by Alex Gray
The lecture theatre was full of students jostling along the narrow rows, haversacks slung in the aisles or under desks as Kirsty filed in with the last of the class. She hurried to the nearest vacant seat at the back, darting anxious glances around, but no one seemed to notice a stranger in their midst. What was it one of her own tutors had told her at the beginning of her degree? If you drop dead nobody’s going to notice. That had elicited an explosion of laughter but the sentiment behind it was true enough. Was any single student really thinking about Eva Magnusson right now? Probably not. Their eyes were all on the figure walking down the short flight of steps towards the lectern.
Kirsty took a deep breath. Dirk McGregor. She had known it was his class, but somehow seeing him in the flesh made everything so horribly real. The image of Eva’s dead body flashed into her mind, then the idea of the Swedish girl rolling in this man’s embrace…
Kirsty shook her head as if to dismiss the pictures. Concentrate on the here and now, she told herself firmly. Remember why you’re here.
If Dirk McGregor noticed a stranger in their midst then he was keeping it to himself, Kirsty thought as she listened to him giving the lecture. He was good, she had to admit, even giving her a wee inkling about business economics despite the fact that she had expected it to be way above her head. And he could make the class laugh. It was obvious that they enjoyed his lectures. She glanced around her at the eager faces fixed on the figure at the lectern, giving a rueful smile as she watched the girls in particular, eyes shining as they drank in McGregor’s words; it wasn’t difficult to see what the attraction had been for Eva. McGregor was a bit old, right enough, but, looking at his lean body and that charismatic grin, she decided that the lecturer may have been sex on legs in his younger days.
But it wasn’t McGregor Kirsty had come to see today. And, as the buzzer sounded for the end of class, she shivered, wondering if what she had planned might bring her any nearer to helping Colin Young end his time in prison.
‘Trainers? For me?’ Colin looked up at the old man who was smiling back at him.
‘Aye, present from an admirer,’ Sam chuckled. Then, seeing the alarm on the lad’s face he patted his shoulder. ‘Dinna you worry, son, it’s no’ frae ony o’ thae shirt lifters.’ He tapped the side of his nose and nodded. ‘These are frae the big man in E Block.’
Colin was sitting on the bench outside the showers looking doubtfully at the pair of sparkling white trainers in his hands.
‘He wants a wee favour off ye in return,’ Sam explained. ‘Nothing that’ll get ye intae bother. Jist a wee help wi’ passing oan a message fur him.’
Colin frowned. ‘Like on the phone, you mean?’
Sam’s smile turned into a grin, his tombstone teeth showing yellow against his pallid lips. ‘Naw, son. Jist pass on a verbal tae wan o’ the visitors next time ye’re in the place.’
‘How will I know who to speak to?’ Colin looked puzzled. All visits were so closely monitored, prisoners being allocated particular numbered tables where their visitors would await them.
‘Ye’ll be telt nearer the time, okay?’ Sam’s smile had disappeared and the old man stood up, clearly irritated at Colin’s questions.
‘And if I decide not to pass on a message?’ Colin asked, looking up.
Sam shook his head slowly. ‘Naw, son, ye cannae decide onything like that. Wance the big man asks for a favour, ye do it. Simple as that.’ And, looking him straight in the eyes, Sam drew a finger across his throat, turned and walked away, leaving Colin with the accursed trainers on his lap.
He watched as Sam disappeared then closed his eyes. What had he expected; a nice old man looking out for him? This place was full of criminals, Colin reminded himself, men who were adept at gulling the unwary. It wasn’t enough, seemingly, to keep his nose clean for the officers who were present at every corner. Now he had to be wary even of people who were incarcerated in a completely different block from himself.
‘Hello.’ Lesley tried to smile at the woman by her bedside, a nurse of some sort, her white cap edged in lace, her blue uniform different from the nurses who had been in to take her temperature and blood pressure.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Tired,’ Lesley whispered. ‘Sore.’
The sister glanced up at the drip that was attached to the patient’s hand.
‘If it gets too bad, press this,’ she said, indicating a red button a few inches up the plastic tubing. ‘It monitors the painkiller and will give you some relief.’ She paused, looking a little more closely into Lesley Crawford’s face. ‘Do you feel up to talking to the police?’
Lesley frowned then let her brow clear when a jolt of pain creased her temples. ‘Police?’
‘You were attacked, Lesley. The police need to speak to you, ask you questions. Are you up for that, do you think?’
Lesley turned her head away, remembering. Christmas Eve. She sighed and bit her lip, reluctant to let the memories return, to relive again the moment when it had happened.
‘I suppose so,’ she answered dully.
‘Good, I’ll let Detective Inspector Grant know. I think she’ll be in quite soon to see you.’
Lesley watched as the sister left the room. Then, letting her fingers work their way up the plastic tubing, she found the button and pressed it once, praying under her breath that the drug would quickly take effect.
The slim dark-haired woman who entered her room was not Lesley Crawford’s idea of a police officer. Her initial impression was of a young, pretty woman, the sort that Lesley would expect to see in one of the city bars she frequented after office hours. The injured woman’s gaze took in the fashionable skirt suit and the flat-heeled leather boots before travelling upwards where her stare was returned by eyes that held an expression of both warmth and sympathy.
‘Detective Inspector Grant,’ the police officer said, showing Lesley her warrant card before sitting in the grey plastic chair next to the bed. ‘The ward sister said you were told to expect me.’
Lesley stifled a sigh. Those keen eyes regarding her solemnly; what did they see? Another woman, like herself? Or a victim of crime? Suddenly she wanted to be left in peace but the policewoman had folded her hands on her lap as though she were waiting for Lesley to take the initiative.
‘What do you want to know?’ This time there was no masking the sigh that ended in a yawn.
‘Everything that you can tell me,’ DI Grant replied with a faint smile. ‘We need to catch the man who did this to you, Lesley. And we may be able to do that sooner rather than later with your help.’
The woman’s voice was firm but kind and Lesley knew there was no way she was going to be allowed to escape reliving the worst Christmas Eve of her life.
‘Where do I begin?’
‘How about telling me where you had been and what took you to the vicinity of the church car park,’ the detective suggested.
‘I was at a party,’ Lesley began. ‘That’s where it all started.’
The cafeteria seemed to be the best place to begin, Kirsty decided, following a string of students from the lecture theatre and along to a ground-floor snack bar. She took a deep breath and looked across at a table where some of them had congregated, bags and haversacks slung carelessly on the floor.
‘Hi, mind if I join you?’
‘Sure.’ A girl around her own age pulled out a vacant metal chair then shuffled around to make space for her.
Five pairs of eyes regarded her quizzically.
‘Haven’t seen you here before,’ a dark-haired lad with pencil-thin sideburns nodded at Kirsty, a faint smile on his face. ‘New to the course?’
Kirsty drew in a deep breath. Here goes, she thought.
‘My name is Kirsty Wilson. I live in the flat where Eva Magnusson was killed.’
There was a silence around the table as the five students stared at her. Then the girl next to her who had offered her a seat leaned forward and placed her hand on Kirsty’s arm.
&nb
sp; ‘You poor soul. That must have been awful for you.’
‘God, yes!’ a pretty Asian girl broke in. ‘Poor Eva. That was a terrible thing to have happened. A nice lassie like that, coming over from Sweden…’
‘You knew her, then?’ Kirsty asked.
‘Oh, aye,’ the first girl nodded. ‘Everyone knew her. I mean, you could hardly miss her, could you?’
There was a murmuring around the table and one of the boys coughed, reddening as he caught Kirsty’s glance.
‘Smashing girl. A real head-turner. Pure shame, really.’
‘Aye, a bloody waste of a young life!’ another lad with a Geordie accent exclaimed, thumping his fist onto the edge of the table. ‘Hope the bastard who did it gets life!’
Kirsty jumped a little at the vehemence in his voice.
‘Nobody’s guilty till a jury decides,’ she said slowly.
‘Oh, of course, it was a lad in your flat that did it!’ the Asian girl exclaimed.
‘Or maybe not,’ Kirsty said softly so that only the group around the table could hear her.
‘But I thought…?’ the red-faced lad began.
‘See, why I’m here is to try to find out if there was anyone Eva was hanging about with, or anyone who might have, well…’ She broke off, unsure how to continue. ‘Anyone who fancied her.’
‘Only the whole of the university,’ the first girl laughed suddenly. ‘Including the staff.’
‘Come on, she was a pure doll.’ The third boy, who had remained silent until then, broke in. ‘We all thought so the minute she arrived in class. They were queuing up just to speak to her. She could’ve had her pick of any of the men she wanted.’
Kirsty looked at the young man, listening hard. Was that an edge of bitterness in his voice? He was tall and lanky with dark curls that tumbled over his pale brow, a pair of rimless spectacles adding to the overall impression of keen intellect.
‘But who did she pick?’ Kirsty asked, looking at each one of them in turn.
The question was met with a silence, the girls looking faintly embarrassed, the boys turning away from Kirsty’s stare as though she had asked something way too intimate.
‘Look, my friend’s in Barlinnie,’ Kirsty rushed on, ‘and I honestly don’t think he did what the police claim…’ She had raised her hands in a gesture of appeal, making them all look her way once more. ‘See, if anyone else knew what Eva had been doing in the weeks before she was murdered it could help a lot.’
‘So why aren’t the polis here asking these sorts of questions?’ the lanky lad asked, shoving his specs further up his long nose.
‘They’ve arrested someone,’ Kirsty shrugged, mentally crossing her fingers as she spoke. ‘Why would they bother?’
‘Well I never saw her with anyone special, did you?’ the Asian girl asked, sweeping her glance over each of her companions in turn. Heads were shaken and murmurs of assent given.
‘Sorry,’ the girl said brightly. ‘But I think you’re wasting your time here. Nobody is going to tell you about a secret romance that never happened, are they?’
Kirsty was breathing heavily as she reached the brow of the hill on Montrose Street, her cheeks still burning with embarrassment. Stupid idiot! What did you think you were trying to achieve back there? She cursed softly under her breath, relieved to be heading back along to Caledonian University and her own comfort zone.
The sound of footsteps drumming behind her made Kirsty step aside for a moment, then she gave a cry as someone grasped hold of her arm.
‘Kirsty?’
The girl jerked free, spinning around to see the Geordie lad who had been in the cafeteria.
‘Look, sorry about that, didn’t mean to give you a fright.’ The lad glanced about as if to check that nobody was following him. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he asked, turning back to look intently at Kirsty. ‘You see,’ he explained, coming closer to her and letting his voice drop into a whisper, ‘we weren’t telling you the whole truth back there.’
‘Okay,’ Kirsty said slowly. ‘So why did you want to follow me? And what’s your connection with Eva?’
The lad shot her a disarming grin. ‘Wish I’d had a connection! Lovely lass never gave me a second glance.’ He looked intently at Kirsty as though he were trying to gauge her reaction, then nodded and put out his hand.
‘James Spencer,’ he said.
Kirsty grasped it, feeling the warmth and strength in the young man’s grasp. And there was something more, the way his brown eyes held a sort of sympathy for her as though he understood why she had come, that made Kirsty feel that she could trust this young man with the soft Newcastle brogue.
‘Thanks,’ she said, then dropped his hand, aware that she might have held it a little too long. ‘How about walking me across to Caley? That’s where I’m heading.’
‘You’re a student there?’
‘Aye. Hospitality management,’ Kirsty replied as they fell into step. ‘Eva used to devour my chocolate fudge cakes.’
‘She didn’t look the sort to munch cakes,’ James said in surprise. ‘That gorgeous figure…’
‘Know what you mean,’ Kirsty mumbled, suddenly aware of her own girth hidden under layers of jersey and duffel coat.
‘She was quite different from all of the other girls,’ James said quietly. ‘Seemed older – well, maybe not older, more mature, not as daft as a lot of the lasses. Eva was, well, dignified. You could imagine her giving tea parties in one o’ these stately homes, know what I mean?’
Kirsty nodded. She knew exactly what he meant.
‘She had plenty of friends, everyone seemed to take a right shine to that lass. Anyway, she did have an admirer,’ James told her as they waited on Cathedral Street for the lights to change to green. ‘There was a lad used to haunt her wherever she went. Weedy little chap, he was. Or, should I say, is. One of the girls back there used to refer to him as Eva’s puppy.’
Kirsty nodded encouragingly, willing James to tell her more.
‘Brian something his name is. Always sat right behind her in economics class. And I think they were in the same group for McGregor’s seminar.’
‘Have you seen him since… since it happened?’
James Spencer frowned. ‘Funny you should ask that, Kirsty, but I don’t think he’s been around since the new term began.’
‘Thanks,’ Kirsty replied, then she drew in a breath of surprise as James caught her by the hand and led her across the road.
‘There,’ he said as they reached the opposite pavement. ‘Safely delivered, Miss…?’
‘Wilson. Kirsty Wilson,’ she told him, laughing despite herself as the lad gave a mock salute.
‘And does Miss Kirsty Wilson have a phone number?’ James asked, a light of mischief in his eyes that Kirsty suddenly decided she found very appealing indeed.
Kirsty walked smartly along the road, wondering if he was standing there at the corner watching and willing herself to be cool; not to look back and see.
They had exchanged mobile numbers. So? She smiled to herself. It meant nothing. He was just trying to be helpful, wasn’t he? And, if he could find out more about the mysterious Brian, then that might just lead her a little further along her quest to find out more about Eva Magnusson and who she had been seeing in the days before her death.
As Lesley Crawford closed her eyes, Jo could see tears falling between the girl’s lashes. She reached out and squeezed the girl’s hand gently.
‘It’s all right, Lesley,’ the detective was telling her. ‘We’ll get him, I promise.’
Jo stood up and looked at the woman lying in the bed. Her head was swathed in bandages and it was hard to visualise this as the same woman whose photograph lay between the pages of her files back in Stewart Street. Her long blond hair had been shorn pre-surgery and her face was thinner, the cheekbones prominent, reminding Jo of some of the junked-up women she’d seen in parts of the city.
We’ll get him. Her words echoed in DI Grant’s brain as
she headed towards the lifts, her thoughts already back at headquarters and the next stage in uncovering the man who had beaten this woman almost to her death.
CHAPTER 35
‘
H
ello?’ Kirsty was standing on the landing below the flat, mobile phone pressed to her ear, wondering at the unfamiliar number on the tiny screen.
‘Hello, Kirsty Wilson. It’s me, James, your new best friend.’
Her mouth arced in a smile as she listened to the Geordie accent. My new best friend, she thought gleefully.
‘Hi, James, how’s things?’ she replied, affecting a coolness that belied the sudden dryness in her mouth.
‘Oh, well, you know…’ The lad tailed off for a moment, leaving Kirsty wondering why he had rung her so quickly. ‘Completely forgot to tell you about Anders,’ he said at last.
‘Anders?’
‘Aye.’ There was a pause. ‘He hasn’t come back to uni either.’
‘Sorry, James, you’ve lost me. Who’s this Anders?’
‘Did you never meet him? That’s odd.’ James Spencer’s voice expressed surprise. ‘He was a pal of Eva’s from Stockholm. Hung about with her a lot, but they were just pals, everyone could see that. Are you sure she never had him up to the flat?’
‘James, I’ve never heard of an Anders,’ Kirsty replied firmly. ‘And there were never any Swedish boys up here. Worse luck,’ she added in a whisper.
‘I heard that, Kirsty Wilson,’ James said reprovingly. ‘Anyhow, do you not think that’s really strange? I mean, why would she keep a friend from back home a secret from you all?’
There was silence between them as Kirsty slowly climbed the final flight of stairs to reach the front door of the flat.
Who the hell was this Anders? And why had Eva never mentioned him?
