The Swedish Girl

by Alex Gray

  ‘Kelvin walkway,’ Jo Grant told her detective sergeant as they headed away from Stewart Street. ‘Woman was found badly beaten.’

  ‘Strangled?’

  Jo shook her head. ‘No, not this time.’ She grimaced. ‘Another jogger came by pretty soon after the assault. Called 999.’

  ‘She’s dead?’

  Jo nodded miserably. ‘Died on the way to hospital. Massive brain haemorrhage.’

  ‘But you think it’s the same guy?’ DS Wilson continued.

  The DI raised her eyebrows speculatively. ‘Could be. We’ve got a description of the man from Lesley Crawford and there are CCTV cameras near the locus so let’s see what they can give us.’

  Wilson’s stomach rumbled noisily, reminding him of the half-eaten sandwich and mug of tea he’d left on his desk. He screwed up his face and gave a despondent sigh. ‘Any joy on the medical front?’ he asked as they crossed the city and headed west.

  ‘Maybe,’ Jo nodded. ‘There have been a few patients that didn’t turn up for their regular visits at both Leverndale and Dykebar. We’re still doing house checks on them all.’

  ‘Any of them got form?’

  Jo shook her head. ‘That’s not relevant, Alistair. Remember we don’t have this guy’s DNA on our database so we can rule him out as ever having been an offender.’

  DS Alistair Wilson sighed again. A dangerous nutter running around Glasgow on the loose had already elevated this into a grade A case, one that the Fiscal wanted Lorimer to oversee. And where was his boss while all this was going on? Wilson raised his eyes to the heavens. With a bit of luck the detective superintendent would be somewhere in the air between Stockholm and Glasgow.

  A thin-faced man of about forty was sitting in a small room at Gartnavel hospital, a blanket draped around his shoulders and a cup of tea held unsteadily in his hands, when the two detectives arrived. The uniformed officer stood up as soon as they entered the room, laying down his own mug on a work surface.

  ‘I’m DI Grant and this is DS Wilson,’ Jo said shortly. ‘I gather you were the man who called this one in?’

  ‘Christopher Gifford,’ the man told them. ‘It was such a shock. That poor woman lying there… all that blood…’

  ‘Mr Gifford’s had a bad shock,’ the uniform offered. ‘Doctor said to let him stay here quietly till you got here, ma’am.’

  Jo nodded then dragged a chair from a corner to sit beside Gifford.

  ‘Sorry to seem so insensitive, sir, but we do need to take a statement from you. Understand?’

  Christopher Gifford nodded.

  ‘Right, tell us exactly what happened this evening.’

  ‘I was taking a run through the park. Decided to go down towards the river. See if there were any migrants.’

  ‘Migrants?’ Jo’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Birds,’ Gifford explained hastily. ‘Migrating birds. Like redwings. Or waxwings. Only see them at this time of year in the cold, you know,’ he offered, looking from one officer to the other.

  Jo Grant tried not to heave a sigh. Lorimer would love this guy, she thought; a fellow birder to share stories with.

  ‘And you ran which way?’

  ‘Across Kelvin Way and down the side path, the one that takes you beside the river and beyond. She was just lying there near the bushes,’ he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I thought she’d had an accident. Till I saw her head.’ He looked up. ‘Then I knew. She must have been mugged.’

  Grant and Wilson exchanged a glance.

  ‘It’s the same fellow, isn’t it?’ Gifford asked eagerly. ‘The one who’s been targeting these other women?’

  ‘Did you touch her at all, Mr Gifford?’

  There was the merest hesitation before the man nodded. ‘Just her wrist, mind. To find a pulse. That was when I called 999. But it was no use.’ Gifford’s face crumpled in despair. ‘They’ve told me she died even before she got here.’

  ‘I’m really sorry you’ve had this awful experience,’ Jo said, touching his sleeve. ‘But there’s just one more thing. Can you remember seeing anyone, anyone at all who might have been coming up from that path before you arrived?’

  Gifford pursed his lips as he thought. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘A bit too cold and dark for most people to be out, I’d say. Plenty of cars coming up and down, of course. Had to wait a bit before I could cross the road, I remember that now. But, no, there was nobody else on that path, Inspector. No one at all.’

  CHAPTER 40

  T

  he psychiatrist put down the telephone with a sigh. Kevin had missed his clinic appointments for more than a month now and although she had written a report to his care worker, Gwen Lockhart couldn’t help feeling that she ought to have done more for her patient. And now, this. The police officer had explained that, yes, they knew all about patient confidentiality, but they wanted to be made aware of anyone who might have come off their medication, someone who could consequently be a danger to themselves and to others. Gwen looked thoughtful as she twirled a pencil between her slim fingers. The death of his partner had changed the man, something that was not to be overlooked.

  The last time she had seen him, Kevin had twitched and fidgeted in front of her, his OCD worse than ever. She’d talked to him about Caitlin, encouraging him to express his feelings, but the harder she’d tried, the more bottled up he’d become. Then, as if he had simply had enough, Kevin had stood up, walked out of her room and she had not seen him again since that December day.

  Professor Brightman was part of the investigative team, the officer had told her, and somehow that reassured the psychiatrist. Gwen laid down the pencil, her hand stretched out to the diary that sat to one side of her desk: all her patients’ details were there, safe from prying eyes. Her face was impassive as she flicked through the notebook, coming to a stop as she reached the page with Kevin Haggarty’s address.

  DS Wilson turned up the collar of his winter coat as they left the warmth of the car. It had been a short drive across town, past the fancy new yuppie flats lining the banks of the Clyde over the Squinty Bridge towards the Glasgow Science Centre before reaching the old part of Govan, a remnant of the Dickensian streets that had been ripped apart and modernised in the eighties. There was still a vestige of dignity lingering on these Victorian red-sandstone tenements, at least from a distance. Close up they looked what they were: run down and dishevelled – even the graffiti was poor stuff. There was a black metal gate across the entrance to the tenement that swung open at the detective sergeant’s touch. A few stairs separated the pavement from an inner door, its dark red paintwork gouged out by scores of wilful kids trying out their knife skills.

  ‘Not exactly the place you’d choose if you were the depressive sort,’ Wilson remarked to Jo Grant.

  The DI glanced upwards and shook her head. ‘There but for the grace of God,’ she murmured.

  Haggarty’s flat was on the ground floor and Wilson pressed the lowest button on the metal keypad then waited.

  ‘Could be out,’ Jo Grant suggested.

  Then, as though to give the lie to her words, there was a buzzing sound followed by a metallic click. She nodded at Wilson and they both entered the building.

  There was a short flight of steps rising to the landing for the ground floor flats, lit only by a lamp fixed into the cement wall between the two houses.

  ‘Would you look at this,’ Wilson remarked, pointing at the door. Instead of nameplates there were several scraps of paper held by drawing pins, showing the names of whatever tenants happened to be currently in residence. One of them was Haggarty’s.

  ‘Here today and gone tomorrow,’ Jo Grant remarked.

  ‘Well, let’s hope our man’s here at any rate.’

  A brisk knock brought the sound of scurrying feet and then the door swung open to reveal a rat-faced young man, a brown dressing gown wrapped hastily around his skinny body. He looked at the two police officers through dirty, lank hair that hung in strings across his waxen
skin.

  ‘What d’youse want?’ he growled.

  ‘Kevin Haggarty?’ Jo held out her warrant card.

  ‘’S no’ here,’ the man replied. ‘What’re ye wantin’ him fur?’

  ‘May we come in?’ Jo asked, stepping into the hallway before the man had time to refuse. ‘Funny smell here, don’t you think, DS Wilson?’ she said, her nose tilting upwards as she sniffed. The unmistakably pungent smell of cannabis filled the flat.

  ‘Aye,’ Wilson grinned. ‘Been having a party or do you grow the stuff in the bathroom?’

  ‘Are youse here tae see Kevin or what?’ The man stood to one side now, shivering as he regarded the two detectives.

  ‘Och, aye, but maybe you could tell us a wee bit about Mr Haggarty, seeing as how you both live here,’ Wilson cajoled. ‘Is there a kitchen down this corridor? I’m fair gasping for a cup of tea, son.’ He nodded towards the end of the hallway.

  ‘Ye cannae jist come in here an’—’

  ‘And what, son?’ Wilson turned suddenly, his face darkening. ‘Ask questions? Maybe if we get the right answers we won’t mind that funny smell, what d’you think, Inspector Grant?’

  The man eyed them in turn, then gave a resigned shrug before leading them along the corridor, his bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum.

  ‘Which one is Kevin’s room?’ Jo asked as they passed several closed doors on either side.

  ‘Wan nearest the kitchen.’ The man jerked his thumb at a badly painted door that had once been white and was now edged in greying patches where countless fingers had pushed it open.

  ‘Him and Caitlin stayed there,’ the man offered. ‘’Fore she OD’d.’ He shrugged off the girl’s death in a careless manner that made the detective sergeant shudder.

  Wilson let the others walk ahead so that he could try the door but it was locked fast.

  The smell of cannabis was even stronger in the kitchen, he decided, but at least it was warm.

  ‘What d’you call yourself when you’re signing on, son?’ Wilson asked the man as he leaned against the door jamb.

  ‘Rab Green,’ he replied, taking a dingy-looking kettle jug and filling it at the sink.

  ‘Well, Rab, maybe you’d be good enough to give us a few details about Mr Haggarty.’

  The man turned and set the kettle back on its plinth. ‘Och, Kevin’s no’ well. Hasnae been great since Caitlin died. Ah mean, how wid ye feel, eh? Wakin’ up alongside a deid body?’

  ‘When did this happen?’ Jo asked.

  Green twisted his mouth as he thought. ‘Cannae right mind. The funeral wis aboot the middle o’ December.’ He stood, a vacant expression in his eyes. ‘Naw, she musta died aboot the end of November or that. Sorry, cannae mind. Ah’m not very good wi’ dates anat.’ He grinned at them apologetically, showing uneven and discoloured teeth.

  Green fished behind a bread bin where a pile of leaflets and letters were stashed, drawing out a leaflet.

  ‘Here,’ he said, holding it out for them to see.

  It was an order of service for a funeral, the picture of a young smiling woman on the front page.

  ‘That’s her there. Caitlin. Least that’s how she musta looked at wan time.’ He sniggered. ‘Wasnae like that when she lived here, poor wee cow. Junkies don’t look that pretty after a while.’ He laughed again, but there was no real mirth in his eyes as he gazed over Wilson’s shoulder at the picture of Caitlin Alice Muir.

  Alistair Wilson stared at the photocopied picture and swallowed hard.

  The dead woman looking back at them bore an uncanny resemblance to both Fiona Travers and Lesley Crawford.

  ‘What now?’ Wilson asked as he fastened his seat belt.

  ‘Find Kevin Haggarty,’ Jo replied. ‘Dr Lockhart says she can’t predict what might happen once he stops taking his medication but he has shown erratic behaviour before when that happened.’

  ‘You think the girlfriend’s death has triggered something?’

  Jo sighed. ‘Who knows? You know what Prof Brightman thinks about that one. And did you see that photograph?’ She glanced at Wilson. ‘Something weird going on.’

  Alistair Wilson looked back at the DI who was biting her lip. She doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions this time, he thought. And who could blame her? But there was more than just a suspicion that they were after the right man this time.

  ‘Aye,’ he nodded, put the Astra into gear and pulled away from the pavement, glad to be leaving the dingy street behind him.

  Then, as they turned away from the shadowy tenements and headed back towards the city, Alistair Wilson felt a sudden surge of gratitude for his own ordered life with a wife and home that awaited him at the end of every day.

  ‘This is the one.’ Corinne unbuckled her safety belt and turned to the old man beside her. ‘Look, Dad, see how nice it is, and look at the view we’ll have!’

  The small white bungalow sat at an angle facing the sea, its bay windows glittering in the midday light. Derek McCubbin saw the FOR SALE sign leaning drunkenly behind a privet hedge, a victim no doubt of the recent winter storms, then his eyes strayed to a smart silver saloon car parked at the kerb.

  ‘C’mon, Dad, estate agent’s here already.’

  ‘It’s cold,’ Derek complained, struggling out of the black Volkswagen Golf. His daughter had persuaded him to buy the car and after several arguments about the cost he had relented, seeing the sense in having some transport of their own. The old man sighed. It wasn’t as if he was short of funds, she had wheedled, and besides, wouldn’t it be nice to take him on wee jaunts once the weather was better?

  Derek had continued to grumble a little but only because he couldn’t bear to give in without some sort of protest.

  The rain had been lashing against the windscreen as they left the city but now soft white clouds scudded across a pale blue sky, the sun glinting on the water below them.

  ‘Come on, Dad, let’s get inside,’ Corinne urged him, offering him her arm.

  Derek shook her off. ‘Got my stick,’ he grunted. ‘Don’t need you to help me to walk along a road.’

  Corinne shook her head, rolling her eyes to heaven. ‘Suit yourself. I’m dying to see what it looks like inside.’ And with that, she walked briskly down the path towards the front door, leaving her father to look around him.

  Derek McCubbin blinked as the sunlight met his eyes. He had spent more years at sea than he cared to remember and now, looking out at the expanse of water beyond the shore, he realised that his latter years could be properly indulged with memories, memories that might take away the darkness and despair gnawing at his soul. Yet the wrench he had felt after Grace’s death had not gone away, his errant daughter a poor substitute for a beloved neighbour.

  They would live here together, he thought, Corinne becoming bossier as he became older and weaker. Already he was beginning to see what sort of existence they would have – the balance of power shifting from an ageing father to a daughter who was becoming bolder day by day. Corinne was already entering the open doorway, talking to the young girl from the estate agency who had arrived before them.

  Derek’s mouth trembled for a moment then he closed his eyes against the treacherous tears as Corinne’s voice summoned him.

  ‘CCTV footage shows a man fitting the description of Kevin Haggarty,’ Jo told the officers assembled in the muster room.

  All eyes were on the screen at the back of the room, the projected images sent through from Cowcaddens.

  ‘Sir!’ Jo stopped suddenly, looking up, and all eyes turned to see the detective superintendent enter the room.

  ‘Carry on, DI Grant,’ Lorimer said. ‘I’m interested to hear all about this.’

  Jo took them through the footage and there was complete silence from all of the officers as they watched the hooded figure of a man slip across the main road and into the darkened path beside the River Kelvin. There was no sound from the cameras but each officer imagined the sough of wind that blew the hood from the man
’s dark head, a flurry of leaves scattering upwards as he pulled it back up. It was a split second moment, but sufficient to let them see the man’s face. And, as Jo played the image over again and again, there were nods and glances as each police officer saw the likeness between the man caught on camera and the artist’s image that Lesley Crawford had described.

  ‘I think we need to make this public,’ Jo said, looking past the assembled officers to where Lorimer was standing, arms folded.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Lorimer said. ‘I agree that this man presents a real danger to the public now but we need to be aware that Haggarty could slip out of our grasp if we alert him to what we know. It’s a case of balancing the two risks.’

  ‘What do you suggest, sir?’

  Lorimer stepped forward and joined his DI at the front of the room. ‘I’m more than happy to throw every resource we have at this one. Issue as many officers as possible with this information and comb the streets till we find him. Put a twenty-four-hour surveillance on the Govan flat. He has to come back there some time,’ he suggested. ‘Tell Dr Lockhart and the care worker to let us know the moment he appears, though I got the impression from your message that Haggarty has chosen to ignore the people who would normally help him.’

  ‘Does Professor Brightman have any idea about Haggarty?’ someone asked.

  Jo Grant nodded. ‘It was Professor Brightman who gave us the profile of a mentally disturbed man. He talked about a trigger, something like a shock that made him begin to attack young blonde women.’

  ‘And that shock could be his girlfriend’s death from a drug overdose,’ DS Wilson offered.

  There were murmurs from the officers; then, as Lorimer stepped forward, all talking ceased, all eyes focused on the man standing before them.

  ‘Right, we go with this one. Find Haggarty. That’s everyone’s top priority. And if he’s not in custody in twenty-four hours I’m prepared to let DI Grant throw this to the media,’ he told them.

  CHAPTER 41