The Swedish Girl

by Alex Gray

  C

  old wind was creeping through every layer of his clothing as Kevin glanced up and down the road, waiting for a break in the traffic.

  The towers of the Kelvingrove Art Gallery were outlined against a deep blue sky, an orange haze of light pollution throwing the architectural shapes into relief. He crept in there sometimes, looking at the stuffed animals with their glassy dead eyes staring back at him. But it would be closed now, the big doors slammed shut, locking him out from the warmth.

  As he crossed Kelvin Way he could see the police tape still flapping across the entrance to the park but there was no uniformed officer standing guard, blocking his entrance to the walkway. Nor was there any pedestrian making their way along the road, not a dog walker or jogger to be seen at all. As he walked down the familiar path, hearing the rush of water to his left, it was as if the entire place had become his alone.

  What Kevin Haggarty could not see were hidden eyes watching him from a control room deep within the heart of the city; the eyes of a police officer who, at that moment, had just identified the hooded man.

  ‘He’s going down the same route,’ the officer spoke into his headset. ‘Definitely Haggarty.’

  The man in the control room would continue to sit there but even he felt a thrill in his blood as he imagined police cars being mobilised from all parts of the city, knowing that in a matter of minutes the path along the Kelvin would be swarming with his fellow officers.

  The hooded man heard the stamp, stamp, stamp of running boots.

  Something was happening on the path above him.

  He turned to see figures darkening the space between earth and sky then pressed himself against the railing. Only a few feet separated him from the brown river water rushing a few feet below the bank. He hesitated for a moment but it was too late. The black-garbed men were upon him, cutting off any thoughts of escape.

  Kevin Haggarty’s mouth opened in a soundless cry as the first two policemen caught him by the arms.

  Then, hearing those awful words flung at him, Kevin tilted his head back and uttered a roar of anguish that chilled the blood of everyone who heard it.

  ‘God, it was like some sort of wounded animal.’ Wilson shook his head as he sat in Lorimer’s room. ‘Desperate, really desperate.’

  ‘You sound almost sorry for him, Alistair,’ Lorimer remarked.

  The DS sighed. ‘Well he’s no’ right in the head, is he? Cannae help but feel for the poor bastard. Some terrible things must be going on in that sick brain of his.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In the cells. But he’s to be taken to Interview Room Three just as soon as you give the word. Is DI Grant…?’

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘I’ll see Haggarty,’ he said. ‘But I’d like you there too. And Allan Martin’s the duty solicitor. Dr Lockhart feels that the presence of a woman might unsettle him right now.’

  As the detective superintendent entered the room he saw Kevin Haggarty sitting by the table, hands cuffed together. He winced, seeing how gaunt this man was, the sharp angles of his face reminding Lorimer of pictures of Japanese prisoners of war. Haggarty shared that same defeated look; eyes sunk in hollows, the bones in his long fingers protruding through a scant covering of skin. When had he last eaten? Lorimer wondered.

  ‘Mr Haggarty?’ He stood over the man for a moment, looking intently to see if he would raise his eyes. But he seemed oblivious to anyone, even the solicitor who sat beside him.

  There was the merest nod from Allan Martin and so Lorimer sat down opposite, making room for Alistair Wilson beside him.

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Lorimer and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Wilson.’

  There was no reaction from Haggarty who had cast his eyes down as though reluctant to acknowledge the presence of the two men who had entered the room.

  ‘Have you had anything to eat or drink?’ Lorimer asked. Then, as the prisoner sat mute and unresponsive, Lorimer looked at the duty officer by the door.

  ‘He was offered something, sir, but didn’t take it,’ the officer replied.

  ‘You look hungry, Kevin,’ Lorimer said softly, staring at the lowered head in front of him. ‘I could send out for a burger, if you like? Double cheese? And a cup of tea?’

  He saw Haggarty’s Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed. The very mention of food seemed to be getting to him.

  The instant Haggarty looked up he was caught and held by Lorimer’s blue gaze.

  ‘How about it? I can have it here in just a few minutes.’ Lorimer shrugged as though it was no big deal to him whether the prisoner had food or not. ‘It’s just that we’re going to be here for quite a long time tonight, Kevin, and I need you to be able to concentrate, see?’

  Lorimer smiled, the avuncular schoolteacher explaining matters for his wayward pupil.

  Haggarty swallowed again then his tongue traced a line across his lower lip. ‘With chips?’ he asked, his voice husky as if from hours of weeping.

  By the time the food had arrived and been wolfed down, Lorimer had established the basic information that was required: Haggarty was twenty-nine years old, lived in rented accommodation in Govan and was in receipt of state benefits.

  As he watched the man wipe away traces of red ketchup from his mouth, Lorimer decided to ignore the psychiatrist’s advice to go easy on her patient.

  ‘The women you attacked were all like Caitlin, weren’t they, Kevin?’

  The man’s mouth opened at the suddenness of the question.

  ‘Weren’t they?’ Lorimer insisted. ‘I am showing Mr Haggarty pictures of Eva Magnusson, Fiona Travers, Lesley Crawford and Maria Campbell,’ he continued firmly as he placed the photographs on the table between them, never once taking his eyes from Haggarty’s.

  The man glanced down as Lorimer pushed them nearer. Then, as Haggarty caught sight of the women, a whimper escaped from his bloodless lips.

  The detective watched him, those eyes darting over the images from left to right and back again as though devouring them. Haggarty’s body language was something the tape could not record, the shoulders hunched, arms circling the photographs of the women as though to contain them: Eva Magnusson, Fiona Travers, Lesley Crawford and his latest victim who had been identified as dental hygienist Maria Campbell.

  Haggarty lifted a finger as he looked at the first picture.

  ‘You killed these women,’ Lorimer told him sternly, ‘and badly injured this one. I am indicating Lesley Crawford to the prisoner,’ he added for the benefit of the machine that was recording the entire interview.

  He wanted to ask ‘why’, but such questions were best left to the medical professionals who would, no doubt, have years ahead of them to find the answer to that question.

  ‘That one,’ Haggarty said slowly, tapping the picture of the Swedish girl. ‘I don’t know her.’

  He looked up at Lorimer. His expression was impassive as he tapped the photo again. ‘I didn’t do that one,’ he said again.

  ‘The prisoner is indicating the picture of Eva Magnusson,’ Lorimer said, keeping his voice neutral, trying not to show his disappointment.

  ‘And the others?’

  Haggarty looked at them again and as he studied the pictures, Lorimer was struck by the man’s complete lack of emotion.

  He nodded at last.

  ‘Please speak for the tape,’ Lorimer advised.

  ‘Yes, I did them,’ Haggarty said, his glance shifting from right to left. ‘But not that one.’ His voice was firm and assured as his finger hovered over the image of Eva Magnusson.

  More than an hour and several polystyrene cups of tea later, the detective superintendent kneaded the knotted muscles on the back of his neck and stifled a sigh.

  ‘Eva Magnusson,’ he said again, holding out the photograph of the Swedish girl. ‘Isn’t she like Caitlin?’ he persisted.

  Haggarty was slumped back against the seat shaking his head once again.

  ‘Never seen her b
efore,’ he yawned.

  Lorimer clenched and unclenched his fists.

  ‘I think my client’s had enough,’ Allan Martin suggested and Lorimer nodded in agreement. Haggarty looked exhausted now and even in this extremity of tiredness he wasn’t about to put his hand up for a crime that he hadn’t committed. Besides, Lorimer thought wearily, despite what he had hoped to hear to the contrary, he really believed him.

  The DNA samples taken from the man would confirm his story soon enough. Then he would have to admit that Jo Grant had been right to arrest Colin Young. Had the student murdered the girl he professed to love? Surely this was beginning to seem a real possibility?

  And yet, a small voice insisted: if Haggarty was telling the truth and if Jo was wrong, then Eva Magnusson’s killer was still out there.

  CHAPTER 42

  ‘

  L

  ooks like Colin’s going to have to face trial,’ Lorimer said, looking at Kirsty’s face to see her reaction.

  They were at her local again, coffees in front of them, the snow falling slantwise outside the window making a small haven of the cosy pub on the corner of Merryfield Avenue.

  ‘I thought Haggarty would tell you he’d killed Eva,’ Kirsty said in a small voice.

  ‘I know, lass.’ Lorimer touched her hand gently. ‘But Professor Brightman always said it wasn’t the same person. Besides’ – he sipped his espresso – ‘the evidence points to two different killers. Eva was killed inside her own home, possibly by someone she already knew. And the other women were all out of doors, prey to Haggarty’s random attacks.’

  ‘Only they weren’t quite random, were they?’ Kirsty asked. A fleeting hope in her eyes. ‘He wanted to grab someone who looked like his dead girlfriend, didn’t he? Someone who looked like Eva? Maybe he followed her home, crept upstairs and…?’

  ‘Eva took a taxi home from the party, remember? And the flat was locked when you came home, wasn’t it?’

  Kirsty frowned, nodding. The big front door was heavy to manoeuvre and it had definitely been shut when she’d got home. And the flat had been locked as well when she’d returned from work. Had she really heard anything? Or had it been an overwrought imagination? ‘Do you think it was Colin?’ she asked.

  Lorimer sighed heavily. ‘A jury has to decide,’ he said. ‘But, no, if it makes you feel any better I don’t think the Colin Young you describe was capable of murder.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Lorimer bit back the words that he might have spoken. There could be another Colin that you don’t know, Kirsty; someone you never saw – a young man whose passions overcame his normal good sense.

  ‘More drinks?’

  The purple-haired barmaid hovered beside their table.

  ‘Aye, I’ll have another espresso, please. Kirsty?’

  ‘Oh, it’s you!’ the barmaid exclaimed. ‘You’re one of the students that live next door to old Derek McCubbin. “The captain”, we always called him.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Kirsty nodded. ‘And you’re Ina?’

  ‘Aye, that’s me, hen. But see auld Derek, we havenae seen him in ages. Is he awright?’

  ‘Gone to live with his daughter,’ Lorimer offered.

  ‘Aw, thank gawd fur that,’ Ina said, seating herself between the pair of them. ‘When we saw thon sign up at the hoose we all thought he wis deid!’

  She shook her head. ‘Terrible thing that aboot the bonny wee Swedish lassie. Funny thing, though.’ She dug Lorimer with a sharp elbow. ‘That wis the last time I saw the auld fella.’

  ‘The same night?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Ina nodded. ‘Wis in here till closing time. Staggered back round the corner as usual. Me an’ Tam watched him till he got in tae the close.’

  She looked at Lorimer who was frowning at her.

  ‘What? Tam and me aye look out fur the auld bugger, him being that shoogly oan his feet.’

  ‘Derek McCubbin went home that same night? Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Sure ah’m sure. Mean, ye couldnae forget whit happened that night, eh?’

  ‘And it was closing time?’

  Ina glanced behind her, a shifty look in her eyes.

  ‘Look, dinna tell onybody but some Fridays we have a late night, bit o’ music after hours, know whit ah mean?’

  ‘And what time did Derek McCubbin leave here?’

  ‘Och, well, could’ve been after midnight. Cannae right mind. Sorry.’ The barmaid rose to go. ‘Better get yer coffees. Anither latte fur you, hen?’

  ‘What is it?’ Kirsty whispered, leaning forward towards the detective superintendent.

  ‘Derek McCubbin claims to have been at his daughter’s in Castlemilk that night.’

  ‘But why would he lie?’

  Lorimer’s frown deepened. ‘What if he saw something?’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have told the police?’

  Lorimer sat for a moment, trying to imagine what could have been going on in the old man’s mind. Had he heard Eva screaming at her father? And had he seen Magnusson on the stairs? Or had Eva’s father really told him the truth? And had the old man seen Eva’s killer slinking down the stairs?

  ‘Thank Goad!’ Corinne Kennedy opened the door wide. ‘About time too! I’ve been worried sick!’

  Lorimer stood on the threshold of the woman’s home, taking in her tear-stained white face. Corinne let go the handle of the door and stepped back inside the hallway then pulled a handkerchief from her trouser pocket, dabbing at her eyes as she led the detective superintendent through to the living room. The old man’s chair was empty, the walking stick nowhere to be seen.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, steering the woman towards a chair, seeing her twist the handkerchief between her fingers, clearly agitated.

  ‘Do you not know?’ Corinne’s head shot up. ‘Did they not send you from the polis station? I called them more than two hours ago.’

  ‘Has something happened to Derek?’

  Corinne sniffed back a sob. ‘I don’t know!’ she wailed. ‘He wasn’t here this morning when I got up. Thought he might have slipped out for a paper or something. But he’s never done that since he came. I even phoned the flat at Merryfield Avenue when I found he’d taken the key but there was no answer. And, I mean, look at the weather. Who’d want to go out in this?’

  Lorimer glanced towards the window. The snow that had been falling all morning was heaped into drifts on either side of the road, making it impossible to see the pavements. No elderly person in their right mind would want to risk a fall in those conditions. Little wonder Corinne had reported her father as a missing person.

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘We went down the coast yesterday to see this wee hoose…’ Corinne broke off sobbing then pressed the hanky to her mouth for a moment. ‘It was lovely, just what we wanted. Nice view of the water. Immediate entry. Everything.’

  ‘He liked it?’

  Corinne shook her head. ‘Christ knows! Hardly said two words the whole time we were there. Thon lassie from the estate agents must’ve thought he was no’ right in the head.’

  ‘Do you think he might have been ill?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Don’t know,’ she said in a small voice. ‘He could be dead quiet like that sometimes. Moody, y’know? Thought it was just one of his turns.’

  ‘And now?’

  Corinne Kennedy heaved a sigh. ‘He’s never gone out without me since he came here. Not once. It’s not like him, Superintendent.’ Her voice cracked, betraying the woman’s anxiety.

  ‘Tell me,’ Lorimer asked, looking Derek McCubbin’s daughter straight in the eye. ‘Was your father really here the night Eva Magnusson was killed?’

  CHAPTER 43

  In the end it felt like she had betrayed me, Colin wrote. I still loved her, of course I did. That was something I’d never felt for any girl before. She was so special, so different from anyone I’d ever met. And she’d made me think I was special too. He paused, remembering Eva’
s sleepy smile as she’d rolled away from his arms, the sense of triumph he’d experienced in satisfying such a sexually adept young woman. I thought we could make a go of it. How wrong was I about that! But of course I never knew that at the time, not until after she was dead.

  He sighed, his mouth a tense hard line. Eva had used him, used them all, like playthings. He’d sat listening to the service on Sunday, wondering why he bothered to be there at all, listening to the priest talk about forgiveness. Had he forgiven her?

  He should feel bitter, but all he could think about as he crouched on the narrow bunk, notebook in his hands, was about the terrible waste of her young life.

  Colin looked down, seeing the words blur through his sudden tears. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands tightly together.

  He had wanted to stop believing, to tell himself that there was no God up there, no master of the universe. But now all he wanted was to pray in the hope that someone was listening.

  ‘Hello?’ Kirsty’s voice sounded tinny and remote over the intercom as Lorimer stood outside 24 Merryfield Avenue.

  ‘It’s Lorimer. I need to come up.’

  As reply, the buzzer sounded and Lorimer pushed open the heavy green door. Behind him were Wilson, Grant and two uniformed officers, their squad car parked several yards along the snow-covered street.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Kirsty Wilson stood on the landing, peering down at the figures ascending the stone staircase, Lorimer leading them towards her. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Lorimer was at the top of the stairs now and had turned towards the flat next door.

  ‘Go inside, Kirsty. We’ll see you later,’ he told her, merely nodding at the girl’s puzzled expression.

  He heard the door click shut but no footsteps disappearing along the hall. She would be standing there, behind the glass door, curious yet disappointed, no doubt, wanting to be part of whatever was unfolding.

  The doorbell to Derek McCubbin’s flat rang out as Lorimer pressed the old-fashioned bell, the long sound drilling through the empty hall. Behind him, Wilson and Grant exchanged glances.