though reluctant to meet the detective’s eyes.

  ‘I was a bit surprised that you had come back here so soon after Christmas Day,’ Lorimer ventured.

  ‘It’s quieter here,’ Roger answered, almost too quick
ly. ‘I get more peace than I would at my dad’s place.’

  He nodded towards the kitchen table and Lorimer sat down, his back to the window.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Stepmother’s got three kids,’ Roger told him, pulling out a chair a few feet away from the policeman. ‘Noisy wee blighters.’ He affected a nonchalance that Lorimer did not believe for a minute. Instead, the slight strain in the young man’s voice told a different tale and, although Lorimer simply nodded, he guessed that Roger Dunbar felt like an outsider in the extended family. My dad’s place, he had said, not home.

  ‘Your mum still around?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. She died a few years back. Cancer.’

  ‘Sorry, that must have been hard.’

  Roger bit his lip and nodded in reply.

  ‘Anyway,’ Lorimer went on, now anxious to change the subject but still regarding the student thoughtfully, ‘you know that we are continuing to investigate Eva’s death?’

  ‘Kirsty said something about the Procurator Fiscal,’ Roger replied, shifting his gaze momentarily to check out the man who had seated himself so easily at his kitchen table.

  ‘That’s right,’ Lorimer told him. ‘We have to disclose any new information to him. And Kirsty has given us a bit of that.’

  ‘Oh.’ Roger Dunbar looked uncomfortable. ‘I thought it had all been decided. I mean once Colin had been arrested an’ that…’

  ‘What if Colin Young has been accused of something he didn’t do, Roger?’ Lorimer asked gently, leaning forward. ‘How would you feel if you had been unable to help him?’

  The young man let an indifferent shrug be his only response.

  ‘You’re quite prepared to talk to me about Eva and Colin, though?’

  ‘Suppose so,’ Roger said, shifting uncomfortably, his long legs stretched out under the table at an angle to Lorimer’s own.