by Alex Gray
A memory came back then of the boy, Colin, as they had shaken hands before he watched him being led away amongst the other prisoners. He had looked back just once, his eyes searching for Kirsty. And what had he seen in that look? Expectation? Hope? Or simply the forlorn expression of a lad who was desperately trying to put a brave face on his situation?
It was no good, the psychologist told himself, pointing the cursor at Reply, he had to do what he could for that young man, even at the risk of his own reputation.
‘Gary’s coming back early,’ Kirsty said. ‘Kept saying he couldn’t leave his mum but looks like he’s changed his mind.’
Or had his mind been changed for him? she wondered, not voicing this sudden thought. She knew that Lorimer had been anxious to speak to him.
‘Soon there’ll be the three of us again,’ she continued, forcing herself to speak brightly. ‘And you’ll be back too, Colin. Wait and see.’
Colin imagined her back at the flat, in the bedroom across from his own. Was her ear pressed hard against the mobile as though that would bring her a little closer to him, imagining her friend on the other end of the line? He hoped so.
‘Good. Maybe he’ll tell them more about Eva,’ Colin said, glancing sideways to see if there was anyone else approaching the two phone booths at the end of the corridor.
‘What can he tell them that we don’t know?’
Colin bit his lip. She didn’t suspect a thing about Eva and Gary’s relationship, did she?
‘Och, you never know,’ he replied vaguely. ‘Gary’s a good-looking bloke. Maybe Eva fancied him?’
Kirsty gave a snort of laughter. ‘I don’t think so,’ she declared. ‘Gary just fancies himself. He’s like that guy in the Shania Twain song, you know? The one who keeps a couple of combs in his pocket just in case. “Oh-oh, you think you’re special”,’ she sang.
Colin laughed. It was great just to hear Kirsty’s voice and she still had the capacity to make him feel better, even in here. Think of nice things to ask her, he told himself.
‘How was your Christmas?’
‘Och, the usual, you know. Granny Wilson had knitted me a sweater that came down to my knees so I’ll probably wear it as a mini dress and shock the poor old soul.’ There was a pause before she asked, ‘How about you?’
‘Not so bad, really. We all got selection boxes at teatime and the meals were good. The staff make an effort, I’ll say that for them.’
‘Good,’ Kirsty agreed, then there was a silence between them as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
‘It’ll be all right, Colin, I just know it will.’
‘Aye, well, we have to wait an’ see, don’t we?’ he whispered. ‘Look, I’ll call you again soon, promise.’
He hung up and wandered over to the end of the corridor to the tall bank of windows, glancing behind him to check if anyone was watching. The windows opened inwards and provided a welcome draught of air, but once he had been sharply reprimanded by another inmate for letting in the cold, though why any of them wouldn’t want to smell the fresh air was beyond him.
Outside, the afternoon light was fading and he could see the orange points of the street lamps against the green arc of a nearby golf course. If he craned his eyes to the left then he could just make out the towering shapes of the infamous Red Road flats, but usually he let his eyes dwell on the Campsie Hills, trying to remember happier days when he had been free to roam around the countryside, unaware of what a gift that freedom really was.
Dusk was falling now, making shadows where none had been before, obscuring the path that lay below him. The trees had begun to stir, as though they were nocturnal creatures roused from sleep by some unseen force. The chill in the air spoke of a frost forming even as he stood amidst the shrubbery, hidden from the sight of any passer-by. Soon enough the leaves would harden, their edges rimed with white, the whole woodland caught in the grip of a cold wind blowing in from the east.
He could go home, he told himself, back to the place where a fire might be lit and curtains drawn against the night and all its terrors. But warmth of a different kind was what he anticipated: the warmth of flesh and blood under his hands, the warmth that made him feel such power surging through his veins…
The sound of feet thudding somewhere to his right made him shrink back, his fingers clasping the weapon more tightly, as though to reassure himself it was still there. Then the figure appeared out of the mist, a grey phantom shape, slim-hipped and hooded. His lips parted as he watched her approach. It was a woman, he was certain of that, but was she the right one?
His body tensed for the moment when he would hurl himself at his victim, knocking her to the ground.
She was almost parallel with his hiding place when her feet faltered and she stopped, turned and looked straight at the quivering bushes as though she could see right through them. For a moment she was still, alert like a startled doe. Then, in one swift movement she cast back her hood, revealing a dark ponytail, and pulled out her earphones, letting them dangle in her gloved hands.
He felt his body go rigid as he tried hard not to make a sound, gritting his teeth in disappointment.
Then, as though the woman had decided that there was nothing to see and nothing to hear, she picked up her pace, running along the track towards the road where there would be street lights and traffic and human company.
The man watched her go, blinking away the wateriness that had formed in his eyes. Then, thrusting the weapon into the inside pocket of his coat, he stepped onto the path and prepared to walk the long way back from where he had come.
As Rodge crossed the road to the curve of University Gardens he looked up at the big stained-glass windows of Professor Brightman’s office. He’d walked this path hundreds of times on his way to the Queen Margaret Union but today it felt as though he was taking this route for the first time.
Soon he was standing at the large panelled door, wondering why he should be so tense with nerves. The guy was only one of the staff, after all, not some monster to be feared.
Yet when the door swung open, Rodge found he had jumped back a pace, the sight of the bearded man only adding to his discomfiture.
‘Roger? I’m Professor Brightman.’
He took the proffered hand, feeling its warm clasp, then he was inside a large airy room that might have been a small library its walls were lined with so many books.
‘Come in, come in! Over here to the window,’ the professor said, gesturing around a big table in the middle of the room. ‘There’s a variety of teas and coffees and, hm, maybe a biscuit, though the first years were in just before Christmas, so maybe not…’ he muttered into his beard, picking up a flower-patterned plate that bore nothing but crumbs.
‘It’s okay,’ Rodge began, ‘I’ve had my lunch, anyhow.’
‘No tea?’ The eyes behind that pair of horn-rimmed spectacles lost a little of their twinkle as though the professor was disappointed.
‘Oh, but you go ahead, I mean, if you were going to have tea… look I’ll have a cup if you want…’ Rodge felt his face begin to flush and he cursed the gene pool that had given him such a shock of red hair and the complexion that came with the package.
The professor beamed. ‘What’ll we have? Camomile, mint, rosehip, um, something to make you sleep better…’ He flicked through a pile of tea bags in a small wicker basket.
‘D’you have any ordinary tea?’ Rodge ventured. ‘That’ll do me, honest.’
‘Of course,’ Solly replied, triumphantly lifting out a sachet of English Breakfast as though he had conjured it up. ‘Now let me guess. Milk and two sugars?’
Roger nodded.
‘Right, how much time do we have? You’ll be busy, no doubt.’
‘It’s okay,’ Rodge assured him. ‘I’m not, really.’ Then he bit his lip, wondering if he had missed the chance to fib and leave this interview all the sooner.
The professor caught his eye and smiled and in that moment Roge
r knew that Brightman was living up to his name: he had sussed him out just like that. So, what did he see? A big lad with nice manners who couldn’t even lie about something as simple as having somewhere else to go?
‘Thanks,’ he said as Solly handed him a mug of tea.
‘No, I must thank you,’ Solly said gravely. ‘You didn’t have to come to me today, or any other day for that matter. And I appreciate that you are here.’
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer said you’d want to talk to me about Eva,’ Roger said.
‘Yes,’ the professor replied, then stared past the student as though deep in thought. ‘Yes, that’s right. We have to know a lot more about her if we are to make any progress with this problem.’
‘Problem?’
‘The problem of the wrong person being charged with her murder!’ Solly replied, his bushy eyebrows shooting up as though in mild astonishment that the student had not yet cottoned on to why he was sitting in this room drinking tea. ‘You don’t think Colin Young killed her, do you?’
Roger shrugged. ‘I don’t know any more,’ he admitted.
‘Well, then, we must endeavour to find out who did and to achieve this I think we need to know a lot, lot more about Miss Eva Magnusson!’
The professor gave him a kindly smile and tilted his head to one side as though a question had been asked.
‘What?’ Rodge asked, feeling the telltale flush of crimson reddening his cheeks.
‘Tell me everything about her,’ Solly said gently. ‘And I mean everything.’
The deep brown eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles blinked owlishly as the psychologist regarded his notes. It was interesting how writing things down always seemed to clarify one’s thoughts, Solly nodded to himself. And, although his next interview should be with Gary Calderwood, he wondered about speaking to someone different altogether.
The three boys had several things in common: they had been selected to share a flat with Eva Magnusson and had fallen for the girl’s undoubted charms. Colin’s letters hinted at his suspicion that Gary had been in the Swedish student’s bed. And everyone knew now about the ill-fated sexual encounter between Eva and Colin Young. Lorimer had not told his detective sergeant’s daughter about Roger Dunbar, however, and the more he thought about it the more convinced Solly was that the three boys had been chosen deliberately. For, he reasoned, hadn’t they other things in common? Like the fact that each one of them had lost a parent, just like the Swedish girl. A coincidence, perhaps, but somehow Solly doubted that, and his thoughts began to turn to Henrik Magnusson and the reasons behind his choice of tenants for the flat in Merryfield Avenue. Had the dead girl’s father some sort of an agenda in mind as he interviewed Eva’s potential flatmates?
Kirsty was the house mother, of that there could be little doubt; hadn’t she told him herself how the others had loved her home cooking? He pondered on the Swede’s choice of Kirsty as the only other girl. Her father was a detective sergeant with Strathclyde Police, good credentials for any prospective tenant, and the dark-haired girl would never have proved any sort of competition to Eva. She had a nice, kind face, Solly reminded himself, but he would be lying if he didn’t describe her as a bit on the hefty side: there was nothing of the glamour-puss in Kirsty Wilson. Was that the sort of girl Magnusson had wanted? A homebody? Someone who was bright and friendly, who would make his daughter feel cosseted? A motherly type, in other words, for a girl who had never known what it was to have a mother of her own.
Mrs Young had died of cancer when Colin and his brother were little boys, Mrs Dunbar’s death had occurred when Roger was just thirteen. And Gary Calderwood? He did have a mother, that was true enough; it had been the loss of his father that had interested the psychologist. Roger had told him a little about his flatmate, how Magnusson had known the student’s late father through business, how Gary had taken time off his university studies to help his mother over their bereavement.
Four little lost children, Solly mused. All put together by a man who wielded power over thousands of his own employees… Yes, perhaps it was Henrik Magnusson who should be the next person on his visiting list. And maybe his own Rosie could give him an inkling about the Swedish millionaire whose businesses controlled so many lives.
Multiple entries appeared on his screen as soon as Solly googled the man’s name and for the next twenty minutes he amused himself trying to fit a personality around the bits and pieces of information that could be garnered so easily on the internet.
The lecture at Stockholm University was to take the psychologist away from home for a day and a night: could he possibly find the time to seek out Eva’s father before returning to Glasgow? The thought translated itself into action as he searched through the file that Lorimer had given him, pausing at a sheet of paper with Magnusson’s personal details written down. Was this a step too far? Would the Swede be willing to meet him to discuss his daughter’s dreadful death? And could he do it all without alerting the officers of Strathclyde Police who were legitimately handling the case?
‘What does Lorimer say?’
Detective Inspector Jo Grant shook her head. DS Wilson’s question was a fair one. They seemed to have reached an impasse in the case now, despite the slim possibility of the injured woman remembering enough to give them a description of her attacker. William Lorimer was, after all, the most experienced officer among them when it came to matters of multiple murder. And, despite the fact that he had delegated a fair bit to his DI, she still seemed to be simmering over the Magnusson case, Wilson thought.
‘Do we have to ask him for every last thing?’ she asked, her face twisted in a moment of irritation.
Wilson shrugged. ‘Okay, ma’am, I just thought…’ He spread his hands in a gesture of apology.
‘Well, don’t!’ she snapped. ‘Just for once can we not manage without running to the great man for advice?’
Once he had turned to leave the DI at her desk, Wilson raised his eyebrows. He could see the woman’s point of view all right. It was hard on any SIO to have their authority questioned and it was his own daughter who had opened the can of worms that had led to Jo Grant being on such a short fuse. The officers concerned with the latest case were really up against it now that forensics had drawn a blank. There was plenty to examine, but not a single trace had found its equivalent on any of their databases. The attacker was therefore unknown to the police – something that Wilson found surprising. Often those serial killers with an agenda had previous convictions, sometimes for indecent exposure in their youth escalating later to rape; a one-off murder he could understand, but when there had been Fiona Travers’s death and an attempt on a woman’s life in the same area, then surely it was reasonable to expect that the perpetrator had appeared previously on the police radar?
At least Lorimer had been thorough, giving the team actions that included interviewing family and friends of the victims and door-to-door searches of the areas where the deaths had taken place, plus loads of the inevitable paperwork. It hadn’t been a great Christmas for lots of the officers involved, a quick dinner then back out at the division to trawl more files or tramp the cold winter streets. Still, Alistair Wilson would have felt a lot more comfortable if Lorimer was here instead of upstairs in his office: just being able to run stuff past the detective super would give him the confidence he felt Jo Grant lacked right now.
‘Stockholm? That’s a surprise.’
‘Not really. The lecture has been arranged for several months. But you do have to agree that the timing is fortuitous.’
‘Indeed. Have you told Rosie?’
‘That I intend to meet Mr Magnusson? No.’ There was a pause before the psychologist continued. ‘I thought it best to keep that particular matter quiet. After all, she is a potential expert witness in this case and I don’t want to give her any more problems than she already has.’
‘Okay. Let me know if he agrees to see you.’
Lorimer put down the telephone. Fortuitous, yes, but fool
hardy? Possibly. Keeping this investigation under wraps could prove detrimental to both their careers should it all go wrong.
Kirsty Wilson’s voice came back to him then, her earnest tones reminding him so much of his own desires for justice. And she didn’t give up easily. Pity she had decided to make her career in hospitality, he thought. Kirsty would have made a good copper.
Lorimer smiled to himself. Was Kirsty Wilson a risk taker? Perhaps. Then his smile faded as he thought about Solly and the very real risks he was taking in meeting the dead girl’s father face to face in Stockholm.
CHAPTER 30
‘
H
ere’s the one I got at the bank,’ Corinne said, tossing the thick newspaper onto her father’s lap. ‘Read through the ones in our area and circle any that you fancy, okay?’ She dropped a biro onto the Glasgow Solicitors’ Property Centre newspaper, nodding in satisfaction as the old man picked it up and began turning the pages.
Back in the kitchen, Corinne turned the radio on, humming along to a catchy tune as she began to wash up the lunch dishes. Oh, it wouldn’t be long now, surely? The estate agent had told her there was a possible buyer interested in the big duplex flat and, with prices rising again, they would be looking at over a couple of hundred grand, he’d said, easily enough to get her out of this place and into a nice wee bungalow. Not Newton Mearns, though: too posh for her liking and too dear, anyway. No, a little house in the country out in Carmunnock, or even down the Ayrshire coast… Corinne smiled dreamily as she invented her perfect home: a whitewashed bungalow with a garden looking out onto fields and hills, far from the concrete mass she’d endured for the past couple of decades.
The doorbell rang, interrupting her thoughts, the little white house vanishing as she scuttled through the hallway, drying her hands on her apron as she went.
